When Mist thought of the one she loved, she thought of a laugh. The way the warrior would guffaw loudly, slapping his knee with tears forming in his eyes as he gripped his sides. Boyd didn't chuckle gently like his brothers, nor did he sneer like Shinon or let out a loud "HAHA" like Gatrie. Boyd...guffawed. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't a pleasant sound, but it was what came to Mist's mind and brought with it a soft smile and light tint to her cheeks.
Oscar thought of a challenge. One loudly declared at an indecent hour in the morning. He smiled wistfully, thinking about it, how energetic Kieran was, even that early.
"COME OUT AND FIGHT! YOU SQUINTING DASTARD!" the knight would shout, and Oscar would smile softly to himself and walk outside, unarmed, to deal with the only person he would have. He would purposely do things to taunt his "rival", provoke Kieran into a heavy red blush and loud accusations about Oscar's character.
Rhys thought of the dawn. Of being pulled unwillingly from his chambers to supervise some duel or another. She would smile at him and kiss his cheek before turning to her opponent with child-like enthusiasm. And Rhys would sit by the sidelines, nursing the coffee she had thoughtfully prepared ("Can't have the healer falling asleep I guess." she laughed, handing it to him) and he would watch the sun rise, as if being pulled unwillingly into the world.
Tibarn thought of a scowl. Soft lips pouting in a child-like rage as the heron argued with someone, anyone, everyone. How Reyson would lower his eyes in a look that would have been menacing if it weren't so damned adorable, like a hissing kitten. The heron would turn and glower at Tibarn, looking at the Hawk king for back-up as he argued, and, helpless to resist, Tibarn would acquiesce, lending his support, if only to see Reyson smile in victory.
Titania thought of a grave, and of tears shed in silence. She thought of strong arms gripping her for support and of blood running down his arm, splattering over the steps as she lead him home to his children whom he prayed would never realize the truth of that dark night.
But for Soren, it would always be Ike's hands. From the day they met, it had always been the other's hands that drew him close. They were rough, and often dirty when the two had been young, Soren knew Ike's hands better than he knew what his own face looked like. They were powerful, hard from where blisters had become calasues from hours of training. Yet, when the held Soren, they were gentle. It had been Ike's hands that had first welcomed the mage, extended in friendship when they first met. It was Ike's hands that caught him when he slipped and set him right again. Ike's hands that eventually traced the mage's cheek and cupped his face as they shared their first, awkward kiss. Ike's hands, holding a bowl of food and offering it, weilding a sword to protect what he loved, pulling Soren closer or pushing him towards the group. When Soren thought of the one he loved, he always thought first of Ike's hands.