It was the first time Pelleas had been on a battlefield. He executed his first spell perfectly, the dark energies swarming over his target, devouring something intangible to either the beorc or the laguz. The man fell, twitching, at his feet, his skin unnaturally pale, even in death. His target was still alive – dark magic didn't attack the skin, it attacked the soul.
He felt an overwhelming urge to drop the book and run; he hadn't experienced this before, even as a king. In this moment of weakness, Pelleas didn't register the impending threat of the approaching bishop. In the few crowded seconds where Pelleas was making an effort to recover, there was a flash of green, a sparkle in the light, and the bishop collapsed, throat effortlessly cut.
Sothe nodded curtly to Pelleas. Pelleas nodded back, not trusting his voice to stay steady. Sothe vanished again, and Pelleas returned his attention to the battlefield.
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Pelleas had reached twenty. Twenty men had died at his hands, or rather; he had turned twenty men into empty husks that could only shiver in the wind. He had seen Sothe several more times in the battlefield; Sothe had stayed near to help him when he faltered. (Which had happened many times.) Pelleas wondered why Sothe wasn't near Micaiah – but then thought that probably, Micaiah, due to her personality, would have sent the green-haired assassin to protect their king.
Even though Pelleas was more acquainted with the feeling of battle, the majority of the enemies that approached the two of them died at Sothe's hands. Several times the assassin had been wounded trying to be in two places at once, and Pelleas had been forced to draw upon his little skill with staves to heal Sothe.
When he tried to apologize for his uselessness, Sothe waved it off, and claimed it to be fine. Sothe left then, back to camp; the battle had ended. Pelleas was left to walk back to the tents, alone with his thoughts.
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Fifty, now. Pelleas had cast the same spells over and over, going through the same incantations again and again, drawing the same sigils in the air to release the dark energy that he drew upon to destroy his enemies utterly.
The enemies no longer perished at the point of Sothe's dagger, but he remained with Pelleas should one of his tomes fail, and he be left defenseless. An odd thing Pelleas noticed; the spirits, they died silently, without a sound. They faded.
And they were there, facing Ashera in all of her glory. Pelleas didn't get a chance to fight, because his magic was weak compared to her power. He did watch from the sidelines, though, striking down spirits that threatened the people paying attention to fighting the goddess.
And then, suddenly, it was finished. Ike struck, his sword passing through Ashera's body like a scythe through wheat. The goddess fell, saying nothing as she dissolved into particles of something and then spiraling upward.
Pelleas missed the next few seconds of the victory because Sothe had come over and engaged him in conversation. There was the platitudes of 'glad you survived' and 'good job on the battlefield,' but they were followed by something more unexpected.
Sothe kissed him. Then he vanished, probably back to Micaiah's side.
While Pelleas was sitting in his tent, that night, still awake, Sothe paid him a visit. Pelleas welcomed him with open arms and an open bedroll.
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Author's Note: I apologize for the insult to other, better, writers. I needed an excuse to write some SothePelleas, which more people should do.