A Distant Dawn

by Blazing Firefox

The story of an everyday mercenary who becomes a hero awakens ugly appetite and ambition in many, and at it's center is a conflict a millennium in the making. A Hero rises while another returns, but can peace finally be found?

8. A Gathering Hope

Getting through Part One has been faster than I anticipated it being, to be honest – please, no jokes against the erratic rate at which I've been updating. From here there are just two chapters left (Chapter 8 in the game, and then Chapter 9 and Endgame combined into a single chapter) that will tie up Part One of the game and hopefully make it merge with Part Two so that this fic doesn't follow the example of the game, with Parts One and Two feeling almost independant of Three and Four. Elements of Part One will go into Part Two, most notably the Greil Mercenaries' trials serving as the premise for them being in hiding until the end of Part Two (and if I recall, a talk between Ike and Elincia in-game will create a tad bit of continuity here... well, whatever), but Daein will not be completely inactive during Part Two either. Don't expect as much from them in Part Two as the Greil Mercenaries got in this Part, but they will not fade into non-existance until their partcipation in the Laguz-Begnion war of Part Three. Particularly, parts of Part One and Part Four will find themselves out of place and within the Part Two timeline, as the blank mark in Daein's story gives me the opportunity to give a certain subject due focus. What part, you may or may not – probably the latter – be asking? Well, I've hinted at it, so you figure it out. It's a rather unique curveball if I do say so myself, however, so it may not be as obvious as I'm thinking it is. I'm throwing another underhand hint this chapter too, though; see if you can find it.

I'm glad to know, by the way, that my history buffing knowledge of strategy was satisfactory; so, as always, many thanks are due to Totalitarian for being my unnofficial beta/critic/amazing-reviewer – and maybe actually having a beta rather than doing all the work myself may have prevented the rather amusing typo you noted. I'd been all over myself thinking that my knowledge of strategy and battle tactics wasn't enough, primarily because not only is my knowledge of strategy limited to history buffing and several readings of The Art of War but also cuts itself off around the seventeenth century when warfare abandoned the days of skilled tactics ruling the day and moved into the age of blowing eachother's brains out. If you've noticed, I put a strong emphasis on things like lay of the land and elevation, which is more or less a testament to my readings of The Art of War. I'll probably have to give that another reading through, maybe reading Cao Cao's commentary on the side, to make sure that I don't lose my touch.

Also, I left the conclusion of the last chapter (the chapter itself, not the vision afterward) open-ended on purpose, though I'll concede to the fact that it could have been left a little less ambiguous than it was. I wish I could say I had a better excuse than simply noting my distaste for the necessity of dragging on a rather pointless conflict (unless you got really nitpicky and said I could have pulled a repeat of chapter 5 and done a series of scenes surrounding various characters, which I really don't want to do again), but that's the basic reason, in all honesty. It gets a small wrap-up in the opening narration for conclusion purposes, but that's enough as far as I'm concerned. And preferable to dragging the chapter on for another ultimately pointless three pages.

On the note of overly long scenes that dragged on, I'm glad I'm not the only one noticing the difficulty in doing battles with the Greil Mercenaries and staving off the necessity to make it seem 300-ish, which apparently was not lost in translation in the last chapter. It might just be me, but the nature of Path of Radiance and Radiant Dawn relatively demanded more large scale fighting rather than small groups. I would dispute this point to the end if I could, but Radiant Dawn confirmed my suspicion that the conflict was much more large scale than most other Fire Emblems (the only one that matches it in scale off the top of my head is Seisen no Keifu, though even that's debatable). As such I've felt a need to make the fights relative in size to that (my decision in that centers mostly around the battle at Castle Nox, where Janaff notes Daein having an army of 10,000 and making it seem like it is a small army). Thankfully, this issue doesn't last a whole lot longer.

.... I realize this section has been getting to be obscenely long at times. I really should start replying to reviews rather than answering them here... we'll see.

The Liberation Army rides the waves of momentum, expelling Begnion from Terin and many of it's northern strongholds. This decisive victory in Terin, Begnion's retreat from northern Daein and the subsequent conquering of the Marado Labor Camp shows a vast changing of the tides of battle. Numerically, the Liberation Army continues to grow with each passing day, drawing in eager recruits wherever they can be found. However, the majority of their forces are elderly or young men, people with passion that leaves them wanting for skill. Meanwhile, Begnion continues to bolster it's forces with munitions and mercenaries purchased with funds stolent from the Daein populace, forcing the acceleration of the Liberation Army's rise.

Where it can be done safely, Begnion comits a terrible act. In a last ditch effort to impede the strengthening of the Liberation Army's forces they begin putting to death the prisoners held within the labor camps. These acts of terror range from overworking to intensified malnutrition, seemingly innocent acts that slowly drains the will and spirit of the men eagerly awaiting their rescue. In it's darkest hour, Daein's remnants find themselves looking for the bright light that is the Silver Haired Maiden.

In Crimea, word of Duke Ludveck's devastating loss reaches all corners of the country. Faith in Crimea's strength begins to waver, and riots begin to break out where loyalty is at it's lowest. Elincia calls in aid from former wartime allies to watch over her lands, but the sheer ferocity of the riots leave even the finest of her dissolved Liberation Army in dire straits. This leaves Elincia in a dire position. Threatened both from the inside and outside, she must decide which is truly the foe...

---

The week-long unspoken armstice between the Greil Mercenaries and Crimea had hardly been put to good use, Soren noted wryly that morning. Going through a checklist of their supplies and rations, he was dismayed to find that their small dispatches to the nearby Daein-Begnion villages to do odd jobs – in disguise and anonymously, of course – had brought in far less income than he had hoped for. Just yesterday Boyd had returned from lending his aid in the construction of a new town hall in some nameless village along the borderline of Daein and Crimea, bringing for all his tolls only five thousand gold and a wagon full of various foods that were in the midst of becoming accessible, with farming taking a prominent role in everyday life once more. And the day before that Ike had returned from a small mission that had led him into the mountains north of Daein, where he had slain a brigand network that had been harrassing settlements along that front indiscriminately. It was a job worthy of enough pay to appease the mercenaries for at least a month, but instead Ike had brought back only ten thousand.

It seemed then, Soren thought sadly, that the only reason they were in high spirits was because they had returned to their mercenary roots again.

It didn't help that they were sorely shorthanded, even though their small numbers had never been of any particular import in the past. Soren had unceremoniously assumed to role of organizer, dividing duties left, right and center. Three were always on lookout for Crimean soldiers – usually Rolf or Shinon was amongst this group, due to their more keen eyesight – and two searching for Begnion soldiers coming at them from behind. The rest had been coming back and forth from their small makeshift camp all week, taking jobs wherever they were presented in a pitiful effort to keep their funds from hitting rock bottom. Which wouldn't have been a problem were it not for the fact that Ike's honor and misplaced kindness would not allow him to deprive his allies of their payment. Which, while rather low, did not help their situation.

Soren himself had many duties as well. Oscar had been brought into Ike's special graces, sent on daily excursions to find more supplies with which to make the wonderous meals he made, leaving a gaping hole that Soren had been forced to fill. Just two days ago he had been forced to return to bed by Shinon after he tried to carry a massive pile of firewood into the camp and nearly broke his leg in doing so, forced to take half a day to rest then. He had done physical activities that he had long decided were beyond his capacity, and acclimating to them had been unexpectedly swift.

But that didn't stop him from thanking Ike – for Soren had no Goddesses to thank; they had forsaken him long ago – that morning when the role he had to fill was simply keeping watch. It was boring, and there hadn't been a single sighting all week, but at least his muscles didn't feel as though they were tearing themselves apart with the slightest movement. Sitting in a tree with his back resting against the trunk of a tree, eyes scanning over the horizon every couple minutes was greatly preferable to agonizing work that usually only Ike or Boyd could do.

"Anything?" Ike asked from below, looking rather strange with his eyes gazing upward, one watching the bright blue sky and the other staring directly at Soren. His arms were crossed over his chest and his fingers were tapping impatiently to a miscellaneous rhythm, his sword not ten feet way, propped against the tree's trunk.

"Nothing," Soren answered dryly, as he had the past six times Ike had asked. Ike had been blessed – or cursed, recent events taken into account – with having no work to do, leaving him supervising just about everything else while Soren played birdwatch. Much of this time had unfortunately been spent in worry of a Crimean attack, as with the expiration of a week it was entirely possible that they had been resupplied and were preparing to march at that very moment, asking Soren every time he had come around if anything had been spotted. Apparently, the thought of Soren actually alerting him if he saw anything didn't occur to Ike.

"It's strange," Ike muttered, clearly aware but obviously uncaring of Soren's annoyance – Soren loathed to admit that their relationship allowed him to get away with such irritating familiarity. "Ludveck must have known we are waiting things out, and by now he must have been able to resupply enough to manage. So why..."

"Trouble in court, I imagine," Soren cut him off before Ike's ranting could lead him into a vicious bout of friendly fire. "Queen Elincia is probably fighting against his policies every step of the way."

"What makes you think that?" Ike asked, as dreadfully clueless of the political side of logic as always.

"When we were fleeing, they dispatched only the Royal Knights. Had Ludveck had any absolute control, we would have been staring down their troops as we are now, back then." Soren averted his eyes from Ike's expressionlessly clueless face, grunting in annoyance. "Now let me do my job," he snapped, "or we will all die."

"We would have noticed a massive army crossing the bridge before we had swords at our throats," Ike retorted unnecessarily.

"Would we have noticed a pegasus flying at us from the sky?" Soren asked suddenly, pointing to the sky where, sure enough, a pegasus could be seen soaring toward them on the horizon. The rider didn't appear to be armed, but Ike immediately grabbed his sword regardless. If nothing else, he couldn't go and let this knight think she could fly into their camp without warning and be welcomed with open arms. Hell, not even his allies during the war got that sort of familiarity, he thought nostalgically as he recalled several occasions where his sword had been pointed at Tanith's throat simply for arriving via pegasus completely unannounced.

The pegasus was moving far faster than Ike had ever seen one move. If she were actually an enemy she wouldn't have been pushing her pegasus so hard, Ike decided, lowering his sword. Soren seemed taken aback by her speed as well, hasitly moving to Ike's side as she tilted into a rapid descent, landing right in front of them mere seconds later. The pegasus lowered itself as it's rider dismounted, pulling her helmet off to reveal long brown locks framing a face of barely more than twenty years, with shimmering blue eyes. Features that, had Ike been familiar with any form of attraction whatsoever, he was sure probably would have caught him off guard. "Sir Ike?" she asked breathlessly.

"Another request to surrender from the Duke?" Soren asked, narrowing his eyes. Then, in a more subdued voice that was barely audible, he muttered, "Will we have to send a head back for them to give up?"

Neither Ike nor the knight seemed entirely sure whether he was serious or not.

"I bear no message from the Duke," the knight replied regardless, spitting out the title venemously. "I come because I am questioning him."

Soren's distrust didn't waver, but Ike was relieved to find he didn't look murderous anymore. "Explain."

"Several of my companions were flogged for wondering whether or not you guys were actually guilty of treason," she sighed wistfully, fists clenching at her sides. "I would like to hear your side."

"Your name," Soren demanded blandly.

"Hmm?"

"We will not explain ourselves to a stranger," Soren explained, with infinitely wavering patience.

"Marisa," the knight replied then, smiling grimly. "I am a member of Lady Marcia's pegasus knights that came over from Begnion."

"I thought Marcia was with the Royal Knights," Ike stated, raising an eyebrow.

"She is. Lady Marcia serves beneath Sir Geoffrey, but at the same time she is the Commander of Crimea's pegasus knights," Marisa explained.

"Well," Soren cut in, eye twitching with annoyance, "that is hardly relevant. Is it not?"

"I suppose," Marisa agreed, though she didn't look entirely pleased saying so, Ike noticed. But when neither Ike nor Soren made any move to comply with her request, she looked far more exasperated, "So?"

"Duke Ludveck is preparing to rebel," Ike answered bluntly, sticking his sword into the soft soil beneath him and crossing his arms over his chest. "He tried to convince us to return to court; Soren," he pointed to Soren, "thinks he intended to use our power to give him additional influence, as well as use us in his plans. We turned his men down, and they attacked."

"And they made it look like you instigated it," Marisa said, completing the tale. "That makes sense," she then added, frowning. "When he found out our supplies had been run through, he didn't bat an eye. Hasn't even bothered to resupply yet."

"He hasn't?" Ike asked, frowning.

"No. In fact, we've hardly seen the Duke. He has been coming and going constantly, leaving that Lieutenant in his place."

Soren looked thoughtful for a moment, considering the weight and value of those words on the scale in his mind. Finally he said, "What is your rank?"

"I am a Squad Captain," Marisa responded with a raised eyebrow, wondering. "But the Duke has assumed absolute control. The actual authority of any individual leaders in the army is practically nulled."

"So your absence wouldn't be noticed," Ike said, catching on to what Soren was getting at. "Go to Melior, and tell Elincia what we told you."

"Defeating your enemy without a weapon," Marisa sighed, glancing at Soren. "You are as cunning as they say."

"Mmm," Soren hummed in acknowledgment, indifferently save for a small tint of bashfulness that only Ike managed to catch on to. One of those seldom seen emotions that only the sole person who had access to the frigid tactician's heart could see. "Ike is right, though."

"And what of you guys?"

Soren's expression darkened then, "Though we have done nothing warranting military response from Crimea, we cannot return. We will return when we can."

Ike nodded, "We're counting on you."

---

"Raise your shield a couple inches. ...Good. Swing your lance like so."

Sothe raised an eyebrow as he watched the practise field that morning, watching the more recent additions to their army undergoing an unorthodox training session with Aran. Nolan wasn't far off in a duel with one of the army's axe-wielding soldiers, and Edward was, unsurprisingly, swept up in a fierce battle with Fiona. Even Ilyana was getting in some training that morning, practising with a new tome Sothe had given her, found in the basement of the Marado Labor Camp. Aran was parrying blow for blow with two soldiers, his bored expression betrayed by the excitement evident in his eyes, a rare display of real emotion.

Laura was standing next to Sothe, watching her friend as he spun around a thrusting lance and brought his up to rest just before the soldier's chest. "He hasn't looked so happy in a long time," she sighed, smiling widely.

"I imagine anyone would look happy doing what they love," Sothe replied evenly.

"He doesn't love fighting," Laura responded, looking insulted. "He loves all of this. He hasn't really had anyone to connect with, so this level of connection makes him happy."

"Hmm."

"Are you not happy?" Laura asked, turning to face Sothe. When he raised an eyebrow, she said, "You don't look happy."

"I don't need to be happy," Sothe replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Everyone needs to be happy," Laura protested with a wistful sigh. "What makes you happy?"

"Protecting Micaiah," Sothe replied without hesitation, though he avoided Laura's searching eyes.

"So why are you not happy?" she asked, tilting her head to the side inquisitively.

"I..." Sothe seriously considered that for a moment, before offering a wry smile and shrugging. "I don't need to be happy," he repeated. "So I'm not."

"You're not what?" Micaiah asked as she approached, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes shifted to Laura and she smiled, saying, "Hello, Laura."

Before Laura could return the greeting and potentially go into an explanation that would surely leave him flustered, he said, "We were watching the troops train. With the addition of the prisoners from Marado and Marado's knights, we have a serious shot at taking out Begnion."

The raised left brow on Micaiah's face rose slightly, but she didn't bother to question the reason behind the clearly sympathetic look Laura was giving him. "That's why I'm here," she said, crossing her arms. "War meeting time. I've had just about as much as everyone of Marado's mountainous weather, and I would really like to be on the move again."

"Hmm," Sothe hummed again, with a detached sort of disinterest. "Izuka probably has some crazy plan again, right?"

"It's probably his job to," Micaiah retorted dryly.

"Walk slowly, then," Sothe said as he began walking, making sure Micaiah kept the slow pace he was moving at. "I'll need a second to get into the retorting mood."

"Retorting mood?"

"Be a strategist, think like a strategist," Sothe explained with a wave of the hand. "I can't very well do that while training – I need time to adapt."

"Ah." Though it went unsaid, Sothe could tell through a simply glance that him being a thorough thinker was still something Micaiah was trying to adapt to, as well. It hadn't occurred to him at the time that the Dawn Brigade's honorary co-leader being a skilled tactician was anything to bat an eye over, but looking back on it, he couldn't help but wince at the irony. He had been the one doing much of the group's thinking when on the run, but that had simply been decision making and analyzing. The jump from analysist to tactician, then, was certainly something to bat an eye over, if only amongst their own group. Much like Micaiah's jump from group leader to Vice-General, sear the brazen fool that let her accept that appointment. And sear the voiceless bodyguard that gave into her whim just as readily.

As they walked into the large tent both had become frightfully familiar with in recent days, both were immediately aware of the absence of Prince Pelleas among the group of assembled people. Izuka was in his place at the head of the table, and added to the assembly to rebolster their ranks were Fiona, Nolan and Edward, all looking flustered and panting from their training. Sothe vaguely wondered how they had all gotten there before he and Micaiah when he had been watching them fight not long ago, but chose not to dwell on unnecessary details. His mind instead occupied itself with the more pressing detail of Pelleas' absence and the smug look on Izuka's face, the latter probably a byproduct of the former.

"Gather, you two!" Izuka snapped irritably, contradicting his otherwise rather indifferent disposition. "I must display for all to see, my latest grand strategy!"

Sothe obeyed with great reluctance, narrowing his eyes as he stopped beside Tauroneo, "And where is Prince Pelleas?"

"I am the General Staff Officer of this army!" Izuka replied, apparently under the impression that those words alone sufficed as an explanation.

"And?" Sothe growled, raising an eyebrow.

"And?!" Izuka exclaimed, fists visible and clenching tightly in a vain effort to suppress his obvious anger. "I am your superior! As such, you may consider my words the words of the Prince himself!"

Sothe scoffed, pointing a finger threateningly in Izuka's direction, "I should have known better than to ---"

"--- Sothe," Micaiah interrupted, knocking elbows with him in a silent plead of silence, "that is enough. Carry on, Izuka."

"Y-yes," Izuka replied warily, taken aback by the patient look Micaiah sent him. "Now then, our next target shall be Umono." He pointed with a long, unmanicured and very dirty fingernail to a small building drawn into the map, with a small lake next to it and a road passing through it to other areas far off. It was isolated and far from Nevassa, surrounded by what appeared to be a lush forest and naturally defensible locales. By all accounts, Micaiah thought, it was a wise choice.

"That is one of the largest work camps," Micaiah said unnecessarily. Simply the fact that it had it's own place on the map confirmed that detail.

"It is also one of the most harsh ones," Tauroneo explained with a particularly bitter scowl. "Among all of their attrocities, Begnion's attrocities at Umono are among the greatest. Daein citizens from nearby villages are enslaved to do the grunt work, and slacking of the most remote sort is punishable by death." His entire body shook with rage and he slammed a fist onto the table, shocking everyone with his rare show of negative emotion. "Bolstering our forces be damned, it is our duty as Daein's heroes to attack Umono."

Sothe stared wide eyed at Tauroneo in the wake of his outburst. He stuttered helplessly, "Tauroneo..."

"Leave it," Tauroneo sighed, dismissing the subject. "What is the plan, Izuka?"

"Naturally, I have accounted for the fact that attacking the prison with our forces as they are is foolhardy. Thus, I have come up with a plan so brilliant it will deliver us a tremendous victory!" He laughed triumphantly for several long moments, unnoticing or simply uncaring of the looks he received from most everyone. Calming down, he explained, pointing to the small lake next to the prison, "You see this lake? This lake feeds water to everyone at Umono. We shall dump a toxin of my own design into the water, let those fools feast upon my brilliance, and watch as they slowly die! We will need not a blade nor a mind! We need only sit and bask in the coming of my finest victory!"

"Absolutely not!" Micaiah cried before she could help herself, unable to put a rein on the exasperated rage that formed in but an instant, pressing at her core with all of it's strength and forcing it's way through. "How could you consider such a plan?! Poison is inexcusably and unforgivably vile and I, for one, will never agree to such a heartless plan."

Izuka and Micaiah stared hard at eachother, willing the other to lose their cool and back down, like two very stubborn bulls fighting over prey, horns knocking against the other's dangerously. The tent fell into a tense silence while all watched the growing intensity of the contest taking place between the lanky and frail looking tactician and his foe, the confident looking and very fierce general of their humble army. Nobody dared making a sound, fearing that the bolts of lightning that marked the fierce gazes between the two would suddenly shift direction, tearing into the unfortunate speaker and turning him or her into a sudden and immediate victim of unrestrained rage.

"That plan," Izuka growled, "was formed in a state of the most focused and exalted meditation. I will not have you insult my brilliant planning!"

"That doesn't matter," Micaiah shot back hotly. "Evil though they may be, us using such terrible means to defeat Begnion is inexcusable. We must fight with compassion and consideration for the innocent, else we are no better than they."

Sothe nodded quickly in agreement, eager to escape the deathmatch taking place in the center of the tent and return to a less life-threatening subject of discussion, casually ignoring the fact that the new line of discussion had been the catalyst of that very deathmatch. "Micaiah is right," he said softly, although his eyes bore into Izuka's for a brief moment as he spoke. "Poison will not discriminate. Not only will the prisoners suffer within, but nearby villages will as well. And then they will lose faith and trust in us, perhaps even side against us. After all, most would prefer oppression to suffering from poisoning, no question. Not to mention that, when all is said and done, it is Prince Pelleas that takes the fall for our decisions."

Izuka made a loud snorting noise, crossed somewhere between a scoff, a sniffle and a huff. He glared openly at Micaiah, as though trying to destroy her utterly with but a look. And to those who knew the man, it wouldn't be unreasonable to consider such a thing. "Fine! Do as you like! But know that you will crawl on your hands and knees back to me when you find yourselves utterly defeated!"

"My apologies," Tauroneo sighed, shaking his head in the direction of Izuka's retreating form, hunched at somewhat dejected. "Lord Izuka is... quite excitable."

"So long as that 'excitable' nature of his doesn't give us a repeat of Gritnea," Sothe replied smoothly, glaring down at the table almost subconsciously.

"Sothe, stop it," Micaiah said. Ignoring his indignant pout she turned toward Tauroneo, smiling sheepishly, "I should be sorry. Because of me, he..."

"You were in the right," Tauroneo quickly stated, waving a hand. "I'd not condone the use of poison either. I believe that we can all agree upon."

"However," Nolan interjected mournfully, directing his gaze to Sothe as he spoke, "we will need to devise a new battle plan." He crossed his arms over his chest and looked to everyone; first Jill and Fiona, both of whom shook their heads. Edward lifted a single eyebrow when Nolan's eyes fell upon him, as though to say, "Are you serious?" Nolan glanced at Tauroneo meaningfully for a long second before skipping over to Sothe once again. "Sothe?"

"Hmm," Sothe grunted distractedly in acknowledgment, his eyes drifting anywhere but to Nolan as he spoke. "Breaking into the prison full force is inviting disaster."

"That's right," Tauroneo immediately put in. "I... served at Umono for several months, back before the war when it was a small standing defense against possible invasion from Begnion. The hallways are narrow and the rooms small; Umono is not suitable for large scale conflicts, and trying to use such force would only increase our own casualties."

"You never told me about this," Jill said.

"It doesn't matter at the moment," Micaiah quickly interrupted, not missing the thankful look Tauroneo sent her in secret. "If that is the case, the main army will attack head on while the Dawn Brigade infiltrates the prison level and frees the prisoners."

"I will lead the troops outside," Tauroneo quickly added, "with Zihark and Jill."

"I will go with Lady Micaiah," Fiona said, inclining her head slightly respectfully. "Marado's knights are loyal only to me, but I will leave them to you, Sir Tauroneo."

"Are they proficient with ranged weaponry?" Tauroneo asked.

"No," Fiona shook her head mournfully. "But they are skilled in sublety. Leave them to watch your back, and you won't have a single man with a sword in his back, I assure you."

"Certainly a comforting promise," Nolan laughed.

The flap pulled over the tent's opening suddenly flew aside, revealing the mid-afternoon sky and the sun still pumping light across the land. A couple soldiers rushed in, unarmed and out of breath. They seemed to quickly realize the former, paling when they saw Nolan standing at the table, smirking. Surely he had noticed this blunder, and there was an unspoken promise of their punishment for it later. They quickly averted their eyes and turned to Micaiah, saluting and stuttering, "T-the Prince wants to see you, Vice-General."

"The Prince?" Sothe asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," one of the soldiers deadpanned. "He requests the immediate presence of the Silver Haired Maiden."

"Thank you," Micaiah replied gratefully, smiling. "I will go at once."

"Oh," the other soldier quickly added, turning to Nolan, shivering almost instinctively as he did so. "Sir Leonardo requests Sir Nolan and Sir Edward's presence as well, on the practice field."

---

"Could there have been an accident maybe? Or maybe he wants help training? Or maybe..."

Nolan tuned out the rest as he walked, escorted by one of the two soldiers, now armed with a sword at his side and a lance in hand. Edward hadn't kept his mouth shut for longer than five seconds since they left, asking Nolan just about everything he could come up with, related to the problem at hand or not. First it had been wondering whether or not Leonardo was in trouble, then it was wondering why Nolan never wanted to spar with him, then it was asking why Nolan was always so 'official', as he had put it... And now, it had come full circle and he was going off about increasingly perilous scenarios with Leonardo as the victim. Were he not so 'official', Nolan was sure he would have made Edward the victim of one of those perilous tragedies.

"Nolan! Edward!" Leonardo was standing across from them with two archers flanking him, waving in invitation and most certainly not fatally injured. Nolan rushed to his side with measured steps, watching from the corner of his eye Edward following, grumbling something morosely under his breath, put off by being proved wrong despite how dire the case would have been otherwise.

"Leonardo," Nolan greeted dismally, waving a hand toward the side, silently dismissing their guards. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Leonardo assured him, brushing aside a strand of exceptionally blond hair, illuminated by the warm sun upon his head. He turned on his heel suddenly, picking up his bow and stringing an arrow. He let it fly toward a distant target, watching it wobble in the wind before striking into the center. "The wind is strong today," he noted, "so training has been a little rough." He strung a second arrow and fired it slightly to the left of his first shot, pointing as the arrow was blown slightly off course and struck the center again. "See?"

"And this is your problem?" Nolan asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"No, no," Leonardo laughed, stringing a third arrow. "This bow," he said, eyes not leaving the distant target covered with his arrows, "is my problem." He fired, watching again as it hit it's mark without fail.

"It seems to work just fine," Edward noted, poking at the bowstring. "It's a little big."

"It's a longbow," Leonardo replied, pulling experimentally on the bowstring several times. "It's made to fire the bow over longer distances, but it feels a little too bulky." He stood to the side and held it out to Nolan with a smile. "So, you try it."

"Me?" Nolan asked, accepting the bow anyway.

Leonardo nodded, holding an arrow out for Nolan to take. "It is simple to use, and it's extra range makes aiming easier. I want you to have a feel for it; tell me what you think."

Nolan hummed a small acknowledgment as he carefully took aim, running his fingers carefully along the bowstring. "I've only held a bow a couple times," he finally said, "and they were never this big."

"That's the problem," Leonardo said, tapping the wooden limb of the bow. "Being composite, it's far heavier than it should be. It throws off your aim."

"You had no problem with it," Nolan noted distractedly, adjusting the trajectory of his shot, shutting one eye. "Are those bones at the ends?"

"I said it was composite," Leonardo sighed. He came around to Nolan's right side, putting his hands over Nolan's and directing the arrow's trajectory until he was satisfied. "Now shoot."

Nolan did so, watching as the arrow sailed straight toward the planned target hanging from a branch, only to dip low at the last second and barely hit the target. "And you want me to practice to find a solution?"

"I'll give you some archery lessons if it will help."

"That may help," Nolan sighed, lowering the bow. "That bow is way too heavy."

"You're physically stronger than I am," Leonardo went on, as though he hadn't heard Nolan at all. "My hope is that with proper training your strength can overcome the bulky weight."

"Your student becoming your teacher," Nolan laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "When did I sink so low?"

"If you train properly, you can use that bow on the battlefield." Leonardo poked at the limb again as Nolan went to take aim, adjusting the trajectory just before it fired. The arrow arched upward as it did before, and when the descent began it brought the arrow downward upon the center of the target. "That is worth the work, right?"

"Of course," Nolan replied confidently, ignoring his body's every protest to the idea, particularly in his arm where the bowstring was already leaving stinging cuts in it's wake. "Now show me how to properly aim this thing."

---

Pelleas' personal tent was every bit as regal as Micaiah could have expected, and then some. The interior kept the same dark and dreary feel that seemed to surround Pelleas' very existance, a shroud of mystery that was open for all to observe at their leisure. A Daein coat of arms hung over his makeshift bed, and it was replicated on all four posts of the bed. The bed itself was smaller than a bed in a run-down inn, and the matress was torn in several places. It seemed like a nuisance to move about, and Micaiah suspected the only reason they had it was due to Almedha's adamant refusal to allow her dear son to live in any but the finest conditions available. And this, questionable though it's regality was, happened to be the best they had.

Pelleas was seated in a wooden chair in front of a chest-high desk, working by candlelight with a quill, writing what appeared to be a letter of some kind. His brows were knitted together and he was chewing on the side of his lower lip, pausing in place every few seconds before returning to writing. Micaiah watched in silence for a few minutes, slowly making her way to the bed and softly sitting on it. When the old matress strained loudly beneath her Pelleas finally looked up, glancing in Micaiah's direction. As soon as he saw her his demeanor changed completely and he hastened to turn around to face her, blowing out the candle and allowing the warm light from outside to spill in and illuminate the dark tent.

The look in Pelleas' eyes – the pitiful, "I want you to forgive me," look – almost made Micaiah's annoyance subside, but her determination to be angry at him for delegating his duties to his madman assistant overcame her desire to be polite. His usual frown was deeper than usual, and the way the light illuminated his pale skin brought out a whole new dimension to his pitiful look.

"Thank you for coming," Pelleas said tentatively, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth. Although as far as Micaiah was concerned, he was the only one who found his words to be anything to gawk over. Really, when did a respectful greeting become a threatening insult? She must have missed the notice.

"Would you like some tea? Or maybe you wouldn't. I am already taking enough of your time as it is, and I wouldn't want to... But if you want me to, I could..." He was rambling, and Micaiah could tell. She could see the sweat glistening on his opening and closing palms, the way he rubbed his hands against his robes when he thought she had her eyes elsewhere, the nervous energy all but pouring from that pitifully desperate look on his face. She almost felt bad then. Almost.

But the first lesson in becoming who she had been forced to become was a simple one: Indifference. Even when she'd like it to be otherwise, she couldn't show emotion that wasn't deserving of the situation. And pity for the pitious Prince? Unnecessary. Dismay for his plight, for his desperation? Necessary, but certainly not applicable with the present situation. No, the situation demanded her indifference. Her detached and uncaring responses. The strictly professional nature she'd had bred within her. Born of Daein's plight, perhaps, but that was of little importance.

So because indifference was necessary, she shrugged. That only deepened the frown on Pelleas' face, but it wass her job to not care. "None of that will be necessary," she said, careful to avoid anything actually insulting. That was the difficulty with the first lesson; the necessity to differentiate between indifference and anything actually insulting. "Why did you delegate everything to Izuka, Prince Pelleas?"

"I ---"

Micaiah didn't offer him the chance to explain himself, continuing as though she hadn't heard him, "He is making decisions without your consent, under the guise of his words being your's. My Prince, please, you need to stand for yourself."

Pelleas looked away, mumbling half-heartedly and dejectedly, "It was Izuka's request that I not attend."

A single glance at Micaiah assured him that this answer did not please her in the slightest. She stood suddenly and stomped her foot, seething. "You are our leader, Your Highness! You cannot allow your subordinates to walk all over you! Moreover, you cannot simply pass your duties as leader onto another!"

"I don't know how to do any of this!" Pelleas protested. "I was making what I believed to be a decision beneficial to us."

"Neither do I!" Micaiah shot back. "I am a nobody, plucked off the streets and forced into this situation. But I can only look forward and do the best I can, and trust those around me to help." Her expression softened and she relaxed, sitting down slowly. "You have people who can help you grow accustomed to all this, Your Highness. But if you leave everything to Izuka, what will become of the throne? When you are restored, you will know not how to rule. You will be dependant on Izuka and a slave to his will; a prisoner of the crown. A figurehead to his wants, and innevitably those of everyone else. Daein would not be restored then, only given a beacon with which to guide them. There would be no order in the court, much less anywhere else."

"... I am sorry, Micaiah," Pelleas sighed, hanging his head. "I shall ask Izuka before the next meeting. I need his permission to attend."

"You don't," Micaiah said, her voice raising slightly. "You are the Prince, Your Highness. He is a servant, an advisor at best."

"Yes, but ---"

"Also," Micaiah went on, "I am sure you have heard what some people have said of his past."

"Izuka has assured me they are only rumors, Micaiah."

"He has lied to you, Your Highness." Micaiah reached forward with a hand and clamped tightly yet comfortingly upon Pelleas' shoulder, "Sothe knows this. He fought in the Mad King's War, and he saw the horrors of Izuka's work. I understand the necessity to believe in him, and I have tried to do so as well, but I ask that you not trust him so greatly. I sense ill tidings in doing so."

"I would like to believe your words, Micaiah, but I..." he paused, eyebrows coming together tightly in thought, "... I owe much to Izuka. He took me off the streets and reunited me with my mother. His widespread power and influence gathered me the strength I had before I met you. I count my blessings to have gained the strength you have offered me, Micaiah, but I would not even be a Prince were it not for him."

"I see."

Pelleas gaped for a brief moment before stuttering quietly, "You do?"

"You were alone," Micaiah explained, her grip on his shoulder softening before leaving entirely. "I understand."

"You do?" Pelleas repeated.

"Izuka gave you everything. He took your life on the streets and took away your loneliness." She took several steps toward the tent's opening, carefully keeping her eyes off of Pelleas. "You feel like you owe him, right? You do as he asks because he gave all of this to you."

Micaiah's mood immediately soured when all she met with was silence. She couldn't feel his eyes on her back and she couldn't see the way his mouth opened and closed uncertainly, or the way his entire body was shaking both from fear and excitement, growing more spastic with each second. She could feel only the tense air around them, speaking volumes of the many lines she had crossed in her foolishness. If only she hadn't allowed her emotions to get the better of her...

"Micaiah, you..." She heard Pelleas' voice quietly, quivering and she was certain he had meant to point out her transgression, right? Surely Izuka had told him of proper conduct between Prince and subordinate, after all.

"That was inappropriate," Micaiah said, willing herself to not look at the surely annoyed, surely critical face of her Prince. "I am sorry, Your Highness."

"Micaiah," Pelleas said again, softly, voice low and shaky, "you're amazing."

"... Amazing?" Micaiah asked, turning to face the clearly starstruck Prince skeptically.

"You read me perfectly; I can hide nothing from you!" Suddenly he was all smiles, ecstatic at this seemingly random revelation. "I knew I could trust such feelings with you, Micaiah."

"Hmm," Micaiah half-heartedly grunted, praying in some desperate way that this reliance upon her would not become a burden later. She didn't fancy the idea of hindering His Highness as Izuka seemed to.

The tension in the air seemed to grow ever thicker then. Pelleas looked rather embarrassed for having lost his cool for a moment, and while Micaiah agreed that seeing him so relaxed was preferable to the dire mess he'd been of late, the vision of him looking not unlike a child engraved in her mind bothered her immensely. And his nervous laughing, accompanied by a sheepish scratch to the back of the head every few seconds, didn't help that problem at all.

"I'm sorry, Micaiah. That was foolish of me." Pelleas sighed heavily and timidly ran his hands along the length of his robe, flattening the creases and ripples in the fabric. "My hands are sweating, too... A more pitiful man there is not, I fear."

"That is not true, Your Highness," Micaiah threw in a smile for good measure, but the lack of any response from Pelleas told her that the smile looked as forced to him as it felt to her. "It is as you have said; we are both in situations unlike what we are used to. It is perfectly natural to be unable to be wholly professional in our roles, right?"

"I suppose you are correct, Micaiah..." He turned toward the desk he had been sitting at, pulling one of the papers from it's rough surface and scanning it with his eyes. He held it toward Micaiah, saying, "This is the other reason I called you."

Micaiah took the paper suspiciously, turning it around in her hand so that she could properly read the beatifully written script. "Did you write this?" she asked, looking away from the paper to catch his eyes with her own.

"I did not create it, though I did document it. That writing is my own." He ignored her eyes as they uncertainly went from the paper to his eyes over and over again, pointing to the paper and urging gently, "Read."

Micaiah frowned as she obeyed, reading aloud, "'From the hand of Staff Officer Izuka's loyal informant, Geiss, with information pertaining to the movement of Western Crimea and her rebel mercenaries, the Greil Mercenaries, enemies to the recovering nation of Daein.' ... Must I read this? I mean you no insult, Your Highness, but I care not of their affairs or even if the rumors concerning them being in this country are true."

"Nor do I," Pelleas laughed, shaking his head. "This has nothing to do with them. But we must be aware that the threat to our land is there."

Micaiah sighed, though she did not disobey the silent order to continue reading. Once more, she read aloud, "'The Duke of the large region of Felirae in Western Crimea, Ludveck von Felirae, launched a decisive campaign in the name of securing and asserting Crimea's strength as a nation, leading her forces toward the border, where they suspected their treasonous mercenaries to be awaiting them. Over the past week the Greil Mercenaries and the Crimean army have engaged in two battles over Oribes Bridge, both of which ended with Crimea's troops wanting for morale and, in the case of the latter engagement, wanting for supplies. In the days following the mercenaries have fortified their position, protecting the villages along the border from the Crimean army, whom it is suspected would resort to pillaging and raiding if it suited their ends.'"

"Quite the story, is it not?" Pelleas sighed, taking the paper back and placing it on his desk. He took a few steps back and collapsed onto his bed, suspending himself by placing his hands flat upon the bed behind him. "Have you any information you can tell me of the mercenaries?"

"Only what Sothe has granted to me, Your Highness."

"Would you tell me?" Pelleas asked.

Micaiah paced from side to side, grasping the side of her head with her hand, feeling the bitter stinging sensation of an impending headache. "They were the heroes of the Mad King's War ---"

"--- That is common knowledge. Which is why I wish to know more of them," Pelleas stated, sighing. "I wish to know why they would defend the country they themselves brought to kneel."

"They are mercenaries," Micaiah suggested with a shrug. "Perhaps they are being paid to do so?"

"Izuka's agents are many, and nothing escapes their notice. If such a deal had been made, it would have been included in the report. Incidentally, they have been contracted by both a Begnion sage and a shadowy pilgrim, both of whom we have no information on, in order to protect the Daein poppulace from Begnion." Pelleas fell back as he brought a hand up to run through his hair. He frowned as he pulled on a single strand, thinking aloud, "But this does not explain marching to our defense at Oribes. So, I ask, what reason would they have to act of their own volition...?"

Those curious words were lost upon Micaiah, her eyes trained upon the bit of pale skin revealed by the sleeve of Pelleas' robe riding up his arm ever so slightly. A pitch black mark, with swirls of red and gray, is embeded in his skin there, glaring angrilly at any bold enough to hold their gaze. Such was it's strength that all previous thoughts of possibly chivalrous or outright righteous mercenaries, both thoughts contrary to her regular beliefs of them, were sent from her mind with an angry flick of the wrist. Micaiah felt a cold chill run up her spine just staring at it, as though something malevolent were returning her gaze. The same chill she felt when...

"... Micaiah? Why are you looking at me like that?" Pelleas intruded upon her thoughts suddenly, waving a hand in front of her face, concern taking form in his brows knitting together.

"That mark..." She pointed toward his wrist, eyes still glued to the spot even as he fumbled around, hastilly moving to cover the mark.

"It's nothing," he quickly said, stuttering over every syllable that left his mouth. "Mother assured me it was a sign of my lineage. Nothing more."

"But..."

"It is nothing to dwell upon, Micaiah."

Micaiah felt she should have disagreed that point to the end, but she restrained herself. Nodding mutely she took her leave, muttering a formal farewell quietly and leaving Pelleas to sigh sadly in her wake.

"She has the same mark, so why... why should I hide it?"

---

Mercenary work, rebel work. Really, what was the difference? Both had their values in the scheme of his goals, and neither were particularly bothersome... Definitely meritable pursuits.

This was what Tormod – or Little One – had told him a fortnight past, when the decision had been made to take a brief break from their unofficial spy work for Empress Sanaki and aid the Daein Liberation Army. Muarim had been restless with worry since, and had on several occasions tried – unsuccessfully – to persuade Little One otherwise. But he would not be swayed, confident that the high command in the army would receive Laguz, considering the fact that they had one amongst them. The fact remained that this one was seldom noticed in an army of several thousands, but Little One had waved it off, suddenly throwing in the argument that he wasn't an enthusiastic Laguz rights negotiator for nothing.

Bah. Little One could be careless when he got ideas of grandeur stuck in his head. Wise beyond his years he may be, but he still had that childish enthusiasm about him.

"So!" Tormod suddenly declared, pointing sharply toward the distant, hulking castle of Umono. It's walls were stained with blood even on the outside, clearly visible even from a distance. Muarim grunted with distaste as the putrid scent travelled up his far more aware nostrils, filling him with a familiar dull bloodlust that was not foreign to any Laguz of the Beast Tribes. The smell of corpses high up – probably in the sentry posts, Muarim noted – accompanied the putrid smell of lingering blood, drowning out the pleasant scent of soil and foliage that otherwise would have surrounded him.

"So?" Vika echoed skeptically, floating over Tormod and landing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. "What do you mean, 'so'?"

Tormod turned to Muarim, ignoring Vika's bemused outburst, "You think Sothe and his group are in there, Muarim?"

Muarim trained his senses upon those within the castle's desolate walls – why he needed to was beyond him, since Little One had plenty fine senses of his own and a great sense of intuition as well – and focused. He could definitely tell there was something going on, and two days' worth of observation told him this sort of action was out of the ordinary. He nodded, saying, "Most likely, Little One."

"Perfect!" Tormod cheered, digging into a small bag slung at his side and pulling out a few tomes. He slung the straps of the small bag over a branch hanging overhead, nodding in satisfaction when it seemed to camoflouge with the leaves strung around it. "It would be a shame if we came all this way and found he wasn't here."

"There are still prisoners here in need of help," Muarim replied, shrugging.

"That's right," Vika chimed, frowning. "You would have had us rushing to our deaths anyway."

Tormod laughed nervously, idly running a finger along the spine of one of his tomes, the other taking residence in the large pocket lining the inside of his fiery colored robe. "It's the right thing to do," he said simply, looking away as Vika smirked and Muarim chuckled softly.

"Little One will always be Little One," Muarim laughed, his face looking particularly odd, rough looking in every way save for an unconditional smile stretching his lips. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah!" Vika added, spreading her wings and giving them a couple flaps. Muarim could hear the muscles in her chest stretching comfortably as she flapped her wings, having previously grown tense with inaction. "If we twiddle our thumbs much longer," she sighed, "It won't matter if they really are here or not! They will all be dead!"

"No," Tormod waved a hand dismissively. "Sothe is far too difficult to kill. That guy just won't go down."

"He has a strong will," Muarim agreed.

"That's right," Tormod nodded. "That little guy would not die so quickly." Suddenly he turned toward the brief expanse of forest between them and the distant castle, placing one foot forward. "Keep up, you two!" He exclaimed, just before dashing forward with paces far too long and swift to be human, carrying him across the land nearly as fast as either Laguz could move in their morphed states.

Vika gaped silently while Muarim smiled fondly at his Little One's retreating form, saying, "I taught him well," quietly before shrinking down to all fours, his body covering with the oddly green fur of his morphed state, face contorting into the fearsome visage of a tiger. As he broke into a run as well, he vaguely noticed Vika's wings growing significantly as she too changed form. Battle cries – or oddly unique squak, in the case of the mercenary-esque raven behind him – roared from them both with a triumph not to be denied, eager for the animalistic fulfillment of a worthy kill that as to come.

---

Umono hadn't been a locale of particular interest to Sothe in the past. This may have come from the fact that it was a castle out of the general sphere of Begnion's influence in Daein and thus yielded little in the way of useful intel. Or maybe it was because it had become a massive prison for over three thousand Daein soldiers, one so fearsome that just about anyone proud – or unlucky – enough to be of Daein nationality cringed in fear of just it's name. It was a testament to Begnion's cruelty like no other, and it was now being invaded by those whom feared it most. There was no denying the raw fear welling up inside them at that moment.

He regretted his previous decision not to investigate it in the past. Not knowing anything beyond simply where the prison cells were – the basement, as could have been expected – was a burden on their mission he'd rather have a method of solving. As it stood, their plans were limited by that fact alone. How could they fight on foreign terrain with the tide turned against them? From a tactical perspective, it was all but hopeless.

But tactics weren't the only weapon they had. Micaiah stood next to him, confident as she'd ever been and ready for the daunting challenge before them. It was only a prison, after all. They had raided prisons before. Granted those prisons hard hardly been fortified the way this one had, but they had also been lacking the tremendous strength they now had backing them. Tauroneo would be keeping almost all of Begnion's strength directed at him. All they had to do was get in, replenish their numbers by drawing from the hopeful spirits of the imprisoned allies within, and get back out. It would be a boon if they could successfully occupy Umono, but that was not top priority.

No, top priority were their comrades. Everything hinged on their success in getting the prisoners to safety. Sothe commited to memory everything he saw; every nook, every cranny, just in case it might be required of him to have that small piece of information later. The halls of the secret passageway that, according to Tauroneo, would lead them straight to the prison level were dark and cold, seemingly devoid of anything except the eternally blazing torches that lined the walls on both sides. It had been simple enough to find once they had been directed to it, and Sothe had been fearing for some time now that Begnion would make use of the passageway to flank them. That would be a worst case scenario indeed.

On the plus side of the situation, it seemed there were no alternate pathways that could lead to this one. So long as they watched their backs, it would be no real trouble for them to ward off the danger of being attacked from behind. Their treck into the desolate prison seemed to be a singular route, with no route but the one through which they had traversed to worry over. And even then the worry about enemy reinforcements was minimal, given the fact that Tauroneo had many of them held at bay with a fierce assault on the castle head on. Certainly not the brightest ideas and quite possibly suicidal if the engagement were to be drawn out, but it had a certain usefulness. Namely, a usefulness in it's ability to keep the Dawn Brigade from meeting an untimely end in the dark gallows of Umono.

The trudging of footsteps across the stone tiling beneath them and the frequent puddles seemed to be the only breaches in a very tense silence. None dared to speak, for fear of losing their fragile calm. Ilyana was nearby reading one of her tomes, looking far too busy to look convincing. Behind her Nolan was admiring a relatively large bow almost lovingly – and was that a quiver on his back? Leonardo was beside him silently pointing out small things and then pointing to a book in his hands, presumably two related topics that were being discussed in complete silence. But the most disturbing event was in Edward's case. He was holding both of his swords in his hands, swinging them around occasionally, imitating fancy maneuvers and coming within a hair's breadth of actually hitting anyone. Adding insult to injury was Fiona standing beside the swordsman – Sothe took care in noting how close the two had quickly come to be, in case it became a relevant factor later – inspecting her lance and similarly swinging it about, presumably testing her ability to use it dismounted as she was. Sothe was actually beginning to fear that a miscalculated case of accidental backstabbing may be their undoing, rather than any tactical miscalculation on his part.

When they finally escaped the dreadfully long tunnel, complete with it's winding twists and steep slopes, they were left breathing almost raggedly. The prison level was bare for all to see, illuminated with tens upon tens of torches at varying points of elevation throughout the room. A flight of stairs not far ahead led to the cells themselves and the lower level was swarming with guards at rigid attention, watching for the slightest change. Sothe idly noted that they must have been very well drilled to have been able to maintain such focus when they were defending a place such as this. Their faces were grim, their red armor shimmering in the flickers of firey light and the shadows it cast. They looked ready to kill.

"I'll take Ilyana and Volug and toward the cells in the east," Sothe said after a quick assessment of their surroundings. They were crouched low in the shadows, hidden still from sight and waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Timing would be everything, Sothe knew as he watched the guards for any sign of a lapse in their focus. A changing in the guards on duty? A tiny sound elsewhere that would draw their attention away? Anything? "You take everyone else and head for the cells straight ahead."

"Be careful," Micaiah whispered in return. "And watch the entranceways in that area. I sense danger approaching, and quickly."

"Danger?"

"Not necessarily an enemy, but danger."

Sothe nodded, "I'll keep an eye out."

He returned his focus to the guards, watching for any sign. Something... and then one of them turned to walk away, murmuring something to those near him as he retreated. Three others soon followed suit. "Now," he hissed, taking off in a dash along the shadow, hearing the soft footsteps of Ilyana trailing behind moments later, followed by the sound of Volug's paws padding along the ground behind him. They were hidden from view until the last moment, watching the knight blocking their path intently. He was as focused as the rest of them, eyes scanning from side to side every few seconds. By the time he had noticed them, however, it was far too late. Sothe lunged out from the shadow and attacked, kicking aside the thrust of a lance with his foot before pressing his knife into the knight's throat. He staggered back and panted, offering the opening Volug needed to assault and finish him off, swiping at his gaping throat with two paws.

Behind him, he heard similar chaos breaking out. Cries of agony filled the air as Micaiah's surprise attack worked it's wonders. He could almost see her tearing someone apart with her scorching hot and blindingly bright magic, Aran decapitating someone with a skillful swipe of his lance or Nolan... lodging an arrow into someone's face. The latter still took him by surprise, but he dismissed the thought for the time being. If nothing else, Nolan's diversity would be a boon. Provided he was skilled with the bow and it didn't become a potentially fatal liability, of course.

Two swordsmen rushed them suddenly, appearing from around a corner with a flourish that took Sothe by surprise. He uttered a startled cry as he threw his knives up to block at the last possible second. The other had been tackled aside by Volug, fighting a desperate battle against the wolf from the ground. Volug snarled into his face just before tearing into the man's throat, killing him instantly. Sothe winced in near-sympathy when he saw the blood dripping from Volug's fangs, but he wasn't able to give it any more than that before he felt an elbow against his chest and he was being shoved back, forced onto the defensive as swing after swing came his way.

"Sothe!" Ilyana cried softly, almost worriedly. A moment later a large, heated bolt of lightning struck the swordsman, singeing his skin and forcing an agonized cry from the depths of his throat. Sothe followed up on that by pushing him aside with a swift kick from the right, simultaneously throwing a small dagger that stuck into his forehead, draining what remained of the life within him. Sothe panted slightly as he wiped small droplets of blood from his face while Volug and Ilyana rushed to his side, bothing catching their own breaths.

"Such... strength..." Sothe gasped, gazing frightfully at the swordsman laying dead at his feet. His nerves prickled as that simple gaze reminded him of the sheer desperation in his movements while he fought, the way he had to depend on everything he had just to avoid becoming a victim of that viciously powerful swordsman. "What has happened here? These are no ordinary soldiers..."

"They are... strong," Ilyana panted weakly. Her grip on the tome in her right hand was painfully tight, and her other hand's grip on her chest was just as tight. "I'm tired..."

"We will get a long rest when we are finished." Sothe straightened himself out, realizing belatedly that his sudden composure was compromised by his still heavy breathing, but he ignored the sharp feeling in his raw throat. His position demanded such composure and showing weakness, no matter what the reason, was unbecoming of a man in his position. "But these guys are very strong. If I didn't know better, I'd say they had been trained by the Black Knight himsel ---"

"--- This is ridiculous! You would almost think the Black Knight trained these guys!" A deep yet somehow childish voice interrupted him, followed by the distinctive sound of cackling flames and burning flesh. Sothe whipped around to face forward where Tormod was pressed against a wall, ducking and weaving around sword swings while trying to gain enough time to summon the focus required to retaliate. A black bird circled overhead before diving down at her prey, pecking at the swordsman's eyes. Tormod summersaulted away from his foe and spun around, firing a large fireball at his foe that immediately turned him into a smoldering pile of ash.

"Tormod?!" Sothe cried, rushing to his side as swiftly as he could, dodging around small puddles and rubble as he went. He belatedly noticed a soldier had been coming at his backside with an axe, only to be tossed aside and rended by Volug and his fearsome combination of claws and fangs. His focus was on Tormod, bent down and talking to the green tiger Sothe could recognize anywhere.

Slowly Tormod looked up, grinning and throwing a thumbs up in Sothe's direction, "Hey, Sothe. We thought you could use the help, so here we..." He paused, running his eyes across Sothe a second time before staring open mouthed at what he had expected to still be the small child he had once dwarfed. "You grew!"

"Y-yeah...?" Sothe responded uncertainly, raising an eyebrow.

"You're too tall!" Tormod cried, pointing a finger accusingly at Sothe, and then himself. "Where did the little Sothe from the Mad King's War go?"

"He... grew?"

"Traitor!"

"... Traitor?" Sothe asked skeptically.

"I come here of my own good will, looking to aid a comrade-in-arms! A fellow short comrade-in-arms! You betrayed me!"

"I see." Sothe rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand, flipping a knife up and down in the other. "In any case, if you're here looking to help, I could use the manpower. We are severely shorthanded as it is."

"No problem there, Sothe!" Tormod chirped with a grin, running his fingers along the spine of the fire tome in his hand fondly. Overhead Vika let out a squak that sounded almost suspiciously like a snort, warped in her inability to make such a sound in her transformed state. "We have other friends watching our back elsewhere as well, so you can rest assured that this fight is all us."

"Ike?" Sothe asked.

"But of course. The stubborn idiot is at Oribes, fighting off an army of thirty thousand." Tormod ignored the way Sothe gaped in astonishment and surprise, snorting in disbelief of the tale he was telling, "If I didn't know Ike could handle dozens and not break a sweat, and many more should he be wielding Ragnell, I'd say the guy has a deathwish. As it turns out, he's kept them off Daein soil for a week though. He's got guts."

"Hmm," Sothe grunted, turning around. "If we are done reminicing, I would love the help taking out these stubborn idiots. Too strong and willful for their own good."

"You're telling me," Tormod muttered under his breath. "Well, whatever. If it's added muscle you need, I'd be glad to lend a hand. Lead the way!"

---

"The nerve of that wench! Did she not know whom she was speaking to?!" Yeardley exclaimed bitterly, throwing his arms into the air in exasperation. "'By the order of Her Majesty Elincia Rydell Crimea, Duke Felirae and Crimea's forces are to withdraw from the frontlines forthwith. If this order is not being carried out within a fortnight it will be considered an act of treason, by which Sir Ludveck von Felirae will be arrested and judged accordingly'... Bah! Her Majesty's Royal Knights have grown more bold of late."

Ludveck strode a pace in front of him, shrugging nonchalantly while he oversaw the process of packing away their belongings for the long trip home to Melior that was to be started upon by the sun's setting. "Geoffrey grows all the more bold now that he thinks he has the upper hand on us, indeed."

"Should we not put him in his place? Letting him run so freely is," Yeardley coughed, rubbing idly at his shoulder, "dangerous, among other things, is it not?"

"Not particularly so," Ludveck replied. He tilted his head back to look at Yeardley with a smile as feral as one with a naturally aristocratic appearance such as he could manage. "The Royal Knights have their uses as the bold dogs of Queen Elincia's court, after all. They will become her backbone, and we will be all the more free to run because of it."

"More and more of the court are growing suspicious of you," Yeardley noted with a scowl. "If we do not make ourselves more trustworthy, we will lose our position amongst the aristocracy, and the entirety of the plan shall suffer from that."

Again Ludveck shrugged, content with looking entirely uncaring of what, to Yeardley, was a situation of the most dire importance. Or did he no longer care for the plan? "A setback and nothing more. At this time, we cannot expect to hold all the cards; we would be but daft fools to hope for that. But we can hold the more useful cards. And that, when all comes to pass, will be the deciding factor."

"And that is what the Greil Mercenaries are? A useful card?"

"As fate would have it, they are the Queen's card." Dismay was evident Ludveck's expression then, a true sense of uncertainty pervading all certainty that defined the imposing Ludveck von Felirae. He quickly covered it up. "But no matter. The Queen may try to make use of them, but they are her enemies as much as they are our own. Neither side can use them, it would seem."

"Making them a pest; wasps we need only swat at and tell to leave us be."

Ludveck laughed uproarously, throwing his head back and letting the booming sound of his voice echo through the air. "If only it were so simple!" he laughed, shaking his head. "They, I fear, are more thorns than pests. Persistent thorns that refuse to be plucked, at that."

"By the time the knaives decide to come for us, it will be all too late," Yeardley added gleefully.

"So long as we act soon," Ludveck concluded. "Using Daein's strife should suffice. With Crimea's eye on their former enemy, they will spare not a glance for their own. Then we strike at the heart at reap what is our right."

"And depose of that wretched excuse of a sovereign that had the throne handed to her by birth."

"Well, while the throne does need one worthy of it's power, with decisive swiftness and a ruthless hand," Ludveck ran a hand through his hair, "I'll not judge our Queen on this account. She is improving, if nothing else, to be able to go against my decision like this."

"She will only grow more independant later. But she will never deserve the throne."

Ludveck nodded. "It is as you say, friend."

"And when all is said and done, we shall have power incarnate." Yeardley crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his hands up and down his forearms, desperately warming the cold flesh, victimized as it was by the brisk early morning air. It didn't help that they had been suffering from an inexplicable spell of rainfall since late the night before, giving the air the additional coldness of lingering rain and it's unmistakable scent in the air. "You shall be King and I shall be your right hand, so long as you remember our promise."

The look that Ludveck gave his subordinate was perfectly calculating, immaculate and without any emotion, showing everything his heart held at the same time. "I shall not forget. Live to see this end, and I will make you as my right hand. Any less is undeserving of you."

---

"... Finally."

Zihark was panting next to him, fighting to gain whatever breath he'd lost in the throng of fighting, deprived of even a moment's reprieve for what had been at least four hours. Which wasn't bad, Tauroneo mused, considering the fact that the fight within the prison would have been every bit as savage as the one outside it had been. Just who had trained these guys? They were many times better than Begnion soildiers they had fought anywhere else, and there was something... almost familiar about their style, Tauroneo reluctantly admitted. The way their every move was perfectly calculated, the way their motions were made with the next two motions already planned, the way they always seemed to be far ahead of you and reading your every move perfectly... it was all too familiar.

And Tauroneo was not surprised to admit only one foe he had ever fought had such a distinction. And the worst part was, the foe in question hadn't even been one he himself fought. But the troops he commanded... they had fought with that same knowing style. There was no mistaking that similarity. But making the connection was impossible, with that hulking wall called death making the connection impossible. Indeed, the Black Knight had seen his last morn at Nados three years ago, felled by the hand of General Ike. Which meant the likelihood of the intrepid knight, for all his luck with the mistress of death, being behind the meticulous and immaculate training of these dastardly soldiers was not a likely prospect. Unless that blasted powder of his had saved him from the collapse of Nados...

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Zihark's still raspy voice intruded without warning upon Tauroneo's thoughts, knowing and only mildly surprised as it was. Sear the man for being so perfectly indifferent.

"These men were not trained by any of Begnion's agents," Tauroneo huffed, wincing as he tried to step with his right leg, realizing the extent of the damage to his leg all too late. These soldiers, trained as they were, had seemed to have no trouble realizing that the legs were Tauroneo's weak point and that they were slightly less protected than the rest of his body. This had made them a frequent target for swords, lances and axes. A few arrows as well, he recalled with fond remembrance. The small gaping holes in his legs were a relatively bitter reminder of the arrows his legs had fallen victim to, indeed. Tracking down Laura and asking her to take a look at his legs would likely be a good idea, lest he risk permanent injury to limbs he yet had much use for. He wasn't yet ready to retire to an old cottage in the wilderness, where having functionable legs was more of a luxury rather than a necessity.

"Who's to say the Black Knight wasn't an agent of Begnion all along?" Zihark asked knowingly, idly kicking aside a particularly greusome looking corpse at his feet. His eyes followed the rolling corpse with what almost seemed like the most marginal hint of sympathy, but as soon as the look had come, so had it gone. "The dastard, I imagine, wouldn't be beyond such things."

"And he wielded the sacred Alondite," Tauroneo added. He didn't bother to add that the notion of the Black Knight being an agent of Begnion was absolutely ludicrous. Perhaps because he himself couldn't completely dismiss the theory.

"He was an enigma, alright," Sothe cut in rather rudely, breaking free of a group of soldiers huddled against a wall, doing something that looked only vaguely like celebrating. "You guys had the same feeling I did?"

There was something about the way Sothe carried himself that made Tauroneo immediately turn to Zihark, eyeing the man silently and with shameless criticism for a long, drawn out few seconds. Zihark couldn't have fled faster if he had tried, muttering some sort of mixed greeting and farewell to Sothe in passing that was innevitably carried away by the wind, lost en route to the boy's ears. "You didn't come here to note that our foes are the spawn of Daein's late demon," Tauroneo said firmly, his eyes turning to meet Sothe's even as his body remained completely still. "Micaiah had you checking the unoccupied rooms for supplies, right?"

"So you know what I found," Sothe said carefully, hesitantly, holding up a parchment stained with both blood and the black ink with which it had been wrote. "Why did you not tell us?"

"Was it imperative that I did so?" Even for all of his soldier's training in being perfectly detached and emotionless when the need for such detachment came, Tauroneo had to fight with himself to keep his voice perfectly even and his face devoid of emotion. The effort was a foolish endeavor in the end, for he could tell immediately that Sothe saw the turmoil going on within the depths of his heart.

Sothe nodded solemnly instead, poorly hiding his knowledge behind a calculated look of mild admonishment, with narrowed eyes and an almost wry smile. "It would have been appreciated, yes."

"Would you have said anything?" Tauroneo shot back, feeling like a daft fool for saying anything of the sort.

Regardless, it had the desired result. Sothe's bitter expression melted into a perplexed frown, considering the question in his own mind. The wind's howling, louder than ever as it whistled it's way between gaps in stones and through the open doorway in which they stood, was the only sound for many long seconds. Even the soldiers still crowded about in their oddly timed glee seemed to silence, though that could just as easily have been due to the fact that both men were focused entirely on the other, like two Laguz watching one another critically in the midst of a heated battle. The tenseness of the situation between them seemed to agree with that thought.

At last Sothe spoke, punctuating his words with a thoughtful sigh, as if he had granted the question far more thought than he had, "If it would have helped us, I would have."

"You speak so calmly, yet you know not the true horrors of this place." Tauroneo's calm shattered around him as he stared hard at Sothe, revealing to him mentally months of torment and suffering beyond even the greatest physical torture. The raw pain that he felt simply thinking of the despairing events of times past seemed to crash into Sothe all too quickly, and he immediately looking apologetic, like he'd mistakenly transgressed upon some sort of territory that was taboo to even think of. No, giving Umono such a distinction would be far too fortunate.

"My apologies," Sothe muttered dismally, wincing as though expecting some form of retaliation the moment the words left his mouth. When he received none, why he had thought he would at all bewildering Tauroneo all the while, he pressed on, albeit reluctantly, "No man is deserving of the sort of torture this monstrocity yields. For suffering a year of it, you..." he sighed, hanging his head. "I wasn't thinking."

"You were thinking as a man of your position should," Tauroneo smiled very faintly, but it was a genuine gesture all the same. "On the eve of our victory in Melior, I was accosted."

"... What?"

"General Zelgius' arrival in the capital was for more than congratulatory purposes," Tauroneo explained, voice soft as could be, yet as emotionally imbued as it had ever been. "I, along with many other Daein soldiers that had joined by my side, were taken prisoner in secret and transfered to Umono, under the guise of a higher order from the Senate demanding security."

"How could they?!" Sothe cried. "You were their ally! Their comrade!"

"I was from Daein," Tauroneo interjected gruffly. "I was a high ranking General in Daein's army. Their logic was, 'If he is of Daein descent, surely he must have rebellious intent.' I was imprisoned to make sure I would pose them no problem later."

"I take it the Apostle knew nothing of this horror." Sothe gave Tauroneo a strange look, unreadable save for an almost accusatory glint. "... It was the Senate's work, was it not?"

"Aye, that it was," Tauroneo nodded, folding his hands together behind his back and replacing the emotionless mask over his face. "But the Apostle knew of it. In the wake of Daein's occupation, however, it's administration was immediately delegated to the Senate. She was helpless in the matter."

"And yet she suspects nothing of the horrors this country faces now?" Skepticism was all but dripping from the corners of Sothe's mouth as he spoke, clearly seething with an as of yet denied rage.

Tauroneo shook his head slowly, nodding in the general direction of where black wings could be seen in the midst of a crowd. "I believe the young sage would know of Begnion's political state better than I could hope to guess."

"Actually, I'm over here," Tormod quipped, mysteriously stepping out from behind Sothe, having foregone his dramatically large robe in favor of the tight fitting clothing that lay beneath, obnoxiously orange as they were. "Right now, Empress Sanaki is suspicious at best. I have informed her of the situation, but she needs solid evidence before she is allowed to place her own hand into the matter."

"You are taking care of everything from the shadows, aren't you?" Tauroneo laughed suddenly, having apparently abandoned the previous seriousness of the topic that had previously been at hand.

"I'm trying," Tormod grinned, shamelessly looking as arrogant as he'd always managed to be. This time, Tauroneo noticed, his arrogance was well founded. Just looking at the boy, he could tell Tormod had a strength and knowledge that belied his age by many a year. His eyes were a wellspring of knowledge, dancing with a haughty holier-than-thou arrogance that demanded respect. And respect it Tauroneo did.

"What about Sigrun?" Sothe asked suddenly, if a little impatiently. "Or Tanith? Surely they would have at least confirmed some form of suspicions..."

"The Senate is keeping a close eye on just about every ally Sanaki has," Tormod replied. "It's a shame, too. Last I saw of her, Tanith was about ready to take the fight to the Senate herself. Ah, few have the sort of temper she does."

"She is levelheaded enough to know better of such an idea, though," Tauroneo added, laughter dancing in his narrowed eyes.

"And if she wasn't," Sothe said, with what seemed to be a lifetime of eerily calm composure shattering as he laughed lightly, "Sigrun would never have stood for it anyway. She is far too loyal for Tanith's own good."

"In this case, that loyalty is a boon," Tormod sighed almost longingly, looking skyward. "How I miss those days, you know?"

"What days?" Sothe asked, looking completely certain of what the boy meant regardless.

"Tanith yelling at anything that moved, Soren killing us with his eyes, Ranulf laughing at every mishap thrown our way..." His voice trailed off momentarily while he continued to look away, remembering times past that would forever be embedded into his memory. "They were dark days, but the days with Ike's Liberation Army were some of my fondest memories."

"As I recall, Sothe was still a thief in those days," Tauroneo laughed, throwing an arm around Sothe's shoulders and fondly pulling him in against the hulking armor that covered his chest, muffling Sothe's outraged protests with his breastplate. "And if that memory serves me as well as I like to think, the dastardly sneaky fool nearly robbed me blind more times than I can count."

"Even after Ike tried to, 'Lead him down a better path.'"

Sothe pushed away from Tauroneo almost too forcefully, cheeks tinged an awful pink both from the effort of that simple action and from the embarrassment of their words. "It was... a work in progress."

"And he returned the five hundred gold I didn't know he'd stolen when the war ended," Tormod added with a laugh.

"I still wonder how you stole Nephenee's lances and sold them..." Tauroneo paused long enough to shake his head mournfully, "... and then take the money to Ike and tell him that you'd found it lying around and thought better of keeping it for yourself."

"And then when Nephenee came to Ike pointing out that she'd been shorthanded in battle, the money had then been used to buy her a few new lances." Tormod quickly found his head stuffed beneath Sothe's arm in a rather forceful headlock, though all he could do as Sothe cried out scandalized obscenities was laugh.

It was all part of a display of friendly strife that could only have existed between oddly assorted friends such as they. As Micaiah watched this new and very desireable Sothe from a distance, Muarim standing at her side similarly watching his Little One, there was no denying the motherly pride welling up in her. "That Sothe... The Sothe that can laugh and play... he looks happy."

"Perhaps it is because of Little One," Muarim commented distantly, smiling fondly at the display unfolding. "Little One is just... Little One. He is always cheerful, but happy... now he is happy."

Micaiah nodded almost out of obligation. "It has been long since I have seen Sothe smile like that. Too long, it seems."

"You love him," Muarim stated, a knowing glint in his eye that stopped Micaiah from protesting as she thought she would have.

"... I do. I've watched over him for so long, being his guardian, mother... friend. He has always tried to be more grown-up than those around him, to be stronger, to prove to everyone... to prove to me. I have long been his mother, try as he might to make me see him otherwise. Seeing him so happy, smiling so easily..."

"Watch what you say," Muarim admonished softly, without any edge to his voice. "Mothers as young as you look do not exist."

---

I was planning to add a little bit more that would serve as a premise for the beginning of the next chapter, but I decided, albeit belatedly, that the ending I have here was too perfect to be ignored. So there we are. This might make things a tiny bit confusing for next chapter, if only because things will have to kick off and conclude all at once, but we'll see how that goes. Knowing my luck with writing motivation, it will be some time before we have to find out.