Title: Gray Water

AN: You know, Tsu, you're exactly right. XD; Thanks much for your review. All formalities aside, the following chapter is primarily Kratos-centric.

Also, I thought I should note that in this, Kratos had been living in Palmacosta for two to three years prior to the Desian occupation, and thus no one suspects him.

Infancy was borne of time, as was growth, adolescence-- he was the consequence of being infinite, of treading beyond a realm belonging to gods and demons alone. He could remember when there were no mountains shadowing the Slyvaranti plains, when they were rolling hills and crags painting the sunset. The land changed when its sister disappeared; was made wild in retaliation, Kratos mused. The earth was shattered into two separate dimensions, and its glaciers stolen, its climate savage and fierce.

Flanoir disappeared, and the currents shifted with nowhere to run to, while icewater trickled into Tethe'alla's seas some worlds away. Where he saw two skies-- their shy stars pulling behind the clouds, blushing argent behind a curtain of navy and whispering grays--, he could recall the years when there was just one, its many constellations rippling and twirling in unison. There was only Mother Luna strung across the heavens then, hanging in her silent orb until Origin put them to bed. '. . . Tales,' he thought, and paganism and polytheism. The things Mithos saw no meaning in now, and the stories Martel loved to croon at the fireside then.

He could remember few faces-- they blurred into one these days, a remnant of the age below his eyes-- but their's were burned into his skull. Mithos made himself god, and Kratos had never left his side until he caught word of the work camps veiled in the mists and forests. He had been deserving of his title then, and carried himself with all the nobility of a saint while tied to a romanticism that strangled him. Kratos could still hear his promise to that table of fools melt into the summer air, as sharp and self-assured as it was millennias ago.

'His pledge . . . to save the entire world . . .' he thought brokenly as the bugs murmured from their pools. It was a brilliant-- and terrible thing to say. No man he met was immune to the arrogant confidence Mithos prided himself on, and the weaker felt compelled to bow before greatness. He understood that he could no longer value heroes, as glory gave them birth before virtue. His student, innocent and afraid once, could kill more than their war did and Kratos would lay his head down to perserve the hope he embodied.

Yuan, Mithos, and Martel were more important than life itself when he was young. They came from fractured families with no names or blueblood to cling to, but tempted him into their company when he was too childish to want it. He had been born a noble, the would-be Duke of Gaoracchia, and a son to Tethe'alla's beloved field marshall-- he wore his prejudices with pride, and sneered when they opposed the crown. He chided that it was a failure's argument, and to defy his military was to spit on the fatherland. Then, in the heart of Volt's tower, he was a witness as Mithos swore his oaths to the Summon Spirits, and saw the child grin in the face of a god's anger. It was a challenge against heaven, and Yuan sprang to his side before he abandoned him to fight alone. The battle was breathtaking as it screamed through the field and tore into the mountainside, comparable to the things of miracles-- Kratos was never a teacher to him. Power was a birthright, and not a title passed down through the generations. He saw no meaning in his post, home, teachings, and knew Mithos was a boy who could save the world. Protecting him became his life's calling, and it was a privilege to walk at his side, to see all his accomplishments as they unfolded.

Their mannerisms, smile, voices, and tears played like a mad lullaby while he counted those stars under the safety of nighttime, and he roused himself to find some shelter at the city's outskirts. There were no streets lamps littering the cobblestone roads-- they were a luxury that only the flourishing world and Cruxis' angels held claim to--, and the daytime borough hazed to a black hollow, writhing where webs of moonlight weaved with shadow. He learned early that sleep settled into the busy streets like something alien, leaving quiet to creep between the alleyways and deep into the households guarding Luin's gates as he haunted the empty grounds. Even the water went deathly still once its residents tucked inside their homes.

The strange, unearthly tease of midnight was nostalgic; he had lived and died in Derris Kharlan, a heaven where nothing breathed. Its angels had no interest in food or necessity-- pain, feeling, and sense were foreign to them. A man who could not eat would not grow crops, sow fields, or hide when the rain washed fresh seedlings into the valley. Without death to loom along their path, there was no demand for life. They feared nothing except what ignorance laid below them, and Kratos had walked behind their walls for so long that love and labor were akin to children stories. Danger had long since returned to the declining world, but it had been nearly one-hundred fifty years since he'd seen its familiar spin of green hills and frosted mountaintops and he'd forgotten what their tragic systems created. Unlike his last descent, it was difficult work to be a mercenary now: it held too much status. Others wanted his help and not his fee.

"Night stroll, eh? It's bad luck, stranger. You'll anger Slyph's fairies in the hills," the voice was deep, with a grin coloring the old man's face and brightening his milky gray eyes, "Come in. Have a drink."

Kratos' response was suspicious, "I am afraid that I am not in the position."

"No, no," he insisted coolly, and rested his crippled arm on his walking stick, "It's nothing vicious. I've just never seen someone sleep out in these monster infested parts like you did, let alone fight the bastards. You're the talk of the town, sir."

Kratos paused, folding his arms, "Are you speaking of the Desians or the wolves . . ."

"Why," he whispered musically, attention brought to his raid of the Renegades, "Both, sir."

". . . And so," he said simply, amused at his candid approach, "I've become someone to put on display."

"That's a cynic's way of putting it," the man chirped, cheerful as he wobbled back into the barlight, "But people are curious about you. So, aye. A free drink for the brave young mercenary."

"Well," he finished sourly, stalking inside-- talk rumbled from the corners and crevices, nameless faces crowding the tables as they whispered he close the door before the sound drifted out, "Given that it has been outlawed, I cannot necessarily deny your offer--"

The old man laughed his agreement, "You've got a thirst? Haha, should've expected, considering all your silence! That's good-- the best kind of hireling. You might have been born in Palmacosta? They're natural drinkers."

Kratos weighed his answer, before managing a dark, "Yes." He was no friend to the truth these days, and had arrived there as the Desians swarmed it like a plague of rats. He could recall the screams vividly enough to convince any man why he chose to keep to himself.

"Figures that the rich get the pick of the litter. Ah, but," he muttered tiredly, reaching for a mug hung from the ceiling as the bottles glittered amber and blood reds, "Hmm, you came near the time of the occupation. That would explain why we seem to have a higher head count-- brought some women and children in with the lady's cargo. You're a strange man to bring them here, though-- putting that aside, it's your business, not mine, stranger. I hope you know an admirable salesperson who stole a bottle or two from his stores."

Kratos smirked and arched an eyebrow, "Like yourself, I'd imagine. . ."

"Clever, clever," he mumbled, the brandy filling his glass in droves, "We all need a fine old Luin-style whiskey to keep us sane. Brewing it in my basement is a family legacy. 'And my father did it, and his father did it.' You can't deny an old, broken man his pleasures."

"You have spirit enough for all of us," a boy-- narrow-eyed, with freckles under his blonde bangs-- called from the stairwell, his glare bitter and aimed to kill. "When you're ready to risk the townspeople. . . pleasure has a high price, Sir."

"Regin," he growled and set the bottle high on his line of hooks, its whiskey shaking, "Pardon the fool, friend. This kid-- he's my wife's, but he doesn't come with the cheating woman's nice mouth, I'm afraid. Please, enjoy your drink."

Kratos took his words at their surface as a girl-- waitress, he noted mutely, with a head of ginger curls brushing her uniformed shoulders-- hung her head and heaved a sigh, "Idiots. Really, he doesn't even ask your name? Sorry, Ol' Toto may be like that sometimes, but he's a good guy. A bit scummy about women every once in a while, but what man isn't."

"I would like to think myself," his response was dry, and her smile drooped.

"Haha, good for you, sorry," she managed curtly, covering her blunder with a hurried apology, "My name is Clementia, but I prefer Clement. You were very kind to Anna before. That's fine treatment, sir--?"

"Kratos," he forced stiffly, preoccupied with the handle-- it was full to the brim, as though they had a mind to drown him in it, and keeping the alcohol in its prison was a chore. Part of him was antagonistic, and reminded that he had lost his claims to intoxication or false euphoria.

"Anyway, that Anna doesn't usually talk much about strangers. No one here does, obviously-- we don't get as many anymore, because who travels with the Desians around?" Clementia explained matter-of-factly, her words jumbled, "You're from Palmacosta, so you probably don't like the country atmosphere. A few hundred folks means everyone knows one another, after all."

He made no effort to answer, working to down whatever was left, and knew it was a wonder that Luin was as hospitable as it was in the past, still talkative and embracing to even the somber passer-by. Plague, torture, and murder left them smiling at the future-- optimism proved something sinister in its own way. Hence, he thought gravely, all this need for drink.

"Desians pilfer good wine!" One yelled drunkenly, arms thrown out as the chair groaned beneath him, "Damn the Desians and their taxes on our beers!"

"Oh, quit that! Tch." She waved away her growing throng of customers, all eager to be involved in their 'stranger's' welcome. "Forget them, sir. They're all drunk, loud," she shot, her voice as dangerous as acid, "fools!"

"Clement, you're a rowdy girl yourself!" It neared a catcall from the room's back, a circle of grins spreading like disease.

Her patience was running as thin as his whiskey, and she turned the other cheek to their insults, "Yes, I know, of course. Dear Martel, what did I do for thi-- But, Anna has been quiet since her daughter was taken by the black sickness, and right after her poor husband got his head stuck on that post as a warning. . ."

AN: I'll have Anna tell you the rest, of course. Review. :D