Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Author's Note: So I was driving to school when the idea of soulmates came back for this fandom. And then my mind went, wait, these guys are immortal. What if they choose not to have other soulmates, and therefore deciding against trying to find their own happiness. Cheery thoughts for a drive, right?

So this is me, playing around and experimenting with that idea.

Happy early Thanksgiving, to anyone who's celebrating

God is cruel. Sometimes, he makes you live.
-Stephen King

The name Martel Yggdrasill has been on Yuan's skin for as long as he can remember. Small, on the inside of his left wrist—easily hidden—but every time he looks at the words, with the thin, loopy L's and G's, it's a comfort.

It is there the day that his village burns, and he squeezes his hand around his wrist tight because he doesn't have anyone's hand to hold.

It is there when he curls into himself, alone and terrified in a filthy shack where he's chained to the ground. He's the spare, the guards tell him derisively. When the next slave falls in the fields, he takes their place.

It is there when a scared little runaway human almost bowls him over, hiding from soldiers. The little human's eyes are very wide in his face, and he's sunburnt, and he stutters something fierce, but he doesn't look at Yuan like the other humans do. He lets Yuan hold his hand, and he talks real quiet, but constant. It's soothing, and Yuan's muscles relax for the first time in a long time. Yuan talks back to him eventually, and the little human—"Kratos," he says—smiles when he does, even though his voice doesn't work right.

It is there the night that Kratos steals the keys and unlocks Yuan from the ground, and they run run run from the guards and the fields and the torches and Yuan's legs don't want to work right, but Kratos makes him ride him piggy-back so he doesn't get left behind.

It is there every night and day that Kratos-and-Yuan are on their own, tripping over their growing limbs, laughing and crying and bumbling over words to strangers.

It is there when Yuan asks Kratos if he has a soulmate.

Kratos' eyes go very sad, and he sticks out his leg, and there, behind his knee, is a raised, dark red name. Yuan has to tilt his head and squint to make it out around the scar tissue, but eventually, he figures it out. Jennifer Winick.

Yuan glances at his wrist, where Martel Yggdrasill's name is still smooth and waiting. As long as she's smooth, she's alive. Jennifer Winick isn't so lucky. Or wasn't.

"Did you ever meet her?" Yuan asks.

Kratos shakes his head. "No. I-I used to dream about it, y'know? Getting married and all. Like in the stories. But…" She died, he doesn't say. War doesn't discriminate who it takes. "It changed to this a little bit before I met you."

Whoever Jennifer Winick is, she had died very young. Kratos had met Yuan when they were eleven and ten, respectively. "That sucks," Yuan tells him because 'I'm sorry' always sounds false and rote to his mind.

"Yeah. I dunno why it bothers me so much. I never even met her, and you're not even guaranteed to meet your soulmate. And you don't need a soulmate to be happy."

Yuan doesn't tell him that he understands; it's the possibility of this wonderful person out there who can understand you, who will be perfect for you, and fills in all your empty places. Yuan has spent many nights dreaming of Martel Yggdrasill, wherever she is, and what she's like, how she laughs, and whether she talks with her hands or not. All little details, nothing important, but Yuan has spent just as many nights talking to the name on his wrist like there's a person there, all the secrets and details of his day. He wonders, sometimes, if Kratos has noticed him doing it—he doesn't do it as often anymore, not with a best friend and a brother by his side—and if he has, does he think it's strange, or does he simply accept it? Kratos,being who he is, doesn't seem to mind it at all.

Martel Yggdrasill turns out to be nothing like Yuan had imagined. She hides her dimpled smile with a shy hand, but laughs loudly, unashamed. She doesn't talk with her hands, but she has expressive eyebrows. She's a stern Healer and a sweet woman who matches his bewildered stare when she finds his name in his file when she goes to check on him.

When she introduces herself, Yuan smiles—a little weak because of blood loss—and twists his left wrist so that it's facing up. Martel stares at his name and she smiles a little, turning her back and brushing the hair from the back of her neck. His name is there, just below her hairline, and though she never says it, he knows why she has this habit of running her hands over that area when she's stressed.

Kratos beams when Martel introduces herself, and Yuan introduces Kratos as his unofficial soulmate because there's no way that they could be closer. Martel only grins at that, and says she has one of those too. Hers is a little boy with enormous blue eyes and blonde hair, who doesn't quite come out from behind her. He's nine, but not entirely good with strangers, Martel says.

Kratos nods and says, "Yeah, I get that."

There's no name on Mithos, not yet. Not everybody gets a soulmate, but if you ask Mithos about it, he'll proudly declare that he doesn't need one. Kratos grins and ruffles his hair—which the kid hates—and just says, "That's the spirit."

The name on Yuan's wrist burns the day that Martel Yggdrasill dies.

He doesn't feel it, at first. He's too numb with shock, and grief, and rage, too distracted with the sobbing child in his lap, his hands going automatically to stroke Mithos' hair soothingly because Kratos had been the one to gather up Martel's body so they can take it to be prepared for a burial. ("You shouldn't have to do it," Kratos told him, voice dull, tears still on his cheeks. Yuan wanted to tell him that neither did he. After all, Kratos loved Martel too, but he couldn't bring himself to do it)

The burn comes that night, when Yuan is laying in the bed he and Martel had shared, trying to stop crying, dammit. The tears haven't stopped. He's looking at the name that he can't remember life without and it looks different now. Not scarred, like Kratos', but red and angry, like a brand new burn.

Mithos sees it the next day, his baggy eyes red, and he asks Kratos, "Was that what yours looked like?"

It's a rude question, to most people, but they have never been most people. Kratos shakes his head. "No. Not even right after it happened."

That's the day that Mithos Yggdrasill—brilliant, grieving, and desperate—discovers the fact that the soul can live on in an Exsphere.

There are other names, over the millennia. Yuan gasps every time one comes to life on his skin, like needles pushing the names out.

Lianna Carter is on his hip. He never meets her, but he finds her through Cruxis' database, and sees her when she's twenty years old, a tray of drinks on her hip, teasing her inn's patrons. She has frizzy, dark curls, and her eyes are a distinct blue, and she doesn't remind him of Martel one bit, but she is happy, in this life, and Yuan considers it, briefly. Considers walking in and pretending to be a patron, but right there, immediately, it would start with a lie, and Lianna Carter doesn't deserve that, so he walks away.

Abigail Mordine is in the bend of his elbow. He never goes looking for her.

Joel Siane is right below his shoulder blade and Yuan has to twist himself into half a pretzel—or get a few mirrors—to look at it properly. He never meets him either.

Enkianne Tharrow is on the back of his ankle. He hears of her. She's ferocious on a battlefield, apparently, and he reads the reports of her rebellions, and he can't always stop the smile when he does. She goes down fighting, teeth bared in a grin, and her head tilted proudly. (She reminded him very much of Martel in her ferocity, her protective nature. Enkianne was more vicious than Martel had ever been, had a lot of anger in her, but there was kindness too, or so her comrades said) He is there at the execution, and he debates saving her. He decides against it; he's never been a very good hero.

Peter Lahnis is to the left of his bellybutton. The man dies in the same rebellion where they find Forcystus. Yuan only ever meets Peter on his funeral pyre.

Kratos asks him, once. There's a new name on the palm of his hand, and he asks if Yuan has ever thought about it. Finding one of these soulmates, making a life with them. After all, as a soulmate, wouldn't they understand? About Cruxis, about immortality, about it all?

Yuan snorts. "No. Even if they did understand, they don't deserve all the shit we'll bring down on them."

That's what Yuan tells him—it's even the truth—but if Yuan is being really honest with himself, he knows that there have to be people in the world that would understand. Even a soulmate. But he doesn't want another soulmate. Martel's name is an old, dark burn now, but it has never faded to a scar like the other names, white against the tan of his skin. It's how they know she's still, somehow, alive, technically speaking. Yuan doesn't believe that living in an Exsphere is truly living, not like Mithos still does.

He took a vow, that day under the trees. Until death do they part.

He has never wanted to break that vow.

Yuan wakes to another name tracing itself on his skin, and this time, all he does it turn over with a grumble because he's getting some sleep tonight, even if he doesn't need it, he wants his thoughts to shut down for a few hours.

The new name on his skin is in the hollow of his left shoulder. Only the first name is visible: Botta. The last name is buried under one of Yuan's many scars.

He doesn't go looking for Botta. He builds up the Renegades, and he plays the part of dutiful seraphim.

Botta finds him though. Not on purpose. He's hitting the Desians at the same time the Renegades are, and the Renegades bring him in.

Yuan just kind of arches an eyebrow at the thief in front of him. "Stealing from the Desians. You're either very brave, or very stupid."

"Or just an opportunist," the man says. He's thin from low rations. The Desians have raised the taxes again and the people are the ones hurting. "The Desians take a lot more than they need."

"True. I was specifically talking about the idea of doing it on your own." The man doesn't answer that, his gray eyes steely, jaw tight. "It does take some ingenuity though, to be able to break through the security of a Desian caravan."

"Not that much ingenuity."

Yuan tilts his head thoughtfully at him. "Perhaps not for you." He leans forward to rest his hands on the desk. "I'm willing to offer you a job."

"Being a soldier? No, thank you. If I wanted to do that, I could join a city militia and die with them."

"True. But the militia doesn't have near the same amount of resources that we do. And we're not as…straightforward as a militia. We work more in intelligence."

"And I would get paid?"

"In gald? Not much, but yes. There's food, and lodging available for as long as you're willing to work."

"Holidays?"

"Entirely on you, depending on your beliefs." Most of the Renegades don't believe in the Goddess after Yuan tells them the truth. Some still do.

The man makes an interested sound in his throat. "And what do you need me to do, specifically? With all of my 'ingenuity'?"

"Technology. Monitoring, searching, building. Some guard work."

"Hm. Sounds interesting enough. I'm in, Mr…" The man holds his hand out, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Yuan. No Mister."

The man's hand freezes in his grasp, just for an instant, and Yuan feels an ache in his left shoulder, sharper than just an old wound. "My name is Botta."

Oh. Well then.

Botta is watching for his reaction, his expression guarded. Yuan sighs through his nose; this is going to be a pain. (Literally, the darkly humorous part of his brain says. It's going to hurt because that's what soulmates do)

Yuan considers being subtle about it, but he doesn't want any misunderstandings. "I'm not interested in a romantic relationship."

Botta inclines his chin a little, eyes narrowed, but not quite in suspicion. It's something akin to wariness. "Is it because I'm a man?"

"No." Yuan has never been particularly drawn towards men, but then, he's never been repulsed by them either, and he hasn't spent a whole lot of time thinking about it since, well, everything. There should be some more explanation, Yuan supposes, some way to say that the last time he'd had a romantic relationship, she'd died in his arms, and the world had paid the price for it. But there really is no simple way to say that, so he doesn't.

Botta really must be his soulmate because he doesn't ask for further explanation. He just says, "That's fair. What isn't fair is that you automatically assume that this," He gestures between them. "Has to be romantic."

Yuan blinks at him.

There's thinning of Botta's lips before he says, "If people can be happily married for sixty years without being soulmates, then it stands to logic that soulmates don't mean the fairy tale happily ever after. It means exactly what it sounds like."

The answer is logical, but not quite cold, and Yuan appreciates that. "I've never been one for following the popular opinion."

Botta tilts a smile at him. "Neither have I."

There are random moments when Botta reminds him of Martel.

When one of the Renegades comes back from a mission, Botta has a disapproving look to rival hers, even as he stitches them up and gently rubs antiseptic onto the wounds. He scolds them for their carelessness, and rolls his eyes at the answers from some of them because the Renegades can be a cocky bunch.

He has her same connection to the earth. Martel's had manifested in her gardening; his manifests in his magic. Rocky, rumbling spells that split the ground open.

He has that same ability to laser through any of Yuan's defenses—should he so choose—and get to the heart of the matter. Botta usually chooses not to; the man is very respectful of people's choices and personal space, but there have been times when his sharp tongue has dragged Yuan out of his own head. (Yuan wondered if that was a thing all soulmates could do)

Most of the time, though, Botta doesn't remind Yuan of Martel at all.

Yuan's name is along the top of Botta's back, right along his shoulders. Yuan has seen it dozens of times during training, or in the infirmary.

After the first time he sees it, in the infirmary, when Botta wakes up from his healing sleep, Yuan flips a page in his book and tells him, "You're a hypocrite."

To his credit, Botta doesn't seem surprised to see him. He just asks, "'bout what?"

Yuan pours him a glass of water and pushes it into Botta's hand. "About being reckless. You certainly lecture the others about it often enough."

Botta takes a few sips of water before answering. "It was a calculated risk."

"Mmhm. Sure. You must be terrible at math then because you almost broke your back."

"'Almost' being the operative word."

Yuan narrows his eyes at him. "You're off active duty for three months—minimum—to give yourself time to heal."

"Are you grounding me?"

"I would if I could."

Botta snorts into his water, and Yuan settles back into the chair with his book. He doesn't read aloud—he's never been very good at it. He gets distracted and loses pace, loses entire sentences—and Botta just drifts back to sleep.

Once, during a night that they're both awake remembering the funeral of a comrade, Botta takes Yuan's wrist and lightly traces her name. Yuan wants to jerk away instinctively, but he holds himself still throughout the inspection.

"Is it because she's trapped in an Exsphere?" Botta asks quietly.

Yuan has felt all of his names scar. First, they go reddish-brown when they're fresh. It tends to take a few years for them to turn white, like the scars they are. Martel's name is still seared into his skin, four thousand years later, dark and vivid as the day she died. "We believe so," he replies.

"Can you feel her?"

Sometimes—not always—soulmates can share emotions across the connection. There have even been stories of them sharing thoughts, but Yuan doesn't quite believe that.

Yuan shakes his head. He hadn't been able to feel Martel when she was alive; he certainly can't feel her now. He's grateful for that; he doesn't want to feel her isolation, and her sorrow at what she must know they've all done in her name.

"Can you feel me?" Yuan asks him.

Gray eyes glance up to meet his. "No. Not a thing. Which is good. I don't need your morose thoughts in my head when I'm trying to concentrate."

"I'm not morose."

And at this very instant? He's not. That's probably the best news he's had all week. At this instant, he's still upset over the death of one of his subordinates—his family, they all like to remind him when he calls them that—but it isn't the gaping maw that had swallowed him when Martel died. That pain has lessened over the years, and not just by numbness.

From his expression, Botta disagrees, but he lets the argument drop.

The day that Yuan hears about the breakout from the Asgard Ranch, and who's behind it, he massages the bridge of his nose to try and soothe the oncoming headache.

Kratos has just as many names scarred onto him as Yuan does. He's never met any of them, starting with little Jennifer Winick. What had been so special about this one?

When Yuan researches the missing prisoner—A012, Anna Irving, from Luin—he reads through the details of what had been done to her with a dim horror. The ranches are ugly things, but Yuan thought he'd known the worst of what the prisoners were put through. He'd been wrong. Kvar is on another level, and it shows in the advanced development of the Angelus Project.

So Yuan goes to track Kratos down, almost getting his throat slit for his trouble, and he asks him, "Where is it?"

Without asking for elaboration, Kratos pushes aside the collar of his shirt; along his right collarbone, there's Anna's name, in bold, strong lines.

Yuan doesn't ask him if she's worth it, doesn't ask what he's going to do if she ends up rejecting him. He just says, "Be careful," because Kratos has never known a soulmate before, has never looked for them, has never allowed himself to be with them because he believes he's a monster. Which, Yuan agrees with that. They are monsters.

But Kratos would be a worse monster if he'd left his soulmate in that ranch to rot.

(Yuan would meet Anna Irving a few times before she was killed. She was an interesting match for Kratos, fiery, and sharp-tongued, and courageous, but also empathetic and teasing. She brought out the best in Kratos, making him smile and laugh like Yuan hadn't seen him do in four millennia. She makes him better, even before they're together romantically, and perhaps that is what a soulmate is)

Yuan has seen what the death of a soulmate does to someone when the bond is fully realized. He has experienced it firsthand.

He has never seen anything like what happens to Kratos when he kills Anna.

Kratos shatters. He shatters so far that he reverts back to the Cruxis angel. Yuan understands that. He understands that feeling nothing is so much easier than feeling all of the horror, and grief, and rage, and all those terrible, oil-slick emotions coating your insides.

But Kratos goes further than he'd gone before, goes full soldier. He goes cold, and unfeeling, and Yuan doesn't even know what to say to him when he sees him.

He finds Botta that night, when he's working on repairing a Rheaird. Yuan doesn't say anything; he simply slides down to sit, extending one leg so his foot bumps gently into Botta's ankle. Botta turns, surprised to see him, but he doesn't comment, doesn't ask questions. He just hums an affirmation, and returns to his work.

(Yuan needed to feel Botta here, alive and well. Even looking at his name wasn't enough today, not with the memories of little Lloyd's small hands in his and Anna's grin riding him hard. Not with the utter emptiness that has taken over Kratos still fresh in his mind)

Botta returns from Iselia with less than ideal news. "Kratos was there," he says, scratching at his beard. "The way I understand it, he's posing as a mercenary so he can protect the Chosen."

"Of course he is," Yuan mutters. This is the first Chosen to come of age in Sylvarant since Anna's death, since Kratos has actively began trying to bring Martel back again. He'd gone dull over the millennia, but now, the insanity has returned, even if it's in the form of sociopathy rather than the open rage. "We need to ensure that this Chosen doesn't succeed. She's a very close match to Martel's mana signature."

"There's something else," Botta says.

Yuan arches a brow, waiting.

"The Chosen has a name on her."

"Yes, I know. It's in her records. The name is Lloyd Irving. I'm surprised that scar is even visible after all these years."

"You're not understanding me. Her name is perfectly visible—not a scar. Right here," Botta tilts his head and runs a finger from right behind his jaw down the line of his throat. "Clear as day."

"Not a scar? Then that means…that Lloyd is alive."

"His body was never found. It's not exactly long odds that he survived."

Yuan's eyes close, keeping his breathing even. (A wide, toothy smile, little feet stuffed in just as tiny socks. Anna spinning the toddler around, his giggles in the air. The boy settled on Kratos' shoulders, smiling from behind unruly hair) "Does Kratos know?"

"If he doesn't already, he will soon."

Lloyd was a wild card. There was no saying how Kratos would react to this, if he even would. Had he shattered too far to even recognize his son? "We can use him."

"You really think it'll work?" Botta asks. "Kratos hasn't been himself since Anna's death." He won't call it a murder. Not with those circumstances.

"It's the only leverage we have. I can get through to Kratos, if I have to." They're going to have to observe this situation very carefully. It's an opportunity, but one that can turn on the Renegades in a heartbeat if they make a wrong move. And Yuan doesn't want to lose any more people.

"If you say so, sir."

Lloyd Irving has his mother's spirit and his father's body language. It's disconcerting as hell to see him standing with the weight more on the balls of his feet than the heel—ideal for a warrior—with his shoulders strong, spine straight with pride. He has Kratos' unruly hair with Anna's color; his nose is someone else's, but Anna lives in his fierce grin and loud laughter.

(Did it hurt, Yuan wondered. For Kratos to look at him? Did he see Anna in him as clearly as Yuan did? Did it hurt to hear him laugh? To see how much of a man he'd grown to be without his father?)

Lloyd also has the name of Sylvarant's Chosen on the palm of his hand. Yuan had seen it sixteen years ago, when the name had appeared. He remembers the way Kratos' jaw had tensed, the way the fear had taken root. His son had long odds of being safe from Cruxis to begin with, but with Colette Brunel's name on his skin? His long odds just got longer.

"Rodyle is insane," Botta tells him. "He'll activate his own self-destruct mechanism, just so that Lloyd and the others don't succeed."

"I'm aware. Believe me. But this is the only way that we can gain control of the Mana Cannon."

"Why haven't you built your own?" Botta asks. "If Rodyle found the blueprints—"

"Those blueprints were buried," Yuan says stonily. "I've seen the damage that the Mana Cannon can do. All of us did. We never wanted it to be used again, so we buried the information that we had on it. I'm still not entirely sure how Rodyle found it all, but by the time we found out, it was too late."

Botta has never known Yuan to talk about the War. Occasionally, rarely, he will talk about the people. Not just Martel, Mithos, and Kratos, but the other people they had fought with, survived with. Botta has never heard him mention the Mana Cannon, but he knows that Yuan has bad memories associated with it. He knows from the way that his fist clenches, and the way his eyes go hard and icy.

"I'm going in with a team to reprogram that control room."

"You don't think that they're capable of doing that? Ye of little faith." If he orders him not to go, Botta would listen. Yuan doesn't really make very many direct orders.

"I have plenty of faith, Yuan. What neither of us has is the luxury of relying on it."

Yuan feels it when Botta dies.

He feels the agony searing through his left shoulder as the name scars. As an angel, he doesn't need to breathe, but his lungs still seize in a desperate bid for air as though he's drowning.

Yuan had never told him not to go to the ranch.

For the rest of his life, he wonders if he should regret that decision.