“You know you don't have to go, my son,” his father said. The man was older now; weak with age and illness.
The young man was now just that – a man. His red hair was wild and long, down to his shoulders. His face sported the beginning of a fine beard.
“You remember I asked you a question a long time ago,” it was a statement from the young man, not a question.
“I remember, my son,” his father replied. “It was 'why do people kill other people?'. We spoke about it a couple of times.”
His son nodded, fastening his chain armor securely. He picked his sword off the table, testing the new blade's balance, before sheathing it in his scabbard.
“It was something I'd hoped to answer properly before a day like this came,” his father continued. “So you'd be ready.”
“I think you answered it as best you could, sir,” the young man said.
“But it wasn't really the answer you were looking for.”
The young man looked to his father, placed a strong but kind hand on the older man's shoulder.
“It taught me something, though,” he said. “You taught me something important.”
“And what is it you've learnt, my son?”
“Sometimes the answers we receive are not the ones we want to hear. But they are answers just the same.”
His father nodded, his gaze following his son as he picked his pack up, tested its weight, and slung it over his shoulders.
“The important thing is to ask the questions we need to ask, and to deal with the answers we receive as best we can,” the young man said. “And if we can, to find a truth we can live with.”
“Why do people kill other people, my son?” his father asked after a long pause.
“It doesn't matter what other people do,” the young man said. “I cannot control that. I can only control my own actions, and answer for them when asked.”
His father thought about this, as his son made his way to the door.
“Why will you kill other people?” his father asked at last.
“Because I must,” Krullus said as he left, closing the door behind him.