But first, a note from the author: The idea for this story came from a project I am currently working on for Brit Lit which involves writing my very own sonnet sequence that incorporates many the important themes of the Early Modern era of British literature. The narrator of my sequence is a withdrawn and jaded poet on the verge of falling in love with "Joel," her/his best friend, a paragon of talent and compassion. Unfortunately for my narrator, two rival lovers are also interested in making time with Joel for reasons of their own. To make a long story short, I realized halfway through that my narrator reminded me a lot of Soren. Two seconds later I also realized that Joel had a lot in common with Ike. Hence, this story was born, minus all the neoplatonism and religious conflict of the Early Modern Era.
This is going to be longer than Weddings, and it will also take much longer for me to crank this one out. It's essay and project season at school, so my first priority will be getting all of that fun stuff done. Also, those of you who have never read my stuff before should be fairly warned that I focus more on train of thought and inner conflict than dialogue. If you don't enjoy that, than I'm probably not for you!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. The title is also borrowed from the Iron & Wine song Jezebel. It fits very well with the chapter titles I have planned out, plus it's a very, very good tune. Enjoy!
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1. The Only Ones We Know
The book weighs heavily in his hands, seeming to grow thicker and thicker with each passing minute. He knows that he should put it back where he found it, or better yet, throw it into the roaring fire the servants have built for him in library's fireplace, but his hands remained latched onto the fateful tome, vice-like and persistent. As much as he fears the words, he fears greater for their loss, the regression back into ignorance. This who he is, and he cannot erase it or burn it to ash and sweep it away into oblivion.
Branded.
The word resounds like a bell in Soren's ears. It is a dirty word, one that fits him well. He has always known there was something wrong with him, just as both the woman who took care of him as a child and the sage who taught him magic understood that he was different and underserving of their love and praise. It is no mere coincidence that his life has been one of tragedy and loneliness; this fate is what he has earned for being what he is. Unclean. Unimportant. Nonexistent. Invisible. He has not been wrong in feeling unworthy for most of his life, no better than a mere plaything of the goddess. Such is his punishment for being born of sin. He is doomed to be forever unwelcome in this world. A stranger. An outcast. A pariah. A Branded.
Now that he knows, Soren feels unexpectedly trapped. A few years ago, this news would hardly have made a difference in his life. He would have accepted it as reasonable and fitting, a good explanation of all he had suffered once, and that would be that. Without anything to lose, what did matter who knew he was Branded or not? He had loved no one, and thus no one could hurt him with their rejection. But now... now that he has a home, the knowledge of his dirty blood sinks down into a pit at the bottom of his stomach. He has somehow gained possession of something much too good to lose over an issue as sordid as this, the blood-red brand-mark tainting his forehead and the bestial blood coursing through his veins.
"Soren?"
A voice echoes through the library, loud and shattering. Ike.
The feelings of nausea increase in Soren's stomach, and he does not answer his friend's call. Please don't let him find me, he begs wildly in his head, cursing his ill luck over and over again. I can't face him now... not after... He pulls a grimace and looks angrily down into the pages of the book. Why did he have to learn his heritage now? As soon as he had befriended and trusted someone- something he had once thought was impossible for him- this new information came along to spoil everything. No one, not even good, fair minded Ike, would want anything to do with him now. An untouchable such himself is little better than a curse, and Ike and the Greil Mercenaries would be smart to turn him out in a heartbeat once they figured out how much of a burden they have been harboring amongst him. This thought of losing Ike sickens him. He does not understand why- he has never been frightened of losing anything before- but he understands how afraid he is well enough doubt what he feels. Ike has somehow become necessary to him, and he does not want this Branded business to steal him away from his grasp, taking the only good thing out of his sad and sorry life.
"Soren?" Ike repeats, his voice increasing in volume. "Are you in here? I need a word with you!" He pokes his head around one of the bookshelves, his eyes fixing on the hunched over form of the mage cowering beside his stacks of books. "Ah, there you are," Ike says, a smile settling over his handsome features. "I thought you might be in here."
Soren slams the telltale book shut and shoves it quickly under the cushion of a nearby chair as the commander slowly approaches where he is seated in front of the flickering fire. Attempting a look of innocence, or as much of a look of innocence as he is capable of without looking ridiculous, he looks up into Ike's startling blue eyes and murmurs a noncommittal, "Yes? Is something wrong?"
Ike tilts his head, a few strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. "I should ask you the same question. You look like you're about to be sick."
"I'm fine," Soren quickly protests. "It's cold in here."
"But you're in front of the fire...?"
"It's dying as you can see." He quickly tries to change the subject. "What is it that you wanted to speak to me about?"
"Oh. Well, the Apostle is planning another mission for us, and I was thinking you and I ought to speak to her about it. She may be the Empress of Begnion, but her ideas are no good unless you can come up with a plan to suit them." Ike draws his fingers through his blue hair with one hand and flicks through the pages of one of Soren's books with the other. "Brushing up on your laguz history?"
"It seemed appropriate considering the circumstances of the war."
"Hmm. Learn anything interesting?"
"Er..." Soren stalls for a moment, having actually read very little before stumbling upon the chapter discussing the Branded. "Did you know that the kid who helped us with our boat when we wrecked on the reefs near Goldoa is actually older than all of our company put together?"
"Kurthnaga? Really?" Ike lifts an eyebrow in surprise. "He looked our age when we met him."
"The laguz age at different rates than you... we... do." And so do I, he adds sorrowfully in his head, his red eyes darkening in a sense of shame. "Especially the dragons."
Ike nods, but his eyes flicker with concern as his friend's face pales to an unnatural color. "Soren? Are you sure you're all right?"
Soren debates telling Ike that he is not okay, and will never be again, but how can Ike understand whatever it is that he is feeling, this overwhelming torrent of fear and doubt raging deep inside him? Ike has suffered his share of misery and loss, but he has always been certain of his course, and, more importantly, certain of who he is and what his duties are. He draws respect and adoration to him like a magnet, never having to worry about withering from lack of love and human connection. He is not like Soren in this respect, and in truth, Soren relies on him for his steadiness, his ability to be more of a human than Soren himself can ever hope to be. But this being so, how can he ever begin to understand the inhuman soul residing in his friend which cannot, by law, belong anywhere, but so hungrily burns to make its home in him? If he knew, Ike would naturally be as repulsed by him as everyone else in the world has always been, so Soren knows better than to open himself up to rejection from the person whom he is least willing to receive it from. Deciding on self preservation over the release of revealing his true feelings, Soren remains silent.
"Soren?" Ike presses, placing an innocent hand on Soren's shoulder. "If you're sick, I could go get Rhys to take a look at you."
Soren shakes his head stubbornly. "I told you, I'm cold. I'll just give the fire a stoke..."
"No, don't." Ike grabs Soren's elbow and pulls him to his feet, his eyebrows drawing together in apprehension. "The Apostle's cooks have made some soup and sandwiches for us back in our rooms. We'll have some together with the others, okay? It will make you feel better."
"But I'm not hungry."
"Everyone gets hungry sometimes, Soren. Even you. Come on." He tugs again, and Soren follows, his stomach once again sinking in shame at this goodness his blood makes him unworthy of.
He wonders why he allows himself to be led by Ike at times. He knows it would be easier to harden his heart once again, to revert back to the solitary and unemotional shell of a being he had once been, but to do so has become almost impossible for him to even consider. He has had a taste of happiness and comfort, albeit a small one, and he does not want to forfeit so sweet and rare a thing in favor of the old misery of his former life. Even he is not so self-loathing as that.
By time they walk back to the cathedral, the other mercenaries are already centered around the massive oak table in the dining hall, each attempting to polish off the entire meal before the notoriously ravenous Ike can get a crack at it. Elincia and Aimee both scoot over to make room for the commander beside them, each equally hoping to claim his attention for the duration of the meal, but Ike, oblivious as always, drags Soren to where Titania, Oscar, and the others of their company are seated together.
"Took you long enough to get here," Titania says wryly, glancing in amusement at their empty plates. "It's a bit strange to actually be getting a fair share of the meal for once in my life."
"Don't get used to it," Ike grunts, snatching up five sandwiches from the platter and handing one over to Soren. "I was fetching Soren."
"Ah, yes. The Apostle will wish to speak to the three of us shortly about her latest scheme. Something about the Duke of Tanas, I've heard."
"I would be glad to be rid of the Apostle and her schemes," Mist says sourly. "Wouldn't you Ike? If only she would just help us instead of making us run errands for her all over Begnion."
"Oh, but we must be charitable," Elincia kindly objects. "The Apostle will do what she can for us."
"Will she?" Lethe wonders aloud. "It seems to me that she is more given to playing games with us than actually doing any helping."
Tormod, newly joined to their little group, smiles tentatively. "But she did agree to help Muarim and I, didn't she? That wasn't necessary for her to do, but she agreed to it anyways."
"Yes," Lethe agrees patiently, "but she is a child. Like all children, she has her whims and fancies, and she may fancy to help you, but choose to ignore us."
"That is harsh," protests Elincia.
"But perhaps true," Ike interrupts. "With the way she treated you when you first met, I hardly know what to make of her. All I know is that we shouldn't consider her aid a certainty."
Soren nods his assent, as does Titania. With the backing of the three most important opinions of the army, the issue ideally would close there, if not for the fact that another point was trying to be made outside of the company's approval of the Apostle of Begnion.
"Oh, well spoken, my sweet hero," Aimee cries gaily after a few minutes of silence, clanking a fork against her glass of wine. "Not only a fearsome warrior, but an intellect, too."
Ike pauses before taking a bite out of his second sandwich. "Uh... an intellect?"
"Hardly!" Lethe snorts. "He's coherent most of the time, but that's the most that can be said for him. If you want a real genius, you should speak with King Caineghis rather than this fledgling beorc pup."
"Slander all you want, but you shall not taint him in my mind. I know a perfect specimen when I see one, even if you do not."
"Can we talk about something else?" Ike wonders.
Aimee merely smiles indulgently. "You are humble, hero dearest, and I wouldn't have it any other way. But I'll win you yet with my charms- you will see."
Mist and Boyd share a glance of amusement and Lethe once again snorts sharply under her breath in disbelief at this speech. Soren is not at all humored by it, though he once would have been glad to join the others in mocking the vanity and ridiculousness of their pretty shop girl. He knows that Ike's pride has been suffering from his father's unfortunate death and the dissent among the Greil mercenaries. He also knows that nothing works on wounded pride more effectively than petty flattery like Aimee's. He does not think that Ike will give into her temptations, but the threat of interference is still there, as pitiful and unlikely as it may be.
Not threat, Soren quickly corrects himself. I shouldn't feel threatened, it's not as if I... But the thought remains unfinished. He wonders for a moment if he is feeling somewhat threatened, as if a claim he thought he had on Ike is being challenged somehow. But what claim? He is Ike's trusted friend and adviser, but Aimee is not looking to usurp him in that. So why does he feel so offended by her? Why is he so compelled to cut out her honeyed tongue every time she opens her mouth in praises of Ike if she poses no threat in regards to his friendship with him?
I'm not being threatened, Soren lectures himself silently, feeling somewhat ill at ease. But I am being completely ridiculous.
As he considers this, Elincia sets down her silverware and regards Aimee with an uncharacteristic coolness. "I do not think you should insinuate that you are merely complimenting my lord Ike's intelligence to charm him," she says with an air of distaste, pursing her soft pink lips. "He deserves our compliments, but we should have no hidden motives in giving them to him."
It is hard to tell who is more appalled by this pronouncement- Lethe, Soren, or Ike himself. "On and on you go about his intelligence, but I don't hear either of you backing your arguments up," the cat laguz retorts, flicking her tail in annoyance. "I do not understand you beorc. In Gallia, we only give praise where praise is due. We do not compliment a warrior by praising his brain when we should be praising his claws!"
"Exactly," Ike emphatically adds. "All I do is fight and agree or disagree with other people's plans."
Elincia smiles waveringly. "My lord Ike, if not for you I would not be here today."
"Well, yeah. But it didn't take a lot of brains to manage that."
"But you navigated all those impossible battles-"
"You can thank Soren for that. And for anything else intelligent that comes out of my mouth."
"Yes, but-"
"This is ridiculous," Soren mutters under his breath, clenching his fists tightly to his sides. First Aimee, now this? It is bad enough that Ike's head is getting filled with hot air from one woman; adding the compliments of a vapid beauty with no idea what she's talking about is just taking it a step too far. What do they expect from Ike? Do they truly believe he'll fall in love if they beg him persistently enough to? Do they think they can flatter him into it? To charm him with their considerable beauties into believing that they actually have something of worth to offer him?
"I know it is," Ike murmurs back in response to Soren's outcry. "But she's trying to be grateful. We can't really fault her for that, can we?"
"I can," Soren says moodily, wondering yet again why he feels such burning anger inside, why jealousy, the poisonous emotion he had thought himself above feeling, has come to haunt him now of all times and places.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
Elincia sits in front of the window of her room in the cathedral, staring up at night sky. It is a cloudy night, but she can see the moon shining through a break in the haze, though only faintly. It has almost returned back to the start of its cycle, and its light is just a sliver in the otherwise pitch black sky. It will not be long before it disappears completely, if only for a night.
She once could have contented herself in thinking Lucia and Geoffrey and her father and her Uncle Renning were gazing up at the same moon as she, thinking of her wherever they were and dreaming of the day when she would return to them. But she has become realistic now; she knows all of them are dead, fallen along with their beloved Crimea. Now that they are no longer with her, her life is changing. They were once her entire world, and now that they are lost, she has had to build herself a new one. She has had to learn to say goodbye to the people she thought she would never have to live without.
Her heart overcome with sadness, she shuts the window and returns to her bed, sinking into it and wrapping the covers around herself like a cocoon. She doesn't sleep much anymore thanks to the nightmares that hound her every time she closes her eyes, but instead she daydreams and ponders out what is to become of her. She no longer feels on the verge of death thanks to Ike and his numerous successes, but neither does she feel any closer to regaining her rightful seat in Crimea. Her nation, once so alive and essential to her, is dying slowly in her mind. She loved it once because it tied her to people she deeply cared for, but now she can no longer think of it as home without those people there to make it welcome for her. She is beginning to think now that home is not a concrete place, but rather is wherever the objects of the heart can be found. Now that her heart is broken, she is not certain she truly has a home to call her own any longer. In truth, she's never felt more lost in her entire life.
However, she knows that a formula exists for displaced princesses such as herself. They are not supposed to wander the continent forever in exhaustion and despair; their destiny is to be found and rescued by a knight in shining armor or a prince of some sort. Her hero, the one who delivers her from her plight, will renew her sense of home, and return her to a place of happiness that she will never again lose. Storybooks and legends have taught her to believe in this myth, and now she sees that it may be coming true in her own life. She did not die alone in Crimea, after all, like the Daein army intended her to. She was rescued. Ike had come for her. He had set her on the path of deliverance, just like in stories.
But it worries her sometimes that he is destined to be her valiant knight. She had thought she had been in love once before, and she isn't quite sure she is ready to replace everything she had felt then- all the exhausting, tumultuous, and exhilarating emotions of first affection- with something new. She wants to be saved, she wants to find home again, but she doesn't want those memories to be painted over as if they never existed. Ike was not who she dreamed of as a young woman mooning over the night sky and finding poetry on the petal of every flower, nor was he the gentleman she had once imagined would take her hand on her wedding day and press it to his lips. He wasn't who she had long desired a kiss from, nor was he the man she yearned to have unpin her hair and watch it tumble over her bare shoulders. There had been another, now dead, that her heart has called to over the years and whose memory she still clings to. Even now he lingers within her, still drawing up love to her heart, still calling out to her, and she, for her part, still finds herself answer his call.
But, but, but. Even in fairy tales princesses can't marry the dead. They are bound to the living, to the palaces and kingdoms and noble knights of the mortal realms. She can't go on living in the past. She can't close her eyes to any new chance at love that may approach her, even though the thought of loving again frightens her to the core. Happy endings only come to those who follow the set formula of adding one distressed damsel with one courageous rescuer, and what she wants more than anything is a happy ending to amend all of this death and despair the war has brought.
With a sigh, Elincia sits up again and pulls her knees up to her chest. She feels as if she is drowning, being pulled underwater by the ghostly hands of her once happy past, but that Ike is there to offer her a chance at redemption gives her hope enough not to fall apart.
She will do as she must.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
"So, what do you think?" Ike asks Soren as they reascend the staircase back to their rooms after meeting with the Apostle.
"About the mission?"
"Sure."
"I think it could be the break we've been hoping for from Begnion. It's logical that the Senate controls much of Sanaki's decisions, but if she is able to bring to light corruption among its members, she could gain more power with which to help us."
"I agree. Hopefully we can find whatever evidence she's looking for."
"It shouldn't be too difficult. The Senate seems to be up to their ears in corruption to me."
Ike grins. "I certainly wouldn't mind getting the whole lot of them in deep water with the Apostle. I would say that they're all as good as swine, but that would be an insult to swine."
They reach Soren's room, but instead of heading on to his own, Ike follows his companion inside. "Goddess, this place is neat," he remarks upon noting the immaculately made bed and the neatly alphabetized books and ledgers.
"You know how I am," Soren reminds him.
"I know. But I feel like I'll make it dirty just by walking in here."
"Feel free to make is as dirty as you like. I am more than capable of cleaning it up again."
"But you don't need the extra work. I need your mind focused on strategy, not scrubbing your room."
Soren shrugs. "Very well. As you wish."
But Ike does not make to leave, instead choosing to remain where he is and study the room with deliberate interest. "It doesn't suit you," he says finally. "Your office back at the old fort was much more practical. You need maps, not..." He steps forward and jabs a thumb at a painting of two fat men holding bunches of grapes in their meaty fists. "Whatever that is."
"Indeed. They could have at least provided me with some aesthetically pleasing art."
Ike chuckles, but quickly turns solemn again. "I wish we could go back sometimes."
"To the fort? I think all of us do, Ike."
"Of course. And I know its our duty to continue on, but sometimes I think that Princess Elincia... everyone... expects me to be more than I am. Like that whole thing at supper today."
"Yes?"
"I mean, you don't think I'm all that smart, do you?"
"I think you're scrupulous," Soren honestly replies. "You have a conscience."
"I only do what I think is right. You're the one who figures out how I should do it."
"But don't go reminding the princess of that. I don't need her singing my praises over meals in that tedious and inane way of hers."
Ike raises an eyebrow, though he is not all at all surprised by this cynical remark coming from Soren. "Ah. You don't like her?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"She's like..." Soren trails off, looking back at the painting they had just been mocking as if the answer rested somewhere within it. "She's something nice to look at, and she's decent enough in her morality, but when does she ever say anything that actually means anything? Its like she never even thinks half the time, but runs through the world believing the best of everyone and every situation. And the world isn't like that at all."
"I think you aren't giving her enough credit," Ike protests. "She really has been through a lot, and she's been more effected by it than she shows."
"Hmph. I still think Gatrie and Boyd have more of an emotional range than she does."
"But you of all people should know that people feel more than what they show on the surface."
Soren frowns, abashed by this chastisement. "I suppose."
"Look, you don't have to like Elincia. All I'm saying is that if you're going to complain about her withholding her emotions, you ought to stop doing the same thing yourself. And don't even try denying that you do it."
"I wasn't going to," Soren responds, his voice flat.
"Good. Because I know you're upset about something. You were looking pretty disturbed when I found you in the library, and you only got worse over dinner."
"Hm."
"See? Elincia probably thinks and feels just as much as you do, but she's just as incompetent as you at showing it. Besides, you don't even like people who are emotional wrecking balls. You know, like Aimee."
"Oh yes, Aimee," Soren sighs, his voice dripping in scorn. "What did you even do to her to get her fawning all over you like that?"
"I don't know. She mentioned something about me fighting off the crows that attacked our ship on our way to Begnion, but I didn't really follow what she was saying. Next thing I know, she's grabbing my hand every time I go to her shop and asking me to commit to a date for our wedding! It doesn't make any sense."
"You have that effect on people, Ike."
"Excuse me?"
Soren flushes a little and bites absently on his lip; he hadn't intended on saying that out loud. "Women tend to like you, in case you haven't noticed."
To Soren's utter bafflement, Ike seems surprised to hear this. "They do? Hmm. I wonder why."
"It might have something to do with how you fight... and how you look doing it."
"Really? I wasn't aware I looked any different fighting. Strange."
"Uh... yes. Strange." Soren shifts uncomfortably on his feet, wishing the conversation would turn in another direction.
Thankfully, Ike is obliging to this wish. "Huh," he says, still looking bemused. "Well, I suppose I should get some sleep. My eye is probably twitching, isn't it?" He says this teasingly; he finds it funny that Soren should notice such a small, seemingly insignificant detail about him.
Soren nods. "We have a bit of a task ahead of us tomorrow anyways. Dealing with a senator will be less than easy."
"All right, then. You take care of yourself." He bends forward slightly and ruffles Soren's long hair between his coarse fingers. "I know you have something on your mind, but don't let it drag you down. We need you."
"Of course," Soren says.
Ike leaves the room, trailing some mud across the floor with his boots. Soren leaves it there, though its presence slightly itches at his obsessive compulsions. The smell of it is also Ike's, and it reminds him fondly of the times they spent together back in Crimea when they were younger, trekking through endless woods on childish adventures, and soiling both their boots and trousers with thick country mud. He misses the innocence, the simplicity of those days. Now that war has come and now that he realizes he is Branded, nothing seems innocent and simple anymore.
Why had he gone back to find Ike all those years ago? Why couldn't he have just accepted his fate for what it was, a deserved life of solitude and misery? Now he is on the verge of losing all of it, all because of this bad blood he has been cursed with. Even Ike will turn on him. Even Ike, for all his nobleness, will not be able to love a freak of nature. He should resign himself to his loss, sweeping away all the old and happy memories of coming to live with Ike and becoming a part of the mercenaries that he no longer deserves, but something within him, some selfish, hungry, primal part, makes him hold onto them with all he has.
I don't want to lose this, he tells himself solemnly, inhaling the aroma of mud and leather and Ike still lingering in the air. Whatever this is, if I lose it, I may never be able to find it again.