A/N: Was feeling nostalgic for Golden Sun and the idea of Keith being a Mars adept was just too good to resist. Had a lot of fun with this one.

Keith sat perched in front of the oven hugging his knees, keeping watch of it. His feet were bare, his old socks having been worn out for some time and he dug them into the rug, hoping to provide them with some semblance of warmth. A pot, gray and round, stood atop red-hot stones; he felt a twinge of jealousy toward it, wanting to shove it aside and rest his feet in its place. The growling in his stomach convinced him otherwise, as did the blisters on his hands. A soft simmer sounded then, pulling the scent of carrots and boiled meat along with it, and he found some peace in the fact that at least one of those troubles would be taken care of soon.

He got up and walked to the side of the stove, snatching two wooden bowls and a ladle off the floor before quickly returning to his spot. Setting them to his left, he took up the same position as before, setting his eyes on the rumbling cauldron. A new flame had lit itself beneath him, earlier worries about his freezing toes having been forgotten as he focused his thoughts.

He'd never tried this on a subject as heavy as this one, nor with his eyes open—at least not intentionally, like he was now. Sure, there had been some incidents, the occasional wooden figure flying off the shelf when he stared a little too hard at it, but nothing as focused as he was attempting. He held his hands out in front of him, taking in the size of the pot, remembering how the clay felt on his fingertips, as if he were actually touching the thing. He glanced at a spot on the floor some three inches in front of the oven: this would be his goal. A small one, but hopefully attainable.

Taking a deep breath, his diaphragm sent the energy spiraling back to his heart, up to his mind, through his fingertips as the pot screeched toward him. Though he wasn't touching it, he felt its heaviness in his hands, how the liquid inside swished around and threatened to spill over. He almost couldn't believe it—it was working, it was actually working! A happy laugh slipped past his lips, though he wouldn't let himself lose focus, not just yet: he had no idea why, but he sensed that the pot wasn't where he wanted, not yet. Shutting his eyes even tighter, he visualized the floor, saw the crack he wanted the pot to land on, felt the pot's heat sweep over it and with it, a wave of exhaustion as opened his eyes once more.

He couldn't believe it. He'd actually done it and without somehow managing to spill their dinner everywhere, like the last time. Keith could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of telling his father that he was close to getting his powers under control, at least on one front; he was going to be so proud. And once that was revealed, was inscribed into truth by a person other than him, he'd be one step closer to exploring beyond the little hideaway his father had settled them into.

Excitedly, he grabbed the bowls and ladle from before, bring them to his chin one by one and blowing stray specks of dirt out of each. He took the set over to the steaming pot, heaping generous amounts of their dinner into the bowls before taking them back to the rug. Taking a hearty sip, he looked at the door, eagerly awaiting his father's return.

His father should have been home by the time he finished dinner. He'd gone on a routine trip to the nearest town to sell the tools and trinkets he fashioned in his spare time. His periodic trips allowed them to just about get by—he'd often trade his wares for supplies they needed, as money in and of itself often was useless to them. These short journeys typically took him away for a night, at the most, with his father returning sometime early in the afternoon the following day. So by Keith's standards, he should have arrived home hours before, well before supper was served.

A chill ran up Keith's spine as he stepped foot in the cave, the warnings of his father ingrained into his memory like an inscription in stone. Don't go in there, he'd tell him. You have no idea what's lurking in the darkness.

The conversation would always play out the same way: Keith would just tell him he'd take a lamp, just as he'd seen his father do. Enough food for a meal or two settled into a rucksack, plus some left aside for the person remaining in the house. His father would sigh and ruffle his hair, tell him that there was more to it than that, and get to work packing, switching the subject to something more mundane.

He'd never once taken Keith there himself. Something about the path being too treacherous, about how they'd make the journey together when Keith was ready. How, he'd say as he wrapped Keith's blistered hands in the middle of a smoke-filled forest, they couldn't pass through until Keith could control himself better.

The lantern felt heavy in his grip, the rusty metal squeaking as it swung with his movements. Internally, Keith felt like he was going to vomit, if not from fear, than from the overindulgence of soup he'd partaken in earlier that evening. He tried to distract himself, tried focusing on the sound of his footsteps, the airy breaths he took as he made his way through the darkness. His light source was a pittance for the cavern's swirling blackness, doing little more than illuminating the first couple of feet in front of him.

Which way had he gone last? Keith had lost track of that a while back.

A bat flew past him, wings tousling with his wild black hair for a moment before continuing on its journey. Keith jumped, covering his head with his arms, ready for the onslaught of enemies to arrive. But none came, at least not above.

Another creature ran by his feet, its long, thin tail tickling his knee through the fabric of his trousers as it passed by. One more slithered along the walls, the saliva from its teeth dripping down on him as it hissed in Keith's ear. Still, yet another whooshed past—this one almost as tall as he was, and the hair on his arms shot up as it passed him by. All of them were heading in the same direction, as if they were in search of something, but what?

He could hear his father screaming at him then. Turn back. Turn back right now. Hell, he'd be wrong if his own conscience wasn't telling him the same thing. But he wanted to know what they were all interested in, had to know if, if…

If…

Tears sprang, but he couldn't bring himself to cry. Not yet. Not when there was still hope that he was out there.

He had to be, he reminded himself, though he could feel doubt creeping at the corners of his brain. A crack, a sniffle slipped, but he rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve and continued on, hand resting on his dagger as he made his way through the cavern's thin pathways, closing in on the cacophony of sounds he'd heard the creatures making. Soon, he sensed them: they were just beyond the next bend. Clinging to the cavern wall, he held out the lantern, trying to take stock of the situation.

The bat from before hung from a stalactite of violet, translucent shimmering crystal above him, its back bent toward the other creatures. Keith became transfixed for a moment by the stone; it was far prettier than anything he'd ever seen in his life and though some part of him knew it wasn't amethyst, he had no idea what else it could be. Whatever the case, he was drawn to it, but not insofar as to forget where he was, what he was doing in the cavern in the first place. He turned his attention to the rest of the creatures.

The bat's hissing friend, long and coiled on the floor, glimmered emerald in the lamplight. And the other, the one that was Keith's height...well, he was much taller than he'd originally figured. Perhaps double the boy's own, with teal skin and muscular arms. A troll; his father would tell stories about them to Keith, an air ascribed to them that he could only ever describe as mythical, ethereal. Keith's mouth hung open, head swimming at the sight of it.

And then his eyes fell on the hand at the troll's feet. On the plain bronze cuff circling his wrist, its three rubies seated evenly apart from each other.

He stopped breathing.

No.

It couldn't be him. It had to be some thief, some common criminal who'd mistaken the item for some valuable piece of jewelry. It wasn't him, he'd prove it. He'd see his face and confirm it for himself. His father would come home and he'd have to heat the soup up again, but they'd have supplies to last them for several more weeks, new socks for Keith before the cold really set in...

But he had to clear them out of the way first. Biting back tears, Keith took a deep breath and flexed his fingers, feeling the blisters pop and crack beneath his gloves. Closing his eyes, he cupped his hands in front of him like he had so many other times, like he had earlier that night, though this time was different—this time, he wasn't looking to accomplish something so banal as moving a heavy pot of soup. No, this time, this time he had to attack, to summon that power he hadn't quite yet mastered. He closed his eyes, still smelling the crackling cinders of the forest trees he'd accidentally set ablaze, the raging flames that had nearly taken their house, as he felt power course through his body, heart pounding as an inferno shot through his veins, sending his fingertips alight with pressure. But something was different that time around: instead of bursting into relentless fire, his senses cooled—save for the palms of his hands and the only word on his mind.

Mars.

The ball of flame shone a fiery orange with a heart of cerulean, sending sparks flying as it pulsed in time with Keith's own. Slowly, it quieted to a calm glow, and the boy drew it closer, using his other hand to shield the sparks from flying too far. For once, though he quaked with anxiety, he felt unstoppable.

So of course, he did what any unstoppable person would do: he leapt out at his enemies, orange ball of flames in hand, sending it barreling towards them, filling the cave with the smell of charred flesh and cinders, mounds of skin melting off in seconds in the heat. Keith wrinkled his nose as he rushed past the troll, the lantern falling from his wrist and smashing to the floor. The rest of the cave went black, but there was only one thing he needed to see: he threw himself at the remains, picking over every detail, searching for some indication that maybe, perhaps—

The black hair, as dark as Keith's own, wasn't his father's, right?

He shook the body's shoulder's.

The leather jerkin with patterns of red carefully sewn in had been stolen, just as he'd hoped earlier.

He placed two fingers on the neck, feeling for a pulse.

The pool of blood, the cracked-open skull belonged to some other man. His father was still alive, still somewhere in this cave. All he had to do was keep lying to himself; eventually, he could will it into truth, right?

He bit back tears as the flames quieted down. Sluggishly, Keith held his hands back in front of him, welcoming their comforting warmth as he collapsed beside his father's body. Overcome with exhaustion and grief, he cried.

Above him, the purple stone shimmered in tandem with the flames, pulling them toward it, their strength protecting the child as he mourned.