Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 52: IMPRISONED ( Chapter 21 )

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

Ike refused Soren’s request. “Of course not. You’ve signed a contract with the Greil Mercenaries. A ten-year contract when you joined us. You had the chance to leave when I became commander, and you had the chance to leave when we won the war. But you chose to stay. So you stay.”

Soren was honestly bewildered by his response. He hadn’t asked why or for how long; he’d refused outright. And then Ike left, returning to where the rest of the mercenaries were packing up their nightly campsite.

Soren was stunned a few moments more. Then he grew annoyed—and then angry. He followed after Ike, but he vowed this wouldn’t be the end of the discussion.

 

The mercenaries spent three months fulfilling contracts with local mayors and harbormasters whose imports and exports were frequently targeted by pirates from the sea, gangs in the streets, and bandits on the roads leading out of town. They made their way along the coast, always moving on when their contract was up.

During this time, they encountered a ship’s captain who’d been the first mate of Nasir’s crew. Ike told him of the dragon’s demise, and the captain seemed to mourn the loss like an old friend. Ike also seemed to feel the loss anew, but Soren still hadn’t forgiven Nasir for his treachery and taunting. 

They also met Haar again during this time. It was Mist who spotted the black wyvern and its rider in the distance, descending lazily on a town. The former Daein dracoknight was unmistakable even at such a distance, and the mercenaries hurried to meet him. Asking around, they found him at the local office of the Imperial Post, where Haar was apparently making a delivery.

Glad to see familiar faces, Haar dined with them but left before nightfall, saying he had additional deliveries to make in the next town. Over the course of the meal, he explained that he and Jill hadn’t been able to return to their regular lives in Daein. Begnion had assigned its own steward to Talrega, stripping Jill of her inheritance.

But this seemed to weigh less on Haar’s mind than the fact that the tribe’s ancient wyvern-raising secrets were being appropriated for the empire’s own use. Daein nationals were forbidden to own wyverns as pets or tools of war, and Begnion scholars and soldiers had seized all their dragons as well as their eggs and nesting grounds. Haar, Jill, and a few of their peers had only managed to maintain possession of their steeds by classifying them as beasts of burden and starting a continent-wide mail and cargo service with the approval (and therefore protection) of the Crimean Royal Post and Begnion Imperial Post.

According to Haar, who retold these things with an air of defeat, Begnion was attempting to train enough elite riders to comprise a ‘holy’ dracoknight army, which would exclusively serve the heads of the senate, just as the Holy Guard served the apostle.

Soren listened carefully to every detail of Haar’s story. Even if they were currently beating up two-bit pirates in the middle of nowhere, he still wanted to know what was going on in the world—especially in the aftermath of the war. After all, handing Daein over to Begnion had been his idea. Although he felt no particular guilt or responsibility for Begnion’s actions, he did want to know the repercussions. For learning purposes.

To Soren’s surprise, Ike agreed to keep Haar informed about their whereabouts so he and his company could deliver to the mercenaries any letters from their friends and family. On the condition, of course, that he use discretion and not go telling everyone where the mercenaries could be found—especially Queen Crimea, whom it appeared Ike was still avoiding. Several of the mercenaries pulled coins from their pockets and scratched out quick letters to send with Haar when he departed. Soren decided to draft an update for Bastian, and for the first time, his correspondence with Elincia’s confidant felt like a strange victory over Ike.

 

That night, Soren caught his commander alone. “I would like to resubmit my furlough request,” he prompted, as he often did whenever he could effectively corner him.

As usual, Ike shook his head. “Are you going to tell me why yet?”

(Soren had apparently failed to provide good reasons previously.) At first, he’d claimed, “I just need some space.”

To which Ike had replied: “You surround yourself in space—you certainly don’t surround yourself with people. Come on, what’s really bothering you?”

Soren had tried again, pushing this excuse.

To which Ike had said: “Trust me. Whatever problem you’re having, it would be better to deal with it together than going off on your own. You’re better off here with us.”

Switching tactics, Soren had tried lying, saying, “I’m just tired of mercenary work.”

To which Ike had said: “No, you’re not. You’re good at this, so you enjoy it. It’s about one of the few things you do enjoy.”

Frustrated, Soren had even claimed to be too traumatized from the war to continue fighting.

To this Ike had barked a humorless laugh and replied: “Shinon slipped up yesterday and called those pirates ‘Daein dogs’, but we all do it—get transported out of battle, to a harder, harsher one. Sometimes we wake up with nightmares, because the people we’ve killed appear in our dreams and we have to make the decision to kill them again... Rolf woke up crying last week. Mia called out for her dead brother the other day. There are nights even Titania wakes up reaching for her knife. But not you Soren. You make the decision once, and then you’re done. When you sleep—rare though it may be—you sleep like a baby. We’ve all heard you leave at night, and I don’t doubt something’s keeping you awake, but it’s not the war… You can tell me what it really is. You don’t need to pretend it’s something else.”

His voice had been chastising yet earnest, and after this refusal, Soren hadn’t asked again for over a week. The problem was that his first excuse had been the closest to the truth. He truly needed space: space from Ike. But he hadn’t believed it was that simple, and perhaps he was right. But Soren couldn’t tell him the full truth, because he would never understand. 

That was why, tonight, Soren decided to ask his own question instead of offering an answer Ike would reject: “Why don’t you want me to go?”

This seemed to catch Ike off guard, but only for a moment. He shrugged both shoulders as if trying to wring out some tension. Then he sighed softly. “I can’t do this without you,” he said without looking at him.

“Do what?”

“Lead the Greil Mercenaries. It’s always been the three of us since Father died—you, me, and Titania. Father never taught me how to do this. But I knew I would replace him one day, so I watched him. And I knew from the beginning that I would never be like him. I can’t lead anyone on my own, alright? So…please stop trying to leave.”

Soren paused for a moment, replaying Ike’s words in his head. He didn’t seem self-pitying, resentful, or regretful. When Soren finally spoke, his voice came out so quietly he struggled to make it audible: “Very well, I will not ask again. But my request still stands.”

 

These past few months, Soren had badgered Ike to suspend his contract in secret. Meanwhile, they’d behaved normally during their daily routine of travel and battle. But this changed now. Of course, Soren still treated Ike with respect as his commander; he still took orders and offered advice, as was his job. But he didn’t speak with Ike as friends. He didn’t share meals or play games with him in their free time.

In short, Soren gave Ike the cold shoulder—and the others noticed. One day Ike came down to the dining hall of the inn where they were staying. He sat between Boyd and Soren, who, having finished his meal, abruptly stood and left. Once out of the room, he heard Boyd say to Ike behind him, “Wow, are you two really fighting?”

Soren kept walking as if he hadn’t heard. Fighting? Soren thought. Is that what this is? Friends fight, don’t they? Oscar, Boyd, and Rolf fight all the time. Shinon and Gatrie sometimes fight over attractive women. Mia picks fights with anyone who will duel her. And yet none of these resembled the rift growing between him and Ike.

 

Another month passed, and the mercenaries grew quite busy. As Tellius rolled into spring, the southern sea grew gentler. This meant the number of merchant ships (and the amount of criminal activity) increased. Soren protected Ike in battle, and he found himself irritated that his Branded sense was coming in handy again, considering it was no less wearisome the rest of the time.

Although they were able to negotiate contracts wherever they went, the Greil Mercenaries did face some opposition. Apparently, certain Begnion civilians thought it the sole job of the Imperial Army to protect them from brigands, not some upstart, foreign mercenary crew who demanded payment for their services. These people paid their taxes, so they didn’t see why the army wouldn’t protect them. 

“The soldiers you’d have protect you are up north!” Titania spat back to one particularly verbally-abusive old woman, “They’re making themselves rich lording over the poor Daeins. They don’t care about you, and they’re worlds away even if they did. We are here now.”

The woman clamped her mouth shut at that, but she didn’t look happy about it. Her eyes smoldered as Titania stalked away. Usually patient and regal, the paladin had snapped. Thinking this woman must have been piece of work, Soren felt compelled to approach her.

Her face was tanned, lined, and weathered by the sea, and she wore a sun-bleached dress, the fabric faded soft. But her arms and legs looked hard, albeit knobby. She walked with a cane, and for all the world she reminded Soren of Galina.

“What d’she know?” the woman was grumbling to herself. “And all three my boys in da army… Doing our nation an honor is what… Fool girl. Whoever saw such ri’culous hair?... Upstart ‘cenary scum… Pompous, greedy blighters… Probly not even certified… Rob us bleeding blind is what… No better than the pirates…”

Soren had been following her silently for several yards now, listening to her angry whispers. Finally he spoke up: “Not certified?” he asked, “What do you mean?”

The woman jumped and nearly dropped her cane. “Who’a you? What’dya want?”

“Nobody. Information,” Soren answered coolly.

The woman looked confused for a moment until she realized he’d answered her questions. “Oh… What inf’mation?” she asked in a guarded tone. Her eyes were fixed on Soren’s Brand, and he regretted not wearing a hood or hat.

“What do you mean, those mercenaries aren’t certified?” he asked again.

“Well they don seem resp’table to me. Probly never got their cert’fication with the Imperial Army, they haven’t. Probly doin’ their ‘cenary work illegally is what. Probly I should go to da outpost, report them. Bein’ locked up with those pirates they captured’d serve em right, I’d think.”

“Probably,” Soren agreed, mocking her.

The woman scowled. “Why’m I talkin’ a lita’ brat like you an’way.” She turned and shuffled on. Soren didn’t pester her further. He had what he needed—what he hadn’t known he needed.

 

Soren set out for the nearest army outpost as soon the sun had set. He slipped away from the inn, leaving the rest of the mercenaries relaxing in the lobby or in their rooms. He made certain he wasn’t followed.

The door was painted red and emblazoned with the Imperial Army’s coat of arms. Around the back of the building was a jail yard surrounded by tall stone walls and tiny barred windows. The windows peeked in on narrow cells built like horse stalls, which were arranged around the perimeter facing into the yard. Soren had seen them yesterday, when the mercenaries had delivered a couple pirates into the custody of the official guard.

The building itself had a front office into which Soren now strode, pushing the red door open. The rest of the building served as the barracks for the fifteen or so soldiers stationed here. One such soldier was resting with his head on his hand, sitting behind the desk where he was serving his shift.

Of course, the commander of this platoon had said nothing about certification when they’d met him yesterday. This was concerning, and Soren didn’t expect his plan to be easy.

“Excuse me,” he said, attempting to sound polite. This time he’d had the sense to cover his Brand and the top of his head with a bandana, as he’d seen other men, women, and children do around the docks. He didn’t want to be recognized or arouse undue suspicion.

“What is it, kid?” the man asked.

As usual, Soren bristled as being called a child, but he bit back a sharp retort. It benefitted him to seem innocent and unassuming now. “It has come to my attention that there is a roving mercenary band working illegally in this town,” he began. “I think they should be arrested immediately.”

The soldier was unimpressed. “Go home, kid,” he said.

“They are killing without authority,” Soren insisted. “That is surely against the laws of the empire.”

The soldier leaned back and dug his fingernails into his wiry beard. “They aren’t doing any harm. And if they want to put their necks on the line doing our job for us, more power to them.”

Soren wouldn’t give up that easily. “But they are abusing the townsfolk,” he lied, “demanding discounts on food and lodging. They are extorting the poor for everything they have, demanding it in return for saving them from pirates.”

The soldier just shrugged. “Not my problem.” 

Soren would have to increase his efforts. “I have heard they hold wealthy men at the point of a blade, pretending to be the pirates themselves. Then their comrades only order the other to stand down when the man has given over all the gold in his pockets.”

“Still not my problem.”

Soren was growing frustrated. “Do you not think it odd that there have been so many attacks this year?” he pointed out, knowing the increase was actually due to a correlating increase in commerce between Begnion and Crimea. More ships meant more thieves preying on them; it was simple, but hopefully this man did not have the wit to realize that. “Surely it is no coincidence. These are no mercenaries. They are conmen.”

If the soldier was bothered by how Soren’s complaints kept changing, or bothered by the possibility that these rumors might have some truth (which of course they did not), he didn’t show it.

Soren would have to use his last resort. “What about that man they killed? He was certainly no pirate.”

This piqued the soldier’s interest. “What man?”

Soren rushed on. “No pirate, that is for certain. He was my grandfather, a veteran. A hero. He did not deserve to go down like that.” Soren wasn’t much of an actor, and he had a hard time changing his body language and voice to match his words. But this oaf seemed to believe him.

“Your grandfather was a member of the Imperial Army, boy?”          

Soren nodded slowly. “He lost his arm decades ago, but that did not dissuade him from trying to stop those mercenaries from abusing his neighbors. He was a true soldier at heart. He stood up to them and was killed for it. Will you do nothing?”

   The soldier seemed suddenly guilty. Soren’s plan was working. He didn’t seem concerned with the fact that his story kept changing, and Soren supposed he must have been tired and hungry after a long shift (or maybe he was just stupid).

“I’ll talk with my commander, see what I can do.”

“It isn’t right,” Soren insisted. “Soldiers like you—like my grandfather—are the law here. These villains calling themselves mercenaries should know better.”

The soldier smiled, his ego successfully stroked. “That they should.”

“Thank you, sir,” Soren forced himself to say, growing quite fed up with this charade. He turned to go, but then hesitated at the door.

“There are…young people, travelling with the mercenaries. You wouldn’t arrest them, would you?”

“Nah kid, not to worry.” The soldier winked. “I get your concern though. I hear there is a pretty young lady traveling with them. Too young for my taste, but I remember being your age. No harm will come to her. Hey, you never know, maybe she’ll stay in town once the others are taken care of.”

Soren realized he was talking about Mist and was more than a little disgusted on her behalf. With that, he left and hurried back to the inn.

 

The next morning, the mercenaries awoke and began packing their belongings. They were leaving town today, and Soren started to fear his plan had failed. But then ten members of the city guard appeared at the inn. Soren scanned their number from the window and saw the soldier he’d spoken to yesterday. With different clothes, his hair tied differently, and his Brand on display, he hoped he wouldn’t be recognized. If not that, he hoped he could count on the soldier being too embarrassed to speak out.

Soren moved to the top of the stairs, where he would have a better view of the unfolding scene. The commander pounded on the door, announcing loudly: “Imperial Army! We’re coming in!” Then he kicked open the door (not that it had been locked) and marched up to the front desk, where the innkeeper stood with mouth slightly agape. “You four, go block the other exits,” the commander ordered a handful of the soldiers at his back. Then he addressed the innkeeper: “We’re here for the so-called mercenaries. We mean your establishment no harm.”

“The Greil Mercenaries? Why? They’ve been exemplary guests!”

“They’re criminals, ma’am, plain and simple.”

By now Ike and Titania had joined Soren on the stairs, having heard the commotion. “Criminals?” Ike snorted. “What are they talking about?”       

“Criminals?” the innkeeper scoffed as well. “They wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She paused. “Unless that fly was a filthy, no-good pirate come to steal our goods, burn our houses, and terrorize our children,” she corrected. “They’ve done nothing but help us since they arrived!”

“We’ve heard otherwise,” the commander said flatly.

The innkeeper crossed her arms, unconvinced.

“Come on,” the commander insisted. “They’re mercenaries. They follow misfortune like dogs follow a scent. They profit from it. They’ve got no loyalty, no honor. They’re just in it for the gold.”

The innkeeper frowned more deeply, the truth of his words apparently not lost on her.

“Hey, wait just a minute,” Ike called, stepping down to the middle of the staircase. “That’s not very nice!”

The commander and the two men flanking him each raised a crossbow and knocked a bolt, aiming them straight at Ike, who had the good sense to stop moving and raise his hands. But he looked more angry than intimidated.

Titania, Boyd, Mia, and Gatrie pounded down the stairs to surround Ike. They clenched their fists, grabbing for weapons that weren’t there. Then they too raised their hands.

“So we’re mercenaries,” Ike said, “and you may not like us. But you can’t arrest us for that.”

The rest of the mercenaries were crowded at the top of the stairs. Rolf and Mist each tried to rush to their brothers, but Soren blocked them. “Careful,” he warned.

“Being a mercenary isn’t illegal, no,” the commander was saying. “But being an unregistered one is. You ‘Greil Mercenaries’ as you call yourselves aren’t certified with the army. We’ve checked.”

Ike said nothing, probably caught off guard.

Soren edged down the stairs as quietly as he could, squeezing behind Gatrie. He reached Ike’s shoulder and whispered. “There’s no good way out of this. You will have to turn us in. But insist that Mist, Rolf, and I not be arrested. I will go to Sienne, get the company certified and have the charges dropped.”

Ike gritted his teeth, clearly not happy with the plan.

“No whispering!” the commander ordered. “Come down the stairs, all of you! No funny business. Hands in the air. Slowly now.”

The mercenaries started down the stairs. Soren raised his hands too and tried to look meek. Of course, he was no better at acting than he’d been yesterday. Oscar and Shinon, who were in the back of the group, started retreating toward their rooms (no doubt wishing to retrieve their weapons), but Ike shot them a meaningful look and gave a slight shake of his head. Oscar looked chastised. Shinon look frustrated. But they both obeyed and followed the others downstairs. Rhys came last, looking sleepy and confused.

“That’s all eleven of them,” one of the soldiers reported.

“I know how to count!” the commander shot back.

“We’ll turn ourselves in,” Ike said. “What’s the sentence for saving people’s lives?”

The innkeeper smirked, and the commander’s eyes narrowed. “A year’s imprisonment. More if the other rumors about you lot are true.”

Ike sighed. “We have three children who travel with us. My sister Mist, our stable boy with the green hair Rolf, and my manservant with the dark hair Soren.”

Annoyance bubbled in him even as he clamped his mouth shut and tried to look like a timid servant. Ike’s lie didn’t have to be so insulting, and Soren wondered if he guessed this was all his doing.

“They’re not mercenaries. They are innocent. Please allow them their freedom.”

The commander surveyed the group, especially Mist. At sixteen, she was starting to look more like a woman, but her face was still round and her chest and hips relatively flat compared to Mia or Titania. Rolf was a year younger and puberty was still evading him, so he looked just as young as Ike claimed. As for Soren, the fact that he’d spent two decades on Tellius did little for the fact that he was still short, scrawny, and fresh-faced. He couldn’t place a number for how young he looked, but he knew it was young.

Finally the commander’s expression softened, and he gave a small nod. “Jail’s no place for kids. You three, stand over there.” He gestured to the wall next to the innkeeper’s desk, where she still stood, resigned to watch the drama playing out in her lobby.

Soren and Rolf extracted themselves from the group (Rolf with a slight shove from Boyd to get him going). Mist, however, turned to Ike and seized his arms in both hands. “No, Brother! I go where you go.” 

Ike pinned her with a serious look and whispered urgently: “You need to go with Soren. You’re more use to the Greil Mercenaries on the outside. You three go to Sienne and get us free, okay? You get Empress Sanaki to sign the order herself, you hear?”

Mist sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Alright.”

They hugged until the commander’s patience expired. “That’s enough, that’s enough! Move away girl, or you’ll be joining your brother in prison.”

Mist hurried over to Soren and Rolf, who offered his arm in comfort. While Soren watched his companions be led out of the inn in chains, he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He hadn’t realized Ike would order the three of them to travel together. He’d hoped Rolf and Mist would stay here and he would be able to go on this mission alone. Mist was still tearing up, despite vigorously wiping her eyes. Rolf patted her shoulder, despite seeming equally distressed. Did I just become a babysitter? Soren wondered.

 

It quickly became clear that he had not, actually, become a babysitter, because Mist and Rolf were no babies. They’d each seen more strife than most people their age. Mist may have been prone to bouts of childish emotion, but she was as responsible and level-headed as any of them when she needed to be. The same could be said for Rolf. He may have had an excess of childish excitement, but deep down, he was quite serious and rather bright.

Once their brothers were gone, the two teens recovered their senses and got to work. Together, they collected their companions’ belongings and paid to store them in one of the port’s warehouses. As for Titania’s and Oscar’s steeds and the company’s packhorse, they paid to house them at the inn’s stable. The innkeeper seemed sympathetic to the mercenaries, even after the commander’s tirade, and promised to take good care of them.

They departed for Sienne that very day, first stopping at the army outpost in hopes of saying goodbye. But the guards wouldn’t let them. “The prisoners are being processed,” said the soldier at the desk.

Mist and Rolf were disappointed, and Soren felt a pang as he sensed Ike’s presence in the jail yard beyond. He was torn. Part of him wondered if he’d made an unforgivable mistake, but another part of him relished his freedom and the feeling of having finally ended his and Ike’s silly fight.

The three mercenaries left town by hopping onto the back of a cart carrying fish on beds of ice. The ride was wet and smelled terrible, but Soren was far from Ike and had no sense of his presence. A weight had been lifted.

 

“We were operating for months with no trouble,” Mist said one day during their travels. “What changed?”

Soren took a few moments to respond. “The day before it happened, Titania got into an argument with a woman who thought it was no place of mercenaries to do the work of her beloved Imperial Army. Perhaps she reported us and hassled the soldiers into action.” Am I really blaming Titania and that woman for what I did? he thought in self-disgust. He’d been feeling guiltier by the day.

“I miss my brother,” Mist sighed.

“Mine too,” said Rolf morosely. This was undoubtedly the longest time he’d been away from either Oscar or Boyd since Oscar had quit the Royal Knights and adopted them a decade ago. Soren wondered if Rolf even remembered a time before living with his brothers. It wasn’t something any of them ever talked about, and Soren found he felt even guiltier at the thought of having separated them. Why do I care? came the familiar growl that echoed in his mind these days. I don’t. I don’t care.

 

Arriving in Sienne, he was struck by how completely unchanged it was. The city rose into the sky in all its absurd, sparkling extravagance, and at its center the Tower of Guidance shot into the clouds, a golden pillar of stateliness. The trio made their way into the heart of the city with their weapons concealed: Mist’s sword and knife, Rolf’s bow, quiver, and dagger, and Soren’s unassuming tome. They avoided patrolling soldiers who’d surely want to know what three scruffy teens were doing wandering such polished streets.

Temple Mainal was under far too strict a guard for them to sneak in, so they walked up to the front gate. “We wish to speak with Empress Sanaki,” Mist announced, unintimidated by the armored guards.

One shot them an unamused glance. “Clear off, you kids. We’re not interested in your games.”

“This is no game,” she insisted, “I am Mist of the Greil Mercenaries, and this is Rolf and Soren.” Neither of the soldiers’ eyes showed any recognition. “You know, Queen Elincia’s mercenaries?” she pressed, “My brother Ike won the war. You know—the Mad King’s War? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Clear off,” the guard repeated, losing his patience. “Or we’ll make you.”

Mist sighed and gestured that Soren and Rolf should follow her down the steps. “Well that didn’t work.”

“I really never thought it would be as easy as walking through the front door and climbing the stairs to her bedchamber,” Soren replied.

“Then what is your plan, Mr. Tactician?” Mist asked, and it was hard to tell if she was being genuine. She wasn’t usually one for sarcasm, but being away from her brother seemed to be having a draining effect on her.

“Find someone who knows us; have them vouch for us,” Soren answered, although it should have been obvious.

“Astrid?” Rolf proposed.

“She lives in a different city,” Soren returned.

“The laguz envoy who travelled with us?” Mist suggested.

“Ooh! What about Tormod and Muarim?” Rolf added.

“Devdan, Marcia, Maklov…” Mist listed off her fingers.

“Tanith and Sigrun?” Rolf reminded, and she put up too more fingers.

“I get it,” Soren stopped them. “You count yourself lucky to have so many allies. Congratulations.” He shook his head. “Those people might be obligated to help us if they feel any sort of debt to Ike, but there is still the problem of discovering if they are in the city, and if so, where.”

Mist and Rolf stared in surprise.

“Obligated?” Mist repeated.

“Debt?” said Rolf. 

“They’re our friends.”

“Semantics,” he said with a wave of his hand.

 

Soren led them to the catacombs under the Mainal Cathedral and felt he was retracing his footsteps from the last time he was here. Therefore it was strange to be accompanied by Mist and Rolf. Under his instruction, the trio filled a basket with food, Soren’s tome, and some rolled blank papers. When the guards stopped them at the door, they claimed to be making a delivery.

“Whatever. Go on in,” the guards said with a lazy wave of his hand.

Once inside, Soren headed to the front desk.

“Can I help you?” asked the old man at the desk, who was, fortunately, not the same librarian Soren had met before.

“We’re looking for…our friends. Do you possess records that would tell us if they are in the city?”

The old man licked his dry lips and smoothed down his beard. “That would entirely depend on the nature of your friends.”

“A beorc boy named Tormod and a tiger laguz name Muarim,” Mist said first. “They’re from the laguz colony in the Grann Desert.”

“Ah yes, I know those names.” The old man shuffled around the files and shelves behind his desk. “They currently serve as semi-official liaisons, representing laguz citizens in the court.” He shuffled a while longer, and then seemed to find what he was looking for. “I am afraid they are both away at the moment, in the desert. But they are expected to return for another hearing in two months’ time.”

Rolf asked next: “How about any of these soldiers: Devdan, Makalov, or Marcia? They fought in the war.”

“Without surnames, the names of their commanding officers, or their official rank and regiment assignment, I cannot help you.”

“A laguz envoy of beasts and birds came to Sienne four months ago,” Soren decided to ask, “Ambassadors of the Laguz Alliance. Are any of them still here?”

The old man shook his head. “Ah, I remember those strange visitors clearly. But I’m afraid they are long gone, having returned to their distant homes with news of their success. The way I understand it, permanent ambassadors will be assigned in-”

Soren cut him off, “How about Commander Sigrun or Captain Tanith of the Holy Guard?”

The man’s eyes lit up in interest. “You claim such esteemed holy pegasus knights as your friends?”

“Our company served General Sigrun three years ago, and Tanith fought alongside us in the Mad King’s War,” Mist explained with a fond smile.

“Be that as it may,” the old man said carefully, “I’m afraid their whereabouts are confidential. Whether they are currently by the Apostle’s side or off somewhere on a mission, I do not know. You understand, I hope?”

Soren nodded once; this was a dead end. But before turning to leave, he asked one more thing: “Could you draw up the form a mercenary company would need to conduct work in the empire?”

The man seemed surprised by the request. “Well, certainly, if you are willing to wait a moment.”

“We are. While you’re at it, draw up a document for the immediate release and drop of all charges against eight persons arrested for conducting mercenary work without a license.”

“Ah, I sense a pattern here,” the man chuckled before setting about his work.

Soren, Mist, and Rolf wandered around the atrium and adjacent halls while they waited. In addition to drawers of records, shelves of books, and stacks of scrolls, there was a large array of historical artifacts on display near the entrance.

“Soren! Rolf! Look!” Mist suddenly exclaimed, pointing to a row of cases containing ancient armor and weapons. “It’s Ike’s sword!”

Soren didn’t need to be a weapons expert to recognize the holy sword Ragnell. The blade Ike had used to fight the Black Knight and cut down Ashnard was now hidden behind glass in this dark place. Having seen the sword in Ike’s hand, flashing in battle, running with blood, it seemed oddly tame and innocuous here. And seeing it made him miss Ike with a bitter pang.

“I don’t get it,” Rolf asked in confusion, “What’s it doing here?”

Mist answered in a soft voice. “Lord Sephiran caught sight of Ike holding it back in Melior. He said it was a Begnion relic and belonged in Sienne with its sister blade.” She pointed to the glass case directly beside this one. The name plate read ‘Alondite.’ Her voice grew even quieter as she continued: “The thing is... Now that I’m standing here, I recognize that sword too. ‘Alondite’… That’s the sword the Black Knight wielded against Ike…which means it’s the sword that killed father.” She took a step back. “Ragnell was father’s before it was Ike’s, which means…it’s probably the one…” Her voice lapsed into silence as she moved her gaze from one sword to the other. “Mother… father…”

“It is the man, not the blade, who takes the life,” Rolf offered, sounding as if he’d heard the platitude somewhere before. It may not have been consoling, considering her own father had killed her mother, but Rolf grasped Mist’s hand to make up for these less-than-comforting words.

“Sephiran must have collected it from the ruins of Castle Nados,” Soren remarked (also unhelpfully).

The records keeper soon finished the forms and called them back to the atrium. Soren accepted them and the trio left. With any luck, they would get them signed in a few days—he was never without a backup plan.

 

After sharing his strategy, Soren was surprised to see Mist take charge and make it happen. Like Ike, she didn’t shy away from giving orders when she needed to, and she had good instincts for this kind of thing. After submitting official requests for certification and to have the mercenaries released, they entered another ineffective (and quite meaningless) request to meet with the apostle (a request at which the clerk laughed outright). Then the trio placed themselves in strategic positions around the palace to conduct reconnaissance for three days. They watched and listened for an ideal target: some servant, handmaid, or lady-in-waiting of the apostle herself.

Eventually they found the perfect mark: a young, talkative woman named Clarisse. Despite her glossy hair and brightly-colored, floral robes, she was poor and uneducated—a mere servant. She lived near the outskirts, but every morning and night, a soldier escorted her to and from the palace.

The next morning, Soren, Mist, and Rolf waited for her on her street. Then, when she and her escort passed, Mist pretended to fall and hurt her ankle. “Oh no! Oh please, sir. Can you help me? Oh, I don’t think I can stand! It hurts so much!”

Apparently Mist was as poor an actor as Soren, but the soldier seemed to believe her. Clarisse waved him on and waited patiently against the wall of the nearest building while he tested Mist’s ankle.

Mist gave an exaggerated moan of false pain and insisted the soldier help her to the nearest apothecary. Mist was young, pretty, charmingly innocent, and she could be forceful when she wanted.

“No, you go. I’ll be fine,” Clarisse urged the soldier, smiling at his good deed.

When he and Mist were gone, Soren took a steadying breath and emerged from the alleyway. Raising Rolf’s dagger, he pretended to menace the woman. “Don’t scream,” he said, feeling completely ridiculous. “Give me your money.”

Despite his subpar performance, the woman did look terrified. Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on his forehead, not the knife, and she began removing and handing him every piece of jewelry from her arms, neck, and hair. Soren held out his satchel in his other hand, into which these valuables disappeared.

This didn’t continue for long before Rolf appeared. They’d temporarily dyed his hair blue, and he was holding Mist’s sword, which only looked a little awkward in his hands. “Stop there, villain! It is I, General Ike, Commander of the Greil Mercenaries!” he exclaimed proudly. “Don’t worry, miss, you’re going to be okay. I will save you!” His acting was better than Mist’s and Soren’s combined, and despite his skinny stature and boyish face, Clarisse stared in awe.

Soren and Rolf pretended to fight (a pathetic act). Rolf lunged and swiped with little control over the blade, and Soren avoided his blows, occasionally lashing out with the dagger. Then, finally, Soren allowed Rolf to nick his arm. The blow was heavier than planned, and Rolf’s eyes widened in apology. Soren gave him a firm glare to indicate they shouldn’t stop.

Seizing his injured arm, he said: “Curse you General Ike, Commander of the Greil Mercenaries!” Then he dropped the satchel and ran off. Rolf let him go and returned the jewelry to the woman.

Soren watched from around a corner one block away. The soldier reappeared before Rolf could leave. “Hey, you, stop!” he called, drawing his own sword at the sight of Rolf’s.

Soren feared Rolf would panic, but the boy remained calm. “She’ll explain everything,” he called, giving Clarisse a firm salute before dashing off. Clarisse managed to stop the soldier from pursuing.

Rolf arrived at the spot where Soren was watching just as Mist reached him from behind. “Did it work?” she asked, craning to see. The soldier was helping the woman reattach her jewelry while she babbled excitedly about the altercation.

“Only time will tell,” Soren answered.

 

The three returned to the small inn on the outskirts of Sienne, which they’d named as their residence in their official request to meet with Sanaki. This was where a messenger or soldier would look to find them, if they were so inclined.

They laid low for another day, and as the hours ticked by, Soren wondered if his plan had failed. It certainly hadn’t been his best one, and he wondering why he seemed to have lost his ability to concoct sound strategies. He was sitting against the side of the inn, watching the road, half-hidden in shadow. But Mist found him and sat beside him.

“I miss Ike,” she whispered into her knees after several minutes of silence.

This came as no surprise to Soren, so he said nothing.

“I’ve never been away from him this long in my entire life,” she admitted, but once again, he already knew this. “It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be… And it makes me wonder if I’m weak for relying on him so much.”

Soren’s eyes flitted to the side to take in her glum face and crossed arms. Mist was strong, of that he had no doubt. She was Greil and Elena’s child as much as Ike. “You’re not weak,” he finally said. He may not have liked coddling others, but if this had been Ike expressing such doubts, Soren would have said at least that much.

“Thanks.” Mist raised and dropped her shoulders slightly.

Soren didn’t know what else to say, so he kept his eyes on the road and the spires of the city rising in the distance.

“You miss him too, don’t you?” Mist said after a while.

Soren was oddly irritating by her question, as if she’d just given him a sharp poke. It hurt more than expected, and he didn’t want to respond.

“I just thought you might understand…” Mist gave a tiny, tired sigh.

Her words left an ache in Soren’s chest that he didn’t quite understand. He already felt guilty for getting Ike and the others arrested. He already felt foolish for coming up with such an incomplete plan. But this pain was different than shame. “Yes,” he finally answered, “I do.”

The words had escaped his mouth when he’d only meant to acknowledge them in his mind. But now that they had, he couldn’t deny the truth. He missed Ike like he missed a part of his own body. Shaking his head, Soren realized he’d made a serious mistake. His awareness of Ike had been a constant ache—like walking on a badly stubbed toe. But his solution had been to cut off his entire foot. Now he was unbalanced and broken. He was missing something important.

“We’ll get him back,” Mist said, sounding more confident now. “I know we will.”

“I will do all in my power to make that come to pass,” Soren replied rigidly. They continued watching the road in silence.

 

Early the next morning, a pegasus knight landed outside the inn, much to the surprise and awe of the few people awake at this hour.

“Tanith!” Mist cried, rushing to see her. She gave the armored woman a big hug. Tanith seemed taken off guard by such affection, but then she smiled and hugged her back with one arm. “And Buttercup of course!” Mist cooed, turning to the pegasus, which tossed its head at its name.

“Excellent to see you, Captain Mist.” Tanith donned her usual severe-looking expression. “But where are the rest of the Greil Mercenaries? Where is General Ike?”

“They’re not here,” Mist admitted. “They’re in the port town of Ghorro, actually, in jail. We came to see Empress Sanaki, to have her set them free.”

“That is impossible,” Tanith said with a shake of her head, “We’ve heard a report that he was spotted in the city the day before yesterday.”

“That was me,” Rolf said with a bright smile, gesturing to the remnants of blue stain in his otherwise mossy hair. “We did an impersonation so the Apostle would know we’re here. No one was taking us seriously otherwise.”

“I see,” Tanith said, surveying the three carefully. “Well, I will escort you to the palace, and we can see what we can do for General Ike and the others.”