Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 59: THE STRONGEST MAN ( Chapter 28 )

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

Gatrie and Rhys stayed at the basecamp while the rest went to watch Oscar and Boyd participate in the wrestling competition.

Since today’s theme was tag-team fights, each brother had been paired with a random participant. In each round, four men entered the ring and the match wouldn’t end until both opponents were taken down and held there simultaneously. At times messy and awkward, the matches were also undeniably interesting, especially when Oscar and Boyd tried to apply the combat and communication techniques they used in battle, now with complete strangers.

Each brother put up a good fight, and Boyd managed to win his match (apparently becoming fast-friends with his teammate in the process). But Oscar and his teammate lost theirs, earning only aching muscles and sprained joints.

 

At noon, Ike was the only one participating in the boxing event. He was matched with a muscle-headed idiot who only seemed concerned with how much he could get the crowd to cheer for him. But Ike more than made up for his lapses in attention and frequent overextensions.

Greil had taught his son to throw a punch as well as swing a sword, and Soren was glad to see that Ike hadn’t forgotten a thing. If anything, his style had only improved during the war, becoming augmented with the styles of his former comrades. When necessary, he could channel both Largo’s frenzy and Tauroneo’s poise, and he kept his legs moving as if he were sparring with Stefan, who always slashed at his feet to break his stance

Of course, Ike got knocked around his fair share, and Soren winced sympathetically each time he took a hit. But by the end of the match, Ike’s opponents were on their knees, panting and grimacing in pain. The judge counted them out and declared Ike and the muscle-head the winners. Ike offered his hand, but his teammate was too busy raising both fists and hooting at the crowd.

Giving up, Ike exited the ring to where his sister and the rest of the mercenaries were ready to tackle him to the ground with hugs, slaps on the back, and general carousing. Everyone knew this victory meant Ike would be proceeding to the final day of the competition.

  

   The last event of the day was the stick fight in which Shinon had enrolled himself. Soren had seen him practicing a couple times over the past few days, and he’d supposed the wooden sticks weren’t radically different from when Shinon was forced to use his bow as a club in close combat. But after watching the first couple rounds, Soren could now see there was a considerable amount of skill and know-how involved in this kind of fight.

When it was finally Shinon’s turn, the mercenaries cheered him on (even Gatrie, who’d stumbled into the arena pale and sweat-streaked to support his friend). Rhys was helping to prop him up him with one shoulder, even though Gatrie dwarfed him.

Despite Gatrie’s dedication (and the chorus of girls lending their sopranos to his baritone), Shinon couldn’t outpace his opponents. His teammate clearly knew what he was doing—and Shinon hated to lose—so they both tried their hardest. But after ten minutes, both were shaking in the dust with painful-looking welts blooming on their arms and legs. The stick-fighting looked most dangerous by far, and Soren suddenly feared for Ike tomorrow.

  

Ike and Boyd were the only ones continuing to the final day, and Boyd was thrilled by the chance to defeat his commander in hand-to-hand combat. “If I win, Mist becomes my sister!” he kept saying. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her. And I’ll be a much better role model.”

“How so?” Ike played along. Mist, meanwhile, was blushing angrily and sputtering about how they should stop talking about her like she wasn’t even there.

“Two words,” Boyd answered with a flick of his wrist. “Hair. Braiding.”

Titania snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”

Ike took the bait. “What does that even mean?”

“You never do what she wants to do,” Boyd explained, “all the girly stuff. I’m way more in touch with my sensitive side, you know.”

“That’s a laugh,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

“Shut up both of you,” Mist fumed, at which Boyd laughed. 

Ike cocked his head. “Is that true, Mist?”

“Of course not!” She dragged her hands down her face. “Boyd is making stuff up again!” (This only made him laugh harder.)

Soren was spared any more of their banter, because they finally arrived at the restaurant where they would be celebrating Ike and Boyd’s step closer to victory (and Gatrie’s ability to stomach solid food again). Stars had emerged overhead, and the night was warmer than it had been all week.

They were filing into the little shop when Titania suddenly froze. Someone was jogging unevenly toward them, with an arm raised in greeting. Ike lingered in the doorway. “Titania?” he asked in concern.

Soren lingered as well, because he was curious to see how Titania would interact with Valjon in front of the rest of the mercenaries. Right now, she was standing as rigid as a board. 

“Captain,” he greeted her, which Soren thought was odd for a term of endearment.

“This is not a good time,” she returned.

Only then did Valjon notice the others. “General Ike!”

Ike looked at the man as if trying to recall his face. “Uh, I’m not a general anymore…”

Titania hung her head. “Commander, allow me to introduce Valjon. He fought with us in the Begnion regiment under Lieutenant Grey.”

Ike’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh…”

Valjon rubbed the back of his head and smiled good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. I don’t blame you for not remembering me.”

“Valjon fought bravely in the battles of Delbray and Pinell,” Titania explained.

“I lost my leg in Nados,” Valjon added, tapping the prosthetic. “I wasn’t able to finish the war with you, but it was an honor doing what I could.”

“You fought bravely in Nados too,” Titania whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Ike said, shaking his head. “And thank you, for what you did for Crimea… Your sacrifice…” This was clearly a new and uncomfortable situation for him. Despite their months spent in Begnion, they’d never encountered anyone from the war who wasn’t also a close friend like Haar and Astrid (possibly because so few had survived).

Valjon shook his head. “I was glad to help our allies in Crimea. I don’t regret a thing.”

Ike hesitated but then nodded. “Please, Valjon, join us for dinner.”

Titania seemed alarmed (and perhaps embarrassed) by this prospect, but the man accepted the invitation without looking at her. “Of course, General. It’d be an honor.”

“It’s just Ike now,” he corrected him again, and the four continued inside to where the other mercenaries were waiting, obviously confused by the holdup.

But Valjon hadn’t walked two steps into the restaurant before was recognized by another competitor. The man raised his tankard high in the air, roaring his name. (Apparently, he was a fan.) A few moments later, another bystander approached Valjon, saying, “I saw you fight today! Oh, I’m so sorry about the loss. I really thought you were going to go all the way! I was rooting for you.”

The older man gracefully accepted the praise and well-wishing, and word quickly spread that ‘Valjon the Veteran’—the man who’d made it all the way to the sixth day with only one good leg and cost betters thousands of gold coins—had just entered the building. Titania’s cheeks reddened, and Ike seemed absolutely stupefied by the attention. He and Boyd were finalists, and yet no one recognized them unless it was someone spitting the words, ‘Cheating Crimeans!’

When the room finally settled down, the mercenaries sat with Valjon at a corner table, where they ate, drank, and discussed the games. After the initial introduction, not one word about the war was uttered again.

It didn’t take long for Valjon to discover the harassment and sabotage the mercenaries had been facing, and he was aghast when he found out. “If I could apologize on behalf of all my countrymen, I would do it in a heartbeat,” he said, “But there is no excuse.”

Ike shook his head. “We don’t blame Begnion.”

“I wish there was something I could do…”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged one shoulder.

But Soren had been formulating a plan since first witnessing the reception Valjon had received tonight. In his experience, abuse and bigotry could be alleviated by the testimony of just one person, and Valjon was exactly the right man for the job. “Perhaps you can help,” he said, seeming to catch him by surprise.

Ike cocked his head “How so?”

Soren addressed his answer to Valjon: “Make a bet on Ike tonight, and let it be known that you are rooting for the Crimeans. Be seen with Titania. Do what it takes to turn public opinion in our favor. Tomorrow, root for Ike and Boyd in the tournament.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Ike countered. “We’ll be fine.”

“No, I want to!” Valjon replied. “If you think it will make a difference. But… Captain Titania mentioned that you are trying not to draw attention to yourselves.”

“Say you fought beside us in the war,” Soren offered. “It’s not a lie.”

Valjon nodded. “I can do that.”

  

After dinner, Valjon and Titania went off to set Soren’s plan into motion, while the others returned to the campsite. “He seems like a good guy,” Mia declared on the walk back. “I can see why Titania likes him.” Shinon followed this with a lewd comment, Ike scolded him, and no one spoke of Valjon or Titania for the rest of the evening.

 

The seventh and final day of the Telgam Games was an all-day tournament. Ike and Boyd were seeded in a couple of the earlier fights, so the mercenaries set out not long after daybreak. A mist was still hanging in the air when Soren and the others filed into the stands. Ike and Boyd waved from the waiting area below, and seeing them, Soren felt oddly nervous. No one’s life was at stake, and yet he had the same feeling he got when walking into a dangerous job. 

   Ike had selected another boxing-style fight for his first match-up. He was in the fourth fight of the day, and the mercenaries cheered wildly when his name was announced. Several rows behind them, Valjon and his posse were also cheering.

Soren slid to the edge of his seat as soon as Ike and his opponent started circling each other. They traded flurries of blows to test each other’s defenses. Both were barefoot in the dusty arena, and both had their wrists and hands wrapped in cloth. A judge buzzed around them like a bee.

Then, suddenly, the attitude of their fight changed. Ike’s opponent threw a sharp jab, and Ike narrowly dodged it, responding with an uppercut. After that, there was no pausing or retreating from either one. The pair wailed on each other, barely shuffling more than a couple feet in either direction. Drops of blood spattered the ground and dyed their bound fists, but neither fell for more than a second before getting back up.

Ike’s opponent was older than him by at least a decade, and he was clearly no stranger to fighting. As the minutes wore on, Soren half-hoped Ike would beat this man to a pulp while also hoping he would give up before he got brain damage.

But then Ike rotated his entire bodyweight into an intense kick that sent the man flying sideways into the dirt. He tried to catch himself with one hand but only succeeded in snapping his wrist. Muffling his injured roars with his arm, the man slapped the ground with his good hand and kicked his legs like a toddler.

Ike stood over him, ready for the fight to continue, but he didn’t get to his feet. The judge called the match, announcing Ike the winner. The mercenaries cheered on the top of their lungs, and even Soren cupped his hands over his mouth to offer a wordless call of congratulations. To his surprise, excited hooting and cheering came from all around the stands. Panting hard, Ike wiped a trail of blood from the side of his mouth and raised his hand in a small wave.

 

The mercenaries watched another three matches before it was Boyd’s turn. Like Ike, he had chosen to fight with his feet and fists. His opponent was a string-bean of a man, but in spite of his light frame, his punches came fast and hard. Boyd, however, had always had an uncanny ability to take a punch and not let it affect him until several minutes later. Perhaps because of this, his opponent seemed to second-guess himself. Taking advantage of an early opening, Boyd threw his whole body into left hook, knocked him out cold only a couple minutes into the match. The crowd roared, and Boyd struck heroic-looking poses to feed their applause.

When the first round was complete, everyone took a short break, but none of the spectators were able to meet with the competitors, so Soren just bided his time. Before long, the second round began, and Ike was soon walking into the center of the arena again. This time, he would be wrestling against a monster of a man. His opponent was almost a head taller than him and three times as wide—especially around the middle. Soren didn’t know how Ike was going to handle this. In preparation of this event, Ike had practiced grappling with some of the other mercenaries, but he was still a novice. If he lost, it would be no surprise. Soren just hoped Ike wouldn’t get flattened like a pancake in the process. Blood was running hot and tensions were high. Several competitors had already been escorted from the arena nursing unforced injuries (if they were conscious at all).

But Ike defied Soren’s expectations. He dug in his heels and strained to gain leverage over his opponent. As the minutes drew on, he forced Ike into a hold twice, and Ike force him into one once. But each time the other had reversed, regaining leverage. They both looked tired, but Soren knew Ike’s endurance should never be underestimated. Eventually he managed to get the larger man into a choke hold and held on tight. His opponent struggled but couldn’t escape. Chants of “Ike! Ike! Ike!” and “Cri-me-a! Cri-me-a!” erupted from the stands even before the big man tapped out and the judge declared Ike the winner. Soren was astounded. If Ike won the next match, he would be in the quarter finals.

After one more match, it was Boyd’s turn again. Not to be outdone by Ike, he gestured for the crowd to cheer for him even before he was handed the two foot-long sticks he would be using in this fight. Once he had them in his palms, he twirled them around his fingers like a professional. However, these were not the axes he was used to, and unfortunately for Boyd, he dropped one after just a few seconds. The crowd groaned and laughed in equal measure.

Then it was time for the fight to really begin, and the stands fell silent. Boyd’s opponent unleashed a vicious onslaught, using the sticks like an extension of his arms. He spun and spiraled, never once relenting. Boyd managed to defend himself from most of the strikes, but he could never return a blow.

“That’s it! Wear him out!” Oscar called encouragement that Boyd couldn’t hear.

“Keep them up!” Mist chirruped. “You can do it!”

But, as it turned out, Boyd could not do it. More and more strikes were finding their marks on his arms, legs, calves, back, kidneys, and even one to the base of his neck that Soren thought may have fractured Boyd’s collar bone. After this, he struggled to keep the sticks up at all, and the man laid him into the dirt with a final swipe at the side of his head. Boyd didn’t get up.

“Brother!” Rolf cried.

“Boyd!” Mist screamed, lunging onto the bench ahead of them as if she could race down to the arena and heal him with the staff she didn’t even have with her. Luckily Gatrie was sitting in that row and seized her before she could get far.

“That has to be against the rules!” exclaimed Titania from where she was sitting with Valjon.

“It’s not,” Mia answered, shaking her head. “Ooh, that was nasty though.”

Two assistants pulled Boyd out of the arena, and Soren saw Ike run to him from the sidelines. There were healers on hand for situations like this, and Soren didn’t think Boyd would notice the loss of a few more brain cells. Ike’s brain, on the other hand, was one Soren valued a bit more. He grew anxious, worried that Ike would find himself in a stick-fighting contest next.

When it was finally time for the third-round matches, Ike strode into the arena to shake his opponent’s hand, and Soren was relieved to hear the judge announce that the style for this match would be shin-kicking. Mist and Rhys actually laughed in relief.

Ike and his opponent were allowed to wear shoes for this fight, and they were also given guards of woven straw to tie around their shins. After shaking hands a second time, Ike and the man seized each other’s shoulders just as Soren had seen other competitors do. But neither Ike nor his opponent seemed certain of what they were doing, and for the first few minutes both made a variety of mistakes that caused the judge to intervene and reset them. First Ike kicked above the man’s knee, then the man purposefully tripped Ike, and then Ike accidentally let go of the man’s shoulders. But eventually they seemed to get the hang of it. They shuffled back and forth, attempting to cause the greatest amount of pain to the other’s shins and weaken their legs enough to toss them into the dirt.

Ike’s opponent threw him suddenly, and a moan of defeat rose from the mercenaries. However, the judge raised both his hands and explained that the toss had been invalid—both of the man’s feet had been on the ground. Ike was still in the game.

This reinvigorated the mercenaries, who cheered and roared for their commander. The kicking resumed, and Soren watched without blinking. Of course he realized how ridiculous all of this was, and yet he really wanted Ike to win. A chant of “Cri-me-a! Cri-me-a!” began again in the stands behind him; Valjon’s influence had truly taken effect.

In that moment, Soren didn’t think Ike could lose. But in the next moment, he was proven wrong. Ike fell into the dirt, and the stands fell silent. They were uncertain this time, since no one seemed to know the rules of this game. But the judge called the toss fair and announced Ike’s opponent the winner. Getting to his feet with a chagrinned smile, Ike shook his opponent’s hand again. That was it—the Greil Mercenaries had officially lost the Telgam Games.

But that didn’t stop them from cheering for Ike as he limped out of the area. He waved up at them, and his smile was wide (albeit pained). Since the mercenaries had no reason to stay, they edged out of the stands to join Ike and Boyd outside. 

When they reunited with the beaming Ike and dazed-looking Boyd, Soren discovered his disappointment faded quickly. At least Ike hadn’t been badly injured, and remembering what he’d said about having fun, he was surprised to find he’d enjoyed himself merely by watching.

“Sorry, Mist.” Ike sighed. “I guess none of us are winning you that Hammerne staff.”

Mist shook her head. “Don’t be silly! I never even wanted it.”

“I’m sorry too, Mist,” Boyd said sadly. “Now you’re stuck with this bone-headed commander for a brother. I mean, he can’t even kick a guy in the shins correctly. You must be so ashamed.”

“You’re one to talk.” Mist put her hands on her hips. “How was your dirt nap?”

Boyd clutched his chest as if injured. “So cruel!”

She landed a soft punch on his arm. “You scared me half to death!”

Boyd held the spot if her punch had hurt. “Adding injury to my insult? You’re no sister of mine!”

“Exactly,” Ike said, wrapping a protective arm around Mist’s shoulders. But they were all smiling, and a moment later, Rolf and Oscar tackled Boyd from either side. 

“Guess you’re stuck with us!” Rolf chirruped.

“Hey that still hurts!” Boyd whined when Oscar raised a hand to examine the lump on the side of his head.

  

That afternoon, Valjon and a few of his friends joined the mercenaries at their camp. The tournament was over, and the winner had received his award. Now the campgrounds were vibrant with the losers celebrating their heroic losses alongside friends, family, and women for hire. The evening drew on with plenty of drinking, reminiscing, singing, and even dancing. Eventually the mercenaries broke up so they could each spend the last night in Telgam City as they pleased.

“My partner from yesterday is getting people together for drinks,” Boyd said to Ike. “You should come along.” But he politely declined, saying he might catch up later.

“We’re gonna pick up some girls in town,” Shinon said to Ike next, with Gatrie at his side. “I guess it wouldn’t cramp our style to have an almost-quarter-finalist tag along.” But once again Ike refused, saying he wasn’t interested in being Shinon’s wingman.

“They’re giving away free hotcakes down the road!” Mist exclaimed after that. But he just told her and Rolf to run along, saying he wasn’t hungry.

“Hey, Ike, you should meet some of the friends I made when I was pretending to be Percival!” Mia invited him next. “They’re fine with me being a girl, and they want to say goodbye.” But Ike merely thanked her for her invitation and told her she should go without him.

Rhys was already asleep, Titania was out somewhere with Valjon, and Oscar was taking a nighttime ride with someone he’d met at the horserace. That just left Soren and Ike at the campfire. They were both silent despite the laughter and raucous voices all around them, but Soren didn’t mind. In fact, he was happy to have this quiet time with Ike alone. His closeness was a comfort, and his contented smile was contagious. Soren tipped another log onto the fire.

After a while, Ike spoke. “Maybe things can be like this forever,” he mused.

Soren didn’t answer immediately. Because he was relaxed in this moment, part of him wanted to agree with Ike, but ultimately, he could not. “That can’t be,” he said.

“Why not?” Ike asked. He leaned back on his forearms, which brought him even closer.

“We’re mercenaries,” Soren answered. “We do not do well in peace.”

Ike shook his head. “There’ll always be work, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean how we choose to spend our time, where, and who with.”

“We travel for our work,” Soren replied, “and we are always with the company. I do not understand what you’re proposing.”

Ike shrugged. “Well, then, maybe time spent with some more than others.”

Soren frowned at the flames, wondering if something was on Ike’s mind, and if so, what could be bothering him when he looked as at ease as he did now. “You are the commander, Ike,” he reminded him. “You mustn’t show favoritism or preference.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,” he laughed. 

“I do not think it is a laughing matter,” Soren replied, because he honestly didn’t understand what Ike found humorous. “You must be professional. We all must be.”

“Not today,” Ike said with a soft grin. “Today we can just be ourselves. We played a few games, lost some money. I had a good time. Did you?”

“Of course,” Soren said, caught off guard by Ike’s tone, “but this cannot become habit.”

“This?” Ike asked, tilting his head back slightly.

Soren wondered if Ike was somehow teasing him. “Vacations,” he clarified. “They must end. Reality—and our shrinking coffers—mustn’t be ignored.”

Ike was silent for a while as he seemed to consider this. His smile slowly faded, and Soren regretting his part in banishing it. When he finally spoke again, his voice was lowered. “…What if I said I wouldn’t go to Daein, if every day not in Daein was like this?”

“I do not understand what you mean,” he replied stiffly.

“I know you don’t want us to go.”

“As I have said, our presence in Daein may be an exacerbating factor for the occupation.”

Ike shook his head. “No, that’s not it. You don’t want me to go. Me specifically.”

“Ridiculous,” Soren muttered.

“You really are kind,” he said in a soft voice.

Soren didn’t understand why he was saying this, so he shut it down: “There is no logical reason to avoid Daein, so if you wish it, that is where we must go. You are our commander, Ike. You must give us direction. You mustn’t give in to avarice.”

 “Avarice?” Ike repeated, and a small laugh returned to his voice. “And what would I be hoarding?”

“Days like this,” Soren replied firmly, “at the expense of your true dreams and goals.”

Ike didn’t respond immediately, but eventually he nodded and said, “You’re a good friend, Soren.”

He couldn’t tell for certain, but Soren though he detected a shade of disappointment in his voice. “Thank you,” he answered, suddenly feeling a creeping disappointment in his own heart, “and you are an exemplary commander.”