This story is a slight AU. It's set three years after the events in Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance, but does not follow the Radiant Dawn canon. In particular, Ike remained a lord / general in Elincia's new reign, working alongside Soren to help rebuild Crimea, and Begnion and Daein are currently at war with each other. Any other changes should be detailed in the story itself.

Even Crimea's restoration, grand though it was, had its darker side — and it was housed here, between gray walls and behind iron bars, in this prison and hundreds other like it throughout the nation. Mere brigands and petty thieves, most of them — the sort who took to the prison with ease, slinking in the shadows with a hyena's grin. They'd grown used to looting and casual killing during the turmoil of the great war, and now they were finding those habits too difficult to unlearn — or perhaps too gratifying to relinquish. These cells, however, were not kept exclusively by such ill-born riffraff; in the grand prisons of the capital, remnants of old Crimea were held, arrogant nobles and power-starved dukes who could not abide by the rule of a little-known, frail young princess. They made particularly insufferable inmates — they babbled endlessly about their wealth and rank, hoping their chatter could disguise the ignobility of their present situation, or at least make them seem a bit more impressive than their fellow prisoners. An even smaller portion of the prisoners, then, were those caught somewhere in-between. Honest men who'd found the laws changing too quickly for them to keep up, vigilantes who'd discovered their deeds were no longer deemed acceptable, and wrathful old men unable to set aside their enmity for all those ragged subhumans that seemed a more and more common sight nowadays.

Elincia's rule had restored peace and order, but not without a price. Not without this dark network of barely-restrained savagery, this faint rumbling of discontent beneath the surface.

But Morholt was a small town, a simple town. This little prison of theirs was only a handful of cells, and right now, it held only one prisoner, who was sitting alone at the end of the yawning corridor.

He sat still within his cell. He was a thin man, with the supple, catlike build of a swordsmaster or a thief. His imprisonment these past few days had only made him thinner, and his long, silver-hued hair hung oily and ragged around his face. His head was bowed over his hands; his hands were clasped loosely before him. He might've seemed as though he were praying, unless one got a good look at his eyes — wide-open, staring determinedly at the floor below him, with a curious mixture of grim resolution and glinting defiance.

It felt absurd, to him, being put in this place at all. As absurd as anything Daein ever did, back during the war. He might as well have gone back to Daein, like he'd planned initially; at least there they were upfront about their attitudes. None of this false sincerity, none of the thin smiles just barely disguising disgust, those things that seemed so common in Crimea.

Yet he did not rage at this situation — did not shout or stand or pace or so much as lift one finger. Zihark was resolved to his fate, would not struggle against his fate — even if he would never accept that fate as justice.

"So, my lord Ike, you'll find that our prison here is truly state-of-the-art," the mayor announced, gesturing grandly as he stepped into the cold cell block. He was overdressed for his surroundings, almost comically so — his robes were vibrant hues of purple and yellow, and his fat little fingers had two dozen golden and silver rings crammed onto them. Ike, on the other hand, was dressed in a garb scarcely above that of a typical yeoman. Traveling boots. A fraying cape. A pair of bucklers and some other light pieces of armor. Yet it was clear where the real power lied, between the pair of them: the mayor was practically groveling, whereas Ike remained cool and regal. "Not that we need to make use of it often — oh, no! We are a peaceful little place, for the most part, which made this recent turn of events all the more upsetting, all the more troubling... But you see, when we have need of it, these locks are absolutely impossible to pick, and the steel for the bars was forged by our own master blacksmith — this is all to your liking, is it not, my lord?"

"Uh-huh," Ike muttered, only half-listening. He found that the mayor could talk for hours and say absolutely nothing, so he'd already become adept at tuning the chaff out. "So where is he, again?"

Looking a bit put out, the mayor replied, "Down this hall. Last cell on the left."

"Thank you, mayor. Now, if you would leave me..." Ike directed the mayor towards the door with his eyes.

At that, the mayor balked. Clearing his throat, he murmured, "Well, ah, you see..." Another pause; the mayor straightened his shirt and adjusted his glasses. "My lord, if you will pardon my asking," he began at last (squirming under Ike's annoyed stare), "would you tell me why this particular case has drawn your special attention? It seems perfectly clear to me that he is guilty, an open-and-close case, if you will."

The mayor spoke clearly enough, but his face was looking rather flushed, and he was wringing his hands obsessively. Ike nearly laughed. A pathetic man man, fearing for his job and his posturing but little else.

Still, the question was a reasonable one, if somewhat intrusive. "This man," Ike answered, "was one of my most trusted soldiers in the Mad King's War. Understandably I'd want to verify his crimes for myself."

"The Mad King's War?" The mayor flushed even further. "Truly? I had no idea he'd ever served, my lord."

"Really." Ike's tone was neutral, but inwardly, he was surprised — someone as nosy and intrusive as this mayor surely would've heard such an important detail?

Nonetheless, Ike once more motioned toward the door. "Now, mayor, if you will."

"Oh. Oh, right. Right away, sir."

Ike watched the mayor scurry away on his fat little legs, listened as the iron door slammed shut with a tremendous clang. But once the door shut, Ike didn't hear any more footsteps. Goddess help me, Ike thought. I used to destroy generals, and now I'm tasked with discouraging eavesdroppers?

Rolling his eyes, Ike took one great stride toward the door and gave it a good, solid kick. On the other side, he could hear the mayor's shrill yelp and the whump of his body smacking against the floor. "Good day, mayor," Ike called through the iron with a decisively savage tone. After a few seconds, he could hear the mayor's much-quickened footsteps hurrying away.

Ike sighed heavily, allowing himself to lean back against the door. He bowed his head and closed his eyes as he leaned back. It was the first chance he'd had for a moment's peace since arriving in town, and he'd been desperate for it — haggling with noblefolk and self-important beings like this particular town's mayor drained Ike in a way that no duel or battle ever could.

"I can't stand nobility," Ike had told Elincia at the conclusion of the Mad King's War. He'd been frank, stating his intentions to leave her side and return to the Greil Mercenaries. He would renounce his lordship; the title was more a burden than anything else.

Elincia didn't like to hear that, not one bit — though of course she never said this outright. She bit her lip, pouting in a vague, pleading way. "Alright, my lord," she murmured. "I could use a lord like you in my court to help me through the beginning of my reign. But you owe your group your full attention, now. Fare well."

Oh, inwardly, Ike had protested. He was simply a lucky and exceptionally reckless mercenary; how could he help her in the court? And he did owe the Greil Mercenaries his full attention, didn't he? He didn't want to do ill for his father's name by mismanaging the company.

But he looked at Elincia's face then — so strained, always at the breaking point, always struggling to hold herself together for Crimea's sake — and what argument of his could possibly hold up against a face like that?

So he'd left the company to Titania, and he sloughed his way through three years of service to Crimea, operating as the architect of her reconstruction, an ambassador for her people, a negotiator for her peace, serving only rarely as general of war. It was a terrible grind, at first — but it turned out that, though Ike detested most of his duties, his honest and upfront nature made others feel at ease, and tales of his heroism clung to him like some sort of halo, aiding him and Crimea in keeping the peace. And peace was an increasingly impressive accomplishment nowadays, what with Begnion and Daein warring sleeplessly against each other.

But it was a smaller matter that brought Ike to this place — a personal matter.

Ike was glad to meet him again. If only it had been under better circumstances...

"Zihark," Ike said softly, turning to face the prisoner. The general fidgeted a bit in place — he felt a bit exposed, just standing in the middle of an empty hall like this — but he wore a small, encouraging grin. All earnestness, as always.

Ike let the greeting hang in the air, but Zihark made no motion to respond. He remained sitting — head bowed, hair hanging in his eyes, both feet planted squarely on the ground. In front of his lap, his clasped hands seemed to tighten a bit, but otherwise he was still.

"Zihark," Ike said again. "I came because I wanted to learn the truth. What happened that brought you here?"

Zihark lifted his head an inch, just enough to stare narrowly at Ike. A pained grin was on his face. "Well, that should be perfectly obvious. I'm sure the mayor's talked your ear off about it by now. I deny nothing that he says."

Ike gritted his teeth. Zihark's nonchalant tone irked him, even more than outright aggression and derision could have. "Zihark, you are not the kind of person to stab a man in cold blood and leave him —"

"Clearly I am," Zihark interrupted. He was sitting straight up now, his posture upright and impeccable — as had always been the case, back when he'd served with the Greil Mercenaries. "All the evidence is there, general."

Ike scowled. "Then surely there had to be some reason."

At that, Zihark's face tightened. Ike felt it, then — the chink in his armor, the weak stroke in his sword-form. Back during the Mad King's War, he'd learned to detect such weaknesses on the battlefield, as if by a sixth sense, and exploit them; now, three years of cautious diplomacy and negotiation had honed his ability to detect this other kind of weakness.

"Zihark," Ike continued, his tone almost pleading, "tell me, please. They want to see you hanged for this, and unless I know the full story, there's not much I can do to help you."

"Let them hang me, then!" Zihark shouted, a shrill snarl wracking his previously-steady tone. For an instant, his expression was positively feral, matching the wrinkled face of a defiant caged tiger. Then, moments later, his rage faded, and he was almost back to his prim, well-postured, well-mannered self — almost. "There is no need for your presence here, general," Zihark continued in a low, level tone. "It's been three years since I fought under you. I am a civilian now. I killed Woodward. At least grant me the simple dignity of allowing me to die without being forced to explain my sins to you."

"You're not thinking straight, Zihark," Ike said, his brow furrowed thickly, regarding his old companion with a scrutinizing gaze. "This isn't you."

"I'm not speaking to you any longer, general," the swordsman announced cooly. His head was bowed again, hands clasped between his legs, just as he'd been sitting when Ike had entered the prison. It made it seem as if no one had ever visited at all.

Ike stood there for a moment. Then, gritting his teeth, he drew his cloak closer to him and turned towards the exit. Ike was expecting to have to fight the mayor over this. He'd been expecting to have to persuade the townsfolk. Never had he imagined he'd have to fight Zihark himself to save Zihark's life. Ike's furious strides betrayed his frustration, but before he swung the door shut behind him, he turned back toward the corridor. "Don't think I am so faithless," he called before stepping out, "as to give up on you this easily. This isn't the last you'll see of me."

Late afternoon in Morholt meant that the tavern was just beginning to waken from its morning slumber. Here and there, worksmen and craftsmen had snuck away from their duties an hour or so earlier than usual, coming to throw back a pint or two before the rest of the town began to arrive in earnest. It was a good time to be at the tavern — the sun was still pouring through the windows, allowing some decent light to fill the dusty and dark corners, the barkeep was still in a cheerful mood, and the atmosphere was more convivial and cheery rather than bawdy and brash. And, of course, it was the best time of day to overhear the details of Morholt's recent happenings.

"Didja hear," one of the rowdier taverngoers half-shouted, clasping a glass of ale with thick hands worthy of a berserker, "they're sayin' General Ike himself's comin' to town, come to have a look at our lil' town's latest criminal."

Several men sitting nearby gave low gasps of awe and excitement at the announcement, but they were interrupted by a cool, cutting voice nearby: "Nonsense." They turned to see a lone man (barely a man, at that — his frail figure and diminutive posture betrayed him as a traveling, scholarly sort rather than one of the hardy men of the town) sitting at a table nearby, nursing a thin little glass of ale and peering at the group with strange, crimson-tinted eyes. Seeming a bit abashed at the sudden attention, the loner hastily added, "Surely Crimea's great hero would travel nowhere without a royal entourage, would he? I've seen nothing of the sort."

"Oh," the first taverngoer wondered aloud, seeming a touch crestfallen. "Well, maybe you have a point there, fella."

"But Lord Ike's always been rather understated, y'know," another man added brightly. "He's a right regular fella, never cared much for court finery or that nonsense. Maybe he simply needn't travel with a legion of chariots and all that."

"Well, who's this prisoner who's supposed to be drawing Lord Ike's attention, then?" the loner asked — fiddling with his thick black hair as he did so, taking care to let it drape across his forehead.

The men at the bar all exchanged cautious glances, eying the loner with vague suspicion. Inwardly, the loner cursed himself. Wish Ike wouldn't send me out trying to gather intelligence this way, he thought. I've got no talent for it, and my proper place is formulating tactics, anyway. He'd inquired too hastily, trod too harshly on a rather tender spot for these townsfolk, and now they were worrying over saying too much.

The mission was salvaged, however, by one scrappy-looking man sitting at the far corner of the bar, who already had several empty mugs arrayed before him. "Feckin' bastard, that's who he is!" the little man roared, slamming his fist against the counter. "Killed my best mate. I dun care how weepy that Zihark fella was gettin', that bloody laguz-lover went a step too far — went too far long ago, an' if you ask me —"

"Tork, mate," one of the taverngoers murmured, rising on unsteady feet to stand beside the scrap-of-a-man. "Ease up a bit."

The loner didn't have to look to know that several men were staring at him — harsh, accusatory stares. He — Soren — knew better than anyone when he wasn't wanted. Reaching into his pocket, he felt for a generous helping of gold pieces, laid them on the table, and strode out the door without so much as a sideways glance at the other men. He'd heard enough, anyway — there was a familiar glint in Soren's eyes, the gleam that came with some sort of previously-unnoticed tactical boon, or a favorable turn of fate on the battlefield. Perhaps Ike had been right to send him here, after all.

"Damn it, Tork," the barkeep shouted as the door swung shut behind the mage, "that's your last glass! I can't have you chasin' customers off like this!"

Zihark's taste in books was simply awful.

Soren had been plowing through the mess of overturned bookshelves in Zihark's home for the better part of an hour — the place had been a wreck when he'd arrived, with books and silverware and sword powder and trinkets strewn all over the place. Soren hadn't been able to tell if Zihark had simply gotten lazy in taking care of things, or there'd been some kind of scuffle, or if someone else had come and looted the place before him. Wouldn't have been hard; the whole house had been unlocked.

Not that it was much of a house, anyway. More like a shack, in terms of size: there were maybe three rooms in the whole place, and all of them were cramped.

Odd of Zihark to have a house at all, really. And odd of Zihark to have so many possessions. He'd been a vagabond, light-traveling mercenary before — had he been trying to settle down here, at last? Then why here? And why alone? And why kill Wormwood, if this was where he'd been meaning to live?

Soren sighed, overturning more rubbish in the pile in front of him. He had mainly meant to be ruffling about for some kind of evidence to help Zihark's case, but it was impossible for him to resist cracking open a tome, or two, or seven, while he searched about. Even though most of the books were rather — urgh. Zihark seemed to favor mostly laguz writers, and despite what Ike or anyone else said, it was hard to deny that Gallian authorship was still a far cry behind that of the beorc countries. Begnion's scholars knew the names of the likes of Lisolo and Martin Sontus for a reason. Who would ever want to read drivel by someone named — Soren turned to the title page of one of the books before him — Raltelekai? How was that even pronounced? It sounded more like a series of snarls than scholar's name.

Soren tossed the tome aside and went back to the mess before him. At least Zihark owned Berkus's famous book on the art of war, and Soren certainly couldn't fault him for that — he could practically recite the thing by heart, at this point, he'd used it to guide so many of his stratagems during the Mad King's War. A bit weighty and erudite for an ordinary foot soldier to keep around, though — evidently Zihark had a keener intellect than just any run-of-the-mill mercenary.

He picked up another book, moved to toss it aside, but then paused, peering at it more closely. The author's name was a laguz one, unfortunately, but the title caught his attention: The Parentless.

Delicately, he lifted one hand and ran his fingers down the spine. The thing looked worn and beaten, though the spine itself was uncracked — more the look of a very old book that had been exposed to the elements, rather than a book that had been frequently read. Made sense — Soren was just surprised that some Gallian scholar had actually gone to the effort of writing a book about his kind.

His kind. The Parentless.

Shaking himself, he moved his hand again, tracing his fingers across the cover — there was the faint emboss of the title and little brown splotches (faded mud? spilled coffee?), but nothing else. For a moment he simply stared, letting his bangs fall across his face, feeling the weight of the book with one hand. He was clutching it rather too tightly, frowning rather too deeply, while his right hand hovered anxiously over the pages, as if uncertain whether or not to pry the volume open.

After a long silence, Soren brushed his bangs away and opened the book. He leaned against the wall behind him as he did so, burying his nose in the tiny text of the book's introduction in a very stiff, deliberate fashion.

He'd only made it a few pages into the book when he heard Ike calling from outside: "Soren? You around?"

"Inside," Soren called, not moving from where he was sitting. "Door's unlocked."

Cautiously, Ike pried open the door and poked his nose inside. "Did you just... walk on in, then?"

"Ike," Soren said, rolling his eyes, "you can come on in. It's fine. We're agents of the government, not petty thieves. We've just cause to be here. And what'd Zihark say?"

Ike sighed heavily at the question, and at last stepped into the front hall, taking a few steps to follow the sound of Soren's voice. "Nothing. Zihark said nothing. Just some rubbish about — he killed Woodward, and he wanted to die without having to explain any further. That was it."

"Hm." Soren still hadn't looked up from the book. "I guess he's always been a private fellow."

"There's being a private fellow, and then there's rubbish," Ike muttered, his temper simmering just below his words. "I don't get it — he didn't seem like he had a deathwish. He just seemed like he didn't want anything else to do with it. Or like he couldn't be bothered with it. Or..." Ike trailed off. He'd just poked his head into the bedroom where Soren was sitting, and caught his first glimpse of the pile of junk strewn all across the floor. "Yeaugh. What a mess."

"Odd, isn't it?" Soren had finally snapped the book shut, and now his gaze flickered idly between Ike and his surroundings. "Zihark's always been the meticulous sort. It's not like him to leave a place in this state. But nothing valuable's gone, so I don't think it was looting. And if there were a struggle, I'd expect... blood, or sword-marks on the walls, or for these books to have been trampled on, or some other giveaway."

Ike frowned, kneeling to get a better look at the mess on the floor. Soren stood up and started pacing, still holding that book tightly at his side while he continued his aloud-train-of-thought. "From the bit I could tell in the tavern, anti-laguz sentiment seems at least somewhat prominent in this town."

Ike grumbled through clenched teeth. "You'd think, three years after the war..."

"Beorc have hated the laguz far longer than three years, Ike," Soren noted testily.

"It's not that I'm all that surprised. Just disappointed." The general was rifling through some of the things on the floor, but in an aimless, tired sort of way. "Do you think the town knew about Zihark's feelings toward the laguz, or something?"

Soren shook his head. "Zihark's no fool. He's never had trouble playing nice with enemies to his cause. When we met him, he was part of that vigilante band, remember? It was a front, for helping laguz — but he blended in fine." Soren ceased pacing for a moment, furrowing his brow in contemplation. "And anyway, they wouldn't provoke him if he just sympathized with the laguz. It had to be something else. So the real question here, is —"

Soren cut off, abruptly, feeling a sudden chill seize his spine, and the book he was holding slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. He sensed something — some other presence, some other party to their conversation...

"Soren?" Ike asked.

Soren made a quick gesture for silence and glanced around the room quickly, desperate for some sight, some sound, anything. That something, it could be anything — a magic-borne illusion, a crouching assassin, a —

There. He could hear it. Barely, but it was there — a low, heavy breath, then the lightest scuffle, a coiling of muscle —

Soren's eyes widened, and he took two rapid steps backward, crying, "Ike, behind you!"

Ike's fingers immediately flew to his scabbard as he leapt from a kneel to a fighting stance. A snarl erupted from somewhere in the room, causing the whole house to rattle wildly, but before Ike could manage to turn, before he could even unsheathe his sword, there was a flash of blue fur and he felt something shove him, hard, and he crumpled uselessly against the ground.