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Disclaimer: Tales of Symphonia is the property of Namco-Bandai. My only reward from writing this fanfiction is the experience. Also, I'm jobless and depend on a scholarship –suing won't get you anything.
000
Green Skies over Wheat Fields
Chapter 1: Storm before the Calm
Cold winds roar in the Forest surrounding Heimdall as two small figures stagger through the unforgiving weather. Rain falls down mercilessly, harshly diluting their tears in a mockery of comfort. Short green hair and a pained smile, even shorter blond hair and wide blue eyes; both clad in threadbare tunics unsuitable to the late November; futures, unsuitable to such pure souls.
Dire situation born of hatred and fear, fed by self-righteous morals of fleeting mortal flesh and spread like freshly spilled blood on water. What could they do? Father killed, mother lost. No kin, treasure or roof. Death is near, end in fear.
Forbidden fruit of love: seed of Human nurtured in Elven womb… 'Should have drowned them! Abominations!' Is there no place to call their own?
Wandering on deserted roads, they eventually find shelter. And if the shack is ruined, at least the ceiling holds most of the water at bay. The pile of wood by the stove is dry enough, so the girl —Martel— murmurs an incantation to spark a miserably small fire. Dry wood is a luxury they can't afford to waste, after all. Goddesses know when the sky will stop mourning and finally reveal the Sun… and dying of hypothermia, after suffering so much, isn't an option.
She forages for food and eventually finds a bag full of rice under a loose floorboard. Ignoring the musty odor, she goes back to the stove and grabs a rusty pan. Taking it outside, she hastily washes it in the rain. 'It's made of iron. Iron is good. Brother is anemic.' Two handfuls of rice; cover with water —'Clean water is abundant, at least something good comes from this wicked rain!' –and boil until it's tender. Brother advances on the food, stomach aching from hunger. 'No,' she says, 'else you'll burn your tongue. Let it cool down a little bit, please?' Her pleading eyes do the magic and he sits back down. Neither plates nor eating utensils were spared by passing bandits, so they eat with their hands.
If Green let Yellow eat her share, he doesn't notice, starved as he is. 'Only a child, no more than four summers! Brother Mithos needs his nutrients more than I…'
Screams! Agonized gasps! Nightmares haunt her baby (long lived as they are, four summers could very well be a few months) brother. 'What to do?' Music. 'I don't have mother's talent. My singing will certainly agitate him further!' Forgotten on her pouch, lies a simple panpipe.
'Child, slow down! Gently, you blow as if whispering to your sleeping brother. Listen. Your grip should be a bit looser—not like that. Yes, much better. For the smaller tubes, blow harsher. No, not that harsh! I swear you'll burst an eardrum!'
So she does her best to remember. Eyes closed, notes come out hesitantly. Slowly, the melody gains life. They come out in rows, soft legato and dolce tenderness. A sad smile ends the song.
That night, he dreams of green sky and golden fields. The Sun is oddly white as a songbird goes back to its nest.