Written for fe_contest Challenge 21, Unity and Division. Warnings for implied sex and graphic mental not-okay-ness. Also I love reviews.

It started, but didn't really begin, with the invitation to a state dinner in Melior. The letter passed from the pegasus messenger, to Titania, to the planning room table, and finally into Soren's hand, intruding upon a morning he had planned to dedicate to journey plans. The queen was inviting them to a formal event for the visit of the Goldoan royal family.

Suspicious. Elincia knew their disdain for the court; if she wanted to see them, she could have just asked them over for tea. Suppose the Goldoans wish to hire a mercenary group? Kurthnaga, though more open in his policies, was as pacifistic as his father. Perhaps their decimated population found itself unable to secure the borders. – No, if they were to go all this way to hire private mercenaries, they would not so easily disclose their vulnerability to the leader of another nation.

He thought back to when he'd last seen the Goldoans, some four years ago in Sienne, trying to think of anything that might have led them here.

And that was when he remembered the princess approaching him out of nowhere.

Pardon me, calling out to you like that...

His mouth parted, dry.

... I was confused.

Soren set the letter down on the table.

"Ike," he said that night, draped across Ike's bed while he closed the shutters against an incoming chill. "Do you know why the dowager Queen of Daein asked to speak with you?"

"Huh?"

"In Sienne. After the fight."

Ike paused by the window, lifting his head like he often did when trying to recall something, before responding, "No idea. I don't even remember what we talked about." Soren made an intrigued sound as Ike blew out the candle and joined him. "Why?"

"Nothing. Just trying to figure something out." At Ike's silent curiosity, he explained, "We're invited to an event in Melior. The Goldoan royal family's visiting." It was the truth in one sense.

"Huh. Hope it's not another world war." Soren managed a smile. "It might be good to see Elincia before we leave."

Soren's false smile faltered. He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't considered that Ike might want to go.

Ike drew the blanket under his arm and settled into the bed. He would be asleep within seconds. Soren drew a bit closer, knees barely touching, and closed his eyes.

Ike. Ike was the first.

Ike was warmth. Sound. Softness.

Calling out to you like that

Ike wasn't the first.

Calling out to you

Dark-haired and red-eyed, slender slanting eyebrows and small mouth. Why hadn't he realized it earlier? The resemblance was unmistakable.

Why hadn't he realized –

That strange feeling he had always felt around dragons – closeness, familiarity, invasion. Through some sixth sense, he knew. There was something there.

He had known.

You are...

He just didn't want to; he still doesn't.

What is your name?

Soren.

What had she named him? Maybe the puppet king's name. Pelleas.

Why was that what she wanted to know? Why his name? Inconsequential and ragged, chosen on a whim so the sage could refer to him in letters. Why not anything else, what was it about mothers and what they didn't care for –

He slipped into sleep and ceased to remember.

He woke in a haze of heat and sweat, the sensation of blankets and sweat assuring him that he was in bed, in bed in the old fort, and not wherever he had thought he was just moments before. He had already forgotten everything except that it was something that made his heart pound, and the dowager queen's face was there, features clear, her face there instead of another he couldn't remember.

He found enough strength in him to push the blankets aside. The cool air was sharp on his skin, but he still felt hot, his arms and legs too hot to keep together; he spread them out in hopes of cooling down, and his hand met something solid.

That one image wisped through his mind again. His mother, screaming that she'd had enough of him.

Soren kept his eyes closed, trying to pull back the rest – it was worse than his bed and the night air, but he needed to know how it ended.

He couldn't remember. Just the yelling.

The cold started to set in, warm solid Ike against the back of his hand, and his body felt corporeal again. He opened his eyes, pulled the blankets around him, and curled toward Ike.

He dreamt again, half-lucidly right before morning. In this one he had just found Ike again: caught sight of an energetic boy in a tree, swinging his feet. In this dream he called out to him without speaking in his voice (strange old church accent in a child's timbre) and Ike greeted him and pulled him up into the tree next to him.

He was awake enough to think, No, that's not how it happened. While he woke, he remembered how it did. He had walked away from that boy, heart pounding. He asked about them around town. The next day he spoke to the boy's father about employ as a mage. The man had laughed and said he didn't make children fight for him – Where did you say you were from?

Galfrid, he had answered. The first stop on his journey, near the southern border. Perhaps Greil knew the place, for then he was quite serious, and out of either magnanimity or pity took him on as a record-keeper.

That afternoon, out of curiosity, his employer's son came in the room where he was picking through old documents. His heart was faint when the boy said, Hi.

Hello.

I'm Ike. Who're you?

And for a moment all he could think was, He doesn't even remember.

(Soren.)

That night had he curled on his pallet and drowned in the feeling that the last few years had all been a mistake. Or maybe worse.

Something rustled. Soren opened his eyes. It was late enough in the morning that Ike was beginning to rouse. He scratched at the prickling hairs on his cheek and opened one eye before the other, then blinked, as if surprised that Soren had yet to get up. "Morning," Ike said.

"Morning," echoed Soren.

"Not eager to get started on Boyd's chores early?"

"Not particularly."

It was a running joke between them. It had been decided, partly by the company's agreement and partly by his marriage to Mist, that Boyd would become Commander after Ike had left. As such, while he was being groomed for the position, Ike took up his old tasks, and Soren often accompanied him.

This morning, Boyd's task had been gardening. Soren did his best to ignore his headache as he gently pushed a carrot sprout aside to get at a weed. For early spring, the sun was entirely too bright.

"You don't seem excited about the trip."

Soren's eyebrows raised of their own accord. "What do you mean? I'm delighted to go with you."

"Not that one." Squinting in his own shadow, Ike nudged the tip of the spiny plant this way and that with one gloved hand. "To Melior – Hey, is this a weed?"

Soren tossed his own uprooted plant into a sack and took his time to walk over to inspect Ike's, mind busy working on some pretense. "Yes. I've only seen those here recently. They usually only grow further south." Hoping to distract Ike from his question, he added, "We need to make sure to catch all that we can. They tend to take over entire fields."

Ike grasped the weed and pulled it from the ground in one firm tug. "You know a lot about plants." I had to, he thought. "Anyway, I mean... everyone else won't stop talking about it."

"I suppose I see no reason to get excited."

"You suppose?"

"I'm not interested," Soren repeated, very aware that Ike was watching him as he worked carefully to unroot a tender weed. He never learned the name of this one. It was edible and neither tough nor foul, and grew back from the roots in weeks. At one point he would have been overjoyed to discover a patch.

He made sure to get all of the root out and tossed it into the sack.

"Is something wrong?" Ike said.

"Not that I can think of." It wasn't completely a lie. He wasn't sure why it rattled him.

She was only a name and a face.

It wasn't as if she'd told him anything, like the circumstances of his birth, or how they might have lived, or why she had –

"I'm fine," he said.

"All right," Ike said, in that mollifying way that meant Soren'd tipped his hand in responding twice. Ike went back to working, leaving him to his thoughts.

It means nothing. I have Ike.

– And he remembered Ike, pensive, saying, I'm not sure I could leave them behind. And Soren said, That's fine, because it would have been too much to admit that he wished Ike would show him that he was indispensable.

(Who're you?)

Had become indispensable.

When he wasn't looking, Soren closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He let himself exhale.

Ike's fingers tightened around his shoulders before they relaxed. Soren brought his arms around Ike's neck to guide him down. There was a moment, while Ike found his place in the bed beside him, when Soren thought it was very strange that Ike had not the grace to fall and fit perfectly.

Soren turned his head and, scooting closer to kiss him, chastised himself. He'd want no Ike other than the one before him, the one pressing his hands against his back right now, smelling of musk and metal beneath today's layer of dirt and plant sap.

With a mighty sigh, Ike let his head fall into the pillow and watched Soren with eyes invisible in the dark.

"You know you can tell me anything," Ike said.

Ike's fingers traced upward and slowed at the ridge behind Soren's jaw. Soren considered it, his own hands smoothing over Ike's downy outline left by the light seeping under the door.

"Is it the Goldoans?" Ike asked, ribcage unmoving in that moment to speak. Soren let his hand remain there where it ended until Ike breathed in again.

"Yes."

One admission called for another. Ike waited for him to continue.

After a moment of silence to brace himself, he said, "She's my mother."

"Your mother?"

"Yeah. Dowager Queen Daein. It's her."

"Huh." Ike's fingers wandered contemplatively, over his speeding pulse and the shell of his rounded ear. Soren knew it wasn't that he didn't care; rather, Ike was at a loss for words – perhaps even for thoughts. And so am I.

"I wish I didn't know."

Ike's touch shifted from intimate to consoling, stroking down the length of his hair and across his back. "I thought you wanted to, about your parents."

He had thought that once, back in the days of the Mad King's War. But even then, it was different. Those were his words, but everything was a few shades off when it came from Ike's mind instead of his. "Not like this."

"Not like what?"

Soren brought his hand to Ike's arm to still him, distraction that he was. But in retrospect his words didn't seem to mean anything to himself either, and he said, "I don't know." After a pause, he added, in case it hadn't occurred to Ike, "And the Mad King was probably my father."

"Oh." Ike didn't seem to know what to say. Soren supposed no one would have known the right thing to say, if such an answer even existed. Ike finally opted for, "I guess it's a good thing you grew up with us."

Soren laid there for a moment, looking at the way the light fell on the wall, unsettled in a way that didn't lend itself to words. After a moment he pulled himself up, the blanket sliding down to his waist. "I need to get a drink." Ike made a sound that expressed no opinion. Soren found his underclothes, slipped out of the bed, and quietly eased into the vacant hall.

It wasn't that he disagreed. All considered, he didn't want any other life than that with the Mercenaries.

It just didn't seem the right way to put it. Somehow.

The stone was cold on his feet, and he shivered as he picked his way to the kitchen. What did I expect? It wasn't the same for Ike. Too often, he forgot that, ignored the distant boundaries of their worlds; and for a very long time Soren had followed him for kindness alone.

We didn't really...

He easily found a clean cup and held it under the tap. Only a faint trickle leaked out as he lifted the stopper.

... know each other.

Sighing, he replaced the stopper. He didn't even want a drink, and it was cold enough inside the fort. For some reason, he set off for the barrel of rainwater he would find stowed outside.

I wonder when it changed.

The moon was high, half and dying in the sky, shedding more than enough light for him to follow the familiar path around to the back. Loose stones pressed against softened callouses; tender grass licked against his soles with cold. His night clothes gave easily to the air. He came to the bucket, cup in hand, and opened the top for a drink.

Has it changed?

The water was icy against his tongue and he barely managed a sip. Cold slipped down into his insides and met with the cold seeping in all about him; he shivered and brought his arms against his chest. I'll finish my drink and go in. He sipped, and the moon reflected in the cup like the rim of sand in a full hourglass.

He looked at its twin reflection in the bucket and quite suddenly, it occurred to him that he could drown himself.

Just as quickly, he dismissed the thought.

Besides, he thought to himself with a smile quirking at his lips as he shivered, I'm a prince of two nations.

Perhaps there were upsides. He could make use of the Melior meeting. The current stalemate would not last forever. He had centuries to think of; for a moment it occurred to him that his longevity was a mixed blessing. Like Lehran, he had ages to see through any plans. He took a sip and swallowed it with clenched teeth to keep his jaw from chattering in the night. His discomfort only made time seem longer, his centuries infinite, a dark cold half-moon night stretching on and on with ideas just born.

He took a sip and thought to himself – with that peculiar regret which arises for things that happen outside of one's own control – I could have been a prince from birth.

He shook because he was cold, but he shook harder from anger, and barely controlled the cup enough to bring it to his lips to calm himself. I could have been a prince.

He could have been a prince when he was cold like tonight but without a warm bed waiting – when he knew a storm was coming by a shift in the air and a change in the light, but hollows were taken by thieves and dogs giving birth; he knew the storm was coming which didn't change a thing when he was – without surprise, with dread – caught in the cold rain.

Imagine the fuss a prince would make.

I could have been a prince, he thought, clenching his jaw harder to control himself. None of it should have ever happened. I should have made faces at keeping appearances, and eaten ridiculous pastries that had taken a fleet of cooks hours to prepare, and argued with advisors about what to wear and who to marry and developed backaches from lying in beds too ridiculously soft.

One winter he had a fever and worked for coin –

I could have been a prince half-dozing through tutorship with someone else beaten for my carelessness, and told I was the future of the country, two countries, the unity of these countries, that the people rose and died for me

Open skies, burning longing for the giver of a single kindness –

festooned statues of me and placed my name next to the gods

The woman looked at the plate instead of him –

I could have been

(Water spilled from the cup and touched a chilly finger across his stomach and down one leg.)

I could have been a prince and it doesn't matter.

Feeling that he was being absurdly sensible, Soren poured the remaining water back into the barrel and tried to cover the wet spot down his side while shaking uncontrollably. I should go back inside.

His nose had swollen in protest of the cold; he sucked shaky breaths against his frozen teeth as he found his way back.

Though dizzy and unfocused, he still thought, I could have been a prince, and it doesn't matter – it's not what I wanted. It's not what I want.

His vision had blurred, turning the torch at the entrance into a mess of light, lines stretching into the forest and into stone like all the world was some flat image drawn into parchment and a torrent of tears now marred the page.

I wish I didn't know.

He was fine until he knew. He had given it thought, had deliberated upon it, cried a bit (to his chagrin) – it was something he had handled, he had picked up the pieces, he was done with it, until this came along.

It was behind him.

Maybe it wasn't.

Soren wanted nothing more than to burrow into a warm bed purely his own, but at that moment he had none. His room had been made into an office. He walked slowly to the kitchen to return his cup, not knowing where to go afterward.

Things seemed less hopeless in the morning. Not that he felt that well, waking with a stiff neck and no happier than he had been the night before. Soren had opened his eyes, and all at once the view of stacks of papers and books lit by morning light had seemed so mundane that it was hard to believe that anything terrible could happen right at that moment.

He ran his fingers through his hair, tied his cloak closed in front, and hoped he looked presentable enough if he ran into anyone in the hall.

Thankfully, the fort was still empty. He eased into the bedroom he shared with Ike, who was still asleep with one foot sticking out from the blankets on Soren's side of the bed.

Draping his cloak on a bedpost, Soren gingerly picked up his comb from the nightstand and examined himself in the bronze mirror. The cold must have helped; he was fairly sure that no one but Ike could tell the difference in the skin around his eyes. But Ike could tell, and he wasn't certain what to do if he did.

He unwound the strings from his hair and brushed as quietly as he could. Almost as soon as he started, he heard Ike stir from beside him, and then a pause; either he had dozed off, or he was watching him.

Soren subtly angled the mirror as he brushed and saw Ike gazing at his back.

"Did I wake you?"

"It's fine," Ike said, just as morning-hoarse. He continued to watch as Soren worked his hair into order. The silence broken, as if Soren had consented him to speak, he asked, "Did you sleep last night?"

"Yes." Some.

Soren parted his hair and began to bind it. When he finished tying it all together into the ponytail running down his back, Ike spoke again. "We can stay home if you want."

"Pardon?" Soren set the comb down with a clack. "We've been summoned by the queen."

"No, she summoned the Greil Mercenaries. And if I say so, Boyd can have his new position right now."

Ike said it so flippantly. It was like he'd never regretted having to leave the company behind. Soren looked at him for a moment longer in the mirror before turning around to face him. "You're serious?"

Ike half-shrugged in the bed and began to rise. "He needs the experience."

Soren crossed his arms, not believing him; and because of that disbelief, fondness began to rise in his chest and clog his throat. "What about seeing Elincia again?"

Seated on the bed, Ike looked him in the eye and said, "It's your call." Soren squeezed himself about the middle and looked instead at the floor. After some seconds he heard Ike shifting, probably dressing. "I mean," he said, "if it were me, I'd want to meet her. But it's not my mother we're talking about."

Soren imagined encountering her at the state dinner. She says, Would you come with me for one moment? I have something I must tell you. Sterile yet bawdry; her tears bring him no feeling. It didn't seem so bad by itself. He simply didn't want to, right now.

Did Ike understand that? – Did Ike have to understand in order to love him?

"Are you sure, though?" said Ike, dressed but still sitting.

"No." For a moment they looked at each other. Soren supposed that Ike was trying to find the right words for his question, something like maybe you should meet her just in case – Soren asked instead, "Are we ever coming back?"

"Maybe someday," Ike said, with that easygoing lilt that charmed gods. "If it seems right." It was an answer so like Ike and so perfect that he didn't expect the words that came next. "What do you think?"

Soren's lips quirked into a smile. "I'll let you know."