Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 47: A REASON TO FIGHT ( Chapter 16 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

When Soren awoke, he washed himself thoroughly and donated yesterday’s robes to be used as rags for the war effort. Although they weren’t even the most patched and repaired clothes he owned, he couldn’t imagine getting the stink of Gritnea Tower out of them.

After this, he went to the mess hall, where he was given a larger portion than usual for breakfast. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked the soldier serving him. “You had better not be showing preferential treatment to officers.” (Such a thing was not allowed in Ike’s army.)

The young man looked confused. “Uh…you’re an officer? I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

Although Soren didn’t usually throw his weight around as the army’s chief tactician, he was certainly unique enough for everyone to recognize him by now. He looked at the soldier doubtfully.

“Sorry, I’m new!” the boy rushed to explain. “I only arrived yesterday, and they put me on kitchen duty.”

Soren realized his mistake. Elincia must have managed to garner new recruits already. “Very well,” he said, composing himself. “Then surely your overseer told you the entire army is currently restricted to half-rations.”

Another server rushed to aid her young comrade. “My apologies, sir.” She saluted. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Princess Elincia increased the ration policy yesterday, sir. You were with General Ike, right? That must be…why…you didn’t…” Her voice lapsed into silence, and she swallowed.

Soren ceased glaring at her and departed with his bowl in hand. Finding an empty table, he ate the half a potato floating in the thin broth (as opposed to the yesterday’s quarter-potato), and he considered his hasty assumptions. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and he was quick to anger. Deciding to blame it on his lack of sleep for now, he set out to find Elincia, Bastian, or one of the Delbray siblings for a report on what he’d missed. 

 

Discovering that the princess and her retainers were already in town seeking volunteers and other contributions, Soren settled for Tanith. At least she didn’t mince words. According to the Holy Guard, Elincia’s first objective yesterday had been to develop a sustainable food procurement plan.

Under the princess’s command, Tibarn’s entire hawk army had been given the task of flying long distances, bearing letters of introduction and seeking donations. They returned laden with whatever the distant towns were able and willing to contribute. Meanwhile, Gallians poured into the nearby forests, hunting small and large game alike. Townsfolk were foraging, and village children were even digging frogs out of the mud in frigid ponds. Emboldened by seeing the princess and hearing her words, the common folk had given everything they had and were now committing their time and effort to finding more. Sheep and goats prized for their wool were slaughtered for their meat, and Elincia vowed to see the shepherds compensated once Melior was retaken.

The army was cutting unsavory corners too. The townsfolk were giving up their dogs, setting traps for stray cats, and passing over the reins of horses too old to be useful in battle. Those on kitchen duty were told to dice or grind the meat and keep quiet about what they were serving. But Soren guessed most of the soldiers were hungry enough that they probably wouldn’t have cared.

Tanith also reported rumors of nobles stockpiling food and supplies in remote locales, but even Volke’s intelligence-gathering efforts couldn’t reveal who or where. Since Riven Bridge, no surviving nobles had come forward to support Elincia’s rebellion, and Soren had little doubt they were staying far from the capital and capitulating to Ashnard to save their own skins.

As a final method of food conservation, Tanith explained a plan to evict the Daein prisoners. When Elincia returned later that day with even more recruits, the plan was put into action. The survivors of Pinell and Nados were escorted from the dungeons by Begnion soldiers too injured to keep fighting and new Crimean recruits either too young or too old to be useful in battle. These sub-par soldiers would make sufficient guards on the journey to Daein, where the prisoners would then by turned over to Zelgius’s army.

The morose Daeins obediently packed themselves into the carriages (which had also been donated), and some even seemed eager to return home. They didn’t know Zelgius and the Begnion Army was awaiting them, and with any luck, they wouldn’t try to escape on the way. Either way, the Liberation Army now had a thousand fewer mouths to feed without losing any fighting ability.

 

After seeing the prisoners off, Ike called for a war meeting, during which he doubled down on his plan to march on Melior in twelve days. Elincia’s efforts had gone a long way to feeding the army, but they still needed vulneraries, olivi grass and other herbal medicines, bandages and other medical supplies, healing staves and clerics to wield them.

After compiling a list of temples to visit in the coming days, the conversation moved to the matter of arming and armoring the new recruits. After their victory here at Pinell, Soren had requested the Daeins not be buried with their weapons and armor. Fortunately enough of the tired soldiers had listened, and now they had quite a stockpile of armaments. He said they should obviously use these, and although Ike and Elincia seemed hesitant, Bastian wholeheartedly agreed. He claimed he would personally lead an expedition to acquire as much white paint as possible, and this seemed to satisfy Elincia.

Geoffrey and Lucia then promised to lead drills and train the new cavalry and infantry recruits respectively. They had their work cut out for them, and before the meeting was over, they’d devised a schedule and compartmentalized the field outside Pinell for various exercises. Ike reminded them to leave time and space for the veteran soldiers to train, and he vowed to lead their drills himself as often as he could.

Soren’s task, meanwhile, was to plan the actual siege. It was an important job, and one he felt he’d been preparing for since running for his life out of the Melior Royal Library two and a half years ago. But now that the time had come, he could hardly concentrate. His mind wandered throughout the meeting, and he struggled to listen to—or even care about—the others’ preparations. When they asked him about his ideas for the attack, he deflected, saying he would need more time and intelligence to come up with a suitable plan. Ike trusted him and didn’t press.

 

Over the next few days, Soren pored over maps of Melior city and its castle and devoured every new report from Titania’s scouts, Tibarn’s hawks, and Volke’s spies as soon as they came in. He slept only a few hours each night, and each hour was separate. Upon waking from a nightmare he couldn’t remember, he would set about re-reading reports to distract his fanciful mind. When he felt he could sleep again, he would reawaken before long and do the same thing. He attended regular war councils and other meetings with various members of the army’s leadership. He assessed the capabilities of the new recruits and recommended new tactics for Geoffrey and Lucia to teach them.

 

When only four days remained, Soren had settled on a strategy. To avoid being drawn into a messy battle in the city streets, Ranulf, Tibarn, and Naesala would lead one army—nicknamed the Silver Army—in an attack on the castle from the east. Here there would be only two miles of streets between the edge of the city and the castle fields, so there would be less risk to the civilians.

This was exactly where Ashnard had attacked from, using his dracoknights to bypass the dangers of the rockier terrain. Now Soren was doing the same with the Phoenicians, who would take down the defenses and allow the Gallians to scramble more easily through the elevated streets toward the castle. Ashnard was no fool, and following in his footsteps would be dangerous. Soren had no doubt there would be additional ballistae in place. But Tibarn would just have to outmaneuver them.

The laguz-led attack would distract Daein long enough for the second army—nicknamed the Gold Army—to advance through the city and attack the palace’s front entrance. Reports predicted a large force stationed in the castle fields, with trenches dugs, sandbag barricades built, chevaux-de-frise erected, and metal caltrops littering the ground.

Once they reached Castle Crimea, they would have to fell the gate, and once they had access to the castle’s interior, a portion of the Gold Army—nicknamed the Greil Regiment—would splinter from the main group. The Greil Regiment would be an elite unit of about forty beorc and laguz led by Ike and Elincia. Ashnard was expected to assemble his strongest warriors in the royal gardens—a grand courtyard at the palace’s center. This was where the Greil Regiment would defeat the Mad King and end the war.

That is, unless Ashnard touched the medallion and took its power for himself. Such a small thing could spell doom for the Greil Regiment, even if they managed to reach him. But there was no countermeasure Soren could devise to match Lehran’s Medallion, so he tried not to dwell on that possibility.

Instead, he occupied his mind with contingency plans for every other eventuality. This, along with the minutia of daily army maintenance, was an excellent distraction to keep Soren from thinking about Gritnea Tower, which was never far from his mind. He couldn’t shake the memories nor the smell, and whenever he had a moment to breathe, it assaulted his nose. He could hardly eat a few bites before his throat closed, and his usually sharp senses were dulled.

He wondered dimly if he would return to normal once the war was over, but it didn’t seem possible. In fact, he found himself unable to imagine the war ending, even though that was what he spent every waking moment working to make happen.  

 

It was late when the war council finally concluded and no questions remained concerning Soren’s complete strategy. As new reports rolled in, the details could change, but the main plan would stay the same and everyone had accepted it. While the others filed out, Soren rolled up some documents to take to his room, imagining they would make good reading material if he awoke with nightmares again. But then he noticed Ike was lingering.

“Do you have a second, Soren?”

“What is it?” He laid the documents back on the table to give his commander his full attention (or what passed for it recently).

“What’s wrong?” Ike asked, drawing closer. “You’ve been quiet and moody for days. What’s going on?”

Soren hadn’t expected him to notice any difference—especially because they were both so busy. Ike’s concern made him feel uncomfortable and, if he was honest, a little guilty. Not only had he failed to keep his mind in order, now his problems were affecting Ike as well. “Um... Well, it’s...” Babble fell from his mouth as he tried to find an appropriate lie.

“Yes?” Ike’s eyes were wide and earnest.

“It’s nothing,” Soren finally said, unable to think of something that would placate him.

He made to leave, but Ike blocked his way. “C’mon, tell me what’s on your mind.”

Soren hesitated. Ike could be stubborn when he wanted, and he didn’t want to waste all night sitting here in silence. Finally, he decided to make an effort: “You’ve never worried about who you are, have you? Your family or where you come from…”

“Who I am?” Ike repeated and glanced at the ceiling. He seemed to be thinking hard. “Well, not really,” he finally admitted. “No. I guess I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I had a father and a mother. I don’t remember much about her, but otherwise, no complaints.”

Soren expected Ike would let him leave now. He’d at least tried to communicate what he felt; surely that would suffice. But he didn’t try to push past him again. Ike had honestly tried to understand him, and Soren felt compelled to do the same. “It must be…nice, to have loving parents,” he thought aloud. “You’ve benefitted from having people experience your childhood. They’ve helped shape the person you’ve become.”

Ike nodded as if he agreed.

“But without an adult around to affirm and support them, a child cannot know which path to take…or who they really are.” He didn’t know where he was going, and his voice lapsed into silence.

Ike seemed to consider this statement. “Don’t you have any memory of your parents?” he eventually asked. The mercenaries knew he was an orphan, but they also knew better than to ask personal questions. Soren had never offered any details.

“No.” He shook his head. “The woman who raised me was not my birth mother. And she wasn’t all that fond of me...” He wondered why was he telling Ike about Galina. Why hadn’t he just stopped talking?

The answer was simple: because Ike was still listening. And now that Soren had begun, he found it hard to stop. The words spilled from his mouth:

“My earliest memories are of her saying, ‘Why me? The world isn’t fair!’ or ‘Stay away from me, child.’ No love. No affection. She took care of me out of some sense of duty she didn’t really possess. It was just an arrangement.” Soren swallowed and paused for a moment. Ike said nothing, so he continued: “When I was about four, a sage came by and asked to take me in. He said I possessed rare magical talent. I remember the day clearly. My caretaker was delighted to give me up. In fact, she seemed almost delirious with joy. Smiling like a madwoman as she handed me over... The sage even gave her gold as compensation. Not that it was necessary.”

“Oh, Soren...” Ike finally said. “I had no idea.”

The words made Soren’s spine tingle. He felt utterly exposed. But he kept going, speaking faster now. He didn’t want to give Ike another moment to speak, afraid to hear aloud the pity in his eyes. He both craved and dreaded that pity. “The sage was old and knew death would soon come for him. His only goal was to teach his art to an apprentice. As time was short, he put me through terrible, rigorous magic training. We worked day and night, without cease. I didn’t even have time to think about who I really was. But it was still a better life than I had ever known. When the sage died two years later, I had acquired much magical skill. Perhaps too much for a child of my age...” He thought back to what he’d learned in the Mainal archives and suddenly felt sick. “At any rate, once I had eaten all of the food in his hovel, I left and walked for days. I needed help, but when I found other people, I came to another grim realization... I couldn’t speak. Not a word.”

“Soren...”

He rushed to continue: “Oh, I could read and write better than most of the villagers, and I could understand what they said. I just couldn’t talk. I couldn’t help it. The woman and the sage both hurled words at me. Unkind words, usually. But I never needed to answer, so-”

“Soren!” Ike said more sharply, bringing his monologue to a jarring stop.

He flushed with embarrassment. “Oh... I apologize, Ike. I should not have made you listen to such nonsense.”

“Soren, it’s not nonsense!” There was pity in his voice, but there was something else too—something angrier and less patronizing. “It’s awful! It’s the most terrible thing I’ve ever heard! Where did this happen? Was it in Begnion?”

“No...” He shook his head. “But, there’s more. I haven’t told you...about my parents...” Soren felt as if he’d strayed too close to an electric shock. Static ran over his nerves, clenching his fists, closing his throat and mouth and eyes. “No, that’s enough,” he struggled to say. “I’m sorry. Excuse me...” He forced his way past Ike so he could escape to the hall.

“Wait, Soren?” Ike reached out, but he broke into a run once he was past him. “Soren!” Ike called, but he ignored him. “Blast!”

Fortunately Ike did not pursue, and Soren slowed to a brisk walk once the war room was far behind him. What have I done? he wondered in horror. What was I about to do?

 

Soren avoided Ike as much as possible the next day. He took his orders from Titania and had Astrid relay the latest report from Volke. When the next war council convened, he tried not to look at or talk to him directly. When the council ended, he left before Ike could waylay him.

The evasion hardly seemed necessary. Ike didn’t make any attempt to corner him or interrogate him. He didn’t seem to be acting odd at all. Soren was the only one acting strangely. Taking a steadying breath, he told himself to forget it all.

He went to the mess hall to receive his rationed dinner. He needed his strength for the coming battle, so in spite of his nausea and the mystery meat being served, he forced himself to eat. Eating was essential to stay alive. Holding on to this logical thought, Soren almost didn’t realize he was being followed. However, when he left the mess hall and Stefan rose at the same time, he did realize this fact.

With Stefan drawing nearer, Soren turned down an empty corridor and waited for him to make the same turn. Sure enough, the hermit appeared.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“You’ve seemed stressed. Did something happen?”

Soren scowled. Feeling terrible was bad enough without everyone noticing.

“Our kind has to look out for one another,” Stefan added.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Soren had no patience to deal with this again.

“This war will be over soon enough. Why are you still pretending to be something you aren’t?” Stefan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“Why do you keep bringing this up? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Denying his identity to Stefan felt foolish now, but he’d been lying for so long he couldn’t stop.

“You’re Branded—there’s no doubt about it. I can tell. I am just like you.”

Stefan’s words silenced his protests once and for all. He said nothing.

“You’ve grown quite good at hiding it. But it’s only a matter of time before your heritage becomes…evident.”

“Evident?” Soren repeated. He couldn’t afford to ignore Stefan if he had valuable information.

“You may have already started to notice,” he explained, “We age differently than beorc. Of course, the specifics depend on which type of laguz blood flows in your veins… How old are you now?”

This wasn’t news to Soren; he’d feared it since Temple Asic. “Nineteen,” he answered reluctantly.

“Indeed?” Stefan looked surprised. “Perhaps it has already become evident… Well, beorc aren’t the most observant.”

Soren didn’t think Stefan was making fun of him, but he felt his old embarrassment bubble to the surface. Long in the past were the days Soren had driven himself mad comparing himself to Ike and Boyd, and yet at Stefan’s slight provocation, the memories returned as fresh as ever. “I thought I was aging normally…until about five years ago,” he admitted.

Stefan made a sympathetic face. “You won’t be able to remain in the same place,” he warned. “Even beorc will catch on eventually.”

“That may be true, but…” Soren hesitated. Stefan was correct and what he advised was logical, but it was also impossible. “I will not leave Ike’s side,” he finished firmly. Even for a beorc, Ike could be particularly unobservant (not counting his uncanny ability to sense people’s emotional instabilities). Soren was determined to stay with the mercenaries for as many years as possible. And one day, when Ike learned the truth and asked him to leave the mercenaries, Soren would do so without protest. When that day comes…perhaps I will kill myself. The thought came out of nowhere, springing to his mind out of some dark place. But as the seconds ticked by, the more comfortable the idea felt. I don’t want the long life of a Branded…a cursed life.

“When the time comes,” Stefan said carefully, as if he knew the morbid path Soren’s thoughts had just taken, “—and you will know when—ride to Grann Desert. You have friends there.”

Soren nodded to say he understood, but it was not an agreement. He had no desire to hide in the desert with other Branded, to while away the centuries in dust and sand. He would never be content to ignore and be ignored by the world. But most of all, he couldn’t imagine his life without Ike in it. When Ike pushed him out of the mercenaries, that would be it. The end.

And if Soren’s suspicions about Ike and Elincia’s shared future were true, that end could come sooner than expected. He wouldn’t need to fear Ike eventually noticing his slow aging. When the mercenaries were disbanded, when Ike retired to spend the rest of his life in Elincia’s arms, reflected in her eyes, laughing at her voice—Ike would never know the truth about Soren. And maybe that was for the best.

When Soren surfaced from these thoughts, Stefan was gone.

 

Two more days passed. New recruits were still coming in, and the reinforcements now numbered well over three thousand. At this rate, they would have just enough to march on Melior (even if they would still be outnumbered and a good portion of their troops were civilians). There was a mad rush to finalize preparations for the coming battle, which meant Ike had been busy and easy to avoid.

Although he hadn’t approached Soren or asked any additional questions about his childhood or parents, Soren’s thoughts had taken up residence on the same morbid path they’d explored that night with Stefan. Killing himself when the day came was a comforting thought. It was an escape route.

But this plan revolved around a day when Ike would find out the truth and cast him out, a day when Ike and everyone else would look at him with confused, betrayed, and disgusted eyes—a day Soren never wanted to happen. So he was fostering a new plan: letting himself go down in battle before that day ever arrived. He would die like so many beorc died—in a mess of blood and offal. No one would ever know he was a Branded.

But Soren would never see Ike content and at peace, with his hand in Elincia’s, a crown on his head, and the rich land of Crimea spread out around them. He would never see the fruits of his labors; he wouldn’t see this war won. And he couldn’t tell whether this thought was a disappointment or a mercy. 

 

Soren spoke to no one as the day of reckoning approached. He stopped practicing magic. He attended the council meetings but spoke little. He read reports, but they didn’t change his strategy. He gave most of his uneaten food to Ilyana without saying a word. He wasn’t sure he wanted to die, but this would be the last battle of the war (one way or another) and his last chance to die discreetly. He didn’t want to miss the opportunity and regret it.

Consumed by these thoughts, Soren forgot to leave the meeting in the flood of other bodies so Ike couldn’t corner him. “Hey, Soren,” his voice called him back to the present.

Wincing at the sound, he cast his eyes around and saw that everyone had left. Ike took the seat next to him, where Titania had been sitting moments before. His face looked sad and worried. Soren felt utterly trapped.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other day,” Ike began, “and there's something I still don’t understand. You survived. You’re strong. Why would you feel insecure about who you are? Tell me. Tell me everything.” His every word was the toll of a bell that rang deep and clear. It was a sound that signaled the end—but it also offered hope.

“Damn it, Ike!” Soren slammed both fists on the stone table. It hurt his hands, but he welcomed the pain. “Why can’t you leave me be? I don’t have any friends! I don’t have anyone else! If I tell you and you turn on me... I-I-I don’t think I can survive it.” His vision blurred with stinging tears, but they didn’t spill over. He couldn’t look at Ike, but he was acutely aware of his closeness, the curve of his body, the concern and sympathy that radiated from his every pore.

“That’s why you have to tell me, Soren,” he replied. “You’ll never tell anyone else, and if you don’t tell anyone, you’re just going to keep suffering. Look at you—you’re a mess! Come on. Talk to me.”

“Ike... I-I...” He didn’t know where to begin. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

“Soren, it’s me!” Ike laughed, as if he’d been foolish to forget. “Trust me. I don’t give two figs who your parents are! I'll stand by you.”

“Ike, I...” His voice was becoming clogged. He sniffed and wiped his face with his sleeve. “No, I won’t...” He sniffed again, wiping his eyes again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. It was more painful than expected. He dared to turn and look at Ike. He was right there, looking like he always did. But his face was frustrated and hurt, like he wanted to help and couldn’t, like he wanted to fight and couldn’t. He was the same Ike Soren had known since they’d met in the Gallian forest. Crying in front of him now felt ridiculous. “Ah, Ike...” He released a long, broken breath and imagined it was his last one. That was it. He was dead. “I’m...Branded. I’m one of the Branded.”

“A Branded? What’s that?” Ike asked, confused.

Soren knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Greil had raised his children in ignorance. “It’s a cross between a beorc and a laguz,” he explained. “Such a taboo union violates every teaching of the goddess and society. We are untouchables. Abominations. Condemned to a life of hatred and shunning from both races.”

“Wait, wait.” Ike raised both hands as if telling Soren to slow down. “Hold on a second. Let me make sure that I follow you—you’re part laguz?”

“Yeah.” Hearing Ike say the words was even more painful. Soren gingerly placed a finger on his forehead. “This mark is the proof. I learned the truth researching at the Mainal Cathedral. I always hoped it was a birthmark. Others thought it was the mark of a Spirit Charmer.”

“What’s a Spirit Charmer?” Ike asked, as if adding it to a long list of things he didn’t understand.

“Magic comes from interaction with spirits,” Soren explained. “If you let one into your body, it will give you tremendous power...for a price. That’s why the old sage was so interested in me. He thought I had struck a deal. But instead, I was just a filthy Branded.” Soren let both his palms land on the table and stared at them.

“Alright. I understand.” Ike said. Soren gritted his teeth and prepared to receive his dismissal; at least he knew Ike would be gentle about it. But instead he asked: “So?”

Soren glanced at him in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘so’?”

“So, you have laguz blood in your veins. So, you have a mark to prove it. So...what’s the problem?”

Soren was stunned. He stared at Ike. “What’s the problem?” he repeated almost soundlessly. “Don’t you find me repugnant? I work beside you, eat beside you. I’m nothing! I don’t belong anywhere! Doesn’t that sicken you?”

“No,” Ike said firmly. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re still you, Soren! You’re a capable officer of our army—and my friend. We can’t keep going unless you’re with us.”

“...Ike... I thought... I thought you...” Soren stammered. “No, I’m still… I’m a liability… You can’t just… I don’t deserve to…” Tears were welling in his eyes again, but these were warm and gentle, not hot and stinging. His throat and the roof of his mouth had felt cramped and burned before, but now they were soothed. Soren couldn’t recall this kind of crying at all. It was entirely different. “Ike, do you…remember?” he found himself asking.

“What?”

He wiped his eyes and found that the moisture faded away. “It was Gallia. The sage lived in Gallia. Some beorc had settled there, and...” Soren had never intended to remind Ike of how they’d met. Ike had forgotten, and Soren had accepted that. But now seemed the right time. After all, he’d already divulged worse secrets.

“Gallia? Are you saying...” Ike trailed off. His eyes widened as if he understood. Soren wondered if that meant he remembered.

“When the sage died, no one would help me. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t find food. I was dying.” He paused a moment. “You were the only one who helped. You and your parents. That’s why you’re my friend. My...only friend.”

Ike leaned forward and was suddenly holding Soren in a tight hug. Soren went rigid at the contact. He wanted to hug Ike back, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t know what to do with his arms. So he remained immobile until Ike released him, but his hands were still on his shoulders.

“I remember…sledding with you. We did that, right? We played games…” He looked like he was trying to remember, and that was enough for Soren. He wouldn’t push him any farther.

“Yes, we did.”

“Thank you for telling me all of this,” Ike said, finally dropping his arms. “We march on Melior tomorrow, and no matter what happens, I am glad to have known you, Soren, and to continue knowing you long after this war is over.”

“Me too, Ike,” Soren managed to say.

 

Ike forbid Soren from working the rest of the afternoon, so he forced himself to eat a full meal for once and was surprised when the bowl was empty. Then he left Pinell for a walk. These days, he only went outside to observe or participate in new drills. But now, instead of taking the road to the field, he wandered the winding paths of the ever-growing tent city outside the fort’s walls. He inhaled the smell of sweat, urine, and iron. He peered through the smoky air at the faces of men and women preparing for the coming battle. Some looked terrified, some fearless. Others looked numb. The non-fighting volunteers—those working leather, hammering steel, and distributing rations—watched the soldiers with strange expressions. Sometimes they offered encouraging smiles and soft words, but most just stared as if seeing ghosts.

Soren listened to the cacophony of voices, shouts, hoofbeats, weapons and tools clanging, tarps flapping, bellows gasping, wood chopping, mills grinding, and the thousand other sounds filling the camp. Night would soon fall, and everyone was bustling as if every minute of preparation now could save them all tomorrow.

Soren didn’t know what would happen in the coming battle. He didn’t know if he would survive, or Ike, or anyone. But he felt alive now, more alive than he had in a long time—and he was determined to stay that way. A weight had lifted from his shoulders. He felt hopeful.

 

He hadn’t been going anywhere in particular. He’d been letting his feet guide him. But then he felt something, a presence in the distance, that drew him in. He didn’t fight it. He let his steps take him in that direction. As he drew closer, that presence washed over him with familiarity and unease. When his feet stopped in front of a blacksmith’s tent, he was stunned—there was a Branded in that tent.

Soren wondered if he was dreaming or if this could truly be a coincidence so soon after his confession to Ike. Or perhaps it was some divine intervention on the part of Ashera, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually believe that. He walked forward, ducking under the low-hanging tent flap.

Her curls were greased with sweat and her face flushed from working so close to the fire. He could hear her voice, humming while she worked, and he was struck how familiar it sounded despite the years that had passed: Koure. He could now tell she was a Branded like him, and this realization made an odd amount of sense.

She looked up from her work: winding animal sinew tightly to the handles of freshly forged axes. Perhaps she’d sensed him too, because she didn’t seem surprised. She just smiled, placing her project on a workbench. Soren glanced at the blacksmith, the only other occupant of the tent. He was hammering intently to temper a blade and didn’t seem to notice his entry. 

“Hi, Soren!” Koure said loudly over the sounds of metal on metal. She was grimy from hard work but looked happy. Her pale blue eyes shone through the hazy air, and no amount of soot could hide the color of her curls—the same pale gold as Leanne’s, he thought. But Koure’s hair was cut short, popping up out of her head in erratic corkscrews, and her face was scattered with freckles, while Leanne’s was porcelain white.

“What are you doing here?” Soren demanded more harshly than intended, caught off guard by her presence.

“What I can,” she answered.

Soren frowned and crossed his arms.

“There is a war going on, in case you haven’t heard,” she teased. “Shouldn’t we all do our part?”

Soren thought back to the last time he’d seen her. “I thought you were going to Daein.”

“Turns out that was easier said than done.” She shrugged. “There are Daein soldiers and spies everywhere, and other refugees suspecting me of being a spy myself…There was too much work to do anyway. The Crimean rebels had me peeling potatoes and waxing armor about as often as the Daeins did.” She flashed a smile show this was a joke. “Really though, I’m glad to do my part.”

“Will you fight tomorrow?” Soren asked, not quite sure what answer he was expecting, nor what he wanted to hear.

Koure shook her head and stroked the axe she’d just set down. “I’ve decided not to.”

“But you have been trained, haven’t you?” he recalled their days at the temple. “Didn’t you say your father taught you?”

Koure laughed humorlessly, confusing him with her sudden bitterness. She was usually so cheerful. Even a second ago she’d been smiling. “I haven’t held a blade or ridden horse in years. I’m sure I’ve forgotten how.”

“Thousands of civilians are training at this very moment,” he pointed out, “That isn’t much of an excuse.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

Soren didn’t say anything for several moments. It was a valid answer, simple, and he could tell by her face that she was being honest. She may have been a Branded, but she was less of a monster than most people he’d met. “Okay,” he finally said.

Koure changed the subject. “Your commander is the general of the army, isn’t he? I knew you’d be around.”

“But you didn’t try to find me.” It wasn’t a question.

She hesitated, her expression still somber. “You could die tomorrow. I thought it would be better if I didn’t see you.”

Soren wasn’t sure how to reply to that. “I did not mean to find you. I just did.”

Koure shrugged one shoulder. “It was bound to happen.”

“It is a big coincidence,” Soren countered.

“So was finding you at the temple, and you finding me in those dungeons. Maybe our kind is meant to find one another.”

“Our kind?” he repeated, unsure of how much she knew.

Koure nodded, but it was hardly more than a tremor. She glanced at the blacksmith, but he was still ignoring them. “I need to show you something.” She stood and grabbed his hand. Soren allowed himself to be led out of the tent. “I’ll be right back!” she shouted to the blacksmith. He grunted in reply. Not letting go of his hand, she led him out and around the back, to a shelter between two tents made of canvas and wooden slats.

“Is this where you’ve been living while you’re here?” Soren asked.

Koure nodded. She didn’t seem ashamed of her meager dwelling. “It’s better than a lot of places I’ve lived these past few years. There’s a blacksmith on either side, so it always warm enough.”

Soren allowed himself to be sat down on an up-turned box, while Koure stood across from him. Her hair grazed the low ceiling. She lit a lantern, handed it to him, and then exhaled evenly, as if trying to calm her nerves. “I wanted to show you back at the temple, but I lost my nerve. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but I’ve learned a lot since then.”

Koure untied her leather apron behind her neck so it folded at her waist and then undid a latch above her sternum, which released the leather sleeves she was wearing for the smithy. Undoing the top buttons of her shirt, she pulled it down and to the side to reveal an intricate tattoo-like mark just above her heart. The design was painted in thin gold lines, and although it was larger than Soren’s Brand, the location made it easier to conceal.

When he finally spoke, all he could think to say was, “You’re Branded, I know.”

Koure breathed a sigh of relief as she rebuttoned her shirt. “You are too, right? I felt it about you, back when I first met you, but I was afraid. I knew we were the same, but I didn’t know how. There was so much I didn’t know back then.”

“Such as?” Soren asked cautiously.

“People like us are born from human and subhuman blood. But there are other names: beorc and laguz. And we are called Branded. For some reason I still can’t fathom, people think we bring bad luck, but that’s just a myth.”

Soren nearly smiled, hearing her speak so lightheartedly about the bane of his existence. She must have noticed his almost-smile, because she sat down on an upturned bucket and looked suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sure you already know all that, though.”

Soren nodded.

“Well, it sure feels good being able to tell someone.”

Soren nodded again, more slowly. “Yes, it does.” He thought about Ike. “Have you told others?”

Koure shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. It’s hard to tell the people who’d be scared from the people who wouldn’t mind. Some people have seen it accidentally.” She absentmindedly curled fingers over her heart. “That…never ended well.”

“That’s why you left the orphanage…” Soren thought aloud.

Koure nodded. “They didn’t notice at first, but when they did, I had to leave. I tried going back to Hilda, but she wouldn’t have me either. She was convinced I’d run away. She tried making me go back, but I couldn’t so…I was on my own. Well, not entirely. One of my cousins sheltered me for a while, until Hilda found out…”

“I’m sorry,” Soren said, surprising himself by how much he meant it.

“It’s alright.” Koure shook her head. “Most people can be kind. So many helped me along the way.”

Soren wondered if she was exaggerating or if their experiences could have truly been so different.

“Anyway, I bet you’ve had a harder time,” she said as if reading his mind. She pointed meaningfully to her own forehead.

“I was lucky to find the Greil Mercenaries.”

Koure paused a moment. “So do you…well, do you know who your parents are?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” she said with another shake of her head. “I want to find out though. I really am going to Daein after this. But that would be a lot easier if you could just go ahead and win this war already, okay?” She smiled to show she was joking.

“Tomorrow,” Soren assured. But they both knew he couldn’t promise anything. No one could. After several moments of silence, he found himself saying, “I am glad you aren’t fighting. I would prefer if you survived tomorrow.”

She looked sad when she replied: “You too.”

They talked for a while longer, but eventually Soren had to return to the fort. He needed to get some rest before the coming battle, or he would be no use at all.

After leaving Koure, he wondered if he should have told her about Palmeni Temple and the words on the wall there. But then he told himself he was being foolish. Even if the child of the heron Lillia and had somehow survived, and even if Koure were that child, Soren wasn’t sure he wanted her to know that. Perhaps it was better she search for answers and have hope than find out the truth and its misery. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he reminded himself there were more pressing things to worry about.

 

That night, before turning in, Soren sat with Ike, Titania, and Ranulf by the fire in main hall. He’d merely been passing by when Ike invited him to join, and despite his tiredness, he agreed to sit a moment. In a way, this also felt like rest. The fort was quiet, and the fire crackled comfortingly.

“This war has been waged for over two years…” Ranulf mused. “But it could all be over by midday tomorrow. How do you feel, Ike? Think we’ll win?”

“We’ll win,” was Ike’s determined response.

“I knew you’d say that,” Ranulf chuckled, “You don’t fool me anymore, but even so… I appreciate your bravado tonight.”

Ike frowned into the fire, but then they all looked over their shoulders at the approach of footsteps. To Soren’s surprise, a laguz soldier was leading none other than Lord Giffca—Gallia’s premier general and Caineghis’s bodyguard and closest confidant—to meet them.  

“Without such courage, it would be impossible to face King Daein,” he rumbled in greeting. “My apologies, I could not help but overhear.” He bowed over his arm.

“General Giffca!” Ranulf leapt to his feet to bow low. “What are you doing here?”

“The king and I felt uneasy sitting this one out, so I have come in both our steads.”

Titania also bowed. “I am surprised King Caineghis let you out of his sight,” she laughed.

Giffca smiled. “The threat of the dark god behooves us all make sacrifices.”

“So, you’re going to fight with us?” Ranulf asked in disbelief.

“That is my purpose.” Giffca nodded. “That is, if Lord Ike grants his permission.” He turned to him expectantly.

“Of course. The Daein Army is large, so we’re going to hit them from the front while a second force attacks the eastern gate. I’d appreciate if you would agree to take command of that front.”

“If that is your wish, I can but agree.” He bent over his arm a second time.

Ranulf pulled a pouting face. “Hey, what’s this now? You weren’t satisfied with the work I was doing? I mean, I know I’m no General Giffca, but sheesh.”

“Ranulf, I want you with me,” Ike answer, clapping an arm on his shoulder. “Join the Greil Regiment and fight by my side… Would that be alright?”

“Oh, I see.” He grinned. “You need me to protect you. Sure thing! Being part of the main pack is the highest honor.”

“Lord Giffca!” Mordecai called, bounding across the room. Lethe was just beside him, seeming to restrain her excitement. While they fawned over the king’s consort, Soren decided to make his exit. He was glad the lion had come, but this didn’t change anything and he really was tired.

 

The Crimea Liberation Army marched in silence until they reached the outskirts of Melior. Here they erected a basecamp for the last time and divided into the Gold and Silver Armies. The Silver Army moved out, and the Gold Army remained quiet and nervous until a hawk messenger returned some time later. She reported that Daein’s city forces had moved to the east to fend off Giffca and Tibarn’s troops. Now was the time for the Gold Army to advance.

They marched through the city streets without any major altercations (just a few ambushes meant to spook the inexperienced troops). When they arrived at the castle fields, Soren recognized the wall around Melior Castle and the peaks of the library, temple, and palace within. But black flags bearing Daein’s dragon emblem hung from them now, and the fields surrounding the castle had been trampled and churned into a deadly battlefield.

Ike ordered the army pause at the edge of the field, and Elincia alighted atop a small hill where she could address them. Dismounting from her pegasus, she shouted to her assembled troops: “Hear me! Brave fighting men of Crimea! Much have you lost in service to your land. Hear me! Beloved friends of the laguz! You, too, have given all for our fair cause. Hear me! My trusted company of old! You men of Greil did see me to this day. I stand before you made of flesh and bone, alive because you risked your lives for me. A word cannot my thanks express in kind… We march today into the jaws of fate; our enemy lies in wait o’er this hill. If on the ‘morrow, Ashnard lives no more, my fondest dream is to among you walk and give you each my heartfelt thanks anew. Let not this dream dissolve into despair! We will defeat the dreaded king of Daein! We will reclaim this land we hold so dear. Lend me your strength! Lend me your weary hearts! Today we make our fate for good and all! One life can make a mark upon this world. One life can move the wheel of history. Be that one life! Fight well! Fight brave! Fight true.”

The entire army erupted in a thunderous applause and cheering—even those in the back who surely hadn’t heard a word. Ranulf and Ike were clapping and smiling beside Soren. “Where did that come from?” Ranulf exclaimed. “That was magnificent! It seems the princess has grown stronger too.”

“It’s said we grow into the roles we’re given, isn’t it? Elincia will make a splendid queen.” Not for the first time, Ike was staring at the princess in awe.

Ranulf stopped clapping and stared at him with mouth agape.

“That’s…that’s just what Nasir said!” Ike amended in embarrassment. “What? It’s true! Stop it! Don’t give me that I-can’t-believe-what-I-just-heard look.”

Ranulf laughed. “Oh, Nasir said it? Whew! That’s a relief! I thought the world had gone mad and you were trying to be wise.”

Ike punched him gently in the shoulder. “Stupid cat.”

Soren found himself wondering once again what Ike would do after the war. Would he keep his lordship and court the princess? He’d expressed a desire to continue leading the mercenaries, but Soren couldn’t see how he could do both. Considering his popularity, the other nobles would have no choice but to approve his marriage and coronation. The king of Crimea led armies from a desk; he didn’t fight on the frontlines with a ragtag band of mercenaries. But for Elincia’s love, perhaps Ike would make that sacrifice in a heartbeat.

Turning away from Ranulf, Ike addressed his battalion: “Alright, let’s go! This ends today.”

“I’m ready,” said Titania.

“I have everything I need,” Soren added.

The rest of the mercenaries gave a vague cheer as their excited voices and promises of preparedness overlapped.

“Very well, we’re ready.” Ike started to raise his hand to give the signal, but Titania stopped him.

“Say, Ike! This is the end of the end, you know? So rather than just giving orders, why don’t you say a word?” She grinned broadly.

“I think Princess Elincia said enough.”

Mist stepped forward. “They’ll want to hear what you have to say too! Father always did it, didn’t he?”

“You want me to say something…like Father would have?” Ike seemed more resigned than confident.  

In answer, Mist pushed him up the hill toward Elincia, who graciously stepped aside and gestured for him to speak.

The army fell silent when he reached the top, and he seemed to take a moment to switch from tunnel-vision general to encouraging commander. “Before this final battle, there’s only one thing I want to tell all of you… I don’t want any of you dying on me! Remember, you only have one life! At a time like this, it doesn’t matter what our blood ties are. We are family. That’s what my father always used to say. And today—for the first time—I understand why he said it… Because we are a family. So if you don’t want to cause your family any grief, then live! Don’t drop your guard! Don’t turn your back! Use every drop of your strength! Our road has been long, but it ends today! Let’s liberate Crimea and free our friends—and our families—from Daein’s tyranny! Beorc and laguz of Tellius… Greil Mercenaries... MOVE OUT!” Ike drew the ancient blade Ragnell and held high it above his head.

   His speech was followed by a thunderous cheer. Every soldier raised their weapons to the sky, mimicking his gesture. They roared until their voices grew hoarse, and although Soren didn’t join them, he couldn’t help but smile. What Ike was asking was ridiculous. This would be a devastating battle. The Silver Army numbered only three thousand and were facing Daein’s eastern forces of eight thousand at this very second. The Gold Army numbered eight thousand and would be facing eighteen thousand on the field in only a moment. Inside the castle (if they made it that far) they would face ten thousand more.

The Liberation Army was outnumbered by more than three to one, and most of these cheering people were walking to their doom. Maybe they all were. Rumor had it that the Daein wasn’t keen on taking prisoners or keeping their prisoners alive when they did. Defeat today could mean death for every single one of them. Only deserters, those who turned tail and ran at the first sign of bloodshed, would have a chance of surviving.

And yet, Ike’s words had inspired these people to tears, because they’d grown to love their general. They truly believed, in this small moment, that they could all survive if they tried hard enough. It was a foolish thought, but oddly heartwarming.