Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For three days straight, Kratos just slept. 

He has asked to retire shortly after Lloyd's group left for Derris-Kharlan. And if his keeling over earlier was any indication, it probably meant that he was at his limit at that point. He's bound to collapse from both exhaustion and injury.

Dirk led him to Lloyd's room, which remained clean and spotless even if the actual owner has barely rested on it these past few months. After giving a polite thanks, the taciturn knight quietly unfastened his sword, removed his coat and boots, and slipped into the bed. He has been fast asleep since then. 

On one hand, Dirk is proud that his son inflicted such a blow to Kratos that all his body could do was rest and recover. On the other, he is slightly beginning to worry for the man. Who the hell sleeps for three days without food or water?

He's been told that Kratos is, well, different. An angel. It's probably that, then.

In any case, he keeps the stew warm for when he finally wakes up.

Kratos awakens but is still visibly weak. Any chance to join Lloyd in his final crusade against Mithos is decisively quashed.

But not without fuss on the part of the injured man himself, Dirk notes internally. He sees him eyeing his sheathed sword from the corner of his eye and the dwarf knows exactly what he's thinking. Because he's seen the very same look on Lloyd after he's been told not to practice with his sword at night (but does so anyway). 

"Don't ya even think about it," Dirk admonishes while handing over a piping-hot bowl of soup to Kratos. It briefly crosses his mind that he's scolding a 4,000-year-old being, but he couldn't care less. Not when he's being as bull-headed as his son. "Just leave it ta Lloyd and the others. They'll be fine."

Kratos' face falls a bit, mouth pressed thinly like he's been caught in the act. Dirk can see that he wants to respond (see, stubborn), but instead swallows up the words with a spoonful of soup. He considers this a personal win.

"How is it?"

Kratos gives an approving nod. "It's good."

If he's not in Lloyd's room resting, or outside taking care of Noishe (Lloyd finally decided to leave the poor creature behind for its own safety), Dirk finds him kneeling in front of Anna's grave. 

It's become a steadfast vigil of his, as if the tombstone contained the world's greatest treasure and he its infallible guardian. Maybe he takes comfort in her memories. Or maybe he's counting regrets as innumerable as the stars. Dirk's quite not sure—the man is harder to read than the open book that is his son. 

He lets him be. But he also calls him to meal time.

"That sword you gave Lloyd—it's a masterpiece of a blade, indeed." There's a firmness in the former Cruxis member's voice as if what he is saying is an absolute, unquestionable fact. Dirk gives an appreciative huff. It's always nice to hear good words about his work. 

"Heh, glad ya think so." He went on with pounding newly-heated metal into into shape—part of the new batch of weapons for Iselia. The unusual spike in monster activity meant an increase in demand for weapons. "Lloyd has always pestered me into crafting him swords on his birthdays, so I wanted ta give the lad somethin' special when he comes of age. I just didn't expect ta give it to him a lot sooner."

There is a thoughtful 'hmm' from Kratos and the dwarf continues, "Say, the sword you gave 'im was also something else."

"Ah yes, Flamberge," Kratos replies, "It has served me for a very long time."

How far that time goes, Dirk can only guess. But he recalls its flaming sheen, the way it swung flawlessly on Lloyd's hand as he tested its grip. And he remembers Lloyd, blazing red and bright blue on both hands, standing proud and unstoppable as he carried the pride of his parents. Both of them.

The distinct sound of fizzling fills the room as heated metal quickly meets water. "I just hope our boy makes proper use of 'em swords."

"I'm certain he will."

On one particular afternoon, he stumbles upon Kratos looking intently at a shelf full of trinkets and figurines. He picks up a rather crude-looking wooden figurine with mismatched paint and uneven eyes. If those even are its eyes. 

"It's a piece of work, isn't it?"

The man turns to him and politely bows his head, offering a quick apology for looking at his things without permission. Dirk just waves it off with a grin. It's a display shelf, he says, so it's meant to be seen. 

Kratos carefully thumbs the figure's splotches of green. "Is this a crocodile?"

"It's Noishe."

"...This is Noishe?"

"That's what Lloyd told me," Dirk's laugh is loud and rough and it fills up the whole room. Much like Lloyd's. "He gave that ta me when he was five. I taught 'im that the best gifts are those he makes himself, so he crafts all kinds of things. He even makes 'em for his friends, too."

"I see. So these are all..."

"That's everything Lloyd gave me," the surface-dwelling dwarf heaves proudly, eyeing the knick-knacks with a touch of fondness, a touch of nostalgia. It grew to quite a collection throughout the years, but each one is clean and well-cared for. Even the weird Noishe sculpture. "Your guess is a lot better than mine though. When Lloyd gave that ta me, I thought it was a cucumber. Made him upset all day."

That made Kratos laugh.

"...Could you tell me more about Lloyd? From when he was growing up," the man asks, almost too quiet to be heard, tentative and uncertain but also unguarded and affectionate. He could never get back all those lost years, but at least he could imagine them.

And to this, Dirk gladly obliges. "Sure."

To his own surprise, Dirk finds himself truly enjoying the company of the long-aged warrior. 

It's a far cry from the noise and roughhousing that he's been accustomed to with Lloyd, that's for sure. But with Kratos, he gets to have level-headed discussions on things like dwarven smithing, artifacts, and even dwarven culture. (He learns the unfortunate truth that many dwarves were in fact involved in Cruxis operations. This whole mess wasn't just created by humans or elves or half-elves. His kinsmen played their part too, by being nothing more than mindless tools intent on perfecting the craft rather than caring for how it will be used. But what is done is done.)

In turn, he would inquire about rare materials and those that can only be found in Tethe'alla (when—not if—Lloyd succeeds in joining the two worlds, he'd definitely be on the lookout for those). They'd talk about weapons of old, Sylvarant in ancient times, the town Kratos came from, the town Lloyd was born, and even cooking techniques and recipes. He didn't strike him as a chatterbox, but the man would readily answer questions and share pleasant stories. And after months of being alone, it was a breath of fresh air. 

Dirk would also get unexpected help from time to time. Things he would mutter under his breath as he's running low of, whether it be for his smithing or for the house, he would later find an extra stock or two in his storeroom. He doesn't know how he gets these, and Kratos doesn't say anything either, but he thanks him nonetheless.

Most of all, he enjoys his companionable silence. The quiet afternoons where he would just pound and hammer and toil wordlessly while the man would sit idly by the dining table, reading whatever he gets his hands on like manuals or even Lloyd's school books. Kratos would make coffee for them both and they would sip in silence, with no weight or need to fill the air with words. Just two men with a shared bond of parenting a particularly unruly, if not soft-hearted and sentimental teenager.

"You're going to leave?"

"Yes." A grim line settles on Kratos' face, like his path is set in stone. On his hand is an almost-forgotten cup. "Once Lloyd's journey is complete, I plan to stay in Derris-Kharlan and see through the proper disposal of the remaining exspheres. This is my responsibility as part of Cruxis."

Derris-Kharlan. Dwarven eyes briefly glance toward the window, to the massive block that's been covering most of the sky. The fact that it's still there means that his son is still fighting the good fight. But when it's over...

"Will you be coming back?"

Silence.

"So that's a no, then."

He swirls his own mug, which by then has gone lukewarm. Somehow, his mind raced back to the time he met the unfortunate Anna. Bloody, broken, and dying, her only wish was for him to keep her little boy safe and happy. And what would make Lloyd happy is—

"Shouldn't you bring him with you?"

Startled, it takes Kratos a few moments to answer. Lloyd coming with him is perhaps something he never even considered. "I am an irresponsible man who left all his problems to his son. I even tried to run away from my duties by dying at his hands. I don't deserve him."

A beat, and then a heavy breath. "I see. So that's that."

The dusk-like haze of Derris-Kharlan still hung heavily outside, across a sky that looks as unnatural as it is foreboding. But it was heavier still inside the cabin, in the stillness that stretched between the two of them. 

Dirk sighs again and clears his throat, all while thinly resisting the urge to glare at the person in front of him. Some frustration must have seeped through the cracks though as old hero levels him a concerned look, the knitted eyebrows and clamped mouth looking entirely foreign on his usually-stoic face. Oh well. Might as well let him know what he thinks. 

"You know," Dirk starts, the undertone heavy, "that boy maybe is as dumb as dull rocks and as stubborn as a mule. But he trusts so readily, forgives so easily, and loves so deeply."

The message is clear. You're going to break his heart. 

Kratos' frown deepens. Good.

Dirk downs the now-cold coffee in one go. 

It's during one of his morning vigils that the stocky dwarf approaches him, favor in tow. 

"Kratos, could ya help me out with somethin'?"

He could tell that the man is troubled by something—whether it be what they talked about the other day or something else, he doesn't know. But he decides not to pry. (Not for the first time, Dirk gets distracted by just how much the father and son look alike. If not for the auburn instead of brown, he almost sees Lloyd hunched over his mother's grave instead of Kratos.)    

"Of course." The man stands up and agrees without second thought. He hasn't even heard what the favor is.

He's decided to build an extra room in their house.  

"I've been planning to extend the house for some time now. I just didn't have the time or people ta do it," Dirk explains while inspecting his building tools. It's been a long time since he brought them out, but they look to be in good condition. "Since it'll be a small room, I figured the two of us can do it just fine."

On his part, Kratos looks...well, he doesn't look any different. No trace of annoyance or irritation, maybe just a tad bit curious on how things would go. That's another thing Dirk likes about him; for a 4,000-year-old being, he sure doesn't complain much. Other people or dwarves he knew wouldn't even give things like these their time of the day.

"Ya ever built a house before?"

Kratos pauses in thought, sifting through millennia of memories. "I've assisted here and there." 

Dirk grins and hands him a saw. "That's good enough." 

The next few days were marked by the sounds of hammering, lifting, and sawing. 

They first clear a small area behind the house. And then they make quick work with the foundation, the walls, door, hinges, and the knobs in between. He'd probably get an earful from Lloyd later how he's putting to work his supposedly-resting father, but Kratos doesn't seem to mind.

(He also discovers that wings can be pretty useful in construction. No need for ladders; you can just swoop in and be where you want to be. Pretty things too, those wings are. But there's a certain loneliness in them he can't put a finger on.) 

In return, he cooks up a feast each and every day. He and Lloyd have always been partial to meat, but Kratos seems to prefer fish so he rustles up a bounty of meat and fish meals worthy of feeding the entire village of Iselia. The man assures him that it's okay, he doesn't eat much anyway, but Dirk's motto has always been hard work should be rewarded with good food.

There is still that ominous shadow in the sky, but somehow it's getting fainter, more distant. The dwarf already thinks of what to feed the small group of heroes who saved the world (maybe a feast worthy of Triet this time), and thereafter, the meals to prepare for his family—meat and fish and all.

Kratos' eyes were as big as saucer plates.

"My...room?"

"That's right." Funny that he should stutter now, Dirk thinks. He's never known the angel to lose his words. Is the revelation that they've been building his room all along that much of a surprise? "It's just the bed for now. But I'll be addin' a cabinet and some shelves since ya like to read so much. Maybe a potted plant or two."

The man opens his mouth like he was about to say something, but then closes it firmly—jaws set tight and eyebrows furrowed. Dirk knows this look. He's seen it right after the destruction of the Iselia human ranch, when he refused the offer to stay for the night. He's also seen it that afternoon when they discussed his plans after. He knows exactly what Kratos is going to say.

"I'm sorry, but I must politely decline. After this, I will be—"

"—Leaving? Bah," says Dirk, coarse but not unkindly. "It doesn't matter where ya go. Even if ya drift to the ends of the universe, you'll always have a place right here."

He manages to stun him for the second time that day. Dirk thinks there might be a punishment somewhere for cutting off angels mid-sentence. But some things need to be said, ancient hero or not. 

"Listen. It's not about deserving to be called Lloyd's father or not. And I'm not gonna replace ya as you won't be replacing me." There's a mild sea breeze coming in through the only window, and somehow it makes everything lighter. Like a nap on a gentle afternoon. "But the boy clearly wants you in his life. Worthy or no, he wants to build something with ya—something that's been taken away from you both by unforgiving fate. He wants the chance ta start over as family."

There's a shift in the man's posture, and all of a sudden the angel looks old and fragile. Like one of those ancient relics ready to fall apart just by the slightest touch. "He need not carry my burden—the burden of belonging to Cruxis and all the malice and hatred that come with it."

"But he doesn't want ya to carry that burden alone either. And neither do I," Dirk breathes out. "That's what family is for, right? Sharing each other's happiness and pain. Carrying each other's burdens. And being there for one another even if the whole world scorns and rejects ya."

When Kratos doesn't say anything, the dwarf continues. "Look, I'm not going to stop ya from what ya plan ta do. I know how important that task is. But maybe after, if you're willing to take that chance as well..." he gestures to the room, "This room—this house will always be open to ya."

The man keeps quiet still, eyes frayed and mouth twisted in deep thought. Maybe what he asks is impossible. But Dirk can tell that something has unraveled. Something absolute became not so certain at all. And that's good enough for him.

"...Thank you, Dirk. I will think about it."

"You're welcome," the dwarf laughs and gives him a firm slap on the back. 

(He feels him slightly recoil from under his hand. Lloyd did tell him he puts too much force on his back pats.) 

Lloyd's group stops Mithos and the two worlds have finally been reunited into one. Honestly, it doesn't feel any different yet. But they returned safely and that's all that matters. 

It soon becomes chaos in Dirk's house. Lloyd, Genis, and the two Tethe'allans Regal and Presea are having an eat-off (with Presea leading by a wide margin); the flashy man he has come to know as Zelos (Dirk swears he sometimes have to squint his eyes when looking at his direction because that man's too damn bright) is talking rather animatedly with Colette and Sheena, which for some reason leads to a whole fish being stuffed down his throat; and Lloyd's teacher Raine is quietly talking with Kratos on the side over some ruins and other things that pass him by. 

Eventually, a certain Yuan appears (apparently another angel, Lloyd tells him), who initially was just talking with Kratos privately before being dragged by Lloyd inside, kicking and screaming. Some shouts were exchanged, food came flying, and something like pride swells in Dirk's chest seeing how his boy made so many good friends and companions along the way.

Later on, in the quiet of the night, Dirk sees the father and son standing before Anna's grave. He doesn't hear what they're saying, nor did he want to intrude. But he sees under the moonlight the slope of Lloyd's head hung low, and a gentle hand resting on the boy's messy locks.

It was Lloyd's turn to be surprised. He looks around the room like a child given a new space to play with. "This is actually pretty cool, Dad!" 

"Well, I wasn't the only one who built it. Kratos helped out as well."

Lloyd blinks at him. "Wait, you made him help? Shouldn't he be resting?"

"I am fine, Lloyd." The supposedly-resting man heaves a sigh, but the slight crease on Lloyd's forehead only deepens to a full frown.

"But-" 

"He's alright, lad. He's had plenty of rest. You can quit worryin' too much," Dirk says in what he hopes to be in an assuring manner (and silently thanks Kratos for the assist. Otherwise, he'd never hear the end of it from Lloyd). He did ask for Kratos' help but he made sure not to strain the injured man. 

Lloyd glances between the two of them and drops it, uneasily bobbing his head. Lloyd would never admit it but he can be a real worry-wart at times. But he was flanked here by his two parents, and the normally headstrong boy had no choice but to yield.

Something then perks up Lloyd's attention, and he approaches the room's only window with resilient wonder. A soft shadow of a smile forms at his lips.

"You can see mom from here."

Kratos joins him by the window, looking out over the same memorial stone against the verdant green. "Indeed."

The morning light brokers a rare calm, spilling into the trees and bathing their little corner of the world with warm radiance. The room takes it with grace, old wood meets new, and Dirk can't help but wonder if the choice he made over fourteen years ago was more a miracle to him than it was for them.

"...Do you think he needs more pillows? Maybe an extra blanket. It gets pretty cold here at night. Maybe--"

"I told ya ta quit worryin' too much. Your father's just fine."

His adopted son squints at him. "By the way, Dad."

"Hmm?"

"How come he gets so many bookshelves? You only ever built me one."

"Ya never even open your own books, ya dolt."

"..."

Lloyd continues his training sessions with Kratos, but he also asks Dirk to teach him how to craft better key crests. Sylvarant is currently overflowing with people from human ranches—people without key crests—and he wants to help however he can. Dirk agrees and puts him to work, pouring his heart into teaching just as Lloyd pours his into learning. He is his dad after all, and he taught him to work with full intent or not at all.

Eventually the days flow like water, and all the trainings, lessons, and humdrums of life meld together and lull them in a comforting sense of familiarity. House chores were done, afternoon cups were shared, and dinners were messy affairs—with Lloyd slowly inching towards the edge of despair as Dirk shares his most embarrassing moments while Kratos recounts the times when he was still a toddler.

It was a peaceful orbit of three people, and Dirk honestly couldn't ask for more.

And then, Kratos is gone.

He figured it was time to travel to Derris-Kharlan before it becomes too distant from their world. And Lloyd readily accompanied him, both as the only person who can send him to Derris-Kharlan, and as a son who now only counted the days, hours, and minutes before he is once again separated from his father. Possibly forever.

(Dirk doesn't miss the way Lloyd dragged his own feet, as well as Kratos' own heavy footsteps, but this is not his choice to make. He leaves it to the two, and more importantly, he leaves this to him.)

Before leaving, the angel gives him a deep bow and some brief but sincere words of gratitude. Instead, Dirk offers him a firm handshake and a solemn nod. All things that needed to be said have been told. And as one father to another, more so as a cherished friend and family, there is simply no need for new words between the two of them. 

It was long after they have left that the dwarf stumbles upon a curious sculpture in the dining table. It was made of wood and has a sanded finish, but it was rough in its making and had an odd shape. Below it is a note written in impeccable handwriting: 

Thank you for everything. 

"The best gifts are those ya make yourself," Dirk amusedly repeats to no one in particular. He places the statue among his collection and silently prays to the vast sky for the safety and happiness of one ancient warrior, wherever he may be.

Sometimes, Dirk catches his son staring vacantly at Anna's grave—or rather, at the lone sword beside it. Sometimes, when the night sky is vast and the stars too many to count, Lloyd gets this faraway look as if he's looking for something amidst the ocean of lights. And sometimes, when he thinks nobody is looking, Lloyd brings out the worn-out locket from around his neck and stares at it for a long time—like he is seeing the locket but also sees something else.  

Today, he catches Lloyd standing in Kratos' room.

And for a while, Dirk draws a blank on what to do. This is different from when Lloyd had been crying and screaming for his real parents all those years ago when he was still very young. Back then, it was easy to say that his parents were dead (with one presumed to be) and that they were with him always, even when he can't see them.

Now, one parent is discovered to be very much alive but is now immeasurably apart. How do you comfort the child who has been left behind?

Maybe it would have been easier to get angry at Kratos. And on some measure, he is. Any parent would be.

But Dirk remembers the man he spent afternoons with. The angel who searched all over the two worlds just to give his son a fighting chance against an impossible foe. The father whose face visibly sank just at the thought of breaking his son's heart. 

More importantly, he has this nagging feeling—call it a hunch, maybe a parent's intuition. Like an insistent hand tugging at the edge of his mind. Lloyd did say that he had a premonition on the day the Chosen received the oracle. Well then, this is his--in all its absurdity and uncertainty and sentimentality.

A blind faith that the man would choose his child in the end. No matter how impossible the stakes are. 

And so he comforts his son the way he knows best. 

"Lloyd!" his adoptive father calls out to him, and before Lloyd can even react, he gets shoved a handful of linen sheets.

"Wha—"

"Just because ya saved the world, doesn't mean you get to slack off on chores," Dirk barks, pointing to the lone bed in the room. "Go change the sheets of your father's bed. Wouldn't want him coming home to a dusty bed now, do ya?"

The boy's face immediately twists in some measure of confusion, maybe even of anger. "He's not—"

He's not coming back, is what he wanted to say, what he knows. He swung the eternal sword, he sealed his own father's fate, he—

Lloyd blinks. And bites his tongue.

There, in the hardy face he’s known almost all his life, is a wide stretch of a lazy smile, crinkling at the sides of unbearably tender, knowing eyes. The same look that saw him off to the Journey of Regeneration and then back again. The very same that welcomed him as a son all those many years ago when he had been so afraid and so alone.

It tells him: I know, I understand, but--

"What? You think your father wants ta sleep in some stale sheets?"

--but believe in me. Believe in me when I say that your father will return.

He will return.

And to this, he breaks. Because the logic in his brain tells him that it's impossible, his father is in some space rock floating to spirits-know-where, forever out of reach like the faintest star in the night sky.

But he's never had a reason to doubt Dirk before.

And most of all, he wants to believe. Logic wasn't his strong suit, anyway.

The boy's face crumples, the hands that gripped pristine sheets turn shaky and white-knuckled. He swallows and tries to gives his adoptive father the best approximation of a smile he could muster—which is watery at best. "No..." his voice comes out a sob, "No, he wouldn't want that." Believing has never felt so heavy and hopeful.

The gentle tilt of Dirk's mouth becomes fuller, and his warm hand becomes a welcome weight on Lloyd’s shoulder. "Then go change it."

"Hey Dad, what's this?"

At the sight of the newest figure in his collection, Dirk lets out an amused sound. "Your father gave that ta me."

"He did? Wait, what...exactly is it?"

The dwarf strokes his beard in thought. Come to think of it, he never really did get around to finding out what it is. 

"This 'ere is obviously the head and this part is, well, the tail," Dirk nods confidently, "looks like a dragon ta me."

Lloyd shoots him a look like he just said Noishe can fly. "It's not a dragon, Dad. These are the wings and this part is the beak. Maybe a chicken?"

"Use your eyes, boy. That one's a tail, not a beak."

"It has feathers!"

"Those are not feathers," Dirk says flatly. "They're just attempts to smoothen out the surface."

"...Oh."

The dwarf snorts. They'd be up all night if they ever were to settle this. "Well, let's just ask your father once he comes home."

The boy gives a light, easy smile. "Yeah, we'll ask him then."

"He also saw your Noishe sculpture."

"You showed it to him?!"

"Didn't have ta. He found it himself."

"...I swear I'm gonna chuck that one in the furnace as soon as I get the chance."

"Do that and I'll smack ya to next week. Got that?"

"..."

Soon, Lloyd leaves for another adventure. And then another. Because saving the world—two worlds in fact—isn't enough to give him a break. It needs him again and again and again, and his son is all heart and virtue to not say no.

(Dwarven Vow #1: Let's all work together for a peaceful world. He worries for the boy of course, but he makes him so, so proud.)

In turn, he frequently finds himself only with Noishe for company and the occasional friendly visit from Frank. More than fourteen years ago, this kind of solitude would have been his daily life. But when his universe expanded into three (with one currently lost in the vastness of space)—well, it could get lonely sometimes.

But that's his burden, he supposes. The two are out doing what they can to build a peaceful world, and he does his part too the way he knows best: by hammering and crafting and rebuilding the world, alongside everyone else.   

For the meantime, he changes the sheets, waters the plants, and keeps the house clean. The furnace fire never goes out, and there's always warm food in the kitchen.

"It's just me again today. Hope ya don't mind," Dirk mutters quietly to the lonely gravestone. Tidying up Anna's resting place had previously been Lloyd's (and Kratos') task, but since they're both not here, he takes over for now. Not that he minds.  

"I've been hearing good things about your son," the dwarf starts as he scrubs the stone clean and brushes the engraving. The fact that there's little dirt to be had at all speaks volumes of the care poured into the memorial. "He's been busy collecting exspheres but I hear he's also been involved in the reconstruction of towns. Frank gives me news and letters now and then."

He then pours water over the stone. "Your husband too. I don't have the faintest idea where he is now, but I know he's doing well." He sweeps the dead leaves, picks out the stray weed, and changes the flower pots. No matter the season, they make sure Anna's gravestone blooms all year round.

Satisfied, he gathers his bucket and cleaning tools. "Could 'ya tell them something for me though. Tell Lloyd ta come home once in a while. It'd be good to see his face," he says, swiping the stray sweat from his forehead. Summer will be coming soon. "...And tell Kratos ta hurry it up and come home. The lad and I are waiting." 

He gets the most peculiar guest at his doorstep today: the Cruxis angel Yuan, who is carrying what looks like an armload of books. Oh, and he also prefers tea. 

"Kratos told me to give these to you," he says matter-of-factly, pointing to the little mountain of tomes. "These are books and manuals created by the dwarves who worked for Cruxis. I reckon they contain a great deal of knowledge that will be useful to other dwarves such as yourself."

A deep knot forms between the dwarf's eyebrows, creasing his face like a passing storm cloud. Dirk knows full well what those dwaves did in exchange for such knowledge. "My foolish ancestors decided ta sacrifice their heart and countless others just ta have that knowledge. I don't know what I'd gain by readin' those."

To his credit, the angel doesn't seem fazed or offended. He instead simply sips from his cup. "I agree with what you said about the dwarves. What they did—what we did—is inexcusable." Unlike his angel contemporary, there is a certain straightforwardness that easily rolls off Yuan. Maybe it's because Dirk has seen him have a shouting match with Lloyd over a chicken leg, but there is honesty in his emotions—whether flaring temper or calm remorse—that Dirk trusts. 

"That being said, knowledge, like any other tool, can be used for right or wrong. And Kratos said that you can use this knowledge to help the survivors of human ranches, many of whom require the special skills of dwarves."

The dwarf thoughtfully looks over the pile books before sighing loudly, mussing the mohawk of his hair. He wasn't keen on correcting his ancestors' folly, but if it can be used to help people...

"...It's hard ta say no if ya put it that way."

"Excellent." The angel straightens his posture, looking relatively pleased with the response. Dirk grabs this chance to ask for others matters—matters like a certain angel currently lost in space.

"Have ya heard anything from Kratos? Do ya know when he'll return?"

Right away, something about his visitor changes—jaws clenched, fingers curling and uncurling around the steaming cup like he is about to break some bad news. "Kratos is...he is currently journeying with Derris--"

"Derris-Kharlan, I know," Dirk finishes.

"If you know, then you must also be aware that returning is impossible."

The dwarf sips from his own cup. He prefers coffee, but tea is good once in a while. "Impossible things have happened before."

Impossible things, like a whole new planet being so close to theirs. Like beings with wings, living for thousands of years. Like discovering a dying mother and son while out collecting wood. Like a father meeting his presumedly-dead son after so many years. Like reuniting two worlds that have been separated for millennia. Yes, impossible, miraculous things have happened before. They happen all the time.

Yuan studies him—really studies him, eyes brimming with something like wonder. "Do you really believe he'll return?"

"Call it a gut feeling. Or maybe family intuition."

Yuan's brows shoot through his forehead. "You consider him as family?"

"Well, he got a room 'ere, ain't it?"

The angel considers him for a moment before bowing his head slightly. "Of course. My apologies, and...thank you."

Lloyd is home for the occasional visit. He never stays that long—maybe a few days or so—but Dirk relishes each visit all the same.

(He also can't help but notice how Lloyd has grown. Two years after that fateful journey and his features are sharper, his form more pronounced, and he is in every way set to look like his father except in color. There is that small part of him though that yearns for the little boy he cared for and tucked in to bed each night—wide-eyed and curious as he listened to stories of heroes, dungeons, and monsters. But that is a parent's lot.) 

This time, Lloyd gives him a carved bust of a unicorn he once met on his journey. It was small and light—compact enough to be tucked away inside the item bag—but has a delicate outline, a smooth finish, and precise details. The dwarf hums his satisfaction (much to Lloyd's relief, who simultaneously relaxes and perks up from the praise) and places it carefully in his almost overflowing display shelf.

Later on, he spots Lloyd placing a small wooden figure at Kratos' bedside table. It's a small boat, just as skillfully crafted as the other one.

"It's something I said we'd do together," his adopted son flusters, rubbing the back of his neck out of habit. He then tells him of a houseboat he got in Luin and how it's not much but it's a good start. Something like hope, maybe a bit like longing shine brightly in the boy's eyes, and Dirk for once is glad that Lloyd inherited that stubborn streak.

-

-

It was Noishe who first found him. 

The usually docile animal whined and cried and it alerted both Dirk and Lloyd, who looked at each other and then at the door. Lloyd offers to check on the noisy animal and makes his way to the front, but when he remains rooted by the entrance, the dwarf steps in from behind. 

"Lloyd?" Dirk asks, unsure as to why his son remains unmoving, until he, too, gets a glimpse of the outside.

There, on the pathway leading to the house, is a cloaked man gently petting the excitable Noishe. The shock of red hair is unmistakable.

For a moment, everything in the world stood still. Or at least his and Lloyd's world. The wind gets knocked out of them, jaws hang slack and eyes remain fixed on the man affectionally rubbing the creature's head. For a while, only the happy sounds of Noishe's yips and howls can be heard. 

"Fa...ther..." Lloyd finally manages to squeak out, more of a whisper really than actual words, and the man turns his head and settles his gaze on the boy. It was a face so much like Lloyd's, the curve of his smile exceedingly soft and gentle.

"Lloyd..." Kratos answers, a single breath thick with emotion, fragile and reaching as if he has left his heart and has found it again. 

And it's enough to break the spell. Lloyd rushes out and, in a blink of an eye, has his arms fully embracing his father with intense, vivid ferocity. He is nearing Kratos' height now, shoulders visibly shaking, and his father returns his embrace with the same earnestness. Noishe circles around them in a delighted trot. 

Dirk comes out as well, arms crossed but his face upturned and wearing the widest grin. He offers his quiet thanks to the sky for guiding back the man who's chosen differently—who's decided that his place is by his son's side. The road to redemption need not be a lonely one, after all.

Kratos lifts his head from Lloyd's shoulder and meets the eyes of the proud dwarf, his gaze conveying gratefulness, appreciation, and apology all at once. 

Dirk bellows out a hearty laugh. 

"Welcome home."

Chapter Text

“Farewell, Yuan Ka-Fai, my friend.”

The single blue screen fades to black

Kratos’ gaze lingers on the dead monitor. The finality of it feels…nothing. Hollow. An immense, echoing emptiness like a rock tossed into a deep chasm. He sighs.

They are now entering deep space, a place almost infinitesimally distant from Aselia. Home is just a dot in the horizon now, no different from any one of the billions of stars he used to look up to each and every night in his millennia of existence. Soon, it, too, will get swallowed up by the vastness of space.

He spent the last two years scrounging up each and every corner of the Cruxis’ headquarters to find every last piece of exsphere. True enough, Cruxis still had enough of these to plunge the world into chaos once over, and it took him a while to be confident that he’s gathered most—if not all.

The mountain of exspheres he collected, he has long scattered into the vacuum—slowly but surely, almost meticulously, in batches so that he can be assured of their ejection. While he had to make sure that they were far enough from Aselia so that no piece would accidentally reach the planet, he also knew he had to move quickly. These tiny crystals are as powerful as they are an abomination—gathering so many at one place would just invite trouble.

So for a long while, that had been his life. Gather then scatter. This is his promise to Lloyd, after all.

Lloyd.

A single name, a hitched breath, and all of a sudden the nothing flares to something—an intense pang of longing and loneliness and regret, searing and sharp than any physical wound. He remembers Dirk’s words, Lloyd’s muted pain as he commands the eternal sword, and it hurts—it hurts—he doubles over, one hand finding support in the control panel desk, the other unconsciously grasping at the ghost of a locket on his neck. The locket he gave his son.

(…A tiny, despicable part of him regrets giving it to Lloyd. Because how could he possibly do this, with nothing to hold on to as he floats away to the unknown? With no picture, not even a sound, or—)

The door behind him opens and the heavy footfalls of a soldier march in. Kratos breathes in deeply, schools his face, and turns.

“Sir.” A half-elf soldier greets his vision, tall and commanding and one who looked like he’s reached half the lifespan of half-elves. Kratos knows him as Sten—a native from Tethe’alla who experienced first-hand the cruelty of existing as a half-elf, before eventually being recruited by Cruxis and becoming a high-ranking officer. He previously had been an enemy, but turned when he learned of the Age of Lifeless Beings.

He may be one of the few he trusts here in Derris-Kharlan. “What is it?”

“We found something that warrants your immediate attention,” Sten says with certain urgency wrapped in military formality. There was hardly any need for that now, Kratos thinks, but one cannot immediately undo centuries of practice.

The angel nods his head and follows.

Derris-Kharlan is big.

Not as big of a planet as Aselia, but large enough that he, too, sometimes gets lost and discovers new rooms and places despite his 4,000 years of stay. This planet had been the original home of elves, after all. It’s even older than life on Aselia itself.

So it comes as no surprise that they reach a place he has no recollection or familiarity. The passages were winding and the architecture itself was ancient—even more so than Mithos’ castle. Astoundingly, there were still running lights, and Kratos can’t help but wonder how long ago has this passage seen new life before the soldiers found it?

(He also briefly thinks of one half-elf healer who would have melted had she been given the chance to come here. They’re good people, Lloyd’s companions. Maybe they gravitate to him as a moth would to a light source.)

The endless hall soon leads to a large room, and inside are strange-looking capsules with even stranger runes, beak-like fronts, and wing-like structures. Many were in disrepair, but some look to be in working condition. There was space inside for at least one or two people.

“What are these?”

“Our initial analysis is that these are transport vehicles. Maybe even exploration crafts, like ancient rheairds,” Sten answers dutifully. “Our best guess is that the ancient elves used these to travel to Aselia.”

Kratos responds with a contemplative hmm. It could be. Before relocating to the rocky planet, the elves must have first sent some exploratory missions from Derris-Kharlan.

But something drops at the pit of his stomach, like there’s an unspoken subject hanging in the air. He looks to the half-elven soldier and right then, he could see the passing shadow of a thought crease the man’s forehead. He’s trying to piece together the right words, Kratos realizes, and he only needed to wait until the soldier gathers his thoughts.

He didn’t need to wait that long.

“Sir,” Sten says with defining clarity, “please use the vehicle to travel back to Aselia.”

Instead of a pit, his stomach full on lurches. “…What?”

Travel back…?

“Derris-Kharlan had been entangled with Aselia for thousands of years. Even far apart, some threads of mana have remained between the two. We can use that to guide the machine towards Aselia,” the half-elf explains. “But as Derris-Kharlan travels further away, the mana links stretch thin. This maybe your last and only chance to get back home, Sir.”

Kratos’ mouth is left hanging open. He does not even know where to begin, how to comprehend all of these. All thoughts came rushing, fiercely taking up space all at once. How could this machine—? No, we don’t even know if it works—my place is in the past—maybe I can go back home—need to watch over Derris-Kharlan—perhaps a place in the future—no, no, Cruxis is—Lloyd is—

“If I may speak freely, Sir,” Sten’s voice cuts through the haze. It had the undertones of calm consideration, far from the soldier-like beat he hears from him all the time. Kratos just looks at him, not even bothering to hide the confusion from his face.

Sten takes it as a prompt to continue. “I…chose to stay here in Derris-Kharlan because I’ve lost everything. I have no family or friends and have no other ties except for Cruxis. The others here are the same. Derris-Kharlan is our home, our future. But you, Sir…you have a son. That boy who united the two worlds."

Kratos swallows hard. Even though Lloyd is a constant and wanted thought on his mind, hearing him from others outside of Yuan’s transmissions is…disrupting. Makes his senses go haywire.

The veteran soldier continues. “You have ably guided what’s left of Cruxis in settling down here. For that, we are eternally grateful. Should you choose to stay, we will appreciate it all the same.” He then takes a tentative step forward, if only to emphasize his next thought.

“But we will be grateful, too, if you can work towards a world where everyone is treated fairly. An Aselia where everyone can live in peace, no matter their race.”

The vision Mithos had hoped for. The dream Anna had wanted. The future Lloyd is building.

The future…does he really have a place in it?

Kratos doesn’t know. 4,000-years-worth of grief, mistakes, and regret weigh him down like an anchor, threatening to swallow him up in the darkness of space. In many ways, he is dead—even among the living of Derris-Kharlan.

But something else persists—something stubborn calls to him, clinging to him like a persistent hand, taking the shape of a boy with twin blades under some silly notion that two swords would make him twice as strong (he could hear him say: math! and it makes him roll his eyes and laugh at the same time).

It takes the shape of a dwarf, hearty and strong, as grounded as the earth and mountains. Ready to bark at him if he hammers the nail just a bit off center, but ready to laugh just as easily.

It takes the shape of a lived house, of blooming pots of reds and pinks, of the sea breeze that easily mixes in with old wood, and of the cacophony of smithing sounds and forest noises and voices—two of them.

It takes the shape of home.

Kratos smiles. He’s still not sure whether he has a place in the future. But he has his son and a friend and a place to call home, and that’s more than enough. He’s so tired of running away, anyway. He wants to go home.

“Awaiting your command, Sir.”

Thousands of thoughts crashing, echoing, and layering on top of one another are all silenced by three simple words. “I’ll do it.”

Sten’s eyes light up, as if pleasantly surprised with the angel’s response. He quickly straightens with a resounding “Sir!” and rushes to what seems like the control panel. Kratos has no idea if he even knew how to operate the thing. Maybe the soldier just goes by with some universal cues like up and down arrows, green for go and red for warning.

Speaking of warning. “The mana link has grown considerably thin,” the half-elf pinches his mouth, face falling in alarm over the screen. “There is a seventy—no, sixty percent chance of connecting back to the planet.”

“And if we lose the thread midway?”

“Then the vehicle will be left to float in space, Sir.” A grim prospect.

Sten stares at him expectantly, waiting for his confirmation anew. And while the calm, rational part of Kratos wants to consider the situation first—maybe step back and crunch the numbers, look into the possibilities—it is drowned out by the ruffled voice of a rough, trusted friend. 

' He wants the chance ta start over as family’.

Well, he wants to take that chance, too. For Lloyd, he’ll take any gamble.

Kratos gives a simple nod, and Sten confirms.

The machine sputters and opens up in what may be the first time in thousands of years, and Kratos could feel his heart race. He realizes belatedly that he doesn’t have the faintest idea what he’s doing. All he knows is the fire in his veins, the thundering march of his pulse. Like he’s been asleep for a long time and is now finally awake.

He steps in and the contraption closes around him, sealing it shut. The inside feels strange and cramped, but he pays it no mind and seats himself anyway. He could see Sten from the contraption’s lone window, and the soldier gives him one final, firm salute. The lone speaker inside buzzes static then clear. 

“May that new world no longer see another Cruxis.”

And he’ll make sure of it, Kratos thinks, bobbing his head in a solemn pledge for the soldier who gave him this chance. For the people of Derris-Kharlan. For Mithos and Martel. For Anna. And for the countless lives lost at the wake of all the hatred, madness, and indifference. He’ll see through it together with his son.

Something in the room rumbles, the vehicle positions itself for flight, and then it takes off—the feeling both like and unlike riding a rheaird except it’s faster, a hundred times faster. The vehicle shakes violently, purple haze gives way to black, and soon Kratos finds himself a lone passenger surrounded by the void of space.

For a moment, it was…peaceful. Serene, in fact. The stars at his single window have never been so beautiful, even against the views of wide-paned Welgaia. And it reminds him of the stories he used to tell Lloyd each night—of comets and constellations and bridges of light that connect two people with yearning hearts. The passing thought of being able to star-gaze with his son again makes his stomach flutter.

The vehicle is shocked by another violent rocking, and Kratos finds himself holding on tightly to the armrest as he braced against the turbulence. Unfamiliar symbols flare up on the screen, long-sleeping contraptions blare loudly, and he has absolutely no idea what any of it all means. Maybe the mana thread has been lost. Maybe the ancient machine is disintegrating from years of slumber. Kratos doesn’t know.

But he is calm. He accepts it—accepts this, whatever this maybe, salvation or damnation—and closes his eyes.

He tunes out the chaos and instead hears the soft rustling of trees and the filtered voices of three half-elves arguing about their next meal. He feels his wife’s steady hand on his trembling arm as he held his son for the first time, long lashes and chubby cheeks buried underneath mounds of cloth. He breathes in the living scent of the forest as he and Lloyd talked about the stars out in the balcony, the constant sound of smithing not too distant away. He exhales. Yes, he is at peace. 

In between the chaos and the calm, the real and the imagined, he thinks he hears the familiar cadence of an ancient voice—long and measured like time itself.

Acknowledged.

Everything then fades to black.

He wakes up to the smell of smoke.

A sputter and an uneasy groan escape his mouth, eyes blinking in and out of clarity from the haze and the sudden brightness pouring from the only window. Moving his head to clear the debris and confusion, he is greeted by the sight of his cabin in an alarming state of disarray—wires dangling, monitor shattered beyond repair, and a growing fire in one of the panels.

He blinks. And blinks again. Fire. Fire!

Cursing his disoriented senses, he quickly maneuvers his body amid the suffocating smoke and uses all his angel strength to kick open the door—releasing the fumes and flooding the inside with even more light. He uses his remaining strength to push himself out of the vehicle.

Where am I…?

For a moment, he only sees the thick smoke from the cabin’s fire and the smoldering remains of his vehicle scattered about in the small crater created by their less-than-graceful landing. He squints and adjusts his vision. If anything, the flooding warmth of sunlight tells him that this is definitely not Derris-Kharlan. This is…

In the distance, he catches a glimpse of a familiar ruins. More than familiar, actually—it's what's left of the Tower of Salvation, the place of his departure, the very last image of Aselia burned into his mind before his self-imposed exile.

Aselia. He is back in Aselia.

He swings his body and drops from the vehicle, attempting one wobbly step and then another before falling down on his knees, shaking. Gravity is stronger here in Aselia compared to Derris-Kharlan. He laughs, soft and foreign even to his own ears, and his chest twists from bursting emotions that it makes him dizzy—a fierce combination of overflowing relief, gratitude, and even disbelief.

He squeezes the fistful of soil from under his palm. He is home.

…Well, not quite yet, he quickly corrects himself, pushing his body off the ground and into steadier footing. Home is still quite a bit of a trek away. He doesn’t even know how long has passed since his departure from Derris-Kharlan. And the voice he heard during his voyage, was that…?

Kratos shakes his head. There is enough time to ponder about that later. For now, he secures his sword, steadies his pace, and starts his long walk towards home.

Deep in the unchanging Torent Forest, an ethereal bird makes a silent landing. The blazing gleam of light and mana from its wings illuminate the forest floor like the sun has descended upon it.

When it speaks, it does so with an olden beat, like ancient melody. “It is unlike you to move without prompting, Origin.”

Another spirit appears, and the primeval trees sway a little as if bowing to an old friend. “I only followed the command of the sword-wielder,” Origin says simply, “not spoken, but carved deep inside his heart.”

Aska hums in amusement. “You are starting to sound just like Verius.”