…the Son…

History has a habit of repeating itself. In the desert, the sands of time are difficult to count, hidden as they are in plain sight. Upon the dunes, sun and moon vie for dominion in an infinite cycle of fire and ice. Yet, for those who drudge through the sands, time is lost, and night and day become mere reminders of their journey's perils. For the wanderers of the desert, time is the destination.

The town of Darna, with its imposing cliff-side fortress, was built around an oasis in Yied Desert. Birds that watched the world from their lofty perch would see the clear water sparkle in the sunlight, like a sea of silver with a lush, green border in the middle of a desolate landscape. Connected with the outside world through caravans and traders alone, the events of the world were distant things; whispers of something epic, and unreal. Myth and legend were truth and fact in this place, where a great miracle had once turned the tides of darkness. In the darkest of hours, hope itself had been restored with their birth: Power made flesh in metal.

History makes a habit of repeating itself.

-Aless-

The desert wind tugged at Aless' cloak, and grains of sand bit into the skin of his cheek. He pulled the cowl closer, and leaned in the saddle to watch the sands unfold in dunes across the distance beneath the cliffs. There was motion, and a blur of colorful figures that clashed against the earthen colors beneath the obscuring wind: Travelers struggling for footing in the sand. His mount pranced restlessly upon his vantage point, feeling its rider's excitement.

"Jabarro, are you sure this is him?" He had to raise his voice to drown out the sound of the merciless wind.

"I've already told you; it's him. Settle down, Aless. Anger's useful, but hate ain't." He scratched his beard and grinned.

Aless shook his head, but said nothing. ((You do not understand honor, Jabarro. It's in my blood, bequeathed to me by my father…and Mistoltin cries out for vengeance.)) The thought of vengeance—justice—was intoxicating, and his heart would not be still. Beneath, he saw the figures more clearly with each passing moment. Celice's so-called "Liberation Army," stumbled and staggered through the sand. Jabarro's Wolves would have their throats with ease, and for Aless; Celice.

His hand slithered ceaselessly about the hilt of the Demon Sword. "Remember the arrangement, Jabarro. I won't forgive you if you mess this up." He braced himself as he spoke, but it had to be said.

"Don't get smart with me, pup! You won't forgive me! What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He snarled, and shook his head in disgust. "I don't like your involvement in all of this; I've got half a mind to send you back to Darna and handle this without you."

Aless felt cold inside, but a vein of anger erupted beneath the chill. "You know this is for the best," he coaxed, frowning.

"The best is obedience, and no mouthing off! Keep your damn head cool, or I swear…" He snapped his teeth shut and growled—Aless had seen the gesture a hundred times before. It failed to impress him.

((I have a great debt to Jabarro, but…the price that Mistoltin demands is greater still.)) He ran his gloved hand through the horse's mane, and watched the tiny figures trekking through the desert.

The signal was silent, and swift. A hail of arrows issued forth from the nooks and crannies along the crags of the cliffs, piercing armor and flesh as the projectiles hit their marks. Soldiers screamed, fell, and raised sprays of sand as they rolled down the dunes they had tried to climb. With a fierce, howling cry, Jabarro's Wolves swept down on the narrow pathways and engaged the survivors, driving a wedge into the invading army and scattering them in the pitiless desert scene.

Aless waited for the right moment, and roused his mount into motion. He raced down the slope, and leapt across the sand. Jabarro and his men had cleared the way, opening up a path to the enemy general. Chaos erupted around him as he entered the fray, and Mistoltin hissed with pleasure as he swung the sword and cut through steel and bone.

The confusion threw the enemy lines into disarray, and Aless swept through their ranks with little resistance. He could see Celice upon his horse; close now. Mistoltin throbbed, and its thirst for blood sent exhilarating pulses of desire through his arm.

It exulted as he thrust the edge through the slit in a soldier's visor, and pushed through him. Celice saw him, and then they were face to face—fury and surprise.

Hate filled him, and he swept his sword around to take the boy's head. Celice spurred his horse forward, and he raised a curved blade. Their swords met, and clanged. Sparks burst in flashes of jade and blue, and Aless growled. He feinted, and thrust, but the boy backed away with a series of frantic parries. His horse whinnied, and he glanced to either side, looking for something. He pressed his lips together, and frowned.

Aless snorted. He stabbed his sword towards the boy, and with a minute shift of his grip, changed the attack into a vertical slash at the last moment. Celice screamed, and threw himself back in the saddle. His sword rose, and their blades met with a clang. A tress of blue hair fell to the ground. ((His swordsmanship is unpolished. He is no more than a child, after all…)) Aless stiffened in the saddle, and raised his sword in salutations. Surprise passed over Celice's face, and then he mimicked the gesture. ((So, you are a knight after all?)) He stilled his breath, and lifted his visor to greet the windswept desert.

"Celice! I am the Black Knight Aless…but you might know me better as the son of Eltosian!" His eyes were tense, aching from the glare. Hoisting his shield, his left hand clenched and unclenched with anxiety.

"Eltosian!" Celice exclaimed. His face lit up, and a relieved smile touched his lips.

Aless was stunned. "That's right! The same Eltosian your father killed!"

The look of joy on Celice's face faded. "Killed…? No, that's not what—"

"Silence!" Aless shouted. He looked to his sides, and saw a chaotic mass of soldiers and knights in the grip of the desert. Sand sprayed, and the wind swept across the battlefield, obscuring the horizon. They would not be disturbed yet.

"Sigurd was my father's sworn enemy; and I have come to honor the Lion King!" he exclaimed. Mistoltin throbbed, and his hand tingled with anticipation.

"Sworn enemies! Sir Aless, that's absurd! King Eltosian was a dear friend to my father!"

"Friends!" Aless shouted. The thought sparked a mindless outrage that originated in Mistoltin's fury. He charged. Celice raised his sword and shield in a panic, and urged his mount back. The horse struggled for footing as Aless thundered towards him, and lost its balance. It collapsed, and Celice yelped as he threw himself from the saddle. He landed with a thud, and his cloak whirled as he rolled through the sand. He called out for his horse as the animal slid down the slope with a fearful shriek. Aless charged towards him—

—and reined in his mount. The horse reared, and Celice swept his cloak about him as he rose to his feet with a two-handed grip on the curved sword. His shield lay to the side, forgotten. Fear in his features, he waited.

Aless sheathed his sword, and dismounted. The sand felt treacherous beneath his feet, but he was accustomed to it. He approached, and Celice backed off with each step. "You are a pitiful excuse for a knight, Celice, but I will not ride down a knight without a horse. I intend to reclaim my father's honor; not sully it."

"I don't want to fight you!"

Aless laughed; a harsh, hard sound without flourish. "Your father, the traitor, killed my father. My mother followed him soon after, dead with grief! Do you think perhaps I want to fight you? DO YOU?" he shouted.

Celice gave a start, and shook his head. "N-no, I mean… Yes, if that's what you believe!" His features hardened, and he grew stern.

Aless stopped. ((Did he grow a spine all of a sudden…?)) He kept his hand on Mistoltin's sheathed hilt.

"Believe! It's the truth!"

"NO!" Celice sheathed his sword, and walked towards him. He held his head high, but stumbled through the sand. "Our fathers were the best of friends! King Eltosian was executed by his own liege, because he refused to fight my father!"

Aless spit in the sand. "Lies!" Mistoltin sang with bloodlust as he tore the sword from its sheath. Celice was close now: Close enough that Aless could place his sword against the boy's neck. "Your lies are worthless, pup. I feel my father's sorrow, his anger, through the Demon Sword. Mistoltin breathes it! My father's last thoughts were of Sigurd, and he was filled with grief and hate!"

Celice looked frightened, but did not move. The glimmering blade of jade brushed against his neck, slicing through his skin. He remained still, grimacing. His eyes were brimming with emotion, on the brink of tears. Even worse, they were filled with pity. "I am sorry to hear that his last moments were… filled with grief and hate. Still! Please, listen to—"

"Mistoltin knows my father's pain! Do not lie!"

"I don't know what Mistoltin tells you, but my father and Lady Lachesis swayed King Eltosian's mind! Yes, they fought, but my father did not kill King Eltosian!" His features were pleading; beseeching.

Doubt wormed its way into Aless' mind, and he felt uncertain for a moment. He gripped Mistoltin's hilt more fiercely, and drew from the certainty of the Demon Sword's memories. The blade hungered for Celice's neck, and it took all the strength he had to stop himself from allowing it to bite into the boy's flesh. "Draw your sword!" he hissed.

"I refuse!"

Aless swept the blade around and shifted his grip to slam the hilt against Celice's head. The boy grunted under the blow, and collapsed backwards. He coughed, and tried to wipe sand from his eyes as he fought to sit up. Aless watched him through a haze of red mist.

"Please, Sir Aless! Believe me!"

((Mistoltin makes no mistakes. I cannot have lived a lie!)) "Stand up! Defend yourself!"

"Sir Aless…" Celice coughed sand, and stirred. "King Eltosian was a good man; I have as much esteem for him as I have for my own father. They were the best of friends since their time at the…" More sand spilled from mouth as he coughed violently. "Since the Royal Academy at Barhara."

((Can this be true…?)) Aless stared at Mistoltin's shining blade. His eyes focused on the edge, and the world blurred around it. Through the haze, the sparkling jade metal seemed to simmer with emotion. His heart, set ablaze by its hate, pounded with furious urgency. His mind, wracked with its grief, staggered under the pressure. ((Mistoltin…you are all that remains of my father… I have trusted in your hate and grief, but you do not know love… Could it be that Sigurd's pup is telling the truth…?)) He shook his head, but the gesture did not dispel his doubt. "You lie." ((Why would he lie? To save his life? But why not fight back?)) He took a step forward and stabbed Mistoltin through Celice's blue cloak.

Celice's eyes filled with tears. "I want us to be friends," he whimpered.

Aless nearly laughed, but the sound was lost as he choked on emotion. "Friends! That's pathetic! Stand up, and at least pretend to be a knight! Let us have some dignity!"

Celice rose, tearing his cloak on Mistoltin's razor edge. "Perhaps I am no knight, Sir Aless…" He staggered and nearly fell while searching for his balance. "I see no dignity in a battle between the sons of such dear friends. Would King Eltosian's honor be restored if you killed me…?" His voice was even, and he had found his balance. He stared at Aless with sad eyes.

"Shut up!"

Celice threw his arms out at his sides. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to know that King Eltosian's son has survived! Please, I would be so happy if you would—"

Aless snapped. "Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!" In a fit of rage, he threw Mistoltin to the ground, and grasped Celice's collar, lifting him up. The haze of red mist evaporated slowly, and the dulled words began to sound louder in his ears. "Don't be so damn nice, you little twit! You're ruining my revenge! DAMN YOU!"

"I'm sorry," Celice said. Without warning, he wrapped his arms around Aless' shoulders in a warm embrace.

Aless was stunned. He held Celice's collar in a death grip, and shivered in the warm desert breeze. The boy's cheek was warm against his, and wet with tears.

Aless gasped, and something broke inside. He pushed Celice's arms from his shoulders, and threw him down onto the sand. "G-get away from me!" he stammered. His humiliation was complete.

He wept.

As the tears began to fall on his cheeks, his powerless legs collapsed, and he sank to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, and despaired. ((Father, forgive me! I can't do it; I can't avenge you…this little bastard…it's impossible.)) For the first time in ten years, he longed for his father, so much that his heart ached. ((I need your guidance, father! Mistoltin…I…have I been wrong, all this time? Did I misunderstand…?)) His thoughts returned to those few pleasant memories that he treasured; riding in his father's comforting embrace, practicing swordplay in the great hall of Castle Nodion…Like winter's heart, the images came unbidden, and would not leave.

A hand settled on his shoulder. No words were spoken. Like a feather, the weight of the touch was staggering, and ruinous. There was no choice but to let it fill the void.

Some time passed before he opened his eyes. He brushed sand from his knees, and raised his head to meet Celice's gaze. The boy's face bore a wistful smile.

"I'm not saying I believe you," he whispered.

"Sure. We have time; you'll see."

"If I find out that…that you were lying…I will kill you." The words were hollow, and pathetic.

"I know."

"…Don't touch me."

Celice withdrew his hand. He hesitated, and said, "I always wanted to have a brother. If…if the war hadn't come, our fathers would have remained friends, and we would have grown up together." His voice cracked and faltered on the words, and he sounded pitiful.

((Shut up.)) Honor—dignity—was a knight's prerogative: It was what separated him from a common warrior. His life had aspired towards that lofty ideal; to win back what his father had never lost. Now, he found himself staggered, broken, and bent.

"You've stolen my revenge," he whispered. ((You've stolen my life)) His heart ached.

"I'm sorry."

He felt humiliated, frustrated, and irritated. "You're not making this easy on me, you little bastard."

Celice smiled.

Aless rose to his feet, and pulled Mistoltin from its sheath of sand. The blade pulsed with malicious greed, and sent shockwaves of anger into his mind.

He shrugged them off, and sheathed the blade.

His mount pranced nearby, and Aless could see now that the horse was anxious at the presence of numerous strangers. Silence had lowered itself over the battlefield, and the wind's voice was a solitary sound as it swept the cloaks of the gathered warriors. It was a diverse group; an unlikely collection of people.

"Everyone," Celice proclaimed, "This is the Black Knight Aless, but you may know him better as the son of Eltosian!"

There was some hesitation before a great cheer rose from the assembled men and women. They were all staring at him, but to his surprise, one face among them all called out to Aless. Her mouth was parted, and she seemed near to tears. ((Aunt…? No; she's much too young.))

Staggered and shocked, Aless remained still, and silent. Mistoltin throbbed with violent need. Pretending that his tears had not been shed, he turned to Celice. In his face, he saw a different path.

It seemed brighter.