They stand before the massive headstone, hands entwined. The tips of her fingers grip his knuckles, and he can feel her trembling. The night air is cool, but it comes as a relief after so many days of sweltering summer heat, hidden under cloaks and scarves as they traveled northwest back to Eagrose, solely to pay respects to...
“It is surreal,” she finally says, after such a long silence. They haven’t had much to say for hours now, possibly days. What happened at Mullonde has left them stunned and largely speechless, and they’ve spent the past week operating on autopilot; legs dragging themselves onward, away from the wreckage, away from their fallen comrades, away from Hell.
“It is wrong; that I should have this monument, where you have none --” and then she lets out a quiet whimper, as though she realizes the morbidity of such thoughts, and her trembling intensifies.
He squeezes her hand. “It is a trifle,” he whispers, choking on the last word. “I need not recognition.”
But he scans the cluster of headstones, eyes falling upon the names of his father and his father’s first wife, their sons; and then his second wife, and Alma... Ramza’s entire family, for whom his love remained steadfast beneath it all -- yet he was banned from resting among them, however symbolically. It was wrong. It hurt.
Barbaneth must weep over his children’s empty graves. Perhaps he wonders why, though all pronounced dead, none have joined him in the Promised Land.
The thought finally breaks him. A strangled sound escapes Ramza’s throat, and he pulls his sister into his arms. He buries his face in her hair, disheveled and knotted, and she clings to his waist fervently in turn. Her chest heaves against his and he kisses the top of her golden head.
“I miss them,” she sobs. “Despite everything, they will always be my brothers.”
He plants another kiss upon her crown, and he lingers there this time -- Alma shares his denial, he thinks. They both desperately want their memories of Dycedarg and Zalbaag to be from happier times. He wants to swallow the sickness he feels seeing his eldest brother’s name so close to their lord father’s, as much as he wishes to banish the muscle-memory of his blade thrust into the desecrated Zalbaag’s heart. He is thankful that Alma wasn’t there to witness their gruesome ends.
Gently, Ramza trails his fingers down the length of Alma’s hair and takes a small step back.
“We shall be safe together, you and I,” he says, taking her hands once more. “In our father’s name do we draw our strength. Our family is not dead.”
She nods slowly, lost in thought. Then at once her eyes brighten as she knits her fingers with his, a wash of warmth upon her tired face. “Then let us prove it. Let us cease our mourning and live.”
The first sliver of sunlight peers over the horizon. A moment later, they silently release each other’s hands to refasten their cloaks and draw their hoods. Their graves will remain absent or empty not by the machinations of others, but because they yet walk the earth -- invisible, yet proud.
"The Tie That Binds" FFT: Ramza & Alma, G
“It is surreal,” she finally says, after such a long silence. They haven’t had much to say for hours now, possibly days. What happened at Mullonde has left them stunned and largely speechless, and they’ve spent the past week operating on autopilot; legs dragging themselves onward, away from the wreckage, away from their fallen comrades, away from Hell.
“It is wrong; that I should have this monument, where you have none --” and then she lets out a quiet whimper, as though she realizes the morbidity of such thoughts, and her trembling intensifies.
He squeezes her hand. “It is a trifle,” he whispers, choking on the last word. “I need not recognition.”
But he scans the cluster of headstones, eyes falling upon the names of his father and his father’s first wife, their sons; and then his second wife, and Alma... Ramza’s entire family, for whom his love remained steadfast beneath it all -- yet he was banned from resting among them, however symbolically. It was wrong. It hurt.
Barbaneth must weep over his children’s empty graves. Perhaps he wonders why, though all pronounced dead, none have joined him in the Promised Land.
The thought finally breaks him. A strangled sound escapes Ramza’s throat, and he pulls his sister into his arms. He buries his face in her hair, disheveled and knotted, and she clings to his waist fervently in turn. Her chest heaves against his and he kisses the top of her golden head.
“I miss them,” she sobs. “Despite everything, they will always be my brothers.”
He plants another kiss upon her crown, and he lingers there this time -- Alma shares his denial, he thinks. They both desperately want their memories of Dycedarg and Zalbaag to be from happier times. He wants to swallow the sickness he feels seeing his eldest brother’s name so close to their lord father’s, as much as he wishes to banish the muscle-memory of his blade thrust into the desecrated Zalbaag’s heart. He is thankful that Alma wasn’t there to witness their gruesome ends.
Gently, Ramza trails his fingers down the length of Alma’s hair and takes a small step back.
“We shall be safe together, you and I,” he says, taking her hands once more. “In our father’s name do we draw our strength. Our family is not dead.”
She nods slowly, lost in thought. Then at once her eyes brighten as she knits her fingers with his, a wash of warmth upon her tired face. “Then let us prove it. Let us cease our mourning and live.”
The first sliver of sunlight peers over the horizon. A moment later, they silently release each other’s hands to refasten their cloaks and draw their hoods. Their graves will remain absent or empty not by the machinations of others, but because they yet walk the earth -- invisible, yet proud.