(A/N) A bit of a wait, yes, sorry. However, this chapter is practically two-in-one, my longest yet. I hope that makes up for it. I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed last chapter, and everyone who has recently followed/fav'd. Feedback means a ton!
And special thanks to Keko-the-Hybrid, who helped me clean up some ambiguity in the last chapter.
As always, warnings for mild language.
Disclaimer: We've been through this.
Chapter 36
"Mirror my stance, Mithos."
"I am!" The blonde squeaked, trying in vain to get his feet to match Kratos' horseman position, standing in a mossy clearing close to their chosen campsite. Yuan chortled in amusement at the amateur display.
"Back foot at a right angle to the front." Kratos reminded patiently as the boy completed his instructions, "Now stand on the balls of your feet, not your heels."
"Good."
"I'm not even holding my sword yet!" The indignant complaint left Kratos sighing and Yuan snickering at his friend's toil.
"Footwork is the cornerstone of proper sword technique." The royal's didactic counter left the boy huffing childishly (like the brat Yuan still saw in him).
"Kratos, you're getting really great with children!" The Sylvaranti called out to the two from his position (being thoroughly entertained) underneath a nearby oak. Kratos never looked at him for it, but that just meant it was working.
"If you don't want me to teach you, I can always get Yuan to." Kratos tossed the stony reply to the boy's displeasure. Mithos' large eyes went even wider.
"No! I'm sorry. What's next?"
Yuan's laughter died in his throat, replaced quickly by a glower that he knew Kratos could feel (or else he wouldn't be wearing that unbearable smirk). Though, a light smile had still found a way onto the Sylvaranti's face while watching the ordeal. Kratos seemed to be enjoying himself regardless of his fractious exterior.
.
And so the lesson continued on in this manner, with periodic bouts of teasing from Yuan and delightful encouragements from Martel every time the boy's pommel slipped from his hands. Kratos' patience surprised Yuan in a good way (though he was never this patient with the teal-haired halfling, so it was still remarkably unfair). Yuan liked to think that Mithos was helping Kratos grow as a person despite the childish retorts the swordsman was giving in response to Yuan's own immature jeers.
Watching the human steady the boy's hands so gently it was almost paternal, Yuan couldn't believe this was the same man that refused his hugs.
He said as much.
Kratos flipped him off.
.
It had been almost a week since they left the biting cold behind, and only two days since they had last slept in real beds for the first time in ages. The tension surrounding Mysan had relaxed across their travel time—from distraction into mere discomfort. Kratos had taken to blatantly ignoring him again, and the two hadn't shared more than three words since the Conversation. Otherwise, it would appear as if they had encountered a peaceful lull in their travels—one Yuan was hesitant to voice aloud, lest Kratos' luck strike again.
No Tethe'allan Knights had come across them, and their stay in the small town of Corecaster had been quiet and uneventful—in fact, he'd been able to sleep until a considerably late hour. It was an entirely pleasant experience made even more so by Mithos' account of Celsius.
While at the primary inn of Corecaster (near enough to the coast to be almost tropical despite the white-capped mountains looming in the distance), the blonde child revealed that he had been conversing with the powerful entity. The Disciple of Ice had communicated her intentions to assist them in locating the other Spirits. The boy was ecstatic about this development, and virtually impossible to deflate, and so his happiness was contagious.
They knew where to go next, thanks to Celsius, and that had them pushing to the southeastern coast of the continent—near to the Nors straits and the booming trade center of Ozette. Apparently, the Summon Spirit of Darkness inhabited the shadowy ravines crisscrossing the region. However, the onset of the kindred Spirit brought on an entirely new set of issues. It would seem that the remaining Summon Spirits could only be found in Sylvarant.
"So I hold it like this?" Mithos' face scrunched up with concentration, his untrained fingers working to maintain the unnatural grip.
"No, like this." And the boy's hands were nudged into the proper positions.
As much as Yuan wanted to tease him for it, Kratos was proving to be a rather good teacher, and Mithos a rather quick student. It was as if the lessons were meant to be, and if Yuan could look past the bickering and the logic, it felt like something big was happening—in a small, sort of mundane way.
It was kind of like the first moment he'd met Kratos. It had felt different—larger—than it really was at the time. And in hindsight, that first impression was likely the most important first impression in Yuan's short life. Now, looking at this simple lesson in big-picture context, he found himself smiling even wider.
He could picture Kratos starting a family, being a father, and steadying the hands of his own son as he taught him the sword. The young boy Yuan had met in the streets of Meltokio had grown up. Yuan was happy for him, proud of him, even, but his eyes dimmed a little.
Kratos, despite being a recluse, was perfect material for starting a family. Yuan had never seen the potential until Mithos had scratched his way into the picture, and now there was no denying it. Yuan on the other hand, couldn't see where he fit in. Would he sit on the sidelines, watching? Would they grow increasingly distant from one another? The stirring in his chest felt a little leaden and hollow now, and he felt rotten to the core for wanting everything to stay exactly as it was now.
What kind of friend wanted that?
He fell into solemn contemplation as the blonde child was finally allowed a few experimental swings with the blade. Cerulean eyes trailed the ground while Mithos laughed and clumsily followed Kratos' instructions on defense.
"Hey, Martel! Did you see that?" The boy's sparking gaze spun around to face his sister after he had successfully blocked a series of careful blows.
"He'll make a swordsman of you, yet!" Martel rewarded him with a brilliant smile.
Her words snapped Yuan out of his darker thoughts, and he really looked at her. Sitting in the shade of a tall oak with her green tresses cast in a dappled light, she practically glowed. Her face was not pensive and intense like it usually had been these past weeks, but instead carefree and happy—courtesy of her brother's joy. She had an old (neglected) book of healing arts propped on her leg, the pages fluttering with the occasional breeze. Her eyes remained fixed on the radiant expression of her sibling, however, until the green irises slid away and found Yuan's own.
She offered him a grin, inclining her head towards their companions before turning back to her book. The smile was contagious, and Yuan was sure that whatever saddening thoughts he had for the future could wait.
.
.
This moment was perfect.
.
He let the sounds of Kratos' chiding and Mithos' determined questions wash over him as he shut his eyes. The light was fading a little from the sky and he felt at peace.
Until the forgotten Mysan noisily creaked down beside him in the grass.
.
"You guys are sickeningly sweet sometimes." The human muttered lowly, so only Yuan could hear. "We could have kept moving for a few more hours."
Yuan said nothing for a long while, deciding whether or not he wanted to invite further conversation. Finally,
"What's your rush?"
.
"No rush." Spoken lazily.
"Maybe you should be paying attention to these little lessons, then." The jibe didn't garner much response from the Sylvaranti.
"Hm, maybe." The halfling could feel the man's gaze lift off him, and he knew that Zerai was indeed watching the slow-going training session, with a certain suspicious scrutiny Yuan didn't think it really deserved.
.
"I didn't mean it like that."
.
"I know exactly what you meant." Whatever Zerai had seen must've made him scowl deeper, because his voice hid a sour note that had nothing to do with Yuan's attempts to nail an insult home. His brow creased and he instead focused on idly tearing threads of grass.
Yuan turned to look, and could only see Kratos begin to impart a basic offense to the half-elf boy. His sword was crisp and elegant as he lightly outlined which blows would maim, and which would kill, where to strike first, and when to dodge.
Thoroughly confused by the fugitive's transient moods, Yuan let the silence stand.
.
.
His thoughts returned to Kratos and Mithos, and eventually Martel, where they lingered for the rest of the session.
Night had begun to fall shortly after the lesson was concluded, and Yuan fed the fledgling fire until it blazed healthily.
Yuan's fingers twitched as he shifted closer to the dancing flames. His sudden need to look busy ripped him away from his indecision and he tossed an appraising glance at Kratos. The man was stoic as ever, looking serene and untroubled while Yuan could only fidget uncontrollably. Was it even worth asking? Real adults don't do these sorts of things, surely. Or so he kept telling himself.
Pride. Pride. Pride?
He was going to burst if he left the matter alone. It needed confronting, and his only available outlets could be counted on one hand. Mithos? That would be a laugh, and possible death wish, considering Martel was the subject of discussion. Zerai? Hell no. The moment he gave that man blackmail willingly, he would just as soon cut his hair and admit a failing.
And of course, Kratos was his favorite anyways.
But Kratos and matters of the heart did not occupy the same universe in Yuan's mind. Hence his dilemma. They were alone right now, and it was the best shot he was going to get in a while. Instead, he shifted a bit closer to the warm and began his internal arguments again.
"Just spit it out, Yuan." The swordsman sighed softly, sounding reluctant beyond measure. The halfling spared a quizzical look at him, letting the pause hang out.
"You can't pretend that I was bothering you!" He got an arch expression paired with a raised brow.
"To the contrary, I could—but I'm not." The Tethe'allan finally answered, concise and honest to a fault. He trained curious russet eyes on Yuan—not appearing frustrated in the least.
That was good, right?
Perhaps training had (if it was even possible) put the human into a good mood. This conversation might be over quickly.
"I'm going to court Martel."
It felt good to say it aloud. However, a dark look passed over Kratos' face, and Yuan quickly added, "If she'll have me, that is." Unfortunately the dark was only worsened by this and the halfling was left backpedaling quickly.
"Ah, forget I said anything."
"Yuan." It was spoken sternly, and he couldn't fathom why. Unless…
"You don't think she's interested?" He sighed. "You're right. It was stupid to th—"
"Yuan." That sternness again. Despite the flush he could feel burning behind his cheeks, Yuan was able to take another look at his friend. Kratos' brow was still furrowed and he appeared thoroughly uncomfortable. Perhaps that was why he could only manage the halfling's name.
"What?!" Yuan threw his hands up in exasperation. Kratos looked no quicker on the uptake. In fact, he had hardly moved since the entire conversation had started.
"I'm dying here, Kratos. Please say something." It was bordering on a wholehearted plea, and Yuan refused to go further.
"You want advice?" The other said slowly and Yuan, in spite of himself, snorted.
"You know, for someone so sharp in any other circumstance, you are pretty thick when it comes down to—" He couldn't finish the taunt (also exceedingly true) because Kratos was either uncaring or not listening and decided to cut him off. It was probably a combination of the two actually.
"You can't." It was firm, not a smidgen of room for argument. It took a moment to sink in.
"I can't what?"
"Court her."
Now the halfling was beyond confused. His eyebrows crept together, and he wished that Kratos would show an ounce more of emotion on his face. The wishes went unanswered, as the man's features were indecipherable. A sneaking suspicion was crawling around the back of his mind, but it was so far-fetched it would be ridiculous to think—
But would it?
Kratos had never been interested in anyone, as far as Yuan knew. And it wasn't shyness, either. He didn't, couldn't also happen to have fallen for her? The thought was conflicting, and awful. Kratos was, Kratos. His friend, and sometimes brother. They would never actually fight about this sort of thing, right? They'd been through everything barring death together.
The worry and sudden wariness that swept over him was frightening.
He could already tell that part of him was irrevocably in love with Martel—so completely, in fact, that he might— might.
Wait.
Don't get ahead of yourself Kaafei, he chided mentally. Test the waters. Stay calm.
.
"I didn't know you ah liked her also."
.
Well so much for that.
Kratos looked stricken now, possibly even ill—and clearly surprised. The expression had relief filling Yuan's heart and a smile dancing on his face. Fears alleviated, he found some solace in the way Kratos fumbled for words. A smile even quirked his lips at seeing the human so out of his element.
"Not that, Yuan. Not anything like— that. I… How could you even think that?"
"You're a man, Kratos. And she's beautiful." Yuan was having fun now. Unfortunately, that one didn't catch the flustered prince off guard. He caught the Sylvaranti's smile and immediately composed himself.
"Hn." And the mask was back, fully repaired, though his eyebrow twitched once in annoyance.
"Okay. You've gotten me puzzled. Why can't I court her, then?" The serious mood resumed.
.
"I shouldn't have to answer that for you."
.
Was Kratos angry with him? The dark look had returned, and the smoldering gaze was actually averted for once, no longer focusing on the halfling. Rather, it battled viciously with the fire for dominance.
.
"Humor me." The others should be returning soon, but Yuan was scrutinizing the auburn head once more.
"You know this isn't the time for that sort of thing! We're taking too long as it is resting after each Spirit." And the other's body was tensed like a bowstring as he said it, hand finding its way to his hilt like it always did when he grew anxious or angry.
"You can't know how much time we have! No one can." Yuan's words were growing softer, and he was suddenly very irritated. "It wouldn't even slow us down!" The halfling was standing now, intent on convincing him.
"It's not a weakness, Kratos!"
The Tethe'allan stood as well, posture strained, and Yuan could actually see how the conversation had peeled back his walls for a moment. The human was worried about what was to come, and the last few weeks had taken a toll on him.
"It's an unnecessary distraction, Kaafei! Distractions get people killed." Kratos was trying to distance himself now, and his pacing brought him across to the other side of the campfire, red light painting shadows across his face.
.
Unnecessary.
.
That made Yuan furious. If he had stopped for a moment, he would be able to see clearly and get a better read on his friend. The following sentence should have sent up red flags, he should've realized that the Tethe'allan wasn't alright.
But instead he pushed a knife in where there was already hurt.
"Love is only unnecessary for empty souls like you!"
.
.
And if he could take the words back, he would've. As soon as he said it, his anger broke.
.
But Kratos covers pain with anger, and so only his eyes held the brief pang of shock before his lip curled and he stormed off. The trees rustled with the wind as he did so, and a bird's wings flapped somewhere nearby. The halfling's fury quickly abated, leaving only guilt and frustration behind.
.
He sat back down and waited.
Mithos heard raised voices when they neared camp. His stomach dropped as he caught both Yuan and Kratos' voices battling with one another, though he couldn't make out the words. The firewood seemed heavier in his arms, and he quickened their pace.
"Sounds like the dream team is having trouble." Zerai looked vaguely amused, wood creaking in his hands as he shifted.
The voices had grown silent quite suddenly. Frightfully so.
However the branches ahead rustled, and Mithos' questions were swallowed as Kratos stalked into view, appearing ruffled and fierce all at once. He hardly glanced at them, taking long strides to an undetermined destination.
"I'll be back," He muttered lowly. Martel's sweet voice called out as he passed them.
"Where are you going? It's going to be dark soon." Her concern was palpable, yet Kratos easily shook it off.
"Away. I need space." Mithos could see he was slightly apologetic, and at the very least, not angry at them. His brow creased in something like confusion or conflict, but he had turned away before the halfling could decide which. But he disappeared into the brush nonetheless, and the blonde wanted to follow him to sort it all out.
They came upon a dejected Yuan sitting by the dying fire.
.
"Ties of friendship are fragile things." Zerai had no tact, but chided the other swordsman anyway.
"Shut up, Mysan." Yuan bit half-heartedly, and Martel dropped her firewood remarkably close to the human's foot. The man flinched.
"What happened?" Mithos fed the flames, watching as the fire ate away at the wood. Yuan grit his teeth.
.
"I—" He sighed, "I said something I shouldn't have."
.
"He'll sooner die than admit it, but I hurt him."
.
And that was all Yuan would say on the matter.
Mithos' mind refused to rest. He was rather curious as to the topic of the infamous conversation, but Yuan wouldn't share, and Martel kept trying to coax the boy to sleep. Yuan had gone for a short walk, mumbling something about waiting up a little longer just in case. So Mithos was left with an oddly pleased Sylvaranti and a thoughtful Martel.
.
"I wonder what he said." The halfling boy sighed, crouching in front of the fire pensively.
"Not much can make Kratos so flustered. It must've been serious." Martel unrolled their sleeping materials with a frown curving her lips. Zerai shrugged.
"Quite the contrary. I can think of any number of statements that would get the man all worked up."
.
Mithos snorted.
"Oh, please." He shook his head, "Kratos ignores every insult you throw at him. You've never seen him really mad. I haven't either." A reedy stick had found its way into his hand and he poked the fire hard enough for sparks to flutter up and die.
"Now that you mention it, he really didn't look mad." Martel inched closer to the blonde, "He carried himself like he was, but he just looked …. blank." Her hands wrung the flowing material of her tunic tirelessly.
.
"That's because he wasn't angry." Zerai had tucked himself into the grass, idly watching the smoke of their campfire trace whirling spider-webs as it ascended. "He was hurt." And Mithos couldn't decide if the apt statement was one bearing sympathy or not, at least until the human added,
"He's kind of like a flighty animal, you know? Real hesitant around new people, shielded even around his friends. Half a second of vulnerability and he runs or attacks. And Yuan didn't have the foresight to see how he would overreact."
Somehow Mithos didn't like Mysan's portrayal. It sounded wrong.
"Overreact? Yuan admitted he was in the wrong! Kratos isn't some melodramatic weakling." His blue eyes narrowed at the mop of jet black hair lying supine across the weeds in the dying light.
"I told you that I could think of any number of things that would set him off. I didn't say I'd be the one to say them. It'd have to be Yuan, of course. If Kratos realized how low his guard was with the halfling, he would have struck out on his own ages ago." The human's tone was completely empty.
"Yuan has to walk on some very thin ice to preserve whatever it is they have."
.
.
"You're pretty creepy." Mithos said for lack of anything better. The Sylvaranti reverted back to silence again.
.
Night fell and still Kratos did not return. Yuan had voiced his concerns so many times it was annoying.
"Do you think he'll come back?" Yuan asked him sadly.
"Of course." Mithos responded. Kratos wouldn't leave them all hanging over something as trivial as an argument.
So they all went to sleep, and morning came.
.
.
Kratos was not there.
"I'm fairly certain the only emotion he knows is anger." Mysan conjectured, strangely appearing put off at Kratos' absence. Mithos wasn't under the impression that the Sylvaranti cared enough for any of them, but there was an undeniable disappointment writ across the human's eyes. Perhaps he was as surprised as they all were, that the swordsman hadn't returned.
.
They idled longer than normal that morning, but the royal never showed.
"Do you think he'll come back?" Yuan asked again, the guilt crawling in his eyes.
"I don't know." Mithos responded.
.
.
They had to move on.
Mithos left markings doggedly, arrows formed out of stones and twigs. Directions scratched into the dirt trailed behind them far more often than necessary. Kratos knew where they were going, but he did it anyways.
It would make it easier for the Tethe'allan to find them when he returned.
.
If he returned.
.
But several days passed, and Mithos grew spiteful instead of hopeful.
The directions ceased. If the human wanted to finally show, he could find them himself. They were too busy saving the world to wait on the deserter. Whatever had happened, he had no right to do this to everyone. Mithos was fine with Yuan being cut out.
But doing this to everyone.
That wasn't fair.
It first made him sad. He practiced everything Kratos had shown him from that first lesson, yet it felt like he was doing it wrong. He worked harder in the evenings than he ever had, but Kratos' absence ran deeper than a missing instructor. It felt like a betrayal. But time made him angry. He trusted Kratos—this whole thing was partly Kratos' idea.
They were all risking their lives on it.
.
And Kratos had gone.
When Kratos had stormed away, he felt juvenile. The dignity lost in running away from his problems (found in Yuan of all people), however, was not worth the crack in his armor if he were to have stayed. He could see that the halfling hadn't really meant it—words spoken in anger were just that. But Yuan's statement was actually true, and that mattered far more than whether or not it was intended to hurt. Had anyone else said it, he would've scoffed. But Yuan generally had the benefit of the doubt.
And as soon as the words were considered, Kratos knew they were true.
If he cared as much as he should, he never would have walked out on his father that day. He would have known that the strain on the man's weakening body could be too much, and stressing him would have been selfish. If he cared like he should've, he never would have left Nyx to run a chaotic kingdom by herself—so utterly alone. If he cared he should have done a number of things that he did not do. Obviously he was not wired for love like the others.
It did not come instinctually.
And so Yuan was right.
And Kratos needed to think.
.
Vaguely, he recognized a rustling of branches and the flapping of wings—the forest alive and creaking around him in the night. He walked until his anger was spent (because he wasn't right and he made too many mistakes), lingering by a patch of open sky peeking through the branches.
He let his tired limbs fold into a sitting position, back against a tree trunk, as he let the vastness of the night sky sweep over him and make him nothing. It couldn't hurt to sit a while and sort his thoughts if he was back by morning. Yuan was probably feeling beyond guilty, and Kratos could wait to allay those fears until sunrise.
Without even noticing, his eyelids had begun to droop. He was quickly reminded of how little sleep he gets now that he can again, and he cursed that it was necessary because the deprivation was weakening him where it never used to. Sleep would always come, but it would never stay.
And leaning in the tall grasses of the woodlands, sleep claimed him.
.
.
.
"Aether will not have died in vain!" The feeble monarch raised his trembling voice, "As the next in line to be king, you need to understand that!" Kratos' eyes jerked sharply to his father's own reddish pools. He narrowed his gaze. Aether was to be the next king. Not him.
"I don't want it." Kratos all but hissed. He wanted no part of this pool of blood, this luxury in perdition, this empty excuse for a family. When Aether had died, so had the heart of their dynasty.
"Give it to Nyx, she's older, and more fit to rule thousands of people." The king shook his head, and his graying hair hung damply over his ears.
"The son always precedes the daughter, Kratos. You will not leave Meltokio like Aether, and you will be king. I can't lose you, too." Kratos stood defiantly, ripping his hand out of his father's. He had never wanted to be forced into battle, but breaking tradition for his own simple protection was cowardly, especially when such a decision would have spared Thetis, Typhon, and Aether. The part of him that had already lived this moment felt his father's desperation all the more painfully.
'I can't lose you, too,' he had said.
"If we're breaking tradition, then you can transfer the sovereignty to Nyx. She'd do a much better job than I could ever do." Kratos had put to use his calm demeanor, holding his emotions by the tightest leash. He was sure he would snap any moment. Nyx, meanwhile, sat stick straight and looked at him with pleading eyes, albeit tear streaked. He knew it was a lot to ask of her, but she was so much more prepared than he was. She saw that.
"Father, he's only fifteen." Nyx coaxed solemnly, "Don't force this on him." Kratos was still standing, waiting for a response from the king to dictate his actions.
"Kratos," he said at last, "you must. If Sylvarant smells weakness, or even suspects such in our bloodline, the war we've been fighting for will be lost as soon as they pick us off." His voice had become faint and strained, "Tethe'alla cannot have faith if it doesn't have a decisive leader, and we will fall apart with this kind of dispute for the throne. As much as I hate to admit it, no one will accept Nyx as the heir." Kratos grit his teeth and practically smoldered with anger.
I can't lose you, too. Why couldn't he have heard it? Why couldn't he say it?
.
"Won't accept her? She's your daughter!"
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"I'd be perfectly fine if we lost this damn war and ended it!"
.
'I can't lose you!' He wanted to say, but he was trapped and forced to watch himself push too far and too hard.
His voice was raised to a mutinous yell and he stormed out of the room without being dismissed. The knights flinched as the slight boy blew through the doors radiating fury and ignoring pleas from the king to return.
Kratos couldn't turn around, despite how hard he tried. He knew it was a dream, but it was also a memory and he was left to helplessly stew over the last words he had ever spoken to his father. The ailing man's calls had turned to accusations as he retreated down the hallway, and each step tore at his heart a little more.
"You're a coward and a traitor!" The false words echoed behind him.
.
"It's all your fault." The voice was tinted with a weak sense of betrayal and all Kratos could do was cringe.
.
"You killed me."
.
He awoke.
.
Five years later, and he was still running away from his problems.
His heart rate was a little too quick, and skin a little too cold, but he did not start from the dream—instead he merely opened his eyes and let a long, drawn-out sigh escape his lips. The dream never changed. It had not been long since he'd sat down, and yet sleep eluded him once more. Finding no further use for this bit of ground, he creaked tiredly to his feet and was prepared to return to their campsite.
Instead, he had the feeling of eyes watching him.
There was a presence nearby, surely, and Kratos was quickly scouring the dark with his hand creeping up to his sheath. After minutes passed in silence, he was prepared to brush it off as nothing.
That was, until he heard the branches cracking and footsteps approaching. He made the quick decision to take shelter behind a prickly fringe of brush, the moonlight glancing off of the reeds where it broke through the branches and illuminated the patch of forest in front of him.
The tread escalated in volume, splitting into numerous individual strides and something more—the dull clang of armor rubbing against itself. Kratos ducked his head as he caught a glimpse of the men not forty paces from where he hid. There were at least twenty of them, clothed in various degrees of steel mail and carting torches that daubed the darkness with effervescent oranges and reds. They bore the crest of Meltokio on the few breastplates Kratos could make out, and he could not deny that the travelers were incredibly well armed. The party paused briefly in the same clearing that Kratos had used to admire the sky, instead pointing to the thin chimney of smoke spiraling in the distance, wisping over the tree-line.
"That must be one of them." A nameless Knight gestured, "It's the only sign of travel for twenty leagues in any direction."
Kratos internally cursed. The imperial force must have been tipped off from the villagers of Corecaster. It was the only explanation, though the royal had been sure they had escaped unrecognized. Still, the column of smoke originated from their campsite. If they had known they were being followed, no such fire would've been made for weeks.
They were sitting ducks.
.
The hunters continued on, and Kratos let the silence wash back over him while he thought.
They were close enough to his position to be caught unawares in the night, and if that happened it was possible they could all be tossed in jail (though a small part of him wondered what would happen if Zerai was not found with them). Would the Tethe'allan guard let the three halflings go? Or would they flag the group suspicious as Kratos' possible companions? Kratos would not be able to beat the men to camp, and even with the element of surprise he wouldn't be able to risk taking twenty men at once.
There was only one answer to this question.
.
.
Kratos stood from the brush with the knowledge that the men were less than a couple of hours from the sleeping and undefended backs of his companions.
He quickly set about making a large fire with enough green wood to smoke up a signal hundreds of yards high. As fast as the wood was gathered, he summed a spark of mana to ignite it and watched the material catch and billow into a roaring blaze that would greedily devour the branches he set aside.
He did his best to make the area appear as if one had spent the night there—flattening grass and snapping twigs.
He waited as long as he dared. Only when he was sure their pursuers had changed course (namely, when his enhanced hearing picked up a call of alarm) in favor of his bait, did Kratos dare to flee.
And flee he did, at first taking care to leave an obvious, rushed trail. However, they would know that he was running now, and would likely pick up their own speed. He could only hope that the party of knights had not suspected the lure and thought to split up to investigate both camps.
Though it was still deep night, his hasty retreat seemed to startle the forest—birds fluttering in their nests and smaller creatures stirring in response to the swordsman bolting through their lands and leaving leaves and grass rippling in his wake. He tore through the woods, twisting around trees in a direction he assumed to be west but couldn't take the time to be sure.
Given the circumstances, he wasn't quite sure how smart it was to pull a stunt like this—but the choice was already made and he was going to be stuck on the run for a good few hours more. If he could keep his pursuers busy until morning, it would take them far too long to find the old campsite that the others would have left behind without the beacon of smoke.
If he could keep them busy until morning, the others would get away.
As the days crawled by, Yuan could only feel remorse. A small part of him thought that Kratos' indignant abandonment was unjustified. Kratos was certainly one to hold a grudge, but the Sylvaranti couldn't see him leaving them to deal with the mana scarcity alone.
Then again, Yuan had practically called him heartless.
Heartless, the man who had fallen into the world's deepest chasm to save a hundred strangers. Empty, the youngest sibling that had lost three brothers, and both parents. Loveless, the jaded boy that had taken a beating for his would-be kidnapper.
Kratos wore his heart on his sleeve, and because it was scarred, Yuan had been stupid and impulsive. The halfling could never get a clear read on his friend's mental state, but it was clear now that dredging up his father's death had more of an effect than the human would let on.
Dammit, Yuan was worried. And Kratos wasn't there.
His thoughts must've shown on his face, because Zerai had taken to walking alongside him.
.
"Did Kratos tell you about the first time I met him?" The convict conversationally began, easily picking up on Yuan's train of thought.
"You were masquerading as a Royal Courier." Yuan shrugged, eyes following the footpath indifferently as they continued on southward.
The wooded trails had given way to thin roads paved with broken stones, and it made the travel easier. Martel and Mithos were a good stone's throw back enthralled in their own quiet discussion.
"He nearly killed me." The other elaborated, "I was just running my routes (with a few side-trips, obviously), and this kid catches my movement twenty paces off. I, who pass unnoticed by most, almost get skewered by a fifteen-year-old."
And Yuan can't decide if the fondness is genuine or calculated—because why would the Sylvaranti harbor any affection for the Tethe'allan that had expressed the greatest dislike for him?
.
"What are you trying to do?" Yuan eyed the steely gaze with a fair amount of suspicion.
"It's called 'comforting'." The man's lips quirked up, "I'm saying you shouldn't worry about him. He can handle himself."
.
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"Why the hell are you trying to comfort me?"
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"That's open to interpretation." There was a smile in the fugitive's voice, and a flash in his eyes, and Yuan still couldn't be sure if it was sincere.
"I wanted to like you, really, I did." The halfling finally responded.
And that was the truth, because Yuan saw the die-hard patriotism of his people in Zerai. There was a fierce loyalty in the human towards his countrymen, and paired with it quite a bit of courage. The more the halfling looked, the easier it was to see himself in the other—should Kratos have never convinced him otherwise all those years ago.
Zerai was Yuan without his eyes open enough to see the horrors of war. He was smart (and the half-elf sometimes thought he was far too intelligent to be predictable). If Yuan had found himself entirely amongst enemies, he would be playing it in much the same way.
"I wanted to like you as well." The raven murmured darkly, smile vanished—as if the past tense of their answers erased any sense of camaraderie.
"However much I bend your moral compass, I am no traitor. You take your place amongst Tethe'allans as if it was a second home." The word was spoken softly, but with a heavy measure of disgust.
"You've forgotten which side you're on."
.
Yuan felt some of the words hit their mark—if only because Sylvarant had given him a chance and he had turned his back upon her. There was no doubt that the country was his home, but looking upon both sides from (what he hoped to be) neutral ground—the cause was wrong. And there was the fundamental difference between them, and it was not blood. Zerai prized loyalty above all else, as Yuan once had. However, since ingratiating himself with the Tethe'allans (and a hefty influence from an irritated prince), Yuan could see that the motivations to the means would still never justify the end.
"Why are we even fighting with Tethe'alla? Do you remember the reason? I'm not quite sure I was ever taught it." Yuan quickly countered—quickly enough to hope that the raven hadn't caught the hesitance in his gaze.
"Why does it matter? They've killed enough of our people since this War started to wreck any chance of negotiations. We win, or we die." The human's expression was one of incredible passion, a passion that cast his steely eyes in a feverish haze and his normally confident features in anger. Yuan grimaced at the absolutes.
"For someone very keen on logic, you're not looking at this clearly." The halfling snubbed, crossing his arms, "More death is never the answer. We just need one side to back down first."
"The great Yuan Kaafei, turned pacifist." A snort of derision and a half-laugh that sounded strangled at best. It was at that point that Yuan really looked at Mysan, because he was acting far from normal and weirdly emotionally invested.
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"There's more to this than patriotism." The halfling was noticing how the lines of agitation smoothed from the other's face at his conjecture. The human caught himself quickly.
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"There doesn't need to be." His statement was dodged without subtlety after a moment's pause.
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"But there is." Yuan refused to budge on the matter.
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.
.
The seconds passed, for once the human seeking silence instead of the other way around. Yuan wouldn't let him keep it.
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"What happened to you?"
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A stricken look crossed the raven's face, covered as a snarl.
And Yuan understood without the other saying anything more.
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"Family or friend?" A solemn question.
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"Family." The hoarse answer.
.
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"I'm sorry."
And as much as Yuan had felt animosity towards his countryman, he was sorry. Nobody deserved to go through loss. Not Kratos, not the halfling siblings, not even Zerai—who he wouldn't trust as far as he could throw. It made it understandable.
"Don't be sorry." The raven turned his back on Yuan, and it was so similar to Kratos' shields flashing up that Yuan caught the hurt under the anger almost instantly.
"You're spitting in the face of every Sylvaranti who has given their life for this cause. You're disgracing my brother with your betrayal." The loathing dripped from his voice, lacing it with disbelief.
"I'm not killing my own people!" Yuan finally snapped, his boots dragging in the gravel as he took a step forwards. "I'm trying to save them! Why can't you see that?" He was sick of the human cursing his allegiance, acting as if Yuan's travels were blacker than espionage. He didn't deserve it, not after everything he'd done.
Not after everything they'd been through.
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The quiet was deafening—all Yuan could make out of the other was a stiff set of shoulders. Even their breathing quieted, and suddenly the man turned his head. The corner of Zerai's gaze met his, steely silver on blue. He looked at the halfling a moment longer than necessary, expression indecipherable.
"I can't forget. I can't see you saving anyone," a weak scoff escaped his lips, "Not when your friend fights just like him."
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"I don't understand, Mysan."
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Yuan's exasperation must have leaked into his posture, because black eyebrows crept together. He's trying to make me understand, Yuan's thought befuddled him. Never had he seen the Sylvaranti argue with such fervor, and not emotional detachment—never had he looked so angry at another's confusion.
A single deep breath from the fugitive.
"I saw my brother die, Yuan." And the calm was back again, like flipping a switch.
"It was the first battle we both took part in—my first glimpse of the War. Michael had more experience than I, but I was a little quicker, and so I worried for him still. He'd laugh at me, and say 'It's just a border dispute,' and smile, 'Nothing'll come of it'. But Tethe'alla wanted Lake Umacy. Some crappy myth had their healers scrambling for access, and that simple border dispute turned into a terrible fight."
The account was spoken as if read from a book. There was no emotion, no residual anger, and for once, no ambiguity. The human's eyes were downcast, tracing the stones absently.
"The Meltokian King had sent support in the form of their Crown Prince—and an elite guard built of his finest men. Our mess of rabble didn't stand a chance."
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Shit. Yuan wouldn't let his surprise show, but the comment had caught him unawares.
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"I was too far from Michael when the enemy ranks swelled, but I was close enough to see. I was close enough to see the navy of the man's cape as he drew his sword. I was close enough to see the odd stance he opened with as he strode into the thick of battle."
.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
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"I was just yards away, yelling for him to retreat. But my idiot brother took a swing at the Royal."
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"And I'll never forget the way Typhon danced aside with the grace of being trained to kill since birth. I'll never forget how he buried his sword in Michael's stomach without batting an eye. He struck like a snake with a blade. I'd never seen anything like it."
.
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"It was over in seconds, Yuan. The bastard didn't even get blood on his tunic. They took the Lake, and they took my brother. And your dearest friend fights just like him."
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"Like that demon, Prince Typhon."
(A/N): Yeah, a little Yuan-centric, but he's great for observational dialogue. Sorry if you guys think the Yuan/Martel is a bit off, I don't write slash and I am only putting it in because it is kind of paramount to the entire story. As such, I feel it's a bit unrefined and unpracticed.
Expect more action in the future (the Tethe'allan arc is finally coming to a close soon, and the politics will come into play once again), as this chapter was more of a laying of groundwork (and an inordinate amount of fluff).
Anyways, thanks for reading! A review would genuinely brighten my day!