Galileo hesitantly crawled out from under a heap of blankets and shivered over to his alarm clock.
DING-DI--Click!
Swearing beneath his misty breath, he saw that the fireplace had gone out. No light entered through the windows, and nary a bird sang outside. This dark, cramped, frigid, silent room was where the blonde plainsfolk now called home. "Just for a couple moons…" he reminded himself.
He threw on a few layers of morning robes and turned the knob on his stove.
Click-click-click-click-click…
"Come on, piece of… grr!" The gas blew, but would not ignite. Galileo fumbled around for a lighter, finding nothing but tea leaves and bread in his cupboards. Then he remembered the matchbox he'd stowed beneath his bed.
Only two matches remained in the little red box. Enough to relight the fireplace and start the kettle, he thought. He struck one firmly…
SNAP!
The match broke off at the tip. The poor lad sank to the floor, half-laughing and half-groaning at his own misfortune.
Anger welled up in him, and he banged his fist against the nightstand. A wobbling sound came from above, and as the plainsfolk looked up, a framed photograph slapped him in the face.
It was a picture of him and Rorikoa at the Moraby Drydocks, taken to commemorate their return to Eorzea. The blonde traced his hand across it, settling on his brother's left arm. For a time, he sat there and contemplated the past year.
Finally, he stood back up. Thumbing his chin, he considered whether to light the fireplace or the stove. "Possibly freeze…" he said, "Or go without caffeine…"
Galileo drank the last of his tea as he stuffed a tome into his satchel. Carefully folding the day's clothing under his arm, he flung open the door and hoped that the shower was unoccupied.
He glanced one more time at the photograph before he left. "Stay safe, brother. I'll be done here in no time."
A Lalafellin boy roared as he hurled himself at his middle-aged opponent, recklessly swinging a tree branch. His weapon clacked against a training sword before a shoulder-bash sent him rump-first into the grass. "Oh-- falstaf henzigi!"
He felt a wooden tip jab him in the chin, knocking him flat. With a frown, the elder chastised him. "First off, watch yer bleedin' mouth, son. Second, if'n yer gon'ta cuss me out, least put yer ma's Eorzean lessons ta use, aye?"
"Ungh… aye. Sorry, da." The youth propped himself back up, taking a moment to tighten the knot on his bandana.
"Let's 'ave ourselves another go, lad. Daylight's burnin'." The man readied himself and beckoned his son.
The young lad sprang forward, carving a wide swath with his frenzied swings. Each was handily parried, filling the summer air with clatter. Growing irritated, he put all his strength into a sweep that his father avoided with ease. He then felt a strike upon his leg, and tumbled over. Hacking up a mouthful of grass, he whined, "Fie, how'm I s'posed ta hitcha?"
The man relaxed his stance and scoffed. "Maybe if'n ye tried bein' a pinch less predictable? Could see yer moves comin' wif a blindfold on, lad. Hmm… let's switch fings up. I'll come at ye, an' ye try keepin' me at bay."
The boy wiped the sweat from his forehead, then gave his father the meanest glare he could muster. "Alright! C'mere, ol' man!"
THWACK! CLACK! THOCK!
Each swing came swifter and harder than the last, but the boy refused to give an ilm. He knocked away an overhead strike, and noticed an opening to counter-attack. "Eat shite, bugger!" he shouted as threw himself forward in a tackle, only to find his target missing.
SMACK!
The youth staggered forward, turning to see his father's scornful expression in double-vision.
"I said watch yer mouth! Foul-speakin' wee gobsh--" He huffed, folding his arms. "If'n yer ma heard ye swearin' so, she'd string us both up in a heartbeat."
"Oh, c'mon, da! Least I said it in Eorzean!" The lad gripped his head, stumbling about as he waited for the pain to fade.
The man retorted, "I dun' care if it's in bleedin' dragon-talk! No child o' mine is gon'ta go about with a sailor-mouth! Now quit yer blubberin' an' get yer weapon up!"
Another flurry rained down upon the lad. What started as a smooth series of parries quickly turned into a frantic dance. Amid the downpour of strikes, he saw another opportunity to hit back.
He lunged forward, knowing how the elder would respond. He then jerked his weapon back, reveling in the sound of a telltale thump.
"Ooouugh! Hah! Got me!" Now sporting a black eye, the elder gave his child a proud grin. "Guess 'at means it's time t'get serious, 'uh?"
"Yer damned skippy, I did!" The boy gave his own boastful smile before widening his eyes. "Wait, wha--"
The man charged forward with an onslaught. The youth barely managed to block the first few blows before being overwhelmed. Moments later, he lay face-down in the grass.
The elder dropped his weapon and keeled over, breathing heavily. "Oooh, merry mother Tutuli, I ent what I used t’be. Ye alright there, lad?"
The bruise-laden boy lifted his head an ilm from the ground and hissed, "Yer… a bleedin' tyrant." The man let out a chuckle, then shambled over to help his son. "Shoulda seen me in me prime. Now, on yer feet. Jus' cause ye got a bruise or two dinnae mean yer off the hook for yer chores."
"I-- I can keep goin'!" The boy tried to give a tough look, but pain made his face twitch.
"Son, no one climbs the mountain on broken legs. See ta yer tasks for now, an' as soon as these marks're all healed up, we'll 'ave another go. Deal?" Without saying a word, the youth stomped away.
Watching his child leave, the man put a hand to his injury. He knew that, in time, his beloved son would set out to seek his dreams… and likely only find regrets. A phrase the elder had repeated many times emerged in a whisper. "The venturin' life's not what ye crack it up t'be, lad. Dinnae set yer heart on leavin'..."
