Author's Note: This chapter got away from me, I will admit that. I don't know when it got so long, but looking back, I think some of these things needed to be finished.

When you refuse to let fear run your life, the possibilities become infinite.
-Gaile Lowe

"You said that you grew up with the Sylph as a patron spirit, right?" Kratos asked Yuan. After he nodded, Kratos continued, "So that means we're near your home village then?"

"I suppose so." Yuan's lips twisted oddly. "I don't think I'd even recognize the way there anymore, it's been so long."

"…Do you ever regret it? Not going back at all over the years?"

"It wouldn't have been home if I'd gone back, Kratos," Yuan said softly. "If it's even still standing. Besides," Yuan hooked a hand around Kratos' neck, pulling him down to kiss his hair. "Why would I ever want to leave you?"

(That doesn't mean he's never considered it. He'd dreamed of Asgard for years, of the arching branches of the pomegranate trees, of Mama's face—which, sometimes, he finds himself forgetting—of the village square where the market had been set up, and he would play with the few other kids, most of them older than him, one or two a few years younger. He'd dreamed of the thinner mountain air, and the smell of lamb cooking, of watching his aunties weave the wool at the looms, and how he'd helped hang the dyed pieces of cloth up to dry

He'd had nightmares about it too. Of Mama's screams as the soldiers came. Of hiding in little cupboard spaces with his aunties, their babies tucked against their shoulders to shush their crying. And when they knew, without a doubt, that the soldiers were here, that they'd been found, the way the babies had feel silent, abruptly, because they'd killed their babies rather than have the humans take them. They'd taken enough, one of his aunties had said, crying as she had neared him with the knife, and it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees. The humans had come in then, had saved Yuan, and he remembers being violently sick with shame because he'd felt so grateful for them. He hadn't wanted to die. Auntie had been only partially right. It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees, but living on your knees gives you the chance to live on your feet, if you fight for it)

Sylph's Temple was full of open corridors and thin, branching columns. There were dozens upon dozens of wind chines of every material—wood, glass, metal—some clearly homemade, others masterworks of art, and they dangled in archways and from the rafters so that whenever the wind blew, music echoed through the corridors. There were openings in windows and walls to make music with wind too, like blowing on the lip of a glass bottle, and it made the most hauntingly lovely sound.

They didn't expect to find the outer rooms of the Temple overtaken with bedrolls, and makeshift tents, clotheslines hung in dizzying arrays. Dozens of people crammed together, refugees from various villages in the area, or escaped slaves.

"Yuan?"

The half-elf whirled at the sound of his name in a stranger's voice. Who would know him out here?

A girl ducked around some clotheslines—well, not a girl. Clearly a young woman, her hair pale blonde, tinged with red.

"Who—"

She grinned, her teeth uneven, but the energy dazzling. "I knew it was you. Don't have many folks with that kinda hair."

Yuan took in her thin face, trying to picture it almost fifteen years younger. "…Robyn?" She'd been one of the children in Asgard who'd grown up with him, several years younger, but always up for a day of adventuring with the older children.

Her grin widened. "Yup. But—" Her expression dropped a bit. "You're back. How did you—"Her eyes flicked to his arm, with its stark, black numbers. "Escape?"

Yuan resisted the urge to shift his arm so that the numbers weren't visible. "Me? What about you?" She hadn't been with him to the slave auctions, hadn't marched in those chains.

Her face shuttered away completely. "Auntie Paliya hid me in the caves. I don't even know how long I was there. Then the priestesses came to the village, looking for survivors, I guess and they heard me calling for them. I've been here ever since."

"Did anyone else make it?"

"A few did. They were hidin' with me. But—they've all died." Her mouth tightened, her eyes going shiny. "I'm the only one left."

Yuan's arms were around her before he thought about it. "No you're not."

She clutched at him tightly before beginning to sob. Yuan buried his nose in her hair, repeating the same thing over and over again. You're not alone.

Martel gently tugged at Kratos' hand. "Let's leave them alone for a while."

There wasn't room for travelers, really. They only had two spare rooms, with all the refugees.

"This area got hit hard by the humans," one of the priestesses explained. She'd introduced herself as Diana. Her orange hair was kept in a long twist down her back, and there was an old scar running from her forehead, skipping over her eye, down her cheek and to her chin, making her lips look like they were always in a sort of half-grimace. The gentle lines in the corners of her eyes were either from sorrow or laughter, and it was hard to tell which. "From my understanding, the other Temples don't have this problem."

Mithos shook his head. "No. The Earth Temple had some, and so did Luna and Aska, but nothing on this scale."

"I'm not surprised. They're further from the fighting, and it's been a long time since the humans invaded them directly."

"How did you keep them away?" Kratos asked. "Why isn't this place in shambles right now?"

"They tried," Diana said, a vicious glint in her gray-green eyes. "But they found that our Temple won't be overtaken by them. This is our land, and we won't allow it."

Kratos had a sudden vision of the human armies marching up the mountains and being blown away by gale-force winds, their bodies crumpled and broken at the bottom of canyons. The priestesses knew the territory, and wind magic was especially effective, and difficult to work around. "I can imagine."

"This is probably presumptuous of us, but…I'm a summoner, and we're with the half-elven army." A lie, but not a big one. "I've been making pacts with the other Summon Spirits in order to help end the war, as well as promote peace."

"Gaining more strength is your idea of promoting peace?"

"They're two separate things. We need the strength to back us up if the peace talks don't work."

"Peace talks," she repeated. "I can't imagine those are going over very well."

"Did you hear about Ravenatele?"

"Yeah. We don't get much news out here, but a trader came by two weeks back and told us. Am I supposed to believe that was you?"

"Technically," Mithos said. "It was Kratos and Yuan who did all the negotiating. But we were prepared for a plan B if the negotiations went south."

"Which is where you come in. I see." She eyed Kratos. "You mentioned two names. Who's this…Yuan?"

"He's my brother," Kratos replied. "He's from Asgard, originally; he found a survivor from there, so we figured we would give them their space."

"Oh, Robyn? She's a sweet girl."

"She said she grew up here."

"Mm. She did. Where else was I gonna send her? These have been human occupied lands for fifteen years now. She and anyone I would have sent with her would have been killed or enslaved before they made it twenty miles. It will be good for her to speak with him."

"And vice versa," Kratos said, thinking of Yuan's face when he'd seen Robyn. Zaren had been the only other survivor from Asgard that Yuan had met, and that had turned…not well. Perhaps talking with Robyn would help Yuan move past Zaren's betrayal.

Diana's eyes softened a little, looking Kratos up and down. "You're not like any humans I've met before."

"Knowing the type of humans that have been through here, I can't say that that's saying much," Kratos replied dryly, wincing internally because he hadn't meant to say that. It was something Yuan would have said.

To his surprise, Diana laughed, a warm, deep sound. "You'd be right." She looked at Mithos. "I can't make the decision to allow you to learn our ways or not. I don't have the pact with the Sylph. But I'm sure Anish would be happy to talk to you, perhaps make a compromise."

"You're lying."

"Why would I be lying to you?" Yuan asked. Robyn had brought him to her room—not a tent, not after living here for nearly fifteen years. Robyn wasn't an official priestess, but she might as well have been. She knew the prayers, helped care for the altar, and was welcomed by all the other priestesses.

"Humans hate us. They destroyed our home, they—" Robyn's mouth snapped shut, unable to voice the memories.

"Not all of them are like that. Humans don't have a monopoly on evil. There are good humans, just like there are bad half-elves." Like Kratos, like Zaren.

Her eyes narrowed. "You talk different now."

"I am different."

"I don't believe you. Humans ain't nice to our kind."

"We haven't exactly done them any favors either."

"…You find anyone else from Asgard?" Robyn asked, trying to steer the conversation to a safer subject. She didn't want to argue with Yuan; they'd only just found each other. They had to stick together; it's what you did. "When you was out traveling?"

"I found Zaren."

"That's gre—"

"He's dead," Yuan cut her off abruptly. "He died in a ranch."

He almost regretted his tone when he saw the way she flinched, but he couldn't bring himself to actually feel bad. He was sparing her the truth: that Zaren was a coward who'd betrayed them all to the humans who'd imprisoned him.

Yuan jumped as people shrieked, and both he and Robyn were on their feet, exiting the room to try and find the source.

Noishe was poking and hopping his way across the tent city, towards the upper levels where the residents of the Temple stayed. Yuan sighed, and hopped on a railing. His sharp whistle made Noishe turn, going straight for him.

Noishe balanced easily on the railing, nudging his beak at Yuan, as though trying to find evidence of harm. "I'm fine, Noishe. You crazy bird." Noishe tilted his head, stretching his neck a bit to look around Yuan to where Robyn was standing, trembling at the sight of him. "Robyn, this is Noishe. Noishe, Robyn."

"That's a monster."

Yuan frowned a little. "Well that's just rude. Noishe is—well. He's not harmless. But he's not a threat." Noishe's beak tapped the top of Yuan's head in what he supposed was intended as a friendly gesture, but it hurt a bit. "Honestly."

"Yuan!" Both protozoan and half-elf tuned towards the familiar voice. Kratos came up the steps, looking a bit cleaner, like he'd had a chance to wipe away the dust of the road. "I should've guessed that Noishe would find you first."

"Yeah, because he starts a panic everywhere he goes."

Noishe chirped at him, eyes narrowing, and Yuan had the vague impression that he might be about to get kicked off his ledge.

"Mithos and Martel are talking to Anish about the details of the pact. I figured I'd come and find you."

"Who's Anish?" Yuan asked at the same time that Robyn said, "Anish agreed to meet with them? While you were in the room?"

"Anish is the head priestess," Kratos explained. "She holds the pact." He looked at Robyn and held out a hand. "My name is Kratos. And you are?"

"Not impressed."

(Kratos wonders if a smart mouth is something inherent to anyone from Asgard. It would certainly explain a lot.)

Yuan sighed. It would be too much to hope for, that Robyn could see past her hatred and just see Kratos as he was, peace-loving and kind. "Kratos, this is Robyn, one of my neighbors from Asgard. Robyn, this is my best friend, Kratos Aurion."

The cold look on Robyn's face made Kratos withdraw his hand. (It shouldn't bother him—and he's not surprised by the reception—but that doesn't change the disappointment that curls in his chest every single time this happens. It makes Mithos' dream seem more and more impossible. Half-elves won't see him differently. He'll always be the child of their slavers, of the ones who murdered their children)

He looked at Yuan, fighting the instinct to shuffle his feet. The capital had spoiled him. Even with the hatred that he'd gotten from the new faces that came into the city, the ones who'd known him had spoken in his defense, had shut down the automatic assaults on him. "I just came to check on you."

"Mother hen," Yuan teased, but it had no real bite. Noishe hopped down a moment after Yuan did. "But I'm good."

"Okay." Kratos didn't seem to quite believe him, but he believed enough that he was willing to let the subject drop for now. "I'll leave you guys to it then."

Yuan glanced at Robyn, who resembled an icy wall more than a person. "No, I'll go with you. Getting Sylph's pact should be a conversation for all of us, don't you think?"

Yuan wondered if Kratos' relief was that obvious, or if he simply knew him that well. More of the latter than the former, he decided. Kratos had a pretty good poker face when he wanted to have one, as some of the lads back in the capital had learned when inviting him to play cards.

"Martel will be glad to see you. You know how she fusses."

"That's hypocritical considering that you can fuss almost as much as she does."

Kratos crossed his arms. "You're the one that doesn't listen and that's why you need fussing."

(Robyn stares at the both of them bickering. Had Yuan not been lying? They certainly seem close, and there's not a trace of fear in how close Yuan is standing to him, in how he's not afraid to playfully cuff him upside the head, and the way the human pushes him back with a burst of laughter. If she hadn't known better, she might really believe they were brothers)

"We're gonna get going, Robyn," Yuan said. "Is it alright if I come visit you again?"

"You, yes. Him, no."

"Should've figured," Yuan muttered. Then, louder, he said, "Alright. Have a good night then."

Anish was an older woman whose violet hair was streaked with silver. Her left hand was missing three fingers, and her right was a little deformed, as though it had been broken badly and never healed properly. She was in the midst of what seemed to have been a long argument with Mithos. When Kratos and Yuan slipped back into the room, Martel glanced at them, and from expression, her patience was beginning to run thin as well.

"I'm not trying to break your tradition," Mithos said for what must have been the sixth time. "Or to disrespect all that you've done here, but the war has gone on too long. I just want to put a stop to it, and I believe that Sylph's power can help us do that."

"That is childish thinking. More power doesn't lead to peace."

"What about when the humans come up the mountain?" Mithos demanded. "All of the priestesses know magic; you must fight them off somehow." Anish's eyes went hard, and Mithos knew he was right. "You have power that they don't, and that is what keeps them from attacking here, from turning this Temple into rubble. I'm trying to do the same thing."

"He has a point," Yuan volunteered. "Or are Sylph's disciples in the habit of hypocrisy?"

One day, Martel thought, Yuan was going to be punched by someone who didn't want to deal with that mouth of his. She wasn't so sure that he wouldn't deserve it.

Anish's sharp eyes slid to Yuan. "And you are…?"

Yuan caught Mithos opening his mouth, about to answer, but Yuan got there first. "Call me a concerned citizen. Unless you have some trick hidden up your sleeve, Mithos' solution is the best one we've had so far. It brought a peaceful resolution to the situation in Ravenatele, and it helped stop several attacks on villages in the desert. His success rate is climbing. How's hiding in the mountains working for you?"

"You overstep yourself. The people in my care are alive which is more than I can say for most."

"Living in fear isn't actually living! Those people down there are waiting to die, waiting for the bombs to fall. They can't live without looking over their shoulders. They deserve peace of mind."

(Mithos looks over at him, some shock in his eyes. Yuan is surprised at himself, quite honestly. He hadn't meant to say all of that. He hadn't even thought about any of it like that, but after seeing Robyn, and the tent city, and how paranoid everyone is—even more than the capital. The capital had been full of healthy paranoia and wariness, the understanding that they are a primary target for the humans—but here? These people don't trust anyone, afraid that the sky is going to fall on them)

"And here I thought you were all talk," Anish said.

Yuan bristled. "Excuse me?"

"You understand the situation much more than I believed you would. I want that peace of mind for them too. The safety I've been able to guarantee them exists only with Sylph's power. If I give up the pact, this place is no longer safe."

"Teach them a different way," Martel said.

"What?"

"Those refugees, that's all they've been since they arrived here, right? You haven't taught them magic or how to fight. They've just been surviving down there?"

"Yes." Anish's brow was creased in confusion, her lips pursed.

"Then teach them to defend themselves. You guarantee them safety, sure. But that's something they can only trust to you. They haven't learned to trust their own strength yet. If you teach them to fight, to protect themselves and each other, they will feel more assured in themselves."

"And how do you expect me to teach them?"

"We don't," Kratos said suddenly. "We can teach them. Mithos can learn your traditions for the pact, but the three of us can teach them to fight, to work as a unit."

"You?" Anish snorted. "They'll sooner tear you to pieces than learn from a human."

"She's not wrong, Kratos," Yuan said quietly. "This isn't the capital. They've been eking out here, seeing monsters were humans are. Until they learn to trust you, I don't think it's a good idea for you to teach them."

"So then what? I'm supposed to sit here and do nothing?"

"Give us some time," Martel said, voice soothing. "Let them learn to trust us before we vouch for you."

"Can you agree to these terms?" Mithos asked Anish. "If your people can protect themselves, you don't need the Sylph to do it for them."

Anish was silent for a long moment, thinking. (These people are very different from any she's ever met. They are passionate, and educated, and there seem to be no barriers between them when it comes to race. She wants that for her people) "…Yes, I believe I can."

"Your human friend shows a great deal of spirit," Anish began without preamble.

Yuan looked up from the list of inventory they'd been given. There wasn't much to work with, hardly a dozen serviceable swords to go around. There wouldn't be much point in teaching the refugees the sword if they didn't have one. "He has a name."

"Yes. Kratos Aurion." Anish pronounced it carefully, making the first A a hard sound. "I recognized his face. He is a criminal, according to the posters."

"He's a good man," Yuan said hotly. "And his only crime has been helping half-elves."

"Your face is on the posters as well. Are you freedom fighters?"

"In a way. The military didn't agree with our methods, so we decided to do this on our own."

"Robyn says that you're from Asgard as well." She waited for him to nod. "How did you escape the attack?"

"I didn't," Yuan said shortly. "They put me in chains and marched me to the auctions. I was sold to the Aurion family for fifteen gald."

A loaf of bread cost more than he had. Abstractly, he could see the logic in it. He'd been a small, underfed child, couldn't read or write, and not strong enough to work the plow yet. But he'd had potential.

"And Aurion set you free?"

Yuan shook his head. "He ran away with me. Taught me mathematics, to read, taught me history. Got himself branded a traitor for it."

"I see. That's why you won't hear a word against him."

"He hasn't earned any antagonism towards him. All he's guilty of is trying to be a good fucking person." Being so close to Asgard had kept Yuan on edge. Was this how Kratos had felt, when they'd been in the human capital for the peace treaty? Always balanced between violence and cowardice? Fight or flight? Yuan had always leaned more towards fight anyway.

Anish barked a laugh, unperturbed by Yuan's venom. "You share a spirit with him. You both have a great deal of fire in you." She sobered again. "I didn't mean to insult either of you. I only wanted to understand. I didn't believe a human and a half-elf could be friends."

"We're walking, talking proof."

"So I see. I hope we can all learn from your example. It would be nice if we could all get along in peace."

"Are you feeling alright?" Martel's voice spoke into his shoulder as her arms came around his waist. Yuan had left the room the four of them were sharing, needing to move, to do something. "You've seemed…tense…ever since we came here."

Yuan coverer her hands with his, leaning into her. "I don't know. Being so close to Asgard…it feels strange. I remember it in two very different ways and I don't think I know how to reconcile that."

"You aren't the boy you were back then. And you're not alone. We won't let old memories hurt you."

Yuan turned in her arms, biting his lip when she sputtered as some of his hair hit her nose. "Memories aren't physical. You can't stop them from hurting me."

"Watch me."

That made Yuan laugh; if anyone could do it, Martel could. He kissed her softly, thinking of the rings he kept tucked away in his pocket. "You are an incredible woman, Martel Yggdrasill."

"You should've realized that a long time ago." A smile ruined the haughty effect.

"Oh, I did. It just needs to be said aloud sometimes."

Martel snorted. "But seriously," she said, tracing a hand down his cheek, and coming her fingers through his hairline. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing I can't get over," he promised.

The refugees were resistant at first, which Yuan hadn't been expecting. Why wouldn't they want to be able to defend themselves?

"Because it's easier to stay the same," Kratos replied while Yuan paced back and forth in the room, ranting about the refugees. "They've found if a tolerable—if not comfortable—way of living here. They don't want to change."

"But, they don't know that this affects their way of living yet."

"No, but I think they can sense it. Think about it, Yuan—we showed up out of nowhere, and all they know about you is that you're from Asgard, and suddenly you're teaching them to defend themselves? They're not stupid."

"I still don't get it."

"It's a hard thing, to change. People have to want to. You can't make them do it." Kratos faltered at the widening grin on Yuan's face. "…Oh dear. What did you think of?"

"You're brilliant, Kratos. Know where Martel is?"

"More than likely? Down in the refugee camp taking a look at the injured and the sick."

"I'll see you at dinner!" Yuan called as he left Kratos in the room feeling rather dumbstruck and lost, as well as terrified of whatever Yuan's clever mind had come up with.

Martel listened to Yuan's entire plan. It made sense, but— "Let me talk to them first. See if I can get any sense in their heads."

He agreed, saying that if she couldn't talk sense into them, no one could.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you Yggdrasills could talk the stars out of the sky if you were so inclined."

"And here I thought that Kratos was the poetic one."

Yuan shrugged. "I have my moments."

(Despite her teasing, Martel rather likes the thought that her and Mithos' words are powerful enough to do anything)

Mithos came down that morning with Martel, mostly just to listen to what she was going to tell them. He was getting so tall, her brother. Barely thirteen years old and already so strong, and so brave.

As they came down to the tent city, Martel felt a rift between her and the other hundreds of women there. It was a rift she'd felt for most of her life, but in the capital, in the military—surrounded largely by men—it hadn't bothered her as much. But here, facing down grandmothers and aunts and sisters, all with the same hard look in their eyes, she felt a bit inferior.

(Martel tries to remember her mother the best she can. She knows she gets most of her looks from her father, but her smile—according to Papa—is her mother's. Her stubbornness is hers too, she remembers him telling her with a fond sigh.

But Martel has been in charge of Mithos for most of her life. She doesn't know the things that women are supposed to know. She knows how to sew a wound, but if you ask her to do the same to a dress, it doesn't work out. Kratos is a better hand with clothes than her, if only marginally. She's not a terrible cook, but she knows how to do more with hard tack and salt meats than she does with proper food. She can scrub blood out of anything, has washed behind her little brother's ears and made sure a comb went through his hair every now and again, but that has never been enough for too many people.

She doesn't always feel comfortable in a dress. She's become too accustomed to tough breeches and boots. Her hair is a right mess, and she does what little she can with it. She doesn't know how to use the pretty face paints that she sees other women use from time to time. Her hands are calloused, her skin pockmarked with scars. She doesn't know how to keep her head down, to obey people. It's nothing she ever learned, and when she sees so many women—ragged and hard by the war, but still, women in the eyes of the world, secure in their place—she feels herself shrink, feels herself become the wandering orphan girl again)

She was shoved in the shoulder, knocking her forward a few steps. "What the—"

An older woman glared at her. "You're a disgrace."

"Exc—"

"Oh lay off, Emily," another girl snapped, taking Martel's arm. "C'mon."

Martel and Mithos exchanged bewildered looks, but followed her to a tent. "I don't have much space," she said. "But you're welcome for as long as ya like."

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"

She smiled, a shy thing. "Lilliana. And I a'ready know 'bout you two. Yer with the soldiers."

"Yes. My name's Martel. This is my little brother, Mithos." Martel took an offered seat of a rickety stool. "Yuan said that you guys didn't want to learn to fight."

Lilliana nodded.

"Why not?"

"No offense meant, but it ain't proper."

That had been the last excuse Martel had been expecting. "Proper," she repeated. "You think it matters at all out here, what's 'proper'?"

"It matters more." Another woman came from outside, older, lines beginning to etch themselves in her face. She introduced herself as Anita, Lilliana's aunt. "We don't have much out here, but we have our traditions."

"Some traditions need to be broken, especially in times like these."

"Why is it improper?" Mithos spoke up. All three women looked at him.

"Why?" the older woman repeated.

"Yeah. There must be some reason why it isn't proper for women to fight. What is it?" His head was quizzically tilted, almost bird-like.

"It's not our place. Our men are out there, fighting for our freedom and our homes. They're putting their lives on the line. It's our job to keep doing what we do so that they have a home to come back to."

"Alright," Martel said. The logic was sound, if not outdated. "So they're fighting for your freedom. Sure. But you guys aren't stupid. You know the odds of them ever coming back are slim." She knew those odds, felt that terror every time her boys left her sight. What if it was the last time she ever saw them? "Then who have you got fighting for your homes and your freedom? Are you happy to let other people fight your battles for you?"

"Just because you're a disgrace, Ms. Yggdrasill doesn't mean we all are. The fact that men are ashamed to even be thought of as your husband is only further proof."

Martel stood, bristling. "You don't get to talk about me as if you know anything about me. I don't have a husband because Yuan and I haven't decided—collectively, since we both get an equal say in our relationship—that we want to get married. And I joined the military because I was tired of waiting for other people to do something about the way we're treated, tired of watching other people fight and die so that I could live cowering under a rock."

"And your son? Did you think about what kind of environment the military is for him?"

The wording made Martel pause. "I don't have a son. I don't have any children at all." She was well past the usual age that women usually had children. Twenty-six and not even married? 'Shameful' was the word most people used to describe her.

"You don't have to lie," Lilliana piped up. "It's okay. You're safe here."

"I don't have a son," Martel repeated.

"No? And what about him?" Anita asked, inclining her chin at Mithos. "You think we don't know what happens on the front lines? There ain't proper women out there—men miss their wives—but they'll take what they can get. And someone apparently settled for you."

"You're out of line," Mithos snarled at her. "Martel is the best sister anyone could ask for and she doesn't have to give a damn about any of you, but she does. And you guys treat her like some kind of pariah for it. Martel's got nothing to be ashamed of, but you guys sure as hell do." He grabbed Martel's wrist and in her shock, she let herself be led away with him. "C'mon, Martel. Let's get out of here."

Once they had sufficiently distanced themselves, Martel gently extracted her hand from her brother's grip. He was still steaming, temper visible in the tense lines of him. She would still be pissed too, if it hadn't been for his display. "Y'know, I'm the one that's supposed to look after you, not the other way around."

Mithos shot her a look. "It's always been two ways, you know that."

Martel leaned her hips back against an archway, her smile a mixture of fond and sad. "You're right, I do know that. I wish it wasn't that way. You shouldn't have to deal with any of this."

"What—those bitches?" He knew the expression she was going to make before it actually appeared on her face. "I'm gonna call them what they are, Martel, if they're going to disrespect you like that! They're not even worth your time, I mean—they're so—so narrow-minded and stuck in this stupid rut of tradition." His eyes narrowed at her with a sudden realization. "How long have people been treating you like that?"

She sighed. She tried not to lie to him—and she'd been doing pretty well with that, all things considered—but there were times where the truth was just a bone choking in her throat. "Years, Mithos. More or less for as long as I can remember."

"You mean since you've been taking care of me."

"It's not your fault," Martel told him firmly. "And it's not mine either."

"You could've had a normal life, if it weren't for me. You could've been a Healer in any of the dozens of villages we passed through growing up, but—they didn't want an 'improper' woman about. 'specially not a stranger."

Martel strode forward, taking Mithos' shoulders in a tight grip. "Look at me, Mithos Yggdrasill. I don't ever want to hear those kinds of thoughts coming out of you again, do you understand me? You are my brother, and I love you, and I wouldn't trade you for the world. Do I wish that our lives hadn't been this way? Yeah. But only because I'm tired of being treated like dirt. I wish we could've had a nice life, with a house of our own and you could've gone to school and had a chance to be a kid, but life isn't fair. We were dealt a crappy hand—there's no denying that—and we've done a hell of a lot with it. That's something to be proud of."

Mithos grinned lopsidedly at her. "There's the Martel I know."

She huffed a laugh and tugged him into a hug, kissing the top of his head. He was still rather short in height for thirteen, but his limbs were starting to grow, which made him clumsy, much to Yuan's amusement. "You're something else, Mithos. And thank you for protecting my honor, even though I didn't need you to."

"I wouldn't have tried to 'protect your honor'," Mithos gave her his very best mocking brother face. "If you would do more than just stand there and take it." He grinned at her again. "Man up, Yggdrasill."

She rolled her eyes and pushed him playfully away. "Oh please. Like men could do anything half as well as I can."

(They don't mention specifics of what had happened to Yuan and Kratos. She tells Yuan that they're going to have to go with his original plan, which just makes him whistle because damn. They must be stubborn sons of bitches if Martel can't convince them. But that just makes Yuan grin because he's always been very very good at being more stubborn than other people)

Martel was the one to shake Kratos awake the next morning, her hair braided back like they were back on the warfront. For a heart-stopping moment, Kratos was afraid that they were, but there was no urgency on her face or in her hands.

"Wha's happening?" Kratos yawned as he slid his legs out from under the blanket.

"Yuan's brilliant plan." From her tone of voice, she wasn't entirely sure it was brilliant, per se, but it was their best option.

"Are you going to tell me what this so-called plan is?"

Her eyebrows went up as he shrugged into his shirt. Despite the chill outside, it was warm inside the Temple. The Sylph blew in the warm ocean winds, Diana had said when he'd asked why. "He didn't tell you?" When Kratos just shook his head, she said, "Well, that's a first. And apparently, we're going to fight each other."

"What?"

"Not seriously," Martel assured. "I don't think I could beat you in a real fight anyway. It's more of a spar."

Even so, their family's version of sparring seemed to differ quite vastly from the others. "What's that going to accomplish?" Kratos had to hunt for his socks before pulling them on, nose wrinkling a little at the smell. Laundry needed to be done; perhaps he could do it today since, apparently, his help was otherwise unwelcome.

"He said you gave him the inspiration for the idea. About people having to want to change."

"I don't understand how this helps."

Her small smile made Kratos feel like he was fourteen and utterly lost in the world of understanding people again. "To those refugees, you're still a nightmare come to life. They recognize the rest of us as part of them. If they see that I can hold my own against you, that I can put you on your back, then they'll want to learn. They'll realize what Yuan has been trying to tell them, but sometimes, that sort of thing can't really be put into words."

"So—you want me to go easy on you?"

The sharp glare she sent him made his shoulder shrink in shame for even suggesting it. "Don't you dare."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Yuan stared the refugees down. Most of them were women and children, which wasn't shocking, and some elderly. They were the people he'd grown up with; he hadn't known many men. Few came back from the war. He knew how to talk to them as one of their own, but that wasn't his position now. He thought of Sandor Aurion's incredible authority, and how he'd spoken to the room in the military school. He thought of how Kratos had spoken in Ravenatele, with that same subtle, commanding presence. He could try for that. But he wasn't very good at being subtle.

When most of the refugees were focused on him, he let his voice project. It wasn't quite shouting, but it was close. "There are reasons the men are the soldiers, right? We're bigger. Stronger. More suited to killing."

Murmurs of agreement.

"Women have their skills too. We've gotten quite the balance going, haven't we? But I see absolutely no reason why you shouldn't be able to defend yourselves." Yuan felt flashes of temper. "And you're all going to tell me some shit about it not being proper, about not being able to handle a weapon. I've seen the things you guys use in the kitchen, and they're bigger than the knives given to soldiers. I've seen you when the humans came. Some of you fought. And you're going to tell me that you can't defend against the humans. They're stronger, more organized, they have the weapons. All true. But that doesn't mean you're powerless." Yuan's eyes slid across the crowd. Without looking at her, he called, "Martel?"

Martel stepped forward, as did Kratos. The murmurs stopped instantly at the sight of them, quietly circling each other. Her staff and his sword.

They came together powerfully, whipping around each other. They were matched in terms of speed, but Martel's staff gave her the longer reach. Kratos, however, had more skill, and his sword had an edge.

They ducked and dipped, Kratos having to move quickly to avoid her staff, and to dart back in with his sword. He gasped when a strike came to his ribs, knocking the breath out of him, but he managed to block the next few strikes as he struggled to get his breath back.

They both laid hits on each other in quick succession, but nothing that would cause lasting damage. A bruise on the outer thigh, a thin cut on the shoulder. Kratos had to work hard not to grin at the challenge; Martel wasn't a warrior the way most people saw it, but she was a good fighter, calculating and clever. She knew she was at a physical disadvantage, and she used it, but her staff more than made up for any difference in reach. Six feet long and made of sturdy oak.

He used his free hand to guard against her staff, coming around with his sword. The tip caught her cheek, a bright line of blood blooming there. Kratos ducked under a strike, aiming for her legs, but the other side of the staff came, and while he managed to get his arm out to jam it, it threw him off balance. As he stumbled to regain it, Martel was after him, a flurry of movement. Kratos darted out of her range and came back around, stabbing in. It caught her in the elbow, making her hand spasm. With one side of the staff neutralized, Kratos went in closer, but he hadn't expected Martel to drop the staff altogether, grabbing hold of his collar and flipping him over her shoulder.

His sword went flying from his grasp with the impact, and though he went for the knife in his boot, she got there first, pressing one knee into his ribs and the knife to his throat.

"I yield," Kratos said loudly enough for the crowd to hear him, his hands above his head, fingers splayed.

Martel shifted herself off of him, dropping the knife so she could help him up with her good arm. "I told you not to go easy on me."

"I didn't," he told her honestly. "Where did you learn to throw someone like that?"

She grinned at him, the cut on her cheek making an eerie red highlight. "The Shadow monks. They're used to being smaller than their opponents, so they developed a lot of ways to deal with that."

"Brilliant," Kratos murmured. He hadn't even seen it coming. "Will you teach me?"

"Of course."

They bowed to each other, out of respect and in thanks for the trust necessary to use each other's bodies for training, before going to retrieve their weapons. When Kratos glanced up, Yuan was smirking, even as he called out, "Any more objections?"

Though Kratos didn't have to, he knocked on the door to the room the four of them shared. There was simply no space for more people in this Temple. Martel had been—not upset, but something had certainly been off since their spar that morning.

She looked up from where she was seated on one of the cots, her medical kit in front of her. She caught the look on his face. "Is something wrong?"

"You tell me." Kratos sat on the cot beside hers; they'd tried pushing them together. All they'd succeeded in doing was making Mithos laugh hard enough to snort water out his nose when the cots collapsed out from under them. He watched her gently dab at the cut on her elbow with rubbing alcohol, hissing at the pain. "…How badly did I hurt you?"

"Not terribly," Martel assured him. "It bled a bit, but it'll scab and heal over in a few days." She eyed him up and down. He'd taken a bath after they'd sparred, had taken the time to shave and be annoyed at his hair—again. This was almost a daily occurrence—and he'd appreciated having proper soap instead of just quick rinses in rivers. "How're the bruises?"

He'd looked quite the sight in the mirror when he'd shaved. His left thigh was a mass of purple and blue—an opening that Martel had taken full advantage of over and over. He had to fix that; if she'd had anything with a blade on it, his leg would be halfway amputated right now. There was a nasty looking bruise on his forearm from that final jam, and his collarbone would be sore for several more days, but overall no lasting damage.

"Expansive," Kratos settled on, and Martel laughed.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be. They're all well-earned."

She huffed, but didn't argue. "You went easy on me."

"I told you I didn't."

"That's a poor choice of words." Martel frowned, and Kratos took the bandages from her slack hands, dressing her wound. "It's more like you didn't go all out."

"If I went all out, I might have killed you," Kratos pointed out quietly.

"But you held back more than necessary didn't you?" she shot back. "There were half a dozen openings you didn't take."

"If I took them, I could have hurt you."

"You don't trust your control?"

"In general, yes. But in a challenging fight like that? No. I don't need to hold back against my enemies, and I'm afraid that that makes me sloppy."

"I don't think you could hurt me. Not seriously."

"I'm glad you think so, but I don't."

"Those half a dozen openings—enemies would exploit them. By not taking them to show me my weaknesses, you're only hurting me."

Kratos winced, knowing she was right. That was what all of his bruises from her had been: reminders to guard his weak places. By not doing the same to her, he'd been disrespectful and doing her a disservice. "I'm sorry."

Martel softened, combing his damp hair away from his face. "Is it because I'm a woman?"

"Probably," he replied wryly. "It's been fifteen years, but some ways of thinking are hard to break. Human women don't fight in the military. They're allowed to be nurses, but that's about it."

"I wish I could say it was different for us. The only reason we're allowed in our military is if we prove ourselves useful." Like she had, with her Healing, and her affinity for light magic. And even then, look at how she'd been received by other women. If she hadn't had her boys with her when she'd joined, she would've had a hard time with the men she served with too.

"It's ridiculous. The idea that anyone is better than anyone else because of some natural predetermined quirk of nature is insane."

She smiled fondly at him. "You are quite the anomaly, Kratos."

He blinked, looking so much younger than twenty-six. "Why?"

"You defy nature at every turn. Born human, but you call half-elves your family. Born rich, but you don't claim your birthright. Born male, but you don't see yourself as naturally superior at all. I think it would be a kinder world if more people were like you."

Kratos flushed at the praise, not entirely sure how to take it. "I don't think I'm that special," he said, dabbing at her cheek with the rubbing alcohol.

"No, you wouldn't would you?" Martel stood, brushing a kiss on Kratos' forehead. "It's part of what makes you a good man. Don't let that change."

The Temple baths were fed from hot springs deeper in the mountains. Yuan loved it, and enjoyed soaking in the water, particularly after having trained so many people today. Hot water and soap. It was the simple things in life, he decided.

He'd dozed off when he felt someone enter the room, and that someone yelped at the sight of him. "Sorry!"

Yuan jumped to cover his nakedness—it wasn't like he usually walked around naked with Martel, Mithos, and Kratos, but they were all used to each other, and they'd all seen each other in various stages of undress often enough that some nudity didn't really bother them—and he was startled to find Robyn and another woman turned away.

"We didn't know someone else was in here."

"Or rather, you didn't realize a man would be in here," Yuan said, slipping out to grab a towel. There weren't many men among the refugees, and the baths were communal.

"Well, no."

Yuan wrapped the towel around his waist. Kratos had taken the clothes to do laundry, and Yuan wasn't particularly looking forward to walking through the Temple corridors in a towel—a fairly large towel, thank Sylph for small blessings—but he'd had worse. It was just going to be really cold.

"Enjoy your bath, ladies."

He heard giggling behind him, and it took some force of will to not turn and give them an odd look.

"I heard Martel kicked your ass," Mithos said as they sat down to dinner.

"Language," Martel scolded.

"Kicked your butt," Mithos amended, with an approving nod from his sister.

"Absolutely." Kratos didn't have much pride, honestly. He knew he was a good fighter, but there was always someone better. And it had been a really impressive flip. "She was badass."

Martel shot him a look—gee, where did Mithos learn his curses from?—and Kratos just took a sip of his soup to hide his smile, even as Mithos did the same.

"Most beautiful thing I'd seen all day," Yuan agreed. "And it worked. You're something of a star now, Martel."

"I'm sure," she replied dryly. "Did you hear anything about their feelings of Kratos?"

"Still antagonistic. But at least they're not scared stiff anymore. Fear makes people freeze. Anger—now that we can work with."

"Should I be afraid of being killed in my sleep?" Kratos asked. It wasn't entirely a joke.

"Nah. They're still kind of afraid of you. They just have hope now."

"How did the first day go?"

Yuan shrugged. "About as well as could be expected. Grumbling, arguing, reluctance. One tripped over her skirt."

Martel stared at him. "Please tell me you didn't suggest she make it shorter."

Yuan blinked. "Well, of course I did. If those long skirts are going to keep getting tangled…up…oh."

"Yeah, oh. Good job. Now they thing that you're a lecher."

"But—they know I'm with you, don't they?"

"Darling," Martel drawled, amusement shining in her eyes. "You're one of the only men these women have seen in—I'm gonna say months at the very least—and you're not exactly hard on the eyes. They're going to take any implication they can get as an invitation."

"I—oh. Oh."

Kratos sighed, sensing his best friend's distress. "What happened?"

"So—the baths."

"They caught you?"

"Yeah. Robyn and another woman. I didn't know her name. They giggled at me."

"Both of them?"

"Yeah." Martel snickered, and Mithos' smile was getting too wide to hide with his spoon. "What?"

"Do you want a lady's perspective?" Martel asked.

"I'd settle for yours," Yuan shot back, which sent Kratos and Mithos laughing.

"You're lucky I love you. Otherwise, I'd just leave you to suffer."

"You just don't want them encroaching on your territory. Wait—are you jealous?"

"Of course not," Martel sniffed. "Nothing to be jealous about."

The implication of what would happen to the women if there was something to be jealous of hung in the air and Yuan had never been more grateful that he'd never been the type of man to fool around with other people.

"And besides which—the women should know better anyway."

Yuan's brow furrowed. "Know better than what?"

"To try and be with you." Martel leaned her chin in her palm. "You're charming, and clever, and we've all established that you're decently handsome—"

"Dece—that's rich, coming from the woman who's dating me!"

"I'm being realistic. I love you, and I think you're handsome, but there are better looking men out there, A, and B, not everyone has my good taste. Now if you would let me finish—" With Yuan looking properly mollified, for now anyway, Martel continued. "And while all that paints a very nice picture, you are rather…distant."

"Distant?" Kratos echoed Yuan's question.

"Not in that you don't care about people, or that you don't pay attention to them," Martel said hurriedly. "But even without me in the picture, it's obvious—or it should be—that you're not planning to stick around. You've got other things to focus on, and you are focused on them. Maybe some of these women are looking for company just for a night or two—not that I think you would do that—but most of them that actually want a man to stay."

"You sound very well informed."

Martel smiled crookedly. "I'm a Healer. There were days where all I listened to was gossip from the other women helping us out, or after a flood of refugees came in." (She won't tell him about the things that Anita had said to her, had accused her of. It's a Mithos-and-Martel secret. They don't have many of those anymore. It's not like, if Yuan asks, she won't admit to it, but she has no intention of telling him outright)

"The sad part's that she wasn't even wrong about any of it," Yuan said, though it was mostly directed at Kratos.

Kratos just shrugged, setting his spoon against the edge of his empty bowl. "What would we know about how women's minds work? Martel's the interpreter."

"It's kinda sad," Mithos said, grinning at them. "'cause they're not that hard to figure out."

"Tell me that again after your voice drops, kid," Yuan said, earning a scowl. "But in all seriousness, are you willing to help out with the training tomorrow, Martel?"

"I need to stop by the Kimt family first. Apparently they wanted to talk to a Healer about something. But afterwards, sure."

"You won't see me around much tomorrow," Mithos told them. He'd learned his lesson; he didn't want to leave without telling the others where he was. He wasn't sure he wouldn't freeze again, alone in the darkness. They'd broken him out of it in Shadow's Temple, but he doubted he was cured of the fear. "Anish wants to take me on some mountain expedition tomorrow, out of bounds of the Temple. She says it's sacred ground, and that's where we have to start."

"That'll be a fun trek, I'm sure," Yuan said, thinking of the mountains that covered this entire region. This Temple alone was scattered across cliffs with dozens of stairs carved into the mountainsides, leading down to the lowlands where the refugees had settled. "Just—don't trip. It's a long way down."

Yuan wasn't wrong, Mithos thought as he followed Anish up the mountain. They were up high, near the peaks now, and he was grateful for the wool coat she'd lent him. It was even snowing gently, and this clearing was barren of most vegetation. Linkite trees grew all across the mountains, and some scragglier trees as well, but overall, there wasn't much living out here. In the distance, and several hundred feet down, Mithos could see the roof to the altar room that Anish had taken him to. It was open on all sides, painted wooden panels swinging on all sides when the winds blew, with a high ceiling.

"Take a seat," Anish told him, gesturing to the center of the clearing.

Mithos obeyed, waiting for further instructions, but Anish was already turning away. "Wait—what am I to do?"

Anish looked back at him. "I already told you."

"You told me to sit." Mithos wondered if he'd missed something.

"Yes, I did."

"I don't understand."

"Sit. Listen to the wind. Feel it. Know its movements."

"I can't not listen to the wind," Mithos pointed out. The Linkite trees sang almost all the time out here.

"You're hearing it," Anish agreed. "But you're not listening. I'll return for you. Don't leave until I do."

And just like, Mithos was left alone.

He tried. For the record, he really did try. He watched the leaves, searching for patterns. He listened to every note the Linkite trees sang until he could whistle it back by memory. He grew bored, watching and listening, his fingers going stiff from the chill.

He entertained himself by making several balls of witchlight and making them dance in tune to the trees, changing their colors in accordance with the different notes.

Mithos remembered something he'd been told in the desert, about the mirages that were so common to the unwary travelers. They were tricks of light—a mix of heat and air that made the eye see strange things. There were dozens of stories where sorcerers created illusions to fool their adversaries. Mithos wondered if he could accomplish the same thing.

That was how Anish found him hours later, struggling to create much of anything. He'd gotten a few distortions in the air, like a street on a hot day, but otherwise, nothing.

"This is what you waste your time with?" Anish demanded. "Parlor tricks?"

Mithos was a little insulted that Anish considered illusions parlor tricks when he was having such difficulty with them "What did you expect?"

"You have no respect for our traditions and you make a mockery of your training."

Mithos wanted to look away from the blazing green light that was Anish's mana. "I have a lot of respect for your culture, your people and for this opportunity to train, but I have been listening to the wind. I feel it everywhere I go in this place! I don't need to know this!"

Anish's face turned to stone. "You believe you don't need to know this?" she repeated.

Doubt crept in down Mithos' throat, but he couldn't back down now. "No. I don't."

"Very well. Ready yourself."

"For what?"

"Since you believe that you do not need this, you will fight the Sylph this evening. At sunset."

Mithos winced at the expression on Martel's face when he told them the news. "You should know better than to be so disrespectful."

"But it's the truth!"

"That doesn't matter! You hold your tongue. We are their guests and learning from them is a great honor."

"Yes ma'am," Mithos mumbled. Martel was the only person who could make him feel three inches tall.

"So we fight the Sylph, huh?" Kratos glanced over to Yuan. He seemed to be more put together, but Kratos wasn't fooled. Being here still had him on edge.

"You'll probably be our best asset," Mithos said. "Between our earth magics, we should be able to put up a good amount of resistance."

"My magic is isn't very strong, remember? Especially not compared to a Summon Spirit. I doubt I'll even make a dent."

"That's why you have us, Kratos." Yuan rolled his eyes. "It's called working as a team. You think you would've figured that out by now."

Kratos cuffed Yuan over the head. "The hard part, I imagine, will not be being blown off the mountain."

"I could add some gravitational spells to us," Mithos said thoughtfully. "To make us heavier."

"Can you do that?"

"In theory."

Yuan shook his head. "We don't have the luxury of theory. Besides, even if you could do it for sure, we don't have time to practice with the extra weight. We'd likely just lose faster."

"Let's try and avoid that, shall we?" Martel leaned her forearms on her thighs. "No amount of preparing is going to make us ready for tomorrow. It's do or die."

Yuan snorted. "Since when are you so fatalistic?"

"Since my brother is stupid enough to get us into this situation."

Mithos wanted to retort, but really, she was right. This situation was of his own making, and they had less than twenty-four hours to prepare to fight the Sylph. "The best plan we have is 'don't die'."

Kratos' grin was a little mocking, a sort of dark humor that didn't completely belong to him. "We're great at that plan. Twenty-six years unbroken record so far."

Mithos woke in the infirmary sore and with very few memories of what had happened. Blinking hurt, but his whole head did. He tried to turn, but when his vision swam, he decided against it.

"Welcome back." Diana came into his line of vision. "Can you speak?"

He tried, but his throat felt thick and cottony.

"Blink once for yes, twice for no."

One.

"Is it because you can't speak or would some water clear it up?"

Two.

"The second one. That's a normal side effect of the medicine we gave you. Makes you feel stuffy, right?"

One blink.

"That'll fade. Do you know where you a…"

When Mithos next awoke, the light on the ceiling beams was flickering. Candles, probably. Moving his head didn't make him dizzy, so he turned to see Martel asleep with her head cradled in her arms, elbows just barely touching his leg.

It took him a few tries to move his leg properly since it had fallen asleep. Martel jerked awake and guilt stabbed into his stomach at the dark circles beneath her eyes. She'd been sleeping so much better lately…

"Mithos." Her voice was relieved, even if it did sound tired. "You've been out for a week. Diana told me that you woke up for a bit in the beginning, but you fell unconscious again."

"Wha' happ—" It hurt to speak more than that.

Martel got him a glass of water with the bustling efficiency of a Healer, but the concern on her face was all motherly. She helped him sit up to take a few slow sips. "We fought the Sylph. You hit your head when you got caught up in one of their spells. Do you remember that?"

"Vaguely." His voice sounded hoarse to him, but the water helped a lot.

"Do you know your name?"

Mithos wanted to be exasperated with Martel, wanted to tell her that he was fine, but he knew the routine as well as she did. "Mithos Yggdrasill."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Do you know the date?"

Mithos had to think about that one. "August?"

"September started while you were out, but yes." She met his eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

"Martel, if I ever forget you then I'm in big trouble," Mithos laughed, the sound scratching his throat.

"Had to ask. How do you feel?" Her fingers gently probed the back of his head.

"Like I got run over by a team of horses."

"Sounds about right."

"What about you? Were you hurt?" His eyes combed over her, searching for signs of injury.

"I'm fine."

"Now you are." It had been a week, she said. That was plenty of time for Healing magic to wipe away any trace.

"It was a lot of cuts, mostly. Nothing deep, nothing that needed stitches, even." Now that Mithos knew what, exactly, to look for, he could see the faint shine of mostly healed cuts on her cheek, hands and arms. "And before you ask, Kratos and Yuan are fine too. Kratos got slammed against a wall and his arm was fractured, but it's healing nicely. Yuan got a bit more cut up than I did."

Mithos' eyes went to his hands on the scratchy blanket. "I'm sorry. You guys got hurt because of me. Because I was too proud to listen."

"We did," Martel agreed. Of all the sins her brother was guilty of, pride was certainly one of them. And wrath. "But it's not all on you. We chose to fight with you."

"Still mostly my fault."

"Yeah. But we all came out of it alive and—hopefully—you learned something from all this."

Mithos snorted humorlessly, thinking of how, for once, they'd been lucky. "Yeah. Definitely."

When Mithos went to Anish and knelt on the floor to bow, apologizing and asking for another opportunity to learn, she arched an eyebrow. "After all that, you still want to try again?"

(She had entered the altar room to find Yuan and Martel staggering to their feet, Kratos conscious, but not moving from his place against a pillar, face screwed up in pain. Mithos had been unconscious on the floor and Anish had feared that she'd killed him, but, she'd resolved, this has been the price to pay for not following tradition for centuries. If the Sylph had wanted to kill them, Anish thinks, they would all be dead)

"I don't have the luxury of quitting, and even if I did, I have no desire to."

Anish made a thoughtful noise. He was a stubborn one, that was for sure. "Very well."

Yuan realized someone was following him from the seamstress a while back. It wasn't like they were being subtle. Finally, about halfway back up to their shared room, Yuan spun abruptly, making his pursuer freeze.

He had to smile despite himself. His pursuer looked about five, with a head of frizzy black curls and brown eyes. "Hello," he said. He got a shy wave in return. Odd, for someone bold enough to follow him. He crouched down so that they were about eye level. "Are you lost?"

A shake of the head.

"Can you speak?"

A nod.

"Just don't feel like talking to me, or are you afraid?"

She puffed up with all the indignant fury of a newborn kitten.

"Not scared then. Okay. Were you planning on following me the whole way?"

A nod.

"Well, how about you walk with me then? I'm new around here, and I would feel much safer with someone as brave as you around." He held out a hand. "I'm Yuan."

"Vanessa." Her voice was so soft, he could barely hear her.

"Vanessa, huh? I bet you're a Nessa. Is that what people call you?"

A nod.

"Can I call you that?"

Another nod.

"Okay, my brave knight Nessa. Care to escort me?"

She smiled, displaying a missing tooth, and took his hand.

Kratos only raised an eyebrow at them when Yuan came through the door with Vanessa in tow. "Bringing home strays?"

"Kratos this is my daring rescuer, Vanessa—Nessa, if you will. Nessa, this is my brother, Kratos."

Vanessa hid a bit behind Yuan's leg, but Kratos waved at her, and she smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, Nessa. Thank you for bringing my brother home safe. He usually gets into a lot of trouble on his own."

Vanessa eyed him curiously. "Like what?"

They spent what must have been hours in that room. Yuan helped Kratos sew up their ripped clothes from the road, patching up the holes and debating whether some were too far gone to save. Kratos' arm was mostly healed, according to Martel, but it would need a few more days of rest to be back up to one hundred percent. Vanessa sat beside Kratos on his cot, listening to his imaginative and increasingly ridiculous stories about Yuan's supposed mischief on the road. At one point, there was a green bear that attacked, his claws sparkly like the stars. That one was Vanessa's favorite.

Somewhere in all that, Vanessa started talking too, telling them about her adventures in the Temple with the other children as they explored—even though they apparently weren't supposed to go in many areas, but that didn't stop them—and how a boy named Jeremiah was really annoying.

"Why did you follow me today?" Yuan asked finally, knotting a finished seam.

"Mama talks 'bout you a lot. Wanted to meet you."

From the way she spoke, Yuan was willing to bump her age to about seven or eight. That, or there was another child genius like Mithos on the loose and Spirits help them all.

"That's dangerous," Yuan scolded. "You shouldn't follow strangers, especially by yourself."

"But I'm brave!"

"You are," Kratos agreed. "But that doesn't mean that you shouldn't be careful. Not everyone is a nice person.

"I know that."

Kratos remembered who he was talking to. A refugee child. Who knew what she'd seen, even at such a young age? "That means you should be doubly careful."

"But Mama said Yuan was a nice man."

They didn't really have an argument for that one. What were they going to tell her, not to listen to her mother?

It was an hour later that Robyn burst into the room. "Martel said I could find you here—my daughter's missing, her name's Vanes—"

"She's here," Kratos-and-Yuan chorused, even as Vanessa waved, shoulders shrinking.

"Nessa!"

"Hi, Mama." But Nessa didn't get any closer. If anything, she shrunk more behind Kratos, waiting for the inevitable scolding.

Robyn dropped to one knee in front of her—probably the closest she'd ever come to Kratos of her own will—running her hands over her, checking to make sure she wasn't injured. "Nessa, baby girl, are you okay?"

"Of course, Mama. Yuan and Kratos kept me safe." Vanessa beamed.

"Did you get lost?"

"No. I followed Yuan. You said he was a nice man."

"Baby girl, even if I say they're a nice person, you don't go running after someone unless I tell you it's okay, and only if someone knows where you are. I was worried."

Vanessa fidgeted with the hem of her dress, not quite meeting her mother's eyes. "Yes, Mama."

"Now come on, we need to get going. It's almost time for dinner."

"Do we hafta go? Kratos was in the middle of a story and I wanna know how it ends."

Robyn glanced at Kratos; he refused to look away, but there was something icy in the depths of her eyes. "You'll have to get it another day. We can't be late for dinner. The Riands are waiting for us."

Vanessa slid off the bed dejectedly, taking her mother's hand, but waving goodbye to Yuan and Kratos. "Buh-bye."

"Enjoy your dinner," Kratos told her with a smile that felt only partially forced. (He knows that there is no stopping hatred. Not for good. He knows that while the new generations may understand and learn that there can be peace among the different races, the old generations will always have their hatred, their prejudice. He knows that even Yuan is guilty of it, despite how open he is to the idea of peace. Yuan's heart can be very hard, and forgiveness is something he is not known for)

Kratos was scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain when Robyn found him, a basket of her own laundry at her hip. A stream ran down from a spring a bit higher up the mountains, and that was where the Temple got its water.

"Vanessa won't stop talking about you." Robyn's voice was colder than the water numbing Kratos' fingers.

"She's a clever girl. You've raised her well."

"She's not mine," Robyn snapped, taken off guard. She didn't know how to handle the human's calm demeanor, the way he refused to rise to her bait.

Kratos blinked at her, looking genuinely confused. "I never said she was." He judged the stain again, added a bit more soap, and continued scrubbing. "It's been my experience that family is more who you choose rather than who is related to you by blood."

"She told me that Yuan called you his brother."

"He did. And he's my brother too." Kratos sat back on his heels, looking up at her. "I know that I can't convince you to let go of your hatred for humans. That's something only you can do. But can I convince you to let me show you that not all of us are the same, just like not all half-elves are the same?"

"You don't call us half-breeds," Robyn observed.

"No. It's rude. And it's not excuse, but the reason that most humans do call you that? They don't any better. The way humans are taught, in their schools, is that your people are savage half-breeds who need 'the light of civilization'." The look on his face told her volumes about his thought on the subject. "They don't know any better. And they make half-elves hate them because they don't know how to treat people that are different."

"You don't talk like you're human." He always said 'them'. Like he wasn't part of them.

"Technically, I'm not." A strange little smile played at the corner of his lips.

She narrowed her eyes at him; a question.

Kratos leaned back enough to pull up his shirt. There was an old scar stretched across his stomach. It was deadly-looking, but that Martel—she was a Healer. But Healing couldn't fix everything. "This almost killed me. I needed blood, or I wouldn't have made it." He dropped the shirt, a fond tilt to his lips. "Yuan stepped up, apparently. I don't remember—I was too far gone—but he demanded they use his blood to save me. So I'm not human either. Not completely."

"Prove it."

She didn't know why she said it, but he just blinked at her for a moment, surprised, before saying, "Okay." With a word, he summoned a ball of witchlight, making her jump. Magic. Humans couldn't do magic.

But he did it almost effortlessly. And the little light is still there, hovering a foot in the air over the stream, its soft glow nearly lost in the afternoon sun.

The light dimmed and died quickly, not much mana having been put into it. "Believe me now?"

Robyn had been staring at the witchlight, but she shifted her eyes to him. There was something almost—mischievous—about that look on his face, and then she remembered Yuan as he was now. A stranger, nothing like the boy she'd known. Confident, charming, passionate. A warrior. Friends—brothers, according to them—with a human. The look on the human's face matched the Yuan that she didn't know. They were like two sides of a coin, Robyn thought. Undoubtedly different, but connected.

"I'll—I forgot something in my room."

It was a retreat, but Robyn refused to think of it as cowardly.

"Your boy is quite brilliant."

While Martel was quite aware of who Diana was talking about, after the accusations that Anita and Lilliana had been throwing around, she was quite happy to play ignorant. "Who?"

"Mithos." Diana grabbed another mortar and pestle and began to grind down another set of herbs. "Anish is quite pleased with his progress."

"That's good."

"Look, Martel, I'll be quite honest with you—"

"That sounds refreshing," Martel muttered. She didn't mean to say it aloud, but Diana only smirked a little. (She likes Diana, honestly. She likes how forward she is, likes the way the scar twists her face, the way that she still finds things to laugh at in these hard times. But this place grates on her temper)

"I've spoken with Anish on this subject a bit too, and I think you and Mithos are a good fit for this place. I know that Mithos is quite set on making the pact—which is good. The traditions should always be passed down to new generations—but…you don't have to leave after the pact is made. You're welcome to stay."

"We're not staying without Yuan and Kratos."

"Heh. I thought you'd say that. Yuan is welcome of course too, but Kratos—"

"Because he's human, he can't stay?"

"I personally don't believe he's a danger to us. He seems like a good man. However, I don't think many other people will agree with me. I'm a leader of the community. I have to do what's better for the majority, not just what I think."

"You should have the courage to make the proper decision and set an example," Martel snapped. She'd woken up with cramps and it was making her rather crabby. Yuan—who was used to dealing with this more or less once a month—had made her some tea and grabbed the extra blankets once Kratos and Mithos were awake to throw them over her that morning.

"I take it that that means you won't consider the offer?"

Martel couldn't imagine living in this place. The very thought made her skin crawl. The Temple itself might have been a decent place, but not with the other refugees here. They were different than the capital, or even in general, the other refugees she'd known. They'd managed to build their own bubble of the world here, and stodgy traditions had somehow managed to take root.

"No."

Martel wanted to settle down somewhere one day, true. She'd die before it was a place like this.

It had been nearly a month into their stay in the Temple—time that had been spent training the refugees and getting used to sleeping with a roof over their heads—that Yuan finally decided that the itch under his skin wasn't going to go away. He'd woken plenty of times in the night to dreams of Asgard, of seeing it burn. Sometimes he saw it as it was; before the humans came. Whole, with the pomegranates heavy on the trees, and Mama on her good days. Zaren. Zaren when he ruffled Yuan's hair and gave him a hug before going out to the fields with the herd. Playing cards on rainy days. (They're not good dreams, either variation. He wakes shivering, and Martel is by his side, her hands gentle where she touches him, but she doesn't know how to help with these. She knows battlefields and dead friends. She doesn't know how to help with destroyed homes and traitor brothers)

"I want to see Asgard again," Yuan told Diana. "But—I don't remember the way."

Diana's eyes softened. (A man in body and spirit he might be, but his heart is still tender, like a boy's) "I know the way. I was one of the ones who went to check for survivors. I am willing to take you, but the way is dangerous for just us."

"I want to take my family."

Diana found it incredibly odd how willing Yuan was to call a human his brother, his family. But then, Kratos had spoken of Yuan in the same way. She smiled faintly. "I'm sure they would be glad to see it."

"Do you think this is a good idea?" Mithos asked Kratos quietly as they prepared for bed. Yuan and Martel had left for some time to themselves. "Yuan hasn't been back to that village since the day it was attacked. It might not work out well for him."

"By that same logic, it might help him."

"Like lancing a wound."

"Exactly like that."

Mithos tugged on a nightshirt, untucking his hair where it got stuck in the collar. "I hope you're right."

Asgard had been blasted apart. Stones were melted, and there were deep scars carved into the mountainsides. Yuan was stuck standing at a deep canyon in the center of the town.

"What is it?" Mithos asked.

"This wasn't here, before. Our market used to be here."

Damage like that could only be from the Mana Cannon. Kratos tried to picture being here when the attack came, to feel something so powerful hit and not having a name for it. The idea was terrifying. It would seem like some kind of divine wrath.

There were still remnants of buildings left standing. Many had been built into the mountains themselves, and those were largely intact. Martel picked her way across one such house, her heart breaking at the remnants of families. Broken furniture, tattered quilts, children's toys twisted and bent.

Something squished under Kratos' boot. He crouched, almost afraid to look; it was some kind of fruit. He remembered Yuan telling him about the pomegranate trees he would climb, and he wondered if this had been one. The trees were mostly dead and bare now, save for one or two that had some green to them. Perhaps it had fallen from one of those.

Kratos found Yuan on the other side of the canyon, standing in front of a mostly-intact building built into the mountain. It was further from the canyon, so it made sense that it had escaped much of the damage.

"Was this your home?" Kratos asked quietly.

"I can't go in there, Kratos," Yuan choked out.

"You don't have to. But if you want to," Kratos took Yuan's hand in his, like they'd done as children. "I'll go in with you."

Yuan stared at Kratos as though he'd never seen him before.

"You're not alone," Kratos reminded him, squeezing his hand.

(Not alone. He's not alone. He escaped. He's free, with his family beside him. He is not the boy trapped in chains, is not cowering in a cupboard, waiting to die)

"Okay."

Kratos stepped with Yuan inside the building. There had been a fire here. Soot dusted the walls, and the wooden furniture was split and cracked.

"We lived upstairs," Yuan said, and Kratos followed him dutifully.

They took the stairs carefully, half waiting for them to collapse. They were stone, but with enough heat and damage, stone could crack and grow weak. But they held. The fourth floor didn't have as much fire damage, but smoke had stained the ceilings and some of the walls. Yuan stepped forward hesitantly, eyeing one of the walls in the small kitchen.

It had been papered with something, Kratos could tell. While much of it was darkened and damaged from the smoke, he could see yellowed corners peeling, and the barest hint of newsprint and faded photographs.

"My brothers were here," Yuan said, voice hollow. "It wasn't just Zaren and I. Our oldest brothers were Dehua and Kail."

"I've never heard you mention them," Kratos said, matching Yuan's low register. As though speaking too loud would disturb the ghosts.

"I don't remember them. They were drafted when I was very young, along with Poppi. All I knew about them came from their pictures, and what Zaren and Mama told me."

"Do you miss them?"

"You can't miss what you never knew."

Kratos understood that. He remembered looking at the sole photo of his mother in his father's office, her books tucked high and away from children's reach. He remembered how all he heard about his mother were vague things, like how she enjoyed reading, and what a lady she'd been. Agenor had mentioned once or twice how Kratos reminded him of her, but he never said how. It had been nothing substantial, nothing real to connect to.

"Mama—mama couldn't take it." Yuan's voice broke a little, and his grip tightened. "She was never the same after they left."

"….it's why Zaren upset you so much, isn't it?" It hadn't been just the betrayal. It had hurt Yuan deeper than that, but Kratos could never have said why.

"He left his family behind, Kratos. Just like we were. And he didn't have to. He could've been happy with them, but instead—he let his fear take him, and just—you don't do that to family."

"…You could've stayed with them, in the capital. You could've found other work to help support them."

Yuan shook his head. "No. You guys are my family. They're family too, but you guys are more important."

Kratos smiled a little. "I'm glad to hear that."

Yuan's hand slipped out of his as he ghosted through the small apartment. There were two bedrooms, each with two beds. The dusty quilts were threadbare and moth-eaten now. Yuan ran a hand over one, his nails getting caught in the rough wool.

Kratos followed him slowly, taking in the little space, having to duck to avoid some overhead beams. He tried to picture the boy he remembered playing here, clambering onto the counters to reach things, his heels bouncing on the cupboards like he used to. He tried to picture Yuan and Zaren wrestling on the floor, laughing. Yuan helping his mother. Yuan at the lone kitchen window, staring out at the sky. Yuan thundering up and down the stairs, perhaps with Robyn on his heels.

But he couldn't. Kratos had always thought he'd had a fairly good imagination, but somehow, in this little, time-beaten apartment, he couldn't picture Yuan being happy. Not happy like he'd been when they were growing up together.

They went up to the roof, where broken pieces of pottery lay scattered around, and a clothesline had snapped, its pieces dragging on the floor. Here, there was evidence of Yuan. Childish drawings with what looked like charcoal smeared across the floor and walls. Some had something splattered on them, almost like paint, but more than likely fruit. They were difficult to make out, and entirely gone in most places, but there was a corner, by the door, where there was a small overhang, that was still partially intact.

Yuan stood on a ledge, reaching up to clamber onto an overhanging branch. Kratos watched him climb easily, before straddling a branch.

"…You coming up or what?"

It took Kratos considerably longer to climb up, not being as skilled as Yuan was. He found a sturdy branch a bit below Yuan's and carefully moved his legs on either side so he could sit. Yuan's knee dangled just outside of Kratos' face.

When Kratos had settled himself, he looked out and the view took his breath away. Large expanses of fields surrounded by the mountains, that stretched out far until the horizon became fuzzy and it was difficult to tell earth from sky. The landscape was marred, however. The canyon that had been gouged out of Asgard continued outwards, jagged and deep.

"This was my favorite spot in the world," Yuan said, swinging his feet a little, apologizing when he tapped Kratos' cheek with his boot. "I could spend hours up here, just…watching."

"You, sitting still for more than five minutes? Impossible," Kratos joked, and that time, when Yuan's boot hit his cheek, it was intentional. But in all seriousness, Kratos could see that. He remembered riding out storms in the trees with Yuan as children, remembered childhood dreams of flying.

"…Zaren would take the flocks out to graze in the fields." Yuan pointed them out. "I'd watch him leave every time. I couldn't wait to grow old enough to go out there with him."

"A shepherd, huh? More realistic than being a writer, I suppose. Especially in these times."

Yuan snorted. "Yeah." He lounged back against the trunk. "Looking back…I can't thank you and your dad enough."

"What?"

"I know it sounds bad, and I still hate that old bastard—may he rot in hell—but he's the one brought me to you. If it weren't for him, I'd be a shepherd right now, or a slave still."

"I never thought about it like that." Kratos stayed quiet for a long moment, gently kicking his legs. The air was thinner up here, he could feel it with every breath. "He caused you a lot of pain through."

(Kratos can never forget being terrified on that ship, his best friend lying before him not breathing why won't he breathe. He can't forget Yuan's face when he saw the ink on his arm, the lashes on Yuan's back. He can't forget Yuan stuck behind the bars and the hatred in his face for his brother. Can't forget the nights they jolted awake, clutching at each other, terrified of the memories)

"…The pain would've happened regardless, I think. There's no way to live without it. This way, at least, I get you, and Martel, and Mithos." Yuan looks down at Kratos, narrowing his eyes. "But you knew I would say that."

"It was an educated guess," Kratos confessed. "But I think you needed to hear yourself say it."

"And you needed to hear me say it," Yuan added softly.

Kratos shrugged, neither accepting nor denying it. They sat in silence for long minutes, just feeling the wind and watching the horizon.

"I don't know what I expected to find," Yuan said finally. "I never really let myself picture it. But now that I'm back, I just—I don't recognize the person that used to live here."

"You are different," Kratos agreed. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

"I know. It's just weird, y'know, to think of the possibilities of the person I could've been. And then to not really like that person." Yuan leaned his forearms on his thighs, hair slipping down over one shoulder. It was getting really long now, and the three of them had offered to cut it for him, but Yuan had just shrugged and said he kind of liked it long. "I used to think being a shepherd was the best thing that could happen to me. Closest thing to a family tradition that we had. It would be a proud thing, doing what Poppi did, and what my brothers did.

"Not," Yuan added. "That there's anything wrong with being a shepherd now, but just—I think it would drive me crazy. Having to stay stuck in one place, unable to travel, never seeing more than these fields and these mountains."

"You don't want to settle down one day then?"

"Oh sure. I still dream about having a place to call home, a place that's just ours, but…it would be a place to go home to, not a place to be chained to."

"That's a good way to put it."

Yuan looked down at him. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You ever think of settling down?" They were twenty-six. Most people their age had been married for years, had children and houses of their own.

Kratos snorted, an odd, barely there sound. "It's hard for me to picture. Not a place, I can picture a place just fine. But I can't really picture being married to somebody."

"Do you not want to be?" It wasn't accusing or judging. Just curiosity.

He shrugged. "I dunno. In theory, yeah. Sure. But…I've never exactly had a model for marriage, for having a family outside of you guys. So while I can say that it'd be nice, when I imagine the future, I can't quite picture it."

"I'm sure you'll find someone wonderful, Kratos." That simple. Yuan didn't have much faith in people, or deities, or in a lot of things, but Kratos, somehow, had earned that kind of unyielding faith.

"What makes you so sure?" It wasn't that Kratos didn't have any interest, but what kind of woman would want him? No money, no place to call his own, nothing to his name except the three people at his side, and the sword on his hip.

"People have a way of surprising you. You might not think so, but I know that there's a woman out there who sees what we see in you." The shy child that Yuan remembered, the awkward teenager, the stubborn man, the patient teacher.

Kratos bumped his head affectionately on Yuan's leg, unsure of when his best friend had turned the conversation onto him. "Thanks."

Mithos stood at the edge of the chasm that the Mana Cannon had carved. He'd tucked his hair into a tail to avoid it flying everywhere with the strong winds in this valley. A market. That's what Yuan said used to be here. Mithos could picture it: woven goods—he'd seen how good Yuan was with his hands, had always been with his hands. Did he learn that growing up here?—and pomegranates. Hotcakes and strips of lamb meat sizzling. Children racing each other, kicking up dust under their bare feet. Mothers and aunts and sisters gossiping. Old men smoking as they sat in front of their stalls, one eye on the children.

All of them gone. Because of the Mana Cannon. Because of the humans. Because this war was still going.

In a vague, horrified way, Mithos wondered if their bodies were still at the bottom of the chasm. Or had they burned up in the initial beam? Had their ashes been blown away? The Temple disposed of the dead by burning them, then taking them to the highest point and scattering the ashes to the three winds, allowing the Sylph to take them to the afterlife.

(Mithos remembers the elves, sending his mother's body down the river to go out to sea, for Undine to decide whether she was to go on, or to drag her down to the depths of the ocean, forever drowning for her sins)

He glanced out in the direction that Yuan and Kratos had disappeared to. They'd been gone a while, but Mithos figured that Yuan needed the time. He couldn't imagine what it would be like if he and Martel ever returned to Heimdall.

Mithos looked back down into the chasm and was seized with the wild urge to jump. Not that he would, but the idea was there. Leaping into the unknown, nothing but the darkness and wind to catch him. Mithos was both terrified and fascinated with the idea; freefalling, with the wind whistling about him. The wind felt different out here than it did in the Temple. It was harsher, sharper, and Mithos wasn't sure if he was imagining that he could taste ashes on it.

Martel was crouched in the ruins of a house, holding something. When Mithos went nearer, he saw a doll, ripped apart and charred. He knew it was killing her, to not be able to help Yuan right now, but neither of them knew anything about this. They hadn't had a place to call home since, well, before Mithos could remember. Home for the Yggdrasills had always been each other, and then Kratos-and-Yuan had come barreling into their lives and they were home too.

(Martel remembers Heimdall, and she had called it home, but she has never seen it destroyed, has never known all of her neighbors dead or enslaved. She has known neighbors turning on her, has known what it is to see their faces twisted in rage and hatred as they hurl spells and rocks at them, as they burn them out of their homes, but she doesn't know this. As much as she tries, she can't understand, and she can't help. But Kratos—though he has never known that pain either—he can help Yuan. Something in their history, in their bond, means that he is the best equipped for this)

Martel felt Mithos near her, and she set the doll down and stood with a creaking in her knees. She was too young to be getting old, she thought wryly. She combed a hand through his hair, needing to feel him here, solidly alive in this desolate place.

"You okay?" Mithos asked quietly.

"Yeah. Just…" She didn't have the words to finish it, but Mithos understood her. He always had. He came closer to wrap an arm around her waist, leaning his head on her shoulder. She just took him in, warm against her. She'd been so scared, watching over his unconscious body for that long week, that he would never wake up.

The boys—they're men now, properly, but to Martel, they would always be the boys she met on that boat—came back half an hour later looking wrung out. Their eyes though—Yuan's in particular—they were clear in a way they hadn't been since arriving at the Temple. Asgard had always hung over Yuan, but away from this province, he'd been largely free of it. Now, now he was properly free from those memories. Kratos-and-Yuan had cleansed those old wounds, had exorcised whatever demons had waited for them and, as always, they'd come out on top.

Martel hugged them close, kissing each of them on the cheek. Her boys. All three of them. So strong and alive and she really didn't know what she would do without them. Kratos hugged her back, as solid an anchor as ever, while Yuan buried his nose in between her neck and shoulder.

Kratos let go first, but Martel waited until Yuan disengaged from her to say, "Ready to get out of here?"

Yuan's smile was a bit wobbly around the edges, but it was more genuine than most of his had felt since they'd arrived. "Absolutely."

Vanessa had a knack for finding him, Yuan decided. Not that he minded. He quite liked her.

They were playing ball one day, kicking it around and Yuan laughing when she kicked it over his head, when Robyn came up. Nessa said she was telling her mom where she went, but Yuan knew all too well how good a liar a kid could be.

But Robyn didn't look upset. She was just collecting Nessa for dinner, like always. Kratos had mentioned that he and Robyn had actually managed a halfway civil conversation the other day, but she'd been steadfastly avoiding him the rest of the time.

"Join us?" Robyn asked. Her hair was coming loose from the scarf she wore over it, the strands wild and frizzy. It reminded Yuan of the girl he vaguely remembered.

"Sure."

Their dinner was a small portion of rice and some scrawny looking potatoes, but Yuan ate his portion thankfully. Nessa had already told him all about her day, but now she repeated all the information back to her mother, and Yuan interjected occasionally with questions. Mostly, he watched in silence. Kratos had repeated what Robyn had told him, that Nessa wasn't hers. Yuan believed it; he couldn't see any of Robyn in Nessa, except for how she spoke, the Asgard accent curling around her vowels, stretching them soft. (He hadn't realized until a few weeks ago that he'd ever had an accent. He'd grown up with people speaking like that, so he'd never heard anything different. When Kratos taught him to read, to pronounce words and sound them out when he had trouble—he must have lost his accent)

Yuan washed up while Robyn got Nessa into bed. She'd objected, but Yuan had tilted a smile at her. "The cook shouldn't clean."

Robyn came out to help him dry the last few plates. "…Heard you went home."

He knew what she meant, and he wanted to tell her that Asgard wasn't home for him anymore. Home was Kratos' steady voice and warmth, was Martel's kisses and laughter, was the gleam of trouble in Mithos' eyes. But that would break Robyn's heart, he knew, so he just said, "Yeah. All of us did."

"…how was it?"

Yuan wondered if Robyn had ever gone back, or if she still lived with her ghosts. "…Empty. Quiet." Utterly silent, more like it. "But…I needed to see it, I think."

"To know for sure that there was nothing left?" Robyn's hands were trembling. "I can't go back."

"Because then it's real?" Yuan set down a bowl. "Robyn, you've been living like this for, what fifteen years? This isn't some nightmare. It's real. It happened."

"I believed that, until you showed up."

Yuan blinked at her. "Me?"

"Yeah. You know I don't got any schoolin', but even I can tell you it's long odds that you, of all people, showed up here."

"They are long odds," Yuan agreed. "But trust me, Robyn. I lived through the same fifteen years. There are things I can't forget, things that won't let me believe that it was all some long nightmare." The numbers on his arm, the way Zaren's betrayal still burned in his chest, the memory of drowning. "I needed to go back because…in some part of me, I think I still thought I was that kid. And I'm not. I'm not very much like him at all anymore. And I like it that way. I like the person I've become, the family I have. I wouldn't trade the three of them for the world."

"That's where we're different." Robyn's eyes were hollow and dim. "I would do anything to get my mama back. And gran. I would trade every person in this damn Temple for them. Nessa ain't my daughter, and I shouldn't have to be responsible for her life. They found her in a farmtown twenty miles south. Her whole town was dead. They found her in her mother's arms, cryin'. I didn't choose her. At some point, someone gave her to me, said 'Watch her for a spell' and they never took her back."

"Tell me you've never told her any of that."

She glared at him. "No. I don't want to be her mother, but that don't mean that I'mma break her heart. She's just a kid."

Yuan did the mental math. Nessa was, what, about seven? Robyn was a year or two younger than he was, so she would've been about seventeen when Nessa came around. Most girls would be getting married already, if not engaged. No time to waste in a war, after all. But Robyn never got the chance to grow up normal. "Thanks for treating Nessa right."

(Robyn wants to ask him why he cares. He's known Nessa for a couple of days. But then she remembers what Yuan's mama was like. She hadn't known the reason, as a kid, but she'd been able to tell that she wasn't all there. She remembers her good days though, when the neighborhood had been in that little kitchen with hot buns fresh out of the oven. Yuan would be the type to make sure kids are taken care of by someone responsible)

"'s the proper thing to do."

His smile was warm and genuine. "Doesn't mean that most people would do it." He kissed her cheek goodbye—quick, chaste, and at her stunned expression, accompanied with a flicker-fast grin that was a mirror to the look Kratos had given her weeks ago.

Martel stood with Kratos, overlooking the morning training. The refugees were motivated now, taking to the classes with enthusiasm. Particularly when Yuan's delighted laughter rang out. "Excellent!" he crowed, and there would be applause and cheering.

"You look proud," Martel said, leaning her forearms on the bannister.

"I am. I mean, look at them. They're confident, they're smiling. I barely recognize them from the people that I first saw."

"So it doesn't disappoint you? That they're still no closer to accepting you?"

Kratos turned to look at her, and she was a little surprised by how old his eyes looked. Kratos was one of those people that, simultaneously, could be too old and too young for his body. Martel was, largely, accustomed to it; she hardly noticed it anymore, simply accepting it as Kratos. Sometimes, though, sometimes it was jarring to see.

"It's taken this long just to be able to accept themselves. To be able to look past their own weaknesses—their fear, their complacency, whatever it was—to be able to own who they are." His smile was an odd, mocking thing, there and gone. "It's not an easy process, trust me, and Yuan's helped them get there in a month where it took me almost ten years. Of course I'm proud of them and of course I wish they could accept me, but—things have their own time. Rushing them only hurts more, I think."

"You're gonna make a great old man one day, spouting wisdom like that."

Kratos laughed and that old look in his eyes was gone in an instant. He was himself, again. "I think it'll be a miracle if any of us make it to old age at all, frankly."

"Oh please, where's your positivity?"

He rolled his eyes at her. Martel was a bit more optimistic than he was, but Mithos was the real optimist out of all of them. Martel was too grounded in reality, in survival to ever believe as strongly as her brother did. Even she couldn't keep a straight face, and they both dissolved into laughter. It was a good sign, probably, that they could laugh in the face of dying young.

Yuan looked up from reading Kratos' notebook, with all of its collected stories and myths as Mithos came through the door. Martel was taking a bath and Kratos was dozing on his own cot, not quite asleep yet.

Yuan held his page with his finger; Mithos' fingers were twitching like he wanted to tap something and he looked a bit pale. "What's wrong?"

"Anish said I'm ready."

"To make the pact?"

Mithos nodded.

Kratos sat up, resting his elbows on his half-bent knees. "Do you not think you are?"

"The last time we fought the Sylph, you guys got hurt. I—if we're not ready, you'll get hurt again."

"Do you think Anish would tell you that you were ready if she didn't think you were?" Kratos asked him.

"Well, no, but—what if she's wrong? It's only been a couple of weeks since then, and—"

"And you've been training your butt off," Yuan interrupted. "I've seen you."

"But is it enough?" Mithos pressed.

"One way to find out."

When Mithos still didn't look convinced, Kratos gestured him over. "C'mere." When Mithos was standing in front of him, he said, "Do you want to know something that the Shadow monks told me? I was moving really stiff before because of my back. Because subconsciously, I was afraid of hurting it again."

"I remember."

"Well, they told me that it's a common thing. Being afraid of doing something when you failed the first time. But the longer you take to go back to it, the harder it will be. You're brave, Mithos. You're one of the bravest people I know, but everybody gets scared. That's normal. But we can't let being scared stop us from doing the things we want—or need—to do."

"Finding something that is more important than fear, huh?" Mithos had heard Kratos tell him of that human saying before, but it hadn't meant very much then.

Kratos smiled. "Exactly."

"Besides," Yuan said. "You really think I'm gonna let the Sylph kick my ass a second time? No thanks. I'm ready for some good ol' fashioned revenge."

That made Mithos laugh. "Okay. Let's do it."

Fighting the Sylph was still difficult, even when Mithos was supposedly ready. But fighting them was like casting their spells, he realized. You couldn't control the wind, even with magic. You had to guide it, had to slip through its patterns. And he remembered sitting on that mountaintop and hearing the Linkite Trees. He remembered standing on the precipice of the gorge in Asgard, remembered the wind tasting of ash and the sorrow sound of it echoing through the cliffs.

That made it easier. Made it easier to know when to move and when to brace for impact. Martel's barrier spells could only do so much, but the Earth spells shattered the Sylph's internal rhythm, providing openings. Openings that Yuan gladly took, Thunder Blades striking from the sky and Martel's Rays intersecting, blinding them momentarily and giving Mithos the opportunity for earth-shattering magic.

They still wound up getting sliced to ribbons, and they compared them in the safety of their room that night.

"You need to keep your guard up on the left side," Yuan observed, poking gingerly at Mithos' knee. "There's a lot more cuts there."

Kratos was, very gingerly, stitching up a cut that bisected Martel's eyebrow. Of the three of them, he had the steadiest hand with a needle, and Martel had insisted on no Healing magic since none of the cuts were serious enough to warrant it. Mithos let Yuan finish patching him up, adding a healing salve and bandaging up the ones that were still bleeding.

Yuan grinned a little at him though as he rubbed the salve into Mithos' shoulder. "And you thought we wouldn't win."

Mithos returned the grin. "Never should've doubted you."