The cottage was unlike anything found in Mastorn; small and humble, built of a fine, golden-brown wood that took on a unique architectural design with the entrance of the house looking into a kitchen. Standing there, the sweet aroma that lifted itself into the pristine kitchen was something so familiar yet unknown to him.

This is…?! He thought.

Though she could hear his thoughts as they both spectated this memory, she chose not to interfere. Looking at his own two hands, it was a hazy memory, but just the very existence of it sent a spectrum of emotions through the man as he lived out his own tucked-away memories through his young body.

"I…"

Though he spoke, his words came out so soft, as if not used to using that function yet. Moving forward he walked towards the wooden stepping stool that sat near one of the counters, lumbering forward with his short, unresponsive legs.

This scent...Why is it so familiar?...I have to find out what it is, he thought.

Climbing the stool, he placed his hands on the smooth surface of the timber counter, being brought much closer to the source of the warming, tart aroma.

It was sitting there on the counter, neatly placed on a white fabric that held its golden-crust in place as the warmth of its freshness could be seen from the rising steam.

Lalabin...I remember this…! He thought.

As he opted to take a sample of the dessert to fully embrace this memory, his movement was halted by hands suddenly grabbing both of his sides, lifting him up.

"Ha-ha-ha! Caught you again! You just can't wait until your mother cuts it up into slices, can you, ---?"

The voice belonging to a frivolous man sounded as if it was about to speak his name, but something seemed to overlap with the word to prevent it from meeting his ears. Being set down on the counter by the hands of the unknown man, the moment his eyes finally set on the appearance of him, he felt a warmth run through his body.

"Father…!"

"Yeah, surprised you got caught by your old man once again?"

Cheekily taunting the boy, the man with short, blonde hair rubbed his finger against the space between his lip and nose with a slight chuckle. By his emerald eyes and twitching, pointy ears, it was an unforgettable appearance to him--his own father.

The memories were blatantly obvious but were lodged into the deepest depths of his mind all this time.

How could I forget…? As a child, I always asked him about that small scar on his lip...He loved that colorful, sea-blue tunic; Grandma sewed it for him before she passed. How could I forget? How could I forget?! He thought.

"Come on, you're all dirty from playing outside--let your mother clean you up a bit, or you can kiss that lalabin goodbye! Ha-ha!"

Outside? He thought.

Turning around at last, his gaze met with what sat outside of the clear, translucent form of the window. The moment his eyes saw it--it felt as if his own blood had been validated; the beautiful city that occupied the land--ivory towers reaching into the sky, accompanied by the magnificent, ancient trees full of wisdom.

It really does exist...My homeland...This is it; my origin, my birthplace…! He smiled.

Tears strolled down his cheeks as they burned up with a plentiful warmth, tracing his fingers along the glass as he took in the scenery.

"Come on, ---, wait--you're crying?! Oh crap...did I do something?"

As his father seemed less than capable of handling the situation, he softly shook his head with a smile to dilute his father's worries.

"...I'm just happy."

"Heh. Had me worried there for a second. You're an odd kid."

Letting his hair be ruffled by the rough hand of his parent, he smiled as he felt like he was enveloped in a bed of clouds; it was a comfort he didn't want to wake up from.

He's an affable man; not once did he ever scold me. I've never seen him get mad at all, really, he thought.

"Go on upstairs and clean yourself up, —-."

Being in the presence of the father he didn't realize just how much he missed, leaving his side was something he didn't wish for, but nonetheless—there were other things he knew he needed to see.

The feeling of the squeaky clean wooden floors, so smooth, always having just a small layer of water from how fervently his mother kept the house clean—the familiarity of it returned with each small step he took.

Leading to the second story of the humble, but welcoming cottage, a spiral staircase designed with railings that resembled a wall of trees led up. The more he looked around, taking in the subtle, yet significant details of the home, the less of a blur it became: the freshly used broom leaning against the corner, his father's less than savory work boots that sat by the front door, the way the sunlight gently cascaded into the kitchen with its warmth.

Giving one more look to his father, who was taking in a whiff of the dessert's aroma, the frivolous man gave him a wide smile.

Returning the smile, he began to make his way up the stairs.

Traversing the steps, he found it again—a circular window that looked over the city beyond his home. From the vantage point, it was clear that his house occupied an elevated portion of the region, looking over the bustling market that was as lively as ever.

As he pressed himself close to the window, he wanted to see it, explore all of it—but the familiar presence of someone dear to him called his steps up the stairs once more.

This entire time, Charlotte simply spectated quietly as the man who should be her enemy strolled through his repressed memories.

The flower pots that hung on the walls like spring lanterns, holding star-shaped, blue-petal flowers with stripes of pink running across their petals—the soft scent they gave off further welcomed him up the staircase.

I remember now; Mother loves these kinds of flowers…what're they called again? He thought.

Finding himself atop the stairs, he was now in the hallway that presented a few doors to him.

Though only one truly stood out to him—opening it, it led to his bedroom. Inside his room, a woman with silver hair stood in the center of the chamber, rearranging and cleaning the messily left room.

"Oh, —-, you're back. Just in time! I just finished baking your favorite dessert, it's cooling off right now."

She turned to him with a smile, leaning down to meet his eye level as her vibrant, verdant irises met him kindly.

"Mother?"

"Yes, —-?"

It was unnerving to hear; the name he yearned so fervently for was distorted, briefly breaking his immersion in this realm of memories as a headache crawled in.

"…What's my name?"

"That's a silly question…I just said it. Is this some sort of new game you kids made up? Hmm…"

His mother tapped her finger against her chin as if trying to figure out if it was some sort of trick. From the soft rays of golden light that seeped in from his bedroom window, the sunlight caused the woman's simple, but graceful, gray dress to glisten.

"It's not…!"

"Is something wrong, —-? You're not usually like this…"

Seemingly worried about her son's behavior, the woman knelt down in front of him, running her fingers through his locks that he inherited from her with a reassuring smile.

"It's just…I can't…"

He couldn't find the words; it was all so unreal to him, yet he couldn't help but feel like his brain was in knots trying to find his name.

"Calm, kind, confident, and as easy going as the wind."

"Huh…?"

"That's what my favorite flowers represent, "Strife flowers"—-mhm."

Hearing this, something about what she said had struck him, but he couldn't pinpoint it. It all became so clear in front of him; his mother's soft, blemish-free skin with a smile as warm as the noon sun.

"That's why I named you after them—my most precious flower."

As she spoke those words, it felt as if his time had finally resumed.

The hold on his heart, the identity that slipped between his fingers—it all awakened. With this revelation, the realm of memories began to fade away into the earlier void of warm light.

"Wait…! Not yet! I…I still have so many—"

Before he could continue, his words were halted as both his hands were held by his mother as she too began to fade away into the scenery of light.

"You're strong— so be kind to others, Strife. Your father and I will always be watching over you."

With those parting utterances from her silky, warm voice, the woman faded into the light as the elf now found himself returned to his normal body, sitting in the light just as he was, with the warmth of the girl behind him.

Returning from the illusionary world, something fundamental was returned to him. The memories sealed away by trauma and abuse of his captors resurfaced, and with them, returned the values he was taught as a child.

"That was…"

"Your past."

"I…I…"

Looking at his hands, they trembled for a reason he couldn't place.

"Strife. That's my name."

"Mhm."

"Thank you."

He smiled as tears unconsciously trickled down his cheeks.

"…I still don't understand; why help me? I was trying to kill you—I'm an Argonaut, your natural enemy."

Charlotte slowly shook her head to Strife's perplexed question.

"If you were trying to hurt me, I would've been far worse off. You don't miss unless you want to, don't you?"

"…"

"Besides that…I could tell…you aren't the same as the other Argonauts. Your eyes aren't that of a killer; there is a certain kindness to your eyes."

Charlotte's softly spoken words were powerful enough to find their way to the man's heart as his eyes widened at those words, raising his glove as he traced his finger around his brow.

Kindness…? These eyes of mine? All I've been told my entire life…is that these eyes were an invaluable weapon; a tool for killing, he thought.

"The…people that took me away from home, they sold me off the Argonauts as a child. I was trained day and night to become a perfect warrior—a killer. I was guided by false promises of one day returning home. Those promises of going home were soon replaced by lured by knowledge of my homeland."

"What will you do now, Strife?"

Her question drew silence from the silver-haired elf as he looked into the void of comforting light with his golden irises.

"I owe it to you; everything. There isn't a price I can put on the memories you've returned to me. If only for a moment, a single time once more—I reunited with the warmth of my parents."

"I'm glad I could help."

"…Tell me, what is your name?"

It was a question he needed answered most at this moment.

I know it now; for elves, the bond of family stands paramount. It is simply the most important thing of all—the core of one and who they are.

I am Strife. I'm not the "Golden-eyed Argonaut", or a weapon of destruction anymore. Today, I was reborn. There is no excuse for me if I cower away from the proper side now. With my own two hands, my resolve, my bow--I can choose for myself what I want to do.

To return that to me, one who tried to kill her—this girl is a soul that must be protected. Beyond that, the debt I owe to her is immeasurable.

Honor…it is something I had forgotten. A value my father taught me early on, he thought.

"Charlotte."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful soul."

Slowly, Strife stood himself up before turning to face Charlotte, who remained knelt on the ground of light.

It was the first time she saw it, and the first time he genuinely did it since as long as he could remember—Strife smiled, placing his right hand over his heart as he took a knee before the girl with his sable cape fluttering behind him.

"Madame Charlotte, I hereby proclaim to you my complete, and undying loyalty—I, Strife, will be your knight."

I have no right to stand by your side. Even if it was not by my own will—these hands are dirtied with blood. All these years, I was but a doll, following the orders etched into my flesh--was it because I feared my captors?

That would be a lie; soon enough, I didn't hold much value in my own life. I believe I behaved as an Argonaut simply because I believed it was the only thing I could do. Fighting, hunting, killing--it was the only thing left in my hollow mind. It was a childish hope that I'd be rewarded one day and return to my homeland.

But it was you--you're the one who gave me a reprieve. You returned to me everything when I had nothing only because you wanted to.

I'm choosing with my name, my life returned to me—to be just a bit selfish. If this is the side you fight for, a soul as soft as a bed of flowers, then it is undeniably the right side, that's what I choose to believe, he smiled.