Author's Notes: This is not a work of art nor a story I've wanted to tell. I have no plot in mind nor an ending. This does not represent the whole of my thoughts concerning Soren's mid-childhood – far, far from it, really. This is something I write when I'm playing around and I don't feel like editing something worth editing. (AKA, the way I used to write fanfiction, hurrah!) This is posted because someone might get a kick out of it.

... Also, FFN hates me and my unconventional title of three underscores. But keep in mind that the title was meant to be three underscores, not three hyphens. (THIS IS IMPORTANT TO ME.)

Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem or Intelligent Systems. Fear my exemplary wit.

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1 / Apathy

The bartender stared across the bar at the top of a head and the tiny hand pointing. "Son," he asked, mentally trying to figure the age of the child before him, "you sure you know what yer doin'?"

"I'm paying the deposit," a voice said, a childish timbre without a childish accent. "My life is my own concern."

Shaking his head, the bartender passed him the information sheet. Either kids these days were growing up far too fast, or he was one of those freaks (and even they were generally tall enough to stick their head above the counter).

Satisfied, the little hand disappeared down the side with the slip of paper, and there was a moment's pause before a curt, "Thank you," and the door bell rung as it swung open.

It was not that he enjoyed mercenary work, but it was a natural part of his journey. He needed money. And there were only so many ways of getting it that didn't tie him down.

He had tried the arena once. The fee was difficult to muster, and he was confident that he would win – or die trying. Indeed, he won, but he laid outside the arena curled on the ground, bleeding as if his wounds would never close, wondering if a passerby would murder him during the night. When after three days he miraculously lived, he resolved never to participate in arena matches again unless absolutely necessary.

Mercenary jobs, he had realized afterwards, where comparatively safer. Unlike arena matches, drawing off pure skill, a careful mind could ensure success in these. There were small jobs, requests to take out minuscule, unknown little three-man groups of bandits. They were almost never experienced with fighting against magic, nor were they ever lacking in arrogance – and so the first surprising strike was almost always his.

No child should be able to have mastered magic, he heard groaned again and again. He paid that no mind, and bandaged his raw hands quietly into the evening. Sometimes they bled onto the book mid-battle, and that would inconveniently waste a few pages' worth of incantations. Oddly, he rarely felt the throttling sensation of magic overuse. Like physical limits, it seemed that it had been stretched by being constantly met.

Studying the crudely drawn map as he walked up the sidewalk, he gathered that this mission was to get rid of a single assailant who came at night. The pay was rather nice for something so simple – but then, the deposit was also high and he hoped that this would not fall to extorting the dishonest.

He waited on the outside of the house, quietly, without fidgeting. When nightfall came, he drew himself to a standing position and turned all his senses to listening for footsteps.

Within two hours, they came, noisily. The man was unarmed and the battle too easy, but mission or assassination, he was paid well, and that was that.

Soon he was at another town, and there were never enough rumors about a red-eyed child demon to build into legend.

He checked his possessions at the next inn, which showed its age in its creaky floors and rusty windows. But he knew he would need another tome soon, and it was never too early to start saving money. He didn't have much vulnerary left, either, which would run him another three hundred gold. He had thought his previous job was lucrative, but it amounted to just enough.

But enough was enough, and while the safety of a surplus was comforting, he never expected more.

Feeling a twinge of discomfort, he glanced outside the window. A thin sheet of gray led into a patch of thicker, dark clouds. It would rain soon.

A draft came in from the opening and he went to close it. The latch was rusted and it took all his strength to close the window. Little pieces of wood clattered down on his fingers. He looked up to reach for the dingy drapes, but for a moment was shocked to see the ghostly outlines of the creature in the window staring back at him. He blinked and the ghost blinked, eying him warily with pronounced dark lashes against its white face. He drew the curtains and the image was gone.

The next morning, he signed his name on the bill. Soren, in practiced script that looked years older than the scrawls of most men. His name was Soren but he was not Soren, because all he was was a singular desire.