This is probably somewhat less OOC, but that doesn't necessarily make it better. Next chapter is the epilogue, so just shut up and deal with the sort-of-cliffhanger.
~~ Chapter 10: Torn Between Worlds ~~
It was as he'd feared: the winter storms kept up for close to a month, whirling around Nevassa and the surrounding villages with an inhuman ferocity. Everyone hunkered down, houses and castles alike trying to bear the brunt of winter.
Soren tried—he really did—to remain patient with his mother, as the weather forced him to stay. He did not directly mention the subject of leaving, knowing that it pained her: to his great annoyance, she herself continued dropping rather unsubtle comments on the subject. They were merely quotes from beloved Daein leaders, or hints about the generous people and the beauty of the city... but Soren was used to reading subtexts from complete strangers, and he did not appreciate his mother attempting to subtly brainwash him into staying in Daein.
As a consequence, Soren began avoiding her, and began to wander about the castle. The keep was colder and much more dismal than Melior and Begnion, and Soren found himself even more claustrophobic than he'd been at Greil's Retreat.
There were several visitors besides himself who were stuck because of the weather: people he'd met in the Liberation Army and later in the Laguz Alliance, the odd trader or merchant, and plenty of politicians. Soren gave them brief greetings and avoided them as much as possible. While conversation with his mother gave him no trouble, Soren doubted he would ever find socializing with "old friends" to be much fun.
Frankly, he was more interested in climbing up to the rookery, and delving into the basement armories. The soldiers there were terse, but when he introduced himself as a tactician, they proved oddly (if gruffly) open to questions.
One miserably cold afternoon, he had wrapped himself in a cloak and holed up in one of the old, abandoned great halls. He hadn't found the library yet—the Daeins obviously didn't care much for pleasure reading, and Soren didn't quite feel up to memorizing tomes—and was just sitting in one of the high windows, watching knights try to train in a snow-dipped courtyard below. Micaiah had demilitarized the country, and it showed: even in this kind of snow, Soren thought their performance was pretty pathetic.
Abruptly, there were footsteps, and Soren looked around to see Micaiah. Unnerved by her appearing just as he'd thought of her, he started upright, tripped on the cloak, and just barely managed to catch himself before falling on his face.
"Are you all right?" she asked, and giggled in a most unqueenly way, coming forward. "I'm sorry I startled you, but I couldn't escape from Sothe for long. I just have a question."
Soren managed to straighten up, and inclined his head. "Your Majesty. I will answer to the best of my abilities."
She smiled at that, but this time more out of good humor than entertainment. "There is no need for formalities, Soren." Micaiah extended a hand to take his, looking around to make sure they were alone. "Please, I just need to ask a simple question, because I know it is the only way to dispel rumor. Are you here in Daein to claim your birthright?"
Soren immediately understood what she meant, if not implicitly. He had reflected already on what it meant to be the son of a Goldoan princess and a Daein king: but the thought was so distasteful that he hadn't dwelt upon it.
"No," he said, and felt a spasm of disgust come over him, so strong that he almost threw the queen's hand from him. "No, that is not why I came to Daein, let rumor say what it may."
Micaiah's expression softened into regret. "I thought so. I didn't mean to offend you, Soren. It's just... your own sorrows are tied so closely to those of Daein." He had a moment to remember that she was part heron, and she continued, "Sothe made the mistake of mentioning to some that Ashnard's son still lived, and while the senators assumed he meant Pelleas..." Her eyelashes fluttered downwards for a moment, and even he could sense the rest. But the senators would find out who Soren was before long: from Pelleas or Almedha.
She moved even closer, and he could feel his loneliness and irritation fairly melting away. "The rumors may force Pelleas to plead disinterest, but I wanted to hear the words from your lips."
Soren couldn't say anything for a minute, and passed a hand over his face. To think that the lives could hang in the balance merely because he had come to Daein! He wondered briefly how Micaiah had even found him, then remembered her heritage again. "Well," he finally managed to say, holding her gaze, "I am returning to Crimea when the weather breaks."
"With your mother?" she asked softly.
After a moment, Soren shook his head; even as a blood-given talent, her insight was startling. "Much to my regret... she does not wish to come."
Micaiah bowed her head. "I am sorry." At last, she let go of his hand; he realized how small she was. The queen of Daein was barely Mist's height, and she would certainly stay that size until long after Mist died. "I must go. Sothe will find me in a few moments." She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, and with that disappeared as quickly as she had come.
Soren stared after her; the stone hall was only as empty as it had been before, but for some reason he felt a need to flee. As he strode quickly out, making his way down a narrow circular stairwell, he hoped Micaiah would have no trouble extinguishing such a dangerous rumor. He knew, from having spent time in their midst, that the Daein people loved her as they'd never loved another royal leader. Yet it wasn't hard to imagine a few mad nobles coming forth to demand that she turn the throne over to the true heir of Daein.
He shuddered, quickening his pace down the steps. He could think of nothing more horrifying than to inherit a country.
Soren didn't discover the library until a few days later, when the weather finally began to clear. It wasn't nearly as impressive as the library in Sienne, but Soren had expected as much: and truthfully, it was a larger library than he himself would ever require.
He wandered through the shelves, wondering if there was even anything here to be interested in. The books ranged over every topic, from sharecropping to creating gems to spells. In the past, he would simply have chosen a book at random and found a large chair to curl up in, able and willing to read any subject.
But just now, Soren had no interest in reading something factual: he searched for something escapist and utterly unrealistic. There it was—a book of children's fairy tales, the cover painted with gnomes and trolls. The goddesses only knew how the book had arrived in the Nevassa library. Perhaps Almedha herself had placed it there, in anticipation of her own children.
Soren tucked himself into the window seat and opened the book, glad to see rain sliding down the glass. It was mostly pictures; he'd never owned a book like this as a child, although he distinctly remembered Mist having carried one around when she was small. He turned the page, and the trolls gave way to sprites and fairies, dancing their way across the page.
What he wouldn't give to sit in his mother's lap and have her read this to him... Soren had to smile at the thought, as the image drove away his melancholy. Diminutive as he was, sitting on her lap would look ridiculous.
He tipped his head back, looking out at the rain, and reflected further that, despite how he'd longed to find her, his mother was not all he'd hoped for. Perhaps, Soren thought, now that he had actually discovered who his parents were, and had spent some time with his mother... there was no need to linger. The knowledge itself was what he had sought.
He winced a little at the thought. How could he be so cruel? Bitterly, he thought that leaving for Crimea probably wasn't all about getting back to Mist: there was something characteristically cold about abandoning his mother like this.
"I should have known I'd find you in a library," said a dry voice quite nearby.
The book in his lap suddenly seemed to be made of stone. Soren froze, closing his eyes; he hadn't heard any footsteps, but knew who it was instantly. That voice haunted his dreams, tortured him whenever the world became too quiet. He couldn't speak to answer, or even move. Yet some instinctual anger suddenly rose up, a fury possessing him like fire coursing over his limbs.
He whirled and threw the book, instinctually aiming high. There was an exclamation of "Ow!"
Soren opened his eyes to see Ike, bending over a bit and clapping a hand to his face. He wondered if he was going to faint. No, that was Ike all right: no ghost stood before him, just a living man wrapped in a muddy red cloak.
The brief wish to have a dagger in his hand passed through Soren's mind, but swiftly faded. He didn't have any idea what to say, and rose from the window seat, feeling an urge to melt into the floor. Why had he done that? Why was Ike here?
Ike straightened and took his hand away from his nose: his fingers were stained with blood. "I guess I deserved that," he said wryly. Soren realized, with a jolt of fury, that the other young man was grinning. "Although it's probably giving you too much credit to say you knew it was me."
"Don't be a fool. I knew. And if I had another book, I'd throw it again," Soren said coldly.
He turned his back on Ike and walked out of the library, feeling his heart race and his breath come short. After all this time... all the longing... he suddenly felt a need to be as far away from Ike as possible.
The other young man had no such notions. "Hey, come on!" Soren heard footsteps behind him, and a hand on his arm.
He whirled, yanking away, and fled, his mind going blank. Several weeks of good food and relaxation had given him his strength back, and he knew the castle better than Ike. "Soren!" he heard the young man shout behind him, and ran faster.
Tears forced themselves from his eyes; he ran blindly, with no idea of where he was going, why he was running, or what he would do when he finally... what? Escaped? Why was he trying to escape from Ike, the person he loved more than anyone else in the world?
He found himself stopping suddenly, and realized that his feet had carried him back to his own chambers, the rooms that adjoined Almedha's. One balcony door was loose, and he strode mindlessly to it, latching the doors shut. Soren closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cold panes. Think! Think!
He heard Ike skid to a halt behind him, but couldn't force himself to turn. He could hear Ike's panting, that familiar irritated, yet amused exhalation of energy.
Even Ike's expression was easy to imagine, as the young man demanded bemusedly, "Soren... what? Why did you... run like that? I just want to talk to you.
Soren heard the soft footsteps crossing the rug, sinking into the rich plush of the furs. Then Ike's hand was on his shoulder. "Soren..."
His tongue loosed, and he yanked his arm away for the second time, putting his back to the balcony, glaring daggers. "Get away from me! How can you even—" Soren felt himself choke on the words, especially as Ike's face fell into an expression of pathetically pitiable guilt.
He wished irrationally that he were at Greil's Retreat, with Mist behind him: he wanted to scream Do you know what you did to us? To me? Finally, under control, he demanded, "Why are you even here?"
"Well..." Ike's brow furrowed, his strongly-cut features puzzled as his gaze searched Soren's face. He was still holding the fairy-tale book, its spine ever so faintly stained with red. "I was in Hatari for a while, and Rafiel wanted me to carry a message to Micaiah. I found her with Pelleas, and he told me you were here."
It was, of course, a straightforward, uncomplicated answer that revealed absolutely nothing about motive or emotion. That was simply typical of Ike, Soren thought furiously. He never bothered to explain his feelings, since they were so instinctual and untroubled that there was no need. Next he was going to ask—
"So you. Why are you in Nevassa?" Ike asked.
Soren wanted to scream. He wanted to yank the book from Ike's hands and beat him into a small puddle of goo. He felt his hands trembling.
His face must have looked dangerous, because the other young man hastily added, "Okay, okay. I asked where you were because I wanted to tell you something, too. I feel like leaving home with nothing but a letter to tell you guys why I left was kind of... well, I could have done it better, that's all. But I just wanted to ensure that Crimea stayed stable, unlike last time. So I just wanted to ap—"
"Wait, what?" Soren said, interrupting. "You..." He stared at Ike, the anger abating momentarily in confusion. Outside, the wind howled, and a gust of rain rattled the stained-glass windows. In Soren's experience, Ike had never misremembered something so important: and his face was so earnestly pained that the tactician couldn't possibly imagine that his erstwhile friend was lying.
His confusion seemed to be mirrored in Ike's expression. "I what?" the young man asked. He waited, but Soren couldn't make himself ask the question yet. "Soren, I what? I was about to apologize. I expected you to follow me, but I guess you were mad..."
"Follow you where?" Soren demanded. All the words he'd wanted to say to Ike in the last year were welling up; furiously he tried to repress them. It wasn't time yet. "You never left any letter, we didn't know where you went, I would have followed you even if I was angry, you stupid..."
The anger roared back through him, and he shouted, "You stupid son of a bitch! I tried to kill myself, Ike! Your sister found me in a pool of my own blood! Didn't you know how you betrayed us, leaving without so much as an explanation!"
He bit his lip, turning his head, breath hissing quickly. That was enough for now. The figure before him was so still that for a moment, Soren though Ike wasn't even listening.
At last, "You... oh, Soren." It was almost the same tone his mother had used: grief-stricken but somehow without the condescending pity he would have so detested.
Ike moved toward him. "Soren, I swear I left a letter with the innkeeper in town. He promised to deliver it the day after I left. I never would have..." Soren couldn't force himself to move away, and could feel the other man's warmth, beating out from underneath his muddy cloak. "I never would have left you like that. I know that's not the point, but..."
When Ike's hand came up to grasp Soren's arm, this time the tactician didn't shake it off. There was no reason not to believe him. "You really tried to...?" Ike asked, and when Soren looked up, that blue gaze was unnaturally unsteady.
A sudden shame filled him, inexplicable and intense. He moved his lips, but no words came at first; finally, he swallowed, head bowed, and said quietly, "You were the only person I knew how to love, Ike. I didn't realize how stupid that was until you'd already gone."
"Oh, Soren," Ike said again, his voice sorrowful and heavy with guilt. His grasp on Soren's arm tightened, and he moved suddenly, as if to embrace the tactician. His thumbs were against the scars carved so many weeks ago by the knife, but Soren didn't care. He couldn't look away from Ike's eyes, that intense and earnest blue, dark as the ocean.
There was a gasp, and Ike turned, moving enough that Soren could see his mother, standing in the doorway with both hands over her mouth. Oh, no, he thought dully.
"Soren!" she exclaimed, and dashed to his side. Of all the days in his life, Soren thought, this was the one in which his name had been exclaimed the most, and he was getting somewhat tired of being fussed over. "Oh, my sweet!"
She put her hands on his shoulders; he felt, rather than saw, her unsubtle glare at Ike. "What do you want here?" she snapped, more rudely than he'd ever heard her speak to another person.
Ike's blue eyes stilled, as if a wind had passed over them, leaving nary a ripple. "I am here to speak with Soren. Forgive me—my greetings, Lady Almedha." He made a short and rather uncharacteristically political bow. His tone, in the first sentence, had carried an intonation: What else would I be doing here? It was without doubt a tone of great exasperation.
Almedha swallowed; her hands tightened on his shoulders. Soren mentally sighed. In a moment he was going to have to say something extremely unpleasant.
"You—you are not wanted," she said, but uncertainly. "Isn't that right, Soren?"
Ike's eyes were fixed on him; Soren was elated to find that he could still read the other young man's expression. He suddenly wondered how far Ike had traveled before reaching Daein: Soren hadn't even thought to ask. His cloak was, as usual, mud-stained, but the leather thongs that held on his armor looked more worn than ever before, and his hair was getting unusually long, drooping down over his eyes.
Reaching up for his mother's hands, Soren turned to her. Almedha's eyes were frightened, panicked. "Mother," he said quietly. "You know I must go back to Crimea. Will you go with us?"
With some satisfaction, he heard Ike start. She tilted her head, tears welling in her eyes as she uncertainly tried to decide if he was serious. "I... but..." Almedha tried to pull him to her, but he resisted. She put her hands over her face again, weeping. "But what would I do? I cannot—please don't ask me!"
Soren looked up at Ike again; and in that moment, he knew—just as he'd known that he had to return to Crimea—that with enough time, with more explanation and a few uncomfortable confessions, he might be able to forgive the young man standing patiently before him.
He hadn't felt such heartbreaking relief since Mist came to his bedside, offering to be his sister. It was enough to almost make him... not care what Almedha did.
But he managed to remind himself that, however overprotective she was acting now, she had brought him through that first day in Daein, when he may well have died. And she was still his mother.
Soren put his arms around her, allowed her to embrace him in that smothering fashion he still detested. "Mother," he said again, and waited until her sniffling tapered down. "I found you, and that is... that is why I came all this way. And for all that you've done for me, I cannot thank you enough. But..."
He pulled her hands away from her face, wishing he could love her the same way he loved Ike. Tears still streamed from her eyes, and now she just looked desperate and miserable. "Wherever you are, you will still be my mother. Come home with me."