The boy leapt out of his hut, throwing his chest out proudly.

"Come on, dad, there's no time to waste."

"Kid, you've got more energy than I do."

He looked back with a smirk, his dark brown eyes narrowing. His hair was black and flowed back in smooth spikes, while two thick strands hung down on his forehead. He was trying to grow a ponytail, like his father, but his mother did not approve.

"It works for your father because he is older," his mother had said.

"But I want to be older!" he argued. His mother had touched his cheek tenderly.

"I don't," she said softly. "You will have years to grow up; take them slowly."

He had crossed his arms, but kept his mouth shut. There was no arguing with his mother.

His father stepped out of the house slowly, squinting in the bright daylight.

"Are you sure you're ready, Auron?" he asked.

"Yes!" he yelled, running over to his father and looking up into his face happily.

"Alright," he sighed, putting his hand on his son's shoulder. Even for a six-year-old they were broad, and already the boy was headstrong, muscular, and clever. He was heading straight for a place of honor in whatever journey he would choose to take, Tarak knew, and his dedication would only help him get there faster. Auron was already running up the steep hill of their village, waiting to look over the horizon as he often did, watching the rippling meadows and swaying trees with excitement. This occurred most often at sunset, when the sun dipped below the line of the field and turned it onto a sea of orange and red. Tarak followed him slowly.

"Come on, Dad," Auron yelled.

Tarak shook his head.

"Patience is a virtue."

"So is doing what you are meant to do!"

"Maybe what you are meant to do is meant to be done with slow care."

Auron pouted, slowing down to match the steps of his father, but kept his eyes towards the top of the hill.

"We'll get there when we're meant to be there, Yevon permitting."

Auron nodded, but his lower lip still protruded slightly. Tarak took his finger and tapped it from below playfully. Auron looked up, scandalized, but his father smiled. Auron smiled back, something gleaming in his eye. His father sighed.

"Alright, run up there," he relented.

Auron bolted immediately, running as fast as he could towards the top of the hill. His hair whipped back from his face, and he could feel the breeze from the meadow, carrying with it the sweet smell of flowers and grass. He jumped to the top and inhaled deeply, almost drinking the sunlight and beautiful land. His father reached his side and looked out, as well.

"Not many fiends, today, looks like our path will be nearly clear. What else can you see, Auron?"

He examined everything slowly, mentally calculating every possible event, good or bad, that could happen on their journey.

"Sunlight could reflect off of your sword," he said, "Blinding either you or the fiends."

Tarak nodded.

"A low amount of fiends also means a small amount of experience, which isn't great if we come across a big baddie later," he said, getting more enthusiastic and gesturing with his hands.

Tarak nodded again, smiling, but Auron stalled for a moment.

"Also… um… since there aren't many fiends… we might get comfortable… and… not be as prepared…" He looked up to his father for acceptance. Tarak kneeled down to be eye-level with him.

"That is why you must always be on your guard."

Auron knew that his answer wasn't totally right, but was glad not to be reprimanded.

"Now, see that fiend?" Tarak pointed to a small wolf prowling through the grass at the bottom of the hill. Auron smirked. They made eye contact, and Auron rushed down with the sword his father had given him for his sixth birthday.

"Keep it well, son, and it'll keep you," he had said, with a knowing smile at his wife. "And that's true for anything."

Auron had found these words to be more than true, as he almost always did with his father's wisdom. They were not rich people, but not poor; his father was a fiend-hunter for the village, which brought a little money, but the greatest reward of this job was the respect and adoration of the townspeople. Tarak's job was to keep the town safe, and to this task they would entrust no one else. Auron was learning quickly to hunt and defend, and he felt it, every time he rushed at a fiend, or swung his sword, or stood by his father's side as they trained, that curious, but fateful feeling, that this ­– protecting others – was his destiny. He felt it run through his veins, it was in his very blood, it was his blood, and it felt more than incredible. But it was not the thrill of taking a life that made him feel so powerful… it was knowing that in killing something dangerous he was saving the life of another. He brought out his sword, listening to it sing delicately in the wind, and he launched himself at the wolf, swinging down hard and…

He missed.

He landed several feet in front of the fiend with a grunt, whirling around quickly to defend himself as it lunged at him. It tried to bite down, but Auron blocked with his sword, the wolf's teeth gnawing nothing but hard, cold steel. It backed away, snarling, readying itself. Auron did the same. The wolf attacked again, but Tarak had shown Auron how to counterattack. It bit his arm painfully, but when it lunged back, readying itself for another assault, Auron quickly landed a blow on its neck that killed it instantly. It drifted away in a flurry of pyreflies that were almost invisible in the glaring sunlight. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched them float and twirl upwards into the sky. Suddenly, something hot and wet dripped down onto his nose, and he looked down. His arm was bleeding, and when he had brought it up to his forehead, it had flowed down onto his face. He wiped it away hastily as his father made his way down the hill, a look of deep concern etched on his face. Tarak put a hand on his son's shoulder and tried to turn him around. Auron refused, still cleaning his face. He did not want his father to see that he had been wounded, that he was weak.

"Auron, turn around, let me see."

"No, dad, I'm fine, really, it just nipped me was all."

"Auron, stop fussing…"

"No, dad…"

"Now, Auron!" he shouted.

Auron froze at first, but then slowly turned around and faced his father. He could not bear to look into his eyes, however, and instead focused on the small silver buckles on his boots. He could feel his father's eyes burning through him as he lifted his son's arm up to inspect the damage.

"Just a nip, huh?"

Auron looked up.

"It doesn't really hurt," he said, trying to steady his trembling lip. He knew that if his father believed he was in pain, he would bring them right back home, go back out on his own and leave Auron sitting with his mother. He loved his mother, dearly, but still favored training with his father to gathering fruits and vegetables in the village. Tarak sighed.

"Let's go home."

"No! I don't wanna go home!"

"Auron, hurry up, your mother will kill me if I don't get you back soon enough after that injury." He pointed to the bite marks now gushing blood down Auron's left arm. The boy looked up haughtily.

"That's a weak spot, I know, but I'll just get a bracer, and…"

"Auron, now!"

He did not want to go home, especially not so early in the day. His father would go out and hunt while Auron had to pick stupid fruits from tree branches he couldn't even reach… He almost felt like running. He could feel it, the earth beneath his feet, almost emitting a pulse, willing him – no, commanding him – to run, just run, to feel the wind in his hair and the ground passing underneath…

Tarak grabbed his son by his good arm and dragged him back up the hill towards the village. Auron's moment was gone, and he could no longer feel that near tremble beneath his feet. He scowled and let his body go heavier so that his father would have a more difficult time dragging him.

"Auron, don't do that," he snapped.

"I'm tired," he lied.

"Get up," he sighed, relaxing his grip a little.

"I wanna go home!" he cried. He didn't know why, really; all he knew was that he suddenly wanted to go, rush into his house, and lock himself away, and be alone…

He pulled away from his father's loosened grasp easily and almost flew over the hill towards the village. He could hear his father yelling behind him, but he didn't care. He had the choice to run back to the field, but it didn't hold anything for him anymore. Now, it was just the place of his failure. He ran as fast as he could down the hill, almost falling several times, but not daring to stop. He was faster than his father, mostly due to his lack of heavy armor and equipment, but Tarak was bigger, and could still catch up if Auron made a mistake. He reached the village, turning a corner quickly and skidding, falling to his hands and skinning them, but he righted himself immediately and kept on towards his house. He flew in through the front door, ignoring his mother's startled cry, and instead ran straight into his room, hooking the curtain closed and throwing himself on his bed. He lied there, seething, staring at his bleeding arm, wishing it hurt more as punishment.

"Auron?" sang his mother's voice from the other side of the curtain.

He ignored her and grabbed an old cloth from his bedside table. He wrapped it around his arm, stuffing it under his pillow as his mother shook the curtain free from the hook. She had her hands on her hips and was glaring at him furiously.

"WHAT has gotten into you?" she cried.

"Nothing," he said.

"Where's your father?" There was sudden concern in her voice. Auron felt stung… was that all she cared about? But he pushed the feeling away. To seek others' sympathy was a sign of weakness. Auron scowled.

"Probably went back to hunting," he said bitterly.

His mother's expression suddenly softened, and she walked into his room, latching the curtain again and sitting next to him on the bed.

"Let me see," she almost whispered. Auron tensed for a second, wanting to be tough and take care of himself, but the imploring look in his mother's eye melted him and he began crying as he sat up and brought his arm out from beneath the pillow. The blood had already soaked through the rag, and Amma made a soothing noise as she took his head and placed it against her chest, hugging him. She comforted him for a few moments, letting him cry it out, before reaching out and gingerly peeling away the cloth. Auron heard her suck in air as she inspected the damage. It was worse than even he himself had thought it was, and looking at it made it suddenly hurt a whole lot more. He cried in real earnest now, sobbing and burying his face in his mother's comforting shoulder. It took her a few minutes and several old cloths, but eventually Amma had stopped the bleeding enough to clean the wound and dress it. Auron swore to himself that he would never let his left arm leave him weakened again.

A sudden stomping at the hut's entrance made Auron freeze with fear. His dad would scold him badly, he knew, and would probably decline his company during hunts for at least a month. His mother made eye contact, giving a significant look, and left the room.

"Is he here?" Tarak snapped.

"Shh, just let him go, he's very upset."

"He should be! He gets wounded and just runs off on me! I was worried sick!"

"I know, I know," she soothed, "But just let him go, okay?"

"I need to have a talk with him, now."

"Not until you calm down."

Auron heard his father breathe.

"I'm calm."

"No you're not," she said shortly. "He's very upset, you know how he is about getting hurt, let's just leave him alone for now."

"I should…"

"Go back to work," she finished.

He sighed, and Auron heard his parents kiss goodbye before his father left their hut. It was a few more minutes before his mother came in with a glass of water. She sat back down on his bed and smiled. He couldn't help it; Auron threw his arms around her and squeezed. His mother understood his hatred weakness, why couldn't his father? Wasn't his dad supposed to be the one to let him face his pain? His mother soothed him, yes, and dressed the wound, but somehow, she was the one who understood that getting injured was not supposed to mean you should quit and go home. Someone in pain should be helped, not coddled or let off of duty. Auron appreciated that, and came to the conclusion that his mother knew a lot more about this kind of thing than he thought. She stroked his hair, her finger snagging on the band that held his short ponytail together. She made a face, and Auron giggled, wiping the remainders of the tears from his eyes.

"Think dad will let me go with him tomorrow?"

"No," she said, and Auron's face fell. She stroked his cheek. "I just mean that you should let your wounds heal a day or two before running back out there. You could compromise your attack if you don't rest on it."

Auron was surprised again, but gave her a brave face.

"And for Yevon's sake, you're only six!"

Auron laughed and lied back on his pillows, drifting off into a comfortable sleep.