He finds himself woken up, long before the sun had even begun to rise. Crimson eyes stare back at him from his side, unwavering.
"Are you feeling okay?"
Ike tries to get up, but groans as a sharp, throbbing pain in his gut startles him from his groggy stupor. Soren's hand reaches out and carefully, although firmly, pushes him back down onto the bundle of fabrics that had served as a makeshift bed.
"I'm fine," he manages.
The look on Soren's face changes into one of concern, and he searches the commander's face carefully. Seemingly satisfied, he sits back on his knees, although he glances at the bandages that cover Ike's midriff.
The mage's gaze dances over to the corner of the tent, where his tunic lay bloodied and torn.
'Just a little bit closer,' he thinks. 'Ike would have-'
His thoughts are interrupted as he feels calloused fingers lacing themselves through his own. When he looks up questioningly, he receives a smile from the older man.
"Really Soren," Ike says, now taking his hand fully and squeezing lightly. "I'm fine."
"You're not lying, are you?" Soren questions softly. His friend shakes his head in response.
Beams of sunlight peek through the entrance of the tent, and Ike can now see the wisps of black hair that are sticking up at odd places, and slight bags that adorn crimson eyes. He releases Soren's hand from his grasp, and gently cups the side of the mage's small face, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb.
A small smile tugs at the edges of both of their lips.