Tales of Symphonia - new series of fics
Dec. 15th, 2007 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seikilosTitle: Substitute
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1771
Disclaimer: I don't own Tales of Symphonia.
Summary: He stands in for her in the remains of her life, out among the unknowing rest of the world.
Spoilers? Technically, to the second time at Mount Fooji.
Author's Notes: Based upon the now-dead RP![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
symphonicstory. I won't say too much, because it'll spoil the story, but its premise was to see how Tales of Symphonia would change if certain characters switched roles. This fic (and likely several more in the same series) concerns one such swap.
He finished reading the last report of the day and placed it in the “completed” pile on his desk. After quickly scribbling a few reminders to himself about the contents of the paper in his personal shorthand, he rose and walked to the door that separated his office from his personal apartments, turning off the lights and keying in the code to lock the door behind him.
Another day was drawing to a close for Kratos Aurion, leader of the Renegades.
He had worked late that night, and so it seemed his wife was already in bed. He made himself something small to eat to supplement an evening meal hurriedly consumed, finished it, then moved to his bedroom.
Anna was sitting up and reading in her nightgown with only one bedside lamp providing yellow light. Presumably hearing his soft footsteps, she looked up and smiled at him.
He smiled back. Every day, she seemed a bit better. Her smiles came more easily and did not seem to have quite so much pain behind them. Her nightgown, a pretty sapphire blue, was another sign to him of her recovery. Up until a year or two ago, she had covered every inch of her whip-scarred skin, even when she was alone with him. Her current sleeping dress, however, was sleeveless. The scars were still there, crossing and doubling back on themselves, but all he saw was her firm, toned arms, born of her work both old and new.
“You were working late again,” she told him.
He began stripping down, reaching for his own night clothes. “Forgive me. I became preoccupied by one of the later reports and lost track of time.”
He saw her set down her book on the nightstand out of the corner of his eye. “I'm going to have to recruit Pronyma to keep an eye on you, if you're not careful. I'll do it, too,” she added.
He lifted the blankets on his side and moved beneath them. “That won't work if you attempt it in official capacity.”
Private Anna Irving smiled. “I don't need to.”
His only answer to that was a sigh as she scooted over and laid her head on his chest. He felt as well as heard her laugh softly, the sound both welcome and in a way painful to him.
She didn't laugh often, his wife, though in recent days, he had been hearing that beautiful sound more and more. Now he was about to impart news that would take the laugh from her voice and the smile from her face. He could not keep it from her; she would not forgive him if she ever learned otherwise. A small frown settled upon his forehead. He did not like choices such as these, those choices that weren't.
Kratos curved his arm around his wife, pulling her close. For one moment longer, he was silent.
Then he spoke: “Your brother is remarrying in four days.”
She stiffened under his arm, pulled back to look at him in the dim light. “Simon . . . ? But how did you . . . ?”
“Intelligence reports.” He had told her the Renegades monitored her family in case Kvar had the idea of trying to replace his Angelus Project experiment subject with someone of similar genetic make-up. He wondered how long it would be before she realised that, six years later, her family was now out of danger. Then he always thought that perhaps she could not bear to spend any time thinking about her family—or that she was simply letting him do as he wished.
He felt Anna press her face into his shoulder, and he wove his hand into her cropped hair, fingers lightly brushing her scalp. After a moment, she asked, lips moving against the fabric of his shirt, “. . . Who is it?”
“Her name is Amanda,” he replied quietly. “Amanda Weaver.”
Another pause. This time, he felt her nod, heard the slight shift of fabric sliding over his skin. “I remember her. He'll” —he heard in her voice the moment tears overcame her— “be happy.”
Silently, he reached over her and turned out the light. In the windowless, absolute darkness of the room deep inside Sylvarant Base, Kratos settled back onto his pillow and held his wife close. If a patch of his shirt became warm and wet against his own scarred skin, he did not comment.
*
“If that is all, Lord Kratos . . . ?” Pronyma asked him, already preparing to go.
“Yes, it is.” He lifted his eyes from the paper to dismiss her, then hesitated. “. . . Wait.”
She turned back, lifting a shaped eyebrow in query. “Yes, Lord Kratos?”
He looked into her face, then let his eyes fall to the papers on his desk. Moving paper from one pile to the other without any real purpose, he asked, “. . . What does one usually wish to observe at a wedding?”
He could hear the surprise in his second-in-command's voice as she answered him. “I'm sure I wouldn't know, Lord Kratos. I haven't precisely had much time to attend weddings over the course of my life.”
Now he looked up at her. “Pronyma.” The “please” hung heavy and unsaid in the air between them.
She stared at him, then sighed, reaching up to press the button that de-activated her transport device. As her feet slowly touched to the ground, toes then heels, she said, “As I said, I've been to few weddings, but as far as I'm aware, people talk about what the bride's gown was like, what the bridesmaids were wearing, who the musicians were and what did they play—those sorts of things.”
Kratos picked up a piece of paper and scribbled down the list. His usual shorthand was useless here—not many Renegade reports contained the word “bridesmaids.”
“What else?” he asked.
Pronyma pursed her rouged lips, thinking. “Well—there would be who was there and what the food was like. The subjects of the speeches made, and any particularly interesting comments made during them. Anything of note said by the guests. What the party was like afterwards. . . . Lord Kratos, if you don't mind me asking, why in the worlds do you want to—”
“That is all, Pronyma,” he cut in. “Thank you for your information. You are dismissed.”
He bent his head to his work. There was a long pause before the gentle whir of Pronyma's transportation device started up. It receded, and soon after, he heard the door to his office slide open, then shut.
He pulled out his notes and studied them once more. There was so much to remember, and he would have to try to commit it all to memory. He could not bring a notebook if he wished to blend in with the guests; all that transpired would have to be stored in his short-term memory.
That, at least, was still intact.
He realised he had forgotten to ask Pronyma what one usually wore to a wedding. He would simply have to find something that was formal, but not too expensive for someone from the declining world to own.
He ran his eyes over his notes one more time before returning to work.
*
Kratos sat near the back of the small church as the guests assembled for the short service that preceded the wedding. A few guests had made uncertain motions to show him to the door—after all, he was seemingly a stranger intruding on a private wedding—but his coldest stare had made them falter. As the brother-in-law to Simon Irving, he had far more right to attend the service than many of the other guests present.
The musicians began playing, and the guests around him stood. Belated, Kratos did the same as the woman who matched the description of Amanda Weaver entered the church on the arm of a man who was presumably her father.
She had dark hair and seemed to be in her mid-thirties. Her dress was simple: white and trimmed with pale blue ribbons. It was understandable in a poor town living in the shadow of a Desian human ranch. Kratos tried to commit to memory the kinds of flowers in her bouquet, but failed; he did not know their names and knew their descriptions would slip away before he could record them. He did his best to memorise their colours—pale blue and white—before turning his attention to the waiting groom-to-be.
Anna had spoken about her family only rarely, haltingly. It was too painful for her to do more. She had been snatched from them in a Desian raid when she was barely twenty-one, and though Kratos had rescued her, he had been forced to fake her death at the hands of the Renegades to prevent pursuit. She could never leave the Renegade bases. She could never let her family know she had not died that day, but had survived, recovered, married. Had a child and given him up. Begun fighting for the sake of not one world, but two.
She could never say goodbye, and so, in a way, he was doing it for her.
He sat automatically with the remainder of the guests as the priest began to speak, sounding like one who was reciting familiar words. Kratos must have heard them countless times before over the course of his lifetime, but his traitorous, fractured memory refused to acknowledge them.
The service was as new to him, and in a way, he almost felt it was more fitting.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today. . . .”
*
“Your brother was married today,” he murmured to Anna in the darkness.
“I know.” Her response was only a whisper.
“The bride was wearing white and blue, and the colours of the flowers she held matched her dress. She wore her hair in a kind of pile upon her head. Some strands had fallen out, or she had let them, and. . . .”
“Kratos.” His name was said upon a sob, and he felt his wife shake with the effort of suppressing more.
He lifted a hand, and with a thumb, carefully wiped away the wetness he felt on first one cheek, then the other.
“Your father and mother were there. They both seemed proud. There were many people at the wedding, and five musicians. . . .”
His words were spoken into the night as he looked straight ahead, seeing nothing. From time to time, he lifted the hand not cradling Anna to wipe away her tears. He continued to speak about the day for quite some time, and his wife held him too tightly from the beginning to the end.
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1771
Disclaimer: I don't own Tales of Symphonia.
Summary: He stands in for her in the remains of her life, out among the unknowing rest of the world.
Spoilers? Technically, to the second time at Mount Fooji.
Author's Notes: Based upon the now-dead RP
symphonicstory. I won't say too much, because it'll spoil the story, but its premise was to see how Tales of Symphonia would change if certain characters switched roles. This fic (and likely several more in the same series) concerns one such swap.He finished reading the last report of the day and placed it in the “completed” pile on his desk. After quickly scribbling a few reminders to himself about the contents of the paper in his personal shorthand, he rose and walked to the door that separated his office from his personal apartments, turning off the lights and keying in the code to lock the door behind him.
Another day was drawing to a close for Kratos Aurion, leader of the Renegades.
He had worked late that night, and so it seemed his wife was already in bed. He made himself something small to eat to supplement an evening meal hurriedly consumed, finished it, then moved to his bedroom.
Anna was sitting up and reading in her nightgown with only one bedside lamp providing yellow light. Presumably hearing his soft footsteps, she looked up and smiled at him.
He smiled back. Every day, she seemed a bit better. Her smiles came more easily and did not seem to have quite so much pain behind them. Her nightgown, a pretty sapphire blue, was another sign to him of her recovery. Up until a year or two ago, she had covered every inch of her whip-scarred skin, even when she was alone with him. Her current sleeping dress, however, was sleeveless. The scars were still there, crossing and doubling back on themselves, but all he saw was her firm, toned arms, born of her work both old and new.
“You were working late again,” she told him.
He began stripping down, reaching for his own night clothes. “Forgive me. I became preoccupied by one of the later reports and lost track of time.”
He saw her set down her book on the nightstand out of the corner of his eye. “I'm going to have to recruit Pronyma to keep an eye on you, if you're not careful. I'll do it, too,” she added.
He lifted the blankets on his side and moved beneath them. “That won't work if you attempt it in official capacity.”
Private Anna Irving smiled. “I don't need to.”
His only answer to that was a sigh as she scooted over and laid her head on his chest. He felt as well as heard her laugh softly, the sound both welcome and in a way painful to him.
She didn't laugh often, his wife, though in recent days, he had been hearing that beautiful sound more and more. Now he was about to impart news that would take the laugh from her voice and the smile from her face. He could not keep it from her; she would not forgive him if she ever learned otherwise. A small frown settled upon his forehead. He did not like choices such as these, those choices that weren't.
Kratos curved his arm around his wife, pulling her close. For one moment longer, he was silent.
Then he spoke: “Your brother is remarrying in four days.”
She stiffened under his arm, pulled back to look at him in the dim light. “Simon . . . ? But how did you . . . ?”
“Intelligence reports.” He had told her the Renegades monitored her family in case Kvar had the idea of trying to replace his Angelus Project experiment subject with someone of similar genetic make-up. He wondered how long it would be before she realised that, six years later, her family was now out of danger. Then he always thought that perhaps she could not bear to spend any time thinking about her family—or that she was simply letting him do as he wished.
He felt Anna press her face into his shoulder, and he wove his hand into her cropped hair, fingers lightly brushing her scalp. After a moment, she asked, lips moving against the fabric of his shirt, “. . . Who is it?”
“Her name is Amanda,” he replied quietly. “Amanda Weaver.”
Another pause. This time, he felt her nod, heard the slight shift of fabric sliding over his skin. “I remember her. He'll” —he heard in her voice the moment tears overcame her— “be happy.”
Silently, he reached over her and turned out the light. In the windowless, absolute darkness of the room deep inside Sylvarant Base, Kratos settled back onto his pillow and held his wife close. If a patch of his shirt became warm and wet against his own scarred skin, he did not comment.
*
“If that is all, Lord Kratos . . . ?” Pronyma asked him, already preparing to go.
“Yes, it is.” He lifted his eyes from the paper to dismiss her, then hesitated. “. . . Wait.”
She turned back, lifting a shaped eyebrow in query. “Yes, Lord Kratos?”
He looked into her face, then let his eyes fall to the papers on his desk. Moving paper from one pile to the other without any real purpose, he asked, “. . . What does one usually wish to observe at a wedding?”
He could hear the surprise in his second-in-command's voice as she answered him. “I'm sure I wouldn't know, Lord Kratos. I haven't precisely had much time to attend weddings over the course of my life.”
Now he looked up at her. “Pronyma.” The “please” hung heavy and unsaid in the air between them.
She stared at him, then sighed, reaching up to press the button that de-activated her transport device. As her feet slowly touched to the ground, toes then heels, she said, “As I said, I've been to few weddings, but as far as I'm aware, people talk about what the bride's gown was like, what the bridesmaids were wearing, who the musicians were and what did they play—those sorts of things.”
Kratos picked up a piece of paper and scribbled down the list. His usual shorthand was useless here—not many Renegade reports contained the word “bridesmaids.”
“What else?” he asked.
Pronyma pursed her rouged lips, thinking. “Well—there would be who was there and what the food was like. The subjects of the speeches made, and any particularly interesting comments made during them. Anything of note said by the guests. What the party was like afterwards. . . . Lord Kratos, if you don't mind me asking, why in the worlds do you want to—”
“That is all, Pronyma,” he cut in. “Thank you for your information. You are dismissed.”
He bent his head to his work. There was a long pause before the gentle whir of Pronyma's transportation device started up. It receded, and soon after, he heard the door to his office slide open, then shut.
He pulled out his notes and studied them once more. There was so much to remember, and he would have to try to commit it all to memory. He could not bring a notebook if he wished to blend in with the guests; all that transpired would have to be stored in his short-term memory.
That, at least, was still intact.
He realised he had forgotten to ask Pronyma what one usually wore to a wedding. He would simply have to find something that was formal, but not too expensive for someone from the declining world to own.
He ran his eyes over his notes one more time before returning to work.
*
Kratos sat near the back of the small church as the guests assembled for the short service that preceded the wedding. A few guests had made uncertain motions to show him to the door—after all, he was seemingly a stranger intruding on a private wedding—but his coldest stare had made them falter. As the brother-in-law to Simon Irving, he had far more right to attend the service than many of the other guests present.
The musicians began playing, and the guests around him stood. Belated, Kratos did the same as the woman who matched the description of Amanda Weaver entered the church on the arm of a man who was presumably her father.
She had dark hair and seemed to be in her mid-thirties. Her dress was simple: white and trimmed with pale blue ribbons. It was understandable in a poor town living in the shadow of a Desian human ranch. Kratos tried to commit to memory the kinds of flowers in her bouquet, but failed; he did not know their names and knew their descriptions would slip away before he could record them. He did his best to memorise their colours—pale blue and white—before turning his attention to the waiting groom-to-be.
Anna had spoken about her family only rarely, haltingly. It was too painful for her to do more. She had been snatched from them in a Desian raid when she was barely twenty-one, and though Kratos had rescued her, he had been forced to fake her death at the hands of the Renegades to prevent pursuit. She could never leave the Renegade bases. She could never let her family know she had not died that day, but had survived, recovered, married. Had a child and given him up. Begun fighting for the sake of not one world, but two.
She could never say goodbye, and so, in a way, he was doing it for her.
He sat automatically with the remainder of the guests as the priest began to speak, sounding like one who was reciting familiar words. Kratos must have heard them countless times before over the course of his lifetime, but his traitorous, fractured memory refused to acknowledge them.
The service was as new to him, and in a way, he almost felt it was more fitting.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today. . . .”
*
“Your brother was married today,” he murmured to Anna in the darkness.
“I know.” Her response was only a whisper.
“The bride was wearing white and blue, and the colours of the flowers she held matched her dress. She wore her hair in a kind of pile upon her head. Some strands had fallen out, or she had let them, and. . . .”
“Kratos.” His name was said upon a sob, and he felt his wife shake with the effort of suppressing more.
He lifted a hand, and with a thumb, carefully wiped away the wetness he felt on first one cheek, then the other.
“Your father and mother were there. They both seemed proud. There were many people at the wedding, and five musicians. . . .”
His words were spoken into the night as he looked straight ahead, seeing nothing. From time to time, he lifted the hand not cradling Anna to wipe away her tears. He continued to speak about the day for quite some time, and his wife held him too tightly from the beginning to the end.
