Lloyd hadn't asked to be caught up in all this. All he wanted was to walk through the gates of Triet, to wander the chaotic market, to play his oud and listen to Barra and his mother talk as the deep blue sky swallowed the last flare of sunlight. He wanted to put his feet in the oasis, wanted to feel the wind in his hair as he flew across the sands in his old hovercraft. He wanted to go home.

But when they finally let him leave the facility and escorted him out into the desert, they went in the wrong direction. When they pushed him onto a hovercraft and cranked it up to high speed, they flew across the sand to the east, toward the mountains rising in the distance. "Where are we going?" Lloyd yelled over the wind.

Yuan looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips pulled into a tight sneer. Lloyd did not try asking again, he just retreated into his own thoughts, watching the dunes rise and fall like the waves of the sea as the craft glided between them. He almost felt sick to his stomach.

He wondered what was happening in Palmacosta. He knew, just knew in his gut that his mother had gotten out safely. She was not so stupid as to hang around a crime scene after her only family had recently been accused. He held his head, thinking of Colette. Of course, they would have a funeral for her. The whole city—and people from all over Sylvarant, he was sure—would attend the burial of their Chosen One. Except for him. He would not get to be there.

I don't even want to be there, he thought. Colette's not going to be there, anyway. She's moved on already. Lloyd thought of the hallucination he had back in the Palmacostan prison, when he thought he'd seen a pair of bright wings emerge from Yuan's back. He knew he had been dreaming, he had been beside himself with panic. But he couldn't help imagining Colette sprouting two of those alien, floral wings and ascending to the heavens, where she rightfully belonged. Lloyd knew it wasn't likely he'd end up in the same place—he would no doubt be cast into the flames reserved for cowards and killers. But he hoped someone down below might know how to read and write, so he could at least send her a letter.

When the hovercraft sputtered to a halt atop a shallow plateau, Lloyd perked up again, his train of thought lost. Yuan stepped off the craft, flinging the hems of his cloak to shake the sand off, and Lloyd descended behind him. This area did not seem particularly remarkable—perhaps they had simply stopped for lunch. Lloyd hoped so; his stomach was so desperate for something to do it seemed to have taken to gnawing at his other organs. As if in response to his thoughts, it let out a miserable groan, and he held his hand over his belly.

"Hey, Yuan," he started. "Are we gonna—"

"Shut up."

Lloyd forced his mouth shut, but his stomach went on complaining. Yuan lifted his face to the wind, closing his eyes as it blew across his features, through his hair. He lowered his head and his eyes snapped open again.

"He's coming. Everyone stay on guard. Lloyd, you're with me."

"Hey, don't you think I should have some sorta, you know, weapon?"

"Come here." Lloyd obeyed, and as Yuan extended his arms, Lloyd returned the gesture, hoping that he might receive something sharp to protect himself with, just in case. Instead, quicker than Lloyd could imagine, the half-elf snapped something on his wrists.

"What the hell, Yuan!" Lloyd stepped back, trying to wrestle his hands out of the cuffs.

"You might not understand it, Lloyd," Yuan replied, grabbing his collar and swinging him around to face the mountains, "but you are your own weapon. Don't waste that advantage."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Lloyd realized there was something sharp pressed to his back. It wasn't small enough to be a point, it wasn't straight enough to be the edge of a sword or knife, but he could tell through his thin shirt that it was sharp enough to slice through him if he made a wrong move. He bit his lip, and his tongue.

"Here he is." Yuan's breath was close in his ear. Lloyd squinted against the haze of the horizon, across the long arching crests of dunes, and he spied a solitary figure, shadow blurred, shape obscured by the rising heat. "Don't move, Lloyd."

He wasn't going to, not with that sharp thing pressed against his back. This was not what he'd had in mind when he'd agreed to help the Renegades, but at this moment, he found himself robbed of the temerity to tell Yuan that to his face. He merely grit his teeth and waited, heart tripping furiously over itself, pounding against his ribcage like it wanted to escape and find a safer host.

The figure kept walking toward them, painfully slowly. When he came close enough that Lloyd could make out his shape, his hands shook so hard his metal cuffs rattled.

"You're selling me out," he hissed, and in response, Yuan pressed the sharp blade deeper into his back. He felt cold metal on skin, and something wet dripped down the small of his back.

"Quiet," Yuan barked.

Lloyd's father stopped a few dozen paces from them, hand resting on his sword hilt, fingers glowing white in the high desert sun. Lloyd could not tear his eyes away from those hands, even as Yuan prodded him across the plateau. He stumbled toward his father, not daring to lift his gaze and catch a glimpse of those empty, ageless eyes. He didn't think his heart could grow any more frantic, but it beat so vehemently its tortured spasms nearly deafened him.

The organ in question seemed to cease functioning momentarily when Lloyd felt something blunt and heavy drive itself between his shoulders. He flew forward onto the sand, cuffed hands outstretched. He landed face-first and sat up slowly, mouth full of sand. When he pulled himself up to his knees, a large blade hovered next to his face, sharp and thick and shining magnificently. It looked so heavy he was sure one slight twitch of Yuan's hand would send his head flying across the sand. He gulped.

Somehow he had managed to get himself stuck between two madmen, each armed with blades and apparently both willing to use them on him. He wondered what his mother would say if she saw him now. He decided that when he found her again, he would tell her nothing of this. He didn't want her worrying about him, although, she did have an unsettling consistency when it came to knowing the unspoken truth. Maybe he was an open book when it came to his mother—he wondered if all sons were. He scolded himself for letting his attention wander back to her, when he should be focusing on the massive blade next to his face.

"Well met, Kratos," Yuan said, weapon twitching slightly with each syllable. Lloyd couldn't take his eyes off it, but didn't crane his neck, lest his movement prompt Yuan to tilt it to the left, just slightly, and slice him straight through. How does he even hold that thing? Lloyd thought.

"I should've known what you were up to the moment you showed your sorry little face in Palmacosta," his father growled.

Yuan laughed. "Tell me, Kratos. What did our little Lord say when he got word of the Chosen's death? He was none too pleased, I take it." Yuan took a moment to revel in his adversary's almost tangible ire. "Especially since you abandoned your post on the word of a traitor."

Kratos' eyes wandered from Yuan to the huge blade, edge hovering next to Lloyd's jugular. "What are you doing with him, Yuan? Let him go. He's of no use to you."

"Keep telling yourself that," Yuan said, not without a hint of amusement. He moved the blade closer to Lloyd, the edge drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek. As Lloyd flinched, his father released a gasp, stepping toward him, hand outstretched. Yuan couldn't hold in his snigger. "Yes, keep telling yourself he doesn't matter to you. But as far as I can see, he's of plenty use to me."

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want. Release the seal. There's no guarantee what will happen to your son if you don't."

Lloyd gulped, eyes darting from his father's hands, clenched at his sides, to the sky, to the large blade resting against his neck, reflecting the white sun along its length. How could he have gotten himself dug in so deep into this feud? He looked to the edge of the plateau, imagining how long it would take for him to sprint there, or if Yuan would get to him before he did…

"Better yet, work with me. If both of us work against him, he'll fall soon enough."

Lloyd wondered how fast Yuan would slice through his neck if he made a move. Maybe he wouldn't—he seemed to be more useful alive than dead. If he could just make a break for it while Yuan was distracted…

"I don't think you understand. You're not going to stop him. No one can. The best we can do is give him what he wants."

"You disappoint me, Kratos. I'm sorry we couldn't come to an agreement. But I suppose I should've expected as much from a man whose had his backbone excised by a child." Yuan raised his weapon. "Say goodbye to your son."

Lloyd shut his eyes, begging to live. He couldn't help but cry out, throwing his hands up over his head. He did not know what it would feel like to have a blade slice through his neck, but he didn't care. They would never find his body out in these endless sands, nobody would ever get to mourn him properly, his mother would be so angry with him—

But the blade never met its mark. Lloyd lowered his arms, daring to glance over them toward Yuan. He stood with his face lifted to the sky, holding his massive weapon still at his side.

"I see you've brought company," he muttered.

"It's over, Yuan. Let Lloyd go and I will not call down the wrath of Cruxis on you."

Yuan laughed. "You have nothing to threaten me with, Kratos. The only reason I'm not dead already is because Yggdrasill is a kitten who likes to toy with his prey before he kills it."

Lloyd could barely make out a few tiny lights descending from the white-blue sky. He didn't stick around to figure out what they were—he gathered himself, begged his heart to keep on beating, implored his lungs to not fail him, and ran.

He flew across the plateau, sand spraying from his flailing feet. He didn't look back, he didn't slow down. His heart seemed to burst open with each beat, his legs burned, his arms struggled to escape from their bonds. He kept his eyes glued to the thin edge of the plateau where the dark, compact sand faded into air. Everything slowed—he tracked, counted and assessed each footstep, each breath. Every movement distilled in his brain, burning itself into his panicked consciousness. He couldn't think of anything else, he just had to get to the end of that plateau.

He was almost surprised when he made it to the edge alive. He threw out one foot, stepping forward into empty air, the ground falling away from him. It wasn't too far a drop, but it seemed like he hovered in space for far too long, helpless, with no footing. It was like a dream—his body stilled, his muscles froze, he had no holds to push off from, and Yuan… If he truly had wings, he could fly to him and cut him in half before he even hit the ground again.

Miraculously, Lloyd's feet sank into the sand, and he began to sprint down the dune. His arms flailed, his tortured legs trying to steady him as he flew down the slope. He tried his best to regain balance without slowing down, but he was falling faster than his legs could follow. As his torso rapidly overtook his feet, he felt himself tumble into the sand. He drew his arms into his sides and let himself roll down the dune; once or twice he found himself again on his feet, only to have them swept out from under him by his own momentum. He knew if he could just get to his feet at the bottom of the dune, he could make a break for it. He could stand a chance, he could get back to Triet, he could get back to his life…

He felt himself slow, head spinning. As soon as he could, he struggled to his feet and started off toward what he could only guess was the west, back toward home. He threw one foot in front of the other the same way a drunkard might throw a punch, dizzily, clumsily. He stumbled across the trough of sand, head clearing. He sprinted toward the next dune, toward the vast blue above him, the white sands to the west—

Something struck his stomach, knocking the wind from him. Body still propelled by his frantic flight, he found himself flying forward, face-first, into the sand. He felt a foot turn him over, and he lifted his eyes, squinting at the bright sky and at the dark figure that blocked it. A halo of bluish light radiated from his back and slipped into bright wingtips, brighter than the sky. Lloyd couldn't look at him, the way his hair fell over his face, the way his shoulders blocked the sun…

Lloyd saw an image, deep in the tissue that constituted his oldest memories, of his father bending over him, shadow eclipsing the bright sky. The hands that reached out to him did not frighten him, and instead of flinching at the touch, he reached back out, grabbing his father's elbows as he slipped his hands under his armpits and lifted him from the dirt. He had been crying.

When Lloyd regained lucidity, he was standing, legs shaking, his father steadying him with his hands under his restrained arms. He opened his eyes, looked up at his father's face, and momentarily didn't recognize it. He struggled, tearing himself from his father's grip. He threw his foot out in desperation, and managed a solid kick to his stomach. When he turned to run, his father grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him back into his grip.

His father's hiss was harsh in his ear: "Lloyd, calm down."

Whatever demon had gripped Lloyd during his sleep in the Renegade base's cell rose up in his chest again, and his lungs emptied. He couldn't breathe, he was blind, he had no control over himself—he could only gasp, desperately: "Don't make me go back there—" He swung his elbow out, striking his father in the chest, the shoulder, but he couldn't squeeze his way out of the arms that held him. He started to feel his consciousness slowly wrung from him like water from a damp cloth.

Strong arms wrapped around him, squeezing him like so many bonds, threatening to crush him entirely. His father's gruff voice in his ear did not appease the tension that felt like it was ripping him apart, twisting his insides, destroying his lungs and heart. "I won't. I promise."

When he felt his sight slip away, he was sure that his father was killing him, sapping out his energy and crushing his bones. He went limp, eyes turning to the sky, watching the blue fade to grey, and apologized inwardly.

His mother would be furious.

Kratos did not know what to do. He stood in the trough of sand, clutching Lloyd to him, watching the cavalry of Cruxis descend from the sky, winged, bright, uninvited. Kratos had thought he'd come alone—evidently Mithos had a different idea.

It was to be expected, considering the recent fiasco. When he'd arrived back at Derris-Kharlan and knelt before Mithos, awaiting whatever news or orders that were so important he'd be summoned away from his duty to protect the Chosen, the boy just stared at him. He'd stared, before he exploded.

Gods, Kratos should've known. He should've been able to guess the reason Yuan was in Palmacosta. He should've been more careful, he should've covered his trail. He should never have followed them across the sea, dammit, he never should've sought them out in the first place. They would've been safe, happy, without him.

He looked down at his limp son, as the distant sound of a hovercraft echoed across the sands. That's right, he thought. Run, Yuan. I will find you and I will destroy you for this. There was nothing he could do now, not when the glowing soldiers of Cruxis dropped onto the sands, empty-eyed and fully armed.

"Sir," one said to him. It did not seem fazed or the least bit confused to find their commanding officer dangling a limp boy in his arms. "We have a party pursuing the hovercraft. Shall I relieve you of that… burden?"

"Not necessary," Kratos replied, awkwardly repositioning Lloyd in his arms. He wrapped one hand around the boy's shoulders and the other around the back of his knees, and pulled him off the ground. Lloyd hung in his arms so limply for a moment Kratos feared he was dead.

"You wish to dispose of him yourself?"

"Yes… That's what I'll do." If he could walk far enough away where they couldn't see him, he might be able to wake Lloyd up and send him on his way… no, they'd find him. They'd come after him. Maybe if he got him all the way back to Triet, to the safety of human company, then Cruxis might not find him… but Yuan no doubt would.

Cruxis, the Renegades… He always seemed to be crushed between two impassable walls and a dead end. If only time weren't linear, he could retrace his steps and avoid crawling into that damnable corridor to begin with. But here he was, dragging his son down into the depths with him, into the shadows of that place.

"Well done, Kratos." The voice wafted past him like miasma, and he turned, instinctively pulling Lloyd closer to him. "I didn't think you had it in you, to retrieve your own son for us. Evidently your loyalty has taken a turn for the better."

"Pronyma. Always a pleasure."

"Shall I take him up to Mithos, or do you wish to present him yourself?"

Kratos glanced down at his son's twitching eyelids. "I will do it."

"And I will make sure you do not run off with him."

"As you wish."

Kratos stepped forward into the air, mounting the emptiness like the first step in a stairwell—that is how he had envisioned this process since he first learned it so many years ago. He climbed on, through the air, up the white pillar of light that appeared before him, past the bonds of gravity and up into the cold glow of the stars.