Yay! I put a chapter up pretty quickly. This is what happens when you play hockey over spring break. You end up on your computer with your leg in a cast. Fun, fun. Anyway, the chapters should be updated pretty fast, now that I have way too much time on my hands. Also, this chapter skips around a lot. Sorry about that, but it's just my writing style.
I like reviews. Not that I'm saying you guys, the readers, should review or anything like that. I'm just saying, I like them.
DISCLAIMER: BY THIS POINT, YOU SHOULD REALIZE I DON'T OWN TALES OF SYMPHONIA.
A change of clothes and some food was all he needed. Anything else would weigh him down. Not that he had anything else. Too much of a burden on his mother for her to even send him to school; he'd never expected anything else.
He'd always wanted to go to a school. The other children his age carried books home and complained of all the work they had to do that night. He'd longed to be able to read those books, to learn what they learned. But his mother had told him many times that he was simply too stupid to go to school.
"If you go there, what do you think will happen? Huh? They'll look at you, see you, and know you don't belong. Because you don't. You don't belong. You're a tainted soul, a child with only half a human mind. Think of it this way, boy. I'm protecting you."
Boy. He hated that. She was his mother, she had given him a name. Why didn't she use it?
He slammed his fist against the wall, leaving a hole where it hit. No more. He wanted to leave, to never come back. He wanted Asgard to be just another spot on a map, a series of symbols he couldn't decipher.
He knew why his mother hated him. She'd relive the story so often, he knew it by heart.
"You know, I once had a happy life. But your father, he took it all away. I was going to be married, to a nice human man. We were going to have a nice human family, a normal family.
I visited Heimdall once, just to see what it was like. I'd heard it was beautiful, surrounded by lovely forests.
Your father, that damn elf, owned the inn. He came into my room one night and forced himself on me. I came back here and told my fiancé. At first, he accepted me. He tried to help me through the fear and pain. He was supportive when I became pregnant. But the day you were born, when it became clear you were a half-elf, he left. All because of you."
That was why she hated him. Why she insulted him, why she beat him. She looked frail, but in reality, she hit hard. Slaps, punches, kicks…he'd learned not to disobey her. Sometimes, she'd lock him in the closet for days. He remembered hungry nights, days without food and water, freezing temperatures with no source of heat. He sometimes made a little fire with magic. He knew that she could never find out about his magical abilities. The first time he showed her, she doused him with boiling water and told him that water could burn just as easily.
He stood up straight. Almost six feet tall, his blue hair hung down his back messily. The same blue hair as his father, apparently. The same green eyes. He looked nothing like his mother, who had pale blonde hair and dark eyes. He sighed as he pulled the bag of essentials onto his back and left his room.
It was early in the morning, just past sunrise. His mother was already up, washing dishes at the sink. He hadn't expected that; she was usually still asleep this early.
"Boy, where are you going?" She approached him, her hands still wet.
"I'm not sure," he answered quietly. It had just come to his attention that he had to look down on her; he'd grown taller.
"Why are you carrying a bag?" she asked suspiciously. "Boy, you aren't thinking of running away, are you?"
He didn't answer. She slapped him with her wet hand. "I'm waiting." Still no answer. She slapped him again, harder this time. "Answer me, boy!" She slapped him again, and again, each time referring to him as 'boy'. Soon, his cheeks were bright red from her hand.
"Answer your mother, boy!"
He whispered something. She cupped a hand over her ear. "I can't hear you, boy!"
"I said," he said, his voice now rising, "you are not, nor will you ever be, a mother!"
She slapped him again. "You son of a bitch! I gave birth to you, gave you a name, raised you, taught you right from wrong, and you'd leave? For sixteen years, I dealt with you, and you just walk away like you don't owe me anything?! Well, we'll see about that." She slapped him again.
"If you gave me a name, why don't you ever use it?!" he yelled. He was strong enough to try to run away; he was strong enough to yell back.
"You don't deserve a name, you miserable little half-elf!" She raised her hand to slap him again, but he was faster. This time, his hand struck her face.
The noise stopped. They both stared at each other, shocked by his action. She made no attempt to hit him back.
He slapped her again. And again. He grabbed her hair and yanked it up, pulling her with it. His knee hit her stomach several times, each time causing her to cry out in pain. All of his anger seemed to be coming out now, directed at her. He dropped her on the ground and began to kick her. Again and again, his boot scraped against the floor and connected with various body parts. Suddenly, he caught sight of her face.
He had spent years staring at his own reflection; he knew those eyes. No, not just the eyes, the tears, too. The tears streaming down his own face, wincing in pain as he tenderly touched his bruises. He stopped, slightly repulsed by what he was doing. He'd lived through the pain. He didn't want to inflict it on anybody, not even the woman who'd done it to him.
He turned and began to leave. She called out to him, calling him by his real name.
"Yuan, please don't leave me. I'm your mother. Please, Yuan."
She sounded so pitiful. He almost wanted to turn around. Almost.
"Yuan, don't go, come back!"
He began to walk down the steps. She followed on her hands and knees, still crying and calling him.
"Yuan! Yuan, I'm your mother! Don't leave me here alone!"
He couldn't stand it. He broke into a run, running from her voice calling out his name. A name she seldom used, filled with spite when she did. He'd listened all his life to it. Now he had the chance to ignore it, to let the wind carry it away. He took it.
It was a week or so before the news reached Kratos. He'd been staying at the inn, waiting to be contacted by someone from the Tethe'allan army. He was beginning to start a daily work out, which included a sprint around town.
He'd taken to going near the Coliseum to chat with the people fighting there. Information on the war passed through the grapevine; he kept an ear out for news of Benjamin or Heimdall.
That day, a group of men were laughing about something and gesturing to a flyer that had been hanging up. Kratos stopped and sat, listening, and caught a bit of their conversation.
"…execute that ignorant bitch in Cell 20-"
"What did you say?" he asked suddenly, approaching them.
The speaker looked startled and looked at him. "Um, you see, the woman in Cell 20 of the Meltokio Jail was convicted years ago for helping the elves escape Heimdall. Locked up for life. If you ask me, she should've gotten executed way back then." He and his group laughed. Kratos waited impatiently, shooting them a dirty look. The man uncomfortably continued. "Anyway, so this woman just recently was in contact with a traitor, or so I heard. Once they found that out, General Bailey didn't even hesitate. Ordered her execution immediately. It's scheduled for tomorrow."
Kratos walked away as the men began to talk about some other trivial thing. Vidal was going to be…executed? He sat down, feeling slightly sick. The only reason he could think of that she was being executed now was because of him.
He realized that Vidal was his last shred of sanity, the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He would've gone insane, or died of hunger, long ago if not for her. She'd taught him to fight, taught him to live, and taught him stand. He couldn't let her die. He wouldn't. He would save her.
"You're supposed to be anywhere but here, kid." She didn't sound surprised that he hadn't left.
"I decided not to go. But more importantly, you're about to be executed. I have a plan to get you out-"
"Kratos," she cut him off, "I sent you away for a reason. Go."
"Listen to me!"
"No."
Kratos glared at her angrily. Didn't she know how important she was to him? Finally, Vidal shook her head. "I knew this would happen. I just knew it."
"What?"
"You're too damn stubborn. I told you to leave, and you didn't. Are you trying to get yourself killed, or do you just want a thrill?"
"Don't you realize that you're the one who's going to die, Vidal?"
"Oh, yes, a horrible death. You fight monsters until they kill you."
"And-and you're okay with that?!" he stuttered. "You don't care if you become a useless sacrifice?"
"Useless? I feel pretty useful. I'm dying for my beliefs, my ideals, and for a person I care about. My sacrifice is only useless if you choose to make it so."
Kratos bowed his head. He felt tears streaming down his face, the first time in years. He refused to believe that Vidal, the woman who'd stood up for him numerous times, taught him to fight back, was simply accepting this fate.
"Kratos." He felt a hand pull his chin up and was staring into her eyes. "Kratos, you are strong. You don't know it, but you are. You were, what, twelve when you're mother died? How many kids do you think could handle that by themselves? You've lived with no home and no family. You are strong enough that if you want to, you could fall in love, make a family. You shouldn't have to live for revenge. It was your mother's battle; she lost. You shouldn't have to fight it anymore."
She pulled him close to her and led him to the bench along the cell wall. There, she shushed him and let him cry on her shoulder. It was if a dam had burst. He hadn't cried this much since his mother died.
After Kratos had pulled himself together, Vidal pointed towards the door. "You have a choice now, kid. Either go out there and use your sword for revenge, or use it to make a new life."
He didn't go to the execution. He didn't think he could take watching his friend, who'd protected him for years, being killed by monsters. He would've attended a funeral, but convicts didn't have one. They were buried in a numbered grave. Kratos visited the yard the executed cons were laid to rest the day after they buried her. Grave number 568. No name, just a number.
He gave up the idea of finding his father. He still wanted to be a soldier, though. He wasn't quite sure what to do with his life. And he knew that if he ever did learn his father's name, Kratos would put him in his own grave, with his own nameless number. He would never forget that Vidal had died at his hands, along with his mother.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Kratos stepped into the office of his colonel. For two years, he'd been just a guard for the city under this man's command. He envied the men who went out to fight in real battles. The closest thing to action he ever saw was a band of inept slum thieves. He wasn't harsh on them; he would never forget the pain of hunger.
"Come in, Aurion." The colonel stood up and shook the inferior officer's hand, something that was odd. "I've been getting good reports about you."
"You have, sir?" Kratos smiled politely, but his mind was elsewhere. He had taken up the practice of magic casting, something that he didn't do well. He was going over the techniques in his head.
"Yes, yes." The man opened a cabinet behind his desk. Kratos couldn't help but think that he was nervous. "Would you like a drink, Aurion?"
"Sir," he said slowly, "What's this all about?"
The colonel fidgeted nervously with a loose string on his sleeve. "Well, you see, the generals have sent me orders. They need a team to infiltrate a town and take care of their militia, and that team needs a strong leader. Unfortunately, I'm growing old. I don't think I'm quite fit to-"
"So it's going to be dangerous?" Kratos interrupted. He didn't feel like listening to this man's self-serving logic.
"Every battle is dangerous, Aurion." He looked annoyed at his subordinate's quick, and correct, assumption. "As I was saying, I've heard good things about you. How would you like to get a promotion?"
"Do I have much of a choice?" Kratos asked.
The colonel looked ruffled. He hesitated, then held out a small silver box. "No, not really."
There was an awkward silence before Kratos nodded. "Very well, sir. Thank you." He took the box.
"In there is a symbol of your rank, a gem. The stone increases your power, gives you the ability to do magic. All you have to do is attach it to your hand, like this." He held out his hand as an example.
Kratos nodded. The colonel smiled. "I'm proud of you, Aurion. I'll send for you later in the week to iron out the details. In the meantime, practice a little with the gem."
As Kratos was leaving, he turned back around. "What town are we infiltrating, Colonel, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Heimdall."
