[Bia's words come at the same time as Yuan's. She snarls and lifts her dripping sword at Yuan.]
SHUT UP! You've no right to speak here, Sylvaranti scum --
Don't speak to him that way.
[Kratos's voice is the softest and calmest of the lot of them, bearing falling to calm composure with the resoluteness of his choice, despite the internal tumult still making his hands tremble, his heart roar in his ears. Bia snarls, and it's an expression he's only seen her direct at people she hates, directed at him.]
I said to myself, it's a fluke, not even Sylvarant would throw people at the ford forever; it wasn't Kratos, Kratos wouldn't lead Sylvarant into our home --
I didn't.
[His voice is still soft, the kind of soft which absorbs accusation and rage and makes it nothing.]
It's just him. I won't leave him.
[His voice has thickened.]
He has no one, except me. I can't leave him, Bia.
[Kratos has no more words than that. Not right now. For once Bia's facade cracks: her facade of rage, made as calculatingly as Nike's smile and Kratos's blank face, and inhabited as surely as if it's truth. It cracks, and Bia laughs, soft and twisted with hopelessness they've all felt; and, for all that, with a note of manic, joyful incredulity that Kratos is still Kratos.]
You haven't changed, you romantic fool.
[A bugle sounds somewhere off to the side, the frantic sort to hasten retreat; and it's accompanied by a crash of renewed battle to the side. Bia signals Leda and turns to rush between the trees, and it's easy to believe she's left without a word; except floating soft over her shoulder is something Kratos only barely catches himself, and only because he's heard it before.]
no subject
[Bia's words come at the same time as Yuan's. She snarls and lifts her dripping sword at Yuan.]
SHUT UP! You've no right to speak here, Sylvaranti scum --
Don't speak to him that way.
[Kratos's voice is the softest and calmest of the lot of them, bearing falling to calm composure with the resoluteness of his choice, despite the internal tumult still making his hands tremble, his heart roar in his ears. Bia snarls, and it's an expression he's only seen her direct at people she hates, directed at him.]
I said to myself, it's a fluke, not even Sylvarant would throw people at the ford forever; it wasn't Kratos, Kratos wouldn't lead Sylvarant into our home --
I didn't.
[His voice is still soft, the kind of soft which absorbs accusation and rage and makes it nothing.]
It's just him. I won't leave him.
[His voice has thickened.]
He has no one, except me. I can't leave him, Bia.
[Kratos has no more words than that. Not right now. For once Bia's facade cracks: her facade of rage, made as calculatingly as Nike's smile and Kratos's blank face, and inhabited as surely as if it's truth. It cracks, and Bia laughs, soft and twisted with hopelessness they've all felt; and, for all that, with a note of manic, joyful incredulity that Kratos is still Kratos.]
You haven't changed, you romantic fool.
[A bugle sounds somewhere off to the side, the frantic sort to hasten retreat; and it's accompanied by a crash of renewed battle to the side. Bia signals Leda and turns to rush between the trees, and it's easy to believe she's left without a word; except floating soft over her shoulder is something Kratos only barely catches himself, and only because he's heard it before.]
Don't die before me, little brother.