Word Count: 533

His moms were fine. They were healthy, and happy, and proud of him, and they didn’t suspect a thing.

Vyn knew to expect as much; neither of them had the clearance. But knowing of their ignorance and experiencing it were quite different. They asked him the usual questions—what he’d seen; what he’d learned; how he was coping with being away from home for so long; what he’d done to become a Corporal, then a Commander in such a relatively short period of time. Vyn answered what he could and fibbed where he had to, focusing much of their conversation on the wonders of a living world.

He missed them. He had since he’d left Velencya, but it wasn’t until he saw their faces again after nearly two brutal years full of confusion and hardship and pain that Vyn realized that he could miss them even more.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to a time before Caedus returned, before any of this happened, before he had to know what so many others didn’t, before he had to make such awful choices—before he joined the Vanguard, when life seemed so idyllic.

Guilt ate at Vyn when he laid in bed late that night, long after the video call ended. Guilt and shame and heartache. He should be proud, and hopeful, and determined. The Commodore was. After everything, the Commodore still believed.

Vyn clutched at his pillow and hid beneath the blankets. No one should have to see his tears. No one should have to shoulder his burdens or listen to his doubts. No one should be made to carry his fears. No one should be forced to bear his company when his emotions were so out of control. He was a discredit to their people. He should be stronger than this. The Commodore had faith in him. The Commodore had given him so much, and Vyn couldn’t even hold himself together long enough to accomplish something.

Their world was dying. The Commodore was dying. Vyn felt alone in his despair, in his apprehension, even though he knew the others had just as many reasons to feel the same.

Silent tears slipped down his cheeks. Vyn brushed them away, but more fell to replace them. He pressed his face into his pillow, let it grow damp, let it muffle the frequent hitch in his breath. His shoulders shook and his chest ached, and he hated Earth and what he’d become here, he hated this mission and the Negaverse and the White Moon and Caedus. He hated everything that ever brought his people uncertainty, everything that ever brought them anguish, everything that ever brought them pain.

The weight of their future was too heavy. Vyn felt suffocated by it. He didn’t know how long he could go on pretending as if he weren't breaking beneath it.

His moms were fine. They were happy, and proud, and blissfully ignorant of the impending disaster.

Vyn missed them—so much he could hardly bear to stay here a second longer.

But he had to. If he wanted to go home, he had to ensure there would actually be a home to go back to.