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1) Gallia
Once upon a time, a boy in Gallia gave Soren his sandwich to eat.
Soren had been sleeping in the hollow of a large tree. It was safe there, on the outskirts of the village, and quiet save for the birdsong. He was exhausted and starving and he knew that there was no hope.
Soren had tried, in the beginning, to approach the adults in the village. He couldn’t speak to ask for help, but he could reach out with his trembling, dirty fingers. It made no difference. Just like the villages before, they cursed him, called him an animal. Some threw stones. One had struck Soren’s cheek, leaving it bruised and throbbing, tender to the touch.
The pain was almost welcome; it was a distraction from the awful clenching hunger.
There would be no food. There would be no shelter. There would be no one coming to buy him this time, to save him from his circumstances. Soren had accepted it, so he curled up in the shadow of the great tree and waited.
He could not remember a time when he had not been a light sleeper. It had always been necessary to wake at a moment’s notice – when the woman started shouting, or when the sage roused him unexpectedly to practice magic.
When a shadow fell over him, his eyes snapped open.
The sun shone down on a boy, illuminating his blue hair. His eyes were as clear as the sky.
The sage had thought Soren possessed by a spirit. Soren knew that he was not. He’d read about spirits, though, in the heavy books the sage set in front of him. They were supposed to be beautiful, so beautiful it hurt to look at them. Soren had never been able to conjure up an image of that kind of beauty in his mind until he saw the boy with blue hair.
It was that thought that kept him frozen to the spot as the boy reached out a hand.
“Are you okay?” the boy asked, his eyebrows scrunched together.
The spell broke and Soren scrambled backwards, his head spinning as he tried to put distance between them.
“Hey, hey,” the boy said, following after him. “It’s okay!”
There was a stick in the boy’s hand, long and pointed. Soren couldn’t look away from it, could already imagine the sting of it coming down against his skin. The boy frowned, glancing down at the stick.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked. “I was playing swords, but it’s not real. My father has a real sword, but he says I’m not old enough yet.”
He held the stick out for Soren’s inspection, and Soren flinched. The boy’s brows knit together. He considered the stick in his hand for a moment before he tossed it aside.
“Were you afraid of that?” he said. “It’s gone now. See?”
He held out his empty hand. Soren nodded to show him that he understood, but he kept himself tensed, ready to try and flee as soon as the boy made an unexpected move.
“Don’t run,” the boy said. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Promises meant very little. People had made the very same one to him before, and it was always a trick. The boy had thrown away the stick, but he still had his fists. If he wanted to hurt Soren, he could. Soren looked down at the ground, his stomach clenching.
“Are you hungry?” the boy asked.
Slowly, Soren raised his head.
The boy was looking at him with a curious frown, his gaze tracking over Soren’s dirty face and scratched hands, the bruises and the tangles in his hair. Unlike Soren, he was clean and well-dressed, his eyes bright and cheeks full. He unwrapped a bundle by his side and produced a sandwich, holding it out to Soren.
“Here,” he said. “Take it.”
Soren was so hungry. He reached for it before he knew what he was doing, and then remembered himself. It was a trick. It was a trap. He snatched his hand back, cradling it to his chest, and willing his traitorous, empty stomach to stop growling.
The boy’s brows furrowed, a serious look on his face.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You can have it.”
A long moment passed before Soren lunged. He grabbed the sandwich from the boy’s hand, shuffling back out of his reach. He tore into it, his empty stomach protesting, but it was the first food he had seen in days. He had to be fast in case the boy changed his mind.
“Slow down,” the boy said. “Nobody’s going to take it away from you.”
When Soren glanced up warily, the boy shrugged.
“That’s what my mother says, anyway,” he said. “I eat fast, too.”
When the sandwich was gone, he held out an apple. This time Soren didn’t hesitate before snatching it.
He ate slower this time, savoring each bite, and he watched the boy as he ate. He was still sitting there, his head tilted slightly to the side. He was smiling at Soren, and it made something strange and warm curl in Soren's chest.
He could not remember a time when anyone had smiled at him before.
“My name’s Ike,” the boy said. “What’s yours?”
One day, the sage had grown tired of calling Soren “child” and “boy.” He’d decided to give him a name.
Soren, he’d decided. He looked pleased with himself as he explained that it meant stern.
“Yes,” he’d said, staring down at Soren. “A very fitting name for such a stern thing.”
If Soren was stern, it was because the sage had made him so.
A stern thing was still better than an unwanted one. Soren took to the name the way he took to the magical training, with grim acceptance.
(Soren had never known the sage’s name. He had only introduced himself as his master, his teacher. It was the only thing Soren had ever needed to know.)
He’d never wished to tell anyone his name before Ike. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out except for a horrible pained gasping. He raised his trembling hand to his throat, trying to convey somehow to Ike that he wanted to share it, he wanted to – but he couldn’t.
“Oh,” Ike said. “You can’t speak, can you?”
Soren shook his head wildly, a fierce, desperate gratitude blooming in his chest. No one had ever understood before. The world spun, and it only righted itself when Ike reached out and cupped a hand to his cheek, palm gentle against the old bruise.
“Careful,” Ike chided. “You’ll make yourself dizzy. It’s okay if you can’t talk.”
He settled beside Soren, his smile turning apologetic.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any more food,” he said. “There’s more at my house, though. You could come home with me, my mother won’t mind. Titania says my mother never met a person she couldn’t make her friend.”
Ike sounded proud, speaking of his mother, and it made something strange clench in Soren’s chest. Soren had never known a mother. The woman who had raised him had made it perfectly clear to him that she had not been responsible for bringing such a cursed little thing into the world.
But no matter how Ike cajoled and wheedled, Soren refused. He could not go back to Ike’s house, not in the village. He couldn’t bear it to travel that far and then be turned away. He could not bear to watch Ike realize what everyone seemed to instinctively know, that Soren was bad, somehow, that he was wrong, that he did not belong. He could not bear to watch Ike’s eyes harden when the villagers came with their sticks and stones to chase Soren away.
Soren had never known what was wrong with him. He only knew that something must be, a fact driven into him over and over and over again. He had no words, no voice. He could not explain any of this to Ike. He wouldn’t know how to anyway.
Ike stayed with him for well over an hour, talking of nothing and everything in particular. True to his word, he didn’t seem to care that Soren couldn’t answer. Soren had never met anyone like him before.
It was only when the sun began to sink beyond the horizon that Ike looked up, the smile fading from his face.
“I have to go now,” he said. “I promised my mother I’d be back before it got dark.”
When Ike rose to go, Soren made a noise of panic.
“I’ll come tomorrow,” Ike said. “I’ll bring more food, okay? So you just wait here. Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.”
Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay. No one had ever said those words to Soren.
As Ike walked away, a sudden fear gripped Soren. He opened his mouth as if to call out to Ike, to beg him to come back, but just like always, no sound but a stifled gasp escaped his lips.
To his surprise, Ike looked back. He grinned, his eyes shining, like looking at Soren made him happy.
“Don’t worry,” Ike repeated. In the late afternoon sunlight, his smile was dazzling. “You’ll see me again. I promise.”
Soren barely slept that night. The memory of Ike kept him up, replaying in his head like a dizzy daydream. He had never looked forward to a new day before – at most, he had just accepted each day for what it was, the long slow drag of time marked only by the cries of a woman who hated him, or the continuation of a seeming ceaseless course in magic. There had never before been a promise of something more.
Ike, he thought to himself, pressing his fingertips to his lips to hide his smile from the night.
He would come back, and Soren would go with him. He had nothing left to lose.
Except Ike didn’t come the next day.
Soren kept track of the time by the height of the sun in the sky, and the promised hour came and went. Then another. And then another.
Something inside him told him that Ike was not like the others. He was not like the woman. He was not like the sage. He was not like the villagers with their jeers and their stones.
Ike had promised. Soren knew, with a bone deep certainty, that if Ike had not come, then something must have prevented him.
Soren rose on shaky legs. His heart thundered in his chest as he made his way past the edge of the trees.
There were Gallian soldiers at the very edge of the village, speaking frantically to each other, and a handful of frightened looking villagers standing around them. One of the soldiers looked over when Soren peered out from behind the trees, then quickly glanced away, as if merely looking at him would somehow bring bad luck. Their tails swished in irritation.
The sage had told him once that the beasts, as he always called them, feared mages. He’d held fire in the palm of his hands and explained that it was what hurt the beasts the most. But Soren held no tome currently, and few suspected a skinny child of being any threat. Still, the Gallian soldiers ignored him with such a determination that it made him feel sick.
For once, Soren used it to his advantage. He slipped by them with little trouble at all.
At first it looked like the village was deserted. No harried women rushed from their houses to chase Soren away, and no men appeared with stones in hand. There were no faces in windows, no people in the streets.
Then Soren saw the bodies.
There were both men and women. Some wore plain clothing, some in armor gleaming black in the sun. Their blood spilled across the ground, staining the stone steps.
There were so many that at first Soren could not count them. He stood there, half hidden in the shadow of a house, trembling not just from weakness. Finally, very slowly, he pushed himself away from the stone wall and crept closer. His throat felt tight, his whole body cold, as he crouched beside the closest body.
When the sage had died, it had not been like this. The sage had been sick for months until, one day, he had been unable to get out of bed. Soren had been forced to sit by his bedside and listen to the rattle and wheeze of his breath as he desperately grit out the last of his lessons.
It had taken days. Soren had dug his fingers into his palms until they bled, listening to that wheezing.
These deaths had been sudden, and they had been violent. The body Soren knelt beside had been cut nearly in half.
Soren closed his eyes and steadied himself, his own breathing harsh and loud in the ringing silence. It was a moment before he got up and went to the next body. This one he recognized as a woman who had once chased him away when Soren had clumsily attempted to beg her for food. He spared her little time, moving instead to the next body, and then to the next.
He checked all of the bodies. He made himself look at each of them closely, forcing himself to focus, to not allow his mind to play tricks on him. Whenever he became convinced he saw a flash of blue hair, he would close his eyes, count to ten, and then open them again.
There were a few older youths lying still and bloody, but there was no boy with blue hair. Soren checked each and every corpse again to make sure, his heart thundering in his frail chest and his hands shaking. He had to be certain. He couldn’t miss a single corpse.
Ike was not among the bodies.
When Soren had convinced himself that it was true, he sat back in the dirt and wept, tears rolling hot and heavy down his cheeks and wordless howls spilling from his lips. He didn’t know why he was crying – exhaustion and hunger and new emotions all rolled into a tight messy ball in the center of his chest. Relief, because Ike was not dead. Sorrow, because Ike was still gone, and Soren didn’t know what to do.
He was all alone in a village of the dead, and the only boy who had ever helped him was not there anymore.
Soren didn’t cry for long. It was something that the woman had always detested. When Soren cried, she demanded to know what gave him the right when she was the one who was suffering. He was only her burden and her curse. So he had learned to cry silently, and then not to cry at all.
He scrubbed at his cheeks violently, disgusted with himself for the momentary lapse.
The doors to a few houses hung open, as if their occupants had rushed out in a hurry and had no time to close them. Soren entered one, creeping into the kitchen. There was still food, half-eaten, on the table, so he climbed onto a chair. Flies were buzzing about, but he did not care.
As he ate, Soren turned over the facts in his mind. Ike was not among the bodies, so he must have somehow escaped. If he had escaped, then he was alive. Soren believed with a ferocity he’d never known before that if Ike could have come back for him, he would have. Something had stopped him.
Soren would have to go to him instead.
There was a pull somewhere beneath Soren’s ribs, a strange sensation like nothing he’d ever felt before. He knew that if he followed it, he would find Ike.
The sage had once told Soren that Crimea was Gallia’s closest neighbor, an allied country consisting mostly of beorc. Soren would go there, then. It was as good a place to begin as any.
He packed up what food he could carry and left the house. He did not hesitate to take gold from the dead villagers; he would need it, and they would not. The Gallian soldiers had clearly been waiting for someone to come and take care of things here, and Soren did not intend to be there when more of them arrived.
Quiet as a mouse, he slipped out of the village and into the night.
2) Crimea
When Soren had only been with the Greil Mercenaries a little over a year, Mist decided she would make a pie.
It was because of Soren that they had the apples in the first place.
Commander Greil had taken the others on a job, and left Ike, Mist, Soren, Boyd, and Rolf with Titania, who was nursing an injured arm. On the second day, she herded them all into town to buy food and to enquire about something with the blacksmith.
There were too many children for her to watch on her own. Mist and Rolf hung obediently onto her, but Boyd and Ike were both restless. Soren looked away for only a moment and, by the time he turned back, Ike was gone.
He was learning not to panic when this happened. Ike was prone to wandering, after all.
But just for one brief moment, Soren was not in a busy marketplace, surrounded by loud, clumsy people without a care in their heads, and Ike somewhere in their midst. Just for that one moment, he was alone in a village of corpses, and Ike was gone. The voices faded out, an eerie silence ringing in Soren’s ears.
Ike was gone. Ike was gone. Ike was gone.
He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. The voices came back to him in a too loud roar, like a failed thunder spell prickling down his spine. When he opened his eyes, he focused on a head of messy blue hair only a few yards away, and relief rushed through him.
Soren forced himself to move slowly, walking and not running to Ike’s side. Ike turned his head towards him when he approached, and a small smile spread over his face. He still looked at Soren like he was happy to see him, even after all this time. Even when he didn’t remember their first meeting.
“Come here,” he said, putting a hand at the center of Soren’s back and bringing him in close. “Titania said we should buy fruit, so I found apples.”
What Titania had actually said, with a sharp look in Ike’s particular direction and no small amount of exasperation, was that they should wait for her to finish her business and then she would buy fruit. Soren wasn’t inclined to correct Ike.
“Hm,” he said, considering the display before them. The apples were bruised and dull, but Soren wasn’t opposed to a bargain. He flicked his gaze up. “How much?”
The peddler looked them, two teenage boys, up and down, and named a price that would have been outrageous even if the apples had been the freshest, most beautiful apples Soren had ever seen. He raised one eyebrow.
“You must be joking,” Soren said, venom dripping from his tongue.
Speaking was still new to him. Every word felt like a sharp weapon on his tongue, a new kind of magic he had to master. The sage had demanded perfection from Soren when it came to spells. With language, Soren was the one who demanded perfection of himself.
To be able to speak was to be able to communicate. To be able to communicate meant everything now that he was with Ike again. He couldn’t let it be like before, him speechless, unable to tell Ike anything at all. Even though Ike didn’t remember, it didn’t change anything. Ike was still the kind boy who had held out his hand. He was still the boy Soren had crossed into a strange country to find. He was somehow even more than the memory Soren had held close in his heart all those years, the one bright little flame against the ice.
When they’d first met, Ike’s face had been happy and open, his mouth quick to smile. He’d spoken animatedly, his hands always moving. He’d seemed concerned that Soren couldn’t reply, but he hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t asked questions once he knew Soren couldn’t answer. He’d just talked, and trusted Soren to listen.
Now, Ike’s face was almost always serious. His smiles were few and rare, and Soren’s breath caught every time he earned one. He was still the same Ike, still kind and gentle, but something inside of him had changed in the time that they’d been apart.
Soren wondered if it had something to do with Ike’s mother. That first meeting, Ike had talked about her like she was the most wonderful person in the world. He’d assured Soren that if he came home with him, his mother wouldn’t mind. That there would be enough food, that Soren wouldn’t be a bother. He’d even described her to Soren, in case he saw her in the village – she was tall, he said, with blue hair and blue eyes like Ike’s. Her name was Elena.
When he’d found Ike again, the father and sister he’d also spoken of had been there, but not the mother. There was no tall, blue-haired, blue-eyed woman. Ike did not speak of her. No one, except Mist, spoke much of her.
Soren didn’t pry. It wasn’t his place. Even it had been, he didn’t know how to ask those kinds of questions, how to do it with the gentleness it required.
There was nothing gentle about Soren. The woman and the sage had berated it out of him, and the forest had hardened him, every glare from every beast sharpening his edges, turning him cold as ice. The priests at the temple had preached kindness. Soren would hear none of it.
Kindness had only one definition where he was concerned – a boy with blue eyes, holding out his hand.
Soren wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of that kindness. Not even a man trying to charge too much for bruised apples.
By the time Titania found them, a crowd had gathered as Soren verbally flayed the apple seller. He held a bruised piece of fruit in one hand, shaking it derisively as a few elderly women nodded and expressed their agreement.
“Young sir, please,” the apple seller begged, and then he finally named a price that Soren deemed acceptable.
“What exactly is going on here?” Titania asked, pushing her way through the crowd.
“I found apples,” Ike said. “Soren’s bargaining.”
Titania’s eyes traveled from Ike, nonchalant, to Soren, unapologetic, to the apple seller, close to tears, and her mouth pressed into a thin line.
They left the market quickly after that.
“You don’t have to be so harsh all the time,” Titania said. Her tone was scolding, as it often was. She disapproved of Soren’s mannerisms, of his sharp tongue and his lack of patience for social niceties. “You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
Soren scoffed.
“But look how many apples we got, Titania,” Ike said. His voice came out mumbled; he already had his teeth in one. “That’s all because of Soren.”
“That isn’t the point,” Titania said. She looked like she had a headache. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Ike shrugged, trading a conspiratorial look with Soren. He did that often, as if he knew, somehow, that both of them existed on the page. It made Soren feel warm every single time, made him feel strangely understood.
One day, Ike would grow up, get married, start his own family, with no place for Soren in it. He would lose those glances, lose the way Ike’s gaze seemed to seek him out instinctively whenever they were in a crowd. Lose the way Ike would lean over his shoulder, his presence a comforting warmth. Ike was already handsome, drawing looks from girls their age in the marketplace. It didn’t matter that Ike never looked back; Soren knew that one day he would.
All he could do was hold onto Ike for now, and treasure what he was allowed. It was already more than he had ever hoped.
“We should make a pie!” Mist declared. She was holding dutifully onto Ike’s hand the way Commander Greil often reminded her.
“I’m sure when Oscar returns, he’d be more than happy to,” Titania said.
“I can do it!” Mist exclaimed.
“Oh, Mist,” Titania sighed.
“I can!” Mist said stubbornly. “Soren will help me.”
Soren stopped in his tracks.
“Me?” he said.
Titania glanced over her shoulder. Slowly, amusement dawned on her face.
“Soren, huh?” she said, arching her eyebrows at Soren when he glared at her. “That sounds like a lovely idea, Mist.”
Back at the keep, Soren found himself in the kitchen with Mist, both of them staring at a cookbook Titania had found forgotten on a dusty shelf.
“Do you know how to make a pie?” Soren asked Mist.
“Not really,” she said, blinking at him.
“Wonderful,” Soren mumbled, leaning his cheek on his hand. “Well, let’s get on with it.”
Ike had been banned from helping in the kitchen early in life. Instead, he sat on a stool nearby and stole apples.
When Ike’s fingers brushed his own, Soren felt his cheeks burn.
“You’ll ruin your dinner,” he said. He ducked his head so his hair would hide his red face.
“Ike can eat all day and still be hungry,” Mist scoffed.
“’Cause I’m growing,” Ike groused, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna be huge, like Father. Titania says so.”
Commander Greil was a mountain of a man. Ike already resembled him, and, at fifteen years old, he was tall, though not yet broad. It seemed like every spare moment he had, he practiced with his sword, and the muscles in his arms were corded, his hands already callused. And he was strong.
Once, coming back from town on errands, the river had flooded a nearby road. Soren had stopped at the edge of the water. He only had the one pair of shoes and, though Commander Greil had begun to pay him in exchange for small jobs, Soren was reluctant to spend any of the money.
If things did not work out and Soren was forced to leave the Greil Mercenaries, he would need the money in order to stay close by to Ike. He had been given no reason to think he would be told to leave, but Soren was used to the worst, and it was better to plan for it. That was what he told himself, but just the thought of leaving Ike again made his chest feel tight.
Ike had gone a few feet down the road already, and where Ike went, Soren followed. He’d steeled himself when suddenly Ike glanced back. He’d looked over Soren at the edge of the water, and his mouth twisted in that way it did when he was thinking.
“Hold out your arms,” he told Soren, walking back to him.
“Ike?” Soren asked. He did as he was told, though, and as soon as Ike was close enough he placed the bags he was carrying in Soren’s arms. Soren held them tightly, staring up at Ike, wondering, not for the first time, what he was thinking.
“Don’t worry,” Ike said.
When Soren was quiet, most assumed he was cold. It was only Ike who offered up things like “don’t worry” and “it’ll be okay.”
Ike crouched down. Before Soren knew what was happening, Ike had wrapped his arms around the back of Soren’s knees and lifted him as easily as a bag of flour. Soren clutched the bags closer, a squeak caught in his throat.
“It’s okay, Soren,” Ike said, laughing a little. “I won’t drop you.”
Ike’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It was the same smile he’d worn the first day they met in Gallia, when Soren had finally grabbed the sandwich from his outstretched hand. No one had ever smiled at Soren like that before. Ike was still the same boy – the only boy – even though he rarely smiled like that anymore.
He shifted the bags to one arm so he could curl the other around Ike’s shoulders.
“I know,” he said. “Thank you, Ike.”
Soren was a cynic – made, if not born -- when it came to everything except Ike. Ike was his exception to everything, in every way.
That was why he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling and didn’t swat Ike’s hand when he stole another apple.
“Ike!” Mist shouted.
“What?” Ike said. “There’s enough.”
Soren let the bickering wash over him, like a song that was quickly becoming familiar.
He’d never been sung to as a child that he could recall, but sometimes, under his breath, Ike hummed one specific melody. He couldn’t carry much of a tune, and he’d stop if anyone perked up their ears, so Soren was always careful never to let it slip that he could hear him. He liked listening to Ike’s voice too much for that.
He let Ike’s voice carry him through the motions, effortlessly recalling the instructions in the cookbook Mist had shoved under his nose. If there was one thing the sage had always been pleased with about Soren, it was that once he saw a passage, he could recall it effortlessly. Once someone gave him an instruction, it never needed repeating.
It didn’t matter that Mist was barely helping anymore.
“Wow,” Mist said, watching as Soren wove together strips of dough. “That’s so pretty. Ike, look!”
Soren felt Ike at his back, the heat of him making him prickle all over. Ike’s hand brushed his waist as he leaned over his shoulder for a better look.
“How come you’re so good at everything?” Ike asked.
Soren’s fingers stilled.
When he’d been very small, he’d thought that if he was different, that if he was good, then the woman who cared for him would not love him, no, but at least be kind. That she would stop crying and cursing and pushing him away from her whenever he so much as reached for her skirts. When he’d been in the sage’s care, he’d been proven right: if Soren was diligent, if Soren’s magic was perfect, if Soren was skilled beyond his years, then he could earn approval. All Soren had to do was follow direction. All Soren had to do was make no mistakes.
He wouldn’t burden Ike with that.
“It isn’t difficult,” he said. He ducked his head and resumed his task, focusing on the latticework, and not on Ike’s hand still resting against his waist.
Ike squeezed his waist gently and Soren’s breath caught.
“Mist couldn’t do it,” he said.
Soren glanced at Mist, expecting her to be upset. Instead, she shook her head vehemently, clapping her hands together in delight. Soren let her weave together rosettes from the discarded bits of pie crust, loathe to waste anything. They came out mishappen, but it seemed to make her happy anyway.
It made Ike happy, too.
The pie came out burnt, the edges more blackened than crisp. Soren supposed it didn’t matter, not when Ike still ate it happily, and smiled at him after.
3) The Mad King’s War
“It’s not like you to hide.”
Ike groaned. He was lying on Soren’s cot, staring up at the tent ceiling.
“Everywhere I go, that woman follows me,” Ike said. “She’s determined to get me to eat her cooking.”
“I don’t see what the issue is,” Soren said. “It’s a free meal, isn’t it?”
“Soren, she can’t cook,” Ike said. He looked haunted.
“Hm,” Soren said, settling across from him. “It can’t possibly be that bad. You’ll eat Mist’s cooking.”
“Leave my sister out of this. I had to leave dinner early tonight because Aimee was making a scene. It’s your fault, you know,” Ike said, leaning up on one elbow. “You’re the one who told her I like spicy meat dishes.”
“I didn’t expect her to be so persistent,” Soren admitted.
“She’s nothing but,” Ike muttered. “If it was Ashnard she was after and not me, we’d have won the war already just by following her around.”
Ike hadn’t been prone to smiling since Soren had found him again, but lately the line between his brows had grown deeper. Soren knew that, in the grand scheme of things, Aimee had little to do with it. The death of Ike’s father, the war with Daein, Ike’s promotion to general – those all weighed heavily on him.
Something in Soren’s chest twisted to think he had contributed to that. Not with Aimee, but he knew he’d hurt Ike the past few months.
He’d confused him in Begnion when he’d been strange and distant, and when he’d told Ike about his childhood, the woman and the sage. Ike had told him it was the worst thing he’d ever heard, his hands tight around Soren’s shoulders and his eyes blazing, and Soren had been so terrified of losing him that he’d run away before he could say anything else.
Before he could tell Ike that he was Branded.
He’d avoided Ike for months. He’d hurt him because he hadn’t trusted him. And still Ike had persisted. He hadn’t let up until Soren told him everything.
It still felt fragile between them now, with everything out in the open. Soren felt delicate, like he’d been cracked open and Ike had put him back together. His edges were still tender and sharp.
If there was only one thing in the world Soren believed in, it was Ike. If he didn’t have Ike anymore, he didn’t know what he would do.
“I’ll handle it,” Soren said firmly.
Ike groaned.
“No offense, Soren, but you handling it got me into this situation in the first place,” he said. He rolled over, burying his face in the bedroll. “Please just let it go.”
Soren stood by the bedroll for a long moment. Slowly, silently, he stretched out one hand, as if to bury his fingers in Ike’s hair. Then he dropped his hand to his side and turned to go.
It was easy enough to get the recipe from Aimee over the next few days. All it took was trading her some vague hint towards some of Ike’s other likes. If anything came of it, he could always blame Boyd or Gatrie, neither of whom seemed to understand Ike avoiding Aimee.
(“She’s a flower in full bloom!” Gatrie had said to Ike once, drawing hourglass shapes in the air with his hands. When Ike had scowled, not bothering to reply, he’d sighed. “Ah, you’re too young to know what to do with a woman like that anyway.”
Soren had nearly flung a wind spell right in his face.)
It was hardly complicated as recipes went, which Soren supposed gave credence to Aimee’s statement that cooking wasn’t something at which she excelled. The seasoning was somewhat lacking, and nowhere near hot enough to make Ike bat an eye. Soren made the necessary adjustments himself, then smuggled his way into the kitchen of the fort they’d occupied with his arms filled with ingredients.
“You know, they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Mist said. She propped her chin up on her hands, watching as Soren meticulously arranged his ingredients.
“Who are they, exactly?” he asked after a beat. It seemed the safest response.
“Gatrie,” Mist said.
Soren snorted.
“I’ve never known him to judge with his stomach, only his eyes,” he replied.
“But you are making food for Ike, right?” Mist said. “It’d work with Ike. He definitely thinks with his stomach first.”
“I am not trying to –” Soren broke off and took a deep breath. Getting short with Mist would solve none of his problems. “Your brother is very busy, as I’m sure you know. He doesn’t always have time to eat.”
“Ike always makes time to eat,” Mist said, sounding doubtful. “Did you ask Oscar for this recipe?”
“No,” Soren said.
“Princess Elincia?” Mist asked. When Soren gave her a sharp look, she only shrugged. “You wouldn’t think she could cook, being a princess and all, but she can! Is that why you’re doing this? Because Princess Elincia can cook?”
It wasn’t because Princess Elincia knew how to cook. But if Mist went on about it one more time like it was some kind of miracle, Soren thought that he might lose his mind.
If Princess Elincia did have feelings for Ike, it wasn’t as if Soren would be surprised. Ike was tall, and handsome, and uncommonly, inordinately good. Better, as far as Soren was concerned, than anyone else. And Ike had saved her.
Soren knew better than anyone what that was like.
“It’s not unexpected,” he said, taking a deep breath so he wouldn’t snap. “Princess Crimea was not raised in the manner typical of royalty. Of course she would have some practical skills.”
“Yeah, but she’s better at it than me,” Mist said. She eyed Soren’s preparations longingly. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“I have it under control,” Soren said.
“That’s not enough hot pepper,” Mist pointed out. “You know Ike. If it wouldn’t make Gatrie cry, it’s not spicy enough for him.”
Soren sighed, made a face, and added more.
The first year or so he was with the Greil Mercenaries – the first year after he found Ike again – helping Mist with the kitchen chores was one of his small jobs. It was never anything difficult; he had a more patient hand than the others, and Mist still nicked herself more often than not. He remembered sitting there peeling potatoes, Mist chattering away. She never seemed to mind if he didn’t answer her.
She shared her brother’s kindness that way. It never seemed to matter to either of them if Soren was strange, or quiet, or too harsh or too cold. Neither of them ever asked him to be anything else.
Not everyone had been so pleased with Soren’s kitchen duties.
“Don’t you dare let that brat near the fire,” Shinon had said once. “He’s got a look about him like he’d poison us all with half the chance.”
“Don’t be ludicrous,” Soren bit back. “I’d only poison you.”
Shinon rose from the table with a growl. Just like always, Ike stepped in front of Soren. Soren didn’t have to look at his face to see the challenge there; it radiated off of every inch of him. To get to Soren, the world would have to go through Ike.
Soren curled his hands into fists so he wouldn’t do something stupid like hang onto the back of Ike’s shirt.
Ike didn’t say anything. For a long moment, Shinon didn’t either. Then he snorted, ambling out of the kitchen.
“One of these days, someone’s gonna teach you both some manners,” he said over his shoulder.
“Sure,” Ike said under his breath, so only Soren could hear him. “But it won’t be you.”
Soren wondered if Ike remembered that, that day Shinon rejoined the Greil Mercenaries. Bleeding on the ground, his face twisted in an ugly scowl as Ike pointed his sword at Shinon’s throat.
Ike’s voice was calm and collected as he said, “Don’t move. You’ll tear the wound right open.”
Personally, Soren couldn’t give a damn whether Shinon was with them or against them. What he liked was that Ike had had the chance to prove himself. What he liked was that Ike’s detractors were being left no choice but to see Ike for who he really was. Not only Commander Greil’s son, but a leader in his own right. Better and stronger than all of them, in every single way.
Soren had always known it.
“Do you want me to try and see if Ike will like it?” Mist asked when it was done.
Soren shot her a look but she only batted her eyelashes at him, her face the picture of innocence. He sighed, unconvinced, but let her try a spoonful anyway.
“It’s good,” she said, smiling. “Ike will be happy. He would be happy even if it was bad, though, because you made it for him.”
“Why would that possibly make a difference?” Soren asked.
Mist gave him an unimpressed look.
“Everyone says you’re really smart,” she said. She rolled her eyes when Soren snorted, then paused. “I’m glad you and Ike are talking again. He was really sad when you were avoiding us.”
Soren closed his eyes and took a breath. He startled when Mist put her own hand on his wrist, squeezing briefly.
“He wasn’t mad at you,” she said. “He just missed you.”
There was a strange intuition Mist sometimes possessed, like she could see straight through people in the same way as the herons. Or perhaps she just knew Ike too well, like Soren did.
“I’m going to take this to him before it gets cold,” Soren murmured.
“You could drop it down a hill and he’d probably still think it was just fine,” Mist said. She rolled her eyes, that intuition there and gone in the blink of an eye.
Ike was in his own tent tonight, not Soren’s, and Soren hesitated a moment before he entered. Ike was looking over his armor, his brows drawn together, that line between them deeper than ever. He looked up when he cleared his throat.
The tired scowl on his face faded away slightly when he saw that it was Soren.
“Ike, a moment of your time?” he said.
“Sure,” Ike said, looking back down at his gauntlet. “What is it? Has something happened?”
“No, nothing of note. It’s only…” Soren said. He felt heat creep up his neck, into his cheeks. “I brought you dinner.”
Ike looked up, his gaze traveling from Soren’s face to the tray in his hands.
“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I wanted to, Soren could have said. But he didn’t want to be like Aimee or any of the other girls who threw themselves at Ike, begging for his attention, who ignored how it made Ike uncomfortable, the way he didn’t reciprocate.
“It was more efficient,” he said instead.
“I don’t see how,” Ike said. The corner of his mouth lifted in a tired smile. “Come on, sit down.”
Soren set the plate down in front of Ike, gathering his robes around himself as he sat beside him. Ike shot him a fond look for just a moment before his gaze fell on the food.
“It doesn’t smell like Aimee made it,” Ike said.
“That’s because I made it,” Soren said. He resisted the urge to fidget or clear his throat. There was nothing wrong with making a simple meal for a friend – for Ike, for his only friend.
He felt sick.
Ike looked up at him, his lips parted in surprise.
“You made this?” he repeated.
“Yes,” Soren said, raising his chin. His heart hammered behind his ribs.
“Well,” Ike said. “That’s different, then.”
He dug in immediately. He had never been one to savor food slowly, but Soren thought he saw his smile widen at the first bite anyway.
“It’s good,” Ike said. He sounded pleased, but not surprised. “Have you had any?”
“I made it for you,” Soren said simply.
Ike shook his head.
“Eat with me,” he said.
It was so reminiscent of that first day in Gallia that Soren had to duck his head at the strength of the memory. For a moment he could feel the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the tree and see it catch on Ike’s hair as Ike held out his sandwich to him.
Ike was watching him when he looked up, curious but silent. Soren wondered if he was thinking about it, too, what Soren had said to him that night when he’d finally told Ike he was Branded. Soren had wiped the tears from his cheeks and whispered that back then Ike was the only one who helped him.
They hadn’t spoken about that part since.
“You don’t normally share your food,” Soren said, clearing his throat. “I think you nearly took Boyd’s hand off once trying to take a lamb shank off your plate.”
“It’s different when it’s you,” Ike replied. “Come on. You went to all this effort.”
“It was hardly any,” Soren murmured but he moved closer.
It should have been awkward, sharing one plate, but Ike didn’t seem to mind the closeness. Ike’s knee bumped Soren’s under the table. Soren thought it was an accident, until he looked up and found Ike smiling at him.
“Thank you, Soren,” he said, his voice quiet and sincere.
Soren fought to control the pleased flush that spread across his cheeks.
“It’s not a problem,” he said, glancing studiously elsewhere.
“Maybe not,” Ike said after a moment. “But I do appreciate it. So thank you again. Thank you for looking out for me.”
“It’s my job,” Soren said quietly.
“It’s really not,” Ike huffed. This time it was his shoulder that nudged Soren’s. “Don’t feel like you have to take care of me on top of everything else you do.”
Someone has to, Soren thought with a pang. Then, with a bitter twist, he wondered who else would be better suited to it than him.
Many people loved Ike. But no one knew Ike like Soren did.
He knew when Ike was tired by the way his eye would twitch. He knew when Ike was in pain by the set of his jaw. He knew when he was really, truly happy by the way he’d smile. He knew when he was rueful by the way he’d look down and to the side. That his neck would get splotchy the rare times he was embarrassed. That Ike had suffered from nightmares when he was younger but never remembered their contents upon waking.
He knew the sheer depths of Ike’s kindness. It was there in the way he threw himself between Soren and a rampaging tiger, his arms wrapped around Soren’s legs to carry him over the water, a sandwich offered to a starving child.
“You’re smiling,” Ike said suddenly.
Soren reached up to brush his fingertips against his lips.
“I hadn’t realized,” he murmured.
“I haven’t seen you smile in a long time,” Ike said, staring fondly at him. “I missed it.”
“I’ve never been prone to it,” Soren said.
“No,” Ike agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like seeing it. You should smile more. You are so…”
He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I’m what?” Soren asked. He had to press his hands flat to his thighs underneath the table to keep them from shaking.
“When the war is over, I’m going to get you to smile more,” Ike said. “That’s a promise.”
“Hm,” Soren said, biting the inside of his cheek so his smile wouldn’t grow. “Don’t you think you’ll have better things to do, when the war is over?”
“I can’t think of anything,” Ike said. “Can you?”
Their knees brushed again as Soren shifted towards Ike.
“Win the war first,” he said. “Then I’ll smile.”
4) Melior
“If I have to attend one more party, I’m going to go out of my skull.”
Ike’s boots hit the floor with a dull thud, kicked off as he collapsed backwards onto the bed. Soren sighed as he collected them, setting them neatly next to each other where Ike wouldn’t trip over them in the middle of the night.
“You’ve said that every time,” he murmured.
“And every time it’s been true,” Ike said, one hand over his eyes. “What are we doing, Soren?”
“Assisting Queen Crimea,” Soren said mildly.
They’d been in Melior for nearly a year.
Ike was unhappy in Melior, which made Soren unhappy. It made Queen Elincia unhappy, too, which made Soren unhappy for different reasons.
Soren was especially unhappy when they were forced to attend parties. Inevitably some noblewoman or other managed to corner Ike, roping him into dancing with her. He tried to put on a good, if stony, face and put up with it, because he didn’t want to reflect badly on Elincia. It didn’t stop the nobility’s whispering.
Ike was awarded a certain amount of respect, at least to his face. The rest of them didn’t even merit the pretense. It made Ike angry, and Ike had never been good at hiding his anger, which only made everything worse. He wasn’t made to play these kind of games, and while Soren could manage it, he found he was getting tired, too. He’d never had much of a taste for other people, except for Ike. And he was beginning to grow tired of the endless talks about rebuilding their homeland.
Crimea had never been Soren’s home. The only home he’d ever had was by Ike’s side.
Ike turned, pressing his face against Soren’s hip, and Soren sighed again. He let his hand fall to Ike’s head, carefully carding his blue hair back from his face.
“And the food at these things is terrible,” Ike mumbled. “The portions are for ants.”
“Are you hungry?” Soren asked.
He wasn’t terribly surprised. Ike had always had a large appetite, and he’d hit another growth spurt recently. He was taller now than he had been in the Mad King’s War, his shoulders much broader. He still trained constantly, and he’d put on a significant amount of muscle. Soren tried not to think too hard about any of that.
He himself had changed very little. Still slight, still deceptively young looking. His hair had grown, and he’d thought about cutting it, but one day in the royal gardens Ike had reached out and trailed his fingers through the length of it. Soren’s breath caught as Ike murmured beautiful – only for Ike to pull away holding a stray petal between his fingers.
Soren had replied something about the flowers being well maintained and Ike had only smiled at him and said, not those. Then he’d walked away, leaving Soren staring open-mouthed at his back.
“Aren’t you?” Ike asked, peering up at him. “I think I ate half your dinner.”
“You were welcome to it,” Soren said. “I don’t care much for the palace food, either.”
“You should eat more,” Ike mumbled. He threw an arm around Soren’s waist, squeezing him gently. “You’re so skinny. I worry about you.”
Ike had been worried, Soren knew, since he’d found out about Gallia. About Soren’s past. Soren had been so afraid Ike would look at him differently – or stop looking at him altogether, that he’d pretend Soren didn’t exist the way the laguz in Gallia had all those years ago.
The truth was, Ike did look at him different now, but it wasn’t in a bad way. Soren couldn’t name exactly what it was, but something had changed between them once Soren had told him everything.
Or almost everything.
Part of Soren had hoped that in telling Ike the sage had lived in Gallia, that in telling him the first time they met was not at the Greil Mercenaries’ fort, that it might stir Ike’s memory. That Ike might recall the frightened, starving wretch he’d held out his hand to, the boy that he’d saved.
Ike didn’t, of course. Soren wouldn’t blame him for it. It was only one day. An hour, at most, spent with a strange mute child in the shade of an old tree. And then he and his family had been gone, the rest of the village slaughtered in the streets.
He was with Ike now. That was what mattered the most.
“Soren,” Ike prompted, and Soren shook his head, chasing away the thought. He raked his nails gently against Ike’s scalp in admonition.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Would you tell me if you weren’t?” Ike asked, staring up at him.
“I…” Soren hesitated. Ike stared up at him, his deep blue gaze steady.
The furrow between Ike’s brows that had deepened considerably in the war was still there. Soren touched it with a careful fingertip, as if he could smooth away all the worries.
“I’ll try,” he said at last.
“All right,” Ike said. “That’s enough for me.”
Soren’s fingertip slipped down the bridge of Ike’s nose, darting featherlight over the top of one cheekbone.
“What are you doing?” Ike asked after a moment, staring up at him with a slight smile.
Soren had forgotten himself again. He snatched his hand back, cradling it to his chest as if he’d been burned. The smile faded from Ike’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Soren said.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Ike said. A pause, and then he added, “You never have to apologize when it’s just me.”
Soren nodded, but said nothing.
Ike dragged himself up with a groan. In the gloom, his blue eyes were stormy and unreadable as he leaned forward, until their foreheads almost brushed.
“Soren,” he said.
Soren rose from the bed abruptly.
“You said you were hungry,” he said, feeling suddenly flustered.
“It can wait,” Ike said, attempting to catch his hand.
Soren darted away from him with all the skill and speed he’d learned on the battlefield.
“I’ll find you something,” Soren said.
“Wait, Soren,” Ike called, but Soren had already slipped out into the hall. The air outside Ike’s room felt cooler, a balm for his heated cheeks.
When Soren had left the village in Gallia, he’d taken all the gold he could carry from the village. Small as he’d been, and humble as the village had, it hadn’t been all that much. It hadn’t mattered.
Even gold wouldn’t convince the beorc in Gallia to associate with a Branded child. Soren’s lip curled now to think of it, that the simple fact of his existence was abominable enough to trump greed.
He’d done what he’d had to in order to survive, so that he could find Ike again. Quick and quiet, a silent little shadow, it hadn’t been too difficult to steal into houses at night, to take just enough food to last him another few days of his journey. Soren had never been caught.
The memories weighed heavy on him now as he stole into the kitchens. He felt for a moment like he was walking in his own footsteps, reliving one of those nights. The world felt still and strange, and Soren felt like he did not belong in it.
Ike felt differently. He reminded himself of that sternly as he set about assembling cured meats and hard cheese, enough crusty bread to satisfy even Ike.
Ike did not care that he was Branded. Ike wanted him by his side anyway.
Soren had to take a moment, standing there in the dark, to breathe deeply. Then he gathered up everything and made his way back to Ike’s rooms.
The door opened before he even reached it.
“Where did you go?” Ike demanded.
“The kitchens,” Soren said, his own brows drawing together. He nodded at the plate in his hands. “You were hungry. I said I would get something.”
“I thought… maybe you weren’t coming back,” Ike said, his brows furrowed.
“Why would you think that?” Soren asked.
Ike suddenly seemed sheepish. He glanced away, his hand at the back of his neck.
“I thought I said something wrong,” he said.
“Don’t be silly,” Soren murmured. “I said I was coming back, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Ike said. His face was twisted in an unhappy frown. “It’s just… I had this feeling all of a sudden. Like I said that to you once and then I…”
He trailed off, shaking his head. His brows were knit together, his gaze distant. Soren’s heart was in his throat.
“I can’t remember,” Ike said, sounding frustrated. “I can’t remember when I would have said that.”
Soren remembered, though. More than remembering, now he knew the truth about what had really happened that day in Gallia. He knew that the bodies he’d seen in that village had been slain by Ike’s father, fallen victim to the medallion. He knew that, when he’d regained his senses, Greil must have taken his children and fled.
Given all of that, all of the bloodshed and the chaos, the death of Ike’s mother, perhaps it was unsurprising that Ike would not remember the starving wretch of a child he’d met at the edge of the woods.
“Begnion has a term for it,” Soren said gently. “Déjà vu. The feeling of recollection, as though you’ve said or done something before. But it’s only an illusion of memory.” He smiled at Ike, and hoped the shadows hid how sad he felt it must look. “It doesn’t mean anything, Ike.”
“Doesn’t it?” Ike asked, shaking his head.
“These old castles can play tricks,” Soren murmured. “You’re only tired.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Ike agreed, but he still sounded unsure. “Come back inside?”
Soren had originally planned to leave the food for Ike and make a hasty retreat back to his own room. He could read old tomes by candlelight and let the ancient language muffle all the thoughts in his head of Ike, much younger, holding out his hand to a boy with no other hope in the world.
Ike’s eyes were still the same, kind and true. Soren hadn’t been able to take that step back then, had been too afraid to follow a kind boy home.
He stepped over the threshold and some of the tension slipped from Ike’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” he said.
Soren shook his head and busied himself setting the plate down on the table, making it look some semblance of proper, not that Ike would care either way.
When he arrived at the church in Crimea, Soren had had to learn to live like other people. Not like an unlovable child, abhorred by a caretaker who did little more than keep him alive. Not like the student of a dying teacher who believed him possessed by a spirit. And not like a Branded boy on his own in the forest, silent and ignored by all who encountered him. In this way, it wasn’t hard for him to learn how to exist in Crimea’s upper society.
But Ike had never been anything else than exactly who he was. Soren felt warm inside watching him as he grabbed the bread and tore off a chunk of it with his teeth.
“This is better,” he said, chewing. “Not so…”
He made a face, wrinkling his nose.
“Pretentious?” Soren offered up.
“Sure, let’s go with that,” Ike huffed. “The food’s not the worst part of being a noble, granted. All the unspoken rules and the gossip.” He broke off with a snort. “People who barely saw any of the actual war thinking they get to talk about the way Elincia should rule. The endless parties.”
He leaned back with a groan.
“And you hate the dancing,” Soren said.
Ike made a face.
“I wouldn’t say I hate it,” he said. “I’m not good at it. I’m always worried I’ll step on someone’s slipper and they’ll somehow blame Elincia for that, too.”
Soren made a noise of acknowledgment.
“If I had a different partner…” Ike trailed off.
When Soren looked up, he found Ike staring at him with a thoughtful expression. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Ike rose slowly. He held out his hand.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“Absolutely not,” Soren said.
Ike kept his hand out, his eyebrows raised.
“Just one dance,” he said.
He kept his hand held out in front of him, his fingers slightly curled. Soren’s own fingers twitched. The moonlight streaming in through the window caught on Ike’s face, the high point of his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. His eyes sparkled, amused, as he waited Soren out.
Soren didn’t know how Ike managed to get more and more handsome each and every year. Like he was caught in a spell, he reached forward. Their fingers barely brushed before Ike was curling his own hand around Soren’s, tugging him gently forward.
“Thank you, Soren,” he said.
“There’s no music,” Soren protested.
“That’s all right,” Ike said.
He began to hum slowly as he led Soren through the steps. The melody was faltering and unsure, as if Ike was shy about it, but Soren still recognized it after a moment.
“That song,” he murmured. “It’s your mother’s, isn’t it?”
“I don’t sing it as well as Mist,” Ike said with a self-deprecating smile. “Definitely not as well as Reyson.”
Mist had a pleasant enough voice. Reyson’s song had brought a dead forest back to life and restored King Ashnard’s mount from a snarling, mindless monster to a dying man. By comparison, Ike could barely carry a tune. His voice was rough, more accustomed to barking orders on the battlefield now than to humming under his breath in secret.
“Considering the circumstances, perhaps that’s for the best,” Soren said. His hand tightened in Ike’s. “Still, I… I like your voice.”
Ike glanced down at him. A slow smile spread over his face.
“I like yours,” he replied.
Soren had no idea what to do with that. He looked down, focusing on his feet, hoping his face didn’t look as red as it felt.
“You dance well,” Ike said.
“It isn’t hard,” Soren replied to his feet.
“Hm,” Ike said, something considering in his voice. Soren looked up in suspicion.
He knew Ike too well. Ike’s hand tightened on his, the corner of his mouth curved up, and that was all the warning Soren got before Ike spun him.
“Ike!” he yelped, grabbing at Ike’s shoulder as Ike reeled him back in. His hand slid to the small of Soren’s back, large and comforting.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
Then, to Soren’s utter mortification, Ike dipped him.
Everything seemed to stop, the world around him falling silent. There was only Ike, leaning over him, his hand on Soren’s back a firebrand. Their faces were close together, Soren’s hand twisted in Ike’s shirt.
Slowly, Ike pulled him back up. Soren’s head spun.
“It’s a little like fighting, isn’t it?” Ike asked. His eyes were so clear and so blue as he looked at Soren. “You always know just how to move with me.”
He spun him out again. This time Soren went with the motion, if only to avoid being dipped. Every inch of his body that brushed Ike’s as he was spun back into his arms burned. Ike caught him and held him, his strong arms wrapped around Soren.
“Don’t dip me again,” Soren warned.
Ike huffed a laugh, swaying with him.
Soren hesitated a moment, his hands braced gingerly against Ike’s chest. He was broader now than he had been in the war. Soren couldn’t blame the noblewomen of the Crimean court for wanting so desperately to dance with him.
“Is it better?” he asked, hoping his voice did waver. “Dancing with me?”
“It’s better,” Ike confirmed. “I wouldn’t want to dance with anyone else.”
For a moment, he lifted a hand and brushed his sword calloused fingers against Soren’s jaw. Then he stepped back, his smile barely there in the moonlight. The bow he offered Soren was a mockery of the current popular dance at the Crimean court.
Soren covered his mouth with a hand to muffle his snort.
“I don’t make much of a noble,” Ike said, collapsing back into a chair.
“You could learn,” Soren said, taking a seat across from him. He felt like he was buzzing all over, like he could still feel the touch of Ike’s hands and the press of his body. The edge of his jaw almost burned. “If you wanted to.”
If there was something keeping you here, he didn’t say. Every time Elincia had looked at Ike with her big doe eyes during the war, Soren had felt like he might be sick. Now, things were different. Now Elincia had her country, and it was clear she thought about Crimea before anything else. What Ike thought about first was another matter entirely.
Ike snorted. He leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed, and turned his face towards the window. For a long moment he only stared at the moon.
“My father said he wanted me to live in peace,” Ike said at last. His face was somber. “I couldn’t do that before. I thought now, with the war over, and the Black Knight dead… I thought maybe this would have made him happy. Mist could be happy here, maybe.”
“But not you,” Soren said softly.
“No,” Ike admitted. “Not me.”
He looked at Soren consideringly.
“Not you, either, right?” he said.
“No,” Soren said.
“We’re the same that way.” Ike seemed pleased about it.
It was impulse more than anything else that Soren reached for him, his hand darting out before he could stop himself. He’d barely brushed Ike’s arm before Ike’s hand seized his, his grip firm but gentle. If Soren wanted to pull away, Ike would have let him.
He didn’t pull away. The corner of Ike’s mouth lifted. His thumb ran rough over the back of Soren’s knuckles.
“When things have settled, when it’s the right moment, then I’ll leave,” Ike said. “Anyone who wants to come with me can. We’ll be the Greil Mercenaries again.”
Warmth bloomed in Soren’s chest.
“I’ll be glad when the day comes,” he said.
“You and me both,” Ike snorted. He glanced at Soren, considering. “Even if the others decide they’d rather not go back to the mercenary life… you’ll be with me, won’t you, Soren?”
“Of course,” Soren answered. “I told you, didn’t I? There’s no place for me but at your side.”
“Good,” Ike said. “Because I won’t leave you behind.”
His voice was quiet but firm. Warmth bloomed in Soren’s chest.
Ike might not remember meeting him, but they were together now.
It was enough for Soren.
5) The Laguz Alliance
“You want to learn how to cook Gallian food?” Skrimir asked.
He looked delighted. Soren felt his mouth twist in a grimace.
“Yes,” he ground out. His jaw was beginning to hurt from how hard he was clenching it.
Soren wasn’t happy by any measure to return to Gallia. There was no fault to be found with King Caineghis’ generosity; they had all been given rooms in the royal palace. After the river crossing and their flight through the lava tunnels, the chance, however brief, to rest and recuperate was welcome. But being in Gallia would always set Soren’s teeth on edge. The ghosts of the past haunted him here especially, no matter how hard he tried to push them away.
To make it worse, Ike was brooding, though he’d never admit it aloud. Soren wasn’t sure anyone besides the Greil Mercenaries and perhaps Reyson and Ranulf could tell.
The retreat had hit the army’s morale hard. It had hit Soren hard too, for reasons that had little to do with morale.
Standing knee deep in the river, splattered with mud and blood, Soren had watched helplessly as Ike charged at the Black Knight. His sword met that jet black armor with a thundering clang, but the Black Knight didn’t so much as stumble, and only Ike’s hasty sidestep had saved him from the Black Knight’s blade.
There had been something ferocious in Ike’s eyes, a single-minded determination that Soren hadn’t seen in over three years.
Ike had swung again and again, even when Janaff and Ulki shouted that the main force of the army had made it across the river. The Black Knight met every strike. Soren was no swordsman, but he knew well enough what he was seeing: Ike was not strong enough to beat him. Not yet.
For three years, the memory of Ike rushing ahead into the castle to fight the Black Knight on his own had woken Soren in a cold sweat, his hands trembling until he could calm himself. What would he have done, he wondered over and over, if Ike had fallen that day? Now the nightmare was made real again.
He’d been broken from the thought by a javelin thrown his way, and he’d countered, flinging a wind spell and cutting the enemy down where he stood, but river was thick now with bodies. He’d tripped and would have fallen into its muddy depths if an arm hadn’t caught him around the waist.
“Go,” Ike said, pushing him towards the banks. His voice was tight and furious, his gaze staring straight ahead, but his hand as warm and steady as ever where he left it at Soren’s lower back. “I’m right behind you.”
“Ike,” Soren said. He glanced over his shoulder at the tall figure in black armor still standing on the opposite shore. “But what about—"
“Don’t worry,” Ike said. “As long as he and I are both alive, we’ll face each other again.”
That was exactly what Soren was worried about. He would sit up in the middle of the night, panting and covered in cold sweat, the echoes of swords clashing in his ears. Ike would never stop until he faced off against his father’s killer. Ike would never stop until he killed the Black Knight.
Or until the Black Knight killed him.
Ike and the Black Knight. The Maiden of Dawn, Branded like him, and the way she’d seen straight through him to his core. The woman and the sage and the memories of the past. Soren badly needed something productive to do, something to keep his hands and mind busy, to set aside all of these worries and renew his focus.
If he could do something to help Ike, all the better.
Ike liked Gallian food. Some part of Ike, Soren knew, recognized Gallia as the land of his birth, even if he did not remember living there.
(Even if he did not remember meeting Soren.)
Soren had met Ike in Gallia. He had no love for the country itself, but the depths of his love for Ike were fathomless. Gallia had meaning, then, for them both.
As long as the food was edible, Soren would eat it. The same went for cooking. It wasn’t, in practice, that different from magic: he followed the right steps and he got the right results.
(The sage had never been partial to Gallian food. He’d complained about the subhumans and their raw meat, then told Soren that if he didn’t learn his spells in a timely fashion, he’d leave him for the beasts to eat.)
Soren had forced himself to look at things strategically. Three long years had passed, but asking either Lethe or Mordecai would be unpleasant for all parties. The herons’ diet rendered them essentially useless to Soren’s cause. Ranulf’s underlings couldn’t go five minutes without squabbling, and they both gossiped. Between Tibarn’s eyes and ears, Ulki was far preferable to Janaff, but they would have both immediately told Reyson everything, and then Reyson would tell King Tibarn, who would tell Ike. Ranulf would have just laughed himself sick.
Unfortunately, Skrimir was the most tolerable option.
Soren watched with suspicion as Skrimir’s elated expression turned more thoughtful.
“Why?” he asked. “Gallian dishes favor meat, and you do not particularly care for it. Three times now I have watched the scrawny beorc mage with the violet hair steal half your dinner.”
“Have you been watching me eat?” Soren demanded.
Skrimir seemed unruffled.
“You are our strategist,” he said. “You’ve won us many battles. It’s natural to take an interest in your habits.” His mouth twisted to the side. “You eat like a rabbit. It’s no wonder you are so small.”
Soren resisted the urge to point out that, between Skrimir and Ike, anyone would look small.
“No, I do not think this is for you,” Skrimir said, shaking his head. “I think you’re doing this for someone else.”
He looked strangely hopeful.
Soren grit his teeth.
“You may be more insightful than you seem,” he said, and Skrimir lit up like he’d just been told General Zelgius had succumbed to his wounds. “True. It’s for Ike.”
Skrimir’s expression fell. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and turned his face away from Soren.
If Soren didn’t know better, he would have accused Skrimir of pouting.
“What is it?” he asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.
Skrimir sighed, shaking out his long mane of red hair.
“Ah, so Ike has laid claim,” he said, stroking his chin. “A shame.”
“Laid claim?” Soren said, raising his eyebrows.
“How do you beorc say it?” Skrimir said, his voice rumbling low in his chest. “He is courting you.”
Soren froze.
“It makes sense now,” Skrimir said before Soren could deny it. “And you return his affections, of course.”
“Of course?” Soren parroted in disbelief.
“He is strong and capable,” Skrimir said. He gave Soren a long once over. “And you are very small.”
King Caineghis had always been, in Soren’s experience, a fair and understanding man. Surely once the situation was explained to him he would agree that Soren had no choice but to set his nephew on fire.
“I am not having this conversation,” Soren said, inhaling sharply.
“Indeed, Ike will make a fine mate,” Skrimir continued as if Soren had not spoken. “But why are you trying to impress him? You have won us many battles. You are intelligent and fierce.” He gave Soren another long look. “And you’re beautiful, even though you are scrawny.”
Soren wondered if he could just run while Skrimir was still talking. Odds are he wouldn’t even notice Soren was gone as long as he had the sound of his own voice.
“He should be the one trying to win your heart, not the other way around,” Skrimir decided.
Soren wondered if Tibarn was right and the heat in the caves really had gone to Skrimir’s head.
“If it was me, I would have killed a wild boar for you, the biggest in the forest, and laid it proudly at your feet,” Skrimir said. He sounded half-tempted to go out and do it right at the moment.
Soren was getting a headache just imagining it.
“What exactly would you expect me to do with it?” he asked.
Skrimir seemed untroubled by the petty details.
“I would kill your enemies,” Skrimir said. “You would only have to point me in their direction.”
“We have the same enemies at the moment,” Soren said, massaging his temple. “So thank you for that, I suppose.”
Skrimir grumbled, still scowling.
“I know it’s pointless to try and convince you you’re wrong when you’ve already jumped to conclusions, but I am not -- courting Ike,” Soren said. “He’s the commander of our mercenary group. I am our strategist. It is not in anyone but the enemy’s best interest if he does not eat regular meals.”
“And you, as our strategist, have to prepare them?” Skrimir asked, snorting. He shook his head. “It matters not. You asked for my help, and I will help you.” His expression turned thoughtful once more. “I am an accomplished hunter, but my skills in the kitchen are… lacking.”
Soren bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say anything about not being surprised.
“There is one dish my mother taught me to prepare when I was young,” Skrimir said. “I will show you.”
“That’s…” Soren said, stunned. “Not necessary. I’m sure there’s some other dish, something… less personal.”
“It’s a good dish,” Skrimir said. “This is the one I will teach you. If you want to learn something else, you can ask Ranulf.”
Soren wouldn’t have asked Ranulf if he were the last laguz in Gallia. He tried to protest, but Skrimir wouldn’t back down. He had come this far. It was unwise to switch strategies this late in the game. He let Skrimir lead him to the kitchens, where they garnered no small amount of attention from the other laguz there.
Soren was used to the particular kind of look he received in Gallia, the averted gazes, the ice cold reception. If they pretended they could not see him, then he didn’t exist. If he didn’t exist, it meant no other laguz had ever made such a shameful mistake.
It was harder for them to pretend he was some unlucky phantom when he was standing with the heir to the throne. Soren did not know, and did not care to ask, whether Skrimir knew what he was. He suspected he did not, and perhaps that was for the best, but there was some small part of him that suspected that, even if he did know, Skrimir simply wouldn’t care. Soren didn’t know what to do with that.
It was Ike, he thought. Ike and his blunt way of seeing the world, rubbing off on Soren.
Skrimir, to his surprise, was a patient teacher. Given his attitude in battle, Soren would have expected the opposite, but here he was calm and composed, walking Soren through the recipe with careful attention.
The dish was simple but hearty, exactly the kind of food Ike preferred.
“Is it good?” Skrimir asked, sounding hopeful. He leaned over Soren’s shoulder, his expression attentive.
“It’s suitable,” he said.
“Good,” Skrimir said. “You should have what you want.”
Soren looked up, and pressed his lips together to hide his surprise. Skrimir’s cheeks were faintly red, but his gaze was steady and direct.
“Ike is strong, more laguz in his ways than beorc,” he said. “I’ll respect his claim on you.”
Soren rolled his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said. It would have been impossible to keep the sarcasm from his voice, so he didn’t try. Part of him suspected Skrimir enjoyed it when he was mean to him, anyway.
He tried not to think about that too much.
“And I’ll respect your decision,” Skrimir continued, “but I will not surrender so easily.”
There was a strange ringing in Soren’s ears.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I will ask Ranulf for advice on beorc courting,” Skrimir said.
“Breathe one word of this conversation to that self-satisfied cat and I’ll make you wish you were never born,” Soren snapped.
Skrimir looked pleased.
“This is what I admire so much about you,” he said. “You’re small, but strong. A very worthy mate. Ike would be foolish not to return your affections, and never during our short acquaintance have I known him to be a fool. But there are first times for everything, little strategist. Remember that my affections will not waver.”
He turned and left, leaving Soren gawking at his back.
Soren only let himself be stunned for a moment. He grabbed the dish and left before the kitchen staff could start gossiping where he could hear.
It was better if Skrimir looked elsewhere. Soren could not return his affections, and it wouldn’t do for Gallia’s heir to be caught giving such attention to a common Branded boy. If it got out, if gossip spread, it represented a unique danger. The Gallians might lose faith in Skrimir as a leader. It could cost the army everything. It was much worse than Aimee and her shopkeeper network, spreading rumors about Ike.
Soren had to pause in the halls, his fingers whiteknuckled around the plate, and force himself to take slow and even breaths.
He wouldn’t be a risk to the army. As long as Ike lead them, he wouldn’t be a risk.
The door to Ike’s room was open, and Soren pushed it aside silently. Inside Ike sat at the desk, deep in conversation with Tibarn across from him. Reyson was perched on the arm of his chair, his wings ruffled by whatever they were talking about. He was the only one who glanced up when Soren entered, his eyebrows arched until he saw who it was.
Reyson looked amused, and more than a little smug. He gave Soren a small, sudden smile, something Soren didn’t know how to interpret when it came from him. If people kept looking at Soren like that, he was not going to be held responsible for his actions.
“Tibarn, you promised to visit with my father today,” Reyson said, curling a hand around Tibarn’s massive forearm.
“What, right now?” Tibarn asked, glancing down at him.
“Yes,” Reyson said sternly. “Right now. You know he’s always at his best in the afternoons.”
“It’s fine,” Ike said. “This is nothing we can’t continue later. Go, visit King Lorazieh. You should spend time with your family.”
Reyson’s smile softened slightly.
“Thank you, Ike,” he said. “You, too.”
He shifted, pulling his wings against his body, and Ike’s gaze finally fell on Soren in the doorway. His expression softened, and some of the tension left the line of his broad shoulders.
“Soren,” he said, holding out a hand for him.
Soren stepped towards him, ignoring the look Reyson threw him as he slipped out with Tibarn. He knew that herons could see into the hearts of others, but there was no reason for Reyson to be smug about it.
He balanced the plate on one hand and took Ike’s with the other, letting Ike reel him in towards him as the doors shut.
Ike looked tired. Soren tugged his hand away from Ike’s grip so he could cup it to Ike’s cheek, turning his face up towards him. His cheek was uncharacteristically rough with stubble, shadows beneath his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” Soren asked, drawing a careful finger across Ike’s jaw.
Ike grunted noncommittally.
“If it’s situation with the Daein army and their Maiden of Dawn, it hasn’t left my mind, either,” Soren said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it at the moment. Here, I brought you something to eat.”
“Just like the last time, huh?” Ike asked as Soren slid the plate in front of him. “You’re fussing again. I do eat, you know. No one but you doubts that.”
He reached up and tugged, briefly, on a loose lock of Soren’s hair. His lips twitched when Soren batted his hand away.
“It’s been a busy few days,” Soren said, folding himself into a chair next to Ike. “You’ve barely had any time.”
Ike grumbled something under his breath.
“It’s part of my job to make sure our commander is in fighting shape,” Soren said. “So don’t complain. Just eat it.”
The corner of Ike’s mouth curved upwards.
“Yes, Commander,” he said, a fond note in his voice.
Soren kicked his ankle lightly beneath the table.
“You like Gallian food,” he said simply.
“I do,” Ike admitted. “You look exhausted, though. Was it that much work?”
“It wasn’t the food,” Soren said. “It’s Skrimir.”
“Ah,” Ike said. He looked unsurprised. “What did he do this time?”
When Soren shot him a suspicious look, Ike just shrugged.
“Ranulf and I can barely get him to sit through a strategy meeting, but as soon as you talk, he’s all ears,” Ike said. He furrowed his brows, glaring at the wall. “He’s enamored with you. Titania’s choice of words.”
That Titania had noticed it and, worse, spoken to Ike about it, was enough to give Soren a headache.
“So you did notice,” Soren murmured.
“Soren, he practically asked you to sit in his lap,” Ike said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that dense. If he’s bothering you, tell me. I’ll stop it.”
“My hero,” Soren said flatly, raising his eyebrows.
“I mean it,” Ike said. “I don’t want you to have to put up with anything.”
“I don’t think there’s much to worry about,” Soren said.
“Why’s that?” Ike asked. He sounded suspicious.
“He, ah,” Soren said. He glanced at the far wall, his face burning. “He said he respects your claim on me.”
“Huh,” Ike said. His voice sounded odd, flat and strained. “Okay.”
He pushed back his chair and stood.
“Ike!” Soren said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To talk to Skrimir,” Ike said. He was clenching his jaw so tightly a muscle jumped in it. He didn’t look like he was planning to do much talking at all.
“About what?” Soren said, darting in front of him. He reached up, putting his hands on Ike’s chest to stop him.
“About you!” Ike said. “He can’t treat you like you’re – you’re my property! You’re not some thing to be traded, or a prize to be won!”
There was a feeling bubbling up in Soren, lighter than air. He ran his hands up Ike’s chest, hooking his fingers in his collar.
“Ike,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I know that perfectly well.”
“Does he?” Ike demanded. He sounded like he intended to pound the point into Skrimir himself.
“If you fought Skrimir over my honor, it might actually kill Ranulf,” Soren said. The corner of his mouth was twitching, and he had to bite down hard on his cheek to keep his expression stern. “I’d have to completely rework our next battle strategy. Commander, please show some restraint.”
“Fine! Fine, I won’t…” Ike trailed off, looking down at Soren. Annoyance gave way to suspicion. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Soren said. There was laughter building in his chest, strange and almost hysterical. He swallowed it down as best as he could.
Ike’s eyebrow twitched.
“This isn’t funny, Soren,” he said.
“Of course not,” Soren said. His voice cracked a little at the end, his shoulders starting to shake. “It’s very serious. It’s… I…”
He collapsed backward into a chair, a hand pressed hard over his mouth to stifle his laughter. He didn’t think he’d ever laughed like this in his entire life, uncontrolled and unable to stop, tears at the corners of his eyes as his body shook with it. It was strange and new and he hated it, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Slowly, Ike got down one knee in front of him.
“Are you done yet?” he asked, his voice flat.
Soren nodded quickly, his hand clamped so tightly over his mouth that he felt lightheaded. Ike sighed, rolling his eyes, and reached forward to run a hand up the back of Soren’s leg.
When he’d twisted his ankle in the river, he’d thought it would be quick enough to heal under Mist’s attention. But the army had needed Mist — and him — far too long to even spare it that much attention, and then it had been days of frantic marching. Soren hadn’t even realized he’d been favoring his other leg still until Ike put his hands on him.
“You’re so strange,” he said. His fingers gripped into the back of Soren’s knee, light, grounding pressure. “To laugh like that about this of all things. It’s really not funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” Soren lied, badly. Ike gave him a look, his hand a firebrand against Soren’s leg as he dug his thumb in, working out some of the tension from the muscles.
Laughter faded into a muffled gasp. Ike made a vaguely approving noise.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before,” he said. “It was nice. Nicer if it wasn’t at me, granted.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Soren protested. “Just… at how absurd the whole situation is, I suppose.”
“It’s not absurd that someone wants you, Soren,” Ike said with a snort. “You’re smart, you’re a terror on the battlefield, you keep the whole army from collapsing. And you’re beautiful.”
Beautiful. Soren’s face felt hot.
Skrimir had called him beautiful as well, but it meant nothing to him coming from Skrimir. To hear it from Ike’s lips made him feel almost lightheaded.
It was not the first time Ike had said it. That didn’t mean that Soren would ever be used to hearing it.
“He’s the future king of Gallia, Ike,” he said. “It’s absurd no matter how you look at it. And then there’s you.”
Ike made a considering noise.
“Is it really that surprising?” he asked after a moment. “That I want to protect you?”
Soren’s stomach flipped.
He thought about Ike, abandoning his fight with the Black Knight to make sure Soren got to the other side of the river. The way his hand had lingered at Soren’s back even as he’d glanced over his shoulder at the imposing figure on the banks.
Ike, offering his hand to a scared, starved child, when everyone else would have let him die.
“You do, though,” Soren said, swallowing hard. “Have a claim on me.”
Ike gazed up at him, his brows furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line.
“Funny,” he said after a moment. “I was going to say it’s the other way around. You’re the one who has a claim on me.”
—
6) Home
“I’m not arm wrestling a man with one arm.”
“Scared you’ll lose?” Largo asked.
The corner of Ike’s mouth twitched.
“One round,” he said. “No do overs. If I win, dinner’s on the house.”
Largo threw his head back laughing.
“Oh dear,” Calill said, leaning her elbows on the bar. “This is why we don’t make any money, you know.”
“Have a little faith in me, lamb blossom!” Largo said.
He lost, of course. It wasn’t in Ike’s nature to go easy on anyone, not that Largo would have it any other way. His only dismay came when his daughter started cheering for Ike instead of him.
“Well, it’s not like we could have let you pay anyway,” Calill sighed. “You did save my fool husband from life as a very attractive garden statue. And the rest of the world also, I suppose.”
Ike grimaced.
“Let’s not talk about that,” he said.
“Always so modest,” Calill tutted. “If anyone’s earned the right to brag, it’s you.”
“If you’d come during regular hours, the whole bar would be in an uproar,” Largo said. “General Ike, savior of Crimea – and the rest of Tellius, too.”
Ike only shrugged.
“But I suppose that’s why you didn’t come during regular hours,” Calill said, drumming her fingers on the bar top. She turned, angling her body towards the kitchen, and shouted, “Makalov! Don’t just stand there eavesdropping! Get the general and his companion some supper.”
There was a shout from within the kitchen, and the distant crashing of plates. Calill rolled her eyes.
“You’ve got Makalov working as a kitchen boy now?” Ike asked.
“He’s got to work off his tab somehow,” Calill said. “He makes a lamb stew that isn’t half bad, even if I do worry about him pawning my good plates.”
“It’s late,” Ike said. “Don’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s no skin off my nose,” Calill said. “Makalov! You lazy, spineless sea cucumber!”
Ike’s lips quirked upwards in a smile.
“I see Marcia’s been hanging around,” he said, settling himself at the bar.
“Oh, those two are thicker than thieves and twice as expensive,” Largo responded. “You really could have come earlier, you know. There’s a lot of people who would have liked to see you.”
Outside, it was raining, and had been for hours, the storm lashing against the windows and lightning splitting the sky. If it was anyone else, Soren would have said that the weather would have kept them away. But no weather would keep people from flocking to Ike.
Some men would have lavished the attention. A man like Ike, with his skills and his reputation and his looks, could have had anything he wanted. But what Ike wanted was to be left alone.
The attention had been hard enough for him to deal with after the last war. Now, it was nearly impossible. Soren had watched him struggle for months, putting a stony face on it and pretending like it didn’t bother him.
But Soren knew better. Soren knew him better than anyone. And so, whenever Ike’s gaze had strayed to the horizon, staring over the heads of his fawning admirers, fear had knotted in the pit of Soren’s stomach.
He’s going to leave.
He’d been right, but not in the way he expected.
Now, something like giddy anticipation filled Soren. He had to sit separate from Ike so he could contain himself. Every look from Ike, every brush of their bodies, made him want to do something horribly uncharacteristic, like laugh out loud or kiss Ike in front of everyone.
Ike kept looking at him anyway, and his gaze was heated, as if Soren purposefully keeping such a small amount of distance made it something of a game. Soren had lost three pairs of robes since they’d set out, the seams mercilessly torn as Ike pinned him against a door or a wall or a desk.
(“We can’t afford this new habit of yours,” Soren had said breathlessly, knotting his fingers in Ike’s hair as Ike kissed his throat. “Ike, are you listening to me?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Ike said, and the next thrust made Soren mewl.)
Tonight was different, though. Maybe because they were in the company of old friends, and even among old friends, Ike wasn’t the sort to make his private business known to all. Or maybe it was the knowledge that in only a few days’ time, they’d leave Crimea, with no plans to return.
Soren’s gaze kept drifting back to Amy, sitting on Largo’s knee and laughing uproariously at anything at all that Ike said, regardless of whether or not it was funny. He could see, just peeking out from the fluttery sleeve of her dress, the curve of a mark on her upper arm.
He would have known even if he hadn’t seen it. It was the same feeling that had struck him the first time Stefan approached him, or when he’d faced off against General Petrine. The same feeling he had when he locked eyes with Micaiah across the battlefield.
You’re like me.
He blinked when a drink slid in front of him. He glanced up to find Calill looking at him with a small smile, one hand on her hip.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment.
“You know, you always were a strange one,” she said, sitting down next to him. “I could never quite figure you out during the Mad King’s War.”
“Oh?” Soren said, not particularly surprised. He had never spent much personal time with Calill, but he respected her talents as a mage, and she and Largo had been good friends to Ike.
“I thought you were a Spirit Charmer then,” Calill said, and Soren went very still. “You were such a rare talent. Of course he made a deal with a spirit, I thought. How else could someone so young wield magic like that? I didn’t realize my mistake until after we adopted Amy.”
“I had unusual circumstances,” Soren said stiffly. “So you do know what Amy is.”
“I’m her mother,” Calill said. She sounded almost insulted. “Of course I know.”
Soren took a breath. He shifted so that he was looking at Calill.
“Why?” he asked. “If you knew, why take her in? Most beorc would never.”
“Do I look like most beorc?” Calill asked. She swept a hand up and down her front, her eyebrows arched. “Oh, don’t look so offended. I know I’m clearly not where your tastes lie, but you could at least pay a lady a compliment.”
Soren’s lip curled. Calill wasn’t Aimee, someone he could mindlessly flirt with if it meant getting a good discount on company goods – and keeping her from spreading rumors about Ike. Calill was sharper than that, someone who knew how to use her words as a weapon.
Calill looked away after a moment.
“I don’t know if I could explain it,” she said. “She needed me. I’d never been needed like that before, by someone so… helpless. I know how cruel this world can be. I knew what could have become of her if I didn’t do something.”
It had been years and still, sometimes, Soren could hear the voice of the woman who raised him. ”Why me? The world isn’t fair!” in her plaintive, tearful voice, and the contempt in her voice with which she’d said, “Stay away from me, child!” He could still feel the phantom impact of the floor when he’d tried to tug on her skirts and she’d shoved him away.
Soren’s fingers tightened over his knees underneath the table.
“I didn’t really understand before,” Calill said, her voice faraway. “You hear stories about the Branded, but they’re fairytales. Something old sages tell their foolish students to discourage them from making pacts with spirits. You wouldn’t want to be mistaken for the Branded. It was never real to me until I met Amy.”
“How nice for you,” Soren said, unable to keep the disdain from dripping from his voice.
Across the room, Ike glanced at him. Soren shook his head slightly and Ike’s frown deepened but after a moment he turned back at Largo.
“We make sure the mark is covered when we’re out and about,” Calill said.
“A wise decision,” Soren murmured.
“The world is changing, but not that fast,” Calill said. “My child’s safety is my priority. You understand.”
Soren was silent for a moment.
“And when she can’t hide it anymore?” he asked. “If the world hasn’t changed fast enough. What will you do then? Will you leave her?”
“Cynical little thing, still, aren’t you?” Calill said, raising her eyebrows. She jerked her chin towards Ike. “Would he leave you?”
Soren swallowed hard.
“Perhaps he should,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Calill snorted. “The man is madly in love with you. There hasn’t been five minutes this entire evening he hasn’t glanced your way.”
As if on cue, Ike looked over at Soren again. Soren’s mouth tightened and Ike shrugged.
“It’s very sweet, actually,” Calill said. “And it’s explaining some things. I always did wonder why he never made a move on Queen Elincia.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Soren muttered. He rose from the table, only to be stopped by Calill’s next words.
“You cast silently,” Calill said. “I’ve watched you in battle and I’ve never seen anything like it. Your lips move but you don’t voice the words.”
“Like I said,” Soren murmured. “Unusual circumstances.”
He made his way over to Ike, sinking down into the seat next to him. Ike didn’t look at him, speaking about something inconsequential with Largo, but he reached over and put a hand on Soren’s knee, his grip firm and grounding. His hand stayed there for the rest of the evening.
Calill stopped Ike on their way out, slipping a hand insistently into the crook of his arm and yanking him off to some dark corner of the bar. She gave Soren a wink as she went, her hips swaying.
“That wife of mine,” Largo said, waggling his eyebrows. “Always something brewing in her mind.” He paused a moment and then gave Soren a look. “General Ike must feel the same way.”
When Soren sent him a look, Largo burst into hearty laughter.
“You should get used to it,” he said. “You two aren’t as subtle as you might think.”
They must not have been, if even Largo had noticed. Soren couldn’t quite decide how that made him feel.
There was a small tug at the hem of his robes. Soren glanced down just in time to see Amy dart behind Largo’s legs. She stared back at him with wide, confused eyes.
She sensed it too, Soren realized. She was so young she wouldn’t know what it meant, but she still sensed it.
Slowly, he sank down into a crouch, his robes pooling on the floor around him, and held out his hand to her.
“It’s okay,” Largo told her, settling a hand on her head. “His bark is worse than his bite.”
Soren lifted his head to glare at him but Largo only raised his eyebrows in response. He kept his hand on his daughter’s head.
“Go on,” he said.
Slowly, Amy hedged herself out from behind Largo. She stared up at Soren, her eyes huge in her small face, worrying her fingers in front of her. Soren could see the brand again, just barely hidden beneath her sleeve.
He kept himself still as Amy reached up, her small fingers hesitating just before his face.
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice quiet.
Slowly, she touched her fingers to the mark on his forehead, tracing the stark lines of it. A look of understanding bloomed on her face, and her lip wobbled. Such a small child, he thought. A little Branded girl alone in Crimea’s capital. What would have happened to her if Calill and Largo hadn’t taken her in? What had happened to her already? Had her parents given her up when they’d realized what she was? Left her abandoned on some church doorstep? Had they cursed her birth, understanding the weight of it?
And then Calill and Largo, knowing what she was, had taken her in, and protected her, and given her a home.
“Your parents love you very much,” Soren murmured. His throat felt tight. “You have nothing to worry about.”
Amy nodded. Then, shockingly, she threw her little arms around his neck.
To his own surprise, Soren embraced her back.
“It’ll be all right,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re with caring people. They’ll protect you.”
He didn’t mean to, but he believed it.
When he glanced up, Ike was staring down at him with a soft expression.
“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s time we got going.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Largo said as he and Calill saw them off at the door.
Calill’s eyes were sharp as she watched them, though, and Soren wondered if she could recognize it too, the restlessness in Ike.
“Take care,” Soren murmured, quietly, and Calill nodded. He trusted that she knew what he meant.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air was still cool and damp. The clouds overhead threatened a return of the weather at any moment. Still, Ike didn’t seem in any hurry as they walked down the cobblestone streets.
“You’re good with kids,” he said. “It’s not the first time I’ve noticed it, but it’s always nice to see.”
“Children need guidance, reassurance,” Soren murmured. Against his better instincts, he glanced back at the pub.
“I think she’ll be okay,” Ike said. “Even if she does have Makalov for a babysitter. Are you worried?”
There was a note in Ike’s voice reserved solely for Soren, when they were speaking about something without directly speaking about it. Ike had noticed the mark, then, and now he was the one who was worried – about Soren, not Amy.
Soren only shook his head.
“You and Calill looked like you were talking about something important,” Ike said. He reached out, their fingers tangling together as he took Soren’s hand in his own. “Mage stuff?”
Soren shot him a half-amused look.
“Mage stuff, Ike?” he repeated, teasing. He glanced away, at the now closed shops that lined the street. “It wasn’t anything serious.”
“Oh yeah?” Ike said. “Then why did Calill tear into me on the way out?”
“Is that what she was doing?” Soren asked dryly. “And here I was concerned she was confessing her undying love.”
Ike snorted.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” he said. “She said that for a man who is, and I quote, madly in love with his traveling partner, I should do a better job of showing you. Have I done something wrong?”
“What?” Soren said, frowning. “Of course not. I said nothing like that to her.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d talked about our relationship with Calill of all people, but I couldn’t be sure,” Ike said. There was a teasing note in his voice that made Soren’s eyebrow twitch. “She probably has an even bigger gossip network than Aimee. The whole continent could know I’m in love with you within the month.”
“How ridiculous,” Soren said. He made to stride ahead of Ike, but a tug on their joined hands stopped him.
“Soren,” Ike said. “Look at me.”
“I’m always looking at you,” Soren said under his breath.
“Do you know?” Ike asked.
“Do I know what?” Soren said. “Ike, is this the place for this?”
He made to turn again, not in the mood for games. The night had been long, and unexpectedly emotional, and Soren was looking forward to lying down beside Ike and letting him quiet the thoughts in his head.
“I am, you know,” Ike said, pulling Soren to a stop. “Madly in love with you.”
Slowly, Soren turned to face him.
“Ike,” he whispered, staring up at him.
“I don’t say it very often, I know,” Ike said, looking chagrined. “But I do try to show you. I don’t know if it’s enough.”
He squeezed Soren’s fingers before letting go.
“Titania always said something changed in me when you found us,” Ike said. “I never quite knew what she meant, but it’s true. It was like the world got brighter.” His smile was rueful. “My memories were locked away. Meeting you — I didn’t remember that. But I remembered the feeling.”
Somewhere, in the distance, there was the crackle of thunder that Soren could nearly taste. The wind picked up, running through his hair like an old friend’s fingers, the elements as drawn to him as they’d been since he’d first learned to call them. Soren felt like he couldn’t speak.
“I think,” Ike said, “some part of me has loved you since the moment I saw you. Even when I didn’t remember.”
He looked embarrassed, his gaze averted, one hand to the back of his own neck. Ike had always preferred actions to words, but here he was, giving them to Soren anyway, because he thought he needed to hear them.
Ike, who was strong and capable and above all kind. Ike, who had killed a king at just eighteen, who had dealt the final blow against a goddess at twenty-one. Ike, with his broad shoulders and fierce eyes and the kind of looks that could make queens and shopgirls and strategists alike feel faint. Ike, who cared nothing for pretenses or politics but cared deeply for people, who was friends with beorc and laguz, and who looked at a Branded boy like he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Ike, who was leaving for lands unknown – but not without Soren.
Soren rocked up on his toes, fisting his hands in the fabric of Ike’s red cape, and used Ike’s surprise as much as his own strength to yank him down far enough that their lips could meet. He kissed him fiercely, trying to pour his own certainty into him, his knowledge since the first day they met that Ike was special to him. How that feeling had grown every single day since they’d been reunited, through two wars and a frantic fight against a goddess gone mad, the everyday drudgery of mercenary work in between.
The only boy who had held out a warm hand to him when he’d had nothing.
Soren loved him. Soren had always loved him.
“I know,” Soren said, his hand resting at the back of Ike’s neck, straining at the tips of his toes to make up the difference in their heights. “Ike – I know.”
Ike laughed, quiet and husky and all the more beautiful for how rare it was.
“Good,” he said. He curled a hand around Soren’s waist, anchoring him like he always did. “As long as you know.”
The first drop of rain hit Soren’s skin, shockingly cold the way Crimean spring rain always was. Soren had first felt it as a speechless child, crossing the border on his own, huddled under a tree and thinking only of a boy with blue hair and blue eyes and kind hands. Now here that boy was, kissing him in the same rain, and suddenly he was laughing too.
Another drop fell, and then another, before the sky opened up. It felt like freedom.
“It’s raining,” Soren said, his lips brushing Ike’s. The cold rain seeped through his robes, soaking him down to the skin, but all he could focus on was Ike’s hand in his hair, Ike’s firm grip on his waist, out here in the middle of the street. “We should find shelter.”
“There’s no rush,” Ike said, and kissed him.
7) Hatari
It was hot in Hatari. Soren wasn’t surprised, it being a desert country, but it had taken him a few days to adjust to the almost oppressive heat, spending much of the daylight hours in the cool shade of Queen Nailah’s palace. He’d been forced to pack away his own dark robes, instead wearing the lighter Hatari clothing their hosts had provided them.
He hadn’t expected to tolerate the weather well. After all, he’d always hated Gallia’s hot, humid forests. But Hatari’s heat was dry, and less severe than the Grann Desert. If he had to compare it to any country he’d visited before, he’d have to say Goldoa, with its dry mountain planes.
They had never been to Goldoa under the best of circumstances, and the presence of the dragons made Soren uncomfortable, like an itch just under his skin. But the weather he’d found pleasant enough.
There were upsides. Ike hadn’t worn a shirt in nearly a week.
Hatari itself, aside from its weather, was another matter altogether. Sometime during the last war, Queen Nailah and Ike had spoken about Hatari, and the way things were there: laguz and beorc living together in the same land, along with a small number of the Branded. They weren’t ostracized in Hatari, weren’t forced into hiding. At least that was how Ike had explained it to Soren.
Soren hadn’t believed it.
Ike had wanted to see it.
Their first day in Hatari, making their way towards the palace, they had passed two children playing outside their home, their mother keeping patient watch from the steps. Both the children had marks curving sharply over their necks and up to their cheeks, bright lilac against their brown skin. When the girl had seen Soren, she’d grabbed her brother’s sleeve and tugged, pointing at his forehead.
“Don’t mind them,” their mother had said breezily, giving Soren a friendly smile. Her standard was accented but otherwise flawless. “It’s still strange to see visitors, especially other marked ones. What tribe are you from, little brother?”
Ike took his hand, squeezing comfortingly.
“We don’t know,” he said, a more diplomatic answer than Soren was capable of offering.
“Well, welcome to Hatari,” the woman said. “Maybe you’ll find out.”
Soren’s chest felt strange. Ike’s grip on his hand tightened like he knew.
“It’s nice to see,” Ike said simply.
His fingers were threaded through Soren’s, his grip strong. Soren didn’t need to be afraid that Ike would let go.
“Few people would think that,” Soren murmured.
“Maybe so,” Ike admitted. “But the world is changing every day.”
Soren didn’t have faith in the world, but he had faith in Ike. That was enough for him.
They’d arrived in time for a festival. There would be a number of matches, all friendly and in celebration of the event. Queen Nailah was only too happy to invite Ike to join in.
“Do well, beorc hero,” she’d teased, “and you’ll fight me in the final round. I’ve been longing to face you in battle since the first time I saw you fight.”
It was the kind of challenge Ike could never refuse.
Queen Nailah oversaw the festival, and Ike entertained himself helping out however he could. It seemed to amuse the wolves, how much a single beorc could lift, and girls, as well as a few of the boys, had taken to following him around and begging him to help put up structures and carry things back and forth. Soren suspected it was mostly to watch Ike’s arms flex.
It would have bothered him even a year ago, but ever since they’d set out together on their own, Soren found that something inside of him had settled. Let the wolf girls and boys could giggle over Ike’s bare chest and arms, his sword-callused hands. Soren was the only one in Ike’s bed at night.
(And in the morning. And frequently in the afternoon. And, when not in the bed, up against the wall and over the desk and on the ornate carpet draped across the stone floor.
“We’re going to burn this before we leave,” Soren gasped, sweat dripping down his back from the afternoon sun. He was straddling Ike’s lap because, two wars and all the blood that came with them later, Ike had decided he couldn’t stand the idea of Soren getting rug burn.
Ike just grunted in reply.)
But overseeing festivals and lifting things for the amusement of giggling girls weren’t tasks for Soren. Instead he’d spent most of the week inside with Prince Rafiel, perusing Hatari’s royal library. Prince Rafiel was a decent guide, quiet and demure, not offended when Soren was more interested in silently perusing the shelves than idle conversation.
(The idle conversation had been terrible.
“Do you intend to stay in Hatari or to return to Serenes Forest?” Soren asked. “Your family is there. Your siblings and your father.”
“And the queen, my wife, is here,” Rafiel said. “She saved me. There is no place for me but by her side.”
He gave Soren a kind smile.
“You seem to know what that’s like,” he said.
Soren bit his cheek so he wouldn’t say anything about how truly annoying it was when the herons did that.)
Other than that, Soren found himself, to his own consternation, napping. During the wars and long before, naps had been something Soren associated with a few tense moments forced to rest when his body left him no other choice, huddled and hidden beneath a tree or on the first available flat surface before the army moved out.
It was the light in Hatari, he thought, his chin propped up on his hand and his face turned towards the window. His eyelids felt heavy, his face warmed by the sun. One of the ancient tomes Prince Rafiel had graciously insisted he borrow from the library lay open at his elbow.
The rooms they’d been provided were comfortable, bordering on lavish. The beds were low, the furnishings rich, and the windows let plenty of sunlight stream through. Soren had meant to read in the relative cool of their room while Ike was out helping to prepare for the evening’s festival. Most of the books in Hatari were written in the old Serenes language, and he’d been hoping to improve his literacy during their stay.
He’d only meant to rest his eyes for a moment.
“Soren, wake up.”
Soren sat straight up, the childhood years of traveling alone having conditioned him to snap awake at a moment’s notice long before the two wars.
It was only Ike, sitting beside the low bed and watching Soren. Soren heaved a sigh.
“Don’t sneak up on me,” he said.
“I’ve been watching you sleep for five minutes,” he said. “Are you feeling all right? It’s not like you to nap in the middle of the day.”
“It’s the sun,” Soren murmured, reaching up to brush his hair back.
Ike reached forward and beat him to it, his fingers tracing the shell of Soren’s ear.
“You’re like one of those lizards we saw in the Grann Desert, sunning themselves on rocks,” he said.
“A lizard, Ike?” Soren said, raising his eyebrows. “Really?”
“A pretty lizard.” He tucked his knuckles beneath Soren’s chin. “I would have let you sleep longer, but you’d be annoyed with me. The festival starts at dusk.”
Soren could care less about the festival, but Ike was excited, and he obviously wanted Soren to watch while he wrestled wolves. Soren could oblige him and sit in the stands with Prince Rafiel, pretending to appreciate the artistry of what he privately thought was little else than a wolf bar brawl.
“Have you been outside this whole time?” Soren asked.
Ike was golden from the sun, but there was a pink flush to the bridge of his nose and the tops of his shoulders.
“You’ll burn,” he tsked, flicking Ike on the shoulder.
“I don’t mind,” Ike said, sprawling out beside the low bed. “It’s nice, helping out.”
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, the sunlight catching on his hair. He looked relaxed in a way Soren had never seen him before, not really. Not before their travels.
Ike had been only seventeen when his father was murdered. Immediately after that he’d been plunged into a world of war and politics, tasked with impossible task after impossible task, and he’d risen above it all. At only eighteen, he’d slain a king. He’d been given a title he never wanted and because Ike could never be anything but true to himself he’d cast it aside. He’d only wanted to go back to life as a mercenary.
Then another war. Another position of power Ike had never requested or wanted. Years of chaos boiled over until the world was nearly destroyed, and still Ike shouldered all of it with barely any complaint. He hadn’t been allowed to just be since he was seventeen. Perhaps Soren was the only one who noticed how heavily that had weighed on him, and he’d ached for Ike.
Now everything was different. No more lords and ladies and royal courts, scheming politicians and corrupt senators. Now they had the open road. Soren, like always, was content to follow Ike’s lead, to let him decide what he wanted for once, without lost princesses or apostles to dictate his actions.
“What are you thinking?” Soren murmured as Ike kissed his knuckles, and then the inside of his wrist, tongue darting out over his pulse point. He didn’t have to ask; he knew perfectly well what was on Ike’s mind.
“You’re beautiful,” Ike said, leaning in until Soren could feel his breath on his lips.
“You’re biased,” Soren returned, tilting his head just slightly.
“Doesn’t sound like me,” Ike said. There was humor in his voice, but his eyes were deeply serious. He swept his thumb across Soren’s cheek, curled his fingers underneath his chin. “Ask anyone.”
Soren rolled his eyes, reaching up to wrap his own fingers around Ike’s wrist as Ike closed the slight distance between them.
Ike kissed him deeply and with a singular focus, conquering Soren with the same self-assurance he’d used to conquer battlefields. Soren’s arms came up and around his broad shoulders, surrendering easily to his onslaught. Ike pulled him into his lap, his arm strong around Soren’s waist, and there was a promise in the way his fingers gripped Soren’s hip.
If they kept this up, they’d miss the festival entirely. Soren tugged lightly at Ike’s hair, pulling him back up.
“After the festival,” Soren said, and even he knew the heat in his cheeks and the tremble in his voice betrayed him.
“All right,” Ike said, his voice rough. He kissed Soren’s cheek. “If you say so.”
“To the victor go the spoilers,” Soren murmured, his fingers curling at the nape of Ike’s neck.
“Does that mean I get a prize if I win?” Ike asked. His expression was perfectly serious, but his eyes danced. He squeezed Soren’s thigh meaningfully.
“You have to win to find out,” Soren said, his lips brushing against Ike’s.
Then he leaned back, settling himself across Ike’s thighs and schooling his face into a stern expression. It wouldn’t work on Ike, who had learned to read him years ago. He’d said once that it wasn’t as instinctual for him as it seemed to be for Soren, who always knew what Ike was feeling by the twitch of an eye or the curl his mouth, the stiffening of his shoulders or the way he tapped his fingers. So he’d made a study of it.
He’d said he never wanted Soren to feel like he wasn’t understood.
“That’s fine by me,” Ike said. “I do plan to win.”
“Please refrain from causing some sort of political incident by maiming the wolf queen,” Soren said, arching his eyebrows. Ike just snorted.
“Hey,” he said, nudging Soren’s leg. “I brought you lunch.”
He gestured to a plate left abandoned on the low table.
“You’ve done it for me enough times,” Ike said.
“What is it?” Soren asked.
“Sandwiches,” Ike said. “You should eat.”
Soren felt himself start to smile before he could stop it. The plate was piled high with sandwiches cut into neat triangles, and Soren could practically see Ike’s effort. It made his chest feel warm and his throat feel tight.
“Sandwiches,” he said, leaning towards Ike.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Ike asked.
“A long time ago, a boy gave me his sandwich to eat,” Soren said, smiling down at his knees.
Ike reached up, tucking a lock of Soren’s hair behind his ear.
“That boy would’ve given you everything he had, if he’d had the chance,” he said.
“He did,” Soren said. “You did.”
Ike hummed noncommittally, as if he didn’t quite agree. He looked agitated suddenly, tapping the fingers of one hand against his knee.
Soren waited him out. Sometimes Ike needed a few moments, to best put together what he wanted to say. Soren felt honored he merited the privilege: those Ike didn’t care for received the first words out of his mouth, no matter how blunt.
He had just finished one of the sandwiches when Ike next spoke.
“It’s not only a test of strength, you know,” he said. When Soren glanced at him, he reached out and tucked a lock of Soren’s hair behind his ear. “The festival.”
“What is it, then?” Soren murmured. Prince Rafiel had said nothing to him, but now that Soren thought about it, he had looked faintly amused all week.
“It’s, well,” Ike said. The pink tinge in his cheeks darkened. “It’s also a wedding festival.”
The whole world seemed to go very still.
“Oh,” Soren said after a moment.
“Something like that, anyway,” Ike said. “Queen Nailah explained it to me. In the old days, the victor got to claim their choice of mate. Now it’s all agreed upon beforehand, but it’s, ah…” He stared intently at the far wall. “It’s traditional.”
“Traditional,” Soren repeated. He felt lightheaded.
“Queen Nailah wed Rafiel after she won this festival,” Ike said. “She told me that. Several times over.”
He sounded chagrined, but there was a note of something else in his voice. Something hopeful. And that made Soren feel pinned to the spot, like one more word could break him.
He had seen the bracelet on Rafiel’s wrist and he had thought nothing of it. A pretty adornment, nothing more. His throat felt tight now, thinking he should have asked. Then he would have had some preparation, some defense in place.
“Soren,” Ike said, turning towards him.
“Ike,” Soren said desperately.
“To the victor go the spoils,” Ike said, his voice serious. “I don’t plan to lose, Soren. If I ask—”
“It’s a terrible idea,” Soren croaked, his voice hoarse.
“I thought you’d say that,” Ike said fondly.
“You can’t shackle yourself to a Branded—”
“I already have,” Ike said. “You know me better than anyone. Do you see me changing my mind?”
Soren didn’t.
“That isn’t the point,” he said desperately.
“Soren,” Ike said, propping his elbow up on the bed and leaning his head on his hand. He had the gall to look amused, the corner of his mouth twitching as he looked at Soren. “Do you not want to marry me?”
Soren had half a mind to kick him.
“That isn’t the point either!” he said desperately.
There were tears building behind his eyes. His throat was tight with the answer.
Ike reached forward and gently dragged a thumb across Soren’s cheek.
“You can say no,” he said. “I won’t be offended. But you should know that, in the next country, or maybe next year, I’ll ask again. I’ll keep asking, over and over.”
“And if I say no?” Soren asked. His eyes were brimming over now, and he raised a hand to scrub away the tears. “If I say no every time? You’ll resent me.”
“Never,” Ike said.
“You’ll regret it,” Soren said. It was the secret fear he kept locked up tight in the cage of his ribs, that one day Ike would wake up and realize how much of his life he’d wasted on Soren, when he could have a life, could have had a wife, a normal family and a normal home.
“Not for one second,” Ike said. He was smiling in earnest now, reaching up to catch a tear Soren had missed. “Not once, Soren.”
He leaned in until their foreheads touched, wrapping one of his big hands around the back of Soren’s neck. His fingers combed through his hair as Soren took a few stuttering breaths. When he’d gathered himself enough, he leaned forward and kissed Ike.
Ike kept the kiss slow and gentle, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles just beneath Soren’s ear. It seemed too big for his body to contain, Soren thought, how much he loved him.
“I have a gift for you,” Ike said when they parted.
He fished a small wrapped parcel out of his pocket while Soren scrubbed fruitlessly at his face.
“What is it?” Soren asked. He had always been a messy crier, his voice still thick with tears.
Ike unwrapped it with unusual care, revealing an intricately carved golden bangle. Soren had seen many people in Hatari, both laguz and beorc, wearing bracelets of the same style since they’d arrived.
“It’s yours whether you say yes or not,” Ike said, giving Soren a faintly sheepish look. “But it’s an engagement bracelet. Some of the others helping with the festival were wearing them, and they explained when I asked.”
“Ike,” Soren murmured. He reached out to take the bracelet, the metal still warm from the heat of Ike’s body.
“Some of the girls practically dragged me to the metalsmith when I said I might need one of those,” he said, still sheepish. “They’ve been laughing at me ever since.”
And here Soren had thought all the giggling was only because of Ike’s looks. He dragged the heel of his hand across his damp eyes again, sniffling faintly.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, turning the bracelet over in the fading afternoon light.
“The smith had me talk about you,” Ike said as he reached over and took the bracelet back. “About what I feel for you. You know I’m not good with words but for some reason… it all just flowed out of me. And while I talked, he made this.”
He took Soren’s hand and slid the bracelet onto his wrist.
“Everything I feel for you, in here,” he said. “It’s yours, Soren. No matter what.”
Soren cupped his other hand around the warm metal, holding his arm close to his chest.
“I’m yours,” Ike said quietly.
Soren closed his eyes and made a decision. The same decision he’d made all those years ago, small and starving in a forest, when a boy with blue hair and blue eyes held out his hand.
“Yes,” he said.