Summary: Because to say good-bye brought finality. [A farewell is final. They say that, if you say good-bye to the one you love, he will never return.]

Disclaimer: I don't own Golden Sun. That belongs to Camelot, and this is for entertainment purposes only. I am making no money off of this. If you attempt to sue me over a fanfiction, you'll waste your time. This girl has dust bunnies in her wallet.

EDIT [6/10/13]: I revised this to both fix the errors and flow (it needed it...) and to make it an official sequel to my new one-shot, "Scarves". Hope you still like it, and if you haven't read the other one, please check it out!

Silence

Traditions: Part Two

Isaac stared off into the dark recesses of the look-out cabin, his thoughts eating into him.

The day had started peacefully enough. The sun rose, Matthew and Tyrell started horse-playing downstairs, Garet kicked them outside, and he had chuckled simply over the amiability of it all.

Then Karis visited, bringing Ivan's soarwing with her. Garet and he had long discovered that they could not reach the ruins of Sol Sanctum on foot. In order to study the Sun's aftereffects and the mysterious vortexes, they had required Ivan's invention. While their friend was fiercely protective over the soarwing—and rightfully so, after all the work it had required to find the materials necessary to build it—he trusted his former travelmates with their ability to safeguard it, and agreed to lend it.

Isaac would admit that he had been disappointed when Karis arrived without her father. He had hoped to speak with the older Wind Adept; they hadn't seen each other in ages, and it would have been nice to catch up. With their work in said cabin observing the Golden Sun, he hadn't even seen Jenna, who was watching things in Kalay for him in their absence, in two months, and he terribly missed her.

But Isaac found himself able to converse with Karis, who was as bright as her father was. Unfortunately, while he and Garet were hearing about Ivan's current projects, they had neglected to watch the soarwing, believing it to be safe.

The word "safe" was nonexistent around their kids. (A part of him refused to admit that he and Garet had probably—ok, had—been the same. Their children were mirrors of them in looks already, so why shouldn't their personalities reflect likewise? The other part of him mourned it.)

While Matthew was usually the levelheaded one of the two, he had been unable to convince Tyrell to leave the machine alone. Consequently, Tyrell was found on the roof, about to jump and prove he could utilize the soarwing without any prior experience. No amount of coaxing could bring him down. Even Karis's wrath wasn't enough.

Tyrell had then jumped and landed in Tanglewood. From there, they underwent a mission to rescue him in which he was forced to realize that their kids were no longer children. They were adults, and they had the inner strength to prove it.

Isaac's heart twisted inside himself at the thought, but it was time to allow their children to be the adults their age proclaimed.

He was only grateful that Jenna was not there to yell at him for it. She would have fiercely disapproved, despite—probably, hopefully—agreeing with him afterward over his decision.

After all, it was their children's actions that led to the destruction of the soarwing. Rightfully so, it was their responsibility to see it fixed.

Isaac's face darkened as these deliberations brought forth memories he had not reflected upon for nearly 30 years. The time when his quest had begun.

Dora's face was tear-streaked. It pained Isaac's heart to see her broken; his mother had not cried so fiercely since the storm that stole his father's spirit.

The storm in which they were too late to save Felix, leaving his father and Jenna's parents standing on the pier when—

No. He wouldn't ponder that now.

The past was the past. He had no way to revive the dead, and his mother had admonished him for the guilt she claimed was not his to bear.

He still felt otherwise, despite it all. Wasn't it his fault that they died? Because he was too late…

Isaac shook his head, clearing the darkening thoughts away. Others replaced them, though.

For the past three years, all Dora had had to cling to was him. Her son, the only child of his father. She said that she could see his father's strength in his deep blue eyes and his strong chin. Being without a father, those words brought him comfort. Just as he had been the only one able—besides her aunt—to comfort Jenna, due to their similar losses, although her loss was much greater.

Now, after the attack on Sol Sanctum, he felt that, once again, he had let down those around him. Once again, lives were balanced on his actions. He had no choice but to move.

If he didn't, it would be the world that mourned instead. [1]

He wouldn't allow her world to be destroyed a second time, even if it cost himself in the process. He had sworn upon the unmarked grave of Felix and Jenna's parents that he would look after her and protect her.

He would not fail to rescue her.

As he set his packs by the door, his mother approached behind him, her footsteps as heavy-laden as her heart. He turned, but instead of seeing her broken gaze, he saw an inner strength that was not there before. Her face had an expression he couldn't decipher, and her tears were falling, but her breath was not hitched, and it was if she did not realize she was crying.

It was then that Isaac realized she had a yellow scarf over an arm. In her hands, however, she carried an old, leather-bound sword.

His father's sword.

Isaac had seen it in his parent's room, only once, when he was 10. His mother had admonished him for touching it.

Now, her arms were extended, the old leather looking dull in the light of the oil lamps as she offered it to him.

It was the sword that his father had owned. He had taken it with him when the elders had allowed him beyond the forbidden gates, to seek out a young girl who had gotten lost in the woods beyond Vale. He brought the child back safely, but he had refused to speak about the world outside their town.

All he remembered was that the sword returned bloody.

Now, the sword was offered to him. It felt strangely prophetic. Isaac swallowed, pushing down the lump rising in his throat.

Slowly, he reached out. His fingers wrapped around the worn leather, dust rising in a small puff from the contact. He pulled it towards him, and, gripping the hilt tightly with his right hand, he pulled the sword free of its aging scabbard.

The steel sparkled in the weak light, a beacon in the darkness. The blade was sharp, belying its ancient case; it looked as though it had been newly forged, an energy surrounding it that breathed a sense of calm into Isaac's trembling fingers. They steadied, and Isaac realized that Venus psynergy was laced into the blade.

As Isaac stared, his reflection stared back at him—a face he didn't recognize. The eyes seemed too old, the face too ragged. He looked as though he'd been through a nightmare and had just woken up.

He wished that the events of the day were a nightmare that he could wake up from.

"Take it." Dora's firm voice cut through the tensioned silence in the room. "Your father took it with him when he left Vale. It has been passed down to all the sons since before your great-great-grandfather, who was a child when the village of Vale was founded to guard the Elemental Stars. It had been passed down to him from his father, and so on." A wry grin spread across her face as she viewed the sword. "It seems destined to be passed on to you, as well. It has never rusted; maybe it's the Earth psynergy within it that has preserved it."

Isaac slowly sheathed the sword, his father's memory surfacing while his mother spoke. He swallowed against the lump in his throat again, his eyes blinking back the growing tears that he refused to acknowledge. He choked, "Th-Thank you, Mom."

She smiled wanly, the moment declaring that she should smile while her heart wishing the moment had never come. "And this is from me. It's… also part of the tradition." She unwrapped the bright yellow scarf that was hanging on the side of her arm, and tied it around his neck.

"But what...?"

"This is the traditional gift the mother gives her son," she murmured. "It also seems destined for you. I started making it a year ago only because your father had asked me to make it before he died. He wanted it made before you turned eighteen. I thought I would get it out of the way as soon as possible, since you turned seventeen a few months ago. I…" Her breath hitched, and whispered, "I-I only finished it two days ago. I only finished it because I knew that he would have wanted me to finish it. But now—" Her voice broke, and she leaned forward as she sobbed, gripping the soft fabric of scarf in her fingers. "I—I wish I had never made it! It's cursed me with the fact that now you must leave!"

She pulled Isaac into a fierce hug, her voice hitching as she spoke, "C-Come back. Please come back home. I've woven that wish into every thread of that scarf—that, if you were ever forced to leave, you'd return to me. Please… please come back alive. I…" She hiccupped, and her voice faded into a broken murmur, "I—I don't know… I can't… I won't be able to live if—if you leave me, too, like Kyle—!"

Isaac's guard broke finally, and he dropped the sword, wrapping his arms around his mother. The tears on his face finally fell freely.

There was no way that he could feel nothing. He felt like a child again, not the seventeen-year-old that he was supposed to be. He cried unabated, albeit softer than Dora, and felt afraid to let her go. He knew that, when he let go, he would have to face the unknown future. An uncharted journey in which he didn't have a map or compass to guide him through.

A journey where he didn't know if he'd succeed in rescuing Jenna.

A journey where he didn't know if he'd return home to his mother again.

"Isaac, I won't be going to see you off."

Her words broke his heart. Isaac pulled away to look at Dora, hurt coloring his deep blue, tear-stained eyes. All he could manage was a weak, "Why, Mom?"

As Dora turned away, she murmured, "This… this is another t-tradition, a superstition, if you will, Isaac. A farewell is final. It is said that, if his parents say good-bye to their son, he will never return. So I refuse to say good-bye, if my good-bye is final. I will wait here instead, hoping and praying for your return." Her voice choked, and her trembling hand went to her mouth as she whispered, "I… I will lie to myself that you're away, visiting the area just beyond the gates, and you're coming home tonight. I'll lie to myself every morning, tell myself this every noon, and whisper prayers for your safe return every night, when I remember why you're really gone and where you're going. I refuse to say good-bye, for I fear that I—" Her voice cracked, and she trailed off in a broken whisper, "I will be condemning you to die on foreign soil." She turned away, her shaking shoulders not hiding her fresh tears. "I will not say good-bye to my only son."

With that, she embraced Isaac one final time, a fierce hug where neither wanted to let go of the other, before she let him go, almost pushing him away, with a loud cry. She ran to her bedroom, leaving Isaac standing alone by the front door, his father's sword at his feet and his mother's scarf, drenched with their tears, around his neck. With a choked sigh, Isaac wiped viciously at his tears, willing them to cease.

He forced the icy hollowness invading his heart away. Resolutely, he reached down and picked up his sword, placing it next to his pack. Then, with a deep breath, he reached up and slowly untied his scarf. He folded it, placing it beside the sword, and gave them one last, long look. Then he turned away, going to bed himself, though he knew that his sleep would not come easily.

He had a fitful night, a sleep full of death and fear of the coming day. When the sun rose, however, its golden light shining above the gates, it brought some warmth for the path that lay before him.

He closed his bedroom door quietly as he exited it, not sure when he'd be able to enter his room again. As he descended the stairs, he realized that the house was eerily silent, as though in vigil for his departure. His mother made no attempt to leave her room. Isaac geared up, strapped his father's sword across his back, tied his mother's scarf carefully around his neck, and turned to leave the house.

He heard his mother's sudden, crying whisper, "Why my son, too?" as he closed the front door, before her sobs echoed throughout the empty house.

The memory wrenched Isaac's gut, only consoled by the utter joy and happiness of his mother's tears—the first tears of happiness he had ever seen her shed—upon his return with his father. He had never heard such wonderful sounds as her, "Welcome home, Isaac", "Welcome home, Kyle", and her murmurings of "I love you," over and over again.

He had fulfilled the tradition of the scarf already.

Now, he would continue the tradition of the sword.

And the tradition of silence.

He dug through his chest at the foot of his bed with a heavy heart, fishing out his father's blade. He pulled it smoothly from the scabbard, his grip much stronger than when he was Matthew's age. The blade still gleamed in the dim oil light, the steel shining just as brightly, the psynergy embedded within it just as strong.

Only the reflection was different. He saw an older, bearded man, but one that was not as touched by time as he should have been. He sheathed the sword decisively, then closed his eyes and sighed.

He wished desperately then that he didn't have to prolong the tradition, yet he knew he must.

He heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to look behind him, the aged scabbard still in his right hand.

Matthew stood in the doorway, a nervous look upon his face and Jenna's scarf still around his neck. Isaac gave a small, internal smile. His son was about to embark on a journey, leading his friends to find a Roc Feather. While their expressions prior to their respective journeys were the same, Isaac found relief in that his son at least had a map to work off of. One which he had helped to create, in fact.

Isaac gave one last, hard look at the scabbard. Then he rose from his position by the chest. "This was my father's sword, Matthew. When I left on my quest, your grandma Dora gave it to me. Now that your quest is about to begin," he held the sword out to his son, "I am giving it to you."

Matthew's eyes widened, his hands stopping short of taking it. "Can—Can I really take this, Dad? I mean, I can't leave you without a sword! What about the monsters?"

Isaac smiled fondly at his son's concern. "Don't worry about me, Matthew. I have my own sword, and my psynergy is still strong." He held out the sword to his son again. "Here, take it. Please."

Slowly, Matthew closed his fingers around the aged leather, the bands crackling with their age. He gripped the hilt with nervous fingers, and then pulled the sword free. As he held it, Isaac was pleased to note that his son straightened, and his fingers gripped the hilt tighter.

Matthew was growing up. Isaac sighed proudly at the sight of his son standing strongly before him.

Then Matthew sheathed the sword. When he looked back up, Isaac hesitated, his heart pained with what he was about to say. It was something that no parent wished to express to their child, not his mother, and least of all himself. However, he steeled himself. It was for both of their goods. It wouldn't be good for Matthew to see his worried face in the morning and carry that fear with him on his journey. It was best to get it out of the way that night, so that his son could begin with a fresh start.

"Matthew, I'm so proud of you. Please, always know that," Isaac said softly, as he pulled his son into a hug. Matthew dropped the sword, just like Isaac had done, to embrace him. It broke Isaac's heart to continue, but he choked the words out, "And I'm really sorry, Matthew, but I… I won't be there to bid you good-bye tomorrow morning."

To say good-bye meant that he would die. Silence protected the hope of him returning alive.

A/N: So, what do you think? This was a little idea that popped into my head, revolving how Dora didn't go to bid Isaac farewell, and then Isaac doesn't go bid good-bye to Matthew. So I wondered if there was some reason for it, and the idea of saying good-bye popped up. It seemed to work.

EDIT [6/10/13]: Thanks to Eloine's suggestion, I've also tried to accent Isaac's feelings for Matthew a little more. Did his feelings as a father come through better this time around…?

[1] Ok, so we were working on Shakespearean Sonnets in English when I wrote this initially. We were all assigned one to analyze, and I got Sonnet IX. So, if you've read it (or want to look it up for the fun of it), you can tell the poem's influence in about that 3-paragraph section, with the [1] marking the 3rd paragraph. If you like that kind of thing.