This is REALLY overdue. Sorry guys. So, hopefully it'll be wrapped up in one or two more chapters. We'll see.

Im a little tired and out of it right now, sorry, I dont really know what else to say.

Actually, I do.

REVIEW.

Seriously. It makes me warm and fuzzy.

Day:

I'm used to being stuck in a building all day. How many times have I spent sunrise to sunset pouring over books in the small library at our home fort? Yet this time it is different. I have no magic books to occupy my time with; all I can do is read over that which I have already memorized in a hope to relieve some of my boredom.

Cleaning is another task I find gives purpose to my days; Ike rarely does so after himself. I don't complain, as Mist once often had to. My nights are spent with Ike, there's a comfort to falling asleep in his arms, I must admit. Other than that, writing in this diary is the only thing that gives me joy.

We've lost sight of all land, any land, anything. We are lost, and our compass has been deemed worthless; I wonder if the Goddess is playing some sort of cruel trick on us. You would think she'd be more grateful to the person who fought for her. Goes to show why you should never trust people; even Goddesses.

I noticed that we're beginning to use up our food, it was something I expected. Ike has taken it upon himself to become a fisherman; there was a fishing pole and line in the emergency kit; but no bait, sad to say. I've heard tale of fishermen using their own flesh as such; but have no plans to test that theory.

I've lost track of the date, an annoying fact. I can blame it on the lack of sun beyond clouded grey skies, but in the end I know it's due to my own sloppiness. I can feel my will for life fading. We won't make it out alive anyways, so why does it matter?

At least he's by my side.

Soren.

The diary was shoved into the drawer with little care, it's owner running his hands through the tangles in his ebony hair. As of late he had let himself go, but physical appearance was never something Soren could reject. Something deep within him told him to always look his best; or perhaps it was just for Ike's sake he was doing it. He didn't even know his own mind these days.

That was partly due to lack of food; he and Ike had been rationing, only eating as little as they could, when they had to. It made even Soren's usually sharp mind clouded with exhaustion. He tried to do things to keep him occupied, but found there was little to do on their ship. Today he had planned to clean Celeste's old room.

Hands fumbled through the drawers of the bunker Celeste had once called her own. At one point the mage would have been able to go through these things without leaving a trace of his presence; but now he pushed papers and books aside with little care.

His fingers bumped a small wooden box, and he pulled it out to inspect. On it was engraved a wing, proof that this had most likely belonged to the hawk laguz. A part of him said that he should let it be; it wasn't his. The other, logical (and slightly curious), part said that Celeste was dead, and the dead didn't really care who went through their personal belongings. That part of him won out, and Soren cracked the lid of the wooden box open just enough to peek inside. The mage let out a sharp intake of breath as a piece of parchment popped out, having been able to barely fit, and drifted to the floor.

For a long moment Soren simply stared at the yellowing paper; then, slowly, his thin hand reached down and touched it, as if he thought it might bite at him. When nothing of the sort happened, he grasped it and lifted it back up, unfolding the creases one by one until it lay sprawled out before him.

On the paper was written a single sentence.

There is no cure for your condition; I'm sorry.

Soren's brows creased, condition? What was it referring to? There was no addressee or addresser, and all the parchment held was that single sentence; so why had it been tucked away in the beautiful wooden box like a piece of treasure? In hopes of an answer, Soren turned back to the box, searching its contents. He found a dried flower, a kind he had never seen before but could only guess was native to Phoenicis, a piece of what looked like a tooth from some wild beast, and another, small, piece of parchment.

Sumenarisu Futoramon

Two words, scribed in the old tongue. Soren had no idea what they meant. Regardless of his studies, the mage knew very little of that language, though all of his spell books were written in it. The most he could do was read it; but not understand. Thinking it important, and with no other outlet to use his genius mind on, he pocketed the paper for further study.

It would give him something to do.

A few more hours were passed in this fashion, and all Soren got for his efforts was another book written in the old tongue. He recognized the words Sumenarisu Futoramon, and stubbornly set his mind to translating and understanding it's meaning.

For three days he poured over that book, stopping only for Ike, food, and rest. For three days his journal went untouched; mind too exhausted to write anything every night. And then, after three days, a surprising entry was leaked onto the page.

Day:

I give up.

No other explanation was left, only that sentence, the single sentence which his mind could piece together enough to write. Not even so much as a signature left at the bottom, the mage closed the diary and left it on the table, for the world (in other words, Ike) to see. And then, tired, grumpy, and at a loss, he crawled into bed.

The next day was spent returning to his old habit of cleaning. He cleared out the kitchen, washed the dishes, and swept the floor. After that he took a nap, feeling rather exhausted from the past few day's work, only to wake up to a darkened cabin with Ike already asleep next to him. There was a candlelight flickering on his desk, a plate of food laying next to it. Dinner tonight was stale bread and some water. A prisoner's meal. But it was food, and Soren gulfed it down hungrily. Next his attention turned to his diary, which was, as he had left it, on the table in clear sight.

After taking a seat and wetting his pen, the mage opened to the page which should hold his next entry, only to find it already written on. The scrawl was untidy and rough, but it brought a bit of a smile to Soren's lips.

You? Give up? Hah. You're way too stubborn for that; I know you'll figure it out.

There was no signature, but there didn't need to be; there was only one person it could have been. At one time, the realization that Ike had read his personal thoughts would have angered and embarrassed him (not that he would have admitted the latter); but now the mage couldn't really find the will to care. All the same, the words sparked some sort of life to him, and he found himself writing underneath the entry:

Thank you, Ike.

And with that he shut the diary and pulled out Celeste's book.

Never again was that diary hidden from sight.