016 » it's a shot in the dark but i'll make it

[lugria]

( continued from here! )



[mornings, in ramza's camp, move both early and sluggish.

as dashing and heroic as it would be to simply run off to zeltennia, a party of roughly twenty men and women can do no such thing. a few well-trained soldiers rise before the crack of dawn; the others wake as the sky brightens, or else, because the sound and chatter of those that are packing to leave become impossible to ignore.

ramza and agrias are two of the precious few "heretics" that are up before sunrise, and they set to work immediately, with little conversation to spare. armor has to be put on, strapped, buckled; blankets must be packed, tents folded into canvas squares. ladd and mustadio join in the morning chores a bit later, taking stock of the party's food and water; rapha and marach, more keenly trained, work at concealing all traces of their tents and campfires in case anyone may be following their trail. alicia and lavian, the sentries from last night, are apparently being rewarded with the privilege of napping astride the pack chocobos while the others saddle the birds up with luggage and gear.

it's only later — when almost everything has been done, and the group is mostly waiting on some fastidious healers who insisted on washing themselves of last night's dirt in a nearby stream — that ramza realizes he hasn't yet seen the group's wayward knight templar, and raises his voice in the middle of camp.]

Isilud?

Comments

[isilud]

Pies?

[ The last traces of their conversation's somber tone lose to the humour that Ramza's remark injects, delivered like a challenge, but what follows keeps Isilud from making his question less of an echo that could express amazement over Ramza's heretofore hidden pie baking prowess or ask him to name his favoured sort of pie. Pressed to his lips, Isilud feels the smooth texture of Ramza's blade of grass and the weight of Ramza's fingertips behind it.

He has never thought to make whistles of any plant — until now, that is. A moment passes, and another, and Isilud tries to imitate the Beoulve siblings' whistling method, bringing his hands up to take over from Ramza's, uncertainly shaping his mouth against grass and fingers both.

That... does nothing. It does look as though he is somewhere between preparing to kiss or bite Ramza's blade of grass and his fingers instead. ]

[lugria]

[if ramza's intention was to make isilud look like a fool, he most certainly succeeded — and indeed, he laughs as though that is the truth of it.]

...You'll have the knack for it, with practice.

[that's all he says before he removes his fingers from isilud's mouth, whirling around with his plate in hand and giving a sort of jaunty wave.

what was that all about? ramza is enigmatic with his whimsies, sometimes, and when at last he comes back from his rummaging around in bags near the campfire, he says nothing of his mysterious grass-whistling prompt. instead, he holds out a loaf of hard adventurer's bread and some beef jerky — both well-preserved and suited for travel, though not so warm and welcoming as scrambled eggs.]

I would return the favor you did me and prepare for you a meal of my own, but I fear Boco not so forthcoming with his talents this evening. Here — will this do?

[isilud]

[ It is better to give Ramza cause for laughter than to see him subdued, and so Isilud takes his failed attempt at whistling in stride, though he would have liked to discover the knack for it then and there. It may be a simple, whimsical thing, but he'd thought its meaning known only to Ramza and Alma, an intimate link between brother and sister. The invitation to join in leaves him mystified and oddly honoured.

His steps are slower as he follows, hanging back in thought, lifting the blade of grass to his lips again. It flutters against his fingers, silent. It is there still, half in his mouth, when Ramza reappears to address the matter of Isilud's neglected stomach.

Hastily, the knight pulls the piece of grass from his lips, curling his fist around it and accepting the proffered food. ]

—Of course, I would not ask it... [ Despite the talk of excellent pies. ] Thank you.

[lugria]

[in the distance, behind ramza, valentyne has started playing another song on his lyre. no vocals accompany the tune; his fingers pluck the strings, and nothing more. the melody is almost as haunting as valentyne himself.

ramza turns to watch the bard for a few minutes, then turns back to isilud with an odd expression on his face.]

Have you ever had friends? [he asks, very quickly and suddenly, and then — after a pause — he laughs.] Whatever am I saying? Of course you've had friends. Rather, I should have said —

[he smiles, and then he sobers.]

...Have you ever lost friends?

[isilud]

[ Amid their quiet listening as Valentyne plays his song, Isilud parts with his blade of grass, deciding against asking Ramza for another demonstration right then, and settles into attacking his meal, tearing off a portion of the bread and smaller chunks from that piece. One such mouthful delays his answer when Ramza asks his questions. He stares at first, mid-chew, but Ramza quickly corrects himself, and Isilud's expression turns from taken aback to thoughtful.

He hurries to resume his chewing and swallow, a moment long enough to ponder Ramza's meaning. Many a fallen comrade comes to mind — but that isn't quite the answer that Ramza's question seeks, is it? It isn't the same loss that Ramza knows.

Another moment goes by, and Isilud shakes his head. ]

I've never had a friend like yours to lose. [ He pauses, lowers his bread. ] ... Why do you ask?

[lugria]

I know not.

[is his vague answer, at first, but then ramza looks up at the night sky again, and sighs.]

Or — no, 'tis not that I know not but merely that I find it all difficult to express in words.

[he shifts his weight.]

Delita is... one of the only friends I have ever lost. Not a friend with whom I quarreled badly, or dismissed in a fit of anger, but... that I lost, when I reaped the consequences of what I sowed. And I oft ponder, from time to time, that mayhap we might still be friends, if only I had chosen different words, or readied my blade for different causes.

[isilud]

[ Not unlike the notes whistled on that blade of grass, Ramza's response seems almost too intimate a glimpse of his heart, a confession uttered aloud yet meant for no mortal ears. For all that the topic of Delita brings a shadow to Ramza's face, and their parting handshake in Zeltennia spoke volumes as to the state of their friendship, there was no animosity between them, none that Isilud could detect. There was only this regret, the same flicker that he saw in Gollund and sees again now, in Ramza's gaze raised towards the heavens. He hears it in every mention of Delita. ]

... At Orbonne, Ramza, you told me that the Beoulve name stands for truth and justice. What other cause is there? Delita joined us to see justice realized — what fault could he find with you?

[ Ramza is not infallible, but he is a good man and a good friend. Now, a week into knowing him, Isilud finds it impossible to believe otherwise. ]

[lugria]

The Beoulve name stands for truth and justice. Not all those who bear it hold it so high.

[there it is, that age-old question plaguing him again: should he tell isilud about his past with delita, the struggle at fort ziekden and the death of tietra heiral? and if he does, how much of it should he explain, how honest should he be? is it any of isilud's business at all? if ramza tells isilud the truth, what will he gain, and what will he lose? if he doesn't say anything, does that make him a coward, running away from his past?

these seem almost like the insecurities of another man — not ramza beoulve. they are certainly not the insecurities of the ramza beoulve drawn on the church's handbills, if indeed that ramza has insecurities at all.]

...Even I had to learn to carry its weight.

[isilud]

[ Ramza means his brothers, Isilud thinks. Absently, he brushes bread crumbs from his fingers, the remains of the loaf placed down in his lap. ]

But you and Delita must be my age, or thereabouts. You've learned to carry it far sooner than some.

[ Yet Ramza remarked upon Delita's past loyalty, its consequences for Delita. It is a difficult thing to fathom. ]

You do not turn a blind eye to the rot that plagues this land, and the Stones have no power over you. Few could be trusted to look upon one, let alone guard so many!

[ Isilud's hand finds Ramza's shoulder. ]

You tirelessly slay demons and offer your mercy even to those who would see you executed.

[lugria]

[ramza's steady, determined gaze turns sheepish under the weight of isilud's words; the hand on his shoulder feels equally heavy.]

You flatter me overmuch...

[all thoughts of his brothers and of delita (in many ways a brother as well) are chased out of ramza's mind entirely by isilud's effusive praise. ramza fidgets and watches the brunet finish his dinner.]

...How old are you, Isilud? I thought — I was sure that you were the older, twixt the two of us, but Meliadoul did not look to be very old herself, so I wondered...

[isilud]

Flatter? It is but the truth, Ramza, known to every one of your friends. Naught more.

[ It is abundant proof, in Isilud's eyes, that Ramza's soul is a rare one, pristinely, unfalteringly virtuous to the core. He can see, however, how swift Ramza is to deflect any praise, and he takes his hand away, returning it to his loaf of bread, though his gaze drops to Ramza's fingers before he continues his meal.

Only to pause again, another mouthful to chew tucked into his cheek as he finds himself facing the mystery of Ramza's age. Ramza's features are softer than those of his infamous portrait, gentle lines instead of sharp edges, but his youth and his kindness do not make him a child yet sheltered from the world's truths. ]

I? Six— [ He interrupts himself with a shake of his head. ] This year marks my seventeenth summer and my sister's nineteenth — neither of us is very old. And you?