A Proud Father

[Kingdom Of Joceus]

[Home Of Yassin]

Lars burst through the door, his heart pounding against his ribs. He found Elio slumped on the worn kitchen table. Bandages, clumsily applied, peeked from beneath his shirt.

A wave of fear and fury crashed over Lars, nearly smothering the sliver of relief that the boy was, at least, alive.

"Elio!" he rasped, forcing his voice into a show of calm. "What the hell happened?"

Elio's downcast gaze finally met his. "Big kids," he mumbled. "They had a bully…a knife." His voice trailed off. "I…I knocked it away. Like you said. 'Fore they could hurt anyone."

"You told me I wasn't allowed to hurt those weaker than me," Elio added quietly.

Those simple words struck Lars like a blow. The boy had obeyed. He'd followed Lars's teachings to the head, even when it nearly cost him his life.

Something shifted in Lars's gaze as a wave of surprise, a strange sliver of pride, washed over him.

These were not the eyes of a child broken by hardship, but ones holding a stubborn spark of defiance tempered by an unexpected sense of morality. He shouldn't have been proud. Yet, he was.

"Should've taught you how to defend yourself without breakin' bones," he grumbled, the words rough, but an unfamiliar gentleness softening them. His hand reached out, hesitant, then settled on Elio's head.

"I'm proud of you, kid."

Elio blinked, confusion warring with a glimmer of hope on his face. Lars had never… he'd barely even touched the boy outside of training or harsh discipline.

This warmth, the faintest hint of approval, was a more foreign language than any Elio would learn from the books Lars forced him to study.

Then, his gaze shifted slightly, landing on the battered armour Lars had discarded near the door. A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Your cape looks cool," he murmured, "With the number one…"

Lars followed his gaze, the hard lines of his face softening slightly. A wave of something he didn't want to name washed over him. In this moment, Elio wasn't a burden or a duty, but a child again. Perhaps, in time, he could be both.

Lars watched Elio's hesitant smile as the boy admired the battered armour and the once-prized 'number one' decorated on the cape. A strange tightness eased within his chest. This was the first time he'd truly looked at the child, not through the lens of his failings, or a grim duty to be endured.

"You never wanted to be a knight, did ya?" Lars asked, startling Elio as much as himself with the question. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, an admission of the unspoken resentment he'd harboured for years.

Confusion flashed in Elio's blue eyes. "You...you told me to be strong," he stammered. "To learn the sword…"

"Because I never had a choice," Lars cut in gruffly, his gaze fixed on the worn floorboards. He was a child of the Order, raised from birth to be a weapon, a tool, just like his father before him.

Now, watching Elio's small form, he felt an old wound throb with renewed pain. He'd wanted better for Elio, but was that truly 'better', or just an echo of his own unrealized dreams?

"It's not about what I want for you," he said, forcing himself to meet Elio's gaze. "You get to choose, damn it. Knight, baker, adventurer...if that's what you want…" The words felt strange, Lars felt hopeful. Maybe, in allowing Elio the freedom he'd never had, He could start to reclaim a piece of his own humanity.

Lars watched Elio's hesitant smile fade into a look of uncertainty as he wrestled with these thoughts. For years, the boy's face had lacked any type of emotion, mirroring the emptiness Lars felt within himself.

"I… I don't know," Elio finally admitted, his small voice barely a whisper. "I just wanted to make you proud."

Lars's eyes lit up once more after seeing Elio do something Lars hadn't witnessed in all their years together – he smiled.

Not a smirk, or the grim satisfaction of training, but a true, unguarded smile that chased away the shadows and transformed his face.

A memory, long buried, clawed its way to the surface. A woman's laughter, her eyes as blue as the summer sky, the gentle curve of her lips… It was a fleeting image, yet so vivid it stole Lars' breath.

Elio's smile mirrored hers, a haunting reflection that pierced the armour he'd built around his heart.

He hadn't felt this in years... not since the day fire had stolen her away, leaving only emptiness in its wake. Grief, joy, longing – emotions he'd believed himself incapable of feeling – warred within him.

"You already do," Lars managed to say, his voice thick. That much, at least, was true.