As the name infers, this is indeed, the end. Thats it. It's done. Tada.

It's been great you guys, I hope you've enjoyed the process as much as I have. And I hope you stay with me for my further works. I love each and every one of you ;A;. And, if you havent looked at my other dramas: Aimaru and He Smiles For Her, go look. Or perhaps my comedies: Fluff and Stuff, and One Word.

I'm going to admit it, I've never had so much trouble writing ANYTHING like I did this. I hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and review. I mean, it's the last chapter people! This is epic in some way (just trust me on this), so you DEFIANTLY want to be a part of this, right? RIGHT?

So, review. :D

It was about this time that Soren first began to stash his food back into the cupboard without Ike's notice. His hope was that perhaps the swordsman would live long enough to make it home, even if Soren died. It didn't really cross his mind that perhaps Ike wouldn't want to live if Soren died, he had always thought that was something he alone felt.

The lack of food would have killed a normal man in a week, but Soren was persistent and stubborn; refusing to accept death until it forced its untimely way through the door and dragged him out by force.

With renewed energy he poured over textbooks in an effort to translate the words Celeste had left behind. The work was slow, but with every step forward the mage's hope was once again renewed; his mind always returning to the words Ike had left in his journal for hope.

So much was his mind upon the task at hand that he neglected duties that he would have otherwise taken care of, such as cleaning and food preparation. Ike didn't seem to mind at all, granted that Soren was his to do with as he pleased after sunset.

And Soren didn't mind that at all either.

Even so, he could see the changes in the swordsman. His face was white, whereas it had once always been tan from sun exposure. His movements were sluggish at best. He tried to put on a smile whenever he noticed Soren looking in his direction, but the mage could see the weariness beneath. He was dying. They were both dying.

Soren, too, had changed. His body was thin, thinner than usual. Amber eyes were dull and lifeless, sparked only by the appearance of Ike or an advancement in his translation efforts. He had begun to leave his hair down as of late, so that it flowed around his shoulders and down his back. On multiple occasions he had thought about cutting it, but when he had voiced the thought to Ike the man had been quick to oppose. Apparently the swordsman liked Soren's hair long.

Days and days passed, until the two mercenaries lost track of all time. Soon enough they were barely even leaving bed, letting the boat float untracked in hope that perhaps it would take them home of its own accord. Soren rose only to go to his desk and pull out his books, Ike only to get food or occasionally train. Then thye'd both fall asleep in eachother's arms, too tired to do anything else. It was at this time that this entry was written in the diary:

Day:

It's funny. Until death stares you in the face, you really don't think about your life much. Funny; in an annoying, stupid, hopeless way.

The food won't last much longer. I've been stashing my meals back into the food cupboard without him knowing. That way maybe he'll live. It's a foolish hope I know, but how can I rob him of his life just to save my own?

Now that I look at my own thoughts written out on paper, I realize what a foolish plan it was. He knows, I'm sure. And I won't be able to last much longer without food. Not that I'll last with food anyways. I know that this was my fault, in the end. I'm the tactician; I should have seen this coming. Perhaps if we had…

No. Looking back on the past will do us no good now. All I can hope is that one day someone finds this book, so that they can know about the best journey of my life. And the last.

If this is the last entry in here, so be it. I don't fear death, not mine at least. If I could take everything I've accounted here back; I wouldn't.

I regret nothing.

Soren.

Tactician and Mage of the Greil Mercenaries.

Heralding from Crimea, on the continent of Tellius.

And then he blew out the candle next to him and crawled into bed with Ike. The swordsman breathing was slow, almost labored. Soren snuggled into him, but it elicited no response from the already asleep mercenary.

And then the next day came. Soren crawled out of bed like on any other day and began to work. He had gotten so far, just a little more and he'd be able to piece together just what Sumenarisu Futoramon meant. Just a little more. When lunch (or what he thought was probably lunch) time came around, Ike still hadn't risen. In an effort to avoid arousing him, Soren prepared some of the food himself. It was at that time that the mage realized he wasn't the only one stashing food; it seemed neither of them had eaten in more than a week.

It looked like their selfishness would be their end.

"Ike?" Soren voiced as he reentered the room. Setting the plate on the edge of the cot and shaking the swordsman's shoulder gently. "Ike?" But Ike didn't wake up. A quick check for a pulse told Soren everything.

He made his way back to table and sat down, beginning his work once more. It was all he could do to to keep sane. If he stopped and thought about the realization that had just been made, he'd go mad right here. And, even in his dying days, he was too stubborn to let himself break down.

After what seemed like a lifetime the mage sat back, reading aloud the words he almost didn't believe he had managed to write.

Sumenarisu Futoramon:

An illness in which a laguz's body is unable to transform, leaving them vulnerable in their human form. Unable to hunt or fight, laguz with Sumenarisu Futoramon often die within the first 30 years of their life. More recently there have been cases of elder Laguz with this condition, taken care of in a community where the others hunt and fight for him/her.

Sumenarisu Futoramon also weakens a Laguz's immune system, making them prone to sickness.

So, that was the story. That was why Celeste carried knives; why she fell so dangerously ill. "I figured it out," his voice was weak.

"Ike… I figured it out…"

And then his pen fell from his limp hand.

THE END.