Author's Note: No one ever really talks about Kratos and Martel. Yuan and Martel—lovers or fiancées, depending on the time period. Kratos and Mithos—teacher and student. But Kratos and Martel? Never really touched upon, other than they traveled together. That, coupled with the fact that I very much doubt whether Kratos's personality has remained statically stoic for four thousand years, spawned the basis for this story.

I ship Yuan/Martel as much as the next gal, so this story does not contain any genuine romantic interest—merely a good deal of manipulation on Martel's part and emotional and physical confusion on Kratos's. My reasoning for the events here is as follows: one, Martel has a rockin' body; and two, Kratos is attracted to women.

I apologize in advance for the probable OOCness, but I did try to stick as closely to canonical events as possible. For your reference, a good deal of my information comes from Taleslations's "Tales of Symphonia/Phantasia Timeline".

Anyway, sorry about the ridiculously long A/N and enjoy!

It's been one hell of a day.

When Kratos awakened that morning, he was Captain of the Tethe'allan Knights and one of the Princess's most highly regarded (and thus most successful) suitors. Now, he is neither—not that it matters much anymore, since Meltokio will soon be destroyed anyway. Not only did General Ka-Fai refuse to call off the planned assault on Meltokio, but the King didn't even agree to grant an audience to the Yggdrasill siblings because of their race.

There's another drastic change. At the start of the week, Kratos wasn't particularly an advocate for half-elven rights himself—but when two of them came forward with information that could potentially change the course of a hundred-year stalemate in a nine-century war… well, in such a situation, no right-minded knight or monarch should discriminate based on the unchangeable circumstances of their birth.

Supporting two strangers of another race over his own royal family never even occurred to Kratos as a possibility before now. Yet here he sits, staring blindly into the dying campfire with two slumbering half-elves beside him. It hasn't been more than six hours since they started traveling together… six hours since Kratos specifically sought them out.

Perhaps that was because of the nature of his dismissal from the Knights. Had he been ejected for any more understandable offense, he might simply have left on his own and tried to make a life for himself elsewhere—but to be drummed out of service for something so insignificant as recommending two half-elves with sensitive information? Kratos scowls into the flames, remembering vividly the fury with which he threw together a satchel of necessities and stormed over to the palace to fetch the two who had so inadvertently condemned him.

Even as he stalked through the streets, he had not yet decided what to tell the half-elven siblings, or indeed whether he even wanted to say anything to them. But Kratos reprimanded himself as soon as the thought crossed his mind; it was no one's fault but his own—no, that of the unbalanced society in which they lived—that he had been dismissed.

Martel was sitting on the side of the cobblestone street, rubbing a sobbing Mithos's shoulders reassuringly and murmuring soft and comforting words, but her emerald gaze was troubled and filled with tears of her own. Kratos only stood there a moment as he gazed down at them thoughtfully. To weep in anticipation of the deaths of people who despised them…

Come with me, he decided, stepping forward, and Martel jerked her head up to stare at him; even Mithos glanced up, eyes red and watery. There's no place for any of us in a doomed city, he continued expressionlessly; he had been reduced to the level of a half-elf by choosing to value their input. No one, not even his family, believed what any of them said, either about the decline of the Giant Kharlan Tree or the impending Sylvaranti attack; they disdainfully attributed the news to some raving half-elves bent on sowing distress among the populace.

So Kratos, the supposed disgrace to the Aurion name, will be the only one left alive to carry it on after General Ka-Fai carries out his plan. He shakes his head, smiling humorlessly; a man of only twenty-two should not be so cynical. But then, it hasn't been the years but rather this single day that has taught him the bitter irony of life.

"Can't sleep?"

Martel's quiet voice stirs Kratos out of his reflections, and he glances at her with some surprise; it's been a couple hours since she and Mithos lay down. If she's awake because she doesn't trust him to watch over them as they sleep, he doesn't blame her. If he were a half-elf, he would be inclined to think that any human would slit his throat and take what little he owned—the world wouldn't miss him.

"I can't, either," continues Martel with something like a laugh at his unresponsiveness, sitting up and scooting closer cautiously, halting a respectful distance away as she sits on her haunches. Kratos smiles slightly, understanding her hesitation, but says nothing. He merely observes her, giving neither encouragement nor reproach as she stares silently into the fire.

Really, she's quite beautiful, with that straight verdant hair cascading down her flexible back. All the half-elves Kratos has ever seen have walked with fear weighing down their shoulders, with worried glances and shuffling steps—but Martel is graceful; he remembers the way she walks, with stately yet still humble steps. In a way, she reminds him of the Princess.

The comparison, unconsciously made, makes Kratos's breath catch momentarily, and his mind wanders farther along that path against his will. Martel's dress is modest and plain, like all the others of her race, but she has an undeniably womanly figure—yet she seems so innocent, ignorant of the effect she might have on him—er, anyone else…

"Thank you, Sir Aurion," says Martel tentatively, mercifully breaking his train of thought, and his eyes flick up to her face as she glances up at him. All her half-elven diffidence rests not on her back, but in her viridescent eyes, shining with maturity that belies her twenty-or-so years. "For taking us with you."

"It's no problem," responds Kratos, looking at her curiously; she does not seem able to look him full in the face for extended periods of time, and drops her gaze back into the campfire. After a mostly silent pause, she raises her hand with a breathed incantation; the embers do not become brighter at her words, but rather warmer. "And," he adds, before he can stop himself, "please, call me Kratos."

Martel finally meets his eyes, shocked—but the corners of her mouth turn up in the tiniest of smiles. She sits back and sighs, "All right, Kratos," but her eyes are on her sleeping brother with undisguised and loving concern. Since leaving Meltokio, Mithos's eyes have been dull and he speaks only rarely—though he made an exception when Kratos offered, after long and careful deliberation, to teach him to fight. After that, he asked excited questions nonstop for the next ten minutes before Martel convinced him to calm down again.

"…Kratos," begins Martel, her voice heavy with something like worry, drawing him back out of his thoughts. He turns his eyes back upon her to find that she has moved slightly closer during his reminiscence, still kneeling. "I want you to know—I'll do everything in my power to repay you for all you've done for us." She fidgets as she speaks, a barely noticeable but certainly deliberate roll of her hips that makes Kratos's heart skip an unwilling beat, senses sharpening automatically.

But he narrows his eyes. With an aura of purity like she has…

"You've never touched a man." His sentiment does not take the shape of a question, but rather an unintentionally dismissive statement, and Martel blushes noticeably in the dim firelight, opening her mouth as though to speak before closing it again. So her chastity is genuine, then; a precious prize indeed for mere tolerance.

"I can learn," she mutters eventually, and her resentment somehow makes Kratos chuckle. Is she so eager, then, to take such a statement as a challenge? He's been told he's desirable, but almost always by women paid to say such things, or otherwise those with ulterior motives. So what does Martel want from him? Such a gift would not only repay him, but tip the scales back in her favor. He cannot accept.

But Kratos hesitates before finally shaking his head, reluctantly. To refuse an offer like this will torment him for the rest of the night, but to take it would haunt him for the rest of his days. "I'm already going to teach Mithos swordplay," he remarks, raising his eyebrows. "Must I teach you, too?"

Martel's eyes widen in delighted surprise at his joke and she laughs softly, breathily, her smile casting more light and warmth than the dying fire. Kratos feels the first wave of regret at his decision wash over him at the sound of her mellifluous voice, but forces his thoughts frantically away from her. But then she moves closer still, if only by a few inches, and his mind goes momentarily, alarmingly blank as she rests a tentative hand on his arm.

"No, you needn't," murmurs Martel, and he glances down at her somewhat nervously to find that she is gazing into his eyes with undiluted and earnest gratitude. His mouth goes dry and he closes his eyes; can't she accept his chivalry and leave him to his solitude before he starts second-guessing himself? It's not usual that Kratos Aurion, Captain of the Tethe'allan Knights, succumbs so easily to temptation—but he's tired of the restrictions of high society, and it's been a while since the Princess's birthday, and Martel is very, very…

Soft lips brush suddenly against his, and Kratos's eyes fly open in shock, every muscle tensing as if in preparation for battle. Martel withdraws her face quickly and studies his expression carefully; he can only stare at her unblinkingly, trying (with increasing desperation as his brain continually malfunctions) to gauge what she's doing, whether her offer has changed.

"I just wanted to give you something, and this is all I really have," she whispers, hanging her head as she gestures towards herself. "I'm sorr—" continues Martel apologetically, looking up again, but Kratos has already thrown caution to the winds and leaned forward. A kiss, he reasons with what little is left of his rational mind, will do no harm to either of them. Even if it's her first.

Their mouths meet once more, perhaps more roughly than he had intended, but she either approves or is too shocked to pull away. His hand slips automatically to the small of her back to draw her closer, and she giggles, sliding her hand around his neck: he shivers, lips parting instinctively with irrepressible hunger—but as the kiss spills over the edges of her mouth, trailing along her cheek to the crook of her neck, she takes him by the shoulders and whispers, "Enough," and the gentleness of her command is what ultimately stops him.

Kratos jerks back and releases her, turning away somewhat self-consciously, but he can see Martel smile almost mischievously in the corner of his eye. At first, he feels relieved that she takes no offense for the extremity of his reaction, but then it's overtaken by annoyance. Justly so, he reminds himself bitterly, since she was the one to push his boundaries in the first place—but why?

"Now I can sleep," says Martel, her smile still in her voice as she too rests herself on her cot, and Kratos sighs heavily in response. Perhaps, he realizes, this is a test to see whether or not he is trustworthy. She's seen him vouch for her and Mithos despite knowing their race. She had not, until just now, seen whether he was honorable enough as a man to stand guard over her as she slept.

Clever girl, thinks Kratos grudgingly, noting that her staff has never been more than a few inches away. He wonders somewhat distractedly whether he's the first to be tested like that, and—further along those lines—whether or not her original offer had been genuine to begin with.

She's quite the actress. He'll have to keep that in mind.

"…Don't ever do that again," groans Kratos, shifting in place as he gets his thoughts (mostly) back under control. He's going to learn how to master his own self if it's the last thing he does, he thinks resolutely. He has the rest of his life to do it, after all.

"Of course I won't," responds Martel promptly, quietly. "I only have one first kiss, you know. It's impossible for me to give another one, even to the same person." Kratos blinks; apparently, he was the first of her test subjects after all. Has she ever traveled with anyone besides her brother? Probably not…

He sighs frustratedly, shaking his head, blaming the ease with which Martel can derail his thoughts on the lateness of the hour and the weariness of his mind. "You know what I mean," he says crossly.

Martel laughs lightly, teasingly. "I do," she assures him, and somehow Kratos does not feel particularly assured as she dodges the promise he wants—no, needs. (He can tell that whatever little sleep he'll get tonight will be fraught with dreams of all that he passed up.) "But can I quote you on that?"

"Why would you need to quote me on that?" snaps Kratos, before remembering that Mithos lies asleep, but the eight-year-old does not stir. Does Martel really think she'll be able to seduce him—that he'll beg for more? (He attempts not to think of what he would actually do in such a situation, with somewhat limited success.)

"No reason," she responds, amusement sparkling in her voice, and Kratos thinks darkly that this means there is a very definite reason. But he'll keep on his guard, he tells himself firmly. He doesn't need to succumb to her charms a second time, even if she did give him her first kiss. At least now they were even. "Good night, Kratos," adds Martel, more seriously. "And… sorry about all that."

Kratos only makes a noncommittal sound as he stares into the fire, wondering what on earth he's gotten himself into—and whether her unsuspecting brother is just as manipulative at heart.