There's a quiet lull in time, between the death of Martel and Mithos' slow slip into an ideal that is too twisted to even speak about. Somewhere between Kratos silently giving up on his now former student, and Yuan creating the Renegades.
Yuan can't place his finger on it, he can't figure out when or why or where it happened, where the days and nights stopped being such things. Maybe it was when he and Kratos had an argument about Mithos' ideals, and how the hell can Kratos just go with it? What happened to that warrior that Yuan respected, who would be able to tell his damned student to stop?
He plays with his ring, twists it around his ring finger. It was a pledge, a promise. A thought to entertain, even, of when everything was over, he and Martel would get married. It was hard for him to even ask Martel, and he was a fighter, he killed at the command, but can't even talk to a beautiful woman such as her.
In a sick way, Mithos was right to make her a goddess, because that's what she was so much like. Kind, patient, matronly, humble and so, so forgiving. Humans are monsters, he and Mithos can agree on that, but yet, Martel would scold the both of them. Hate only breeds more hate, as cliché as it was, and they both know it.
Fingers tap at his desk, Lloyd and his entourage of friends will be here soon and he needs to be composed. He knew this would happen, and it weighs down on him even harder. Somewhere, time lulled and stopped, somewhere the same stars that had twinkled as he and Martel danced under plafully became nightmares and the sun became a sweet dream that children have.
He takes a drink from his small cup, the bitter taste of alcohol doesn't burn. He has no thirst, no appetite, but it feels right. It's what he'd used to do, if those eroded and blurred memories serve him correctly A drink for the fallen soldier, a somber burial. Cheer for the live lived, and mourn for the life lost.
Yuan finds it way to hard to do now.
He shoves the now empty glass aside and rests his arms on his meticulously clean desk, now a mess of papers and various other things. Yuan stares at the door, willing it to open. Willing the son of Kratos to come through now, and it doesn't. He silently curses his luck and lays his head down in his arms.
Somewhere, time lulled and stopped and Yuan thinks he can feel Martel run her fingers through his hair like she once used to.