(A/N) So, I feel a little guilty for leaving this fic to stew for a long period of time, but I've been busy. I had the sudden urge to write this today, for no reason whatsoever, and I think it's a sort of masochistic nostalgia, because it's pretty sad. Anyways, thanks to everyone who's reviewed, fav'd and followed. I appreciate it. This story is my most viewed to date, even though it's got relatively few reviews, so thanks all you lurkers out there!
This is pretty much standalone, but can be seen as a companion to Shattered (in the last chapter), ten years later.
Disclaimer: Don't own, but be warned. There are feels (wretched demons that they are).
In the Middle of the Night
When Kratos visits Iselia it is with a heaviness setting in his heart.
He doesn't know why he does it.
It hurts, but he somehow needs to do it. An unknown force drives his legs, an invisible string tugs him there. The town is quiet. It is nighttime.
After pausing in the town square, he feels utterly stupid for having come. His feet stall because he's not sure where he's going.
The village looks the same as that day. Ten years ago, today.
.
.
That day.
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So little has changed here, yet so much that it brings bile to his throat and his hands clench. He sees red again because that man is still alive. And that man is contentedly sleeping not three leagues from where Kratos now stands.
Kratos doesn't know why he has come to this town. He has only been here twice now. They never stopped long enough to stay, simply passed through without extraordinary circumstance. It is peculiar that he is compelled to stand uselessly in this square.
As if something important is going to happen.
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He shrugs it off and makes to leave, the heaviness magnifying tenfold when his feet automatically find the path to the Human Ranch Mithos is so hellbent on leaving (despite his protests). Momentarily he allows himself to revel in gruesome fantasies, killing the halfling Kvar where he sleeps. Still, there is little heart behind it.
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He knows that is not the reason he has come.
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It is very late by now, and his slow meander down the gravel path is through the rich darkness made deeper by the thick canopy stretching for miles around him. It is almost peaceful, and Kratos remembers that he used to like this forest. He lets the whispers of a breeze ruffle his hair and the white noise of insects crick in the silence.
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It is oddly nice.
.
On this day, even.
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When the memories are pulling at him and tearing his insides to shreds because anything could have gone differently and they might both still be here. But he is used to this by now, and the pain is much faded from the first time. He can still move in spite of it, can still think somewhat rationally.
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He is not the crumpled, broken man he was that day, he is simply the shallower, emptier husk that is left over.
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And so, he easily contains his surprise when a childish voice cries out through the woods to his left.
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"Hah!"
.
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"Hurrgh!"
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"Hyah!"
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The grunts and loud calls continue, contrary to the lateness of the hour and the lack of civilization. The yells are boyish and high-pitched, and Kratos finds himself intrigued. He breaks off of the path and allows the noises to guide him deeper within the forest. There are dull thumps and clatterings, as well as a heavy panting, and Kratos' tread slows as he nears them.
There is a clearing ahead, and he is reluctant to enter it.
The tree trunks have thinned, and there is a flickering light, as if from a lantern, that glows in a sharp circle across the grassy turf. And in that clearing, a young boy is flailing about with two wooden swords. His attacks are focused on a very unoffending tree stump, gnarled and as high as the boy was tall.
Kratos cannot help it as a small smile quirks his lips.
.
The child's strikes are feverish and haphazard, but Kratos can see a trace of natural talent, a bit of untapped skill laying within the child. No doubt, the kid will become a respectable fighter one day. It is only when the boy ceases his efforts, small chest heaving and arms weighted with his too large weapons, when the Seraph sees it.
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The child is crying.
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Sobs wrack the young one's frame, and tear tracks trace glistening paths down his cheeks. Now that the boy has stopped his tireless motions, Kratos can catch glimpses of large, wet eyes, and unruly chestnut hair, and his heart clenches a little.
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The child looks a bit too much like Lloyd.
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He has to avert his gaze. But the hope that jumps into his throat hurts too much to choke down right away, even though he catches it and quashes it early. It is a raw nerve, screaming at him to just let himself believe this one impossible coincidence, and everything will be okay again.
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That this is the reason he needed to be here, this day, of all days.
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He chokes back a bitter scoff at the wishful thinking, even though the hope is trickling up again against his will.
The boy has collapsed in a heap, shoulders shaking with some unknown sadness, and the wooden blades are tossed unceremoniously into the neighboring brush. The cracks that follow are loud and cause the child to flinch a little.
The hope is almost unbearable now, and so the human prepares himself to approach the child. It couldn't hurt to be sure, could it? He heaves a slow, shuddering breath in and is about to make himself known when—
"What are you doing out here, kid?" A deep, compassionate voice comes from the other direction, and a second sphere of light joins the first.
A squat, burly man with a considerable beard has joined the weeping human and he crouches beside him. The brunette whimpers in response.
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"Dad." the cry that tears Kratos' heart, as the boy that looks so much like his own calls out to another.
.
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The hope is dead again.
.
"Dad, I miss her. And I can't even remember why." The child sobs on, but Kratos has heard enough. His own heart pricks with the small child's plea, but it is suddenly distant and unrelated. A man with a heart of stone should not bother himself with these things. He retreats deeper into the darkness as the father and son continue to mourn in the light.
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He cannot stay a moment longer because the hope flees viciously, tearing a path in its wake. And so he turns and rushes carelessly back to the path. If he had stayed a moment longer, he might've heard.
Even now, as he leaves, on the edge of earshot that he is, he does not here the older man call the child, 'Lloyd', nor the boy call his parental figure 'Dirk'.
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Even now, as he leaves, he catches a whisper of a title, and a whisper of a name and he thinks it wishful thinking, because it is said with such innocence and hesitance that it could not possibly address him.
.
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But the boy is peering into the brush that has just creaked and rustled with passage and he feels warm again, only for a fleeting moment. And as he shakes a strip of thick hair from his face, he gets a glimpse of auburn that is gone immediately and he jerks to his feet.
.
.
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"Dad?"
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And he does not look to his beloved guardian when he says it, but it is spoken meekly and only the darkness answers.
.
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He wipes the wet from his face and clenches his little fists and suddenly feels very silly standing there addressing the forest. He turns back and heads into the shelter of his home, tears run dry and hand clinging to Dirk's.
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.
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No, as Kratos leaves, he hears and sees none of this. But his feet find their way away from the town, the mysterious boy, and the Human Ranch alike. His compulsion to stay has been sated by this odd interaction and he cannot explain why.
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His heart is still heavy because it is this day.
.
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But when the hope left, some of it remained and lingered for a moment. And the hope filled him up and made him fuller than he thought he could be.
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.
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So when he leaves, he is a little different, and a little the same.
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And part of him wishes that he stayed.
(A/N) Thanks for reading, and over 10,000 views! Drop me a review or a suggestion!