![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenHAPPY BIRTHDAY FINAL FANTASY TACTICS. A 10-year-old is you. In honor of this auspicious and badly translated occasion, I will now write pretentious and badly translated fic! In which Delita and Ovelia discuss things at great length and don't do very much but, hey, I think I'm totally going somewhere with this.
‘It was understood in the days immediately after the coronation that the royal couple would need to be as visible as possible. The Lions had roared themselves out of existence. All faction leaders had died during the course of the conflict. The new King wasted no time establishing himself in this vacuum. Having secured Zeltennia and the acting force of the Southern Heaven Knights, and having likewise gathered the ragged remains of the disillusioned and reeling Northern Heaven Knights, Delita was effectively commander of the remaining military body of all of Ivalice. The Knights Templar of Murond, in disarray after the mysterious murder of the Pope and disappearance of the majority of their chain of command, were quick to acknowledge Queen Ovelia’s right to rule. The Lionellian Knights Templar soon followed suit…’
“She writes like her father.”
“Hm?” A minister had handed Delita a pile of papers he was told consisted of the groundwork of a project to reroute the water systems the Fovoham farmlands. It was dreadfully boring compared to his wife. She had insisted that they read them all, and make the decisions on them as immediately as possible. “Who does?” he asked curiously, setting the papers aside with enough irreverence that Ovelia frowned at the sound of them hitting the desk.
“Meliadoul Tingel,” said Ovelia, biting her lip. She sat on the bed, swathed in a pool of skirts. She had stripped out of her outer dresses on account of the heat, but had refused to go down any further than that, and so she had to push strands of sticky hair out of her face, slick with sweat. Delita himself had seen no practicality in such modesties, and so in spite of the squeak and titter of the Queen’s female attendants, he had stripped off his formal vestments, and his undershirt for good measure. “You’ve seen this, yes?”
Of course he had. He made a point of reading other people’s letters before they got to them. It had only been a specialty during his boyhood in Igros. “A-ha. Yes.” Delita looked curious. “They do carry a similar tone, don’t they? Very...liturgical.” He had gotten many letters from the father. Ovelia knew this. She had only opened a few before he had received them. “I assume its the content that bothers you more.”
“She wishes an audience.”
“Popular request these days.”
“Delita."
He looped his arm over the back of his chair, and turned to her with wide, owlish eyes. “Yes?” Ovelia nearly crumpled the letter against her forehead in exasperation. She settled for smoothing the parchment back out over her lap. The seal had been softened by the heat, and it had stained her index finger a faint red. She mastered her general annoyance with him with a sigh and a muttered ‘god give me strength’ that just made him grin.
“Did you know them?” asked Ovelia, brushing her fingers over the first few lines again. “That man’s children?” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice as she said it. She remembered Vormalf Tingel. She remembered his dead-eyes and his dead-voice as he had peeled her life away as though it had bored him. Delita did, too. He remembered much about the man, actually. Not much favorable, either. He nodded to the attendants. In a soft voice, Ovelia ordered them out.
“Yes,” he said, when the door had shut. They were alone. “The son was a Blade based in Murond. I took a few assignments alongside him. He was…” Delita searched for the tactful word, knowing the young man had been a victim in the Riofanes Affair, and knowing that his Queen hated him speaking ill of the dead. “A spirited individual. Not much of his father in him, actually. A sunny disposition, very much about Heaven Above and Kingdom Come. Idealistic. Loyal. Poor judge of character.”
(“Ah, Delita Hyral!” Izlude greeted him with a hardy clasp of his wrist. “We are to travel together. Let us be friends, and God have it we will see success!”
“One hopes,” said Delita, tonelessly. He was promptly slapped on the shoulder and led out to the boats. Balmafula watched them go. He could feel her amusement on his back, the whole way out of the chamber. )
“…a lethal lancer, though. I think his father had him foster under an old dragon knight.” He finished politely enough. Ovelia nodded, in that distant way that meant she was committing this information to heart.
“And the daughter?”
Delita waggled his fingers in apology. “Only by hearsay, I’m afraid. I wasn’t blessed enough for an introduction. She was the commander of a special branch of the Templar, specialized in…” He rubbed his index finger and thumb together in an effort to rub out the recollection. “The retrieval and guardianship of the Holy Relics of Saint Ajora, was the official term. I’m sure there was plenty not on the official day plan, though.”
“Do you know this for a fact?”
“No.” Delita shrugged. “Vormalf placed much more stock in those not of his flesh.” He saw the look in her eyes. “Yes. Like myself. Is that what you wished to know? How much they knew?”
Ovelia didn’t waver under his knowing gaze. Her head remained steady, and her eyes sharp. She held the letter out. “This woman is in all likelihood the only remaining candidate for leadership of the Murond Knights Templar. I have no illusions of what this meeting would be about, if it were to occur. I want to know everything about her. So that We may be a fair judge of her character.” She was testing out her regality. It didn’t yet suit. She frowned at how it sounded on her tongue.
“Ask Sir Agrias,” said Delita.
“What?” The Queen’s First Holy Knight was currently laid up in one of the lower wings of the castle, weakened by long travel and untold hardship. She had had little knowledge of any of the current proceedings, and less of those that had happened prior to her sudden, startling reappearance. Ovelia had been quietly sneaking off to her bedside every day since her return, not a week ago.
“They’ve likely met. She might give you a less vague account.”
“They’ve…” Ovelia scrambled to make some sense of it, shifting her skirts. “Delita, why would you think this?”
The king slipped from his chair, eagerly leaving behind a scattering of pages he had forgotten he’d balanced on his knee. He crept to her bedside, where he wrapped a hand around the post and leaned over to hover near in a manner somehow both ridiculous and horribly inappropriate. Ovelia felt the stickiness of the evening on her skin once more, hot and uncomfortable and absolutely unavoidable. “Because I know,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her. She was not satisfied with this answer, however, and his mouth met the side of her jaw instead. The King scowled. Well, he had made a good go of it. He relented: “The last known reports of Meliadoul Tingel had her in hot pursuit of the Heretic--”
“Ramza,” breathed Ovelia.
Delita drew back with a sharp breath. “No other.” He sat next to her; frown now firmly entrenched in his features. He stared out the window. “They drew blades in Bervenia. Last missives indicated she was pursuing him to Limberry. The rest…” He raised his hand palm up. “Was silence.”
“’til now.”
“Yes,” said Delita. “I’m surprised as anyone that she’s still alive. Ramza was never exactly easy on friend or foe.” He rubbed his shoulder. There were the countless old matches, in his father’s courtyard. The fool would yell his head off at any opportunity for valor, and especially the time he’d dislocated his shoulder in a full body check—Delita caught himself. He shook thought out of his head. He missed the way Ovelia’s eyes trailed his every motion, darkly. “At any rate, there may be more to her story than I am aware of. Is that to your liking, Ovelia?”
“I will speak to Agrias when she wakes,” said Ovelia. Finally, after some moments more of hesitation, she rested her head against his shoulder. Her hair was stiff from sweat and more tangled from day’s worth of wind and motion, but there was still some softness to it, as it brushed the bare skin of his arm. She cast the letter aside. “Thank you.”
He combed his fingers over the back of her neck. “I live to serve.”
She scoffed. “That’s hardly true.”
“Well, no. That’s a damn lie. I live serve no one,” he grinned, there was something a little savage in it, savage and pleased, as he snaked his arm around narrow her waist, “And neither do you,” he said in triumph, before toppling them both back most spectacularly.
‘It was understood in the days immediately after the coronation that the royal couple would need to be as visible as possible. The Lions had roared themselves out of existence. All faction leaders had died during the course of the conflict. The new King wasted no time establishing himself in this vacuum. Having secured Zeltennia and the acting force of the Southern Heaven Knights, and having likewise gathered the ragged remains of the disillusioned and reeling Northern Heaven Knights, Delita was effectively commander of the remaining military body of all of Ivalice. The Knights Templar of Murond, in disarray after the mysterious murder of the Pope and disappearance of the majority of their chain of command, were quick to acknowledge Queen Ovelia’s right to rule. The Lionellian Knights Templar soon followed suit…’
“She writes like her father.”
“Hm?” A minister had handed Delita a pile of papers he was told consisted of the groundwork of a project to reroute the water systems the Fovoham farmlands. It was dreadfully boring compared to his wife. She had insisted that they read them all, and make the decisions on them as immediately as possible. “Who does?” he asked curiously, setting the papers aside with enough irreverence that Ovelia frowned at the sound of them hitting the desk.
“Meliadoul Tingel,” said Ovelia, biting her lip. She sat on the bed, swathed in a pool of skirts. She had stripped out of her outer dresses on account of the heat, but had refused to go down any further than that, and so she had to push strands of sticky hair out of her face, slick with sweat. Delita himself had seen no practicality in such modesties, and so in spite of the squeak and titter of the Queen’s female attendants, he had stripped off his formal vestments, and his undershirt for good measure. “You’ve seen this, yes?”
Of course he had. He made a point of reading other people’s letters before they got to them. It had only been a specialty during his boyhood in Igros. “A-ha. Yes.” Delita looked curious. “They do carry a similar tone, don’t they? Very...liturgical.” He had gotten many letters from the father. Ovelia knew this. She had only opened a few before he had received them. “I assume its the content that bothers you more.”
“She wishes an audience.”
“Popular request these days.”
“Delita."
He looped his arm over the back of his chair, and turned to her with wide, owlish eyes. “Yes?” Ovelia nearly crumpled the letter against her forehead in exasperation. She settled for smoothing the parchment back out over her lap. The seal had been softened by the heat, and it had stained her index finger a faint red. She mastered her general annoyance with him with a sigh and a muttered ‘god give me strength’ that just made him grin.
“Did you know them?” asked Ovelia, brushing her fingers over the first few lines again. “That man’s children?” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice as she said it. She remembered Vormalf Tingel. She remembered his dead-eyes and his dead-voice as he had peeled her life away as though it had bored him. Delita did, too. He remembered much about the man, actually. Not much favorable, either. He nodded to the attendants. In a soft voice, Ovelia ordered them out.
“Yes,” he said, when the door had shut. They were alone. “The son was a Blade based in Murond. I took a few assignments alongside him. He was…” Delita searched for the tactful word, knowing the young man had been a victim in the Riofanes Affair, and knowing that his Queen hated him speaking ill of the dead. “A spirited individual. Not much of his father in him, actually. A sunny disposition, very much about Heaven Above and Kingdom Come. Idealistic. Loyal. Poor judge of character.”
(“Ah, Delita Hyral!” Izlude greeted him with a hardy clasp of his wrist. “We are to travel together. Let us be friends, and God have it we will see success!”
“One hopes,” said Delita, tonelessly. He was promptly slapped on the shoulder and led out to the boats. Balmafula watched them go. He could feel her amusement on his back, the whole way out of the chamber. )
“…a lethal lancer, though. I think his father had him foster under an old dragon knight.” He finished politely enough. Ovelia nodded, in that distant way that meant she was committing this information to heart.
“And the daughter?”
Delita waggled his fingers in apology. “Only by hearsay, I’m afraid. I wasn’t blessed enough for an introduction. She was the commander of a special branch of the Templar, specialized in…” He rubbed his index finger and thumb together in an effort to rub out the recollection. “The retrieval and guardianship of the Holy Relics of Saint Ajora, was the official term. I’m sure there was plenty not on the official day plan, though.”
“Do you know this for a fact?”
“No.” Delita shrugged. “Vormalf placed much more stock in those not of his flesh.” He saw the look in her eyes. “Yes. Like myself. Is that what you wished to know? How much they knew?”
Ovelia didn’t waver under his knowing gaze. Her head remained steady, and her eyes sharp. She held the letter out. “This woman is in all likelihood the only remaining candidate for leadership of the Murond Knights Templar. I have no illusions of what this meeting would be about, if it were to occur. I want to know everything about her. So that We may be a fair judge of her character.” She was testing out her regality. It didn’t yet suit. She frowned at how it sounded on her tongue.
“Ask Sir Agrias,” said Delita.
“What?” The Queen’s First Holy Knight was currently laid up in one of the lower wings of the castle, weakened by long travel and untold hardship. She had had little knowledge of any of the current proceedings, and less of those that had happened prior to her sudden, startling reappearance. Ovelia had been quietly sneaking off to her bedside every day since her return, not a week ago.
“They’ve likely met. She might give you a less vague account.”
“They’ve…” Ovelia scrambled to make some sense of it, shifting her skirts. “Delita, why would you think this?”
The king slipped from his chair, eagerly leaving behind a scattering of pages he had forgotten he’d balanced on his knee. He crept to her bedside, where he wrapped a hand around the post and leaned over to hover near in a manner somehow both ridiculous and horribly inappropriate. Ovelia felt the stickiness of the evening on her skin once more, hot and uncomfortable and absolutely unavoidable. “Because I know,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her. She was not satisfied with this answer, however, and his mouth met the side of her jaw instead. The King scowled. Well, he had made a good go of it. He relented: “The last known reports of Meliadoul Tingel had her in hot pursuit of the Heretic--”
“Ramza,” breathed Ovelia.
Delita drew back with a sharp breath. “No other.” He sat next to her; frown now firmly entrenched in his features. He stared out the window. “They drew blades in Bervenia. Last missives indicated she was pursuing him to Limberry. The rest…” He raised his hand palm up. “Was silence.”
“’til now.”
“Yes,” said Delita. “I’m surprised as anyone that she’s still alive. Ramza was never exactly easy on friend or foe.” He rubbed his shoulder. There were the countless old matches, in his father’s courtyard. The fool would yell his head off at any opportunity for valor, and especially the time he’d dislocated his shoulder in a full body check—Delita caught himself. He shook thought out of his head. He missed the way Ovelia’s eyes trailed his every motion, darkly. “At any rate, there may be more to her story than I am aware of. Is that to your liking, Ovelia?”
“I will speak to Agrias when she wakes,” said Ovelia. Finally, after some moments more of hesitation, she rested her head against his shoulder. Her hair was stiff from sweat and more tangled from day’s worth of wind and motion, but there was still some softness to it, as it brushed the bare skin of his arm. She cast the letter aside. “Thank you.”
He combed his fingers over the back of her neck. “I live to serve.”
She scoffed. “That’s hardly true.”
“Well, no. That’s a damn lie. I live serve no one,” he grinned, there was something a little savage in it, savage and pleased, as he snaked his arm around narrow her waist, “And neither do you,” he said in triumph, before toppling them both back most spectacularly.
