Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream Kingdom

T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men


Final Fantasy Tactics: Death's Dream Kingdom


Delita wrenched himself awake from a lingering nightmare, almost grappling with the bedsheets as he awoke and seated himself upright in the smothering darkness, perspiring with agitation. He wiped a trembling hand across his brow, cold sweat clinging to his fingers, and a constriction tightened his throat and made breathing difficult. An old wound, inflicted long ago by a vengeful hand, throbbed like fire in his abdomen. His whole frame was shaking with uncontrollable spasms. He attempted to breathe softly with his fingers at his throat, trying to regain his composure.

Why, after so many years, do the visions return?

"Sire," said a voice at his side. "Your Majesty, are you all right?"

The tones were soft and childish, a young woman's voice. He glanced at her, watching her as she rose on the bed and looked at him through sleep-heavy lashes, passing her fingers over her long hair to brush it away from her face. When he first met her several weeks ago he thought her quite fetching, her chiseled features resembling a little doll of china with large blue eyes and long, lustrous hair of glossy chestnut. She was twenty years old. She also had the thinnest, most childish voice, very soft and lingering. He had come to hate that voice since then.

The chancellor noted his attraction to the young woman and made a quiet bargain with the girl's parents, as was his practice when the king appeared to take an interest in some young woman or other. It became a kind of a habit on his part, a service to his aging king, and Delita was grateful for this unspoken agreement between them. He had no time, no energy, to quest for women himself, and preferred passing liaisons to a permanent arrangement. Oftentimes he would not know anything of the woman except her name and he didn't take any further interest. The women were just passing faces, passing bodies to utilize, a passing feeling, a momentary interval of silence in a chaotic life. He often ended up disliking them; their empty bodies without a soul, their empty faces without a meaning; he despised them from the moment they allowed him to use them as willing tools, and he despised himself for reducing them to this state.

But since he had not married again since the death of his second wife, this was the best way. It was a habit that he cultivated, for years now.
Images of the nightmare returned. Staring eyes drifting in the light, a melancholy smile, a distant humming of a million voices murmuring things that he couldn't understand. "Just make it stop," he found himself whispering. "Make it stop."

"Your Majesty," the thin, childlike voice spoke again. "You are trembling."

Delita discovered that his efforts to calm down had been futile. He took a deep breath and said, his voice grinding to his own ears: "I'm all right. Go back to sleep." As he spoke, he felt the recurring weakness attacking his limbs, and it was with an effort that he maintained an upright position.
She did not say anything, but sank back into the pillow. He could feel her eyes watching him from inside the darkness. She must have been frightened by his visibly poor condition. His shuddering continued, and his heart was racing madly. His fingers touched his throat as he felt the choking sensation return. It lasted a few minutes more, getting worse every moment. Then he suddenly sank forward with a groan, the world turning black before his eyes. He heard the girl's frightened cry. Then, there was silence.


"Your Majesty," the chancellor said, speaking carefully but with a tone that indicated that he encouraged him to comply with his advice. "I would suggest that you will not pay your usual visit to the Queen's grave today. I know that this had been a ritual ever since she died, but you must consider your present condition."

To Delita, who was sitting in a large armchair by the open window, his knees covered by a thick blanket to protect him from the drifting cold, this sounded too much like an order. He knew that the man meant well, but the notion of being coddled and ordered about, as if he could not make his own decisions, angered him. He examined the chancellor's face narrowly, and the man stirred uneasily before his hard gaze. After a short silence— a deliberate silence, which, as he knew, magnified his obvious displeasure— he replied.

"It's been my habit for almost forty years, and I will not relinquish it now just because some physician wants me shut in here for the rest of my days. I've been trapped inside this cursed chamber for almost a month. I'm starting to feel like I'm living inside a grave."

The sun's gentle light dimmed for a moment, obscured perhaps by a transitory cloud, and Delita hunched into himself, unable to suppress a shudder. The chancellor noticed his momentary weakness and immediately took an advantage of it. "Your Majesty, it is a question of caution. I have no wish to see you end up truly taking your place at her side."

The cloud passed on, and the square of light grew strong again. Delita straightened. "Do as your told," he said shortly. "Prepare the mounts, and I will be making an exit at two o'clock, as usual."

The chancellor, however, made one last effort. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice a mask of respect and caution, since he had perceived Delita's gloomy mood. "I understand that you consider this custom an honor to her memory. Our people had always perceived it as such, and they will not disapprove of your failure to attend it this year. Your condition is known to them."

Delita did not say anything for a moment. Then he uttered a short, dry laugh whose bitterness could not escape the chancellor's notice. "Honor," he echoed. "Yes. It is honor I am considering. To pay her respect." He rose from his seat, throwing the blanket to the ground with a curt, angry gesture. "No more of this," he said. "I will be leaving soon. Make sure to prepare everything."


Delita never explained to the people why he wanted to bury Ovelia away from the royal cemetery, but they did not make objections to his peculiar choice. She rested on a quiet hillside in a rather obscure graveyard, not far from some church ruins. It was a very small place, and the largely abandoned church was rumored to be haunted. Delita strode slowly up the sun-washed hill, his sword slung at his waist. The soldiers that served as his escort stayed behind at the foot of the hill, keeping a respectful distance and conversing quietly among themselves.

It was the hour of three o'clock on a silent spring day; Ovelia's birthday, and the day that she died. The sun was strong, the skies washed a perfect blue, and the winds were cold, but very soft. The dark earth of the graveyard was made green with bright new grass. Delita wandered through the graves, re-living the memory of old evils, the ghosts of the past looking just beyond his shoulder; almost tangible, almost real. The gloomy form of the stony church rose just beyond the hill, an ancient spectacle of sadness. The gaping mouth of the arch looked into a darkness that showed nothing.
He found Ovelia's grave at last, a little distant from the rest, thickly wreathed with white flowers. They had been warned of his coming. He knelt and placed the traditional bouquet of his choice on the grave, a wreath of fresh roses whose petals were red as blood. The striking crimson stood out on the purely white background.

Delita remained kneeling after laying the flowers down. He watched the map of red and white almost absently for a moment. The crimson petals shimmered in the flood of bright golden sunlight. He liked the color; the color of red, of blood. It reminded him of his own hands after he withdrew them from the body— red with her blood.

He recalled that moment— she had turned towards him, the expression in her eye strange. After her strangled cry, he glimpsed the blade of the dagger flashing in the sun, and he immediately understood.

It might have been pure instinct, who knows; but it might have been something that he had considered doing before that day. And so, the moment that she came onto him with the dagger, thrusting it into his side, where the useless, ceremonious golden armor left a gap— Ovelia knew about soldiers' armor well enough— he caught her hand with an iron grip. Then he forced her hand, and the dagger gripped within it, to turn and drive the gleaming blade gripped between her fingers into her own stomach. All of this took only a moment, and she barely made a sound. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, almost as if she had fallen asleep— and when he stepped back she slid to the ground, a red stain growing on her white chemise. The trickling blood seeped between her fingers and stained his own with red.

He washed his hand in the nearby well, covered his wound, and told everyone it had been suicide. He performed his part well; like a heartless, mindless automaton, like a figure made of iron. He had no remorse. After all, she had tried to kill him first.

Delita raised his head. The lightest footsteps, a figure on the edge of his vision, disturbed his thoughts. For a moment he fancied that he was having a vision, and narrowed his eyes against the sun.

A young woman came striding up the path between the graves. She held white flowers in her hands. Her waving tresses, a soft hue of brown, were braided with a white ribbon, and the long rope of hair dangled down to her waist. She wore a voluminous, pale dress, and a light red cloak woven with a golden thread at the border covered her shoulders. He could glimpse her face as she passed, a soft, fair oval with large, very dark eyes, and his breath caught sharply. The resemblance was so striking that for a moment he felt like he was living in a dream. The vision passed quietly at his side.
He recollected himself and, almost without knowing it, he called out:

"Miss."

She halted, turning her head. Delita rose to his feet. She turned around fully, facing him.

He approached her, recollecting himself. For a moment there was silence, then she spoke. "Sir," she said, bowing her head slightly in greeting. "Did you call me?"

"Are you—" Delita found that it was difficult to speak, and the words came out almost mechanically, "are you a visitor?"

"I came to visit my mother's grave," she replied.

There was a short silence, and the sun sank down a little inside the thick blue skies. Delita examined the young woman. The resemblance between her and Ovelia was striking. She seemed the same age as well; about eighteen years old. And she had the same pale, oval, melancholy little face and dark eyes. She was not quite as beautiful, perhaps, but she was still very lovely; he noticed that her clothes were not of rich silk and velvet, but of plain cotton. She was, perhaps, a daughter of someone in the nearby town. For a moment he wondered if she knew him as the king, but her eyes lacked such recognition. Perhaps she thought him an ordinary knight. Perhaps she forgot that the king came to visit this graveyard. Whatever the reason, she did not seem to know him.
He took a step towards her without speaking; she looked up at him, but did not seem daunted. Maybe she waited for him to speak. He felt tempted to reach out and touch her, and something latent awoke in him. "Do you know who I am?" he asked heavily.

She shook her head, seeming baffled. "No, Sir."

"I am..." Delita found it difficult to talk. "I am... Delita."

He could have said: "I am your king," but he did not. For some reason he felt as if the twin image, the ghost of the Queen, would separate from the body of the young girl, and say with her soft but firm voice:

"You are not. You are nothing but a common man, Delita. You always were, and always will be."

"Damn you," he muttered with a shaking breath. "Damn you."

The girl stared at him with wide eyes. For a moment he thought that she heard his words, but then she sank to her knees, bowing her head. "Your Majesty," she murmured. "Your Majesty, forgive me."

He took another step forwards, and for the first time addressed her as he was used to speaking to people; as a king. "You are forgiven, young woman. Rise to your feet."

She obeyed at once, and stood facing him. She did not betray any apprehension, but she appeared to be waiting for some order to be obeyed—
Something that he would say—

He only had to say the word, he knew; only to say it, and she will be the next one in his bed, like the rest of them. And then, the image of the dead queen will be defiled. It would be almost as if he would seize her ghost, make it tangible, and then discard it like the rest. He reached out with his fingers, running them down the young woman's small chin, and bent forwards. He could see an odd look in her eyes; but she didn't move. And he knew that he only had to say it, and she would be under his control.

But then he saw something else. A pale outline, a pallid image in the bright light, a man in a blue armor with the same eyes, watching him. It was like the dream, but not quite the same, because now the eyes were full of knowledge. A thousand ghostly whispers arose all at once all around him, and the cold wind echoed in the trees, raising a storm; a storm of voices.

And Delita looked into the young woman's eyes, and understood what he saw in them. And then, at that moment, he finally felt very, very old. He dropped his hand and stepped back.

"Send my regards to your father," he said to the young woman. "You may go."

He watched her as she bowed and turned, walking quickly down the path between the graves. And then he turned around and began to walk down the hill, back to the escort.


Delita examined the path before him, holding his mount tightly in reign. The strong mid-summer sun did not disturb his vision. He had been feeling weak since his health first broke down, but lately he had recovered some of his strength. His sole attendants were his councilor and his physician for the entire duration of his illness.

"Your Majesty, should we summon your son, the prince, from the provinces?"

"No, he's busy. Let him be."

"But Your Majesty, your children—"

"I said already, let them be."

His councilor endorsed the physician's verdict that his health was still not perfect, and that he had to take care not to overtax his strength. Delita ignored their whispered murmurs, despising their apprehensions, irritated at their caution.

"Are you sleeping well, Your Majesty?"

"Leave me alone."

"Are you still having fainting spells?"

"Leave me alone. Damn you."

As soon as he felt well enough he began to take rides again, enjoying the sunshine. It was a beautiful, temperate summer, neither too hot nor too cold. He was not one to stay inside the dark walls of his chambers all day, when the world outside called with breathing movement and shimmering lights.
He crossed the full path to the bottom of the hillside, when he suddenly perceived a figure standing in the middle of the road. Bringing his mount to a sharp halt, he strained his eyes at the pale outline before him. He thought that he could detect the metallic look of an armor and he approached it slowly. Perhaps it was a warrior; perhaps just a passerby. At any rate, he was the king, and it was his right to ask questions. He advanced.

He could now see the figure clearly. It was a young boy, about sixteen years old, with a shock of blond hair that fell over his eyes. He held a sword in his hand, and the naked blade glimmered in the sun. Delita now perceived his features, and he breathed in sharply, reigning his mount yet again with the shock of recognition. This boy looked exactly like Ramza.

The boy noticed that he stopped, and advanced towards him. His figure became clearer. With an almost unconscious gesture, Delita's hand went to his own sword. His fingers became very cold and clammy all at once; the winds that blew across the hills seemed to turn sharp, and the blue lights in the summery sky dimmed and were extinguished. The figure of the boy before him became even paler as he approached, becoming almost misty and outlined in gray, losing all its colors. Only the eyes shone visibly in the white, immovable face, blue and cold and as hard as steel. The blade held in the semi-transparent hand glittered with a lethal light of its own.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, Delita drew his own sword. He looked into the ghost's pitiless stare, and said, with shaking lips:

"Don't come near me— I will kill you!

The ghost made no response. Delita felt his body trembling, his breath quickening, and his limbs felt frozen. He tried to speak to the specter, whose remorseless advance conjured unnamed horrors, raised swirling, pitiless memories. He opened his numb lips. Then, his voice came out, thick and menacing in his own ears:

"I will kill you, Ramza. I will kill you again— until you let me rest!"

The specter came to a halt. It looked into Delita's face silently. Delita spoke again, his voice breaking:

"Drop your sword— it's not too late!"

In the blue eyes, he could see the flicker of the knowledge he had seen in the graveyard; but now there was something else in it. Now it was full of a deep, unfathomable sadness. The sword dropped from Delita's hand and fell to the ground with a clatter. He whispered:

"I do not want to do it... I do not want to kill you... not again."

And at that moment, Delita knew that he was dying. Ramza's ghost and Ovelia's pale memory both stared knowingly in his face, questioning his past, rising from the sea of old evils and dragging him back with them into its depths. Leaning forwards in the haze, he felt the gray world swirling around him, and the only sound was sthe frantic beating of his heart. His voice came out as a broken sob:

"I did not mean to kill her, Ramza."

He felt himself toppling down. On the edge of the darkness, he heard a clear, quiet voice, a voice he knew well, the voice of a boy:

"Wait for me in three days."


The curtains that closed around the bed were heavy and smothering. He lingered in his fever for three days, and then it abated. He lay in his bed, exhausted, powerless, the heavy blankets weighing his body down. For three days he felt the eyes watching him, the voices murmuring softly in the darkness, speaking of memories. But after three days the fever snapped, and he opened his eyes to rich, golden sunlight.

Ramza was sitting on the edge of the bed, a faint smile on his lips. He did not seem menacing, nor sad; he simply sat and watched him. Delita's own lips moved:

"So you came."

"Yes."

"Will there be..." Delita whispered, "forgiveness?"

There was silence. Then Delita said slowly: "I did spare her, Ramza. I spared her memory in the graveyard."
Then, the pale image turned around and said: "Follow me. I will help you find the way."

The thick sunlight dimmed slowly, and the murmuring voices slowly sank and faded into the evening sky.


Written by Hadas Rose

Final Fantasy Tactics is ? Square, 1998.