After the death of High Priest Funeral the war subsided. Delita arranged for him and the Princess to be married, and she could not protest. It was as he said: he was a hero, and her country needed peace. She was willing to sacrifice herself. More than that, she had nothing left. Accusing Delita of anything would only bring more pain, more fighting.

The wedding was elegant and joyful, as a royal wedding should be. Despite the condition of poverty in Ovelia's lands her country insisted on celebrating openly, preparing banquets and dances in her honor. She and here new husband were revered as bearers of a new and peaceful era; they symbolized the rebirth of a nation. Ovelia brought forth a smile and accepted their praise and efforts with grace, hiding the tears that were constantly trapped behind her eyelids. She was little more than a puppet now, she often thought to herself; a toy for Delita. His hand in hers brought her only shame.

On the fourth night of the celebrations word reached the palace that Dycedarg Beoulve and High Priest Funeral had both died. Ovelia was in the palace at the time, chatting with the court ladies as the ball progressed around--and without--her. Delita gathered everyone's attention to make the announcement. He did not grin in triumph; however, those that knew him could see the pride in his expression.

"In light of these circumstances, Gallione has given up the rite to the throne of Ivalice," Delita declared, bringing a murmur to the crowd. "The crown has been granted to our own, beautiful Queen Ovelia."

Ovelia didn't even react. The cheers rose around her, chanting "Long life the Queen!" over and over gaily, but still she would not feign to their merriment. She was watching Delita. His face was proud. He had ever right to be. His plan had succeeded.

"My dearest Ovelia." Delita took her hand and kissed it. "Shall we dance? In honor of this marvelous development."

She accepted. The new King led her out to the dance floor, which was quickly beginning to fill with other members of court. She allowed him to lead her in the moves, turning and spinning, watching as the surrounding audience passed as a blur. Her body obeyed the guidance of his hands, uncaring. This was her fate.

"You're not enjoying yourself," Delita observed. He pulled her close to him as the music slowed, granting him the chance to catch his breath. "You are not glad to be a queen?"

"I am not the Queen," Ovelia replied softly. She pulled away from him once more, spinning with her hand still curled around his. I am no queen. He is the King.

"Ovelia." Delita urged her to his side once more, his arm around her waist so that she could not escape again. "Is this not what you wanted? A kingdom that is peaceful, that is rejoicing? They'll be no more war as we rule. We will be invincible, and strong."

The crowds were laughing and cheering. Ovelia stared at them. How can they rejoice? she wondered, mystified by their high spirits. She felt dead on the inside, and cold, as if trapped within their tight circle. A circle as tight as Delita's arms around her.

"There is no need for concern any more," Delita continued. His dark eyes were flashing. "This is our kingdom, now. I made it for you, as I promised."

For a puppet her mind whispered. You're nothing more than his puppet whore.

His lips found hers, and Ovelia let out a cry that was half sobbing, allowing her emotions to free themselves. She sagged against him, crying and shaking, unable to stop. He held her upright, startled by her sudden outpouring. He stared, silent. His failure to understand only made the Queen's agony worse, and she beat her fist against his chest, as if attempting to revive the heart she'd once felt inside him.

Just after the wedding word reached Ovelia of the deaths of Ramza and Alma Beoulve. She never heard any word of Count Orlandu or Agrias, or even Mustadio, those who had risked their lives for her. It was as if they had never existed and never would. She assumed that they had perished as well.

And she was alone.

A week passed. It was her birthday. Ovelia escaped the palace and the guards despite the commotion of the celebrations, desperate to find some place for her to be alone. That place was the ruins of the old Zeltennia church, where she had so often come to spill her grief over the sun-weary stones. She hid among the rubble and stayed there all morning.

"What should I do?" she asked aloud, praying for God to give her an answer. When she received none she turned instead to the dagger she'd brought with her. "I must be out of my mind to have this," she murmured, turning it over in her hands. It was Delita's dagger, one she imagined he'd used many times. There were still stains of blood in its handle. She wondered if it was Ramza's blood sunk into the leather.

"God, please help me," she pleaded over and over, her face toward the heavens. "I can't stand this. This man, my husband...he's taken so much. Even if it was for his sister... I can't stand that he's using me." She choked on a sob. "Oh why couldn't I have stayed with Ramza? Why couldn't I have fallen in love with him, or some other man that feels compassion? Why this man, who takes and takes and cannot love me? Why?"

Silence accompanied her pleas. Again she looked to her blade. She wondered what it would feel like to have that cold sharp agony inside her, to watch her blood empty out. How long would it take for her to die? Would it be swift and painful, or would she suffer hours of blood loss before finally leaving her body behind? Certainly it would depend on where she sheathed it. Her gut or her throat, her heart or her wrists? Which would most quickly deliver her from this fate? She realized that she had no idea, as she'd never been injured by such a weapon, nor had she the experience to witness a death. All she knew for certain was what she'd seen on Olan's face when he entered her room, and the Hokuten knights Delita had slain in rescuing her at Orbonne.

But if she joined her dearest friends now, what would become of her new kingdom? Delita would rule as king without her, a thought that stirred uneasiness and fear in her stomach. He had reached his goal, but then what? How many people would he use, would he kill, to further his ambitions? The people adored him for his courage and idealism, but how long before he tired of the perfect peace? Only great men deserved to rule kingdoms, and he was no such man.

Suddenly she knew. It was a simple answer, and she mocked herself for having not thought of it sooner. Of course--she could kill him. Someone would step up and take his place; perhaps even Olan would, being the son of a Count. Maybe Ramza was still alive somewhere...maybe he could be king. At least she would have escaped this hell....

The sound of a chocobo approaching alerted Ovelia's attention, and she quickly turned toward the wall of the crumbling church. The dagger she pressed flat against her stomach as a means of concealment. The rider dismounted and she knew immediately who it was. His gold-plated boots clicked lightly as he walked. "Ovelia, here you are," he said. All she heard were the words, as she was determined to pay no attention to his tone. If she let him manipulate her now then she would lose her nerve and fail in her plan. "Everyone's been looking for you."

The Queen didn't respond, as her hands were shaking violently and she feared that her voice would give away her intentions. He could always read her mind. She hugged the weapon tightly for security and waited for him to draw nearer.

He was only a few feet away now. "It's your birthday, isn't it?" Five steps away. "I brought you flowers."

Not this time, Delita, she thought, though by now there wasn't even any bitterness left. I won't let you control me anymore. I'm sorry.

Two steps.

"Ovelia--"

Ovelia turned and lunged at him. By now she knew every inch of his golden armor, and her dagger slipped easily through an opening between the plates to bury in his left side. It wasn't high enough to hit his heart, probably not even enough to kill him, but she had to try. A moment later she felt blood on her hands.

Delita gripped her wrists, holding her still even as she wanted to escape that warm life fluid. She looked unwillingly into his eyes. The emotion she saw there was enough to freeze her heart in her chest: confusion, betrayal, exasperation, but mostly pain. A kind of pain she'd never seen in him, twisting his features into something strange. "Ovelia..." His breath hissed with great strain against her cheek, and he shuddered. "Why..?"

"Delita..." She'd made a mistake. She could see in his face a depth of feeling that she hadn't expected, like that of a lover betrayed and lost. She shouldn't have done it, but it was too late.

Delita slid the dagger out of his side, grimacing. The Queen didn't have time to react or explain before the blade came rushing at her. She didn't have time to scream. She felt the cold sting of the metal slice cleanly into her chest, through her heart. The pain was far greater than any of her mind's assumptions. Time stopped. The agony filled quickly into her legs and she was falling. Her gaze twisted to the sky, washing her eyes in its beautiful blue stain. Oh God....

Ovelia landed on her back among the strewn flowers of her husband's bouquet. The soft scarlet blossoms caressed her cheek, and she focused on that sensation to block that of the spreading anguish threatening to consume the rest of her. Something warm and wet spread across her chest and dribbled sluggishly down her side, filling her every sense. She was dying. Her body whispered to her, quietly, almost sweetly, that it could no longer help her. Her sight began to filter with a blinding white light, and the warmth was turning quickly to a bitter cold. Colder than those eyes....

She forced her eyelids open, willing herself to look at the man one last time. Had she the strength she would have sobbed openly at her foolishness. Delita was moving away from her, his steps short and stumbling. He dropped to his knees in the darkening grass. Ovelia reached her hand out, praying that somehow she could reach him. Delita...why...why...

He turned his head to the sky. The last thing the queen saw before she was claimed by her fate was the glint of sunlight off his tears.

*End

Return

*Wow, that was weird writing. I usually try to end somewhat happily, but...well...

So, what did you think? Write me!