Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 54: THE CARAVAN ( Chapter 23 )

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

Tanith had the mercenaries dressed in lightweight fabric, pliable leather armor, and wide-looped chain mail. “There is a forge in Sienne that produces armor for us pegasus knights,” she told Gatrie, while testing the weight of one of his pauldrons. “The metal is incredibly light and strong. I would see you clad in it if I could.”

Gatrie rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “No, no! This old armor and me go way back. Lucky it is. I don’t even feel it anymore!”

Allowed freedom in his attire, Soren chose a black, sleeveless jerkin and a pair of loose-fitting gray trousers cinched above the ankles and held at the waist with a green sash. Since Tanith was buying, he also opted for a new pair of black leather sandals which strapped tightly to his feet and had strong grips. He ran back and forth and sidestepped a few times to make sure they’d be reliable in battle.

“Who knew he was such a dancer?” Shinon teased, but Soren ignored him.

He also ordered a special holster to be made for his tome. He watched the leatherworker carefully as she fashioned it (much to her frustration) and made suggestions and asked questions to be sure it would be as he wanted. When he strapped the finished product securely onto his hip, he was pleased to find his tome fit perfectly.

Once again, Shinon teased him, saying, “I’ve seen those before—usually mas carrying their babies. But I guess it’s good to start early.” As usual, Soren ignored him.

Properly outfitted and comfortable in their new clothes, well-fed, well-rested, and with weapons sharped to deadly points, the company assembled before Ike to hear his announcement.

“We’ve got a job offer,” he began, jerking his head to toward Tanith. “A six-month contract guarding a trade caravan of between one hundred and two hundred wagons. They start off about a month from now in Cosmin; that’s the port city on the tip of the Begnion peninsula. We’d go north with them as far as the Grann Desert, protecting them from raiders. It’s a big job, though. What do you think?”

“That’s a lot of wagons,” Titania noted “We’d be spread thin and have to take turns sleeping during the day to guard them at night.”

“They will provide you space on their wagons,” Tanith spoke up. “They are eager for the assistance. They lose much of their wares and even their people on this trek each year.”

“How is the pay?” Soren asked next.

Ike answered. “A half-percent of their total sales at each town to which they arrive safely.” He looked to Tanith for confirmation.

“I assure you, it adds up. A fair wage,” she declared.

Soren nodded. There were many towns and cities between the southern coast and the Grann Desert. He was satisfied with that number, but the others still seemed to be considering it.

“Will we be passing Astrid’s house?” Rolf asked hopefully.

“What’s with you and Astrid?” jeered Gatrie. “You in love or something?”

Rolf seemed confused. “She’s my friend. We trained a lot together,” he answered, “And besides, she like girls, not boys. You know that.”

Gatrie went pink. His infatuation with the noblewoman was the reason he’d agreed to rejoin the Greil Mercenaries back when Ike encountered the pair on that Begnion passenger ship. Their relationship had never led anywhere, and now Soren understood why.

“In answer to your question, Rolf,” Tanith answered, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand, “Yes, you will. I can send word ahead, if you’d like. I am sure she will be glad to see you all. I believe Marcia and Makalov are currently working for Lord Baum. There is a chance they will still be there when you arrive.”

“That decides it—we’ve got to go!” Rolf turned to Ike with pleading eyes.

“I agree!” Mist announced.

“We could see our pals Tormod and Muarim in the Grann, couldn’t we?” Mia chimed in with a big smile. “And maybe we’ll run into Stefan. That man owes me a rematch!” She drew her sword in excitement, and her grin turned violent.

“So, is everyone on board?” Ike asked, scanning their faces.

Everyone raised their hands.

Tanith bowed gratefully. “I know the merchants will appreciate it.”

Ike turned to her. “Just one thing. Should we expect to see Muston, Jorge, Daniel, or, uh, Aimee on this expedition?”

Tanith narrowed her eyes knowingly. “There are rumors about you and Aimee, you know.”

“Completely unfounded rumors,” Ike replied flatly.

Tanith released a light laugh. “Not to worry, Ike. She won’t be there. Last I heard, she and the others were in Daein.”

Ike looked immensely relieved.

  

They traveled south at a leisurely pace, living off of the wilderness or off the coin Tanith had given them as an advance on their contract. Everyone was in high spirits, and even Soren felt at peace. Not only had Ike forgiven him, he’d eased some of the worries that had weighed heavily on his mind for years.

The journey to Cosmin passed in bliss, and when they arrived, they entered a sprawling encampment of wagons just outside the city limits. Here they sought out the old woman Tanith had told them about, but she found them first. She was withered with age and walked with a gnarled staff. Her face was wrinkled into deep fissures and her ears stretched large and long. According to Tanith, she was the matriarch of one of the oldest merchant families in Begnion, a nomadic clan that had existed for hundreds of years.

She was called Mama Oda, and despite her age, there was a youthful spark in her pale-blue eyes. Currently, that spark was mingled with disgust. She wasn’t pleased to see them.

“Mercenaries, eh?” she said, appraising them and apparently unimpressed. “We ask for soldiers to protect us, and all the theocracy can do is send bandits? You’re more likely to rob us blind than the highwaymen!”

“Are not,” Ike replied eloquently.

Titania’s tone was polite but frank as she followed this with her own reply: “Captain Tanith of the Holy Guard has said there are no soldiers to spare. We’re all you’ve got. But we are honorable. We will see you safe on your journey.”

“We’ll see about that,” Oda huffed, turning on the spot and swinging her staff around with force. If anyone had been standing next to her, they would have been bludgeoned. “We leave in two days,” she called over her shoulder. As she hobbled away, she barked orders at any man, woman, or child she passed. 

“Tanith promised an appreciative client, didn’t she?” Oscar sighed under his breath. Shinon and Boyd snickered.

Ike shrugged. “She’ll appreciate us in time.”

“What now?” Rhys asked, his voice timid.

“We explore?” Ike offered, and set off in answer to his own suggestion. The others followed. As they walked, merchants caught sight of them and called in hawking voices, trying to sell them everything from Crimean persimmons to spicy black teas from Asmin. Soren counted a hundred and twenty-nine wagons—with more expected in the next few days, according to the merchants they spoke to.

They’d nearly completed their circuit of the wagon village when they heard running steps behind them. “There you are!” said a breathless voice.

The mercenaries turned to the newcomer, who was, to Soren’s astonishment, the spitting image of Tanith. However, this version of Tanith appeared to be a man. They had roughly the same height and build, the same straight brown hair cut short against their neck, and the same dark eyes. But whereas Tanith’s were serious, his were smiling. “I hear Mama Oda didn’t give you the warmest of welcomes. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you first.” His smile was equal parts embarrassment and charm.

“Hello…Tanith’s brother?” Ike guessed.

The man laughed. “Let me guess—she didn’t tell you I’d be here?”

“She didn’t tell us you existed,” Ike replied frankly.

He rubbed the back of his head. “She does like to keep family and work separate. Anyway, my name is Roark. I suppose I’m one of the merchants you’ll be guarding.” He stuck out his hand, and Ike took it in a firm shake.

“That explains why she wanted us for this job,” Soren said as if answering some lingering question, but he doubted anyone else had suspected her of having motives beyond her duty.

Roark explained that he was part of a merchant family specializing in weaponry, and in response, Ike’s sword came out for examination. They chatted avidly about things Soren knew nothing about and had no interest in learning. Having finished their round of the camp, he wandered off. They’d passed a wagon selling tomes and rare scrolls not long ago, and he was intent on finding it again.

 

Within the first week, a band of thieves crept up on the wagons in the rear of the train. The Greil Mercenaries swiftly scared them off, only needing to kill two and give a few others some small wounds to nurse. The surviving thieves scampered off without delay. Ike commanded the mercenaries not to pursue.

Oda was wide-eyed when Ike told her it was already over, and her eyes only widened when the nearest merchants began expounding on the mercenaries’ heroic feats. After that, all the merchants were more accepting of them.

 

The work was fairly easy. The caravan moved slowly, with many of the families taking turns walking and riding. The mercenaries, having no wagon of their own, were usually walking. Their possessions were piled in the back of one of Roark’s family’s carts, and their horses walked behind it on lead ropes. This was also where the mercenaries took turns sleeping.

Roark’s ‘family,’ as it were, were not his blood relatives. This caused the mercenaries some confusion at first. The sandy-haired family of eight (two grandmothers, one grandfather, a mother, a father, an uncle, and two teenagers) belonged to one of the nomadic trading clans, like Oda’s. But they’d adopted Roark at a young age, and now they considered him one of their own. However, this adoption didn’t extend to Tanith.

Soren didn’t completely understand the traditions of these clans, but it was easy to see that they didn’t approve of Roark’s continued relationship with his twin sister. “I joined the family around the same time Tanith joined the Holy Guard,” he explained. “We were just kids, but she was always the more responsible one. Mama Tris thinks she abandoned me or something like that.”

This being the case, the family was reluctant to share their wagons with the eleven mercenaries. And even if they hadn’t been hired by dreaded-sister-Tanith, Soren couldn’t really blame the family for resenting them. There was hardly room in the cart for their belongings or for them to sleep, and because the mercenaries were always around, Roark’s adopted parents felt pressured to feed them at every mealtime, spending time and money they didn’t have on the extra food.

Before long, however—whether he was trying to or not—Ike won them over by injecting himself into the family as only he could. He was considerate toward to the elderly grandparents (especially Mama Tris) without being overtly polite, he played a ball kicking and throwing game with the two young teenagers (a boy and a girl) without coddling them, and he was often helpful to the parents without making it seem like a big deal. Meanwhile, Roark taught Ike the basics of making weapons and armor in their mobile kilns. In return, Ike taught Roark tricks of combat. 

After only a couple weeks on the road, the pair had become inseparable. They spent almost every free moment together, and perhaps that was what made the cheery young man and accommodating family so detestable to Soren. Ike and Roark shared meals, played games, and toured each new town together. Roark was (apparently) quite funny, and soon it became commonplace to hear Ike burst into laughter somewhere in the distance. But it was always in the distance; Soren didn’t get too close.

Roark watched Ike spar and shouted encouragement from the sidelines. In return, Ike watch him work the forge with whispered awe, as if afraid to break his concentration. Ike tested every weapon he made, and Roark became the only person other than Mist that Ike trusted to iron out the knots in his back when his scar from the Black Knight acted up. According to Ike, he had a ‘magic touch’, and according to Roark, beating on Ike’s spine was just like tempering a blade. Their teasing made Soren sick.

Ike was nearly unmistakable for the grave general he’d once been, and as Soren watched from afar, he wondered if he’d changed a lot or not at all. 

 

 

He did not particularly enjoy the six months spent with the caravan. It was tedious, and there was little privacy. They zig-zagged across the land in the heat of summer, which meant the sun was searing hot and the Begnion climate humid. Soren’s clothes clung to him with sweat, and his skin toasted bronze as it always did if he spent days on-end in the sunlight. He felt like a chameleon, his skin awkwardly changing color for everyone to see, but he supposed it was better than getting the painful burns some of the others suffered, or the uneven freckles that popped up on Titania’s and Rhys’s otherwise milky complexions.

By midsummer the caravan began dividing into two sections to cover more land. This meant the mercenaries had to split up as well. Ike always took whatever section contained Roark and his family. Titania led the other.

Dividing the mercenaries’ strength was left to Ike, and he always sent Soren with Titania while keeping Mist as his deputy. Soren could think of no tactical reason for advising he remain with Ike, so he swallowed his objections every time. But he couldn’t help but feel Ike was trying to get rid of him—perhaps so he and Roark would have more time alone.

Ridiculous, Soren berated himself. What a ridiculous thing to even think. He told himself he had an unhealthy obsession with Ike and Roark’s friendship. He told himself Roark posed no threat to Ike’s wellbeing or Soren’s own standing. He was a reliable point of contact with the merchants; Ike had every reason to associate with him.

 

During their travels, the caravan visited tiny villages and giant cities alike. They were welcomed everywhere they went with the cheering voices of common folk who looked forward to their visit every year. Of course, they were also welcomed with the eager faces of bandits and thieves who anticipated it just as much.

Some of the attackers were well-trained, demonstrating skill with their weapons and the logic of premeditated, organized assaults. Others were obviously new to the whole bandit gig and attacked a wagon or two in a spur of desperation. But no matter their experience, the mercenaries always prevailed, and no merchants lost their lives.

These moments of action were the only breaks in the monotony of travel. Soren knew the attacks were a nuisance to the other mercenaries, who were making friends, trying new things, and relaxing as if on vacation. But he welcomed the sporadic violence. He hit the thieves hard no matter their level of skill. He killed those he confronted, never allowing anyone to escape. Without the constant fighting they’d endured during the war, he could tell he was becoming soft and careless. His magic was less focused and less forceful. He hardly used any advanced spells, and when he tried, they didn’t come as easily as they once did, if they came at all.

Observing his comrades in battle, Soren knew they were losing their edge too. But no one bemoaned this fact; it was to be expected. They were as good as they needed to be to defeat one small group of bandits at a time. Life was simple. Soren had even been happy—for a while. But something about this caravan (or someone) was making him actually miss the war.

 

In late summer they came to a city just outside the Baum family’s lands. The merchants stayed longer in larger cities, and they would plant their wagons here for a week. This gave the mercenaries plenty of time to spend with Astrid at her family’s mansion, and everyone was excited. Soren had never been particularly fond of Astrid, and luxury was wasted on him. But he was looking forward to the chance to separate Ike and Roark for a while.

Having received a letter both from Tanith and from the mercenaries via Haar’s postal service, the familiar dark-haired, pale-eyed noblewoman was waiting for them at the city gates. Her smile was shy but animate, as she greeted Ike and the others and she rode alongside them to the park where the wagons would set up. She didn’t look like she had during the war. Her armor was gone, and she was dressed more like a proper lady from a rich family. The only difference was that her dress had clearly been split and resewn as pants for easy riding. The excess material puffed out on either side like the folded wings of a pegasus.

Quiet by nature, Astrid had spoken little about herself and her family during the years of the campaign. But Soren liked to know things, and he’d gathered the crumbs she’d let slip over the months at war. Although not one of the Sainted, her family was old and well-respected. Her father held a minor position in the Begnion theocracy, and their lands were known for raising sturdy horses and keen archers for the Imperial Army.

Despite being the sole heir to the Baum family, Astrid had always preferred the study of husbandry and archery to politics. Her decision to run off and join Ike’s mercenaries had put additional pressure on an already difficult relationship with her family. Soren had no doubt they would only stress the situation by imposing as guests. But Astrid did seem pleased to see them.      

After the wagons had settled, Ike introduced her to Roark, and she smiled and shook his hand kindly. “You’re welcome to join us,” she said.

Soren couldn’t help but wince at the offer, but fortunately, Roark shook his head in bashful refusal. “Thanks, your ladyship, but I have too much work to do here. Blades don’t sell themselves!”

Soren, Ike, Mist, Shinon, Gatrie, and Rolf, would join Astrid at her father’s manse today, while Titania, Rhys, Mia, Oscar, and Boyd guarded the caravan. The city provided extra soldiers, so it wasn’t dangerous to leave the guard thin.

Astrid’s family lived outside of town. The grounds to the west of the obscenely-sized mansion were cropped into a racing track, next to which unfolded an expansive stable and a puzzle of interconnected training paddocks were young horses pranced under the whip of their masters. To the east was an enormous archery range where three dozen standing archers were shooting at an array of targets. Another two dozen were mounted, cantering around a wide field, pursuing (and hitting) mobile targets rotated by a handful of peasants laboring over cranks.

It was an impressive display. The soldiers were bedecked in shining armor cut in Begnion’s style but painted with the family’s colors: pink and white. Ike and the others praised the sight, but Astrid looked embarrassed. “Rolf, Shinon,” she said, “Care for a shooting contest?”

Rolf agreed excitedly, Shinon shrugged his consent, and the mercenaries moved toward the archery range instead of the mansion.

“Shouldn’t we pay our respects to your family first?” Mist asked hesitantly.

Astrid’s nose wrinkled. “He won’t care either way.” (The man in question was undoubtedly her father: Lord Baum.)

Mist didn’t press.

They arrived at the range, and as soon as Astrid dismounted, a servant materialized to take her reins. He bowed and led the steed away, and once again Astrid looked embarrassed. “Let’s get you outfitted. You’re all welcome to try your arm.”

Inside the building was a room of bows. They were all shapes and sizes, some wood, others horn. Astrid matched each of them with a weapon whose frame they could easily bend. Rolf and Shinon, of course, were given their choice of the most advanced bows.

“How does this one feel?” Astrid said, stringing and handing Soren a small, thin one carved out of golden-hued wood. Soren didn’t take it.

“I’ll watch,” he said curtly, having no intention of joining the contest. Such a thing could only end in humiliation.

“Suit yourself,” Astrid replied, offering the golden bow to Mist instead. “You might like this one too,” she said to her.

 

Soren watched the contest from the sidelines. Astrid, Shinon, and Rolf were well-matched and took the competition seriously while the others played around. Gatrie and Mist were both terrible, hardly hitting even a close target. Ike had the occasional stroke of luck and actually neared the bullseye at one point. Soren was impressed.

When the three archers had worn each other out, they called an end to the game and retired to the mansion. Here they encountered a legion of servants and soldiers, but Astrid’s parents never showed themselves. “You’ll meet them at dinner, if you want to stay for dinner, that is… I understand if you want to get back to your caravan.”

Soren could tell by the waver in her voice that she would rather they leave, but apparently Ike could not. “We’d love to stay!” he exclaimed.

Astrid told the servants to set more places in the dining hall and the cooks to prepare more food. Then she showed the mercenaries to her family’s grand baths, which occupied the rear of the mansion. She and Mist retreated to the women’s side, and the rest made their way to the men’s.

The others had worked up a sweat playing at the archery range, but Soren had done nothing of the sort. He washed himself along with the others because he had nothing else to do and nowhere to be. But he felt foolish for the waste.

As he always did when bathing without privacy, Soren kept his eyes glued to the floor and scrubbed efficiently. He didn’t take part in the others’ conversation, and he finished as quickly as possible, refusing to linger in the hot water. Only when he was finished and donning his clothes did he realize he was once again in the position of having nowhere to go and nothing to do. He slipped into the hall, and closing the door hardly muffled Ike and Gatrie’s laughter. The others were enjoying the luxurious pool and aromatic bubbles. Mercenaries like them rarely had the chance to enjoy something so fancy and would likely not emerge for some time.

Astrid and Mist were still in their bath too, and it would probably be rude to explore on his own. But since when did he care to be polite? With this thought in mind, Soren wandered down the hall, trying the handles of rooms he passed (and skipping the doors beyond which he could sense occupants). The mansion reminded Soren of Melior Castle, Temple Mainal, and the Tanas estate—it was filled with large, useless rooms.

But then Soren happened across a room that wasn’t useless at all: the library. Books stretched high to the ceiling against every wall, and a rolling ladder was attached to the shelves so readers could access the highest volumes. Soren hadn’t seen so many books in one place since he’d taken up residence in the Melior Royal Library in the days after the war. He was surprised at how good it felt to be surrounded by knowledge again.

His fingers travelled the spines of their own accord. Most of the books were written in the common tongue, but a few were recorded in the ancient language. He recognized some titles. There were histories, biographies, religious texts, scientific journals, private diaries of long-dead politicians, and even novels and books of folklore. Astrid’s ancestors had clearly had a healthy interest in every field—and so did Soren.

He picked up a book at random, gingerly pushing back its binding. It was an ancient scroll that had been folded onto itself repeatedly and the ends glued into a leather-over-wood front and back cover. Soren wondered if Astrid’s ancestors had done this themselves, to preserve the text. He wondered if many of the books in this room were bound in the same style. After all, there was no section displaying the honeycomb of scrolls Soren usually encountered in libraries.

The text told the story of one of Begnion’s founding heroes, more legend than history now. It grabbed Soren’s interest, and he was pulled out of the library entirely, his musings about its contents and origins now forgotten.

Hours (Soren had no idea how many) slipped by. He entirely forgot where he was and only came back to reality when the door creaked open and Astrid’s polite voice called in: “The others are waiting in the front hall, if you’re ready to go.”

To Soren’s surprise, she wasn’t talking to him. Her voice was directed at Ike, whom Soren just realized was sharing the room with him. Ike was sitting in backward a chair, his legs splayed on either side and his arms crossed leisurely over the top. He was looking in Soren’s direction, but he turned to Astrid as he stood up. “I’ll help Soren put his books away, and we’ll be right there.”

“There’s no need. The servants can-”

“It’ll only take a moment.”

“Okay then,” came Astrid’s response.

Soren couldn’t stop staring at Ike. When had he come in? Why hadn’t Soren noticed his presence until now? How long had he been here? The windows were dark, and he dimly remembered lighting candles to read by. The desk in front of him was piled with books.

“You missed dinner,” Ike said, responding to his confusion. “What are you reading anyway? You made it seem interesting.” He walked over, picked up one of the books from Soren’s desk, and skimmed the first page: “A Complete History of Marado?” he read, and then, picking up another, “Inside the Lives of Iguana?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or not.”

Soren was still stunned but found he could finally speak. “You- you were watching me?” It wasn’t what he intended to say.

Ike laughed. “I came to find you before dinner, but you were so entranced I decided to leave you alone. When I came back later, I don’t know… I stayed. I don’t usually get to see you like that.”

“Like what?” Soren said defensively, loading his arms with books to put away.

“Relaxed? Happy?” Ike offered, adding more books on top of the ones about Marado and iguanas. “Did you know you talk to yourself when you read? Hell, you even laughed once!”

“I do not,” he returned while trying to remember if that was true.

“Snorted, actually,” Ike smiled. “Which one was it…” He snatched a small book off of the top of Soren’s pile. “This one!” Thumbing open the cover, he read the title: “Dirty Jokes from a Daein Milkmaid?” The laughter that followed was so intense he actually dropped his stack of books back onto the desk, knocking a couple to the floor.

Soren flushed in embarrassment. Had he actually picked up a book like that? Turning back his mind, he had to admit, yes, he had. He decided to scold Ike instead of admitting to it. “Be careful with those!” he said, crouching to pick up the fallen books and add them to his own pile. By the time he was standing again, Ike had filled his arms once more. He was smiling. Soren scowled. “This way.”

He put the volumes back in their proper places, directing Ike and passing books back and forth. Eventually Soren broached the subject again; he was still confused. “How long was I reading?” he asked lamely.

“Four or five hours,” Ike answered. “It’s impressive actually.”

Soren just nodded.

“When I found you, I wanted to let you be. Astrid said it was fine. Honestly, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I was afraid all this time with the caravan was too…outdoorsy for you. You haven’t seemed happy.”

“I’m never happy,” he grumbled.

“That’s not true.”

Soren changed the subject. “How was dinner?”

“Awkward.” Ike pulled a pained face. “You’re probably lucky you missed it.”

Soren allowed a flicker of a smile to cross his lips. He was certainly hungry now, but sitting through an uncomfortable meal with Astrid’s parents was far from his idea of a good time.

They arrived in the entrance hall where everyone was assembled. Astrid waved them off, and they departed into the warm night air, heading toward the lights of the city.

“You missed a fun game of impressions, Boss,” Gatrie greeted Ike. “You learn anything good in the library?”

“I learned that reading isn’t really my thing,” Ike answered with a lighthearted shrug.

“I’d like to check it out next time,” Mist chirruped. “Astrid’s house is amazing!”

“She’s really rich, isn’t she?” Rolf said in awe.

Shinon tousled his hair. “So rich she won’t even miss the twenty gold napkin rings in my pockets.”

Rolf stopped in his tracks. “You wouldn’t.”

Shinon threw a flippant hand in the air. “Maybe I would.”

“Turn out your pockets!” Rolf mock-demanded, racing after him.

Shinon broke into a sprint to evade the boy. Mist laughed watching them.

Soren had fallen to the back, behind Ike and Gatrie who were walking and chatting side by side. He was staring at the back of Ike’s head, watching his hair rustle soundlessly against itself in the breeze, illuminated only by starlight. He was still confused.

  

The next time Soren attended Astrid’s mansion, he was with Titania, Mia, Rolf, and Gatrie. They’d been in the city for four days, and their visit was halfway over. Ike was staying with the caravan (and Roark) today.

“We heard Marcia and Makalov might be here,” Titania said to Astrid, sipping a chalice of southern wine and appearing very relaxed. “But I suppose we must have missed them.”

Astrid nodded. “They did stay on contract with my father for a few months, but that was ages ago. I assumed you knew—they went to Crimea. Queen Elincia has given them citizenship and named them Royal Knights.”

Titania coughed into her beverage. “Really? I know they’d mentioned something like that during the war, but… Was it hard for them to leave Begnion?”

“No, I don’t think so. Actually…” Astrid grew even quieter than usual. “I am planning to go myself. Soon.”

This was met with surprise from everyone assembled, even Soren.

“But-but,” Gatrie seemed deeply concerned by this prospect. “Won’t that mean giving up your inheritance?”

Astrid’s mouth relaxed into a small smile, and she nodded. “It’s what I want to do.”

“Well good for you!” Mia jumped up to clap Astrid on the back.

The rest started congratulating her as well. Soren thought it was a stupid decision on Astrid’s part, but he didn’t say so. He was more interested in the fact that these veteran soldiers who’d been born and raised in Begnion were electing to immigrate to Crimea rather than join the Imperial Army. Marcia may have even earned a place among the Holy Guard if she’d stayed.

“Why?” Soren finally asked, his tone serious.

Astrid lowered her voice, but her tone was more solemn than self-conscious now. “I’ve heard additional armies are being sent north to Daein. They are requesting more and more soldiers to deal with the unrest there.” She paused, as if carefully selecting her next words.

Soren was surprised to hear things were going so poorly almost two years after Nevassa had fallen, but he didn’t say so.   

Astrid finally continued: “I helped conquer Daein once… I don’t want to have to do it again.” Her expression was sad. Her pale eyes flicked to each of their faces and then away again. “You should hear the stories…”

“Well, Queen Elincia will be lucky to have you,” Titania said, giving Astrid’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Then she abruptly changed the subject. “How about a race? You and me.”

“Ooh! My money is on you Titania!” Mia exclaimed.

“I’ll take those odds,” Gatrie grinned. “Astrid’s my girl!”

“You’ll eat those words,” Titania glowered.

Astrid laughed, her grave expression disappearing like the wisps of a rain cloud. “Thanks for your support, Gatrie. Sure, I’ll take you on, Captain. Let’s get saddled up.”

Wine glasses were abandoned, and everyone migrated to the stables. Soren went with them, although he would have rather gone to the library.

 

When he returned to the city that night, Soren felt he ought to tell Ike what Astrid had said about Daein. His reaction was to be expected:

“I want to go to Daein,” he blurted as soon as Soren had finished speaking. “Will our certification apply there?”

He nodded once. “It is a territory of Begnion now, so yes.” Looking at the fire smoldering in his friend’s eyes, Soren understood why he wanted to see for himself what had become of the land he’d conquered. His empathy was boundless, but that also left him vulnerable. “Though, I do not recommend it.”

“Why not?” He seemed irritated.

“Rumors are just that. The war is over; Ashnard is dead. No matter what is happening in Daein right now, it is better off with Begnion in control, and frankly, that control will be easier without Daein nationals becoming riled up by seeing our faces.”

“We’re not that recognizable…” Ike frowned.

“Why take that risk?”

Ike didn’t answer immediately, but then he said simply: “I just have to see it.”

The sliver of sadness Soren saw breaking through his usually easy-going exterior was enough to quell any protest he might make. “Okay,” he gave in. Oddly enough, he saw a bright side to this—at least there was no way Roark could come with them to Daein.

 

When it was time to go, they packed up and left with the caravan, waving goodbye to Astrid and wishing her luck in Crimea. Life on the road resumed, and the mercenaries returned to their routine patrols around the wagon train, watching for thieves.

It was autumn when the six months expired, but the weather was still quite warm in central Begnion. Soren was relieved this job was over, but the rest of the mercenaries were morose. They bid the trading families tearful goodbyes.

Mist hugged each of her new friends, rocking back and forth while they cried. Boyd had mock-fights with his new pals, saying his farewell with an affectionate headlock. Shinon traded insults with his cohort, a group of people as ill-tempered as him. The others mercenaries clapped arms and shook hands. Everyone promised to write to one another.

Shinon and Gatrie received a remarkable number of love letters shoved into their hands, and a considerable number of goodbye pecks on the cheek. This was to be expected. What was less expected was that Soren spotted Oscar and Boyd each with a letter or two. Meanwhile, three young men had gotten to their knees in front of Mia to confess their love and ask her to stay and marry them. In response, Mia was shouting at them to get off their knees and to stand and fight. It was unclear why.

Soren knew Ike was palmed his fair share of secret love letters, but he was equally aware that Ike didn’t care about these. What disturbed Soren was that Roark pulled Ike away during the farewell commotion, presumably to say his own private goodbye. As the representative of their contract holder, this should not have been suspicious. They could very well be discussing business.

But Soren couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He felt sicker and sicker as the seconds ticked by and neither Roark nor Ike reappeared. He could see their shoes in the gap under the wagon behind which they’d sought privacy. He tried to read the shifting of their weight, and his imagination ran away with him.

Soren hated how petty he was being. He didn’t decide who Ike’s friends were; he didn’t decide who Ike’s lovers were. It wasn’t his place; it wasn’t his problem.

Waiting for the mercenaries to reassemble, for the heartfelt farewells to finally conclude, Soren recalled the other people he’d irrationally disliked with this same spiteful barb in his heart. Nasir was the first person to come to mind. Then again, he’d been a traitor. Soren had been right to distrust the suave dragon and the way he’d wormed his way into Ike’s good graces. Or had he? Nasir had saved Ike from the Black Knight, giving his life to tear down Castle Nados. Soren still couldn’t say for certain whether he’d done it only to save Ena or if he’d cared for Ike after all.

He tried to shake away these thoughts. Speculating about it now was pointless. Once his mind was clear, it was Elincia who pranced into it: the second person for whom Soren had burned with jealousy. Jealousy… It wasn’t the first time he’d thought the word or acknowledged the ugly feeling. He wasn’t immune to envy; he’d never claimed to be so high-minded.

But right now, for the first time, while watching Ike and Roark’s feet under the distant wagon, he wondered why he would feel jealous of these people. He still had Ike’s devotion as a friend, his ear as a tactician, his trust as a mercenary. What more could he want?

The answer came when Roark’s boot stepped forward and just touch Ike’s toe: love. Soren wanted Ike’s love. The realization was like a fire in his blood, causing his cheeks and neck to burn even hotter under the autumn sun. His vision blurred as his mind scrambled to make sense of this, to rationalize it away. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter; it didn’t change anything. He tried to isolate the ramifications, to head them off before they could get away:

If Soren loved Ike, did that mean he was attracted to men? He supposed it could be true, but he couldn’t think of anyone in his entire life for whom he’d felt this way.

Did that make him perverse? Same-sex relationships were taboo throughout most of Tellius, but nobles like Astrid had been getting away with it for centuries, since money could always buy blind eyes. Things were a little different in laguz nations, where Soren’s research had revealed it was strictly forbidden, especially among the elite. The exception was Gallia, where marriages between people of the same gender was legal, albeit disapproved of. Caineghis and Giffca were a testament to that.

But more important was Ike. If he loved Roark, then no matter the laws of beorc or laguz, it couldn’t be bad. Nothing Ike did could ever be deplorable. But at least he and Roark were the same species. Soren was not. Did loving Ike make him even more of a monster?

As much as the thought tortured him, he had to admit it was a moot point. No taboo of the heart could compete with Soren’s very existence. His mixed blood was a crime. His poorly developed body was an abomination. According to beorc and laguz alike, his every breath was an offence against the Goddess.

Neither Ike nor Roark had emerged from behind the wagon. Soren tried to read their feet but couldn’t tell if they were talking, kissing, or worse. He felt like his heart was breaking, and this spawned the most disturbing question of all: if Soren loved Ike, did that mean he was capable of love after all?

He’d never understood it until now, and he still didn’t feel like he did. ‘Love’ was a ridiculous, flimsy emotion that caused otherwise rational people to make foolish decisions. It made otherwise strong people suddenly weak. It robbed them of their logic; it confused their priorities. Love was fickle, drudging up unnecessary drama. All his life Soren had thought he’d been safe from the mysterious affliction.

But Ike had always been there, burrowing deep into his heart, and he’d never tried to put up more than a perfunctory defense. Shouldn’t he have realized what was happening whenever Ike pulled secrets out of his mouth without even trying? Shouldn’t he have realized the truth when Ike had shone like a beacon to Soren’s Branded sense or when being apart from him had been like missing a part of himself? It was all so obvious—Soren had never been rational or invulnerable, not when it came to Ike.

He might have laughed at his blindness if it didn’t hurt so much.

“Hey, Soren? You don’t look so good…” Mist’s voice finally brought him back to reality. He tried to figure out how much time had passed: a few seconds or a few minutes? Ike and Roark finally came around the wagons. The rest of the mercenaries were regrouping. “I mean, you’re sweating like Rhys!” She reached out a hand to check his temperature, but Soren couldn’t stand for anyone to touch him right now, especially not his forehead where his dreadful Brand shone for all to see.

He brushed her hand aside and wiped his face and neck with his opposite sleeve. He was disgusted to find that she was right—he was sweating like a pig. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just hot.”

Mist accepted this excuse. “Well, we should be leaving soon. As long as you’re okay to travel-”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated in annoyance.

Just then, Ike made it back to the rest of the mercenaries. Roark was standing with the other merchants seeing them off. Soren tried to read their faces, but both were rigid masks. Their lips may have been a little red (or was he imagining things?); there was no other indication or mark of their tryst. Roark’s mouth was drawn thin, and he seemed sad behind the façade. Ike was completely unreadable, which surprised Soren because he’d never been particularly good at subterfuge.

Oda stepped to the head of the merchants. “Could we convince you to stay on?” she asked Ike, handing him the last of the payments.

Ike shook his head. “We’ve got plans. But we wish you safety.” He passed the billfold to Soren.

Roark waved his hand carelessly. “We’ve managed before. And you’ve taught many of us to defend ourselves. That won’t soon be forgotten.” The headwoman nodded in agreement. Soren searched for some double meaning in Roark’s words, any subtle emphasis or hidden spite in his voice or face. But he found none. A moment later, the mercenaries made their final waves and started walking away.

Soren focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and he tried not to look at or think about Ike. Now that they were leaving Roark behind, Soren wished he’d never pursued the threads of his jealousy. Now he had another secret to keep, and it weighed heavy in his chest. Now there was another thing Soren wanted that he would never have. Now, all of a sudden, just being a member of the Greil Mercenaries was going to be harder.