Rydia was six years old, and haunted.

He could see it in her face, and in her stance. The way she moved made his heart ache. Hunted. Afraid. Strong. He wanted to protect her from all the horrible things he had done, things he meant to do at the time and the consequences he had never thought to worry over.

She should have been innocent, honest. Even if she wasn’t happy all of the time, she should have had some of the happiness that was natural in childhood. She should play.

She shouldn’t have been on the run through the desert with a disgraced dark knight.

He bought her a doll from the first caravan they passed. She hugged it for a while, left it, came back, and she asked for water instead. He kept the doll, in case she wanted it later, but he didn’t know where it was now. In the sand, forgotten, buried like a corpse.

Rosa would have known better, known how to fix it all. But she was sick, and he had to press on. He didn’t trust to leave Rydia behind, lest Baron send another envoy. Kill more people, for the sake of one child.

At least this way, it was only himself at risk. And the girl, who cried herself to sleep when she thought he couldn’t hear. She lived in pain, bedeviled by the memory he could only imagine. His mother, smiling, alive... collapsing, not breathing... dying. Gone, spirited away on the winds.

... Kain.

She worried Cecil. He didn’t know, and it kept him up at night with worries and thoughts, and she would choke on her quiet sobs and it would hurt.

He couldn’t remember, but he could see his youth in her eyes.