Chương 103: Winter Moon's Light

Lloyd's mouth twitched on its own, just barely, and he immediately looked away, trying to hide behind a neutral, slightly embarrassed expression the traitorous smirk threatening to break through — sparked by nothing more than the memory of the relic's name.

"The Sword of the Worthless Warrior. Of all the names to pick." Lloyd tried to lighten the mood, at least inside his own head, but even that wasn't going well — his lips kept trying to curl into a smile he had to physically force back down, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it in check. What distracted him far more, though, was another question, one lodged somewhere deep beneath his ribs, scratching at him from the inside with an insistence he could no longer ignore.

Unable to hold it back, he finally said it out loud, though his voice came out quieter, less certain than he would have liked. — Why? His father's brow slowly rose, genuine confusion plainly written across his weathered, faintly wrinkled face — he clearly hadn't expected this kind of reaction from his son, had expected something else, something more grateful.

Lloyd's gaze shifted to the open suitcase sitting in the middle of the room, resting on the old wooden floor lit by the dim winter light spilling in through the window — small, worn at the edges, with gleaming metal corners, and inside it lay neatly folded black clothing, its fabric catching the lamplight with a faint, almost imperceptible sheen, as though soaked in some special, costly treatment. — Why are you doing this? Weren't you dead set against me going down the Player's path?

His father's smile lost some of the warmth it had carried a moment ago, fading slightly, but it never disappeared from his face entirely, still clinging to the corners of his mouth, as though he himself wasn't fully certain of his own words yet. — You know, over these past few days, I realized I was wrong. He fell silent for a moment, as if searching for the right words, his gaze sliding off to the side, out the window, where the gray winter sky was slowly filling with new, heavy clouds.

— You're already a grown young man, but I just can't seem to accept it, can't stop seeing you as that same kid who used to kick a ball around the courtyard with the neighborhood boys and always came home with scraped-up knees. The fact that you're willing to risk your own life to save your mother — that really is something to be proud of.

His smile vanished completely, as if wiped away by an invisible hand, and thin, tense veins stood out at his temples and along his neck, betraying the restrained emotion he'd been so carefully hiding behind forced cheerfulness until now. — And I acted like a fool. Completely dismissing what you wanted, your dream. I'm sorry... just sorry, from an old fool.

He smiled gently, a little sheepishly, scratched the back of his neck with that same familiar gesture Lloyd had known since childhood, and lowered his eyes again to the open suitcase of clothes and the object beside it on the floor — something wrapped up, vaguely resembling a weapon case. — And all this is just my small gift. With good gear, you'll have a much better chance of surviving out there, among all those dungeons and creatures I don't even want to think about.

I know it's not much, I know it's nowhere near enough, but I'm going to try, going to do everything I possibly can, for you and for Rozi. I'll protect you both, even if it costs me my own life. His voice noticeably cracked on the last words, breaking, as though struggling to hold back something far bigger than a simple farewell before a long journey. Stolen novel; please report. Suddenly his father fell silent mid-sentence, as if his gaze had caught on something unexpected.

He heard a strange, muffled sound coming from Lloyd's direction, and looking up, saw that his son's whole face had turned red to the tips of his ears, his nose was running, and tears seemed to be pouring from his eyes in streams, leaving shining, wet trails down his cheeks. Lloyd himself was pressing his lips tightly together, desperately trying to hold himself together, but it wasn't working out too well, to put it mildly — his shoulders trembled faintly, his breath breaking into short, ragged little sobs.

In a choked, breaking voice, forcing the words out through sniffles and the lump rising in his throat, he finally managed to get out a couple of words. — Thank you... just, thank you. Lloyd started wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing the tears across his reddened cheeks, but he still couldn't stop crying, his body shaking with short, uncontrollable sobs.

And then he felt his father's arms wrap around him — tight, secure, just like when he was a kid, falling off his bike or scared of a thunderstorm outside — pulling him close, into that familiar smell of wood, sawdust, and something else, something indefinably homely, something that had always been tied, in Lloyd's mind, to his father specifically. — It's going to be okay. You're my son, after all.

The words came out quiet, almost a whisper, but they carried so much genuine, hard-earned certainty that for a moment Lloyd forgot about everything else — the failure, the exhaustion, even the ache of fear for his mother lodged deep inside him — allowing himself simply to stand there, holding his father, in the middle of this small, cramped room bathed in dim winter light. Suddenly, a loud, demanding shout came from the kitchen, shattering the tenderness of the moment at once. — Are you two coming or what?

Everything's going to get cold! His father finally smiled, wide and genuine, as if all the weight of the past few minutes had lifted off his shoulders at once, and left the room with an unhurried, heavy step, while Lloyd stayed behind a little longer, carefully wiping his whole face with tissues, though despite all his efforts it stubbornly remained red, streaked with damp marks.

Glancing out the window, he saw that outside, a real, heavy snowfall had kicked up — big, fluffy flakes falling in an unbroken curtain, blanketing the courtyard, the roofs of the neighboring apartment blocks, and the bare branches of the old poplar by the entrance in a thick, glittering layer.

But what surprised him even more was the sky — it held, at the same time, both a pale, dim winter sun breaking through rare gaps in the clouds, and the translucent, ghostly disk of the moon, glowing faintly off to one side, as if it had forgotten to leave after the night.

"Heh. Don't see that every day." He found himself briefly transfixed by this simple sight outside the window, even though there was, on the surface, nothing particularly special about it — just a snowfall, just a winter sky. Still, after a conversation like that, after everything he'd just heard and felt, any view out the window probably would have looked beautiful to Lloyd right then, filled with some special, warm meaning.

Watching the faintly shimmering moon through the clouds, strangely sharing that same patch of gray winter sky with the sun, he felt a small but genuine, warm smile spread across his face. And with that, having finally gathered himself, he headed for the door.

While his father and Rozi were still arguing about something loudly in the kitchen — judging by the scraps of conversation drifting through, it was something about how much salt was in the soup, or whose turn it was to do the dishes — Lloyd took one last look around the room, at the suitcase of clothes and the mesmerizing snowfall outside the window, then quietly pulled the door shut behind him. From the kitchen came his sister's signature voice at once — a little sly, but unbearably dear all the same.

— Hey, bro, were you crying? Lloyd's mouth twitched traitorously again, but this time he let himself smile back, just a little. — No way. Something just got in my eye. Rozi burst out laughing, bright and unrestrained, the way only she could laugh — genuine, from the heart, head tipped all the way back. — Liar!

And with that, the whole small, cramped apartment filled with the voices of his family — long, seemingly trivial conversations about soup, about dishes, about the snow outside, about plans for the day ahead — and at the same time, the most precious words in the world, holding within them, like a warm cocoon, all the comfort and all the love of this snow-covered winter morning, the very things worth coming home for, even empty-handed.