A/N: Many thanks to the members of the feyaoi LJ community, who have been helping immensely with this fic. You guys are great.

Six hours later, every mercenary Ike could round up had been mobilized into the forest surrounding their camp. Most worked in pairs, fanning out around the perimeter and looking for trampled grass, singed bushes - anything that could indicate the whereabouts of the missing sage. The search stretched on with very little to report, and the winter sun was already beginning to sink to the horizon, taking the hopes of many along with it. Two resident swordmasters found themselves turning over rocks underneath a giant oak tree, partially because it offered some shelter from the increasingly biting wind, and partially because it made them harder for Ike to see. He had co-opted Oscar's horse and was using it to ride around the camp and tear into anyone he thought was slacking off.

"Brr... I'm freezing!" Mia hugged herself and bundled her thin coat tighter around her shoulders. "What's the point of all this, anyway? I don't even know what we're supposed to be looking for."

"Clues," sighed Zihark, poking at the ground with a long steel sword. "We're looking for clues."

"Great. What's the mystery?" The girl sniffed and rubbed her reddening nose with one mittened hand. "Geez, I think I'm getting a cold."

"Weren't you listening? Soren disappeared last night."

"So what!" she exclaimed. "Lots of people do that! We're at less than half enlistment since everyone's traveling and stuff. So he forgot to leave a note. Big deal." She kicked sullenly at a rock and watched it skitter across a blanket of dead leaves.

Zihark speared his sword into the ground and rubbed his hands together. "You might have a point, but Soren's number two around here. Imagine if Ike just up and disappeared. The whole camp would shut down."

Mia eyed the commander, who was chewing out a couple of nearby knights. "Hmph! Right about now I don't think that would be so bad."

"Hah!" Zihark snorted. "Right. You know you love him."

The smaller swordmaster whirled on him, blushing hotly. "It's not like that!" she exclaimed. "He's just really cool, that's all! And he helps me train so I can beat up ignorant jerks like you." She stabbed a wooly finger into Zihark's chest.

He rolled his eyes and drew his sword out of the ground. "Fine, whatever. Let's at least try to look busy, okay?" He went back to shuffling the sticky pile of dead leaves around. It would have been hard enough to find useful traces without the wind picking up and pulling all the leaves off the trees, even if it was really quite pretty. Of course, he thought, glancing sideways at Mia, even pretty things can be pretty damn annoying.

He sighed laboriously when she squealed, but much to his surprise it turned out she actually had something useful to say. "Zihark! Look!" she tromped over to him, the damp undergrowth squishing beneath her feet. At first he thought she was just holding a dead leaf, but upon closer inspection it was actually a small piece of folded parchment. He took it from her carefully.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, trying to find a way to unfold it without it disintegrating completely.

"Over there on the ground. I was kicking up leaves and it stuck to my shoe."

He looked at her incredulously. "Are you always this lucky?"

"Well, I do have many lucky charms!" The girl beamed and held out one wrist ornamented with many jangling bangles and knick-knacks, half of which he couldn't even describe. "So I bet I'm a lot luckier than most people. Certainly you." He wrinkled his nose in irritation and was about to reply when she shuffled closer and looked over his shoulder. "So is it a clue?"

Zihark looked down at the parchment in his hands. It was soaked through, but the paper was greasy enough that the writing inside might still be legible. "It might be," he admitted. "But we have to be very careful not to tear it." Figuring few people in the camp would have defter hands than he or Mia, he went ahead and set to the task himself. The paper crinkled ominously as he ran his fingers along the edges. They both held their breath as he very slowly opened up the page.

"There's writing," Mia whispered breathlessly. "Can you read it?"

"Ssh, I'm trying." Zihark squinted in the fading light. "It's not too badly smudged. Good thing whoever wrote this was cheap enough to reuse butcher's paper." He struggled to read the scrawled handwriting. "Soren. We need to... folk? No, talk. We need to talk. It's about Ike. Meet me at the... old oak tree at midnight." He looked up in sudden realization.

"Zihark! That's where we are now!" Mia exclaimed. "Soren must have been here last night! Can you read the rest?"

He tried for several minutes, but finally sighed and shook his head. "The last few sentences got wet and the ink bled into the paper. It's impossible to read."

Mia frowned in disappointment. "So how does this help us?"

"I don't know," Zihark admitted, "but I think Ike is going to be very happy to see it."

"Happy?"

A trace of sympathy passed over the swordmaster's features. "Well, as happy as he can be right now"

For the first time in a very long time, Ike was alone.

The night continued to wear on. Waning sunlight had brought the investigation to a halt, and most of the mercenaries had returned to the camp. But it was still oddly quiet, as everyone was taking great pains to give him plenty of space. And he couldn't shake the feeling that some of them weren't holding out much hope. He could tell by the way they avoided his eyes.

But he wouldn't give in to that. Soren might be in trouble, but he was a survivor. Ike knew that better than anyone. He had to have faith in his friend right now.

Someone approached from behind and he turned. It was Zihark and Mia, and Zihark was carrying something that looked very much like a piece of paper.

"Did you find something?"

"Yes, commander," the swordmaster replied, holding out the delicate parchment. "Be careful with it, though. We found it outside by the old oak tree, and it's quite damp." He waited patiently while Ike scanned the note.

"...Who sent this?" he finally asked. "I can't read all of it."

"We can't either," Zihark replied. "But at least it gives us some idea of what happened, and where Soren was last night."

"Mmm," the commander said thoughtfully. "This smells like bait to me. And I don't think that's because it was once wrapped around a fish." He shook his head, a little smile appearing on his face. Soren is much too smart to fall for something like this. It must have been... that they mentioned my name... He tried to put the thought away, but it hung around and threatened to make him happy despite himself.

"But who's the fisherman?" Mia piped up. "Can you recognize the handwriting?"

"It's pretty distinctive," Ike admitted. "Now that you mention it, I do feel like I've seen it before. No idea where though."

"Why don't we go through Soren's records? We might find something. Maybe it was someone we've worked with before." Zihark started off towards Soren's room, but Ike stopped him with a surprisingly firm hand on his arm.

"No! I mean... no." Ike shook his head. "I, uh... I'd rather be the only one that goes in there. I'll look through the logs myself."

Zihark and Mia exchanged quick glances, then nodded obediently. "Then if there's nothing else we can do..." Mia trailed off hopefully.

"Oh. Right. Thanks for your hard work. Go get some dinner or something." Ike dismissed them with one hand, already turning to make his way towards Soren's room. It was the only place he hadn't searched yet, but he wouldn't let anyone else do it either. He didn't really know why - it just upset him to think about anyone else in that room. Probably because Soren was so particular about the place when he was around. Ike was one of very few people who had ever seen the inside of it, and he kind of wanted to keep it that way.

When he reached the familiar wooden door, he hesitated for a moment before drawing out his master key and setting it in the lock. A heavy click echoed through the hall and the door scraped on its hinges as he pushed it open. The room inside was dark and quiet. He let the door fall closed behind him and stepped inside onto one of Soren's prized possessions - a plush and ornately detailed rug that stretched nearly to all four walls. It had been a gift from Leanne, and Ike believed she had even made it herself, although it was very hard for him to tell if that's what she really said. At least Soren was able to communicate with her, if even just a little.

A pang of regret struck his heart and he drew his eyes away from the floor. He had to keep himself focused on the task at hand. One foot in front of the other, that was what Greil had always taught him, wasn't it?

"Right," he said out loud to the empty room. "First I'll need some light."

He fumbled around in the dark until he found the round reading table with the lantern. He opened up the small box there and picked out a piece of kindling, striking it against the rough underside of the lid. He used the resulting flame to light the wick of the lamp, and soon the room was filled with a warm yellow glow.

Soren's preference to keep others out of his room was understandable. He had several worktables covered with magical contraptions that were no doubt exceedingly dangerous, and his bookshelves were home to the company's collection of truly powerful tomes. These were locked under enchanted glass, and Ike knew that Soren kept one of two existing keys on a chain around his wrist. The other rested safely on Ike's key ring. He always insisted that you never could be too safe. He hardly even trusted himself to use those books.

Ike strode over the shelf that contained all of their records for the mercenary group. They were color-coded by date, and he was quite familiar with them. They had spent many nights toiling over those books in the dim lamplight, Soren's pen scritching out calculations and reconciliations while Ike puzzled over maps and tactical manuals. More than once he had found himself marvelling that his father had done all the work of running the mercenary group alone.

He reached out to run his fingers over the soft leather spines of the books. An entire history was contained in those shelves. With a strange sense of nostalgia he passed over the records Greil had left behind, then the set of travel logs that marked the year of the war. After that were the usual monthly reports, slim sets of pages bound into bi-annual units at the end of each year. A small smile crept to his face as he read the labels written out in Soren's careful handwriting.

He finally came to the end of the row, a massive blue-bordered binder stuffed with their entire history of enlistment. Notes stuck out every which way, detailing contracts that were up for renewal, deaths and injuries, compensation, and promotions. He pulled it out with no small effort, marvelling that Soren managed to carry the thing at all. He set it down gently on the table and took a seat.

He flipped past the first few hundred pages, which were records from his father's time. A braided bookmark and a change of handwriting indicated the beginning of Ike's reign as commander, where the first entry was marked in that familiar, deliberate lettering.

Name: Soren. Specialty: Lore. Appointment: Indefinite.

Ike smiled and looked at the only accompanying note, a mark in red ink that indicated the date and occasion of his promotion. "Indefinite, huh?" he murmured to himself, running his fingers over the page. "You always were too persistent for your own good."

With that, he flipped the page determinedly and started down the list of new recruits. He compared their signatures to the lettering on the parchment. It wasn't much, but it was something, and after several hours of slaving over those pages he had compiled a list of about a dozen potential candidates. Unfortunately, none of them really jumped out at him, and he was about to write the whole matter off as a failure when something very important occurred to him: this was not the only roster they had.

Soren kept a secret log, one of few books that had survived from Greil's time. That was where they kept records of all of their less savory contracts - assassins, shady dealers, mysterious clients. Ike swiftly got to his feet, taking a moment to stretch out limbs and joints more accustomed to sparring than sitting hunched over a book. It had been a long time since he'd seen the slim volume, and he frankly didn't have the first idea where to look for it. He put his hands on his hips and looked around the room thoughtfully.

There was the bookshelf containing the logs - Ike had already been through that though, and besides, it was far too obvious. The glass case containing the high-powered spellbooks was an interesting possibility, but Ike seriously doubted Soren would keep it in such an inaccessible place. Next to that there was another bookshelf, this one laden with Soren's personal collection of magic tomes. Yellow bindings marked the thunder spells, red marked fire, and green... Ike paused. It was hard to tell if you weren't looking directly at it, but one of the wind tomes was definitely missing. He strode over and poked his fingers in the gap where the book used to be. Sure enough, there wasn't a speck of dust.

"That's interesting," he mused, feeling a little better for the knowledge that whatever had happened to Soren, at least he had a weapon with him. One he could be pretty damn deadly with.

Aside from the missing book there was nothing out of the ordinary about the collection of magic spells. He didn't want to go near Soren's worktables, hoping that the man would have had the sense to keep important records out of range of combustibles anyway. That just left the table, which was bare save for the lamp and tinder box, the bed, a small ceramic basin and the wooden chest that contained Soren's clothes and personal effects. Deciding that was the most likely candidate, Ike crossed the room and knelt down in front of it.

The chest had actually belonged to Greil, but Soren had salvaged it from what remained of their base after the war. Ike ran his hands over the solid wood, following a row of iron rivets to what looked to be a very solid lock. The mercenary leader frowned. He was hesitant to just break the thing off, but he had to admit to himself that he didn't know any other way in. After a few moments of thought, he pulled out his master key and tentatively touched it to the keyhole. Much to his surprise, it slid in easily and the lock snapped open. Ike chuckled to himself as he lifted the heavy lid. His father hadn't been kidding when he'd said the key would open any lock in their base.

The inside of the chest was more or less unexciting, but then Soren didn't tend to keep around unnecessary things. There were several spare robes, a traveling cloak, and a small collection of personal effects; a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a seashell he had collected somewhere, and a matching pair of handkerchiefs. Ike sifted through the silks and linens carefully, trying not to disturb too much. He felt strange enough being wrist deep in a bundle of Soren's undergarments. He was about to give up when he felt his fingers settle on something hard-edged and angular. Peering in, he pushed aside the pile of clothes and found two small, unassuming volumes sitting on the floor of the box. He grabbed them both and got to his feet victoriously.

Both books were unlabeled; one was bound in green leather and the other in red. Ike plopped down on Soren's bed, tossing the red one to the side and settling against the wall as he flipped open the volume in his hands. The first page was blank. The second bore only Soren's name, and a few lines below that, the word "Journal" in ornamental script.

Ike stopped. Soren's journal? Soren kept a journal? His hand hovered over the book, his desire to read on warring with respect for his friend's privacy.

It turned out he was a weak man, and he turned the page.

The journal actually started just before the beginning of the war, when Soren was studying with the mercenary band in Crimea. It mostly detailed Soren's experiences there, his feelings about local politics, his lessons learned and conversations with the other mercenaries. Occasionally there were references to earlier journals, but Ike hadn't seen them in the chest and didn't know where Soren was keeping them. He wondered how long the boy had been keeping a journal - years? His whole life? He found himself overwhelmed with curiosity. As a child, Ike could never be bothered to write down his experiences, and now that so many years had passed in the interim he wanted to rediscover the secrets of their past. Did Soren's journals contain things that had long since slipped from his memory?

He resolved to tell Soren what he had done, apologize profusely for violating his privacy, and then beg shamelessly to be allowed to read the others. As far as he was concerned, it was only the proper thing to do.

Ike read quickly, skimming past whatever was too technical or mundane. About ten pages in, the tone of the diary began to change. Soren's concern over the rapidly mounting political tensions between Crimea and Daein became the sole focus of his entries. King Crimea has become far too vocal in his support of the sub-humans, he wrote. The people are growing uncomfortable, and I fear that Daein may be turning its eyes towards our borders. Now is not the time for Crimea to show weakness or offer any excuse for invasion.

The next entry was a few days later. Ike noticed the ink was smudged in several places and the handwriting was sloppy. I am currently riding back to Greil's camp, it said. It is much worse than even I feared. The capital is burning and Daein marches against us. The others would not flee with me, though I offered them safety and asylum in our own group. I am sure that by now they are lost.

Ike turned the page, his mouth set in a grim line. Those mercenaries had indeed been lost, quickly overwhelmed by the tides of war that engulfed the capital. Soren had known that. He must have seen the same fate for Greil's Mercenaries, and if he hadn't fled to warn them, it may well have been.

The next few entries were hardly more than status updates on his journey from Crimea. He traveled for nearly two days straight, and on the day that he returned there were only two short sentences. I have reunited with Greil's Mercenaries, and Ike is okay.

Then there was nothing. Not even so much as the date was written in until nearly two weeks later. The next entry was written on a fresh page, and the handwriting was so meticulous as to seem almost pained. Today we have a new commander, it read. Greil is gone. I have... no words to describe how I feel in this matter. Suffice it to say, he was the closest thing I have ever had to a father, and I will miss him.

There was a break in the paragraph and Ike could almost hear Soren taking a deep breath as he wrote it. I tried to offer some comfort to Ike, but he has held up surprisingly well. I... am proud of him. He has to command an army now, and war is almost upon us. There will be no sanctuary in Gallia. He must know this. As much as I want to hold him while he cries, like I did when we were children, I know that he is beyond tears. He has to be. Maybe someday, when this is all over, if we both survive... we can sit together and talk... about what Greil meant to us.

Ike closed his eyes and shut the book in his lap. He let his head fall back to rest against the wall. "We never did have that conversation..." he murmured, folding his hands on top of the diary. Suddenly he felt horribly guilty for reading it at all. Somehow that last page had just seemed so... intimate.

"I'm sorry," he said to no one in particular, sitting up and setting the diary to one side. He rubbed his eyes and picked up the other book. He opened it slowly, as though he were afraid of what its contents might be. This one, however, was much less personal.

Greil's Red Book, the title page read in his father's chicken-scratch handwriting. To be hidden from prying eyes.

Ike flipped through the pages, mildly curious what his father's secret contracts were like. He found that he didn't recognize any of the names, however, save for one...

He blinked. He scooped up the book and bounded off the bed and across the room to where the parchment lay. His eyes went from the writing there to the signature in the book many times before closing the cover with a laborious sigh. If he was right about who the culprit was, his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.