Standstill

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

If a nameless hooded figure were to walk up to Ike and tell him that for his past failures he had been cursed with eternal bad luck by both Naga and Grima, he would buy the story. At every possible turn since he developed his plan for the strike against Aurelis, the universe had chucked another ten-ton obstacle in his way. The surprise arrow attack outside of Gran, the disaster at the last village down the Silver Stream, and now this – the damned gods spit on probability just to laugh at Ike while he struggled to compensate for the series of blows into his face.

He grabbed a rock from the pile next to him and tossed the pitiful victim of his frustration through the sparse shore vegetation and into the river. The stone plopped into the water a full foot farther away than the last.

Ike was getting better. If he kept up his game, he would land a hit against the accursed wooden posts of the sluice gate a hundred yards ahead.

While he weighed another rock in his palm, Ike glared at the cause of his trouble. He even considered a prayer to the gods if that would grant him the ability to tear apart the ugly abomination of a sluice with his stares.

Forget reaching Aurelis in time for the Empire's anniversary, he would call himself blessed if he managed to get his comrades through the control post in one piece. But the platoon of helmets decorated with the Pheraen eagle that was patrolling on the walkway attached to the sluice had something to say about that.

Ike had suspected that the border between Altea and Pherae would house a few more nosy knights than usual. The canal connecting the Silver Stream with its northern Pheraen brother was after all the Empire's second architectural wonder, dwarfed only by the Black Wall. Many miles worth of churned-up earth in the mountainous landscape, filled with water stolen from every little brook in sight, and wide enough to hold even the largest trade vessels on its way to the capital – people with even the tiniest interest in engineering never stopped to gush about this grandiose accomplishment. What people had forgot to tell Ike, however, was that in the two months since he had examined the area, the Pheraen Empire had erected a sluice, large enough for a three-master to cruise through, halfway down the canal. The wooden behemoth prevented everyone without the necessary permit from crossing the border.

If Ike would survive long enough, he would personally carry out an overhaul of the rebels' informant network.

The wooden posts past which the Silver Stream rushed lacked any signs of rot or lichen and mocked Ike with their newness and the fact that their rugged little boat would never fit through the barrier. Unless the stationed knights allowed them to pass. And last time Ike checked, the desire to set a Pheraen port on fire did not grant one a permit.

Wonderful. Truly wonderful.

Ike hurled the rock in his hand forward. But this time, the useless stone got caught in the tangle of osier branches and dropped dead to the ground before it reached the water.

The soldiers on the sluice only overheard the curses Ike let out because their tailor-made helmets squeezed their brains.

"Doing your best to live in harmony with your surrounding world, I see."

Ike looked over his shoulder. Soren knew how to walk with a quiet elegance, sure, but Ike should have heard him approaching regardless. He had taken painstaking measures to ensure none of his comrades witnessed his outbursts. Their morale had taken too many beatings lately.

"Since you're so in tune with nature, how about you tell the river there to wash the sluice away?" Ike asked. "You'd save me a headache that way."

Soren shook his head and chose to ignore the jab. He did his best to hide his exhaustion behind relaxed facial muscles, but a twitch around his mouth betrayed how little rest Soren had found in the past day and night. No wonder after Ike had pushed him to pour his magic into the sail of their boat for hours on end.

Well, that had been a waste. The sluice had smashed all the time they had won back, and Aurelis had moved further out of reach than ever. A sheer miracle had allowed the party to drag the boat into the underbrush on the eastern side of the river before the soldiers had seen them. Unfortunately, that miracle only delayed the inevitable.

Ike picked a stone from his pile and studied the craggy edges. "How is Cherche handling it?"

"About as well as you, I would say," Soren said. "Oscar was… he had an optimistic aura to him that we all depended on more than we might have realized. Some will struggle to continue with the same zeal now that his influence fades."

Little holes dotted the stone's surface. The insides of these hollows had a different color, an unusual green.

"I never understood how a man who suffered as much as he did could radiate so much optimism," Ike said to the stone in his hand.

Soren made a careful step forward, and when Ike didn't object, he raised his voice. "He believed in the importance of what we are doing, and that our goal is the right one. If we succeed, we will not only return the people of Altea their self-determination, we can ensure that everyone has one worry less on their mind."

"That won't help his dead brothers."

"The dead can't be helped. This truth has never stopped me. Nor did it ever stop you. All across Altea there live other brothers, other fathers, and other neighbors – Oscar joined you because he hoped to spare them the loss he suffered."

"He never thought to spare us his loss. We are just supposed to stumble along without a look back. After all, he's only one in the growing line of people we buried. And no sacrifice cripples the determined man…" Ike trailed off.

Soren wrapped himself in silence. Somewhere in the boughs overhead, a single bird chirped, and if Ike had been anyone else or in any other situation, he might find the rich greenery and the scent of reed in the sun and the gentle murmurs of the river peaceful.

But the sluice up ahead still blocked their path, and Ike could not trade his skin for someone else's, no matter how often he wished.

"What do you plan to do now?" Soren asked and sat down cross-legged a few feet away from Ike. "Will you give up on Aurelis?"

"That's the last thing I'll do. Aurelis is our best bet. In no other place will Roy feel the hit as hard."

Soren nodded. "Except Lycia itself. Perhaps if we abandon the boat and narrow in on Aurelis on foot…"

"Pointless. The only chance we have getting into the city is through the port-side defenses. Even that will be a chore if we miss the anniversary – which at this point is all but guaranteed."

"Then we have to resort to our tried-and-true method of fighting our way through the sluice. It seems I have to comprise a particularly masterful strategy this time."

"Save your breath. You're not coming."

Soren refrained from a vocal protest against the order – the teachers of his mage monastery had made sure to drive out such behavior –, but the ice in his glare spoke volumes about how little he thought of the plan.

"You will need me," he said. "You are looking at fifteen to two dozen soldiers on the sluice and the watchtowers – by the laws of probability, you will face at least one magic user among their ranks. And with all due respect, no amount of sword training will enable you to compete with a trained mage. Who do you think makes a better candidate for this mission? Cherche lacks the necessary finesse, and her wyvern will only draw unwanted attention."

"She's not coming either."

For a moment, Soren struggled to make sense of Ike's words, but when the puzzle pieces clicked together, the ever-present wind blowing through his hair howled with uncontrolled ferocity.

"I had hoped we moved on from these idiocies." Even though Soren's voice was still calm, he failed to hide the edge in words. "Even a man as incapable of logical thinking as you has to realize the folly you are maneuvering yourself into."

Ike closed his fist around the green-dotted rock, and dust flaked off as he pulverized the brittle stone. "We lost one man already. If someone repeats Oscar's mistake, we can cancel the entire operation on the spot."

"How can you be speaking of mistakes? You are the one about to throw your life away in the narrow-minded belief that you can change the course of battle where others fail. If this is the ideal you cling to, why haven't you conquered Aurelis by yourself already? Why haven't you stepped before the king himself to smite him with your golden sword?"

"This is different."

"You have yet to convince me of this supposed difference."

"I know I can make it alone. I've asked too much from you already with the dumb sail."

Soren crossed his arms. "And I suppose you have a limitless well of energy to draw from and an invisible hand that will protect you from any and all attacks. This specific detail might have slipped past your awareness, but you are still mortal. Where is the difference between you and your comrades?"

"The difference is that I knew what I was getting myself into when I picked up Ragnell. All of you just followed the next best guy who offered you a way out of your miserable life." The stone in Ike's hand crumbled to dust. "I don't trust you to survive."

Soren closed his eyes. Ike's arguments or the sight of his face had to have at last worn out his patience. The breeze subsided. The branches around them stood still.

When Soren rose to his feet, he avoided eye contact, instead, his dissecting needle eyes drifted along without registering his surroundings.

After a few steps, Soren paused. "Maybe the reason why we fail as a party lies in the fact that you are too afraid to trust our abilities. I wanted you to take the mantle as our commander. I thought no one but you was fit to lead the rebellion. But lately you've been doing your best to convince me otherwise."

The rustling of leaves confirmed Soren's departure, and the still air soon bore no trace of him. But his words outlasted his presence, like a persistent insect buzzing in Ike's ear.

What should it matter to him? Ike knew he lacked the optimism and the charisma to inspire subordinates, he had never wanted the thankless crown of leadership in the first place. But the fact of the matter was that no one else would raise their hand and volunteer to take the burden. Even if Ike had cared to pray, the magical hero figure to guide them into battle against Pherae would not fall from the sky. Roy had ruled for too long; the fighting spirit of the Alteans was dwindling. Soon they would join Tellius: a cowering cripple under the master's boot.

Roy had to fall and soon, no matter the price.

Aurelis was the first step. But for this one step, Ike needed every fighter he still had in top condition, even a scratch on one of their arms might upset the scales and result in failure. If they started to follow Oscar's example and traded their lives for bystanders, the rebellion would go under long before Roy would have to take note of their efforts.

No, Ike wouldn't allow the king to triumph. Not this time. He had devised the plan, and he would get rid of the sluice to make sure said plan had the slightest chance of success.

With Ragnell in his hand, he had made it this far, hadn't he?

The sun had disappeared behind the cragged peaks, and its absence bathed the valley around the canal in darkness. The moon had yet to show itself.

Ike sneaked through the dense underbrush, his eyes locked onto his target: the watchtower on the north-eastern side of the sloshing waters. The few stars highlighted the outlines of the stone structure with ghostly brush strokes, but the fire at the top guided Ike's steps. A good thing he had never owned the gold to afford a set of armor, save for the pauldron on his left shoulder; the clunky metal would have betrayed his approach to everyone with half an ear open. His leather boots by contrast moved across mud and moss alike in silence.

Not even Soren with his exceptional hearing should have noticed Ike leaving their campsite.

Soon enough, Ike leaned against the wall of the watchtower and waited for the sounds of conversation overhead to die down. A spoon tapped against the insides of a bowl, accompanied by the alluring smell of a chicken stew. The stone emitted residual heat from the day to make Ike's fingertips prickle.

After several minutes, one of the guards marched back to the opposite watchtowers; his armored boots clacked on the sluice walkway. The remaining soldier would be distracted by his soup for a few minutes more before his focus resharpened.

Now or never.

Ike freed a hook and climbing rope from his belt. The devise should have found its first use in Aurelis, but tonight offered the ideal time for a test run. How nice that his throwing practice would be of use so soon.

The hook soared skyward, and its metal fangs found a bump in the battlements to cling onto. The tapping of the spoon continued without missing a beat.

Ike yanked at the rope, but the hook stayed put. Now for the fun part.

With his feet planted against the wall, Ike half climbed, half heaved himself upward. His arm muscles protested, and the air he forced into his lungs left a dry taste in his mouth. The sweat covering his palms loosened his grip. Once he slipped, and only saved himself a spine-crushing fall at the last second.

But he reached the battlements in one piece and vaulted one of the merlons. The soldier on guard duty stood with his back to Ike and happily slurped his stew. His spear leaned in a corner out of his reach. This affront against protocol would cost him sooner than he realized.

Ike didn't bother with Ragnell and instead whipped out his knife. With one jump he stood behind the soldier, and the small blade sunk into his neck. Ike's free hand muffled the cries and shortened the other's final, desperate struggle. The soldier slumped forward… and out of his palm dropped the stew bowl.

The clay thing hit the wall below once. Twice. And then shattered on a stone with a sound loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon.

So much for stealth.

Ike drew Ragnell, and the gold-covered steel seemed to burn with red and blue flames, painted by the watch fire next to him and the cold stars above. Shouts rang from the opposite side of the canal. A multitude of feet followed as Ike stepped onto the walkway. The planks attached to the wooden posts of the sluice measured five feet, and only a waist-high rope to his right stood between him and a fall into the canal where his bones would snap between the water masses and the stakes.

But he had no time to think about the death luring below as the soldiers took position on the other end of the walkway. Torches lit their faces and raised weapons. The narrow walkway would force them to engage Ike one after the other.

Their loss.

Ike stormed forward, and the soldiers retaliated. One, two, three arrows buzzed past Ike's head before he locked onto the first enemy daring enough to meet him on the walkway.

Ragnell cut him wide open; the body reeled to the right and disappeared in the waves.

Next one.

The female soldier had the brains to raise her sword for a parry, but the sheer force of Ike's stroke knocked her back. While she fought to regain her balance, Ragnell severed her hand from its wrist. After a kick to her knees, she dropped.

The spear wielder behind her proved a bigger hurdle. Ike couldn't reach him; the incapacitated soldier to his feet hindered his advances, and his boot slipped on her blood.

Another arrow, deflected by Ike's pauldron. The next one lodged in his left arm.

Ike flinched, almost bit his tongue when the muscles cramped. Damn it.

He needed to bring another soldier between himself and the archers, otherwise he wouldn't even make it to the other side of the walkway.

With gritted teach, Ike pulled out the arrow, even though the barbs tore at his flesh. Still better than to risk extensive amounts of poison in his system. He ignored the spear wielder's triumphant grin and sidestepped his thrust. The grin faded a heartbeat before Ragnell cut the man in half.

Next one.

One by one, Ike disposed of the Pheraen soldiers, pushed them into the water, cut off their limbs, and stained the blue of his tunic with their blood. Ragnell sliced through them like golden fire manifested into a sword, a herald of their hell awakened.

Ike lost count of the bodies sometime between beheading the second archer and wreaking havoc among the cluster of Pheraens positioned at the bottom of the stairs in the south-western watchtower.

Quietness hit him outside. The handful of torches lighting the yard between the tower and the neighboring barracks seemed to cower in fear. No one rushed forward to stop Ike as he crept to where he heard the neighing of horses.

The battle tension was leaving his muscles, and the adrenalin faded. In their absence, the painful throbbing in his wounded arm broke to the forefront, and Ike sucked in a haggard breath. He stumbled.

Almost there, he had almost made it. Once he had opened the sluice, he could collapse and lick his wound. But not yet. The massive sluice gate needed at least a dozen horses to pull in and open up the canal, and before Ike hadn't spurred the horses to do their job, he couldn't allow himself the luxury of unconsciousness.

He pushed through the barracks, ignored the blood running down his arm. He had plenty of the crimson liquid left to sacrifice before he crippled himself. But, by the Black Knight, his body hurt.

Ike stumbled into the assembly of horses harnessed to the sluice more than he walked. The animals scraped the ground with their hooves and snorted when the odor of Ike's blood reached their nostrils.

Through the haze of his blood loss, Ike pulled at the reins of the two horses at the front, and when they and their fellows trotted forward, the heavy chain attached to the far side of the sluice rose and became taut. A roar came from the canal as the water gate folded against the shore. The noise almost drowned out the tapping of feet on the muddy ground.

A soldier late to the party. And he had brought a gift too.

Ike dropped to his knees and avoided the throwing knife that would have otherwise hit him between the eyes. The flashing of the blade amidst the darkness sent the horses into a panicked dash for safety, a safety they could not reach because of their harnesses.

Ike likewise failed to roll to cover. His vision was spinning, and the next knife grazed his forehead. With a heavy cough for air, he swiped the blood from his eyes and climbed to his feet.

His opponent blurred with the shadows around him, and Ike blindly swung Ragnell at anything and nothing. Until a flower of fire grew in the palm of his opponent; its petals stretched outward and revealed long robes and a face half-concealed under a hood.

A mage.

Ike cursed. Soren would hopefully be elated to hear that his probability theory checked out. Whether Ike would get the chance to deliver the news himself was a different question.

The mage hurled his fireball towards Ike, but he escaped the bulk of the heat with a stumbled sidestep. All sense of tactic had vaporized, he merely hoped to reach the nearest barrack building to hide behind before the enemy burned him to a crisp.

Blood was running down his forehead. Blood was running down his arm. His left hand let go of Ragnell, and his right hand trembled.

Fire spirals erupted out of the earth around Ike's feet, and he writhed as the skin of his bare arms tasted the heat. The air burned in his lungs, a feeling so reminiscent of Persis, smoke that enveloped the buildings, entire ponds and rivers evaporated in the inferno while the people around him dropped to the ground, suffocated by their bursting lungs.

With the last remains of his strength, Ike hurled Ragnell out of the circle of fire spirals. He missed the mage by several feet, but the resulting flicker in his concentration gave Ike the time he needed to break free of the trap.

But the move only delayed the inevitable.

Ike stood in the open unarmed. Blood ran past his brows, and the world blurred and shrunk to darkness and red sparks. Each step towards where Ragnell lay in the dust was an arduous journey that might as well span a country. If the next fire attack didn't kill him, a throwing knife would.

At least the sluice stood agape now.

The waters rushed with renewed energy.

Aurelis waited for their arrival.

Just. In. Time.

Ike's fingers found Ragnell's hilt, but he had no strength left to lift the sword or even throw a final brave curse at the enemy. The golden eagle of Pherae stitched to the mage's robe mocked his failure – how ironic to spend his final moment staring at what he hated the most.

Then suddenly, the eagle seemed to take flight. A gust caught hold of the mage and tossed him into the nearest building as though he were a leaf in an autumn tornado.

The wonderful breeze gifted Ike's lungs with a sip of oxygen; so delicious but so pointless when the world stood in flames.

Soren's pale face emerged from the shapeless depths, and sparkling droplets clung to his hair like strange ethereal pearls. Or maybe Ike was looking at the moon. After all, Ike had told Soren to stay out of this mission. And that moron had better obey his orders, or Ike would have to… have a word with him. Yes.

The moon in the shape of Soren's face opened his mouth. Probably for a spell.

Then the blackness collapsed over him, and Ike tasted the muddy ground and then nothing.

Notes: A cliffhanger... again? Kind of. It's been a moment since our last fight scene, but you can rest assured that there are more to come. This is still a Fire Emblem story, so a string of battles is par for the course. Hopefully I was so far able to maintain a good balance between action and quieter moments; I like to think this chapter delivered on both fronts.

Oh, and happy holidays!