Leaving Home

Outer Continent

"NOOO!"

Kuja sat up straight in his bed, his blanket lay disregarded at the other side of his room. He was certain that he heard footsteps, but he was unable to tell for sure, as the hammering of his own heartbeat was almost deafening his ears. The door to his room opened shortly thereafter, but it did nothing to agitate the young man any further. His mother entered his room with a worried look on her wrinkled face, picking up his blanket as she was approaching him. She threw his blanket over his shivering form and the sat down next to him. She then drew him into a tight embrace, but said nothing for a couple of minutes, until her son had somewhat calmed down.

"Another nightmare?" she asked softly.

He nodded, as he inhaled his mother's scent that was a soothing mix between pumpkins and old wood. In his latest dream his nose had picked up other scents that were far less pleasing. Fire, the odour of burnt flesh and other stenches he could not decipher just yet. Everything had been bright red; not only the fire, but the world which was burning as well. He had often dreamt of a red world and those dreams hadn't been pleasant, either. They always ended the same, though: In the end he would destroy it. Tonight he had burnt a red city down to crisps. Other nights he had used magic, or other creatures that carried out his will. As warmth returned to his body, he watched his mother holding him. She knew that he had nightmares about foreign worlds that were destroyed in his dream, but he had never brought up the courage to tell her that he was the one doing it. He didn't even know why he couldn't tell her, it was just physically impossible for him to do so. The sensation of guilt was a constant companion for him.

"Was it that palace in the desert again?"

"No, this time it was the red world," he answered, his voice a bit thin.

She nodded. "I wished, there was something I could do for you, Kuja."

He shook his head. "You are already doing so much for me," he said and kissed his mother's cheek.

Routine told his mother that it was okay now for her to leaven him. Therefore, she kissed him on his forehead and returned to the main room of their wooden house, closing the door after her. Kuja stared at the door for some time. It was his fault that his mother had aged this fast, for she was awoken almost every night by his screams. She was a good woman and did not deserve such fate. The fleeting image of the palace in the desert surfaced, but he was able to disregard it.

For now.

"Thank you, Kuja. Couldn't have done it without you, boy."

"It was nothing," Kuja answered and bowed to the local carpenter.

"Geez, I wished my apprentice was as polite as you," the elder man chuckled.

Kuja nodded and left. He was glad that the storm hadn't caused as much damage as the elders of their village had foreseen. And when the carpenter had asked the local boys for their help in order to repair the roofs before the next storm headed for their village, he hadn't have to think twice about it, whereas the others of his age had denied their help. He had been raised by his mother to be polite and to assist others, no matter their race; however, over the last years it had become an inner desire to help as much as he could. His readiness to help others was tightly bound to the dreams he had at night. And the clearer they became, the more eager he exercised himself in altruism.

It helped him cope with the horror he had to endure on an almost nightly basis, but that was only half of the story. He did not know what these dreams were about, but they always featured him in the worst ways possible: Him destroying cities, him torturing beasts, him killing humans. It was almost too much to bear, yet there seemed no way out for him. It had been his curse, for almost as long as he could remember, but it had also become a burden to his dear mother. Though he might not look like it, he was pretty tough for a seventeen year old boy with a slender figure. Sadly, his mother was a different matter altogether. This last winter had seen her sick on a regular basis; it did not surprise him, for she barely had a full night of sleep herself.

He was brought out of his reverie, when he overheard some snatches of a conversation that three girls in front of him were engaged in.

"...What a fantastic tale..."

"- a palace in a desert? Can you believe it?"

"The old Grogger's friend is really something else."

Kuja stopped dead in his tracks. A palace in a desert? The very thing he was dreaming about every second night? He turned on his heels. He had promised his mother to be in time for dinner, yet he ran in the opposite direction. Maybe this friend of the innkeeper held some answers for him. And maybe, just maybe even a way to cure him from his nightmare.

"Do you really have to go?" asked his mother, her voice stricken with tears.

"Yes, mother. If not, I will never know what this is all about. It may be very well be my destiny to go," Kuja replied.

His mother wrapped her arms around her son, but she nodded against his chest.

"You'll have to do what you think is best."

"Thank you, mother."

"Take care, Kuja."

The silver haired boy entangled himself from his mother grip and marched through the village's gate. There he turned around once more and waved his mother goodbye.

"You too," he whispered.

He then started to move again, following the path that led from the village to a nearby creek. After fifty yards the path bend around the small forest that encircled the village and Kuja was out of his mother sight. He never saw her collapse down on the ground.