Scene Title: "Staff of Life"
Game: Final Fantasy Tactics: War of the Lions
When: On the morning that Ramza's cadets will first encounter the Corpse Brigade; meant to lead into the Barbaneth Beoulve flashback
Ramza awoke with a
start, to find Delita peering down at him.
“I see you yet
live,” Delita offered casually, and turned so that Ramza could sit
up and pull on his hose. “I'd thought to fetch a mage and attempt a
resurrection.”
“You don't know
any mages,” Ramza said wryly, then winced at the sun in his eyes.
“Alma's learning
the white arts at that monastery, is she not?” Delita opened the
window to let some air in. The room was stale with the smell of last
night's drinking. “She'd sprout wings and fly here, if she needed
to bring you from the beyond.” He paused; outside, there was
shouting and clattering, and Ramza began to realize that the rest of
his unit might also be as dressed and ready as Delita was. What was
the hour? “Need you hair of the coeurl that bit you, or...?”
Ramza slipped his
legs into his breeches. “I am not hung over, Delita.” He stopped
to wipe his eyes, then pulled the breeches up. “Though I confess, I
may never drink again. I'm not pleased with how I lost myself.”
Delita cast him a
glance over his shoulder. “Typical Beoulve luck. I might've
suspected such.”
Ramza looked down.
“I did have a frightful dream that I'd like as not repeat.” He
glanced about. “Perchance have you seen my boots?”
Delita sighed,
turned back to Ramza with the boots in hand, freshly polished. He
knelt, taking Ramza's foot to cinch one on. “Pray, don't share it
with your men today. They need no omens before their first battle.”
“Delita, you
don't have to...” He groaned but let the man shoe him nonetheless.
“You're not my servant, in Ajora's name...”
“And yet you
expected me to know where they lay, after your night in the cups.”
Delita didn't meet his eyes. “You may as well out with it.”
He gazed up at the
ceiling, wincing. “Do you remember when Lord Father took us to the
theatre?”
“Tantalus. I
remember the priest outside, who was decrying the art as sinful. He
gave Tietra a fright.” His work done, Delita leaned back as Ramza
stood, and without a word began strapping a pair of greaves over
Ramza's boots as Ramza himself fussed with his sleeves. He wore a
blue tunic emblazoned with the Gariland standard, as befitting his
role of squire-command. Not yet a knight of rank, but authority
enough to be accountable for his fellow students.
“The mime who
performed that night... in the dream, I was in his garb on the
stage.” Ramza cast about for his gloves, but Delita was already
placing them in his hands as he worked on the half-cape that was
affixed to the tunic. “I did not have a face. There were dozens,
hundreds of faces placed upon the stage, and I was walking between
them, looking for my own, as the audience watched.” He shuddered.
“It was horrible.”
Delita came around
from behind him and gave Ramza a long look in the eyes. Then he
turned. “You have received post.” He gestured to a brown-wrapped
parcel atop the stool by his window.
“Truly?”
Ramza's eyes lit up as he grabbed the package and pulled off the
string.
“I'd suppose you
needn't guess the source.” Delita said, but he was smiling. Ramza
pulled off the paper to reveal a fine thatched basket of a size that
might hold his boots. In the basket were a series of treasures. One
was a leather pouch that clinked when he picked it up; that was
Dycedarg's gift, of course, as Ramza's eldest brother likely couldn't
conceive of a gift of any other sort existing. Ramza tucked that into
his breeches without thinking. Dycedarg had thought of him, that was
all that mattered.
The envelope,
however, was from Zalbaag. Ramza tore the end and retrieved the
letter. He waved it happily in front of Delita.
“Very well, but
be quick. They wait for us.” Delita was eyeing something larger in
the basket.
Ramza read aloud.
“Ramza, I hope this letter finds you hale and prepared. If my
understanding of events is correct, this parcel will find you shortly
before you undertake your first command. Lord Brother and I discussed
your prospects over the evening meal, and with Alma on visit from the
monastery, she did entreat us to send you gifts of well-wishing. Much
of the following consists of the only gift I can think to give you on
this auspicious day, being words that I myself had heard when I was
in your place. Propriety and your likely youthful impatience,
however, insists that I discourse briefly upon the other items to be
found within this mailing.”
Ramza pulled from
the basket a folded handkerchief, of the purest white. Stitched into
one corner was the Beoulve family crest – a black cockatrice on a
green herald. “Alma made for you the enclosed cloth in-betwixt her
studies. She entreated that I pass along her words, to the effect of
her prayer that you need it only for the mopping of sweat, and not
for the staunching of blood. Which in fairness is a battle prayer
that would make our late Lord Father proud, I think.” Ramza sniffed
at the cloth. It smelled like home, like the fields of Gallione. “And
lest I forget, Tietra has supplied you also with a valuable gift.”
Delita's hands had wrapped around the last object in the basket, his
smile warm and soft, and Ramza chuckled. “The staff of life is for
Delita, but I'd hardly expect him not to break bread with you.”
Delita's eyes
widened and shot upwards towards Ramza's, his hands caught in a
death-clench around the still-soft loaf. Ramza laughed. “Take it,
Delita. I'll not want for bread.” Delita cradled his sister's
homemade bread and gave a slow nod, as if they'd just avoided a duel.
Tietra was always helping out in the kitchens when she was home, and
her bread truly was superlative.
“Having
mentioned father, however, I suppose I must devote precious ink to
matters of estate...” Ramza frowned and folded the letter. “The
rest can be read en route to our station, I should think.” His face
was, for the first time since the last sun's set, truly sober in
Delita's eyes. “You said they await our arrival downstairs.”
Delita nodded,
tearing the smallest nugget free from his loaf's end and handing it
to Ramza. The size of a gil coin, perhaps, but the message was clear.
Delita knew he was thinking of Barbaneth Beoulve's passing. He took
the scrap with an uneasy smile and popped it in his mouth. “Let us
address the troops.” He let Delita walk out first, and grabbed the
rapier from where it was propped by his cot.
It hadn't been so
long yet since Ramza had shared a room with his siblings - the
day his father had breathed his last.
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