When they set off toward the east, the sky hung low and grey, dulling all the colors around them and sending a wet chill through Lloyd's bones. He shivered, plucking at the strings of his lute just to keep his hands warm. His deft fingers slid up and down the neck, pushing and releasing, as he plucked and hummed to himself. Perhaps, if his mother were somewhere nearby, she'd hear him sing and come out of the wilderness, greeting him with a wide smile, as she always did.

"You know, your mother used to do that." It was the first thing his father had said all morning. He had mostly stayed ahead, keeping his sharp gaze locked on the farthest turns of the road, looking out for any Desians that might be passing by.

"Do what?" Lloyd asked.

"Sing while we walked. And we'd walk a lot." Lloyd trotted a little faster, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever expression was passing across Kratos' features. "She liked to put you on her shoulders and sing the bawdiest songs, just because you couldn't understand them. The more vulgar the tune, the more often she'd sing it." Lloyd thought he spied a smile on his father's face. "I was worried you'd start to sing them back—I was terrified your first words would be the chorus of some Palmacostan drinking song."

Lloyd laughed. "I know a few of those kinds of songs. Elá never taught them to me, though. They're from Triet, mostly."

"Trieti songs were not in her usual repertoire. She had quite a few though. She sang all the time, especially to you. Whenever I was sure that I'd heard every one she knew, she'd pull out another from nowhere. I'm certain she'd make them up on the spot."

"I'd believe that," Lloyd said, resuming his strumming. He hung back for a bit, repeating an especially challenging passage. "Did your mother ever sing to you when you were a kid?"

Kratos apparently failed to anticipate the question. His toe caught on a clump of dirt on the road and he had to skip a step to recover. "No. At least, I don't think so. I lost her when I was very young."

"How about your dad, then?"

"Him too."

Lloyd adorned the melody line with a few trills. "No mother, no father… What did you do without them?"

"I… did what many other boys did. I joined the army and went to war. There was nothing else to do."

Lloyd did not recall ever hearing about a war in recent history. Sylvarant just didn't seem to possess the resources for its various provinces to spend on fighting. Then again, Triet was a state known for its neutrality and isolation, so he wasn't exactly raised in a place familiar with warfare. Maybe if I went to school, I'd know.

"Which war?" he asked.

"What?"

"Which war did you fight in?"

"There is only one war, Lloyd. It just crops up at different times and in different places."

Lloyd gave Kratos' back his most displeased glare, hoping his father would feel his disapproval of that particular equivocation. Lloyd knew he would not be able to drag Kratos back on topic and get him to talk about it. Lloyd just figured he might as well assume his father was involved in the most heinous crimes against humanity. After all, he was a Desian. Lloyd seemed eager to forget that fact—and Kratos did his best to make sure the subject was never brought to the light of conversation.

Lloyd still thought about war when they set up their supplies a few miles from the base of Hakenosia. Kratos struggled to light the tiny mound of wet wood they'd collected, and Lloyd sat on a nearby log, staring. If he had his electric light they wouldn't even need to stave off this darkness. He missed his toolbox; he missed living in the part of the world where machinery was less scarce. This damp, dark, eastern continent seemed regressive to him—barbaric, even.

When his father finally got a few weak flames to crawl up the sides of their logs, he stood. Lloyd was about to ask what he was doing when he drew his sword, steel glinting in the dim light. Lloyd's eyes hovered over its sharp tip, and for a moment he wondered if this was the moment his father would betray him and return him to his Desian captors.

"Well?" Kratos said expectantly.

"Well what?"

"Get out those knives and show me what you can do."

"You beat me up once in Palmacosta, remember?" Lloyd said. "You know what I can and can't do."

"I know how you can fight without an exsphere," Kratos replied. "Show me how you can fight with one."

Lloyd's stomach turned. "No."

"Fine then. I'll train you without one. But if you want to keep your mother safe, you're going to have to use it. You're weak without one."

Lloyd narrowed his eyes, standing and drawing his knives. He wanted to dare his father to say it again, he wanted desperately to threaten him, just once, and be able to back it up. But he knew he couldn't. "I'm fine without one."

Kratos only raised an eyebrow and stepped away from the fire, where there were few obstacles to trip over. He gripped the hilt with both hands and nodded at Lloyd to come at him.

Despite knowing how the exercise would end, Lloyd obliged him. When he was knocked to the mossy ground, he pulled himself back up and collected his knives, which had been strewn about the clearing by Kratos' strong parries.

"Again," Kratos said.

Lloyd hesitated, staring at his knives, wondering if there was a point to this hollow exercise.

"You're in no fit state to protect anyone with that form. Again."

Lloyd tried not to let his father's insults wound him too deeply, but there was a truth to them he couldn't escape. He knew he'd be unhurt by such debasement if it weren't actually true, but his own concession pained him more than his father's accusations. He was weak. He had to come to terms with it, or else change it.

As much as he hated his father for reminding him of his weakness, he had to admit that this was probably the best way to eliminate it altogether. He lunged at his father again, and took the beatings in stride.

He hit the ground more times than he could count. His knees were wet with dirt, his muscles aching with effort, his mind reeling from the futility of it all. He knew he would never win against Kratos—even when he had managed to stab the man almost all the way through, he had still rebounded, stronger than ever.

About the dozenth time Lloyd tumbled into the dirt, propelled by the flat of Kratos' sword, he stayed down. He panted, rolling to his side, and wished that his father would let him stay there, resting in the dirt. Evidently it was too much to ask for.

"You need to work on your defense. Get up." Lloyd trembled to his feet, but he didn't start the routine again. He looked down at the ground, thinking. His father lowered his sword, evidently following his train of thought all the way to its inevitable conclusion. "Put it on, Lloyd. See what you can do."

"I don't know if I can."

"You can. You're one of the only human beings alive who's earned the right to use one."

The tiny rock sat silently in his pocket. He couldn't help but return one knife to its sheath and reach down inside, pinching it between his fingertips. It felt hot, charged, as if it knew he was considering putting it on.

"I'm sorry," he muttered to himself, and lay the key crest across his skin. When he pressed the tiny stone to it, he felt no different. There was no surge of power, no sudden expertise. He felt normal.

He raised his knives again and slashed at Kratos, giving it his all. Just like all the other bouts, his blades slipped off Kratos' longsword and his stabs were caught mid-motion. His movements remained slow, ineffectual.

"You're wearing it, but you're not using it," Kratos scolded, swinging his sword flat-first and bringing it down on Lloyd's back. He stumbled, winded. He had to take a few breaths before he could speak.

"How do I use it, then?"

Kratos only thrust at him, tip first, breaking through Lloyd's guard. The blade slid between his defenses, clipping him under the ribs. Lloyd tried to back off, but Kratos continued pushing forward with a force he had not used before. He drew the sword back, taking a few fibers of Lloyd's shirt with it.

His heart started to race when he realized there was blood dripping down his side. "What are you—" he didn't finish, since he had to duck a powerful swipe that could've easily taken off his head. He backed up, raising his knives again, and his father struck forward. He had abandoned using the flat of his blade. This appeared to have evolved into a fight to the death.

Lloyd's heart pounded into overdrive, deafening him, forcing his legs into a light, ready stance. His vision tunneled, his panic drove strength into his arms and quickness into his feet. When his father struck at his face, sword tip first, he swiped it aside, ducking quickly.

His hand burned, just slightly. When he slid forward, knives raised, under the still-extended arm of his father, time seemed to slow. Something drove his blade upward, something besides himself, and a flame of strength burned its way up his arm. His knife met his father's flesh, drawing a spray of blood. He ducked around, trying to avoid the inevitable counter swing, but the longsword came at him, impossibly fast, glinting brightly. He barely had time to raise his knives before the blade bore down on him. It hit his defenses with such force his entire arm shook, and by the time he retreated from the blade's path, he realized he'd lost a knife.

He panicked a little, bearing in on his father with his remaining blade, but despite his injury, Kratos easily parried the stroke. Lloyd kept his eyes on the long, silver blade, still stained with a streak of his blood, waiting for it to arc around toward him, bypassing his knife and slicing him through…

The punch to his face came as a surprise. He would've thought that a strike aimed at his eyes would be easily spotted, but it had come so fast and so suddenly, he could do nothing as Kratos' knuckles met his eyebrow. His right eye went blind, he swore he could feel his brain rattling against his skull.

Momentarily disoriented and partially blind, it was easy for Kratos to knock the second knife from his hand. When his father's blade settled at his throat, Lloyd knew that he didn't have time to recover his weapons and resume the fight. He was at his father's mercy now.

The burning, panicked pain in his hand declined when Kratos removed his sword and held it relaxed at his side. "Good," he said, half-smiling. "Very good."

Lloyd released a sigh and fell to his knees. Gods, he was so tired… He looked down at his hand just in time to see the little red stone fade back into innocuous dimness. The power, the fear he felt just moments before, evaporated like mist, and Lloyd was left only with a feeling of empty exhaustion. He was suddenly famished.

Kratos looked over his bleeding arm. "You're quick, Lloyd." He strode up to him, set down his stained sword, and reached over to hold his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Lloyd's hand instinctively wandered to his side, where he cupped the still-bleeding laceration. "What the hell was that?" he asked.

"That's how you use an exsphere."

Lloyd leaned back, turning his gaze to the fire. He didn't know what to think of it. It was liberating, intense, vitalizing, and utterly wrong. He could not help but arrive at the conclusion that the power he had sucked from the exsphere was the force of someone else's life. Giving in to the sudden aversion he felt toward the little stone, he took off the exsphere, returning it to his pocket, and the pain from his injuries suddenly seemed that much worse. He flinched when his father reached out to prod at his rapidly swelling eye.

"What are you doing?" Lloyd asked, pulling away.

"Hold still." A warm light gathered at the tips of his father's fingers, and Lloyd let him hold his hand over his eye. Lloyd sighed, the pain lessening with each passing moment. When Kratos took his hand away, Lloyd could see again and his face no longer hurt. Kratos motioned for him to remove his hand from his side, and he gently held his fingers against Lloyd's exposed skin.

Lloyd's heart raced, his breathing shallowed as his father healed him. He looked at his father's arm, at the dark gash that ran across it, still dripping blood across the dirt, and marveled that Kratos would choose to fix his minor scratches when there was a much deeper wound to heal.

It was the first time, Lloyd realized with nothing short of a start, that his father had touched him in any context other than violence. His mother was quick to express herself with her hand—an encouraging squeeze to Lloyd's shoulder, an affectionate tousling of his hair, a sharp flick to the forehead if he'd said something uncouth. He wondered if his father was once the same way, but had changed since they had separated. In any event, Lloyd wasn't quite sure what to make of his father's contact, but it assuaged his pain, so he let Kratos hold his side and mutter under his breath until the sting of the cut disappeared entirely.

When Kratos was sure Lloyd had stopped bleeding, he turned to his own wound. "You managed to get quite a good hit," he said, almost admiring the deep gash. Lloyd couldn't really look at the wound without feeling a little sick, so he turned away.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be, Lloyd. It was an excellent strike." Lloyd hugged his knees and looked into the fire. He tried to remember if Barra had taught him to do that or if it was something the exsphere told him to do on the spot. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. He couldn't recall deciding to do it, which was what scared him most. And now, when he had control over his own body again, he feared returning to that state.

Kratos reached over and lay a hand on his arm. He didn't pull away. "It's an acquired skill, Lloyd. No one is immediately good at it. It feels strange at first."

"I don't know if it will ever not feel strange. You know… wearing—using another person's life."

"I know. It's a hideous concept. But it's one you'll have to use if you want to keep your mother alive."

Lloyd lay down on the ground, overcome by exhaustion. "It's so… tiring," he said. His stomach rumbled aggressively.

"At first, yes. But you'll get better at controlling it. You'll know when to tap into its power and when to leave it alone."

"Why did you need to attack me outright? I thought you were gonna kill me."

"You were reluctant to use its power. It wouldn't respond unless you really needed it—when your desire to survive overpowered your desire to avoid using it."

"It can tell that sorta thing?"

"You control it. Remember that—you are in control of it, not the other way around. Too many people have made the mistake of thinking otherwise. It was a good way to have the exsphere take over completely."

Lloyd thought of that horrible story of his mother, control lost, a flailing, violent monster, coming to kill him. Instinctively he reeled from any possibility of the validity of such a story, but somewhere deep inside his head lay a vague feeling that it was true. That somehow, under some extraordinary circumstance, his mother had lost her humanity.

He rejected the thought immediately. He would never believe that tale until he heard it from the mouth of Anna herself. After all, Kratos was a liar, and Anna was not. He tried to trick himself into thinking it really was that simple, but he knew better than that. His mother had taught him better than that.

"Hey, Kratos," he said. He lifted his head to see his father sitting cross-legged by the fire, wiping some of his blood from the longsword. He had a thousand things he'd like to ask, but he settled on the most important. "Is there any food left?"

Kratos reached into the pack and pulled out a few old strips of jerky, handing them to Lloyd. "It's kinda nice that you never eat," Lloyd couldn't help saying, as he filled his watering mouth. "I can stuff my face without having to worry if you got enough. Elá's got the same appetite as me—we could eat a horse between us, so there's always a shortage."

"Yes, she's always been like that. Never had to worry about her eating enough. Especially…" he stopped to release a breath that may have been a laugh. "Especially when she was pregnant with you. She ate everything in sight—and not that I could've blamed her. When you came out, round as a watermelon, we realized you'd been absorbing all her food all those months."

"Really? Was I that fat?"

"You were… quite rotund. 'Well-marbled,' Anna used to say. She would joke about serving you up for dinner to get all her stolen nutrients back from you."

Lloyd chuckled. "She would. She's always trying to fatten me up, like the witch from that old story. It hasn't worked, so far. After the ranch… we both had a hard time getting back to normal. Getting our ribs to stop showing."

The omnipresent swish of Kratos' cloth on his sword stopped abruptly. Lloyd thought he was going to say something, but his mouth only twitched, kept shut, and after a while he went back to wiping his blade.

Lloyd knew he'd ruined the conversation. Kratos didn't seem eager to continue the discussion of Anna, so Lloyd merely lay down and listened to the crackling of the fire. He looked up between the tips of the trees reaching up to the sky and counted the stars. "When did you become an angel?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"A long time ago."

Lloyd drew out the constellations he knew, the ones his mother had taught him, the ones Barra had taught him. There were different stories, different shapes for different parts of the world, but there were a few that seemed to be universal. A few shapes in the sky were obvious—they generally were recognized the world over. And then there were the more convoluted ones, the ones that spanned the sky and overlapped and kept dozens of stories in their contours. Mithos the Hero, Martel the Goddess, and other characters from the Great War that plagued Sylvarant thousands of years ago still retained their ubiquity.

An odd thought struck Lloyd. He decided that it might be the best time to follow it, since he didn't know how long he'd be stuck out here in the wilderness with his father.

"That war you mentioned. It was the Kharlan War, wasn't it?"

Again, the sound of Kratos maintaining his sword stopped. "What makes you think that?"

Lloyd rolled over and looked at him. "It's the only war I know about. Well… other than a few other pretty famous ones, but they were also hundreds or thousands of years ago."

"Yes. It was the Kharlan War."

Lloyd had expected more equivocation, more aversion to the root of the question. He sat in shock, turning the information over in his head. If his father's goal in answering the question was to render Lloyd quiet for a while, he certainly succeeded.

"So… you're never going to die," Lloyd concluded after much calculation.

"I am, eventually. I've just avoided it so far. Immortality is conditional, Lloyd." Kratos shook his head. "I don't expect you'll ever be faced with the option to eschew mortality, but if you are, remember this: there's always a price to pay."

"What price did you pay?"

"I…" Kratos paused to collect his thoughts. "I watched the peaceful world I longed for crumble around me. I watched my acquaintances grow old and die, and those closest to me slowly change into people I no longer recognized. Everything I'd ever known degraded into nothing, or else mutated for the worst. I lost hope." He looked at his silent son. "If I could do it all again, I likely would've chosen to die when it was time. But then… I never would've met your mother, or you." He went back to cleaning his sword. "So I'm still unsure."

Lloyd could not help thinking that maybe if Kratos had chosen the more natural, less circuitous route toward death, Anna might've found a different man and Lloyd could've had a real father. One with actual presence in his childhood. Maybe without Kratos, she never would've found herself at the ranch in the first place—maybe there would've been no ranches at all. If Kratos had worked for Cruxis, and they were the ones that built the ranches, then maybe if he had died a long time ago, none of this would've happened at all. The world would've been a much better place.

"Maybe you should've died," Lloyd could not help but mutter.

"Maybe."

"Without you, there would be no Desians."

"True. But without me, the Kharlan War would've raged on until there was nothing left. There wouldn't have been Desians, but there would've been no one at all."

"You can't take credit for ending the war."

"I can take credit for helping the boy who did."

"Mithos? Really?" Lloyd sat up. "He's real?"

"As you or I."

Lloyd's own hopeful gullibility suddenly dawned on him. "Gods, I can't believe I listen to you. You're like elá, always pulling my leg. But you're cruel about it."

"I don't really expect you to believe me. Or forgive me, for all the horrible things I've done. But I have done good, as well. Very little of it, but I have tried my best. I did one thing right. I had a small part in bringing a strong, kind boy into the world, and I'm sure he'll mitigate its misery, if he wants to."

Lloyd blushed. "Why are you telling me all this nonsense?"

"You asked me to. You wanted me to give you information, and I have. What you do with it now is up to you."

"Kratos, you're… so weird."

"Perhaps."

"So…" Lloyd started after a long pause. "Tell me about Mithos."