Prologue

"A warrior takes sword in hand, clasping a gem to his heart...

Engraving vanishing memories into the sword, 

He places finely honed skills into the stone.

Spoken from the sword, handed down from the stone, 

Now the story can be told..."

The Orbonne Monastery

The raging storm battered against the stained glass windows of the Orbonne Monastery. The wind shook the windows violent in their panes and howled through the empty places in the glass like the call of hungry wolves.

The monastery itself was an eyesore – mounted high atop the hill, it clung to the side of a cliff overlooking the vast and violent ocean like an old lifeless thing. Would it have been kept in good repair, it might’ve been a beautiful relic of an ancient age, but it had been partially destroyed during the Fifty Year’s War, for not even God could escape the long-reaching arms of war.

Time would be its undoing now; the waves slapped constantly against the cliffs and the sea would claim the old church long before anyone came to save it.

Ramza Beoulve was soaked through his armor. His cloth shirt was made thinner by the rain and his chainmail suit pinched him through the fabric when he shifted even an inch to balance his weight.

 Despite the fact that it had been raining long before Ramza’s arrival, and only showed signs of growing worse as the night wore on, the Lady Agrias insisted on staying only a moment longer to continue praying for the group’s safe passage. That moment was stretched far longer than it ought to have been, Ramza knew, and the journey to Igros Castle would only be made more challenging by the pouring rain.

Though Ramza could not believe in God, he stood vigilant watch from the back of the sanctuary. Sitting on the cobblestone pews, the Lady Agrias prayed silently along with the elderly priest and a young blonde woman.

                The woman was the Princess Ovelia Atkascha – the youngest daughter of the late King Denamda and half-sister to King Onduria, who now ruled in her father’s place. On account of her royal bloodline and to prevent any potential claim to her brother’s throne, her father had sent her to several monasteries from a young age and forbidden her to marry.

Whether it was the product of this strange upbringing or a trait that was naturally born into the girl’s character, Ovelia possessed a true goodness within her – and an innocence that had become a peculiarity in such dark times as these.

When Onduria’s wife, the Queen Louveria, gave birth to a second stillborn son, it became apparent to the king, who had become sick with the Black Plague and was rapidly approaching death that he needed to act to save his kingdom. Onduria adopted the princess back into his family and publicly named her as the heir-apparent to his throne. The Kingdom of Ivalice rejoiced at this news, having heard rumors of the princess’ kindness, which had spread even from within the monastery’s walls.

Only months after the king had named Ovelia as his heir, the Queen Louveria collapsed one day in her walk around the capital city of Lesalia. The doctors announced with some surprise that the aging queen had once again become pregnant, this time giving birth to the Prince Orinus. Still, the old king was dying, and the male child was too young to rule – it was uncertain who would control the kingdom after he had passed.

Such was the fate of the Princess Ovelia.

                 

                The cathedral door opened up from behind Ramza and several figures entered through it. Among the faces, Ramza picked out the thick graying beard of Goffard Gaffgarion, with two of Lady Agrias’ famed female knights and a young squire boy.

                “Gaffgarion,” Ramza nodded. “They should be about finished.”

                “It’s their dollar,” the old man snarled, “But if we wait much longer, the trail down the cliffs will be completely washed out. I didn’t survive the Fifty Year’s War to dash my head against the rocks.”

                His words were true, Ramza thought. They needed to be leaving soon for Igros Castle. Prince Larg would be eagerly waiting their arrival.

                “Wait here,” Ramza motioned. Cautiously, he walked down the narrow aisle of the sanctuary towards the pulpit.

                As Ramza approached , the old monk stopped praying and looked up at him.

                “Father Simon,” he spoke quietly so as not to intrude. “It is time we brought the princess to Igros. She will be much safer there, in the custody of the queen’s brother Larg, and we cannot stand to wait any longer or the weather will trap us here.”

                Lady Agrias too, stopped praying, and stood to greet Ramza. Her face bore the weight of years of worry, though the woman herself could not have been much older than thirty. She served in the Lionguard, protectors of the royal family, and had served Ovelia for the princess’ entire life.

                “I understand,” the Lady spoke. “Thank you, Sir Ramza. You’ve been very patient with us.”

                Ramza shook his head. “Forgive me, Lady Agrias, but I am no longer a knight, just a mercenary.”

                Lady Agrias smiled at him and said, “You are as honest as your father. I would dishonor you both by refusing you your due title.”

                The old reverend Simon touched the princess on the shoulder to grab her attention, but she did not lift her head from her prayer.

                “Princess, it is time for you to go.”

                “Yes, Father Simon,” Ovelia’s words were soft and kind, “You’ve been very kind to me all these years and I cannot thank you enough. Pray for Ivalice while I am away – the nation needs God’s help more than it ever has before.”

                “I will, Princess,” the reverend responded. “You can be sure of that. Please be sure to come back to see me – an old man cannot live forever, but I will give it my best to hold on for your return.”

With this, the princess soft white face pinched up and she fell into tears, hugging the elderly man tightly around the neck.

There were whispers from the rear of the sanctuary and again, the cathedral doors were opened. This time, a lady knight entered alone. She passed Gaffgarion and the others and was running straight towards Ramza when she tripped and fell to the cobblestone floor. There was an arrow lodged in her back.

“Lady Agrias!” the woman screamed. “The monastery is under attack. Protect the princess!”

“Under attack?” Agrias asked, kneeling down to hold her fallen knight. She held the woman close and removed the arrow from her back, keeping her hand tight against the wound. “By whom?”

“I did not see them, my lady,” the knight said. “I am sorry.”

The woman’s head sank into her chest and did not rise again.

                “You have done enough, my comrade,” Agrias responded, gently laying the woman back onto the ground.

 Immediately, Agrias began barking out orders to her knights. “Alicia, Mary, and Rad! Take Father Simon and Ovelia into the catacombs beneath the monastery. We will guard the front doors.”

                “Yes, my lady,” the two female knights and the young squire boy spoke in unison. 

                “I should not need to tell you to protect the princess with your lives.”

                “No, my lady.”

The trio whisked the princess and the old father down a flight of stairs that was hidden carefully beneath the pulpit.

Gaffgarion approached from the shadowed entrance of the church.

“Ramza, time to earn your pay!” he barked. There was a bloodthirsty look in his eyes that terrified Ramza, but he drew his sword and follow Gaffgarion out into the storm.

Agrias was the last person to pass through the wooden doors of the church.

The men surrounding the sanctuary wore dark green cloaks that whipped around in the fierce wind. There were five in all, and each man’s cloak was embroidered with a large black lion.

“The Order of the Southern Sky?” Agrias mumbled. “These are Lord Goltana’s men!”

Ramza was puzzled – Lord Goltana was the leader of one of Ivalice’s armies. Their presence in Igros made little sense, and it was not apparent what they hoped to achieve by attacking the monastery.

There was no more time to ponder the present – the center man stepped forward from the others and announced himself.

“We are here for the princess – step aside and your lives will be spared.”

Agrias’ response was immediate and sincere. “I am bound by the oath of the Lionguard to protect her with my life. Come closer, and I will fulfill that oath by cutting you down.”

“Enough talking,” Gaffgarion growled. He drew a knife from his belt and sent it hurling into the night. One of the cloaked men fell over, a knife lodged firmly in his skull.

“Gaffgarion, you fool!” Agrias screamed.

The other four figures charged towards them with weapons drawn.

Ramza met one of the men and raised his sword just in time to parry the blow. There was a sharp crunch of steel as the blades collided. Ramza threw his weight into the sword to knock the attack off balance, but the foe quickly recovered and struck back.

Agrias’ attacker was the man who had spoken to them before. He jabbed at Agrias with the short calculated finesse of a skilled swordsman. The man was well-practiced, and might have made short work of anyone other than Agrias, who had spent her whole life with a blade in her hand. She would not be outdone by fancy sword work. She withdrew strategically as her attacker swung and waited for the right moment to turn the tides against her opponent.

The other two men were bearing down on Gaffgarion. After parrying several blows and ignoring several opportunities to strike out against his foes, Gaffgarion sliced forth with his sword and cut one of the men across the chest. The man sank into a heap and did not move. The other attacker seized the moment and sank his blade deep into Gaffgarion’s chest.

Gaffgarion winced for only a moment, spitting blood up into his attacker’s face. Sword still in hand, Gaffgarion gripped the man by the throat with his free hand and glared at him with fierce silver eyes. Panicked, the man released his sword and took a step back, stumbling backwards over his fallen comrade. After taking a deep breath, Gaffgarion slowly removed the man’s sword from inside his chest and let it fall to the ground. He hobbled towards his fleeing opponent, who was terrified by the old warrior’s voracity.

Gaffgarion took his sword, shining blood red in the moonlight, and hurled it towards the man with brute strength. It struck the man in the back as he fled and the enemy collapsed.

After a few moments, the sword returned to Gaffgarion, floating eerily back towards his outstretched hand, dripping the blood of his foe as it went. When Gaffgarion grasped onto it, the remaining blood on the sword quickly crawled down the blade, moving down over the hilt, and sinking into Gaffgarion’s hand. As the blood entered into his body through his skin, Gaffgarion’s chest wound repaired itself until it appeared as if the old man had never been stabbed at all.

                Agrias, who had finally managed to outmaneuver her opponent, looked at Gaffgarion in wild disbelief.

                “You’re a monster,” she muttered.

                He scoffed at her. “I never said I wasn’t.”

                Ramza’s attacker was a young man, not much older than himself. They continued to trade bellows, neither one gaining over the other. Although the swordsman was not particularly fierce, the constant movements were wearing on Ramza’s stamina. Ramza searched for an opportunity to end the fight.

                Finally, Ramza saw that the swordsman lifted his right foot slightly each time he moved to strike. The next time he did this, Ramza leaned out of the blow and clubbed the man in the head with the fist of his left hand.

                The boy screamed as he hit the ground and the blade fell from his hand. From the soaked grass, the man looked up at Ramza with terrified eyes.

                “Run,” Ramza ordered. “Get out of here now.”

                The boy picked himself off the ground and ran off down the hill into the forest, never once turning back for his fallen comrades.

                Out of breath, Ramza sheathed his sword. Agrias and Gaffgarion were staring at him.

                “Don’t bother to help,” Ramza huffed. His heart was still pumping furiously in chest.

                “Stop whining,” said Gaffgarion. “It doesn’t suit a Beoulve.”

                “Both of you be quiet,” Agrias demanded. “There may be more of them in the forest.”

                Gaffgarion jabbed Ramza in the chest accusingly. “We know there’s at least one out there, don’t we?”

                “You would have me kill an unarmed man?” Ramza responded.

                “I would have you do what you are paid to do.”

                Their argument was interrupted by a high-pitched scream. It rang out through the night, drowning out even the rumbling thunder.

                “Ovelia!” shouted Agrias. She barreled through the tall cathedral doors and disappeared inside. Gaffgarion followed hastily after her. Still out of breath, Ramza was left alone in the rain.

He was just about ready to join the others when something in the woods caught Ramza’s eye. Farther down the hill, there was a streak of gold. It was moving quickly, weaving down in a zigzag pattern, flashing briefly between the trees.

                On sheer impulse, Ramza darted after it. Their earlier prediction was accurate – the trail was beginning to wash out in the heavy rain. Still, Ramza ran on unconcernedly – sometimes sliding through the muddy path, sometimes taking a shortcut through the trees. Several times he almost lost his footing, but an unusual determination carried him in his pursuit.

                Whatever it was, Ramza was certain that he would be upon it soon. As he drew closer still, he recognized the golden creature as a chocobo, a large flightless bird that was often used by messengers on account of the animal’s unique ability to navigate difficult terrains.

                When Ramza burst through the trees back onto the path, the chocobo and its rider nearly ran him down. At the last possible moment, the animal reared up in surprise. It scratched at Ramza with its dangerously large talons and Ramza fell backwards in fear. The rider too was thrown from the bird along with his human cargo. It was the princess Ovelia, hands bound behind her back and unconscious.

                Nearly seconds after falling backwards from the chocobo, the rider was back on his feet. He lifted the princess, who was now stirring from her fall, and turned to face Ramza.

                A frozen horror paralyzed Ramza in such a way that he found himself incapable of doing anything besides to stare blankly ahead at the kidnapper in front of him.

                The princess had regained consciousness and was begging the man to free her. “Why are you doing this?” Ovelia cried.

                Without breaking his gaze at Ramza, the kidnapper replied.

                “Don’t blame me,” he said to her. “Blame yourself, or God.” Then, using his free hand, he drove a fist into the princess’ stomach and she slumped over into a heap. He set her on the chocobo, remounted, and nodded to Ramza before speeding off into the black night.

                For a time, Ramza stood motionless. When the spell wore off and Ramza could finally process what he had just seen with his own eyes, he was all the more confused by it.

                “Delita?” Ramza asked the empty woods. “What are you doing with Goltana’s men?”

                 The woods gave no answer.

                Footsteps echoed from further up the hill and Agrias and Gaffgarion appeared, along with the squire boy Rad and a wounded lady knight.

                “He is gone,” Ramza confessed. “A chocobo carries him and the princess. We could never catch him in time.”

                Agrias’ eyes betrayed great anguish. “Did you see who it was?”

                Ramza rested his head into his hands. “I did. His name is Delita Heiral. Until today, he was my dead best friend.”

               

Original Story by Yasumi Matsuno. Adapted and Retold by J.D.Koster.