A/N: I write third-person Oscar the exact same way I write Rhys (though differently than when I write them in first person), and I don't knowwhy that bothers me so much.
Hrm. This is getting super long and depressing (partly because a Kieran-less Oscar is almost sadder than an Ike-less Soren), so if you're starting to feel too bored, go search "Manifestation" on DeviantArt. The artist you're looking for, keiiii, loves Soren at least as much as I do.
~~ Chapter Three: Beginning a Journey ~~
As grieved as all the Mercenaries were upon their departure—Mist, in particular, had locked herself in her room—Oscar sensed that there was also a certain amount of relief from some when he and Soren headed south. His own chest ached awfully as he saw the base fade into the distance. It wouldn't be the last time he saw it, of course: Elincia and Geoffrey were more than generous when it came to giving the Royal Knights personal leave.
But he knew he wouldn't be back as often. The group's dynamic was dying. Titania was already beginning to doubt her ability to lead them, and while most of the mercenaries implicitly trusted her, there were others who were beginning to wonder if simply helping people was enough.
Oscar winced as he recalled the conversation with his little brother. "As if I need to bring up Shinon again," Rolf had said grumpily, toying with the fletches of an arrow. He hadn't been able to look Oscar in the eye. "He's doing the same thing he did back when Commander Greil was killed. Gatrie might not go with him this time, but then again…" Rolf hadn't finished, but even though Oscar had only stayed at the base for two days, he already knew.
No one but Shinon really had any ulterior motives for wanting to leave. But Gatrie was… well, he was dumb enough to believe Shinon. (Again.) And Oscar could see Mia not coming for her monthly visit, or Zihark ceasing to stop by every once in a while on his way from Melior to Gallia. Rhys had set up a little school for teaching healers, Rolf had a class of archery students.
If he himself weren't so fanatically attached to what Mist called the Family, the Mercenaries who had been around when Greil died, Oscar wouldn't come to visit, either. He had no other need to keep torturing himself.
The rain pounded down on them now, as if in retribution for Oscar's traitorous thoughts. He glanced over at his silent traveling companion, wrapped in so many layers of robes that little more than the tip of a nose was visible. Oscar had his own cloak thrown over his head, so the sounds of the horses were muffled.
He was grateful for the rain, which made it impossible to speak. So many questions trembled on his lips that he'd had to bite his tongue more than once already. He didn't even know when Soren would be leaving him: when Oscar had said he was heading towards a settlement near the forest border, on the edge of Gallia, the tactician had simply asked to come along.
The generally unpleasant atmosphere, too, let him keep an eye on Soren without overtly watching. Oscar knew that thanks to years of training, he himself could ride for days on only a few hours' sleep. But prior mercenary campaigns were enough to know that the high-strung tactician's health was average at best, and he suspected that Soren, suffering not only from loss of blood but probably also simple heartbreak, was much weaker than he would ever admit.
If Oscar had been accompanied by a third companion—his heart ached again for the ability to josh with a fellow Royal Knight—he might have been surreptitiously placing a bet on how long it would take Soren to simply fall right off the horse. It should be happening anytime now: they'd left their last camp early in the morning and had only stopped briefly to lunch.
He sighed, resigned. After six days of travel, they were almost to the settlement, and he would get at least half of an answer. His own recruitment mission was all or nothing. If the former knight decided to accede, then Oscar would be in luck, and could return to Melior immediately. If not, well… maybe he could send a message to Melior, and ask for a few days' leave to go with Soren. More than anything, Oscar was filled with an uncharacteristic burning curiosity.
The rain slackened after a few miles, just as the sun was beginning to set. Oscar turned his face west, the pitiful autumn rays nevertheless glorious after a whole day of gloom.
"The settlement is just over that hill," he said, more to reassure himself than because he thought Soren didn't know. The trees rustled what few leaves they had left, and Oscar caught the scent of cornstalks in a nearby field: it was almost euphoric.
"All right," said Soren's quiet voice from under the thick cloak, surprising Oscar. Perhaps he really hadn't known where they were.
A very short ride over the top of the hill brought them into a quaint little town, emancipated from the local mesne only a few years before. Oscar had been here before, but it had been when the lord still ruled from a nearby manor. The lieutenant he had been assigned to re-recruit was actually one of his former Royal Knight companions: he wasn't looking forward to speaking with the woman again. He'd only made it to the rank of captain, due to leaving the Knights and his stint in the Mercenaries, and she was sure to ask snidely what had gone wrong.
"Let's stop at the blacksmith's, and then I'll see about finding the person I'm here to speak with," he said, again expecting no answer from Soren.
The tactician didn't speak, but pulled back the hood concealing his face. As usual, the fine-cut brows were furrowed on Soren's pallid face, expressing a perpetual disappointment with the intelligence of the world at large. He gave a simple, curt nod; Oscar mentally sighed.
A few townspeople looked up interestedly as they reined in before the blacksmith's shop. Vaulting off his mount, Oscar led her up to the smith. "Any chance I can get our horses shod before tomorrow morning or so?" he asked.
The man, rough-cut but friendly enough beneath a fluffy beard, scratched his head and shrugged, gesturing around. "Well, sure. Not really the season for travelers. Goin' a long way?"
The last comment had obviously been tacked on just for friendly conversation. "Back to Melior tomorrow, is the plan," Oscar answered, watching as the smith expertly maneuvered his horse's leg to check the shoe, patting and gently coaxing the mare. "Is there an inn here, or should we plan to camp out for the night?"
There was a pause as the smith took one last look at the horseshoe, then lowered the horse's leg once more. "That's a good gal." Then he turned to Oscar. "Nope, Andros down the way runs a little inn. Might be a little rougher than you're used to, but for a couple gold you can get a room and dinner."
"Sounds good to me," Oscar said, feeling a sort of relief. He had assumed that, as with his journey here many years before, there was no inn, and that he would be sleeping in a tent. Or, worse yet, on the former lieutenant's floor.
He was just about to open his mouth and reluctantly ask the blacksmith if he knew a Juliana who lived in town, when the man yelped, "Whoa! Look out!" Oscar turned just in time to throw up his arms and catch Soren as he slid off the horse.
They both crashed to the muddy ground; Oscar's horse neighed and skittered. For a panicked moment he thought that she might trample his face, but she shied away, prancing in distress.
"Yow! You two all right?" the blacksmith asked, bending over with one rough hand extended. Oscar, all the wind knocked out of him, grabbed the hand and yanked himself upright. Soren was rather small, but Oscar was wearing all of his armor, and the chest plate felt like it was crushing his ribs.
After a moment, he managed to wheeze out, "Thanks… I'm… all right. Soren, what the…" It was no use even getting angry: the tactician's features were slack and uncharacteristically soft in unconsciousness. Oscar wished he'd had someone to make that bet with.
He looked up at the blacksmith. "He's, er… not been well. Guess I'd better go find that inn."
"Ayuh," the man said, obviously interested. He turned his head toward the forge, and shouted, "Hey, Talo!" Facing Oscar once more, the blacksmith explained, "My apprentice'll help you carry him there."
"Oh, you don't have to—"
"Nah, it's no problem. Thing is," the blacksmith explained, leaning close and confidential, "it's been a long year since we've had any real Royal Knights come by, and I'm bettin' Andros will be glad to have you. We're glad to see the Royal Family still keeps tabs on our little backwater village."
Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, almost touched beyond words. When was the last time his service to the Knights had been really appreciated? "I… well, thank you," he said, wincing as the apprentice roughly threw Soren's limp form over his shoulder. "The queen is concerned about all her people."
The man clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to know."
Three hours later, Oscar was blissfully warm and dry, stretched out in an armchair before the fire, boots up on the fender; he glanced over at the bed, feeling vaguely ill, but merely sighed and forced himself to think of something else.
Not that there was much else to think of. His negotiations—if such a pitiful twenty minutes could even be called that—had failed dismally. The former lieutenant had entirely dismissed him: drunk off her head, she'd even called him by a few choice nicknames that he hadn't heard practically since recruitment. Oscar sighed, disgusted that it actually bothered him. What a waste of time and effort on the Knights' part, to send him out here looking for that crazy witch.
There was a whispering of quilts, and Oscar looked over to see Soren stirring, still uneasily dozing. After a short while, the tactician opened his eyes, blankly staring at the ceiling as if unsure that he was awake. His hands moved, finding one another; abruptly his eyes grew dark, and he glanced over.
"Yes," said Oscar, glad to hear that despite his uncertainty, his voice sounded quite calm. "I didn't know where to find a healer, but I had some spare dressings in my saddlebag." He held up the knife that had fallen from Soren's belt, the same one that had almost taken his life a week ago. "Do you, er... want this back? It... um..."
Oh, dear. Oscar winced; Soren was simply looking at him, with an embarrassed and naked expression of pain.
Well, he should feel at least a little embarrassed, Oscar thought guiltily, and set the knife on the arm of his chair. After the blacksmith's apprentice had unceremoniously dumped his cargo onto the bed, Oscar had been left alone in charge of the unconscious tactician. He had almost choked in panic when the sleeves of Soren's robe fell back and both wrists, again, were soaked in blood.
Except this time... "Look," Oscar forced himself to say, mostly because the longer he waited, the greater the likelihood he would burst out and say something truly stupid. "I think I've guessed why you asked to come along. You're looking for your family, aren't you?"
Soren's penetrating gaze didn't change, didn't even waver: but he swallowed visibly. Face inscrutable, he finally nodded, still wordless.
Oscar had already known, but the affirmation was like castle doors being thrown open to a banquet inside. In just that tiny nod, he learned more of Soren's history than he had in the last ten years.
The wind and rain had picked back up outside: while Oscar was quite comfortable, the distant rattle from the shutters was enough to make him realize the rest of the room was probably freezing, and to notice that his companion was shivering. Sighing to himself, he stood up and crossed to the bed. Without a word of exchange, he helped Soren get up, and settled him in the second armchair, dragging the bedspread from the mattress and throwing it over the tactician.
They were silent for a moment, as Soren shrank lower beneath the blanket. "Well..." Oscar finally said, "I know... or at least I can try to know... why you would want to know. I grew up in the Knights under King Ramon, all the younger knights knew what the Branded were. Except that the whispers among the ranks said a brand was a curse. Goddess, I'm sure it must seem like one."
He sighed aloud, wishing Soren would speak up and cut him off: but it was really too much to hope for. The tactician sat, as if made of stone, just watching, waiting. "Anyway. I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out. It wasn't until... well, you..."
Words failed him, and he looked back toward the fire. It wasn't until he'd uncovered Soren's arms, and had found the brand carved into the boy's skin over and over again (the same blood-red shape that adorned his forehead) that Oscar had realized exactly what that mark meant.
There was a long silence, and he finally added, "So, yeah. You can tell me, and I'll help, or... or I'll just head back to Melior and not say a word."
It sounded so lame that as soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. Even yelling at the top of her lungs, Mist had been incredibly eloquent on the subject of Soren as her brother, her family, someone who meant a lot to her. And all Oscar could think to say was So, yeah.
But that was the thing about Soren: although he tended to say exactly what he thought, he also tended to read a lot into what everyone else did and said. "I would be glad of your help," Soren said, very quietly: and, as Oscar had expected, somewhat hesitantly "It's just... I've never..."
His small chest heaved briefly with inexpressible emotion, with tears and longings that couldn't escape. Mastering himself, he pulled the bedspread tighter around his shoulders, and finished, "It didn't seem so important before. But now that I'm alone, I can't let it go. Not until I find out."
Oscar understood, better than he'd thought he would. Ike had been more than just the warm center around which the Greil Mercenaries revolved: he was practically Soren's identity, the touchstone for his self-confidence and trust in others. Soren had been able to overlook the desperate loneliness of his brand, and the misery it had brought him... until Ike suddenly left.
Since then it had obviously become his whole world. Another strange surge of hatred washed through Oscar's heart. Hadn't Ike realized this would happen?
"Rolf would understand this even better than me," he said suddenly, remembering. "My dad died when Rolf was little, no more than six... when Greil took us in, Rolf attached himself to Shinon, made him into not just a teacher, but a new dad. God only knows what Shinon got out of it. When he and Gatrie left..."
Oscar felt himself choking a little in fury: the situation was more than analogous, and he wished irrationally that he was Soren's older brother, too. He'd already had strong words with Shinon about this subject; Ike deserved more than a few of a the same. "Well, I guess I should take some responsibility, for not being a better brother. But Shinon leaving really destroyed what childhood Rolf had left. He grew up practically overnight... I assumed it was because of Mist, because he was trying to help her get over her dad's death."
But Rolf had secretly borne the wound for close to a year. Oscar remembered the bewilderingly fervent glee with which Rolf had welcomed Shinon back into their ranks, after the battle at Tor Garen, and wondered if Soren would similarly throw himself on Ike if their commander suddenly returned.
The thought made him snort in amusement. It seemed more likely that Soren would stab Ike in his sleep. "I guess the difference is," Oscar admitted, knowing that Soren was listening, but still feeling as if he were soliloquizing, "that Rolf had me and Boyd, even before Greil took us in. And before Shinon left, Rolf had no reason to distrust anyone."
He left the rest unsaid, because he knew nothing of Soren's treatment as one of the Branded, or his family situation up until joining the Mercenaries. His assumptions, respectively, were "terribly" and "nonexistent," but Oscar was tired of talking in generalities.
In fact, he was tired of talking at all. And thinking. He wanted nothing more than to just lie down and sleep (preferably after a few stiff drinks), and to wake up five or six years ago. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, trying to remember what it felt like to be happy, what it felt like to to make other people happy.
He must have dozed off for a moment, and started upright when Soren said, wearily, "I know." The tactician heaved another deep breath, and looked at Oscar with something like longing in his eyes. "Mist said it, and from what you just told me, I know you want to say it, too. The Mercenaries are my family, and I should rely on you. And to a point, I would. But..."
Soren shook his head, hopelessly; Oscar could finally see him fighting against the tears. Finally he managed, "It's utterly pathetic. If I saw someone else behaving like this, I would feel nothing but scorn." There was a long silence; Soren turned his face away, but either couldn't or simply didn't disguise the shaking of his shoulders.
Oscar found himself wishing, this time less passively and more fervently, that Soren really was his brother. Then Oscar would at least know what to say: he'd never had any difficulty emotionally supporting his brothers, even Boyd, who consistently referred to him as a mothering nag. But there was simply no way to tell your emotionally estranged tactician to Buck up or Think about something else, much less pat him on the back as he cried.
The fire snapped and crackled comfortingly: Oscar thought about the coming morning. He could ask the innkeeper if a rider was available, maybe even to send a message to Melior tonight. At the moment, it seemed more important to get his family through this crisis than to worry about losing a post he didn't really care about anymore.
"I can take off Knights duty long enough to get you to Castle Gallia," he said. Soren looked over, eyes still streaming, but his face calm. "I don't know if that's where you wanted to start, but I'm sure Skrimir would be more than happy to help."
Unexpectedly, Soren laughed: it was half-rueful, a little hysterical, and very brief. But Oscar could detect a fond little smile lingering in the corner of the tactician's mouth. It had probably been years since Oscar had seen him laugh, even sarcastically.
"Yes, he might," Soren said. Pausing, he added, a bit formally, "I... thank you. It's evident I'm not... not yet capable of going alone." His crimson gaze flicked to the knife still sitting at Oscar's elbow, then away, chagrined.
"Forget capable," Oscar said, standing up: he might as well just ask the innkeeper tonight about sending a rider. "There's no reason for you to take a journey like this alone, period. Not when someone from your family can go with you."
As he left the room to go downstairs, Oscar glanced back: Soren was pensively staring into the fire. It might just have been the darkness, and Oscar's glowing conviction that things would improve from this point on, but it almost looked as if there were hope on the tactician's thin face.