Disclaimer: I do not own Shadow Hearts or Shadow Hearts II/Covenant. Characters are owned by Aruze. I'm just playing.

The Photograph

Yuri groaned under the strain of pushing the heavy block of stone, slowly lifting it just enough to settle the rope under the final corner. The block and tackle waited behind him on the A-frame he'd built to move the gigantic stones, but he still had to set the ropes himself. Muscles straining, sweat pouring from him, he gave it one last shove and the rope wedged into place. With a sigh he leaned against the block and panted, drops of moisture dripping from his hair and dribbling down his nose and chin. This was hard, back-breaking work and he really wished Roger would get someone else to do it.

"You treat me like tractor!" he shouted at Roger one day as the old man directed him in moving some heavy equipment.

"No I don't," the old monk said and tsked even louder. "Not that way, to your left! A little more! A bit more... there! You've got it!"

"The hell you don't," Yuri ground out through gritted teeth as he set the equipment into place.

"I treat you like a draft-horse!"

Yuri turned amber eyes on his father and smirked. "Yeah, an' ya feed me like one too! I'm hungry!"

"You eat like a pig," Roger replied but turned, clapping dust from his hands, toward the small kitchen. "Oatmeal tonight," he said.

"Aw shit, horse food; it's always oat meal. When can I have some real meat?" the younger man asked as he wiped the sweat from his face.

"When you go hunt for it. Or go earn the money to buy it," and Roger's voice had faded into the distant kitchen.

Now, moving these huge blocks was a bigger job than that piece of equipment, and no less exhausting and Yuri, hunger warring with fatigue, wondered if it would be oatmeal again tonight.

"Damnit," he swore into his arm as he wiped away the sweat. "Why do I gotta do all this grunt work? It's not like it was me that blew up the stupid lab..." but with a shake of his head Yuri went back to work. Roger had indeed blown up part of his laboratory, sending debris everywhere. Yuri, in a moment of stupid humor, had suggested using the blocks from the old monastery. He hadn't thought about the crevasse cutting across the plains, he hadn't thought about how far a kilometer really was when maneuvering heavy stone blocks – but he knew now. And he hadn't thought about the monsters and haunted spirits that still made the ruinous Nemeton their home.

More than once he had a fight on his hands while cutting off blocks and loading them onto the hoist. Each block was then swung across the crevasse and set on the sandy soil. And once that was completed, the frame was taken down and erected again across the ravine; the blocks set onto a trailer and hauled down the road by heavy draft horses, one laborious block at a time. And by the time he had moved half the needed blocks he was ready to collapse. Dragging the tackle behind him he climbed the stairs to the damaged house and tossed them on the porch.

"I want dinner and I want it now," he yelled descending the stairs toward the kitchen. He sniffed the air but his nose failed to discern the tell tales of meat or bread. Ah damn, he thought, oatmeal again.

Yuri kicked his boots off and left them lying at the foot of the stairs and climbed up the side stairs to the kitchen. To his surprise, Roger stuck his wizened old head out and frowned.

"You get yourself washed youngster, or there's no supper for you!"

"Damn it, Roger!"

"Don't curse at me, you stupid kid. Go wash!"

"God damn it all to hell!" Yuri's loud curse echoed through the cavernous house and earned him a spoon tossed down the stairs by Roger.

"You will not take the Lord's name in vain, you stubborn mule!" the older man called down. He voice echoed into the distance, reverberating over the various staircases and down to the basement where Yuri slept, and, he hoped, the back porch where Yuri had set up an outdoor bath. On warm days they both enjoyed the tub of clean water, but even Roger admitted to avoiding the cold bath during the windy winter months. He turned back to the small kitchen and the supper he was preparing. He rubbed his gnarled hands on the sackcloth wrapped around his spare middle and snatched up the spoon from the table to quickly stir the pot bubbling over the fire. Yuri is a good kid, he thought, but he still lacks respect for his elders and, Roger paused to look up to heaven with his wide eyes, God knows he still has a rude mouth. Some things never change, he thought.

It seemed odd that Yuri had only been with him for a little over a year. His first months had been difficult for the young man, his mind wiped clean by the cursed mistletoe and Yuri's inability to find any way to stop his own mind and memories being destroyed. Roger found the young fighter one windy day out on the bluffs above Nemeton and, having almost given up hope of ever finding the missing fighter after two years of searching, the shock and horror Roger felt over Yuri's condition –

Well, he's stronger now, certainly. And he's healthy. He does indeed work like a horse and, I admit, dear God, that I do treat him abominably sometimes. But he needs to be strong for the future. For whatever the future hands him. I wish I could believe that all will be well with him now but…

Roger stood, silently stirring the pot, remembering the day he found Yuri. He had last seen them, Karin, Joachim, Yuri... in Katsuragi. They were heading for Asuka and a confrontation with Kato. Bacon had waited in Japan for long days before finally returning to Wales to take up his contemplative life once more. He never heard from anyone after that; even when he sent out inquiries through Lawrence, there was no sign of Karin or Yuri. Roger felt very sad at losing his friend. Then one day, in autumn, when the winds were blowing hard over the plains, he spotted a lone figure up on the bluff. It took him an hour of quick walking to climb the hill but there, like a dark angel, was Yuri. And for the third time in his long life, Roger felt betrayed, for Yuri, the vibrant, brash and boisterous Yuri, was an empty vessel.

Roger spent the next months teaching Yuri the basics of life; some things the youth remembered automatically, as if the knowledge were in his blood and bones. But his memory of his life before, was gone, and no matter what Roger did, he could not restore what had been taken away by less than divine providence.

Roger spooned up the cereal into two bowls, putting a dollop of butter on top and placing them on the table.

"Yuri! Dinner!"

Leaving his boots at the foot of the stairs, Yuri went out to the bathtub. He checked the water storage then filled the tub before grabbing soap and towel and sliding in. The water wasn't hot enough to suit him, the small heating element would never get the water more than lukewarm, but Yuri bathed with relish anyway. Water splashing over the floorboards, soap foaming over the side, Yuri scrubbed with the reckless enthusiasm of youth and, when done, rose to towel off. He stood for a few minutes as the tub drained, wrapped in the towel, and watching the light fade into the western ocean. Beyond was Ireland, he knew from Roger's maps, and way far away was America. He wondered what that place was like then shrugged, letting any curiosity drain away as he entered and descended to his bedroom.

His room wasn't much to look at - a cot in one corner, a locker next to the foot with what few clothes he had in the press; a small shelf for his boots at the door and a lamp sitting on the floor. On the opposite side was Roger's cot. As usual, it was buried in books and papers and Yuri snorted his amusement.

If I left mine like that, he thought, but then spotted something shiny sticking out from beneath the pile of books. Curiosity warred with common sense for about three seconds before Yuri crossed the room and slid to his knees, pushing and shoving books and tablets aside until he reached the shiny thing. It turned out to be a picture frame, bent and cracked, but the glass clean and glistening in the lamplight. Yuri pulled it free and sat on his heels, looking at the photograph in the frame.

It was a black and white photograph showing a woman and young man standing at the docks, ready to board a huge ship. Next to them stood some smaller children, and a taciturn teenaged female... at least Yuri thought it was female... dressed in trousers and pull-down cap. And old Chinese man stood next to them and another woman in a very short skirt, one hand holding a gun! Next to her was another female, young and quite pretty and next to her, holding her in his arms was –

Yuri blinked. "What the hell?" he muttered, then rose and crossed to his cot and pulling open the storage box, pulled out a small hand mirror. He looked into the small glass, seeing himself a bit at a time. Shaggy brown hair, eyes that strange red tone that bothered the locals in Aberystwyth. Face a bit long and thin, but remarkably similar to the one in the photograph.

"Who the hell are you?" he said aloud.

Upstairs Roger was losing his patience. Once more he stepped out of the kitchen and shouted, his voice cracking on the final note and he gasped, coughing and choking.

"Stupid boy! Get up here for dinner – cough-cough!" After more long minutes, while Roger stood with the spoon dripping in his hand, Yuri's head appeared in the stairwell. "What took you so long? Dinner's getting cold."

Yuri slowly climbed the stairs, the picture frame in his hands and his eyes crinkled in thought.

"Rog," he said as he climbed the last stair, "I been thinkin'. Who – who am I really? I mean, am I really your son? Who was my mom? Was I born here? Did I have any friends?"

Roger blinked at the younger man, the sudden questions making his heart pound hard in his chest.

"What do you mean? Of course you're my son, you ungrateful little..." Roger was winding up for a verbal tirade until Yuri offered the picture and suddenly the old man felt the ground fall away beneath his feet. "I – oh," he shuddered and Yuri quickly came to him, taking his shoulders and helping him to the kitchen table.

"Here, sit down, you old fool. What's wrong? You all right?"

This was the last thing I ever expected, Roger thought. I should have destroyed it, but it meant so much to me. These young people crossed half the world and, without hesitation, took on Simon and his summoned god. This was all I had of them, once they left – a picture of their last day together. I heard from Alice once more and then... nothing, until the day Yuri arrived with tales of Sapientes Gladio and the curse.

"Yuri? I never thought I'd find you in a place like this. I've been looking all over for you." I was so surprised to finally find him and yet...

"Yuri? Who are you?"

His words cut me to the heart. He had lost everything that ever meant anything to him. His lady Alice, his memories, his soul "You don't even remember your own father? Such a foolish son!" I comforted him the best I could and told him he'd been hurt and wandering lost. I – I hated to lie.

"Who is that? Who are they? And, if that's me, why don't I remember it?" Yuri asked.

They sat around the small kitchen table, food forgotten, dishes set aside and the fire banked in the stove. Roger, sat across from the younger man and thought how to answer his question, his eyes sad and his face fallen in sudden deep fatigue. He silently chided himself for keeping the picture, a keepsake from the group of friends who, in 1914, had come to save the world from his one-time student and friend, Albert Simon.

"Come on pops, spill it. Who is that guy?"

Roger looked up at Yuri and sighed, wiping a small tear from his weathered face.

"It's a long story, son, and one I haven't wanted to tell you."

"Why?" But Roger shook his head, and Yuri sat silent, waiting.

"Once, there was a brave young man from Asia, who met a woman, fell in love, fought a god and became my friend. That young man is you."

Yuri raised his head to remark but Roger waved him off. "No, you asked, so you listen. I never wanted to tell you, you would ask too many questions; questions I didn't want to answer. But now – now I'll tell you the truth."

"So, so you're not really my old man?" Yuri asked and Roger sighed.

"Show some respect for these old bones," he said and then began to tell the story of how they first met, of their travels across Asia and Europe in their pursuit of Albert Simon and all he knew leading up to the stormy day on the cliff above the Nemeton Monastery.

"They took your memory from you, Yuri. Your memory of your family, and of Alice. I – I didn't know what to do."

"So you said you were my father." Yuri's voice was deep and quiet and Roger looked up to see the young man's eyes deep in the shadow of his bangs, his hands folded in front of him. "I understand."

"You - you do?" Roger asked. "Can you forgive me?"

Yuri felt his fingers tighten and looked up to see his father, no – Roger, looking hopefully at him. He lied to me. But ... he's always been there for me, and this – this really doesn't change anything. Yuri remembered that day on the cliffs, the wind blowing cold off the ocean and the little man tottering up the hillside and, at the time, he had no idea how he'd gotten there, where he was. He said he was my father... and I felt all warm inside, as if I'd found my home. I forgot how cold and empty I felt that day. I can't blame him, he thought.

"Rog, do you think..." his hands came up and rubbed his face, suddenly feeling very tired. "Do you think I'll ever remember what happened?" and he caught a glimpse of Rogers mostly bald pate as he shook it.

"I don't know Yuri. I just don't know."

"And those Sapientes bastards that did this to me?" Now he watching Roger closely, one hand brushing back his hair while the other one rapped softly on the table.

"You killed them all, Yuri," the old man said and got up from the table, his movements stiff, and left the kitchen. Yuri listened as the old monk descended the stairs, his sandals rasping on the stones. Faintly he caught Roger's "God forgive me," as it reverberated along the walls and up to the domed ceiling. He sat in the kitchen for a while, his hands opening and closing into fists before he let his head fall down onto his arms, folding them beneath him and letting the fatigue of the day's hard work flow through him like the tide. The house echoed with the boom of the surf just beyond the walls and the clack of the tackle mixed with Roger's voice as he muttered from below. His eyes closed, and Yuri tried to shutter his mind behind the darkness, but Roger's words, his voice, still reverberated in his ears with the story of a life he did not remember. Of people, places and events that shaped the world yet he could not recall the smallest detail. Not even to explain the orange sun that appeared in his dreams, the sunset that always left him feeling a little sad when he awoke in the morning.

I always loved you...

Yuri stirred slightly at the table, one finger coming up to scratch his nose.

A gift from your dad...

"Dad..."