(A/N) Sorry for the wait! [Insert more plausible excuse here than writer's block] I promise, I've been working doggedly on this chapter for far too long. I sincerely appreciate all the feedback (and reminders to keep going!), as always, I never plan on abandoning something I've invested so much in.
.
Disclaimer: I own all the characters with weird names. T.T
Some have you have been hinting at knowing my intended destiny for Zerai (wink), though he has a larger role to play yet than I'll bet you expect! More character development on the way~
.
The last chapter ended with a couple of riddles:
'She can run forever without tiring or loitering, destroyer of the last yet both child and mother of the third.'
'Bites without teeth and sings with no voice—those you cannot see, but can trace should you please.'
'Sailor's bane, tooth of the ocean's maw: she can still all.'
'Conqueror of thy neighbor, and friend of the traveler.'
Chapter 35
They explored the rest of the small cavern to search for passages to no avail. It was a rectangular, simple chamber, devoid of monsters and Summon Spirits alike. Much of the previous tension induced by their conversation had abated in favor of curiosity.
Sure, Kratos' posture was still rigid, and his expression carefully controlled, but aside from that, Mithos thought the worst of the shock was over.
"The only way forward has to have something to do with these riddles." Yuan muttered, arms folded as he reexamined them.
"They could tell us to go to a different location." Kratos added neutrally, eyes flicking over the inscriptions as well.
"Either way, we have to solve them." Mithos pointed out shrewdly, letting the distraction the riddles served as to fully occupy his brain.
"Conqueror of thy neighbor and friend of the traveler." Martel read aloud, standing at the furthermost edge of the room staring at the final inscription. "It sounds as if it's referring to a person."
"Or an object." Yuan crossed the room to better view it.
"Something a traveler has that conquers? Easy, that's a sword." Mithos piped in, looking rather pleased with himself. Instead though, Kratos shook his head.
"A possibility, but I'm not so sure. Conqueror of 'thy neighbor'. Travelers don't stay in any one place long enough to have a neighbor."
"A paradox?" Yuan hummed softly.
"Not just a neighbor," Martel finally said, "it's neighbor. It might have something to do with the riddle next to it." They all turned to the third carving with interest.
"Sailor's bane, tooth of the ocean's maw; She can still all." He read, "This one is definitely a person, right? What does bane even mean?"
"It's something that you fear, or can cause great harm to you. Sometimes it's a weakness." Martel offered, before her eyes snapped back up from the floor. "A tooth in the ocean is white, and a sailor fears a sunken ship. It's talking about an iceberg." She read over the riddle once more, "Or simply ice."
Yuan nodded quickly.
"And fire conquers ice, and aids travelers." He referred to the fourth, "They're elements referred to as entities."
"Like Summon Spirits." Mithos observed quietly.
"That makes the one that 'runs forever', water, 'child and mother' of ice." Kratos figured.
"And the one that 'bites' without teeth would have to be wind." Martel finished easily.
.
.
"Now what? We've solved them." Mithos glanced about sourly. "Most likely, we're at the ice seal, so we should look closer at that one." He sighed, rubbing his hands together and inching towards the third inscription. Beneath it was a mess of inscribed circles and geometric shapes with seemingly no pattern.
"There are colors here." Martel's fingers traced lightly across the thin trenches in stone. And indeed there were. Yuan let the sphere of light cast a brighter glow across the tinted granite. A couple irregular patches of stone held different hues. He found himself next to her as they examined the rock, breath expelling puffs of mist.
"Red, blue, white, and green." The halfling woman's clear voice was musical, and Yuan found himself momentarily distracted by the gleam in her eyes and the paleness of her face. She was lovel—
"They correspond to the elements." Kratos interrupted the Sylvaranti's train of thought.
At this, Martel pushed lightly on the blue tile and it gave a little, scraping against the neighboring rock.
"Water is first." She muttered, "then Wind" the green tile was pressed, "then Ice," white.
"And Fire." Mithos set the red one himself.
.
The wall creaked, and Yuan took a quick step away from the sudden layer of dust that broke loose and clouded the icy walls like the thinnest of fogs. A low thud resounded through the chambers, hollow and foreboding. Coughing away the wisps of particulates, Yuan's vision cleared. The wall now contained a smooth, arcing crevice that trailed from the floor along a narrow path up to the ceiling.
Everyone stared at what could only be a hidden passage.
"Ominous. Did anyone else think that nothing would happen?" Yuan shakily tried to lighten the mood. Despite that, he felt something ancient and powerful—as old as the land itself and just as substantial, stirring the air as if it had awoken.
Being the one nearest to door, the Sylvaranti squared his shoulders and pressed hard on the slab of stone.
It swung open easily.
.
Dark, cool air lay stagnant below, but there was a flat pathway nonetheless, the walls of which curved and wound out of sight.
"Now that's more like it." Yuan felt a smile touch his face at the quiet surge of excitement that flooded his veins. It was thrilling, to see the unknown open up before him like this, a place so old and untouched that no one had entered in hundreds of years. His fingers twitched in his gauntlets, in the face of the biting cold, and then he took a step forward.
The group followed the surprisingly long path, footsteps reverberating loudly against the marbled stone, and Yuan's sphere of light bobbing gently in the lead—casting the cavernous path in a shear, white light.
Mithos let his feet drag a little, his weapon hanging uselessly in his hands as another shiver wracked his frame. Kratos was beside him and shot the halfling a curious glance that the boy could feel despite not looking.
"I'm not afraid." The blonde muttered quietly, where Martel and Yuan could not hear. There was a stretch of silence that made Mithos feel fairly silly for expressing the childish thought.
"I never said that you were." Kratos finally answered, and it was then that the child turned his head to catch the mahogany gaze directed at him.
"But you were thinking it." Mithos countered lowly, all too easily recalling the murmurs of Summon Spirits—the whispers of inadequacy.
They bounced about within his skull daily, weighing upon every thought and at the edge of every dream. They only haunted him so because he felt, in some small way, Volt and Gnome were right. He was pretty much useless without them—useless in this upcoming fight.
He was just a boy with mediocre magic and no knowledge on close-combat.
A burden.
Or so the whispers spoke.
.
He broke from his musings as Kratos shook his head.
"No." And that was it. Mithos had quickly scoured the swordsman's face, detecting no trace of a lie. If Kratos was not lying, then he must've not understood.
"The Summon Spirits won't help me." He tried to make Kratos see. "They say that using their power to help me prove myself is unjustified." The human remained silent, however, and Mithos' eyebrows creased.
"Can't you see that I'm useless? I only beat Gnome because he was taking it easy on me." Kratos refused to look convinced at this new information.
"Mithos, you're possibly the most useful boy I've ever met." The Tethe'allan was taking no care to speak quietly, and Yuan perked up at the overheard words. His bright expression was far too cheery for Mithos' liking.
Completely against his will, a warm feeling was beginning to fill the halfling boy's chest at the simple praise. He shifted uncomfortably and cast another uncertain glance at the auburn-haired swordsman.
"He doesn't know many children, to be completely fair." the older halfling teased breezily. A nasty glare from the redhead did not deter him.
"You're more useful than Yuan." Kratos amended quickly.
"Hey!"
Mithos couldn't stop a delighted laugh from bubbling up and cutting the crisp air.
He felt his insecurities slip away a little as Yuan used a gloved hand to shove the offending human lightly. Unfortunately, the shove had little effect, and Kratos only appeared vaguely annoyed by the effort. The failed attempt left Yuan sighing lightly and his shoulders slumping.
"I remember the good old days when you were shorter than me. It was so much easier to push you around." Kratos scoffed, not so much as a glance at the other to signal his interest. For good measure, the griping swordsman reached up and ruffled the human's messy locks.
Kratos' brow furrowed in a peculiar brand of confusion and he looked positively affronted, a slight wince at the movement breaking his well-crafted apathy.
The grin splitting the other's face dimmed a little, when he got a better look at the royal's scowl. He took a step back tentatively, as if remembering that Kratos' inner conflict was just beneath the surface.
"Yuan." There was warning there, yes—but Mithos saw less of a razor's edge in it than usual. Kratos spoke the halfling's name with some underlying fondness, or was it gratitude? As if he was appreciative of the distraction the other's teasing provided.
Nevertheless, his grip on the pommel of his sword tightened, and Yuan danced out of reach just in time to avoid being caught by an outstretched hand. With the teal-haired swordsman chuckling and dodging, and Kratos chasing after him with something close to a smile on his face, Mithos found himself beaming as well. Martel's trill of laughter came from behind him, and she fell into step with him as Yuan yelped—cape snagged by deft fingers.
"They're no better than children." Martel laughed softly, as the two siblings watched Kratos easily muss Yuan's perfectly groomed hair in retaliation. The human must have deemed his work complete, because he released the halfling's travel cloak and rejoined the others, leaving a mortified Yuan adjusting cerulean tresses in his wake.
"Kratos started it." the petulant reply from a still grinning Yuan.
"Hn. Hardly." Kratos turned his nose up, but nothing could disguise the quirk at the corner of his mouth, or the utter affection his voice contained—usually so well hidden behind scoffs and glares. Seeing the expression made Mithos' heart flutter unexpectedly, after seeing the human so torn by the earlier revelation. He scowled at the concept for a moment.
It was strange how protective he felt, for a human of all people, especially one so much older than himself. But Kratos was Kratos, and Mithos was sometimes struck dumb with awe—so knowing that the man was happy brought on an oddly …. elated sensation.
Perhaps Mithos had been worried, that when someone became too wonderful and brave and sincere, the happiness and life was choked out of them. He had met a few half-elves on the streets of Sybak that were run down and beaten by the harsh edges of the world, the same halflings that he had once seen nobly defending their rights with fire and passion. But the world choked the fight out of them after a few short years, and Mithos had seen so much good in Kratos that the sad could not have been too far off.
Martel (and begrudgingly, Yuan—though Mithos could see how he looked at her) were exceptions. Yuan never wore down, and Martel's smile was always pure and of untainted heart. So Kratos had worried him, a little—and he'd never admit it.
Except maybe he would, because when Kratos got that faraway glaze in his eyes and darkness stole across his features like a shadow, the blonde boy would not hesitate to pull him away from it.
It was nice to know that Kratos was willing to do the same for him, though he'd never admit it either.
And Mithos was still boyish, and the naïve, childish part of him that still hid itself from the real world hit cloud nine with so much as a word of approval from the stoic man. The warmth in burnet eyes spoke of a different fondness than that reserved for Yuan (again, thought begrudgingly)—something achingly needed.
It reminded him of his human father, just for a moment, but it also contained everything his father was not. His father was smart, kind, but also weak and passive, and merely thinking of the man had Mithos torn with fear and worry as well as the burn to be independent, and unattached to the weakness because if he let it touch him, he could be consumed by it.
So, while Mithos knew nothing of where his father was—or if he was even still breathing, Kratos reminded him of the good he'd seen.
.
And he's not quite sure if he ever saw such pride in his father's eyes either.
It was addicting.
.
"So would you help me become even more useful than Yuan?" Mithos picked up the earlier train of thought, no longer desperately fearing the rejection.
"How so?" Kratos had a light dancing in his eyes as Yuan grumbled behind them.
"I can't do anything when an enemy gets too close," a shuffling of feet, "and especially with the Summon Spirits, I ca—"
"You would like to train with a blade?" Kratos interjected easily, and Mithos' eyes went wide.
"Y-yes."
"Why?" And the gaze was intense enough that Mithos felt Kratos could see right through him. And the boy saw that this was a test and he wanted nothing more than to pass it. The blonde found his voice and his courage after a single, lingering moment.
"I don't want to be a burden. I want to be strong and useful and good enough to fix this." And he looked back, hoping that Kratos could see that he meant it with every fiber of his being. There was a glint of something in the man's eyes, the scrutiny long gone.
"You've never been a burden, Mithos." But it was Martel that said it, not Kratos, and Mithos felt a little bit of irrational, peevish frustration prick at his eyes.
"You're my sister, you have to say that." His head turned to divert his attention to his eavesdropping sister, and Martel smiled at his reply. However, before the child could continue, he heard a soft
"She's right, Mithos." The halfling's head spun around quickly enough to push hair into his eyes.
"But if you'd like, we can start tomorrow."
.
Oh.
Oh.
.
And that something in Kratos' eye was definitely pride.
And Mithos' grin was beatific.
It took about twenty seconds for Zerai to become bored waiting above the icy pit.
.
It took about twenty minutes before he finally decided to act on that boredom.
.
After all, it was a frozen wasteland where he stood—nothing but tundra stretching in all directions. It was a miserable, flat land that did nothing to slow the wind racing across it. He was cold, yes, having little more protection than a used cloak picked up at the last town. Surely, it must be colder still, below and away from the blessed sunlight, but down there the wind did not roar and rip through his thin garments into his very bones.
So, the fugitive decided to screw Kratos' instructions, and follow after the cryptic party. His presence must have been long forgotten by now, anyways. Frozen feet, caked with snow all but slipped down the stairs and a mighty exhale escaped his lips as the wind quieted and he could properly hear the silence once more.
Curiosity had always gotten the better of him, and so the Sylvaranti was not reluctant in the slightest to continue on. It was something that even Martel wanted to hide from him—and naturally the need to know was an unsated itch in the back of his skull.
.
The halls were a hard slate, heart-stoppingly cold and hoary with frost. The hidden structure fascinated him, even more so when he came upon a squat, low room devoid of life. There was expert skill crafted into the flowing script on the walls, artful designs sweeping arcs across smooth stone. The single, gaping hole was the only sign of the others' passage. He journeyed on without a second thought.
Feet tread softly through the second corridor, at a leisurely pace until he heard a clang of metal and a shrill yell ahead. The clash of spells left thunderous claps in their wake, and he was off running (with no heed paid to the iceblocks that were his feet) towards the sound of battle.
.
What could there possibly be down here to fight?
.
The passage came to an abrupt halt, opening up into a cavernous dome with glowing glyphs painted across the floor. Cool white light danced between the cracked floor-stones, casting the ancient dais in a pale, color-leeching radiance. And in the center of the arena, his acquaintances were calling out instructions to one another and dueling ferociously with a young woman.
Though, as the woman turned, Zerai saw she wasn't human at all. Flawless, lavender skin stretched under her flowing garments, and jet black hair only framed the power in her eyes, which exuded ferocity and icy authority. Gods, what was she? Was she a mage, or—
.
A goddess?
.
A flick of her wrist sent cracking strips of deadly icicles across the floor, something Martel barely deflected with a quick barrier. Her attacks were slowing quickly, and even at this distance, Zerai could tell that the group must have landed several blows. Yet, the mysterious creature did not need to chant spells, unlike her half-elven counterparts, and the Sylvaranti found his eyes slipping towards a stationary Mithos, protected by Kratos as Yuan kept its attention.
The blonde was frenetically speaking words that could not be made out this far away, but the spinning mark of enchantment whirled beneath his feet in a wicked red. Quickly, the powerful being was engulfed in flame pouring mightily from the very ground.
There was a single desperate shriek, a cloud of blinding light, then silence.
While Zerai remained protected in the shadows, he felt his breath hitch when the goddess appeared a second time, unharmed and placid as she drifted towards them.
Words were spoken that the Sylvaranti greatly wanted to hear, brisk nods exchanged. Oddly, it was Mithos' mouth that was moving—the others idle—as he addressed their once foe. A brave set to his small features settled over, and it was only moments before the peculiar woman was gone with a lovely smile, vanishing into the very air.
The sensation of cold was muted somewhat, as if a wave of warmth trickled back into his body with the woma—creature's disappearance. The human glanced down at his hands, experimenting with the sensation. However shocked he was by the strange display, he really should've turned and left immediately.
But he didn't.
And when he looked up, he realized too late that the others had already made for the passage he was in. They were practically on top of him by the time he noticed, and then they saw him—a confused look still marring his features.
All four of them were startled by his presence—even the unshakeable Kratos (who strangely enough actually took a step back). Yuan immediately formed a barrier between them, eyes chalk full of a newer suspicion than before, and Zerai suddenly saw why. Kratos was quickly becoming rather angry, eyes smoldering and mouth pressed into a firm line. Everything he had just seen was swept to the back of his mind, especially as Yuan, his fellow Sylvaranti, closed upon him looking similarly murderous (paired with a protectiveness that Zerai would've teased him for if he wasn't so scared).
It was the human's turn to take a step back.
He raised his (weaponless) hands in an attempt to diffuse whatever it was he'd done to offend these lunatics.
Yuan hit him lightly across the back of the head.
"You idiot! You can't do anything we tell you!" The halfling fumed, and it would've been funny if that light hit hadn't actually hurt. He rubbed the sore spot sourly, backing a little further away at the strange looks he was garnering from the rest of the group. The normalcy was eradicated.
"Okay, next time, I will stay outside. I didn't think it was that big a deal." He felt his back hit a wall and cursed all walls everywhere—even more fervently when Kratos brushed Yuan's arm aside and approached him directly. And despite all of the burning questions flicking through his mind from what he had just seen, he got the sense that they weren't really furious about that. His brow creased. They were looking at him differently than they had when they'd descended.
Were they going to end him for having seen? He knew too little, still, and yet it could be too much—
And yet the question he knew he needed to ask first was not the one he wanted an answer to.
"What's with the hatred-filled faces? " he sighed, "you couldn't have honestly expected me t—"
.
"Did you kill the king?" It was said from behind the redhead, and Mysan saw that Mithos had squeaked the small, even hatefully spoken question before Kratos had the chance to. It was spoken with the reluctance of a child, yet still held an urgency he didn't quite expect from the boy.
.
.
What?
.
"Wait, what?" He voiced his surprise at the (quite frankly, random) question.
.
"Did you murder the High King of Tethe'alla during your stay in Meltokio?" And now Kratos was the one who spoke, and his tone was chillingly neutral despite the hard edge that hid within. And Zerai saw that this was the reason behind the glances, and that he really should never have asked the question. How it had surfaced so quickly in his absence, he didn't know.
The Sylvaranti was so taken off guard that he had no clue what to say.
His silence got him pressed against the wall, held up by the collar of his shirt.
Still breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight, Kratos could only see surprise in the Sylvaranti's steely eyes—but that didn't mean he was innocent. It meant he was unsure, confused, and treading on a slippery slope. The fugitive knew that Kratos had some kind of tie with royalty—a close one—so naturally, he would deny these accusations, right?
Zerai chuckled lightly, much to his disdain having regained footing in the conversation.
"I confessed to a litany of crimes, Kratos." The human began, hands still raised and expression a calculating cross between sheepish and harmless. "Some I committed, and some I didn't. But do you know why I confessed to all of them?" The sheepish was gone, and a wolfish grin slipped onto the man's serious face.
"You were looking to be a martyr." Kratos' lip curled, "a hero to all of Sylvarant—one that inflicted unspeakable damage upon their sworn enemy." His fist still gripped the worn fabric of Mysan's tunic, but they were slipping a little. His thoughts churned wildly at the step in logic.
If that was the case, Zerai would've gladly confessed to the King's death (murder?), wouldn't he? When the Sylvaranti simply cocked his head to the side, an array of inky hair following the motion, Kratos still had an intense desire to punch him.
"That's part of it, sure." There was a hefty sum of ambition in that haughty expression, but it did soften a little, "but for every crime I confessed to, the Sylvaranti that truly committed it would escape sentencing. There is already a death penalty for espionage—and if I could save just one of my countrymen by lying…" There was a truth shining in his eyes for once, and Kratos' fist unclenched against his will.
"I don't care who they were, some of the acts I confessed to may not have even been committed by Sylvaranti. But they could have been, so sure, hold me to a few sins. I lied. I was a dead man anyways—there was no harm in it." His words faded and trailed, eyes averted with the closest thing to shame that might've ever crossed his face.
Kratos took a step back, and let a hand run through his hair as he stewed over the words. Could it be possible that this good-natured display was an act?
"So, Kratos." His smile was devilish and very white, and then all the good-naturedness was gone. "Whether you see it as seeking fame, or I see it as saving lives…" Kratos knew where he was going.
.
"Why would I have kept this alleged murder a secret?"
.
.
There were no holes in his argument, but Kratos still felt like something was missing. Zerai was too smug. After witnessing the man lie so convincingly before, the Tethe'allan could not be certain of his motives past or present.
Or was Kratos simply too desperate?
All this time he'd shouldered the blame like it was a heavy load—the worst of all his sins. And for just a moment…. for the briefest of moments, he'd had a possibility of that blame being misplaced. A possibility of the blame being lifted, diverted elsewhere, to a person he could actively hate and loath instead.
The weight returned like a blow that latched around his shoulders and tried to drag him down. He frowned as the outer fury was forced to turn inwards again. Suppressing a shudder and hating himself for the actual disappointment he felt bubbling up, Kratos turned from the Sylvaranti and took a few short steps away.
.
Space.
He needed to breathe.
.
But because he was Kratos, he kept the turmoil hidden, and his exterior was composure itself.
.
He caught a scrupulous glance from Yuan and shook off the invisible concern like water. Nothing had changed with this lapse. Everything was the same as before.
.
But the weight was definitely heavier this time.
.
Or was that only because being without it was so intoxicating?
The party had decided against dropping by a Flanoirian inn. There was enough daylight left to hurry south, and reach the foothills—the valleys of which would shield them from wind and be free of the thick snow. Yuan, personally, could not wait to get a blazing fire going, to defrost his fingers and toes, and dry the wet of his cape and boots. As they left Celsius' shrine, he found himself taking another (concealed) look at Kratos.
His friend had dealt with the conversation (interrogation) much better than Yuan had expected. But it was Kratos, and this was a present matter, and present was soon past and shoved out of mind. Still, the man had even praised Mithos for his excellent pact-making (consequently causing the child to follow him around like a lost puppy). The distracted thoughts and cross expressions had dissipated rather quickly. He truly appeared to be … alright. Yuan allowed the worry to fade as he sized up his fellow Sylvaranti at the rear of the group.
The man was tired, yet no less pleased—either from passing the 'did you do it?' exam with flying colors, or from witnessing the tail end of the Summon Spirit battle. It must have been the former, because none of the man's questions had been answered. Yuan's thoughts on the raven were mixed now. Before, he wouldn't have trusted him with watching a campfire. Now, he could see a shred of respectability and a wit somewhat similar to his own. The thing was, Yuan manipulated with clear intentions.
Zerai, Zerai conned in such a way that Yuan couldn't know what was real.
What was he after?
He let the internal debate drift a little. He was so tired and cold. Traveling the world was brutally taxing, fighting aside, and the exhaustion was leaving his mind blissfully blank.
(A/N) Phew. I had too much inner conflict writing this chapter. Drop me a review, and I'll try working on the next one.
Thanks for reading!