Part 2 of the last chapter, because long chapters scare people.
With no spades and the ground frozen, they realized there was no way to bury the woman. They had settled for placing her in the corner of the yard and covering her with a small cairn of stones—or rather, Soren had settled for doing so. Oscar, offering to help, had been coldly reminded that someone needed to take care of the girl and fetch the horses. "It won't take long... then we can leave," was all Soren added.
Shrugging, Oscar had turned and weaved his way back through the trees, still carrying the girl. By the time he had returned, leading both horses, the cairn had been built and Soren was nowhere in sight.
The little girl was bouncing up and down with excitement in the saddle, even as he held onto her smock to keep her balanced. Something about riding a horse always made children happier, and Oscar was glad it had worked.
She hadn't said a word yet, though, and in his experience most children of this age babbled uncontrollably when excited. "So what's your name?" he asked lightly. "I know you're probably not supposed to talk to strangers, but I'm a knight. That means I work for the queen. I'm Oscar."
She never responded—like a true child, she was more interested in playing with the mare's mane, occasionally kicking with her small heels as if to spur on a gallop—but he kept up the one-sided conversation, waiting for Soren to return. The horse snorted once or twice, tossing her mane in impatience, looking back at him as if to say, Are you serious? I'm supposed to be riding into battle, not baby-sitting!
At last Soren appeared from behind the cottage; there was no indication of what he'd been doing, though as usual he looked pale and ill. Oscar suspected he'd been sick; but he said nothing as the tactician came over.
"Let's go," Soren said, tightly.
Oscar put a foot in the stirrup and mounted on the saddle behind the girl. She settled back against him, one hand on the saddle-horn and the other thumb back in her mouth. He had to grin: she was just like Rolf had been ten years ago.
They rode for most of the day; the frost-laden hills and valleys of Gallia slowed their progress, especially burdened as they were by both heavy thoughts and their new companion. At one point, the little girl began trying to turn around, looking up at Oscar as if she had something to say. "What, what's the matter?" he asked. "Do you need to go?"
She gazed up at him with blank eyes for a moment: then, in an unambiguous signal, she patted her stomach. And as if to make sure he got the gist of it, she patted his stomach, too. "Oh, you're hungry," he said, laughing. "Okay, let me see what I have." Reaching back into his saddlebag, he found a hard roll and an apple. The little girl seized the bread, sat back, and munched away with great satisfaction.
He looked over at Soren, who had been watching in what seemed to be silent amusement. Oscar wordlessly offered the fruit: the tactician shrugged with a tiny smile, and neatly fielded the apple when Oscar tossed it.
He rummaged once more, and settled on satisfying his own hunger—truthfully, he hadn't even noticed it yet—with another apple. They were crisp and tangy, bought from the innkeeper back in Crimea, and he relished the last tastes of the fall harvest.
Eventually, come nightfall, Oscar had called a halt. "I know we're within three or four hours of the castle," he said, hoping Soren wouldn't argue, "but I'd rather stop for the night, if it's all the same." There was no response; Soren wordlessly reined in, helped him set up the camp.
To Oscar's great relief—and entertainment—at one point the little girl wandered away from him as they were pitching their tents. He watched as she surveyed the situation, small head cocked curiously, and reached up to take a handful of Soren's robes. When the owner of said robes looked down, astonished, she merely stuck a thumb in her mouth and looked at him with innocent eyes.
Oscar turned back to the stake he was pounding into the ground, unable to keep from smiling, as a bewildered Soren opened his mouth, closed it again, and simply went back to what he'd been doing, with the girl following his every step. It was possibly the single most adorable thing the knight had seen in years. Beyond that, he was also irrationally glad that the girl wasn't afraid of Soren.
Eventually they settled around a small fire, as the moon began its silvery rise behind the trees. Oscar hadn't brought anything to make a hot meal, but he was of the opinion that a handful of jerky and the last of the fresh apples made a fine repast, especially in such fine weather.
The little girl, having made short work of her portion, soon climbed into his lap, companionably pulled his cloak around her, and fell fast asleep in the crook of his elbow. He wondered briefly if she would have done the same in the lap of any large, warm beorc who was conveniently nearby. The answer was undoubtedly yes, but he flattered himself that the horse ride had been what won her over.
Oscar suddenly became aware that he was being watched: he looked up to find Soren's eyes on him. And if he wasn't mistaken, the eyes betrayed not only longing, but jealousy. Soren looked away quickly, obviously embarrassed to reveal himself.
Before long, though, he turned back, and asked, "How old do you think she is?"
Shrugging, Oscar answered, "Probably three or four. It's hard to tell, though, because she hasn't said anything. Most kids her age are babbling away about everything within sight. I'm worried that perhaps she's still in shock."
To his surprise, Soren shook his head. "No. I think it's simpler than that—I think she's deaf." As Oscar looked down at the angelic little child sleeping against him, Soren continued, "When you held her, she put her hand on your throat. And unless she's right up against you like that, she doesn't look at your face when you talk."
Soren had put a hand to his own throat in illustration; Oscar did vaguely remember the girl placing her warm little hand there when he had first picked her up. "Oh," he said, feeling sublimely stupid for not having noticed. "Do you think it's because..."
He winced at the memory of the woman's slap, echoing harshly through the cold forest. The awful possibility struck him as probably the worst thing a child could go through, and he felt a brief bitter satisfaction that the woman was dead.
But again, Soren was shaking his head, looking at the girl intensely. "No. I think she was born that way. Perhaps that's why the woman hated her so much: she can cry but not speak."
A current of loathing had underscored Soren's forcibly calm tones. Oscar found himself asking, quite against his will, "So... you said you understood this. That you..." He couldn't quite finish: how did you go about asking someone if they were abused as a child?
But Soren just shrugged, icily. "Yes. My caretaker loathed me because I was one of the Branded. I was too young to know that was why, of course: I'm sure this little girl doesn't know the difference, either. I asked how old she was... because perhaps she'll even be too young to remember."
Although the implication was clear—Soren hadn't been too young to remember—Oscar thought for a moment that he'd meant that the little girl was Branded, too: even upon realizing the mistake, he found himself looking between Soren and the child.
Both had dark hair, of course, but that was where the similarity ended. The tactician was thin and sharp-featured, with skin so pale as to be almost translucent, where the girl was chubby and pink-cheeked with rosebud lips. Moreover, her round face and bouncing raven locks exuded an unmistakable aura of good health and happiness: whatever her trials had been with that mad woman, they had obviously been very short. Oscar could see no obvious damage besides the bruise on her face.
As Oscar looked up, the longing expression had returned to Soren's face. With a little inward smile, Oscar shifted over on the log and lifted the girl up, placing her in Soren's lap before the tactician could say anything or resist. She yawned, and momentarily rubbed one fist in her eye; then immediately she nestled into the elbow of her newest beorc protector, and resumed her slumber.
Even now, watching Soren disappear into the throne room with Ranulf, Oscar could recall the look on the tactician's face. At first it had been pained and a little panicky—as if he were afraid his very hands might hurt the girl—and he had been very still. Then, haltingly and almost warily, a small smile had appeared, the crimson gaze turning soft in the firelight: and he had put his arms around the girl as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The little girl was currently yanking on Oscar's ear, evidently trying to get leverage to see over his shoulder. She squealed in delight as he swung her up and placed her on his shoulders, and he felt her chubby hands twist in his hair.
This was all fun and games... but what was he going to do now? Oscar walked back toward the courtyard, wondering. He couldn't take much more time off before returning to the Knights: his letter should have reached Melior by now, and he'd said he would be returning in two weeks. Two days of that were gone already: it would take about a week to get back to Melior, less if he rode alone. That left five days in which—it broke his heart even to think of it—to find the girl someplace to stay.
Here, in Gallia? Oscar looked around at passing citizens, absently putting extra spring in his step, to the little girl's satisfaction. No, it seemed as if she didn't much care for laguz, and what would any of the cats want with a beorc child? It seemed more practical to take her back to Crimea.
At last, a bittersweet realization came over him. The obvious answer was to take her to the Mercenaries. Titania and Mist (to be truthful, most of the company) would spoil her absolutely rotten: perhaps the presence of a child would bring the group the vitality it needed so badly. Rhys and Rolf knew all of the families in the area: they might be able to find the girl a home. To Oscar it seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan.
"What do you think of joining a group of mercenaries, sweetie?" he asked, more to convince himself than because he thought she could hear him. It would be horribly painful to return home, only to depart alone for Melior, knowing that he was leaving behind yet another loved one.
"I see," said a dry voice behind him. "The two of you couldn't have one of your own, so you decided to adopt."
Oscar turned to see Ranulf, finally relaxed and grinning. "Not exactly." He felt the little girl's hands tighten in his hair once more, and the movement of her little chest—pressed against the back of his head—quickened.
"Doesn't like me much, does she?" Ranulf said lightly, mismatched eyes looking at the girl. "Do you think it's just me, or laguz in general?"
"Like I said, I don't think she likes much of anyone right now," Oscar answered. He hesitated, then let go of one of the little girl's ankles to offer a hand. "I'm Oscar, by the way: we really weren't afforded a chance to talk during the wars."
"Not so much," Ranulf agreed. As they shook hands, Oscar felt the little girl's grip loosen. "So, dare I ask how you really picked her up?"
"We, er..." Oscar sighed, wondering how to explain. He had no desire to talk about that crazy woman, or Soren killing her; if he himself hadn't been there, it would seem a monstrous thing. "The simple explanation is that we heard her crying, and went to help. It was just yesterday morning."
Ranulf nodded absently; his eyes were on the little girl. Abruptly he grinned, stepping closer. Oscar couldn't see the girl's face, but her hand stretched out and began patting Ranulf's blue head, her other fingers clinging tightly to his own hair. There was a giggle, and she grabbed the cat's ear.
"Well, I guess she's not scared anymore," Ranulf said quite happily, as his ear was yanked. "I'm not very good with beorc ages, but doesn't she seem a little old not to be talking?"
"That's what I thought," Oscar agreed. "Soren thinks she's deaf. I don't even know her name."
"Hmm," was the only reply. It was just like it had been with Rolf, Oscar thought. He immediately felt a companionable liking for the cat, just because the little girl had decided she wasn't scared of him.
But Ranulf obviously wasn't thinking of the little beorc playing the bongos on his fluffy head. His expression was suddenly pensive, and a little bit guilty. "Do you..." he said, then hesitated. Oscar raised his eyebrows querulously.
Finally, Ranulf blurted out, "He's looking for his family? Here? Does he...does he think he'll find his parents in Gallia?"
Oscar wanted to laugh helplessly, and admit that he was the last person who'd know. But Ranulf already looked embarrassed for his own curiosity, so the knight shrugged. "I think he merely wanted to start with friendly faces, and close by. None of the other laguz seemed to like him so much as Skrimir. But I don't really know."
That was the understatement of the year, and Ranulf snorted. "Well, if this doesn't work, he can always go talk with Micaiah. She's made a living out of the skills her laguz blood gave her."
The thought hadn't occurred to Oscar: then again, Micaiah was the queen of a country hundreds of miles away, and a journey into Daein this time of year would be harsh. He wondered if Soren would even think of it...
"Well, anyway, I've gone and said too much," Ranulf admitted cheerfully. "Excuse me, miss, but I've got to go." Reaching up, he dislodged the girl's hand from his hair, but shook it. To Oscar, he added, "It was nice to see you again, especially in peace-time."
"Likewise," Oscar said warmly, and shook the proffered hand. Ranulf waved good-bye to the girl; Oscar couldn't see anything from below her, but from the cat's grin it appeared that she reciprocated.
A short time later, Soren silently came out from the main hall, looking no more enlightened than when he'd gone in. Oscar stood up from the bench, keeping the girl in the corner of his eye: she'd abandoned him to play nearby with a laguz child of about the same age, and he wasn't sure the little tiger wouldn't transform in a moment of excitement.
"Skrimir and Caneghis knew nothing," Soren said, without prelude. He halted next to Oscar, his eyes on the girl. "I'd completely forgotten that the brand can skip whole generations. All they could suggest was that my particular mark looks nothing like those belonging to the few Branded they've ever met. My best bet is simply to go back to Begnion or Serenes, to find out the typical appearance of the brands themselves."
Oscar wanted to say something about the mark on the young dragon king's forehead, but didn't want to seem presumptuous. "Sounds reasonable," he finally said. The words felt lame, as usual, but it didn't seem to bother Soren.
"Skrimir has generously offered me Ranulf's companionship on the journey into Begnion," the tactician continued, his face a mask of total indifference. The little girl squealed in delight as the laguz child quite literally picked her up off the ground, swinging her in circles. "I suppose we'll be parting now."
Oscar was startled to hear regret in Soren's voice. It shouldn't have surprised him, considering how bizarrely close they had become in the last several days. What did come as a shock was the naked loneliness in the tactician's eyes, especially as he looked at the little girl. "Yes, I guess so. I've, um... I've thought about taking her back to Greil's Retreat. If she likes me, she'll love Titania and Mist."
Soren just nodded unhappily. He's probably just miserable about traveling all the way to Begnion with Ranulf, Oscar thought unkindly. After all this... would they just say goodbye? Just like that?
Indignation overcame him: time to call the tactician's bluff. "Well, I wish you the best of luck," Oscar said neutrally, and went over to the little girl.
"Sorry," he said to the small tiger, who frowned and put his hands on his hips as Oscar took the little girl by the hand. "I have to take her home now."
The boy sighed, somewhat precociously. "All right... tell her it was nice to meet her!" he said fiercely, and ran off.
The little girl watched him go, her frown just as fierce; as she looked up at Oscar, the scowl turned into a pout. "I'm sorry," he laughed, boosting her up and tossing her in the air. She giggled, anger forgotten. "I really think you'll like where we're going, though."
She settled into his arms happily, apparently tired out from her exciting romp with a new friend. Taking a deep breath, Oscar prepared to walk away.
There was the sudden noise of footsteps, and he felt a hand on his arm. "Wait," Soren's voice said. Something inside Oscar gave a little thrill of victory, and not altogether just because he'd been right. The tactician looked terribly ashamed of something, but determined.
The little girl turned around, already sleepy. Soren was just tall enough for her to reach out and touch his cheek with a chubby little hand. So quietly that Oscar could barely hear, the tactician murmured, "I'm sorry," and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Then he looked up at Oscar, biting his lip. The gratitude in his crimson eyes was unmistakable, but as always, it seemed that words were failing him at the right moment. The knight wanted to sigh.
When Soren finally raised a hand, as if for a formal handshake, Oscar felt that had been enough. "Oh, don't be stupid," he said gently, and put an arm around the boy. "I really do wish you the best of luck."
They embraced only briefly, but when Soren pulled away, his face was once more composed: not cold, but at least grave. "Thank you," he said firmly. "I can't express how grateful I am for your having brought me this far."
"If you can't find them," Oscar replied, the words coming out before he could stop them, "you know where to go."
The words sank between them: finally, the tactician smiled. It was a very tiny expression, almost indiscernibly friendly, but there was no mistaking its genuineness. "Yes, I suppose I do."