Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 3 ❯ CHAPTER 77: GOLDOA ( Chapter 11 )

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

“You!” came an astonished shout at the bottom of the hill. “By whose authority have you entered this land?” A single dark-skinned, red-haired soldier jogged up to them, looking completely affronted.

“Goldoa, the land of the dragons…” Ranulf clenched his ears with both hands and shook his head. “By the Goddess, did we mess up.”

“The dragons…” Skrimir stared at the soldier in amazement. “It is said they are the most powerful of all laguz tribes. I’ve always wanted to fight a dragon, but I never expected it would happen like this…” He winced visibly. “When our King finds out about this, I will have much explaining to do.”

“Hey!” the soldier didn’t seem to appreciate being ignored. “I said who are you and what are you doing here!”

“You’ve got to get home first, Skrimir,” Tibarn sighed. “I guess we have to pay that stubborn old lizard a visit, don’t we?” His voice was resigned but worried too.

“Let’s go,” Reyson agreed, sounding more confident than Tibarn looked, and that seemed to hearten the hawk.

“I’ll ask you one more time!” the soldier shouted. “The land of Goldoa is barred from entry. Why are you-”

Tibarn raised one hand to stop his angry shouting. “I am Tibarn, King of Phoenicis. I have a right to call upon King Dheginsea as my peer.”

“You have no right without invitation!” countered the soldier, adding indignantly: “And how dare you enter Goldoa with an army!”

Tibarn laughed. “An army?” He gestured at the admittedly pathetic-looking troops: less than two thousand beasts and a thousand hawks, all of whom were starving and dehydrated. The majority were recovering from illness and injury (if not still feverish with infection), and many had lost limbs. “This is no army. These are your prisoners. Now take us for your King’s judgement.” He held out both wrists as if the soldier should clap him in irons.

“Turn back,” the soldier growled. To his merit, he was not easily intimidated, not even by Tibarn.

But now the Hawk King was done playing. He grabbed the soldier by his collar and lifted him onto the tips of his toes. “You will take us to Dheginsea,” he snarled with murder in his eyes.

When he dropped him, the soldier’s face was slack with fear, and this time, he didn’t argue. “I will take you to Elpis,” he said. “My captain will decide what to do with you.”

“Lead the way,” was Tibarn’s reply.

  

Elpis was the closest city, and as soon as they were within range, hundreds of soldiers (and what appeared to be civilians) poured out of the gates to surround them, separate them into manageable units, and escort them into the city. “Don’t worry,” Tibarn whispered, “Goldoans are strict but not cruel. By their own laws, they must treat captives with honor until judgment is passed. The soldiers will be fed and watered for now... Even if we do end up dead later.”

Soren’s tome and knife were confiscated, along with all of the mercenaries’ weapons, and the laguz were warned that any transformation would be interpreted as a hostile act. Tibarn and Skrimir commanded their soldiers be patient and obedient until they were released to Gallia (while their captors scoffed at the idea that that would happen.)

Tibarn intimidated the city’s captain just as he had the sentry, and the next day, they were all leaving Elpis for the capital city of Argos. Soren was so weary from marching he felt he could sleep for years, and yet he’d hardly slept at all the night before.

It hadn’t been because his quarters were unpleasant. On the contrary, the Goldoan prison had hardly seemed like a prison at all (more like a barracks no one had used in a long time). The bed hadn’t been uncomfortable and the furnishings had been modest but of good quality. Neither had he been unable to sleep due to fear. Although Soren wasn’t convinced Tibarn and Skrimir could get them out of this mess—and he knew it was possible the King of Dragons could have their entire army executed as soon as they got to the capital—that wasn’t the reason for his sleeplessness.

The truth of the matter was that Soren was still uncomfortable around dragons, and now he was surrounded by them. Since hiding from the Goldoans when their ship had run aground, since being taunted by Nasir and manipulated into secrecy, and especially since embarrassing himself in front of Ena on her last day in Crimea—Soren was ashamed for ever thinking he shared their blood.

And he had a lot of time to stew in his shame, because the march to Argos was long and boring. Each night he slept about as well as he had the first night, even though the Goldoans provided soft bedrolls, blankets, and tall, conical tents to make their journey easier.

They gave them medicine and fresh bandages too, and thanks to that, the hole in Soren’s shoulder managed to avoid festering. Mist stitched the wound with thread, and he wore the sling each day so it could heal as quickly as possible. His opposite hand had completely recovered from the wound he’d received on the Ribahn River, but unfortunately it seemed this other limb would now be out of commission for the foreseeable future.

 

After a week, they finally reached Argos: a massive, walled city sprouting hexagonal towers. It was built above a stony landscape where not much seemed to grow. The land itself had been carved into deep pits and quarries, and the staircase leading to the main gate seemed excessively long. As tired as Soren was, the height felt like a personal insult.

Most of the troops were allowed to make camp outside Argos, but the army’s leadership was forced to climb the many steps, march through the city, and eventually enter the castle’s throne room. Like the rest of Goldoa’s architecture, nothing here was particularly fancy or ornate, but it was highly organized and almost soothingly geometric. Even the thrones were just modest stone chairs with blue cloth draped across the seats. There were five thrones, but three had small, symbolic-looking black pillows on them, possibly to prevent anyone from sitting there.

Soren knew Dheginsea’s wife and at least one of his three children were dead. (The eldest, Rajaion, had died in front of his eyes at the end of the Mad King’s War.) He also knew that the youngest child, Kurthnaga, was alive and well. This made Soren wonder if the last throne was for the middle child (a daughter, if he remembered correctly). He was wondering how she might have died, when the King of Dragons finally swept into the room.

 “What are you doing here, Tibarn?” he asked dryly, sitting in the empty throne at the center. He didn’t look at anyone but the Hawk King.

But they were all staring at him. While Tibarn gave a lengthy explanation—starting all the way back with the Serenes Massacre—Soren assessed the thousand-year-old man. Surprisingly, he didn’t look particularly old. His skin was dark and minimally wrinkled. He was bald but had a thick mustache and intense-looking eyebrows. These were the same black-green color as his sons’ hair, without a single gray strand to be seen. He was shorter than Tibarn, and although he lacked the mass of Skrimir or Caineghis, neither was he a daisy. He stood tall, and he was clearly healthy despite his age.

Soren marveled at the fact that this man had been alive before the drowning of the world. He could remember a time when there’d been continents other than Tellius. If legend was to be believed, he had even fought the dark god himself, helping lock it away in the medallion.

The longer Soren looked, the more his surprise ebbed. A strange power was wafting from this man, like a heady perfume. Soren had never been drunk before, but he imagined this was what it might feel like. A blanket washed over his mind, lulling him into a stupor he had to fight to resist. Soren realized this man, albeit unassuming at first, could probably make others fall to their knees with a single glance.

The power was frightening, but as Tibarn continued to tell his story in easy tones, Soren realized the Hawk King must be fighting it. And if Tibarn could resist, so could he. Focusing his mind, Soren listened closely to the end of the story and tried to ignore the ancient dragon. To his satisfaction, soon after he decided to reject Dheginsea’s influence, the power lost its grip on him. He found he could stand straighter; the room came back into focus.

“And there you have it,” Tibarn concluded. “We never intended to violate Goldoa’s borders. It was an accident.”

“I see…” Dheginsea rested his elbows on the chair’s stone arms and knitted his fingers. “I understand your predicament. However, your reasons neither justify nor change the fact that you trespassed on our territory. I order you to leave immediately. Go back the way you came, through the caves.”

“You would have us go through the Kauku Caves again?” Skrimir demanded. “Never!”

“Stop talking, Skrimir,” Ranulf pleaded, grabbing the prince’s arm.

“Many of my men are wounded!” he growled, ignoring the warning. “You’re sending them to their deaths! I will not allow this!”

“It is regrettable, yes,” replied Dheginsea, although his voice didn’t sound particularly regretful. He turned his gaze on Skrimir for the first time. “However, I cannot make exceptions. Your men will leave. Now.”

“How could a laguz be so cold to his brothers?” Skrimir shot back. “We are your people as well!”

“This isn’t news, Skrimir,” Tibarn interjected, crossing his arms. “Goldoa and its lizards have ignored the suffering of their laguz brethren for centuries. They even looked the other way while we birds and beasts were enslaved by the beorc. Isn’t that so, Dragon King?” His words were thick with distaste. 

“Our country is neutral,” Dheginsea declared, unoffended. “It has been since time out of mind and will continue to be so.”

“Then you might as well just kill us now,” Ike cut in, throwing up his hands. “It’d be the same as sending us back to the Kauku Caves, and it saves us the walk.”

Now Dheginsea turned his gaze toward Ike for the first time. His neck moved slightly as if he had to look at him differently than the others. “You are beorc. I would not expect your short-lived kind to understand.” Soren wondered when King Goldoa had last seen a beorc and realized it was probably centuries ago.

“I don’t need to understand to see that it’s a poor king who has so little regard for his fellow man,” Ike replied, pointing a single accusing finger at him. If he’d felt the daunting energy coming from Dheginsea, he must have fought it off as well. Even though Ike was being an idiot and putting his life in danger, Soren couldn’t help but feel proud.

“Hmm,” growled Dheginsea, narrowing his eyes, but before he could call for Ike to be executed (or whatever he was going to say next), the doors to the throne room burst open, and Ena rushed inside.

“Your Majesty! Please hear us!” she cried, and Nasir came running in behind her.

Soren felt shock ripple through Ike and Titania, who were standing beside him, but he wasn’t surprised. If the Black Knight had survived Castle Nados, then there had always been a possibility Nasir had survived too. And having ruined his relations with Crimea, Daein, and Gallia, where else would he have slunk off to but his homeland? That being said, Soren was far from happy to see the traitor again.

“What are you two doing here?” Dheginsea drawled in annoyance.

Ena bowed low. “Please allow me and my grandfather to guide the Laguz Alliance to the borders of Gallia. I beg of you.”

Nasir also bowed, but not as low. “Prince Reyson of the heron tribe stands among them,” he added. When he raised his head, his eyes met Reyson’s. “The dragon tribe owes him safe passage.” He turned his gaze to Dheginsea. “Please, Your Majesty! He saved the soul of your son! Would you condemn them to die despite the good they’ve done?”

“Hmph,” Dheginsea’s grumble turned into a sigh, “Do as you like.” Raising one hand, he spread all his fingers in a gesture of release. “This is the only exception I will ever make.” With that, he stood and walked toward the door.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ena said in a rush, with her eyes clamped shut.

Guards heaved the double doors open, and when they closed behind him, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Then Ike broke the happy silence: “So, Nasir…you’re alive,” he observed.

Titania chuckled uncertainly.

“That is a surprise,” agreed Ranulf.

“Who is this guy?” asked Skrimir.

Nasir raised his hands peaceably. “I apologize for not contacting you after the war,” he said, addressing Ike, “but I imagined you would not wish to speak to me again.”

“You saved me and Mist,” Ike said with a shake of his head. “Of course I’d want to know you were okay.”

Nasir bowed his head apologetically. “I only wish I could have finished the job,” he said, “I hear the Black Knight survived as well.” Ena shivered visibly at the name.

“He did,” Ike confirmed. “But I know I’ll beat him when- if I face him again.”

“Naturally,” Nasir replied with a simple nod. Soren thought it condescending, but Ike didn’t seem to mind.

“You must be hungry and weary,” Ena said, changing the subject. “I will show to where you can rest before we leave.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Tibarn groaned, stretching his back. He and the rest followed Ena and Nasir out of the room. Soren trailed behind, eyeing the thrones and ancient architecture a final time.

 

The journey to the Gallian border was lengthy and awkward. Ena didn’t instigate any conversation with Soren, and neither he with her, so he didn’t know if she remembered their brief conversation back in Crimea. Nasir didn’t tease him or show any indication that Ena had spoken to him about it, but the very idea was embarrassing. The last thing he wanted was for Nasir to think he wanted to be like him.

In wasn’t until the fourth day that Nasir finally approached him. Everyone else was seated around one campfire or another, but Soren had been expecting this to happen eventually, which was why he’d been lingering in the dark, away from the others—just to give Nasir the chance.

“My, Soren, you haven’t changed at all,” was the dragon’s greeting.

“I could say the same,” he replied coolly, “but whether you are still a traitorous worm remains to be seen.”

Nasir frowned as if the words stung, but Soren knew they didn’t. “Everything I did was to protect my granddaughter.” He cast his gaze to one of the closest fires, where Ena was smiling politely at something Gatrie was saying. “Ike understands that and has forgiven me.”

“Ike is too forgiving,” Soren shot back.

“I wanted to save him too,” Nasir continued, “That boy is special… I was prepared to give my life so that he and Ena could escape.”

Soren could think of no reason Nasir would be lying to win favor now, and his claim seemed genuine. But that didn’t make it any easier for him to swallow. “You’re right; Ike is special. But he already has plenty of people watching out for him. He doesn’t need you.”

“Would you have preferred I let King Dheginsea send you back to those goddess-forsaken caves?”

The answer was so obvious that Soren refused to give it.

Silence stretched between them until Nasir sighed, “Very well, then.”

He started to move away, but Soren stopped him. “Ike knows the truth,” he said, “about me. So you can’t use that against me anymore. Your leverage is gone.”

“Oh?” Nasir seemed amused by this outburst. “But why would I need leverage now? I don’t need anything from Ike, or you. In fact, I seem to be the one doing you a favor.”

Soren was annoyed at his response, and even more so by the fact that what he said was true. It had been foolish to think his declaration would phase him, but oddly enough, he was still glad he’d made it. “I just wanted you to know the state of things,” he finished coolly.

“Why thank you,” Nasir returned. He then seemed to appraise Soren. “You must regret not telling him sooner. The only leverage I had was that which you gave me… So much unpleasantness might have been avoided.”

Soren glared back, and the next question slipped out before he could decide whether it was a good idea: “Why do you hate me? You’re not a bigot. You’re not superstitious. So why?”

Nasir seemed surprised by the accusation. “Regardless of what you may believe, Soren, not everyone hates you.”

He growled under his breath. Nasir could rile him like no one else.

To his annoyance, the dragon seemed to soften at this display of frustration. “I misjudged you, I’ll admit. I did not expect your loyalty to Ike to endure as it has. I fully expected you to make callous decisions to achieve your goals and thereby drive a stake between you. But you have upheld his ideals thus far.” The congratulation in his voice was too much to bear.

“You have the audacity to question my loyalty?” Soren ground the words through his teeth.

Nasir shook his head. “My apologies.”

“You had better not try to enter Gallia with us,” Soren said suddenly.

Nasir didn’t appear offended by the threat. “Of course, my place is in Goldoa now.”

“Make sure that is where you stay.” Leaving Nasir in the dark, Soren stalked toward the fire where Ike and Ranulf were seated. Instead of following him, the dragon slunk into the night. Soren supposed this was a win, but it was a hollow victory.

 

Over the next few days, he tried to distract himself from thoughts of Nasir, the Kauku Caves, and the defeat of the Laguz Alliance by mentally composing a detailed analysis of Goldoan culture. He imagined he could write it all down someday and perhaps sell it to scholars who dreamed of the dragon kingdom but could never set foot here.

As he already knew, there were three main types of dragons and each was associated with a social class: black dragons were the royals, white dragons (like Nasir) the nobles, and red dragons the commoners and soldiers. Pink dragons like Ena arose when a white dragon married downward, but they were still considered nobles themselves. Silver dragons were born of a white and black dragon, but one of these had not been born since the drowning of the world. On that note, not a single new dragon had been born to anyone in the country in over two centuries. There were no children here, life was stagnant, and the population was dwindling.

As Soren observed the villages they passed, he quickly discovered that tradition and order were integral to each Goldoan’s livelihood. Everyone moved and worked slowly but deliberately. Everything from their homes to their streets to their gardens was careful, exact, and even geometric.

The Goldoans also seemed devoutly religious. Half of the buildings Soren saw seemed to be temples, and all of their art (of which there was much) depicted Ashera or other holy scenes. This art could be seen almost everywhere—whether it was on an engraved metal cup, a painted ceramic vase, a tooled leather belt, or an entire mosaic wall. Furthermore, the only books Goldoans seemed to read were holy scriptures and doctrines. That being said, everything was in the ancient language, so it was hard to tell.

 

As the days passed, Soren found he wasn’t the only one taking an interest in the forbidden country. In the evenings, conversation around the campfires often came back to the history of Tellius and the nature of its many tribes (unusual topics for a bunch of soldiers and mercenaries).

“Goldoa’s not so different than anywhere else,” Ike said one night, which drew surprised glances, especially since some of the others had just been saying the opposite—claiming the dragon kingdom seemed foreign to them. However, some of the others were smiling and nodding in agreement.

Mist was one of them. “I guess wherever you go, people are just people,” she agreed, and this also drew head-nods.

“There is a…distinct feeling about this land, however,” Reyson spoke up, but judging by his tone, he didn’t seem to be trying to contradict her. He closed his eyes a moment. “I’ve felt it since first arriving here. At times, it reminds me of Serenes, but at other times it feels…exotic.”

Soren couldn’t help but try to perceive what Reyson was describing, although he doubted his Branded sense could compare to the heron’s. A shiver ran up his spine, but that could have just been the cool night air. He did wonder if what Reyson was sensing could be the reason he’d felt so uneasy since coming here. (He would rather blame Goldoa itself than his own weak constitution.)

“You are well attuned to the land, Prince Reyson,” Nasir spoke up, joining their campfire. Soren glared, but the others welcomed him and he sat down “There are many forces of magic in Tellius, and some reside more strongly in certain parts of the world. The Serenes Forest is a deeply magical place, yes, but Goldoa has its own veins of power—and we Goldoans our own ways of honoring it.”

“The same for beast tribe,” Mordecai purred. “Forests of Gallia are…more than home.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen any magic in Phoenicis.” Janaff laughed. “You hear any, Ulki?”

“Not to my knowledge,” his counterpart replied.

But Nasir corrected them: “It is there, young hawks. It is weaker and different that Serenes or Goldoa, but it is there.”

“What about Crimea?” Ike asked curiously.

“Or Begnion and Daein?” Mist added. “Do beorc nations have it too?”

Nasir didn’t answer immediately, and Soren couldn’t help but lean forward. He wished he didn’t care so much about what the old dragon had to say. “I traveled all over Tellius in my years abroad, and yes, I believe there is a different kind of magic in beorc nations. After all, your people wield tomes and staves, using incantations to harness it.”

Ike laughed at that. “Soren and Mist maybe. I don’t think I have a drop of power like that.”

Boyd threw an arm around his commander. “Hey, don’t you worry, Boss! Strong guys like us don’t need it.” The others laughed, but Nasir still looked pensive.

Mist ignored Boyd and Ike beside her and rested her chin on her hand. Her expression was thoughtful as she gazed at the sky. “The way you describe it, Nasir. It almost sounds like you think the source of difference between laguz and beorc is just…environmental—I mean, where we happen to be born.”

Nasir didn’t reply, but his expression did flicker into something of a small smile. Soren didn’t appreciate the dragon's little expressions; as if he fancied himself wiser than anyone else here. Neither did he appreciate where this conversation was headed, but he couldn't leave or redirect it, so he merely sat with the others—this odd assortment of friends and comrades, these beorc and laguz—and listened.

Ranulf had also been sitting quietly this entire time, but now he chuckled. “Don’t forget, Mist, you and Ike were both born in Gallia. So unless you two have a couple of tails you’ve been managing to hide from me…” He narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin in mock-suspicion.

Mist blushed and smiled. “Maybe it was a silly thought.”

“I don’t think so,” Ike countered. “The differences between laguz and beorc aren’t that big.”

“Of course,” Janaff laughed as if this were a joke. “I mean, I for one am always forgetting which one’s Ilyana and which one’s Skrimir.”

This drew laughter from the others, but not Ike. Soren knew he hadn’t been joking; this was honestly what he believed. Even now he didn’t grow chagrined or back down as Mist had. If Ike were the only person in the world to think this, he still wouldn’t believe he was wrong. “No, seriously,” he said. “How’s my having blue hair any different than you having wings?”

Janaff wiped fake tears from his eyes. “Let’s see you try to fly with that blue hair of yours, Ike my boy.”

Ike frowned and cocked his head as if he didn’t understand the hawk’s response, and Soren surprised himself by being more aggravated with Ike’s naivete than Janaff’s mocking. Through this entire philosophical debate, Soren’s mind had been consumed by the matter of his own mixed blood. He’d been born in Daein, but that hadn’t been enough to make him beorc. That was a fact.

“Laguz and beorc are as different as two species can be,” he found himself saying aloud, his cold, hard tone seizing the conversation and killing it. “Not only are their appearances different, but their lifespans, innate abilities, and forms of magic also differ drastically. It goes without saying that their behaviors, emotions, motivations, and thought patterns are also irreconcilable. It is fantasy to ignore such self-evident truths.”

Everyone frowned and cast down their eyes, becoming suddenly regretful and morose. Even those who had disagreed with Ike a moment ago didn’t seem to appreciate his response. Unsurprisingly, Ike was the only one who didn’t appear saddened by Soren’s judgement; of course, he would never change his mind. But he was staring at him now. His expression wasn’t pity per say, but it seemed as if Ike was worried about him. Are you okay? his face asked.

Soren tore his gaze away. Unfortunately, his eyes now met Nasir’s. His expression was disappointed, and yet he didn’t look surprised. Soren supposed this kind of outburst was exactly what the dragon expected from him, and that was frustrating.

He stood suddenly. “I’m going to bed. Feel free to continue spouting your drivel.” With that, he left the campfire. No one came after him or said anything—not even Ike.

 

However, later that evening, Ike did enter the tent where Soren was failing to sleep and whispered: “Are you awake?”

“Not anymore,” he sighed, pretending that he hadn’t been lying here wracked by tumultuous thoughts since leaving the campfire over an hour ago.

“Sorry, but this is important.”

Soren turned over and sat up. “What is it?”

Ike didn’t sit down. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and you’re wrong. There’s no difference in how beorc and laguz think and feel.”

“I supposed one would have to study the two races empirically to disentangle inherent traits from cultural ones,” he proposed, willing to meet Ike halfway.

But apparently Ike was not willing. He crossed his arms. “No, they wouldn’t. We should just know that. It should be obvious.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that, Ike,” Soren sighed.

“No, I’m not. In fact, I thought you-” He shook his head. “…You’re saying the type of things you haven’t said in a long time.”

Soren supposed that was true. He couldn’t think of a reply.

“You used to slip up and say ‘subhuman’ once in a while,” Ike continued. “You don’t do that anymore. But maybe there’s no difference if you still think it. If you still think laguz are lesser. If you still think of yourself that way…” His stern tone had been softening with every word. Apparently this wasn’t the type of righteous anger Ike could sustain. Now he just looked tired.

Soren shook his head, feeling suddenly, inexplicably ashamed. “Look, maybe I don’t…necessarily believe what I said. But it would be…easier for everyone, for the world, to continue believing it. Laguz and beorc should stay separate.”

“Why?”

Soren couldn’t give the answer he was thinking: using his own life as evidence that only pain and misery followed when laguz and beorc associated.  So he gave his second most pressing justification: “Whatever the reason, laguz live longer than beorc. That is not a hurdle idealism can overcome.”

Ike frowned. “Peasants live shorter than nobles, don’t they? Does that make me and Queen Elincia different species?”

Soren’s mouth twisted into a pained smile. “Some nobles would certainly think so,” he offered wryly, deciding not to explain that this was only due to the fact that money could buy health and security or that this disparity was entirely different than laguz and beorc’s different rates of aging. He didn’t say these things, because he knew Ike still wouldn’t see a difference.

Ike shook his head and sighed. “Look, I’m not my father; I’m not good at scolding anyone. Honestly, I came in here to make sure you’re okay.” He finally sat down, kicking up one leg and stretching out the other. “Are you?”

Soren couldn’t meet his gaze. “I am fine. I just…don’t much like this country. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Even as he said this, he wasn’t sure whether he meant it as an excuse or an honest explanation.

“We’ll be back in Gallia soon,” Ike offered, apparently accepting it. “We’re almost home, Soren.”

Although ‘home’ didn’t seem like quite the right word, he did find this a mollifying thought.

 

Eventually they neared the border, and as they did so, the villages grew more populous. Nasir and Ena explained that most Goldoans lived on the periphery of the country because every citizen saw it as their duty to help guard the borders and not let a single soul in or out. The bulk of that duty, however, rested with a nomadic ‘patrol’ of soldiers who constantly moved along the border, always on guard for an invader (or, Soren suspected, a malcontent trying to leave).

After spending just a couple weeks in Goldoa, Soren understood why some dragons would try to slip away and experience the world of beorc, as Ena claimed Rajaion had. He also understood why Nasir had chosen to live abroad as a spy. Goldoa may fancy itself a utopia, but Soren could see it as no more than a prison and a cult. The idea of Nasir being stuck here for the rest of his days was strangely satisfying, and Soren clung to this thought since it proved a welcome distraction as the final uncomfortable days in this country came to an end.

 

Finally the army reached the edge of a cliff, beyond which stretched a forest of massive trees: Gallia. “Well, here you are,” Nasir said, gesturing at the far green country. “I think you know the way from here.”

“Thanks, Nasir,” Ike said, grasping his hand and giving it a firm shake. “You really saved us back here.”

“It’s the least we could do,” Nasir replied graciously. Stepping back, he put an arm around Ena’s shoulders. “I pray for your safety.”

“I as well,” Ena agreed, bowing her head.

Skrimir and Ranulf waved and called their thanks, but they were also eager to get going. Tibarn and his hawks glided to the bottom, and the rest began picking their way down the cliffside path. When Soren’s feet finally touched the bed of moss and pine needles, he could hardly believe the relief that flooded through him. Gallia felt safe and familiar—and the irony of that fact was not lost on him. He and the Greil Mercenaries had survived Begnion, the Kauku Caves, and Goldoa. Soren hadn’t messed up and gotten everyone killed. It was finally over.

 

Hawks flew to Zarzi to announce their arrival, but it was hardly necessary because Gallian border scouts found them within the hour. They were clearly astonished to see their lost army suddenly appearing at the southern border, but this surprise gave way to mirth and celebration. Although the number of beasts returning was less than half of those who’d departed, the Gallians were glad to see Skrimir, Ranulf, and at least some of the army return alive.

The march to the capital was easy, and Soren found he could finally sleep soundly at night. During the day, they continued their leisurely walk north. Gallian civilians met them on the road and in the settlements they passed. These people plied the returning soldiers with food, medicine, olivi grass, fresh clothes and blankets, new handcarts, rain tarps, and other supplies. They also gifted them booze, spring flowers, war paint, and music. Skrimir and the proud Gallian soldiers accepted these gifts, but no one seemed happy about it. They’re faces were grim, and their stances painfully rigid. They were returning in defeat not victory; to accept these accolades was to swallow their own failure. 

Soren, on the other hand, took no issue with the comfort thrust upon him, and he advised Ike not be shy about it either. When some Gallians asked what they could do for the beorc mercenaries who’d fought beside their prince, Ike gave them a list—at the top of which were new Heal staves for Mist and Rhys. The merchants had their own lists too, and as they traveled through Gallia, they slowly reacquired what they’d lost in Begnion and the Kauku Caves. This included new wagons (or rather, old wagons that had come from Crimea ages ago and been well taken care of by their laguz owners for over two decades). What couldn’t be given to them on the road, civilians and soldiers promised to have sent to Zarzi.

Eventually Mist did get her hands on a new Heal staff. Apparently it had been safeguarded as a novelty by some Gallian with a penchant for items of beorc magic he couldn’t actually use. She and Rhys healed the mercenaries’ injuries from the Kauku Caves, even though many were nearly healed already—including Soren’s arm. Once again, Mist idly commented on how fast he healed, making him uncomfortable. But she didn’t press, apparently not suspicious of this strange talent. She closed the wound the rest of the way, leaving a scar but no pain or weakness. Soren could finally stop wearing the sling, and for that he was glad. The rest of the mercenaries seemed happy too, and as soon as they were all feeling well again, they started sparring every morning and night.