That night, when Lloyd dragged the tiny gliding machine to the edge of the floating city, he was absolutely certain he was going to fall to his death. Of course, anyone told to push a glider off a cliff and jump right on would have some reservations about it. He stared into the endless blue night below him, watching the grey, glowing forms of clouds swirl like drops of milk in tea. Maybe if he aimed for one of them he could land on it… Lloyd shook his head. This was impossible, it was certain death, he couldn't do it, he wouldn't.

But to Lloyd's great surprise, he did it anyway. When he careened down through the freezing night air, still certain he was going to die, all of a sudden he felt strangely free. The machine, as if awoken simply by being reintroduced to its intended environment, sprung to life on its own. It spread two grey canvas wings, spouted some gaseous waste behind it and shot off toward the horizon. Lloyd barely held on as the device made its own course; for the first while the best he could do was try not to fall off. Cold bursts of air flew into his nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe, but after a few minutes of fighting with the machine and the wind around him, he managed to find the steering. He held on for dear life, clutching at the levers, until he finally got the hang of this whole flying thing.

Lloyd found himself laughing at the blasts of cold air on his face, the sputtering of the motor. He loved the freedom, the power he felt when he tipped the glider and curved his own path against the sky. He could finally go wherever he wanted—no father to hold him back, no walls, no fences. He had half a mind to stay up there forever, gliding across the world, never troubling himself with the problems on the ground, so far below him.

After about an hour, when the initial rush was over, he realized he had no idea where he was, or how to get where he wanted to go. A small, dingy screen sat in the control apparatus, so he played with it, trying to type in the coordinates he wanted.

It turned out that although Virginia seemed to be a brilliant engineer, she was not so good at building computers. At least, Lloyd assumed this was a computer—he had only heard about them, vaguely, from his father. Nevertheless, after tapping at the screen mindlessly for what seemed like forever, he was finally able to bring up a map of the surrounding area, and the corresponding coordinates. When he found that his mark was conveniently close by, he geared toward it at full speed, realizing just then that he had no idea how to land.

By the time he neared the mountain, it was too late to learn. He pulled up as fast as he could, but the machine still sped downward, missing its intended landing spot by at least a few miles. The glider continued to descend, sputtering smoke. It bumped and screeched as the treetops scraped its underside, splintering the metal and shredding the canvas wings. Lloyd, cursing his ineptitude, released the steering, raising his hands to protect himself from the impact. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth, preparing for a backbreaking collision. With a skip of his heart, he felt himself wrenched from the machine, which twirled into the ground with a deafening crash.

To his surprise, his sudden contact with earth was gentle—breezy almost. He dared to open his eyes and saw below him a patch of what looked like giant petals. He felt a puff of air slow him to a gentle descent, and he landed in a bed of huge, soft flowers. The plants wiggled and puffed bubbles of warm air at him, and despite the sheer weirdness of the flora, Lloyd felt himself relax. He sat on the comfortable petals, rather pleased with his landing. That was a pretty nice piece of luck.

The flying machine, though, seemed to be beyond repair. It had crumpled as soon as it hit the mouth of one of the bizarre flowers, its wings bent pathetically under it. It looked like with a few weeks of loving care it might be workable again, but the thing was old and extremely delicate, and Lloyd didn't have the skills to fix it. He figured the likelihood of finding a glider repairman out in this wilderness was pretty low, so he would have to leave it to the mercy of the flowers. It looked like he'd have to go on foot from here on out.

The mountainside was dotted with hundreds of those strange, breathing flowers. Lloyd tugged his pack closer to him and headed upward, cursing his father's decision to designate their meeting point at the top of a mountain. Leave it to his dad to make things hard for him. But he trudged upward, always the loyal son. At least this solitary journey gave him time to think about things, about his father's spell, the blond man with the cruel smile, and the Tower. He wondered what they all had to do with one another, but so far he had no leads except this meeting point. His thoughts just chased themselves in circles, going nowhere.

He walked on until the sun peeked over the mountaintop, bathing the sky in pink light. As he made his way upslope, the air grew colder and the trees thinner. He stopped to nibble on some cheese (squished in his landing), drink some water and take in the sight of the wilderness of the prospering world. It amazed him that even here, so far from people, there were generous trees of edible fruits, and clear water running from every crack in the stone cliffs. Even the wastelands of Tethe'alla were overrun with resources.

When he neared the summit, he spied a small hut squatting on one of the hillside's plateaus. That must be it, he thought, and scrambled up the scree toward it. Within a few minutes he arrived at the little house, panting. He threw his pack down by the door and reached for the knob, expecting it to be locked tight, but the door creaked open easily. Faint morning light slipped in through the only window, and he crept inside, sneezing at the dust. The hut struck him as a curious place to meet up—but his father must've figured if one of them got there a long time before the other, he could wait in comfort. The air was fresh, the building wasn't too cold; he wouldn't mind waiting here for at least a couple days.

He was about to make himself comfortable when he realized the hut was already occupied. A small fire flickered in the tiny hearth on the back wall, and a hunched figure slumped before it, reaching out to its warmth.

"Oh," Lloyd said. "Excuse me."

An old man, who looked to be an elf, turned to him slowly, as if not surprised in the least bit to see a stranger appear at his door. He had the look of an oracle about him, with his wizened wrinkles and tattered cloak.

"Who are you?" Lloyd asked.

"I'm the caretaker of this hut. Just an old man with a simple job."

"Oh. I'm Lloyd. I'm waiting for my father."

The sage smiled. "You'll be waiting for a long time, then."

"How do you know him?"

"Oh, plenty of people know Kratos."

Lloyd narrowed his eyes. "Do you know where he is?"

"No. But he left something the last time he was here. Something he told me to watch over for him." The old man shuffled to the far corner of the hut and bent down. He reached under a side table and tugged a long black chest from the shadows. "My old bones can't handle this weight," he said, motioning for Lloyd to pick it up.

Lloyd heaved it onto the table and undid the latches. He glanced at the old man, who nodded at him to open it. Lloyd held his breath and lifted the lid. What he found inside both intrigued and bewildered him.

The first thing he removed from the chest was a massive tome, bound in wrinkled leather and thick with dust. He cracked it open to find lines and lines of a language he didn't understand. He set that aside and pulled out a small chunk of metal that glinted in the dim light. He couldn't make anything of that, either. The third thing to appear from the chest seemed to be some rotting kindling, which confused him more than the rest. But the next item he pulled out left him dumbfounded. It was a curved longsword, and when Lloyd slid it from its sheath, he saw the blade was etched with flames. When the light of the fire caught its steel, it seemed to glow an eerie red, as if it were the embers of some ancient power. Letters in some foreign tongue were embossed near its hilt. He turned the sword over and over in his hands, shaking his head, mind running in frantic circles.

Why would his father need such a magnificent thing? And something that seemed so old? He looked to the sage for help, but the old man merely shook his head as if he knew nothing about it.

Lloyd turned back to the chest, reached in and pulled out another book, smaller this time, and sifted through the yellowed pages. His father's handwriting filled nearly every inch of paper, a goldmine of barely legible scribbles. Lloyd shuffled through the pages, landing on one near the end, where apparently his father had been in some big hurry to stop writing. Contact Summoner in Meltokio, utmost impo—is all it said. Lloyd frowned, figured he'd decipher its meaning later, and reached back into the chest. His fingers wrapped around something small and he plucked out what appeared to be an exsphere, glinting blue, complete with key crest.

"Fancy that," he muttered. With this, and with the strange sword he had discovered, he would finally be able to hold his own. He had never used an exsphere before, but his dad usually wore one. He'd once asked him about the basics, and wasn't given extremely an informative answer, but he thought he had the gist of how they worked. Stick it on, warm it up, and instant power. He had a feeling he would use this quite a bit.

He set the exsphere aside and reached into the black box again. He found another small, round thing, and he pulled out what appeared to be a locket, trailing a thin silver chain. He had some trouble getting his fingernails between its rusty sides, but when he opened it, he fell back into a chair, hand over his mouth.

There she was. Her, and his father, and what must've once been him cradled between them. His father's hand was on his mother's shoulder, her hand laid across his. And Lloyd. Damn, he was a fat baby. He heard himself let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a chuckle. The old man watched Lloyd make a fool of himself, but he said nothing, choosing simply to observe from the shadows. When Lloyd calmed himself down a little, he removed his hand from his open mouth and wiped his eyes. He reluctantly set aside the locket and turned his attention back to the box. He wanted more of this, more of his mother—maybe if he was lucky he'd pull out a portrait, or a lock of her hair.

He was disappointed when he reached again into the chest. He pulled out several strange artifacts—a pot, what looked to be a ceremonial knife, a rusty brooch. He thought he recognized the knife and the brooch from somewhere, then remembered that the book Genis had given him had illustrations depicting items remarkably similar to these ones.

"These are relics of the ancient war," Lloyd muttered, half speaking to himself, half to the old man. "Where could my dad possibly get these?"

The sage smiled feebly. "Ask him yourself."

Lloyd clenched a fist. "I would, but he's probably dead."

"Do you believe he's dead?"

Lloyd hesitated for a moment before answering, "No. Not really."

"Your father has an old soul. He's tenacious. He's good at evading death. He has done so for many years."

So how many years of good luck can he have left? Lloyd thought. But he said, "What do I do now?"

"Take what you can with you. I'll keep the rest safe, as I have promised him. Go find him. But you may rest here first, if you wish."

"Thanks." Lloyd's stomach rumbled, so he sat on the old man's floor, took some cheese from his pack and began to munch. He lay all of the items from the box next to one another, looking them over and rubbing his chin. After a good nap, a good meal and a few minutes to think, he began to pack his things.

Lloyd decided to take the small leather book filled with his father's scribbles. He stacked it on top of Virginia's diary and lay the books down on the bottom of his bag. He left the chunk of metal, the wood, and the decorative ancient artifacts that looked like they'd be more comfortable in a museum than anywhere else. He pulled the locket around his neck and strapped the sword to his side. It felt heavy and brittle, and Lloyd didn't know if something that old would even survive combat, but at least it was a weapon at all. He wouldn't need to hide behind his father now, and wouldn't need to stand by helplessly as Kratos fought, fled and embroiled himself in some angelic debacle Lloyd could not understand. The last thing from the chest he chose to take with him was the bluish exsphere. He looked for an accessible place on his body onto which he could apply it, and his left hand seemed to do. He lay the key crest on his skin and pressed the exsphere into it. He wasn't expecting the prickling pain he felt when the little stone came into contact with his skin. But the discomfort was over in a moment, and after the exsphere successfully fused with his hand, a kind of warm glow spread through his body. Somehow he felt that it belonged on him, and for a split second he wondered if he had ever worn it before. Its presence seemed natural to him, but at the same time this unexpected familiarity with it unnerved him. He would definitely have to interrogate his father about this little stone when he finally found him.

But for now, he knew he needed to get to Meltokio, wherever that was. The last scribble in his father's little book was about the only clue he had. He heaved his pack onto his back and thanked the old sage for his kindness. With no time to waste, he walked out the door, closing it behind him, only to return moments later, red-faced.

"Um, hey. Which way is Meltokio?"