Chapter 10 - Compassion

Chapter 10 - Compassion

I t was late afternoon by the time we finally left the sprawling stone gates of Fritz behind. The imposing gray granite walls and the claustrophobic press of the crowded market streets slowly faded into a soothing blur of vibrant green pastures and shifting golden sunlight. The ambient vibe of urban life was gradually replaced by the rhythmic, grounding cadence of Kelsey's hooves striking the packed dirt road.

We reached the wooden-log gates of Ytval. They let us in without a word.

I still felt incredibly awkward and intensely vulnerable out in the open, but the conversation at the restaurant earlier... For a fleeting moment back there, surrounded by the smell of rich gravy and the warmth of the hearth, I had actually felt genuinely close to them. To my towering father.

But that newfound connection wasn't quite enough to stop the icy fingers of anxiety from slowly creeping back into my chest.

The makeshift cloth hood I had relied on as a psychological security blanket was gone, left somewhere on the dirty cobblestones of the city. Now, with absolutely nothing left to hide behind, I instinctively hunched low at the very front of the saddle. I curled my limbs inward, desperately hoping to physically shrink into myself until I became completely invisible to the outside world.

And Father noticed. Of course he did.

The legendary Sword God possessed a terrifying level of situational awareness, and he didn't miss a single shift in my demeanor. He hadn't said a word yet, but I could feel his gaze flicking down toward me every few moments. Perhaps it was the sudden change in my posture, or perhaps it was the absolute, dead silence that had immediately followed my brief laughter at the tavern.

The radiating warmth of the setting sun brushed against our backs as we navigated the winding road home. By all accounts, it should have been deeply comforting. But to me, I just felt completely exposed.

"Kyro."

My head jerked slightly at the sudden sound of his gentle voice. "Y-yeah?"

The gentle evening wind filled the silence, rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees as Kelsey trotted onward.

"Why are you scared?"

I stiffened instantly, my breath catching in my throat. Honestly, I didn't want to answer him. I didn't want to be seen like this—pathetic, trembling, and completely overwhelmed by nothing more than open air and imaginary eyes. Especially not by a man like Thorskil.

Please, I- I don't want your pity.

"I... I'm not scared," I mumbled.

"Nah," Thorskil said lightly, a subtle shift in his tone. "You are definitely scared."

His voice carried a hint of gentle teasing, but it wasn't unkind. Still, the word stung. I flinched as if physically struck, hunching even further down into the shadow of the saddle. The last thing my fragile ego wanted was to be laughed at.

Thorskil must have sensed the immediate spike in my anxiety, because the playful cadence vanished instantly from his voice, replaced by a sudden note of remorse.

"Ah... sorry about that, Kyro," he said softly, his massive hand shifting on the reins. "I thought a little bit of light teasing might help break the tension. I really didn't mean to make it worse."

...Huh.

I blinked against the sunlight. He had read my internal emotional state that easily, pivoting his entire approach the millisecond he realized he had caused me discomfort.

"It's okay..." I replied softly, the defensive knot in my stomach loosening just a fraction.

For a long while, the only sound accompanying our journey was the steady, hypnotic rhythm of Kelsey's hooves crunching against the dirt path. As the minutes drifted by, I suddenly realized that Lyra had gone unusually, remarkably quiet in the back. A moment later, a tiny, rhythmic snore escaped from somewhere near my father's lower spine.

She was completely asleep. Finally. The loudmouth gremlin had officially zipped it. Peace at last.

A dry, almost invisible chuckle escaped my lips, the sheer comedic timing of her exhaustion briefly cutting through my internal gloom.

And then, Father spoke again. This time, there was an unyielding weight in his voice that demanded my attention.

"Kyro... I want you to listen to me very carefully. I won't judge you. Not for your fears, not for your quirks, not for anything. Not now, and not ever."

I swallowed hard, a sudden surge of bitter, modern skepticism flaring up from the depths of my adult soul. Before I could consciously stop myself, my mouth moved on its own, the words slipping out far sharper and angrier than I had ever intended.

"How could I possibly know that?!"

I snapped.

"How can you promise something like that?"

After a few seconds of silence, a warm hand reached out, gently ruffling my hair with an undeniable, comforting roughness.

"Because I am your father," he stated simply. "And I will always be your number one supporter. No matter what happens, Kyro. Whatever is weighing heavily on your mind, whatever is dragging you down into the dark, you can always tell me. You don't have to carry the weight of the entire world all by yourself."

His words hit me like a tidal wave. Not because they were dramatically scripted or grandly performed, but because they were entirely open and intensely genuine. They came without a single hidden condition, without an ounce of underlying pressure.

I sniffled before I could physically stop myself.

One hot tear slid silently down my cheek, followed immediately by another. I didn't sob. I didn't dramatically break down. My adult mind wouldn't allow a full tantrum, but my tiny, child-sized nervous system just... let it out. The sheer volume of repressed stress simply leaked away.

"I hate being outside," I whispered, the confession tasting like ash in my mouth. "Everyone stares at me. I feel like I don't belong anywhere except the exact corner of a quiet room. Like if people see me, they'll think I'm a disappointment, or just a disposable human , or... or worse."

Thorskil didn't interrupt me. He didn't offer a hollow platitude, and he didn't rush my pacing. He simply listened. So, I kept going, the dam completely breaking.

"And honestly? I really am a disappointment. I... I can't deny it." I dug my fingernails into my palms, remembering my mother.

I am ashamed of being a human, and I couldn't just tell Thorskil! I just—What would he—

"I am ashamed of being a human, Dad."

Thorskil's eyes widened just a bit.

"I know it's incredibly dumb. I know it doesn't make any logical sense. You probably think I'm completely crazy, but every single time a stranger looks at me, my chest gets violently tight. My skin literally itches. I just want to run away and hide forever. And I hate it, Dad. I hate how terrified I am all the time."

The silence that followed my outburst wasn't tense. It felt very safe. Then, I felt the reassuring weight of his hand again, resting gently against my rigid back.

"That doesn't sound dumb at all," he said softly, his voice cutting through the residual fog of my panic. "It sounds like a very heavy burden that you've been carrying for quite some time now. I'm just really glad you finally told me."

I looked down at my small, trembling hands, blinking back another rogue tear.

"If you don't mind me asking, Kyro... why do you feel ashamed of what you are?"

I paused as the question swirled in my mind, heavy and complex. I answered him with the only honest truth I could voice.

"I don't know."

Thorskil didn't press for a deeper explanation or force me to analyze it. He simply gave my shoulder a slow, reassuring squeeze, accepting the answer for what it was.

"That's alright," he said warmly, ruffling my hair again, gentler this time. "You don't need to have all the answers."

"Do you... do you think I'm broken?"

"No," Thorskil said, without a single shred of hesitation. "I think you are human. And a very, very brave one at that."

I sniffled again, aggressively wiping the moisture from my face with the rough sleeve of my tunic. The physical motion was clumsy and unrefined, but in that specific moment, I didn't care about looking elegant.

A small, tentative smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

For a brief period, we rode in absolute tranquility, the rhythmic sway of the horse acting as a soothing lullaby. The late afternoon sun bathed the surrounding dirt path in a brilliant, shimmering coat of orange-gold. I was still inherently scared. The agoraphobia hadn't magically vanished into thin air. But the fear... the fear didn't feel quite so suffocating as earlier.

Suddenly, I noticed Thorskil glance ahead toward the horizon. A faint, knowing grin slowly crept across his weathered face.

"I know you hate the idea of being stared at," he began, his voice calm but brimming with that subtle, calculated fatherly wisdom he always pulled out when you least expected it. "But... what if we tried a little experiment to help you open up to people? Just a tiny step."

I blinked, caught completely off guard. "What kind of experiment...?"

He shifted his posture, nodding toward a specific section of the road about fifty yards ahead. A solitary villager was patiently tending to a heavy wooden cart piled high with fresh hay—a local farmer, likely returning from a long day at the Fritz market.

"See that farmer up ahead?" Thorskil asked gently. "How about... we just tell him 'Good afternoon.'"

I shot a wild, terrified look back at my father, utterly unsure if I could handle it. Thorskil immediately raised both of his hands lightly in a reassuring gesture.

"Only if you want to, Kyro. I will never force you," he said, his rose-colored eyes locking onto mine with seriousness. "But as you grow up, this world is going to hit you with all sorts of unexpected punches. You are going to need physical strength, yes, but you are going to need confidence too. And confidence..." he smiled warmly, "can always start small."

I didn't answer right away. It felt like intentionally peeling back a layer of thick, defensive armor I had painstakingly stitched around my soul.

To a normal person, saying hello to a neighbor shouldn't be difficult, but to me, it felt like jumping off a literal cliff. And yet... there was something entirely magnetic about my father's tone.

I closed my eyes and took a deep, stabilizing breath.

"O-okay..." I whispered, the sound barely clearing my teeth. "I'll try."

Thorskil grinned broadly, giving my back a gentle, encouraging pat. "That's my boy."

As Kelsey slowly closed the distance between us and the stationary hay cart, my heart began pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I hunched my shoulders slightly, then forced myself to sit up straighter, then immediately hunched again in a wave of indecision. My overactive brain was already frantically rendering catastrophic scenarios—the exact way the farmer might glare at me, a face twisted in profound disgust, an awkward silence, or a judgmental smile.

I nearly bailed. My mouth went completely dry as the distance shrunk to a mere ten feet.

"Good afternoon, sir!" Thorskil called out warmly, his booming voice cutting through my internal panic.

The farmer paused his work, looking up and squinting against the bright, cascading sunlight. I hesitated for a fraction of a second as I forced my jaw open. Barely above a whisper, I added:

"...Good afternoon."

The older man blinked, his weathered eyes tracking down to my small form. His face didn't twist into an expression of confusion. He didn't scowl, and he didn't whisper a cruel remark to himself. Instead, a kind, incredibly simple smile broke across his wrinkled features.

"Good afternoon to you too, little master," the farmer said with a polite, respectful nod, tipping his worn straw hat toward us before calmly turning back to secure his hay bale.

...That's it?

No lingering, judgmental stare? No hostility?

A massive breath I didn't even realize I had been holding escaped my chest in a long, shuddering sigh. And just like that, I looked down at my hands, completely speechless.

Father simply smiled.

As we continued down the beautiful, sunlit path toward our homestead, more and more villagers began to appear along the wayside. Some were walking slowly with woven baskets of fresh produce, others were diligently tending to their agricultural fields, and a few were riding lumbering cargo carts back from a different path. They were just ordinary, mundane people going about their entirely ordinary days.

Each time we neared a passing stranger, my father offered a loud, warm greeting. And each time, with a fluttering heart, I forced myself to follow his lead.

At first, my attempts were nothing more than a faint, barely audible whisper. After a few more successful iterations, the whisper evolved into a clear mumble. By the fifth person, it had transformed into a steady and entirely distinct voice.

"Good afternoon!"

And one by one, the villagers smiled warmly; some offered an enthusiastic wave, others nodded with neighborly respect, and one elderly man even loudly complimented Kelsey's pristine dark black mane.

With every single returned smile, my smile widened a little.

I didn't even realize the exact moment the tension in my shoulders had completely vanished. I didn't notice when my spine had naturally straightened, or when the lingering fear had finally become... entirely manageable.

By the time the familiar, welcoming fences of our family farm finally rose to meet us on the horizon, I wasn't cowering behind my father's shadows anymore. I was sitting perfectly upright in front of him and a smile gracing my own face.

And for the first time in either of our lives, I felt truly, unburdened happy.

"...Thanks, Dad," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the gentle evening breeze.

He chuckled softly, his large hand resting on my head for a final, reassuring beat. "Anytime, son. Anytime."

Behind us, Lyra stirred slightly in her deep slumber, shifting her weight against Thorskil's back as she mumbled something utterly incoherent about "punching a berry tart into submission."

"Heh, I guess she still thinks of food when dreaming."

"Well, she is a barbarian—they love to eat."

We both chuckled.

As Kelsey came to a smooth halt directly in front of our farmhouse, my father and I dismounted from the saddle. He moved with the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior, seamlessly swinging a snoring Lyra up into his massive arms like a sack. With ridiculous balance, he managed to cradle her securely with one arm while effortlessly hoisting a hefty, iron-clinked sack of construction tools over his opposite shoulder.

And so, moving in perfect, harmonious unison, we walked toward the front door—just a father, a son, and a loudly snoring sister, all blanketed beneath the warm, radiating violet light of the setting sun.

[End]