Learning to Cry
by mat
The day was cold and unwelcoming, like the times; the rain fell from the sky in light volleys -a good day in a bad season. Recently, the bad weather had withered crops and caused further spread to the pestilence plaguing man. The rains held no mercy for those underfoot, like the War.
It was continuously on the prowl, the War that is, moving from place to place, striking down noble and peasant alike. A hundred-year stalemate it was, neither side destined to win; neither to lose.
It was on this day, that the prominent general, Balbanes Beoluve had set aside for a leave of absence. After all, a single day from his rank would not cripple the army; he had other things to worry about, like his family.
His stay at the manor had been so inconstant that his name was but an echo in its halls. Despite his absence, his children seemed surprisingly well groomed for their noble status. Zalbag had passed his delinquency easily; already he was showing the qualities of a fine knight. He would have a good future ahead of him. Dycedarg was… different… to say the least. He could see a hunger for power in his eyes: a flame. Dycedarg might one day become a king, though through what means he did not wish to know. Ramza on the other hand, was his complete opposite. His pangs of conscience would keep him compassionate and kind, so he could never be a good politician... Much like his father. On any normal day, he would have chuckled at such ironies, but today was different.
"Father, why am I doing this?" the young child asked of her parent, rather detached as she observed the falling rain. She noted that it fell in droplets: small things, slightly annoying if they hit you, but enough so that if given their leave, they could cause illness. Warriors hated it, especially the foot soldiers who had to struggle with the mud it created, this she could understand.
"Well, daughter, between the War and me being away all the time, I figured that you'd be safer continuing your studies at the monastery. That's all."
The droplets fell upon leaves and settled, and there, it would sit until disturbed. Some would continue on, roaming until they might perhaps reach a river, or ocean. Others would remain, to become the lifeblood of plant or animal. Perhaps God has already chosen which path each is to take? "Is that how life is, Father?"
The lord's steed grunted as he pulled upon the reigns. It quickly turned about, putting the father and daughter directly into each other's view, "Excuse me?"
The girl signaled her chocobo to halt. Slowly, she pulled the woven hood from her hair letting it fall to her back. She wanted her father to see in her eyes the longing she had to be able to fight along side him. "Are we to always follow paths predestined?"
He did not answer.
Seeing this, she attempted to make her query less vague: "Is this foolish war to continue on for a hundred years over, without reason, without end!"
He did not answer
Alma was frustrated with her father's insolence. She was tired of empty promises, tired of pretending to be strong, tired of her noble birth; "Father! I'm so tired of running!"
"Aye, daughter, and I of fighting!" His answer struck him as suddenly as hers, both were shocked by the insight each had gained in the exchange of just those few words. The two leapt from their mounts into each other's outstretched arms. The girl almost immediately began weeping, "I… We miss you… all of us back home."
He looked upon his daughter with new eyes, and saw her as she had so wanted. He had been touched by her pureness of heart; so moved was he, that tears carved their way down his aged cheeks.
He held her hard to his breast, his words as true as those of God himself: "It shall all be over soon, Alma… I promise."