Futility
His father had spoken to dragons; or at least, so Kain had heard. Kain tended only to chocobos and livestock; practiced with a wooden lance thrust hesitantly with un-practiced hands. One day you'll be a warrior, his father had said. A Dragoon. And Kain counted each day, each second, wondering when. He'd watch Cecil—Cecil in his practiced countenance, his elegant movements of sword and shield. Kain wondered why he himself hadn't pledged to be as such, wondered why Rosa felt nothing for him, wondered why dragons in their power could not capture the mind and love of a woman.