Title: Stand By Me
Type: One-Shot
Fandom: Tales of Vana'diel
Genre: Melancholic, Sad, Romance implied.
Characters: Mathias Asgard Jr, Kenjii Asgard, Avina Asgard
Rating: Yellow/Orange
Pairing: Avi/Ken
Notes: Time Skip, Possible Future






I had gotten lost in my thoughts, absently observing the sky out of the window from my office.

My feather had been abandoned on the pile of sheets covering my desk, my work forgotten: I had yet to sign any document, and I didn't seem to give a care about the scolding that I had received from one of my co-workers.

I didn't even want to step foot in that office, to be honest.

But it had been my father himself to urge me to go to work, despite all my best attempts to insist and stay home with him to keep him company.

It had been nine months since that day, yet neither of us seemed able to realize it.

It was too strange, to think about it, to face it.

The first days, when I'd go visit my father - either on my own or with my twin daughters -, I'd often find him withdrawn, his gaze empty.

But the worse moments where when we'd go see Mother: the pain on his face was so sad, so shocked, I had a hard time watching him longer than a couple seconds.

As for me, I'd try to show to be strong, even for him, but it's not easy at all. I'd feel worse, with so many memories getting back to me: their bickering, the times they'd scold me, or scolded each other; the good times and the bad ones, the many events of their past that they'd tell me, even of the war they had fought.

At those thoughts, I looked away from the window, one hand absently touching the scar over my eyebrow, looking down at my uniform.

It was so wrong to think about all of that, that very day.

I tried to focus on my documents unsuccessfully, caught by memories yet again: they wouldn't leave me alone, not for one instant, as much as I tried to pay them no mind.

I signed a couple of papers before shaking my head and abandoning my feather again, sitting back against the soft backrest of my chair, staring at the ceiling.

Absently, I looked at the pocked watch with the Asgard crest on the cover, that my father had made for me the day I had married, opening it to check the time. I shook my head, realizing it was a long while before my shift would end, but yet I stood up to walk around the desk quickly, and head to the door: to stay there even just a minute longer would've only hurt me more.

I ignored the calls of my Lieutenant when he saw me running through the corridors, down to the Hall, and leaving as quick as I could and finding my chocobo. I tied up the saddle around its body and grabbed the reins, mounting up and turning it towards the main street: I wanted to leave the Headquarters of the Republican Army behind me that day, screw my job. I started to feel better only once on the road, although that heavy burden on my heart had yet to leave me, just like the previous days.

I quickly rode past a couple districts, until something caught my attention: out of the corner of the eye I saw a flower shop, and I stopped in front of it almost as if my bird had been thinking the same thing.

I felt my lips purse in a sad, humble smile in seeing the flower girl busy in the middle of all those plants, joyful and lively as she'd serve her clients.

What had caused me to stop however, was the big jar displaying splendid white roses, just between the blue and red ones. They reminded me of the one my Mother kept pinned to a blue dress she'd often wear during celebrations. She had told me it had become Father's favorite flower since their official first date, back when they were adventurers, in Aht Urhgan.

I smiled more at that thought, and dismounted.

I decided to buy a bouquet of those flowers just like my Father had been advised, almost forced to get her when I was still a child, to repair for a very bad argument they had had. He hated to follow Uncle Tegian's advice, even more when it was about being romantic, but Uncle Roy had forced him to listen, dragging him to the door with his usual, fiery temper.

I would've given the bouquet to her. It was her birthday, she would've been happy.

I then rushed to the flower girl and bought the roses, paying and greeting to her with a wave before going back to the chocobo. I carefully put the bouquet in the nest that I kept behind the saddle, and once mounted again I rode across Bastok to arrive to the city outskirts.

When I finally arrived at the door, I hesitated on knocking at the door, and instead went for my own key.

Once I had found them, I silently opened the door, before glancing inside: the entrance was dark as usual, and nothing could be heard.

I carefully walked in, quietly, holding the bouquet I had bought.

I found the living room in the dark as well, and I struggled to recognize the figure on one of the couches. At first it seemed Father was reading, even though my ears caught a couple words whispered to the emptiness of the room.

I felt a grip to my heart, daring a couple steps in the room, keeping my pace quiet.

- Father? - I called him, watching his head lift only slightly before he ran one hand on his face and turned to look at me.

He put on his glasses, as if trying to give to his expression the usual serious and tough appearance he had always used with everyone.

He even addressed to me half a smile, but I was well aware it was one that didn't bear any feeling.

- I thought you'd come at five. - He said standing up, and at those words my gaze automatically pointed down, just like when, as a child, he'd catch me in the middle of some mishap.

It was like I didn't remember being almost forty years old anymore.

- I couldn't stay at the office. - I replied, nodding then to the bouquet. - I went and bought these.

That was when he noticed them, and a sad smile touched his face as I approached and handed them to him.

- Twelve white roses and one hydrangea. - He murmured, touching the petals with an absent gate. - Just how she loves them, huh?

And despite his gaze of stone I was almost too positive my father was crying inside.

Even trying to cheer up the situation would've been to no avail; I tried, forcing myself to smile, and it felt like a torture.

- Yeah, she loves this combination a lot. - I agreed, hating me for not managing to find any better word.

A grip took on my throat. I felt that familiar tickle to my eyes. Any more word would've made me burst into tears.

But it was Father to break that moment, breathing before giving me a pat on the shoulder.

- Come on, let's go. - He said, turning to pick up his coat and putting it on, moving the bouquet from one hand to the other as he wore the long sleeves. - You know your mother hates it when I'm the one keeping the other waiting.

At that, a trembling chuckle came from the back of my throat.

- Yes, she always says that is your job. - I pointed out, feeling my throat obstructed again.

I quickly let out a cough, and gulped to free it, following Father out of the living room and into the hall.

Back at the entrance then, my eye fell on the few pictures displayed on the drawer nearby. I felt to be smiling stupidly when I found the one portraying me on my Graduating Ceremony, right next to another where Mother and Father were together, their lips almost touching.

It was Father's call to force me to look away from those memories, and I rushed to him at the threshold, then out of the house, leaving them behind: I didn't want to let them overwhelm me and make me unable to ride.

My Father's palfrey was yet to be saddled due to the early hour, but it didn't take him long. Hardly allowing me to give any help, he quickly saddled the chocobo and mounted up, before we'd both head to our destination.

No word was spoken along the road, unless I count vague statements every now and then, or our brief reciprocal glances.

It didn't take more than twenty minutes to cross the city and stop the birds, to turn and look towards the gates of destination.

I hadn't gone there many times during those months by myself: either because of work, but mostly because I just couldn't. I'd go with Father… just like that day.. or my older sisters when they'd manage to drag me there. I never was as strong as them.

At those thoughts I dismounted with a sigh, realizing only after that Father had already dismounted and was waiting for me with the bouquet in his hand.

I gave it a move and stepped up to his side, already smelling the humid scent of soil and flowers fiercely filling my nostrils.

The silence then engulfed us in a sort of bubble, sometimes shattered by the whispers of other people around us, as I'd watch them walk slowly.

They all walked slowly there, without a word, everyone closed in their thoughts, respecting the sanctity of the place where we were.

We walked past a couple people we knew, greeting them with a humble nod, to then step in the grassy field nearby.

Once again I felt that violent grip to my heart, that oppressing feeling of abandonment overwhelming my chest. It didn't go away even as we arrived, instead, it grew stronger.

Looking at that white tombstone where my Mother's name was engraved, I caught myself wanting to yell that it was all a big joke. That it wasn't possible.

Only five years ago she was in great shape, perhaps healthier than she had ever been since she had suffered the surgery in the Near East. Despite her age, she had insisted to keep working as an adventurer: even though I'd tell her to retire, she'd just keep sushing me repeatedly, pointing out that she was planning to carry on that crazy dream until the end.

And so it had been. She had been torn away from us, so suddenly.

She had laid down feeling more exhausted than usual, that far away night, and the morning after she hadn't opened her eyes.

I had returned to Bastok in a rush soon as I had known. I had stupidly tried to convince myself that it was all a big joke to convince me to go visit them. Father and Mother had often complained I wouldn't visit them often enough since the day I had married and moved in Adoulin, sometimes jokingly saying that I'd have just forgotten them and never know when they'd be gone.

But I knew it wasn't a prank. Time had ran its course.

During the funeral I didn't hear a single word of the ceremony, just staring at that coffin being slowly lowered in that hole and slowly covered with fresh soil. And then, feeling as empty as if all my organs had been pulled out of my body, I had stayed there with Father and my sisters on the turned-up soil. He had kept a respectful silence all day, as if completely extraneous to all of what had happened around him. But when I had accompanied him home, after our sisters had left to return to their families, I couldn't dare leave him alone, I just couldn't in that situation. The right moment the women had left the house, he had burst in tears like I had never seen him do in all of my life. Even during the darkest times of our nation.

He was experiencing a pain that couldn't be compared to anything else, a grief that couldn't be mistaken for any other.

That night we abandoned ourselves to tears, in each others' arms until the end when, shaken and exhausted, we had both fallen asleep on the couches of the living room.

To remember that while looking at that tomb was of a devastating effect, so much that II felt the urge to look down, absently running the back of my hand over my eyes.

- We brought you your favorites, Avi. - I heard Father's voice speaking, addressing to the silent marble with a feeble voice as he placed the bouquet to the ground. - Mathias bought them just for you.

And I almost had the impression to hear Mother replying with one of her funny comments, with that sarcastic, amused tone that had often been her characteristic.

"Of course HE did. Dear, you really should teach your father how to be a knight sometimes!"

I saw Father crouch down to the ground, and I decided to do the same, struck by a strange sense of dejavù: the last time we had been like this, sitting to observe a tomb, had been a far day of my fifteen years, in Tavnazia. A fight between Father and Mother… perhaps the worst I had ever witnessed… and off onto the first airship headed towards Aunt Malay's birthplace, where we went to visit the tomb of her older brother. It was so strange to think of all those past events just that day. Maybe I was still fighting the truth, hoping to go back home and find Mother in the kitchen, welcoming us with an amused: - About time, I thought you had left me here to prepare my birthday cake by myself!

Her birthday, that's right. We couldn't even celebrate, not even for the last time, the day she had been born.

At those thoughts I lowered my gaze again, reaching with one hand to the ground and slowly playing with a thread of grass much like a child, catching it as I felt Father's voice addressing to the grave, much like a sweet, low lullaby.

I didn't speak for many minutes, seemingly lasting eternally, but I found myself looking up to him when I heard his sigh.

His eyes were empty, though I had the impression he was caressing that white marble tombstone with his blue gaze.

- It's strange. - He commented all of a sudden, almost struggling to sound sarcastic. - She ate bullets and orc axes and she was wounded for so many years and never snuff it, and then she pulls up this prank and leaves for no reason. - I saw his lower lip trembling, perhaps shaken with grief and something similar to rancor. - She didn't even kiss me, that monkey. Not even a damn last kiss, that night. Tired, she said.

Unable to find any word to comfort him, I just scooted closer, running one arm around his shoulders, trying to at least make my presence known, however worthy.

He glances at me, pressing his lips in another small smile that seemed to express absolutely nothing, at that moment.

Without a word he made me move the arm away, and the patted me on the back, looking back at the grave as if that was the only grasp left to fight that insane sorrow tearing our innards apart.

He went on to whisper again, addressing to that invisible interlocutor of his that was Mother, paying me no mind if not for some brief instant.

And I just let him do it, well understanding his pain.

He had lost a woman that had been an anchor for him, a teacher, a rival, a paragon, and more and more as time passed around them. She had become his partner, the woman with whom he had wished to spend the rest of his life.

And even to me she had been more than a parent. She had been the one I had opened myself to the most, she had been the one that had been taking care of me during that odd phase in my childhood where there had been struggle between me and Father, and it had been with her that I'd run to when I knew I was in trouble with Father because of some poor grades or some trouble with one of my girlfriends.

Thinking back of the goofy teenager I had been I felt the corners of my mouth purse in a small smile, moving my gaze from the grand green field of the graveyard to that white marble, to wish, if only in my mind, happy birthday to Mother.

It was silly, I knew so.

I had never believed to any deity and in no after-life much like my mentor, but there and then, deep in my heart I hoped that those few, quiet words would go to Mother, wherever she was.

Another half a hour passed before I saw Father stand back on his feet.

I looked back at him, as he kissed the tip of who fingers and using them to touch the grave, in a gentle and slow caress.

Then he turned to look at me, motioning to me before turning to walk back towards the exit of the graveyard without waiting for me.

I followed him with my eyes, standing up and approaching the tombstone, mimicking my parent's gesture. I gave Mother a little smile, to then hurry and catch up to Father's side and head back to our chocobos.

We didn't speak a word when we arrived to them, much like when we had left home, slowly mounting on our saddles. We turned them in direction of the city and left the graveyard behind us, heading back to the home where I had been born and raised.

Suddenly a scent that I knew all too well, and that I hadn't sensed up to that moment, came to my nostrils, catching my attention.

It was unreal, honestly.

For a moment my thoughts had gone to a presence that couldn't be there, before my rationality convinced my hear that it couldn't be so.

- Dad? - I called, wanting a confirmation.

I saw him turn his head at me out of the corner of the eye, his expression sad and empty. - What is it? - He asked with a tired voice.

- Have you by chance… used Mother's perfume? - I asked, awaiting for any reaction to my question.

There was a silent moment that seemed to last eternally, before he took a deep breath and rested his hands, holding the reins, on the saddle horn.

- Yes… I'm using her cinnamon water. - He murmured, lowering his eyelids. - It's stupid, isn't it? - He asked, as if realizing something.

I quickly shook my head, and I was sincere.

- No, it's not. - I wanted to reassure him, daring to look away from the road to observe him, to then stare back ahead. - It's just… for a moment I thought she was here, riding with us. - I added on impulse, feeling that I was the stupid one in that conversation.

I heard that the sense of smell is the one more prone to stimulate one's memory.

It was damn true, it looked like.

That was when i heard Father's laughter, a laughter absolutely empty of any enthusiasm, or of that strange, sarcastic note that had always been his characteristic.

- Aren't we emotional, today. - He commented, although he seemed addressing to himself rather than me. - If your mother was here now, she'd be laughing her ass off at us.

We turned right, and I let myself to a small chuckle despite the new choking feeling in my throat.

- She wouldn't let drop it for a while, that's for sure. - I added.

- And if I got mad at her for that, she'd negate me sex. - He added, and at his own words he fell back quiet, resting one hand on his shoulder to caress, over his black coat, his old wound.

I didn't reply and added no more to his words, just nodding briefly and keeping my eyes on the road, glancing every now and then at the expression on my father's face.

In the silence of the outskirts our thoughts started to wander again, with no obstacles, letting us get lost in the memories of a long gone past.


"Vana'diel belongs to crazy people and dreamers."

Wasn't that what you told me once, Mother?