For R—,

To whom I wanted to show this, but who died before I could. You're an angel too cool for Cruxis. Rest in peace while you can, because when I catch up to you, there will be only partying.

Lloyd had a father who never slept. At least, not that he'd seen. Every night, at some inn or another, he'd watch his father stare out the window for hours, until sleep took him, and when morning came, the ever-vigilant man would shake him awake. Lloyd was hard-pressed to recall a day in his childhood that didn't begin with his father, eternally frowning and sleepless, prodding his shoulder at the break of dawn. He had long since given up even trying to find out what his father did while he slept. By the time he was sent away to school, he had successfully convinced himself he didn't care.

His school was a boys' academy in Palmacosta, presumably for gifted children, though Lloyd's mere presence at the institution likely sabotaged that assumption. He was decidedly ungifted—so much so that at seventeen he still found himself struggling with concepts the elementary-aged boys had cruised through like smooth water. His performance was so spectacularly poor he wasn't even an object of derision to the other students—only of eternal fascination. "It's because you're an anomaly," Genis had told him, without a hint of malice. "You fail so hard it almost counts as success."

Lloyd figured that his dad must've paid a boatload in order to keep a dope like him enrolled at the Palmacosta Academy. He was fairly sure Kratos only chose this particular school because of its strict and safe dormitories, so he could easily shrug his son off for nine months of the year. After all, he apparently had more important things to do. Things he would constantly refuse to divulge.

Lloyd assumed this summer would be like the rest—his father would come pick him up, drag him halfway around the continent while periodically abandoning him at an inn in some backwoods hick town, only to show up days later with no explanation as to where he went and why. Lloyd could think of plenty of better ways to spend his time, but at least it beat school.

He sat on the marble steps of the academy, wiggling his toes, until his only friend squeaked through the front doors and sat down beside him, dropping his oversized backpack on the steps.

"Hey, Lloyd." Genis was the only one that called him by his real name. He'd had to enroll in the academy under a false one, for "safety reasons," according to his father, who then of course failed to disclose what those reasons were. Lloyd couldn't remember what he told Genis at the time of their meeting—whether it was a middle name, nickname, or something—all he remembered was that he was lonely enough to risk his safety to have someone call him by his real name.

"Hey, Genis," he said. "Isn't your sister coming to pick you up?"

"Nah. She has this thing with boats—she makes me catch a ship all the way back to Iselia every summer. I don't see why I just can't stay there for the school year. I mean, she's the teacher, she could make the curriculum as hard as she wanted." He took his omnipresent kendama from his pocket and began to fool around with it.

"My dad has dragged me to some backwater holes," Lloyd said, "and believe me, you fit in a lot better here. You'd hate living in the boonies."

Genis was far too intelligent to survive in some of the small villages Lloyd had visited. The slow, aimless days, the pervasive illiteracy, the lack of stimulation would drive the kid insane. Genis was rigid, calculating, prone to destructive boredom if he did not have something to occupy his mind at all hours of all days. Besides, the kid was an elf, and you never knew what rural towns had misconceived discrimination laws regarding other races.

Lloyd didn't know why Genis had taken a liking to him—it seemed like he would prefer cleverer company. He didn't admire Lloyd's spectacular incompetence at a distance, like the other boys, but spent the time and energy on building an actual friendship. Perhaps it was because Lloyd was the only other boy at the school who didn't pick on him. Genis had a reputation for his academic ruthlessness—he was a threat, a curve-ruiner, a destroyer of grades, and for any boy with his eyes set on the rank of top-of-the-class, an immovable obstacle. But Genis' prowess couldn't possibly make Lloyd's grades any lower. Someone's got to be at the bottom of the curve, Lloyd told himself often, otherwise there wouldn't be a top.

Genis tucked away his kendama, straightened his uniform and hoisted his pack. "I don't think Iselia is that bad. The Chosen lives there, and she's got a lot to teach me about Martel."

"I thought you aced your religious studies."

Genis' face contorted into something between a smile and a grimace. "Well, what the Chosen says and what the priests say are sometimes… different." He paused, adjusting his pack. "When will your dad get here?" he asked.

Lloyd shrugged.

"Well, my boat's leaving in half an hour. Be careful this summer. I heard the Desian quota's not met for the season, so they'll be picking up anyone they can. So don't do anything stupid. Or dangerous. I suppose that's like asking water to not be wet."

Lloyd smiled. "You be careful, too."

He watched Genis disappear into the Palmacostan bustle, then lay back on the steps and counted the clouds. Other students filed out, carrying suitcases, bags, and books for summer studying. Each stepped past Lloyd without noticing him, and they disappeared into their respective alleyways, harbors and houses. Lloyd stared at the sky until the sun touched the lower ramparts of the governor-general's mansion at the other end of the square. Perhaps he'd have to stay here tonight, until his father would suddenly remember he had a son waiting in Palmacosta.

Lloyd was meticulously deciding what he'd order for dinner that night at the inn when he felt himself being hoisted from the academy's front steps. It took him a moment to realize that his dad was there, dragging him across the square like they had someplace important to be.

"I'm glad you're safe," was all his father said between the academy doors and the city's gate.

"I don't know why I wouldn't be," Lloyd answered, but got no reply.

At the city's entrance, his father presented him with a traveling cloak, weathered and hooded, and ordered him to make sure his head was covered. "So, which rural ditch are we going to for this year's holiday?" Lloyd asked. "Hima? Umacy? A human ranch? A—oh, hey boy! Who's a good boy?" Noishe, the family dog, greeted them a few yards from the gate. His father's arrival inevitably heralded the arrival of Noishe, which offset some of Lloyd's gloom. He wasn't sure he could survive his dad without the dog present.

Lloyd's previous question was, as usual, ignored. "How's your friend? Jean?"

"Genis. He's fine. He went back to his village. Did you know the Chosen lives there?"

"Humph." His father did not seem interested in the conversation, though he never seemed interested in any conversation.

They walked a few miles in complete silence. Every so often Lloyd would turn around to see the city shrinking into the horizon, and wondered if he would make it back for the next school year. "So, where are we going?" he said. "Or am I not allowed to ask."

His father remained silent for a few moments, staring at the road ahead. "We're going to Tethe'alla."

"What? All right! Finally!" Lloyd had heard stories about the fabled world of prosperity, all from his dad, but he had been strictly forbidden to speak about it to anyone, even Genis. So the land of Tethe'alla built up inside him like any good secret would—he had gone there thousands of times in his head, visited its cities and people, gone on fantastical adventures and always returned some sort of hero. It was the kind of fantasy that kept his eyes locked to the window in class, staring at the afternoon moon crawling above the harbor—the kind of fantasy that made his teachers slam books on desks, screech chalk on the board, and on one occasion, hurl an abacus at his head to regain his attention.

"Quick!" Kratos hissed, dragging Lloyd again into the present, erasing his reminiscent smile. For a split second he thought his buzzkill dad was just trying to get him to curb his enthusiasm, but when he found himself being hauled to the side of the road into the bushes, he knew it was something a little more serious. Noishe crouched in the undergrowth beside them, and they watched as three figures approached from the east. Lloyd could recognize their helmets as Desian from miles away.

He tried not to breathe and hoped they hadn't been spotted. But the trio slowed, looking around the area to where they no doubt saw some travelers hurl themselves into the bushes, and one of the helmets shouted at them to come out.

"Don't say anything," Lloyd's father told him as they slowly emerged from their hiding place.

"Shouldn't you folks be back in Palmacosta?" one of the armored men asked. Lloyd could not see their faces fully under their shadowy helmets, but he could easily spy their intolerable smirks.

"Maybe they escaped from the ranch," another suggested, playing with the tip of his whip.

"They do seem to be itching to get there."

"We'd be no good," Lloyd heard his father say in a heavily accented drone. "My nephew there's got a blood disease, and I have a bad back. We'd be no good. No good."

"Then perhaps you'd like to compensate us for our effort. We have a long way to go until Palmacosta."

Lloyd screamed inwardly. He knew his father could take them out, all three, effortlessly. So why wasn't he...

His dad reached into his pack and pulled out a small bag of money. Wordlessly he handed it over, and Lloyd bit his lip so hard he was sure it bled. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his face burned in embarrassment. Of all the bullies to suck up to, it had to be these guys.

The first Desian juggled the bag and frowned. "You know, you don't look like you have that bad of a back. It looks to me like it works just fine."

Another sack of money, larger this time, was produced from a hidden pocket and handed over. "You drive a steep bargain," the Desian said, "but I accept. Next time I won't be so generous."

The three soldiers continued in the direction of the city, but not before one of them decided to give Lloyd a good kick in the back. He flew into the dirt, winded, and scrambled upward, fists ready, only to have his father grab him and hold him back. His antagonists chuckled. "Better keep your halfwit in check, old man," one of them called before all three slipped around the bend.

When Lloyd's breathing slowed and his fists loosened, his father let him go. "Leave them," he commanded, and Lloyd had no choice but to follow him and Noishe down the road. "Do you have any money?"

"Yeah." Lloyd had saved up a little from doing manual labor at the academy—helping arrange bookshelves, and carry the frozen lunchmeat to the cellar. He had planned to get himself a glorious dinner at the Palmacosta inn, but it looked like he'd have to forfeit his earnings so they could stay at the House of Salvation that night.

"Good. Keep it hidden."

Lloyd hadn't expected an apology, but part of him wished he'd got one. Not just for asking for Lloyd's money—he could've forgiven his father for that. What he couldn't forgive was the fact that he could've whipped those Desians, easily, and yet he still chose to throw away his dignity, not to mention his money. Lloyd didn't understand how he could muster the shamelessness to offer a bribe, but not the humility to apologize to his own son for doing so.

The House of Salvation was grungy, unkempt, and offered very little when it came to meals. Watery soup and hard bread were the only items on the menu, but Lloyd wasn't picky. Even the greasy leftovers at the Palmacosta academy's cafeteria, too much for some of the more delicate boys, never fazed him. He dragged his bread through the soup, trying to soak some of the staleness out of it, and nearly cracked his teeth biting into it. But it filled his stomach like anything else.

His father, as usual, barely ate. He'd swirl his soup, making a show of eating, but Lloyd knew better. He didn't know how the man survived. "You gonna finish that?" he asked, and smiled when the nearly untouched meal was pushed to his side of the decrepit table. When Lloyd was finished eating for the both of them, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "So, how do we even get there?"

They both knew where he was talking about. His father's face darkened, as if he were deeply contemplating whether he should answer or not. It almost surprised Lloyd when his father actually gave him an explanation—or something that resembled one. "There are several ways. One of them is impossible. One is entirely dependent on the season and the stars. And the third will be open very soon. For now, we're going to Hima."

Lloyd didn't hate Hima, but it wasn't a big hit with him either. It was still nearly on the other side of the continent, though, and when they rose early the next morning to begin the long trek, Lloyd found himself in a sour mood just thinking about it. The first few days of a summer journey were always hard on him—he didn't move around much at the academy, and any muscle he'd gained from the previous summer was lost by the first heavy rains. He walked in aching silence until Hakenosia Peak, where he slid, exhausted, to the ground outside the gatekeeper's hut. His father slipped into the building to negotiate some passes for them. Lloyd figured he was probably beating the avaricious old gatekeeper to a pulp—or at least threatening to. Apparently when it came to greedy business owners, Kratos would mete out some justice, but when it came to real criminals, he would just suck up and let them walk all over him.

The embarrassing memory of the three Desians made Lloyd grit his teeth and only worsened his mood. When his father emerged from the hut, passes in hand, a poisonous feeling welled up inside him. Noishe seemed to sense it too, and pushed his nose between Lloyd's arm and torso, forcing his hand to cup the dog's massive ear. Calm down, the little ear twitched. There are better things to think about. He stroked it for a few seconds, thankful that he had someone as reasonable as Noishe around. Sometimes, the dog was the only person around him who made any damn sense.

It got dark before they reached the peak, so they trudged a little off the path and started a fire. Kratos set up the cooking pot and started some mystery meat stew, and Lloyd found some long sticks for sword practice. When he brought them to his father, they were rejected. He brought six more before the pair he presented were finally approved. Kratos stood, adjusting his stance in silence, gripping the stick as skillfully as he had his true blade.

"Why don't you let me use a real sword?" Lloyd asked. When Kratos came at him, it was all he could do to parry. He stumbled back, nearly tripping on a log, but regained himself.

"Because you're not ready to have one," Kratos said.

Every year, Lloyd practiced—the Academy offered fencing classes as a physical education option, and it was the only class in which he excelled. Many of the boys there were quite skilled, since they had rich fathers who insisted on their sons being able to use the decorative swords they were set to inherit. Those boys fenced to pursue the perception of status. But Lloyd fenced for the wonderful feeling of knocking any one of those little jerks to the ground.

"The Academy at least lets me use practice swords. Not just some dumb sticks."

Kratos effortlessly slid past his strike. No matter how many snotty classmates Lloyd beat, no matter how many praises he'd accumulated from the instructors, he never came close to matching his father. Every time he thought he'd improved, Kratos would put him back in his place. It was downright mean.

"You need to learn that you can fight with anything," his father said, noting his son's mounting frustration. He swiped aside a particularly heavy blow and struck Lloyd on the thigh. "It'll keep you a lot safer when you don't have a weapon."

"The only reason I don't have a weapon is because you don't let me carry one! You never even use yours!" So how are you so goddamn good with it? he wanted to shout, but just panted as he parried a series of skilled strikes from his father. It didn't make any sense to him—Kratos was almost supernaturally adept. He was sure no one could beat him, if only the stubborn bastard would actually fight every once in a while. Lloyd found himself gritting his teeth in frustration, and anger rippled through him as he swung. Kratos easily evaded the blow, redirecting his impotent violence with something of a self-satisfied smile. The next time Lloyd struck, he meant it. "Do you like it when we get robbed?" His stick met Kratos' like a thunderclap. "Do you like it when we get kicked around and have to hide?" He swung again, hard enough that his father's parry send a painful shudder up his arm. "I know you can defend yourself—I can too, but you're too much of a low-down coward to fight!" Lloyd backed off, panting, knowing there was only one blow he could successfully land on his father. "Is that how Mom died? You couldn't fight for her?"

Before he could realize what he'd done, his feet were knocked from under him. With a disheartening crack, he felt the stick in his hand shatter. The wood flew from his grasp as the ground hit his back, winding him. His left eye stung like all hell, and before he could raise his arms to defend himself he felt a fist strike his opposite cheek. Then, as quickly as he attacked, his father retreated, leaving Lloyd to sputter and cough in the dirt. Lloyd watched him go, slinking off into the shadows beyond the fire without saying a word.

Well, that sparring match had been half a success. He might never be able to beat his father, but there was little Kratos could do to parry words like that. He curled on his side and stared at the flames, as Noishe crawled up beside him and burrowed his head into Lloyd's limp hand. After a few minutes of petting, when he felt a little better, he sat up. Ashamed but too hungry to pass it up, he reached out to the dirt-covered soup, removed it from the fire, and spooned it into his sore mouth. He ignored the irony taste of what may have been blood, and just told himself to be grateful he didn't have to chew. Each swallow hurt like a new bruise, and he felt himself reaching up to touch his swollen cheek or his split eyebrow every so often, wiping away whatever blood trickled into his eye.

By the time he had eaten his fill, his father returned, green leaves scrunched in his hand. He sat opposite Lloyd, never offering a word, and poured water into the small kettle he usually used for coffee. He lay what he had collected by the fire: three varieties of leaves, a dark flower, a small nut, a strip of thin bark. Lloyd watched him put the kettle on the fire, then carefully peel the leaves from their stems, crack open the nut, and pull the orange pollen from the flower's stamen. When the water began to boil, in went the leaves, the bark, then after a few minutes, the pollen and granular contents of the nut. Then he pulled out a small, folded cloth from his pack and dropped it in the pot. After a few minutes, he removed the kettle from the fire and let it cool.

Noishe, now convinced the skirmish was safely over, curled by the fire and began to twitch, dreaming. Lloyd coughed into his hand as his father removed the cloth from the kettle, stepped over the sleeping animal, and sat down beside him. He silently began to wipe away the blood and dirt from Lloyd's cheeks, his eyes and mouth, then lay the cloth over his swollen eyebrow. Although still warm, the material felt cool and comforting, like ice on a sprain. A herbal aroma wafted from the soft cloth and into Lloyd's nose, sending a wave of relief through him. He felt his muscles relax, and the pain in his face gradually subsided. He yawned.

He knew that although both of them were too stubborn to offer a verbal apology, Lloyd's relaxed silence and his father's tender nursing marked the tacit forgiveness between them. Lloyd's eyelids fluttered shut, and he leaned back on his bedroll. His father readjusted the warm cloth, drooped it over his forehead, and then he was asleep.

It hadn't always been like that, when all they did was exchange verbal or physical blows. Before he had been sent away to school, things were different. When he was little, his father took him everywhere and rarely let him out of his sight. Back then, his father was reasonable and kind, and so unlike the man he was now.

Shortly after his mother died, Lloyd had woken up alone from a nightmare. They had been staying at some inn or another, and when he found that he was by himself in the moonlit room, he began to cry. Unlike other children, Lloyd had a habit of crying softly, discreetly, partly because he was afraid of crying in front of his father, and partly because he was taught that for his own safety, he shouldn't bring attention to himself.

But his father heard. Miraculously, he heard his tiny whimpers all the way from the inn's bar, sprinted up the stairs and kicked the door open, ale in one hand, book in the other, demanding to know if Lloyd was all right. Surprised and frightened by such a dramatic appearance, he began to cry in earnest, until his father came over and sat beside him, lighting the candle and taking his son into his lap.

"I had a dream... about mom."

"We don't need to talk about her."

"Can I have some?" Lloyd pointed to the mug of ale on the bedside table.

His father laughed. "If you want. You won't like it. Next time, I'll bring you some hot mead."

Lloyd ignored his warnings and gulped some of the foam floating at the top, only to spit it out across his lap.

"I'll get you some water," his father said, but Lloyd grabbed his pant leg. He desperately didn't want to be left alone again.

"Read that to me," this time Lloyd pointed at the huge, bronze tome his dad had been sifting through for months.

"You won't like that, either."

"I don't care."

So his father lounged on the bed and took him in one arm, balanced the tome on his knee with the other, and began to read: "It is a matter of utmost importance, and indeed it is the only way to ensure successful forging of the ring, that the fires be fueled with sacred wood. One has several choices when considering procuring such wood. As it tends to grow the largest and most abundantly in the Ozette region, this would be the first choice if one wishes to acquire the finest specimens. However, land ownership laws in the region prevent independent logging. There are myriad legal processes one must endure when attempting to apply for a logging permit, the first of which involves composing a formal letter to the Royal Forestry Service to obtain written permission from the Tethe'allan monarch. Listed below are the various forms and procedures necessary in order to acquire a permit, all of which are subject to change..."