Disclaimer: I do not own Tales of Symphonia or any of the characters contained therein.

Kratos walked beside his mother, holding onto her hand. The 6-year-old boy was confused. Where was he being taken in the middle of the night? Why wasn't his father here? He turned around, just in time to see his hometown go up in flames. The young boy suddenly stopped, standing still as the entire group of refugees passed him, parting around him. His mother tugged once at his hand, then stopped alongside him when he refused to budge.

Confusion roared through Kratos' mind. Why? How? What? He didn't understand his situation. All he knew was that he would never be going back to his home. Somewhere in his mind, he also realized that his father wouldn't ever meet him again. Silently, the young boy turned aside and continued walking. Silent tears fell down his face.

A lone guard stood still. He looked around him suspiciously. He knew he had heard a noise. Waiting a while longer, he decided that it must have been some animal in the bushes and left.

Silence. Good. A young boy silently slid out of the bush he had hidden in and quickly ran up the dirt road. A Tetheallan patrol was coming, and Kratos had to warn the Iselians. Once he was out of the guard's hearing range, he left the path, crashing noisily through the bushes as he hurried to get to the trail on the other side. The moment he broke through the undergrowth, seven swords found themselves at his throat.

"It's me, Kratos Aurion!"

The swords were lowered as the guards of the Iselian refugees registered what their eyes saw and what their ears heard. "What is your report? You seemed to be in quite a hurry."

"The Tetheallans somehow know we're around here. I heard two of their patrol guards talking. Apparently we've entered the range of the nexus around Meltokio and they detected the magic we used when setting up a fire last night. Theirs also a squad of them heading out to Ozette Research Center, and it'll be heading straight through this clearing. We have to move out!"

Just as Kratos finished his debreifing, another scout burst out of the woods, also in a great rush. "There's a bunch of Tetheallan research people headed right this way! We have to leave!"

Within seconds, the entire encampment was readied. Kratos took his place, scouting off towards the right. He stayed away from the group, just close enough to catch glimpses of his people through the gaps in the trees. Silently, the entire company moved out of the clearing and into the forest.

They continued in a southeastern direction, heading for the Fooji Mountains, a range that divided the border between Tethealla and Sylvarant. If they hurried straight across the plains, called Valhala, they could reach there in a matter of months; however, that would lead them not only by a lot of Tetheallan guards, but also through the capital city of Meltokio itself. Thus, the leaders of the Iselian refugees, a council of twelve that included Kratos' mother, had opted for going through the Midgard Forest north of the city towards the mountain range to the west. They would pass through the Darkness Temple, the only open path in the mountains, where experiments with mana were being conducted, but because it was in an isolated and unpopulated area, they hoped to pass unnoticed.

Kratos attempted to keep his senses alert, but he kept falling into his thoughts. It had been two years since he had left his burning home. Two years that had hardened him. He had spent the entirety of those two years practicing the sword arts. Anyone in the traveling group who knew even the smallest of techniques was hounded by him until he had been taught. Alone, he would stand under the shade of trees, or upon the crest of a mountain, or even hidden within the tall grass of the wild northern plains, training. He perfected his stance, his grip, his swing, his recovery. He strengthened his body, improving not only his might, but only his speed, stamina, and perception. After such a strenuous effort, he had become an accomplished swordsman at the age of eight. No one in this small band could even hope to compete with him now. Yet, he continued training.

A sharp snap jerked Kratos back to the present. Now was not the time to be dazing off. He'd had time to spend with his thoughts on the two year journey south from Iselia, and he'd have time as they headed farther south. Silent as a falling leaf, Kratos leapt off to his right, swiftly scaling a tall tree. His dark purple suit helped him fade in with the shadows.

Staring downwards, the scout caught sight of something that caused him great worry. A group of Tetheallans were heading on a course that would soon meet up with the refugees. As stealthily as he could, Kratos fled back, brown hair streaming behind him.

"Stop! A small patrol is going to be passing on a path ahead. We need to hide here and let them go before we cross."

Immediately, the leaders halted all movements. For extra caution, everyone either scaled a tree or dove into a bush. People held their breath. Kratos could feel the humidity rising in the air. As the sun rose higher into the sky, the warmth was causing the dew to evaporate, adding to the already unbearable tropical weather.

Slight footsteps were heard passing far away. The young boy silently crept out of the thorn bush he had hidden behind, careful not to end up as a porcupine. He drifted towards the path, shadowing trees along the way as often as possible. Once close enough to hear and be heard, he slowed down. Spying on the patrol, he matched his steps with theirs, causing his footfalls to be muffled with theirs.

"Seems like only no one made it out of the battle alive."

"I still can't see why Sylvarant would fight so hard over Hima; it's just a small mountain outpost."

"The city overlooks the Giant Tree. It has a pretty strategic positioning around the Holy Kharlan area."

"Well, we've searched this area for hours. I really don't think we'll be finding anyone."

Kratos let them pass on, deciding to fall back and tell his group that they could continue on their way. It looked like the two kingdoms had brought the war to the holy land itself. He didn't think he was very proud of his father fighting for Sylvarant anymore. Worse yet, his father probably knew all about the war, being nicknamed "Odin" and "Weilder of Flameberg" while he was still alive. Why did his father fight for a country that wanted nothing more than power enough to destroy its competitor?

A full year had passed. Kratos, now nine years of age, stood alone on the top of a mountain peak in the bleak Dark Range. Just a few days ago he had been accepted as a leader among the refugees. They were currently camping down in a valley that a river flowed through, waiting for the Darkness Temple to empty out between the shift changes of scientists. They were going to receive a window of three days one week from now to pass through the large structure. It would be more than enough time, but only if they could keep from getting lost in the labyrinthine building.

Well, he wouldn't worry about that until the time came. For now, he had to train. Closing his eyes, Kratos swung his sword out from its night-black sheath in a slow arc in front of him. The gleaming silver blade began to sparkle as the sun finally crested the far horizon, sending soft tendrils of light at the mountain peaks. With gradually increasing speed, Kratos spun and dashed, swirling his sword in complex combinations, slowing down and then speeding up, but never stopping. He jumped forward, slicing down through the air. Without pausing, the young boy dashed forward, swiping his sword across the snow, bare inches above it. With a burst of energy, he leapt into the icy air, pulling the Silver Blade straight up. At the apex of his jump, he spun his weapon around in a semicircle, following up by flinging his sword out. The strength of his throw resulted in great speed, and the sword was imbedded in the snow before his hand had even fully come down. The force of the blow sent up swirls of white flakes spiraling through the wind.

Yanking hard, the warrior dislodged his sword from the ground. The technique itself was perfect, its strength and speed was unfathomable, however, there was a fatal flaw. Kratos knew that if he were to miss, he would greatly suffer, for the sword would be out of his reach. This was a move he would only use in situations either when he knew that he would not miss, or when he was desperate. Looking up at the slowly brightening sky, he resumed his training.

The fateful night that he had escaped from Iselia still haunted him. If only he had been stronger, then he would not have had to leave. The Tetheallans would not have destroyed his hometown. He could have fought and beaten them, had he only known the skills he knew now.

But that was the past. It was over. Done. Nothing that he would do would affect it, so he might as well move on. Although the past couldn't be affected by the present, the present could affect the past, and Kratos vowed that he would never again be too weak to protect what he cared about. If another village that he cared about was attacked, it would not burn. That much, he could make sure.

Thoughts burned through his mind as he swung his sword in arcs of ever increasing speed. Abruptly, he would dash forward, stabbing with the sword. However, unlike other swordsmen, who would waste precious time recovering their balance and pulling their sword back, Kratos just jumped farther forward, turning his lunge into a slice as well. There was not a moment when he was not striking. His speed increased as he thought back to his village. Never again would he allow such suffering.

With lightning speed, Kratos pulled through his entire arsenal of sword techniques. He continued striking, alone atop the mountain peak. Sweat streaked down the young boys body. The sun struck upon the world from its zenith, searing with its mighty rays. Only after half of the day had passed did Kratos finally end his training.

After sitting in the cool snow for a little while, the warrior stood and headed back to his people. He slowly walked down the mountain, taking care not to slip on the frozen ground; he didn't want to injure himself mere days before crossing through the Darkness Temple. Slowly, he picked his way, heading back down the way he had come up. Light reflected off the snow, striking his eyes. Gingerly, he continued his trek.

As Kratos crossed the last crest between him and the settlement, he reeled back in shock. A battle was raging. The Darkness Temple scientists had stumbled upon the Iselian refugees and recognized them as being from Sylvarant. Their Aonis infusion gave them the ability to sense people near them, and anyone who they did not sense magic in would be from Sylvarant. Seeing "ice tornado" spells rise up around his people, the young boy rushed down, drawing his sword. As he descended, he noticed another group of Tetheallans arriving from the opposite side.

Hoping to warn the Iselians of the impending threat, he rushed himself, pelting down the mountainside. As he reached the settlement, sharp shards of ice began to cut across his skin as they swirled around him. Pushing his way out of the spell, he screamed out to the warriors trying to fight back, warning them of the looming attack.

Turning around, Kratos struck out against the present foes. He rushed forward, jumping out of the way of another "ice tornado." He leapt at the closest of the mages, coming down with his sword held above his head. With a quick slash, he killed his first opponent only to be sent flying back by an "aqua laser" spell. Feeling the flashing pain of the spell fading away from his body, Kratos jumped to his feet. He leapt aside as a "wind slash" formed where he had been only seconds ago. Beside him, one of his fellow leaders was struck by a relatively strong "spread" and fell to the floor. He was an old man and died immediately from the force of the strike. Seeing his comrade fall beside him, Kratos seethed with rage. He dashed at the person responsible for the death, avenging the old man by sending his sword cutting through the mage.

With the arrival of the second group of Tetheallans, the refugees had fallen into complete despair. The battle could not be won. They had fled, now numbering a mere tenth of what they once were; only ten people survived. Seeing that everyone else was dead, they had slipped away, hiding in the Darkness Temple. Kratos, his mother, four of the younger leaders, and four of the fighting refuges were all that remained. Slowly, they plodded through the empty structure, staying away from the eerie lighting that illuminated the interior lest they be caught. Silently, they brooded on their losses: friends had died, family had been torn away, ninety people whom they had known had left the world. Dark thoughts filled their minds as they searched for the exit located on the other end of the abandoned temple.
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Oh well. I guess I really shouldn't have expected any, seeing that this is my first fanfic. Well, second chapter up. Hope I can complete the third one soon. If you like my story, pls let me know. I don't think I will be able to continue this without any encouragement. For all of you who do read this far: Thanks.

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