A/N Please note that Matthew is somewhere between five and six at this point.

To say his father was strict was almost an understatement.

Isaac took no nonsense from his son. He was almost unforgiving in his discipline and rigorous to the point of insanity in his training. Matthew came to dread his father's lessons, for they left him exhausted and sore.

And no matter how hard he tried or how well he did, it seemed as if he could never coax a smile from his father's face. He came to feel that he was a disappointment—a failure. He felt that he would never live up to the legacy of his father—his father, Isaac, hero of Vale.

His one reprieve was his friends. Tyrell especially seemed to understand the hardship that was a demanding father, but even he was a stranger to the feelings of worthlessness. In this, Matthew was alone.

He did his best to keep it from his friends.

One day, he and Karis were wandering around the outskirts of the village—climbing trees, attempting acrobatics, and generally messing around. No one else was around—no Tyrell, no Isaac, no adults, nobody.

If only it had stayed that way.

He hadn't seen them until it was too late. He couldn't even remember what kind of monster they were—things happened too fast. He'd heard them first, snarling and snapping in guttural tones, eyes gleaming and fangs barred. They stalked towards him and Karis, moving to surround them.

He did the one thing he could think to do—he grabbed Karis's hand and ran. They ran as fast as they could towards the town—towards safety. They shouted for help, using every spare breath, but they were too far away, it seemed, and no one heard them.

Then Karis stumbled, her hand yanked free of his, and she fell. She screamed as she went rolling. The monsters closed in, concentrating on the easier pray. Karis tried to get back up, but there wasn't enough time.

Matthew went a step or two before he managed to stop. He turned just in time to see Karis rise to a crouch and one of the beasts prepare to spring. His heart stopped.

He reacted.

With an inarticulate cry, he launched himself at his friend, knocking her back to the ground. He shouted as something sharp tore through his shoulder, rendering his arm all but useless.

Matthew looked up from where he'd fallen and cringed as another monster lunged. His eyes began to water, and he was sure that he and Karis would die. He squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered, not wanting to see the end come.

There was a whistle of movement, a yowl of pain, and a dull thud as something large hit the ground.

Matthew opened his eyes. Standing above him, sword at his side, was Isaac.

The pack leapt with indignant cries, intent on claiming their meal. Isaac twitched, and with a streak of silver, another beast fell.

Matthew watched in awe as his father all but danced through the battlefield. A flick of the wrist, a step to the side, all the while the scarf forming a golden trail—Matthew stared, wondering how he could ever measure up to such a man.

Soon the monsters had been decimated, and Isaac turned his gaze upon the children.

Matthew suddenly felt sheepish—like he'd done something wrong, like this was all his fault. Shouldn't he have been able to fight off the monsters, after all those lessons? Shouldn't he have at least brought his practice sword? Shouldn't he have stayed and fought, instead of running away like the scaredy-cat Tyrell always called him?

He only felt worse when he saw his father's eyes narrow and his mouth form a grim line.

With practiced efficiency, Isaac flicked the blood off of his sword and sheathed it. He approached the children and knelt down to their level, assessing their wounds. Gently he grabbed Matthew's good arm and pulled him to his feet, steadying him when he began to sway. He then turned and regarded Karis. Deciding that something was wrong with her ankle—twisted or sprained, he didn't know—he slowly picked her up , adjusting his grip so that he could carry her with one hand. He used the other to hold Matthew against him, using his side to stem the flow of blood.

Matthew raised his good hand and clutched the front of his father's tunic tightly, fighting the urge to cry.

Matthew and Karis spent the rest of the afternoon in the village sanctum, under the watchful eyes of the healers there. Isaac also stayed, leaning against the back wall, eyes trained on his son. Every time he met that gaze, Matthew felt incredibly small.

Karis's parents came and began to scold her, telling her that she shouldn't have gone so far from the village, that she should've stayed with an adult. They hugged her, she cried a little, and everything was okay. Vaguely Matthew wondered why he hadn't been scolded like that.

When Matthew was cleared to leave, Isaac carried him home.

He found that he was exhausted—he barely had enough energy to finish his dinner. And yet he found it odd that when he went to crawl into bed, he had received no reprimand at all.

When his father slipped into the room and shut the door behind him, he knew he was in for it.

Matthew pulled his covers up to his chin, trying to make himself as small as possible. He watched in wide-eyed dread as Isaac pulled up a chair that was far too small for him and sat at the bedside.

There was a pause.

"You shouldn't have left the village without telling me," Isaac said simply, voice soft.

Matthew looked away and replied meekly, "I-I'm sorry, Father…"

A rough hand gripped his chin and Matthew found himself staring into steady blue eyes. "What's wrong?"

The boy couldn't bring himself to look back. He glanced down again. "I-I ran. I r-ran away, even after you took so much time to t-teach me-!"

"You did the right thing."

Matthew's eyes shot back up as Isaac pulled away.

"You were outnumbered and unarmed. There was no way you could have won. You did the right thing." Isaac's voice was steady, and his face unreadable. Matthew looked down at his blanket. It was okay to run away? But Tyrell always said that only scaredy-cats ran away. But his father wasn't afraid of anything, and he said it was okay. So did that mean he wasn't a scaredy-cat?

"You also did a good job protecting your friend."

Matthew outright stared at his father now. This was completely different from what he'd been expecting. He'd thought he was going to get yelled at or grounded or told he could never play with Karis ever again, but his father had told him he'd done a good job!

He couldn't help but blurt out, "Y-You're not mad at me?"

The corners of Isaac's mouth twitched upwards. "No, Matthew, I am not mad at you. You were very brave to go back for Karis like that."

Matthew's jaw dropped. His father had called him brave!

"S-so you're proud of me?"

That seemed to catch Isaac off guard, but Matthew had to know. Tyrell's father told him how proud he was every other day, and Karis's mother constantly bragged about how proud her daughter made her. But it seemed that the word simply didn't exist in his father's vocabulary.

Isaac's eyes softened and his mouth curled upwards.

If Matthew hadn't been gawping before, he sure was now. His father was smiling. His father never smiled, ever, but he was smiling!

The smile grew as Isaac saw the look on Matthew's face. He reached up and ruffled the boy's hair, clearly amused at the shock the action produced.

"You should get to sleep," Isaac said as he stood. Matthew rolled over onto his good side as his father doused the lamp.

Something brushed his hair aside in the dark, and he heard a soft voice by his ear. "Matthew, you are my son, and no matter what happens, I will always be proud of you."

As he faded into dreams a contented smile spread over his face.