Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: This has been lingering in my mind ever since my last tattoo session and it was a bit fun, exploring the idea. The poem discussed in the fic is the following:
In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
"I am a canvas of my experiences, my story is etched in lines and shading, and you can read it on my arms, my legs, my shoulders, and my stomach."
― Kat Von D
Kratos is twenty-three and very drunk for the first time in his life. They'd won a major battle, had managed to make their enemies retreat. Drinks have been flowing freely since the announcement, an impromptu festival appearing in the streets as people started bonfires, grilling what food they had. One of the other soldiers in their unit—broad, always-smiling Themba—had somehow managed to convince a good chunk of their unit to get tattoos. It probably would have been the whole unit if they'd been able to find everyone.
It is only when he feels the first buzzing press of the needle that Kratos remembers that Themba is always full of bad ideas.
Yuan has one hand in Kratos' left, letting the artist work on the back of his right shoulder. Between the alcohol and the Exsphere, the pain is dulled, but Yuan holds his hand anyway for when the needle goes over bone, and for all that shading.
"It's looking pretty badass, Kratos," Yuan assures him, leaning up to peer at his shoulder. A lion, the squad had agreed. A lion for all the shit they've been through together, for the proud warriors they are.
"Where're you gonna put yours, Yuan?" Themba asks, looking almost soothed by the needle on his bicep.
Some crude suggestions are offered by the other members of the squad, some whose ink is already done. It's Siobhan—probably the most sober of them all. The woman drinks like she breathes—who suggests his left shoulder. "You and Kratos are always standing next to each other anyway. It's like a mirror."
Kratos dozes while Yuan gets his tattoo on the opposite shoulder, but his hand is still in Yuan's. They're all exhausted, and have been running on adrenaline, sheer relief, and Sergeant O'Conner's moonshine that the higher ups pretend he doesn't make in the basement.
The next morning, the entire squad, sans Martel and Mithos, show up to the mess tent with a lion emblazoned on them somewhere, and moving gingerly, though if it's because of the tattoos or the hangovers, it would be anyone's guess.
The war ends with a roar of cheers when the message of the treaties is taken back to the respective camps. The celebrations go on for a week. The miraculous part is that the alcohol kept flowing; were had people been keeping it?
Tonight, the four of them have decided to stick to each other's company. None of them are really social people—well. Yuan can be incredibly adaptable, whereas Martel is simply unused to crowds, but she is charming in her own right—and the relentless days of festivities, with the release of stress over the treaties, has just exhausted them. Yuan squirrels away some of the fruit wine from outside and brings it back to their tent.
It's disgustingly hot, given that it's summer, and Kratos is the first to strip off his shirt, Yuan following. Martel lays in her underthings, her hair in a precarious bun on top of her head. Mithos stays sitting on a stool, also shirtless, and smiles gratefully when Yuan passes him a cup of watered down wine.
"Let him live a little," Yuan says in response to the look on Martel's face. She hadn't said anything, but she'd wanted to. "We just stopped the War. Even if he somehow manages to get drunk off of this, it's hardly the worst that could happen."
They play cards well into the night, stealing out only once to grab a small stockpile of food from the tables. The bread is a bit hard, but the cheese and jams from the first summer harvests more than make up for it.
"We should get tattoos," Mithos says, wiping jam from his mouth. He'd been a bit spaced out for the last few minutes, staring in the general direction of Kratos and his inked shoulder.
Martel choked. "What?"
"As a commemoration." Grabbing Mithos' cup, Yuan sniffs the wine. Maybe he hadn't watered it down enough. "I'm not drunk," Mithos says, snatches it back. "I don't think I could even say 'commemoration' if I was. Especially not twice."
"Commemoration for what?" Kratos asks.
Mithos waves a hand at the world in general. "Like Yuan said. We stopped the War. I think it would be cool to get tattoos to, I dunno, mark the occasion?" A bit more softly, he added, "And to honor the dead, y'know?"
The four of them have been lucky. So lucky. Their loved ones, their most beloved, are all still alive and in this tent. But they've all lost friends, have all held comrades that lost their family, have had to give the news that I'm sorry, but your husband or brother or son or friend has been killed. They've all made promises to the dead. Promises to keep going, to end the damn war, to find peace. And they have, for now. But none of them are quite idealistic enough to think the peace treaty is enough.
"I like the idea," Yuan says finally.
"But what would we get?" Martel asks.
They sit in contemplative silence for a while, Mithos idly shuffling the cards that had been in his hand. Finally, Kratos speaks up. "There was a poem. I don't remember the exact words, but it was about poppies, growing on the rows of graves of fallen soldiers."
Martel wraps her arms loosely around her knees. "…Five poppies then. One for each of us, and one for everyone else."
Mithos grins, lighting up the tent. "Let's do it!"
The five poppies blossom down Martel's spine, their red loose-edged and watery.
The poppies go on the meat of Yuan's bicep, their petals spread wide.
Mithos' flowers follow the curve of his calf, from knee to ankle.
Kratos chooses his right forearm, the flowers stemming from the inside of his elbow down to his wrist.
The artist takes all day with them, careful not to mess up the ink on the new Heroes of Kharlan, as they're starting to be called. Some of their squad playfully wolf-whistle at Martel's bandaged back. She returns back with an equally playful rude gesture that sends them laughing.
Four months after the treaties are signed, Martel's tattoo is beautifully on display when she and Yuan have their second wedding. The one where everyone shows up, not just Kratos, Mithos and the half-dead remnants of their squad that have all been holed up in a monastery for the winter. `The one where Martel borrows a white dress from someone, and Mithos braids flowers into her hair and walks her down the aisle.
She and Kratos whirl around in a clumsy dance that leaves them giggling and hanging onto each other for support because honestly, they're both terrible dancers. Some of the soldiers' spouses got together and made a massive cake that Yuan is still trying to figure out how on earth it's staying together.
At some point, Martel takes the opportunity to sit because her feet hurt from so much dancing, and she sits on Yuan's lap, his arms wrapped around her waist. He kisses the bumps of her spine—less visible these days after steadier supplies of food—and she can feel his smile against her skin.
Yuan hooks his chin on her shoulder. "Never thought we'd be here, huh?"
Her left hand goes to cover both of his. "Don't be so pessimistic," She tells him lightly.
"This is only the beginning, remember?"
His chuckles reverberate from his chest through her back, the sound warm and fond. "You're absolutely right."
They get a little over a year.
Fourteen months of peace and reconstruction before Martel is murdered on the way to a patient's farmhouse outside the city. It's a trip she's taken half a dozen times.
This time, she doesn't come back.
Then again, her assailants never come home either.
Somewhere, in the depths of raw grief, there is quiet. There is Mithos, hollow-eyed and small, and there is Kratos, grim-lipped and white-knuckled.
"I found your poem." Mithos' voice is hoarse, but the words come out stronger than the few he's said up until now. "'Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high'," he quotes. "It's that one, isn't it?"
The words stir something in Kratos' memory, but it's honestly been over a decade since he'd ever read that poem. It had been a poem taught in the military school, and something about the imagery of poppies growing among white crosses had stuck in Kratos' adolescent brain.
It takes a long time for Kratos to remember that Mithos had in fact asked him a question. He nods in response, too exhausted to form words, but Mithos doesn't respond.
At the tail end of four thousand years, Yuan is learning to become more social again, is teaching himself how to be around people. The Renegades are good for that sort of thing. They drag him to dinner, despite the fact that he doesn't really need to eat. The children tug at his hands to show off their drawings, to ask him to play or to pick them up. He stitches them up, and trains them hard. He's gotten his hair nearly burned off, has been soaked and blown across the room. But it's nice, having people care if they don't see him for a while, to inquire if he's feeling alright or if he's eaten.
It's been a long time since people have cared like that. Since he's had a family.
Botta is part of the old guard, as some of them call it. One of the Renegades who's been there long enough to watch children be born, grow up, get married. Some of them die somewhere in those steps, but he's a staple. Part of the foundation as much as the floor beneath them.
He's been there long enough that Yuan counts him very much as a friend as well as a comrade. They've shared plenty of midnight meals reheated and suspiciously poked at. They can probably fill Lake Umacy with the wine they've had, pouring over blueprints and strategies, or simply reading.
So it comes as a surprise—a complete blindside—when one night, Botta pauses in his reading. His feet are propped up on the other chair and he's comfortably slouched after seeing home a half dozen of their people from a successful mission.
"Your tattoo," Botta starts, sitting up a little straighter. "What kinds of flowers are they?"
Yuan often wears long sleeves. More out of comfort than any desire to hide anything. Most of the time, he forgets even has the ink on his arm and shoulder, but most of the Renegades had seen him in various states of undress depending on the emergency, so most of them have seen his tattoos. Nobody has ever really brought it up beyond some of the kids asking about them.
"Poppies," Yuan answers, not entirely sure where Botta is going with this. Botta is good at not being invasive with questions; he's content to be, and to let people be. "Why?"
Botta just marks his page and slides the book across the desk, allowing Yuan to read the title.
"Didn't know you were one for poetry."
"Not often." Botta shrugs carelessly. "But I was in a mood today."
Yuan doesn't remember this poem. He's sure he read it at some point. He and Kratos had shared his schoolbooks almost religiously. But Yuan has never liked poetry. "This is a classic."
Botta tilts a smirk at him. "Which means it's prehistoric, coming from you."
"You're hilarious."
Botta doesn't ask. He very much does not ask. But Yuan hears the question anyway.
He can choose not to answer, but Botta, of all people, deserves an answer.
"…The War had just ended. We were—slightly—drunk—" Botta makes an interested sound at that because the Renegades have tried half a dozen times over the decades to get Yuan properly drunk, but either his angelic metabolism won't allow it, or it takes an obscene amount of alcohol. "And we wanted something as…commemoration."
(Yuan could very clearly picture the poppy blossoms along Martel's spine. Could see their delicate leaves and the gentle wash of color. Could see her freckles in the spaces between and could feel the way she would shiver if he ran his fingers or mouth over it. He used to think having such a good memory was a blessing)
"Two tattoos? What a rebel," Anna teases delightedly when she finds the lion on the back of his shoulder.
"Having fun?" Kratos asks, half-dozing.
"Absolutely." Anna traces the lines of the lion, somewhat faded. "Why a lion?"
"Traditional symbol of the military. Our entire squad had one, minus Mithos and Martel." Kratos can see her out his peripheral vision, but more importantly, he can feel the warmth of her pressed against his side, her short nails scratching down his back.
He feels her hum against his shoulder before her teeth scrape down the lion, making him arch against her. "Insatiable," he grumbles.
Her grin is pressed to the back of his neck. "Getting tired, old man? It's okay, I under—" Anna shrieks in laughter as he twists and hauls her into his lap.
"Not as cocky now, are we?" he says, spreading his hands along her thin hips.
Anna hums, tossing her head to get errant bangs out of her face. "From the feel of it, you're cocky enough for both of us," she says, rolling her hips down.
Kratos groans into her collarbone. "That was terrible."
Her delighted laughter rumbles through her whole being. "Funny, that's not what I heard last night."
"Do you ever stop talking?"
Anna grins, fierce as the lion on his back. "Make me."
With nine people—eleven counting Altessa and Tabitha—sharing a house, shower times became quite important. Regal, the incredibly early riser that he is, usually gets first dibs at the hot water. And the list goes on until it's a tossup between Lloyd or Zelos who get stuck with lukewarm-at-best showers.
Genis is making the bed when Mithos dashes out, soaking wet and towel around his waist, to get his bag. "Forgot my clothes," Mithos says, flashing a smile before disappearing back into the bathroom.
He can hear Colette, Sheena, and Regal debating exactly what seasoning to put on the eggs from here. Even though none of them are loud by nature, sound carries in this house.
When Mithos comes out of the bathroom again, he's dressed in clothes that aren't his. They'd found him a few shirts at the thrift markets in Sybak, but Colette had offered a pair of her pants. They are the closest fit, though she's still a bit taller than him, so he has to roll the cuffs up.
Genis catches a flash of color as Mithos rolls the cuff of one leg up. "Are you okay?"
Mithos eyes him oddly, wet hair sticking to his face and neck. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"On your leg—I saw something."
Mithos freezes for half a second, whole body tense, before he relaxes again. "It's a tattoo."
"Aren't you a little young for those?"
Mithos meets Genis' eyes and, for a moment, Genis doesn't recognize him. "It's for my sister."
Genis' heart thuds in his throat, pulsing at his temples. They've talked a bit, about Ozette. Mithos doesn't talk about it much, but he'll talk more about his sister. About how she'd raised him, about how she'd been a doctor in the half-elf neighborhood of Ozette before the humans came after her. Her and a lot of the others. Mithos had only gotten away because he'd been out of town, gathering up supplies for her.
(It was terrifying to think about. Genis still remembered Iselia. Could still smell his hometown burning. How lucky was he that Raine was gone already, with Colette and Kratos? Would she have been counted among the dead that day too?)
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay." Mithos straightens out the cuffs before he stands. He smiles, lopsided and beautiful, and he's suddenly the boy Genis knows again. "You're starting to sound like Colette. C'mon. Breakfast smells great."
Kratos is waiting for them, at Dirk's house. He sits on a bench outside, a silent sentinel, but the effect is a bit ruined by the bandages still wrapped around his torso. Between Yuan's attack and the battle with Lloyd, even magic can only heal him so far. He must have heard them long before they come up the path and over the bridge because Dirk is also sitting beside him, trusty first aid kid in his lap.
Lloyd runs to his dad first, having to bend almost double to hug him before he goes on one knee to embrace him properly. "I'm home, dad."
"Welcome home, boyo." Dirk presses his forehead against Lloyd's before he pulls back, eyeing his son up and down. "What's the damage?"
Lloyd winces automatically at the look Dirk gives him, but Raine takes that moment to jump in. "He's mostly bruises. We managed to heal the worst of it, and he wasn't too bad off to begin with."
Satisfied that his son is, relatively speaking, fine, Dirk turns his eye on the rest. Sheena—well accustomed to such a look, is the first to sit and let him bandage up her cuts and rubbing Apple Gels into her burns. Regal and Zelos are next in line, taking Kratos' recently vacated spot on the bench to rest their legs. Lloyd helps Colette and Presea get the rest of their travel packs inside, resting them against the door.
"There's stew on the stove," Dirk says as he finishes with Sheena. "Help yourselves."
Lloyd moves to start handing out bowls and finding a ladle. They used to not have this much dishware. It hadn't been necessary with only two people. But as Lloyd had grown up and begun making friends, Dirk had begun to buy more, so none of their dishes match and it makes Lloyd smile every time he looks in the cupboard. The warm, spicy scent of the stew when he slides the lid off the pot makes him feel like home. As he ladles out servings to people, he catches sight of Kratos, hovering near the front door.
"…Do you want any?" Lloyd asks, having to raise his voice a little to be heard above everyone else.
He remembers a moment later that he probably could have whispered and Kratos would still have heard him.
"No, thank you, Lloyd."
Genis, Raine and Colette settle in their usual seats at the low dining table. Sheena balances on the window sill, moving a bit gingerly. Regal sat cross-legged at the table in between Presea and Colette, while Zelos pulled up a stool. Dirk's house is not equipped for this many people at a time, honestly. Dirk washes his hands of any lingering medicine and blood before fixing his own bowl and sitting at the head of the table. The conversation is quiet and lethargic; no one has quite the energy to keep it going, even if Zelos and Colette try.
At some point, Lloyd looks up to see Kratos gone from the doorway. He excuses himself quietly, taking a few of the empty plates to the sink before exiting through the back door. Knowing Kratos, there's really only one place he would be out here.
He isn't standing before the grave, but rather perched on the edge of a barrel he'd dragged in front of it. Kratos must know that Lloyd is here, had to have heard the creaking of the little used back door, the crunching of the rocky ground beneath Lloyd's boots, but he doesn't turn. (It's a courtesy. People were generally very put off and tense when they learned of the true extent of Kratos' senses)
Lloyd takes a moment to just look at Kratos. At his father. No longer dressed in his usual purple clothing, he looks almost—small. The shirt he wears is an older one of Lloyd's, a bit tight at the shoulders and short at the wrists. His back is still recovering from Yuan's attack at Altessa's, and his duel with Lloyd hadn't been easy on him. Kratos holds himself a bit stiffly, as though afraid to move the wrong muscle.
"Kratos?"
Kratos turns as much as he comfortably can without dislodging himself from the barrel. "Hello, Lloyd."
Conversations with Kratos have never been comfortable, but ever since that night at Altessa's, they've been downright stilted.
"How—How do you feel?"
"I should be asking you that." Kratos studies him with the oddly familiar gaze of the teacher, looking at Lloyd's weak points, looking for unreported injuries.
"I already told you and Dad," Lloyd says, exasperated. (He didn't notice the tension in Kratos' hands Dirk's title, the title Lloyd wasn't sure he was ready to call Kratos) "I'm fine. Sore and bruised, mostly." Lloyd hesitates. "About Mithos…"
Kratos tilts his head up towards the sky. Can he feel Derris-Kharlan, even if it's no longer visible? Had he felt the Seed blossoming, or the worlds reuniting? "He's dead."
"Yeah. We—I—killed him." It had been a group effort, but the killing blow had been Lloyd's. Twice over because Lloyd had been the one to destroy the Cruxis Crystal.
Kratos looks back at him. "Are you okay?"
The question is fundamentally different from 'how do you feel?'. It's a question that his dad might not have asked, or known to ask, and it should leave Lloyd off-kilter that Kratos knows him well enough to ask. It doesn't, but it should. Lloyd worries his lip, dropping his eyes. "It's—he didn't want to live with us in the new world."
"No, I imagine he wouldn't." Kratos lets out a slow breath. "Mithos is—was—utterly devoted to his mission. He considered the good things that would come from his plan to be well worth all the bad things. He was not the type to accept another outcome." (Very much like Lloyd, but Kratos didn't say that. Lloyd wouldn't appreciate it, so fresh now from the ordeal they'd gone through up there)
Lloyd moves to stand beside Kratos. "Do…do you think I did the right thing?"
Kratos is silent for long enough that Lloyd wonders if he's going to answer at all. Finally, he says, "I don't believe you did the right thing. Killing should never be the right thing to do. But. I do believe it was the necessary thing. Mithos would not stop unless he was stopped."
"Why wouldn't you?" Lloyd asks quietly, remembering a conversation with Zelos. Zelos had never had any patience for Kratos' actions or reasons."Stop him, I mean."
"I already told you, Lloyd. He was family." Kratos' hand rubs unconsciously at his right forearm. "I could no more have killed him than I could kill you."
Anger bubbles in Lloyd's stomach. He wants to rage at Kratos, wants to shout about how unfair that is, to shove it all onto Lloyd's shoulders. But he's so tired. (I'm tired of playing your game of good-and-evil…)
"…Scoot over."
Kratos stares at him for a long time until the words register and he shuffles over. There's not much room on the barrel, so they're pressed hip to hip. They sit there for a long while, in an almost comfortable silence. If he were a little more comfortable, Lloyd thinks he could fall asleep. It would be so easy. It's a quiet night, and all the people he loves are safe. As it is, his mind appreciates the quiet, the chance to rest.
At some point, Lloyd's eyes drift from his mother's grave and he catches sight of something on Kratos' left wrist. "What's that?" Lloyd asks, pointing.
Kratos follows his finger and tilts his wrist so that the underside is more towards Lloyd. It's two stars, one larger than the other, sitting right beside each other. How had Lloyd never seen them before? But then, Kratos is usually wearing his long gloves, or a long sleeved shirt that actually fits him properly.
"I didn't picture you as a tattoo kind of guy," Lloyd says finally, not entirely sure what to say about it.
A soft sound escapes Kratos that, from someone else, Lloyd would call a laugh. "No one ever does, apparently."
"Are those stars your only ones?"
"No. My third." His thumb rubs over the ink. "I got them fourteen years ago."
Fourteen years. Lloyd does the math. The date is even right in front of them on the gravestone. "When Mom died."
Kratos nods. "I thought I'd lost you both."
Stars. Lloyd's most vivid memory of his father is sitting on his shoulders, listening to stories of heroes in the stars they counted together. He'd even told Kratos that at some point.
A part of Lloyd wants to hate him. One of the most powerful beings on both worlds, and he hadn't been able to find a single child? Hadn't even been strong enough to kill the mad child god who—beyond just committing worldwide genocide—had been responsible for the supposed death of his son, and the death of his wife.
But then Lloyd thinks about his own friends. About Zelos betraying them at the Tower, all of them standing over his battered body, and the question had become, 'Do we kill him for this?' Lloyd had been unable to. Hadn't been able to even bear the thought. And Zelos, while a friend, is someone that Lloyd has only known for a few months. Mithos had been Kratos' student, his friend, his family for over four thousand years.
Ever since learning that Kratos is his father, Lloyd had put more thought than ever into imagining what Anna must have been like. He had thought that he was more like her in personality, in his compassion and love for people. He'd thought he'd gotten it all from her, but now…now Lloyd thinks that perhaps he is more like Kratos than he could have ever imagined.
"I think Mom would like them," Lloyd says when he can find his voice. It's thick in his throat, but the words manage to come out. "The stars."
Lloyd almost does a double take at the small curve of Kratos' lips. "I think she would say it isn't dramatic enough. Her tastes were always more bold."
"Wait—Mom had tattoos too?"
"It was one of the first things she wanted to do when she had become healthy enough."
"What—what designs did she pick?" Kratos had never been this talkative, especially not about Anna, and Lloyd refuses to lose this opportunity. Despite traveling the world, it seems no one has ever met or known Anna Irving. This is also the first time that Lloyd has ever heard of Kratos speak of her without sounding infinitely sad. Sorrow is still there, on the edges of his voice, but it's mostly just fond.
"She was very fond of geometric designs. She liked to mix that style with the art that sailors favored. Her first one was on her back. A bird, ringed with a circle. She had several though. Loved getting them. She said once that it made her feel as though her body was hers again."
Lloyd can't help but smile. He knows something about his mom. Something concrete, something from someone who knew her, who loved her. "…Mom was kind of a badass, huh?"
He can't see Kratos' face very well from this angle. But he can hear the expression in his voice. "She certainly was."