Brief Edit: 6/2/2011
Genre: Adventure/friendship
Words: 9,000-
Rating: T for teen
Main Characters: Ike and Nailah
Summary: Post RD. Several months after Ashera's defeat, Ike, Soren, and Ranulf leave for Hatari. Nailah decides she wants to reunite her lost nation with the rest of Tellius, but fate has a different idea in mind.
(A/N): I think this is the turning point in the story for my writing, and my speed of putting up chapters. I really wanted to get this out by the month's end, and it seems I've succeeded (I've actually been so absorbed in writing this that I forgot about my birthday coming up. My mother had to remind me this morning. I found it quite funny. :3). Initially, I struggled with the dialogue and some of the characterizations, but... I think I'm starting to work past that, as well as the crushing everyone with jumbo bouts of detail. Haha. :) ...Truly though, I'm happy with how i'm progressing, and I think as readers you will be too when you get a dose of some plot progression! I really hope it's enjoyable for you all. And thanks again for reading and sticking with me so far. [hey Matt! :] I'm so incredibly happy to see this is being read, you truly have no idea! :) Anyways... happy reading, and good luck for those of you with final exams coming up! Summer's all most here. Yay~
0o0o0o0
Travels of the East –barefootbean
Chapter IV: Seeing Silver Strands
Daein- Nevassa, Daein Keep
The year 649, autumn
0o0o0o0
.
Micaiah pressed her fingers against the glass, scrunching her nose up slightly and knitting her brows and tugging on the ends of her silver hair as she waited—as she had been waiting since the day began and her vision came, waiting for them to show. It was only a matter of time, she told herself as her day had progressed all but fruitfully and comfortably in the Keep, but as the sun set low over the mountainous horizon for the evening, she found herself wondering how long her close companions could hold time in their hands and warp it inevitably in a way she should have seen coming.
Relax… Edward's future is always changing. Something must have come up… They'll be here before too long…
It had been a long day, and Micaiah wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with her head against the thin and frosted glass, herself curled up with a blanket, Sothe's hushed and soothing company beside her, and her own two heavy eyes to take in the sights of the gentle falling snow just inches beyond that transparent piece of casement—unfortunately covered by the most Goddess awful tapestry in an attempt to stop the coil that shuffled through the small cracks during the night, howling down the corridors and leaving a trail of spidery frost in it's wake and over half the royal guard chilled to the bone and fingers –toes, ears, noses– frozen numb by morning.
She didn't allow herself to ever linger too long on the subject, and never complained out loud. Daein was a harsh country, and only so much could be done at once to help change that. She couldn't bring herself to say that their attempts for preventing the weather's effects were quite inefficient, however preventative the guards thought them to be. Sometimes things were better left unspoken. Better to let people believe they were doing well, as long as no harm befell as a result of that luxury.
Suffice to say, however, there were quite a few things she wanted, but regrettably, Micaiah knew rest and sleep were not one of them. It hadn't been since the start of the day –or was it week, last month? beginning of her reign?– and certainly in the upcoming minutes, Pelleas or another Lord or Duke or some royal noble would come-a-calling for something, and she'd be off again and put to work, filling in a position and taking on a hardship she hardly believed she'd ever be ready for, even after everything she had all ready faced, this, this, could not compare on the same level. It was a battle without weapons, fought with words and wit, and easily misinterpreted to do more harm than good, cause more reasons for anger than happiness, and wear Micaiah down to the point where she actually felt as though the years of being a Branded were finally catching up to her—she was finally maturing. She did not know whether to feel relief for that fact, or whether she wanted to weep.
Daein had never had a ruling Queen in all its history and time as an established country.
Naturally, most of the Royal Daein Family consisted of men, and as such, warriors and victors of the battlefield—a place where they believed women should not lurk, should not wear the armor of a proud soldier, and above all things, should not fight a mans' war with mans' strengths and mans' brutality.
Women were merely side displays—beauties of soft fair skin and full crimson lips to stand on the sidelines while noble ruling husbands would take rein of the country, their masculinity and strength the symbol of a strong leader while women themselves were merely tools for children and on the occasion, perhaps, intriguing but frivolous gossip.
Micaiah had all ready had several run-ins with some of the royal nobles who clung to their old-fashioned beliefs, and quite a few stuffy court members, trying to tell her how a woman should rule a country—how a woman should act—how she should have married to Pelleas and not Sothe, what a rogue, a thief, they spat, and oh, how dare she accept the throne he resigned to her? Clearly he was being foolish, and did not know what he was doing– And how could she believe that her war experience granted her such a place—a woman? Ha! Please… A title could grant her peerage, but never the nerve nor backbone to be as strong as a member of the royal family could ever be! She was not ready to rule without those qualities. A beorc woman would never be, too soft for the tides of these times, they said, majority of faces disapproving, and only a few somber and unsure expressions of the others speaking dared showed themselves to Micaiah.
Tension had run throughout the court room for weeks afterwards, and she still heard the words ringing in her ears with every move or declaration to the people –her people– that she made. It made her want to howl, though there were other things that kept her moving, kept her distracted, and there was no time to be spent weeping pitiful tears. Especially tears on something she knew to be so wrong, to know the truth behind the matter –she fought the goddess, she felt the sting and abhorrence of being struck by such order– and that what she knew to be factual, and them merely inconceivable of such things as a woman fighting for the things she held dearest to her.
Sothe and Pelleas were both prompt to have the outspoken court members removed the evening of her encounter—much to her disapproval as a way to resolve the issue... Pelleas's mother, Almedha, certainly had words to add and scorn her son with–
I must have been insane when I accepted Pelleas's proposal… Sothe must have thought so. It was bad enough when I took over as the General of the Daein army… but this? I should have known what I was getting myself into from the beginning…
…No, no regretting what's done. There's no going back from here… After all, this was what I wanted. I wanted to help the people, I accepted the duty as Queen—I gave my consent to do what was necessary. If anything, I should be happy that I can do this for them, at least… and Sothe, too.
Nothing I can do will ever be able to repay them for their kindness.
Micaiah shivered slightly against the cold stone wall, hugging her knees and wrapping her slender arms tightly around them, still waiting and thinking and waiting some more. Breezes roared outside and used their claws to reach through the hoary drapery, and Micaiah lowered her head to retain what little body heat she could. She imagined herself being bedridden for days with a cold and holed up in her dank chambers, Sothe griping at her for her brief moments of altruism—or rather, idiocy, and Edward and Leo coming to visit while inside her chest rattled and shook and her mind tumbled with thoughts of abandoning her station for even mere seconds—and the chaos that would likely result–
She took a breath to steady her rapid heart, arms tightening deftly as she forced herself to think of some thing else.
Ah… I shouldn't be so belligerent with myself. This is what Pelleas wanted, and this is the least I can do to repay him.
Aiding the Daein citizens in their recovery and keeping Sothe safe and alive was all that had mattered months—no, years ago? she could hardly tell anymore—but fate was jumpy, and while Micaiah could have been content for the rest of her life with Ashera's defeat and herself and her companions alive and well, others were not—and so Pelleas's duty had fallen to her shoulders upon his resignation and admittance of his lack of royal blood –Fortune Teller, Sister, General, Priestess, Queen– to restore the balance in the decrypted country, and she hardly felt up to the task all the while it was so bewilderingly overwhelming and demanding and saddening—and… wearing, too…
She wasn't sure the country would be able to keep on going if she so much stopped for one moment, stopped to take a breath and order her thoughts, everything was so fragile…
Public speeches had gone on during the morning, advocating rights and governmental positions to the court nobles who helped her rule; the injured and sick had visited her, asking in their desolate tones, "please help her, so sick and only a child–," and they quickly found their loved ones brought back from the brink of death—and Micaiah herself one step closer to it; private meetings with a Begnion inspector sent by the Apost—sister, only for her to find out it was more of a family matter than a political matter, and as much as it bothered to her to delay a reply, Micaiah sent him back home empty handed and with little company besides the confines of his own mind and the pitter-pats of his feet on the Daein highways; tearing down laws and suggestions of laguz hunting in the later afternoon, pointless queries and frosty insults and chilling the court room to ice while she sat up high in her throne, mediating—and never feeling so detested for her beliefs as she did just then.
It was then that she questioned herself—and doubt grasped her hand and led her about like a mother would an infant.
With all the activities going on, she'd hardly seen Sothe at all, and the exhaustion was slowly eating away at her. She could recall quite clearly several unfortunate times when the days had overwhelmed her… She'd slumped from fatigue in the throne room during a meeting once, her head cracking against the solid stone floor hard enough to give her a concussion, and the franticness with which the palace guards' busied themselves upon this event lingered; it was an emotion she hadn't witnessed since the goddess's end. It was a humiliating moment she could have honestly done better to have avoided that delayed the business for the night—and as such, sleep came earlier than usual.
She'd retired to her chambers early that night, and it wasn't long until Sothe joined her, and he asked her with his warm eyes and calm voice as he did every night since they'd become rulers, an unspoken question of trouble that he used to ask when they lived in the alleys, when she shivered in her cot with guilt over any simple matter she failed, when he was still far too young to know the feelings that ran through her Branded mind every night as she watched him breathe so evenly beside her, still unscathed from the world's untold horrors and the story of hers, and when he'd caught her gloveless in dawn's light and her silver hair wafting and her blooming brand exposed for him to see,
"Tell me, Micaiah?"
And she did.
"…Your selflessness is a danger to yourself. Promise me, try to be selfish every once in a while, okay? If not for yourself, than do it for me—for Nolan and Edward and Leo, too. Never forget that Daein's not the only thing that would suffer if you left. I would, too."
She hadn't faltered to promise. But even than… She didn't believe it would ever be enough.
If I could bring back the dead, the prisoners of war and the family members that were lost in these bloody wars, than perhaps it would be… but even then, the memories would still linger on… I can't ever account for those. I doubt even Yune ever could…
It's only fair that I try to amend for those who can't.
I have to do this…
Micaiah sighed and rubbed at her eyes, stifling the yawn that tried to escape. She forced herself to move and unbound her arms tiredly, pulling herself into an upright position upon the cold gray stone ledge of which she sat; no pillows or cushions or anything of the sort to make the stay comfortable, though, however, it was hardly something Daein could afford anyway with all the gold that had been spent recently on repairs to Nevassa and other, smaller, towns. The people were grateful, and it was honestly no different than her previous living conditions in the slums… maybe a bit safer… but that wasn't saying much.
A slight shift of position caused her silver mane of hair to stir and goose bumps to rise in little pinpricks along the back of her calves, and she shivered lightly, realizing that the night had come too soon with a swift peek out the covered pane, and there was still no sign of Edward; the palace guards would have alerted her upon his and Leonardo's arrival without hesitation.
Micaiah wasn't quite sure whether to keep waiting or not. She debated silently, sifting through thoughts over in her head, mulling and wondering and pondering all the while.
More time passed.
Still no sign of her companions.
Micaiah sighed, leaning back against the stone ledge to brace herself upon it and rewrapped her arms around her legs exhaustedly; her skin felt frozen to the touch. …How long has she been waiting again?
I'm going to be frozen to death before they show up at this rate. She rubbed her arms ferociously.
"Wouldn't it have been wiser to have waited by the fire? I thought you were typically smarter than this," a voice murmured from behind her.
What?
She nearly jumped in shock as wiry, solid arms embraced her from where she was sitting and snaked around her waist languorously, silent laughter entering her ear as little cloud puffs in the bitter air as she struggled slightly to get a look at her assailant. "Blast, you're freezing Micaiah!" The arms tightened considerably and a thick cloak swiftly covered her exposed skin, and she relaxed as soon as a shoddy strand of olive hair dangled in front of her vision, quickly followed by a golden ochre pair of amused eyes. Her heart leapt and she swallowed, struggling to find words.
"Sothe!" She tried to smile, but her cheeks were frozen and no such movement was allowed less than a slight twitch of her lips. "You're back early!" He gave her an odd look, one of mirth or unease she found difficult deciphering. She guessed it to be something else all together.
It was answered quickly. "We have guests," he stated casually, placing his chin on her shoulder. "Nice guests—for once." Micaiah jolted lightly.
How could I have forgotten that he'd return early? ...Of course, he was here this morning...
She cleared her throat softly, shifting beneath her limited confinement. "Opposed to the usual or the unexpected?"
"…A fair share of both. I'd say Commander Ike being the unexpected. Though I'm pretty sure you all ready know who I'm talking about…" His voice sounded almost artificial to her ears. She hardly even noticed what he'd spoken about, her senses too occupied in taking in the warmth that seeped into her back.
He took her hands in his calloused ones without meeting her gaze and tenderly began rubbing soothing circles into the muscles with a strong thumb; she hadn't even realized she'd been shaking—from the day's exertion? "They're waiting for you—in the throne room. I asked Pelleas to keep them entertained while I came and found you."
The thought of Pelleas trying to entertain anyone snapped her out of her state of weariness and into a preliminary stage of horror. "…You left him… alone?" Sothe processed her fear hastily after her wild look.
"What? No! Not completely! I've got Nolan keeping a close eye on him, so he should be fine. Besides, Lady Almedha's lurking about, so she'll be watching him too—and his social awkwardness…"
"Oh." She felt temporarily embarrassed for asking. "…I should go and see them, shouldn't I? That—that would be the proper thing for a Queen to do…"
Proper, though not what either of us wants isn't it? Though you'll never say it aloud, will you, Sothe?
"I think they can wait… for a little while, at least." He gave her a brief once-over, and she could have sworn she saw his eyes flash with some sort of alarm. "…You look absolutely dreadful," he concluded, brows pinched, as if searching for the answer in her face. She hoped the day's events didn't show too much. It wouldn't do any good to worry Sothe anymore about her well-being than he did as it was.
He'd develop gray hairs soon enough...
"And staying here will lead to an improvement? Is that what you're suggesting?"
"Maybe, depends on your cooperation." His arms around her frame pulled her a tad closer.
"And what if I don't wish to cooperate?" She imagined little girls giggling in her head, childish as the scene was; it felt appropriately accurate in her current position. They slowly disappeared and Sothe's quiet breathing filled her ears, his breath warm and welcoming.
"I think you'll find the terms agreeable. I'm not asking for much." The utter sincerity behind his words made her pause, and she glanced up, meeting his eyes. He frowned, and she didn't bother to wait for the lecture to come for once, not wanting to hear what she would when she knew she was in the wrong. She sighed tiredly and allowed her lids to fall to a close, pressing her face into his chest firmly and not moving from her position.
Sothe jumped slightly. "Micaiah?"
"…Are the guards out of range?"
Sothe turned his head and leaned out slightly, his ochre eyes meeting hers first before peering around the corners she couldn't see, tan neck stretched and taut out and over an oversize winter scarf. He whipped his head back fairly quickly after scanning the multiple corridors, all of them derelict and empty, save for the mice and rats scurrying through the stone palace walls and up the drapery and over the paintings of the original royal family, before the blood pact had sent nearly them all to their unruly deaths.
"They won't be able to hear us." Micaiah swallowed and bobbed her head, though the movement felt stiff and awkward. Her head ached and she took a breath of his familiarity to steady herself, clenching his worn shirt in her hands—stained with mud and smelling of sweat and earth of a hard day's work. It reminded her of the alleys, of a shed with too many leaks and too many broken windows and a scrawny green haired boy who always insisted on sleeping by the door, keeping guard with a small knife should thieves come in the night to steal away what was most precious to him... Home…
Sothe… I'm sorry that you all ways have to ask and I never tell… You're truly the selfless one, and you don't even see it…
The words were coming, the ones that scared away her doubt.
She waited patiently for them, because when rushed they always turned to become something else, and in this way, they came to her aid and grounded her to the earth beneath her when she felt as though she could have been blow away by a single uttered breath in a moment, an unexpected gust of air, a whisper–
"Sothe…?"
"…Tell me, Micaiah?" he whispered.
And she did not hesitate.
.
0o0o0o
.
"This way. We should find her shortly."
Daein was obsolete; the rules that governed it, lack of discipline, rudimentary bigotry of the 'lesser female sexes', the routines that he bore witness to of treatment by the citizens towards Crimeans in particular, such barbarians—he didn't need to witness the hollowed and terrified faces of children or hear the wet sobbing in the alleys or undergo the dulling frostbite at his finger tips to conclude that it was destitution.
He'd come the conclusion four years previous.
Soren eyed the soldiers before him with silent vigilance; two young and annoyingly capable veterans and a quiet middle-age man escort them through Daein Keep, their body's tense and movements blatantly stiff and cautious—the 'Dawn Brigade.' They passed through intersecting grand halls, passing guards standing watch along the sides of corridors, torches in hand, lips and gloveless fingers turning blue from the Daein chill—though they still held their lances proficiently, if not laboriously. It made Soren wonder whether there was something they were expecting, or simply put, they were mirroring his own suspicious actions. Intimidation and unvoiced oppression through their eyes beneath their helms, fatigue engraved in the scars that lined their faces—highly skilled and zealous soldiers it came down to in a nutshell, trained and ready to kill on the fly if the situation so demanded it.
More worshippers of the Maiden of Dawn, without a doubt, he could conclude. What else would they be?
Soren sized them up in his mind, gingerly fingering the knife that he kept hidden away beneath the confines of his garbs restlessly—it's curved steel blade and ugly stains reciprocating its integral uses. He'd used it plenty of times before, felt the weight of it in the palm of his slick hand, felt the blood on his fingertips as an enemy would collapse at his feet, chocking and spitting and hacking bitter words at him as they drew their last breaths of life like a squall of kittens mewling for their mother—
He unequivocally believed it would not be the last he'd be forced to turn to it.
There were no limitations to the inexperienced for the degeneracy in the cases of politics—and any exceptions were merely hoaxes and dense people anyway, blinded by ignorance and greed and believing in that which was the inexistent and make-believe. Eventually poverty would strike them down—and then they'd come crawling by the dozens, teeth bared and no longer as tame as they had once been. Instincts subjugated in the end, their implements of destruction always rose prominently for a final comeback—and Soren would strike them down to the ground without so much as a castaway glance of pity—undeserving they were of his feelings for following such a blind faith. They merely carved their own deaths; he believed it was fitting.
Pity was an emotion of uncertainty, and doubt did not come so easily for him when the facts were laid so openly; there was no room for it. Doubt was what got people killed, and he had no intention of embracing death at his age. He'd dealt with it a long time ago—or perhaps, several months was only a short time frame for himself…
"Sir… Queen? King Sothe? ...What of their current…?"
"Er…Occupied…"
He hardly felt too unfamiliar with the feeling as he passed through the corridors, another room, and another large stone door with intricate designs symbolizing the Daein Royal Family—he'd begun familiarizing with the concept as a young child, and as an adult, developed his theory to its full hazardous potential. He could greet it as an acquaintance, a colleague with whom, perhaps, he was intimate—though really, an old friend whom he did not care to acknowledge whenever they decided to surface at the most inadequate times he could scarcely call friend. Foe nowadays was much more fitting. Though the feeling of being ready for any malevolence that could lurk just behind his back, in a stray whisper to his ear, in the face of a predator, ready to make the final move and send his world tumbling, tumbling down—ah, he knew about those. Those feelings. Those were the ones that lingered with him the most, that left him awake at night chilled to the core and wondering why things had turned out the way they had when he'd initially had nothing to start with in life.
He didn't believe in luck, though fate was not a probable option either.
"Ah… guests have… Hero and one of the subhu—l-laguz…"
"Oh! A moment than…"
As a child, his future was all ready set in stone, his fate laid exposed before him the moment he'd taken a step into the forests of Gallia, and ventured into the unknown willingly. He'd hoped it would have been better than the life he'd known previously, better than the slaps and spiteful words he'd received from the woman he'd called mother—better than the words of love he'd never been dealt–
"Sir?"
He still remembered it clearly, the shunning he received when the laguz came near, the way they'd turn their backs and walk away. It had burned more significantly in his mind than any beating ever had, and weighed him down like the burden he'd committed himself to believing he was.
"…That shall work… later, perhaps? At…"
"Er, momentarily… Lord Pelleas would see…"
A little voice in the back of his head whispered Ike, Ike doesn't believe that, and Soren knew it be true. There was no need for explanation, no reason to doubt the integrity of that—Ike was a man of conviction and Soren knew that better than anyone. He'd seen the look on his face numerous years past when he'd revealed the matters of his birth, of his parents' commitment to the scandal of his life—to the life of a Branded they'd assigned to him. He'd felt the horror course through his veins as he had spoken, waiting for this friend to turn his back like everyone else he'd ever known in his life do, and they hadn't even known the truth behind the matter.
But it never came. Emotions flashed across his face in a matter of seconds, little pinpricks piercing behind Soren's neck in dread, and then just as quickly lanky arms embraced him from behind roughly and whispered so quietly, "I'm so sorry, I never even suspected," and it was from there that trust slowly stemmed and grew tall, climbing, growing, stretching it's arms and then letting itself blossom into full glory, and his moment of triumph finally came—his final confession to make clear.
"…ren?"
He didn't realize until later that doubt had never entered his mind when he'd spoken in the Tower of Guidance. It was never even a thought.
"Hey, Leo… her?"
"…Hardly, Edward. Stop…"
"Oh… Sothe?"
"You know… 'occupied with...'"
"Huh… Oooh! …I see…"
"Soren?"
He couldn't associate Ike with anyone or anything. He was distinctive upon himself, the only person who'd ever displayed tenderness as if it were a gift, wrapped up with silver bows and crackling yellowing paper, meant to be given away to those deserving.
He wondered what had qualified him.
"Hey, Soren?"
He had to coerce his eyes away from the soldiers before him, release his hold on the blade's frozen handle, one slender and stiffened finger at a time as he struggled to change his attention, his mind drifting along in the shifting pools of his head.
"…Mmm?" Concerned blue eyes came into focus, and he forced himself to appear relaxed.
"You all right? You look a little weary there." Ike was watching him, and Soren was hardly aware of the idle chitchat in the background anymore, the voices of their Dawn Brigade escorts and Ranulf's sly commentary merely white noise as he focused on his friend.
He glanced around silently, analyzing the Keep and the few guards he passed; they gave him threatening glances whenever straying eyes happened to meet; he did not hesitate to return them, if not outright colorfully. Paintings lined the dank hallway, rich in vivid oil paints and the skills of an artist seeping through them adeptly. Heavy and thick drapery bound most of the windows, tied off neatly with little golden cords. Everywhere Soren looked, there was something of mild interest—and possibly threatening; it was easy enough to strangle someone with a curtain cord, and a handy window nearby to dispose of any evidence…
"Daein's hardly changed from the looks of it. You can hardly expect me to be at ease here," Soren answered wryly. Ike blinked in mild surprise, paused in the corridor. Soren hadn't even realized when their footsteps had lessened to nothing, the 'Dawn Brigade' and their third party member chatting up two guards at their posts farther ahead. He ignored them all with ease.
"I doubt anyone's going to jump your bones, if that's what you're so worried about." Ike looked bemused, a wry grin on his face, and Soren scowled lightly, though not in anger. No—he was sure it was exasperation. How many times had they had this discussion again?
"It's called taking precautions, Ike," Soren swallowed, his mouth dry.
You should try it. Maybe it'll save you an axe in the shoulder next time…
"I think you're overdoing it... The knife use in particular." He scowled.
"Hardly. Not when you're injured. …In fact, it's all very… negligible." He eyed his companion's shoulder with discord evident. "I don't like the risk involved in being here—in Daein specifically. The people would soon as kill as have to help us."
Ike's lips twitched in silent bemusement. "They were looking at me—not you. You're not the general they all hold responsible for this mess."
Hardly justifiable. I'll be safe when I'm dead and rotten—only then.
"Exactly my reasoning." Ike laughed at him, and Soren scowled subtly.
"…I still have my left arm, you know. I can still fight if worst comes to worst."
"Yes, well… let's not test that theory, all right?"
"It's all ready healing." Ike defended. He raised his injured shoulder and flexed mildly; a muscle trembled only feebly.
"Mhmm… certainly looks like it is." Soren's left eye twitched—an annoying if not humorous quirk he'd received the misfortune of adopting from his companion.
Ike gave him a sidelong glance. "I'm sure Micaiah would lend me a vulnerary."
"Yes, and I'm sure she keeps it in the cupboard where she keeps her staves and healers reserved for your other dramatic arrivals as well."
"You mean, 'our?'"
"No. I'm not the one who has a death wish"
"Hey, that bandit jumped me. I didn't rush him."
"No, you decided to converse instead. 'Oh, let's talk about the current state of affairs…'" Soren raised an eyebrow, and Ike merely stared.
"…You're so weird sometimes Soren. Just relax, all right? I don't think Micaiah's one to keep guests waiting for long. She should arrive soon... right now, just try to stay calm while we kill some time."
Relaxing is what gets fools killed.
"Queen Micaiah," Soren muttered under his breath irately. He turned his face away in the direction of the walls, but did not argue as they both continued silently down the corridor.
To 'pass' the time, he attempted to distract himself with the paintings along the stone corridors, some gruesome, and some demonstrating new techniques of the art of killing he'd never once thought of. It could have been fairly educational if he had had the nerve to stop and observe—though Daein was hardly an educational country, blatantly put; the fact that Queen Micaiah was on the throne proved the theory furthermore of the citizen's lack of intellect.
Soren scowled into the flames of a nearby sconce, his shadows trembling beneath his feet in exotic inky blackness. He imagined them to be laughing at him.
"Now that's an interesting painting…" Ike commented apprehensively, his movement paused.
Soren turned on reflex to comment—and was quiet as he noticed the specific image of interest. "…Serenes Massacre. That's hardly an appeasing piece to look at."
Golden bouts of brass wound their selves around the edge of the painting, forming a sturdy and provocative eye catcher compared to the plain walls behind it. The image itself was even more intriguing—though not in the pleasing sense.
The forest burned, flames reaching for the sky and herons strewn about on the charred grass, some bodies made of charcoal from the ravaging heat while others were merely ashes; silver flecks of robes the only surviving remains as branches and trees of oak and yew caught fire all around them. The image certainly screamed out unexpected horror when his eyes grazed the dark sky above, to find it was untouched by such monstrosities such as death…
This could be a fairly accurate depiction…
Ike had a look of disgust written on his face, a rare sight of emotion beyond the typical friendliness that he imposed. "Far from it; it's horrible. Someone has a twisted sense of humor if they thought of this as a work of art. This is just wrong." He scowled and turned his angered blue eyes away, looking at his companion for a mutually shared response.
Soren supposed he would humor him.
"...Seems like something Ashnard would like to see hanging; a private gallery of his achievements, brushed upon canvas and hung within his view. All the more threatening and imposing when making deals of death with visiting guests. Perhaps Queen Micaiah has a secret she'd like to share with her ideals…"
It unfortunately wasn't the response his companion seemed to be seeking.
"…That's far-off, even for you. …She's not as bad as you make her out to be, you know." His voice held a softness he did not wish to hear. Ike continued on down the hall after a moment of brief hesitation, his leather-armored boots clacking quietly upon the dull stone floor. Soren trailed slower behind him, his suspicions still lingering with him.
She's branded. That's reason enough to don her she is and isn't.
"And you would know?" Ike turned his head to look over his good shoulder, blue eyes smiling beneath several strands of snowy-wet hair.
"Simple; she's got morals." He spoke as if were an irrefutable fact.
"Define morals for me."
"She had the opportunity many times to abandon Daein if she wanted to, but didn't take any of them because her country was important to her, and the people who lived there even more so. If I were in her place I'm not sure I'd have been able to do what she did for Daein."
Soren crossed his arms, keeping out the chill as he passed a nearby window. His crimson eyes watched his reflection wearily, and he let out an audible breath. "Ike, you've a hero complex. You'd sooner gnaw off your own arm and saw off your legs then let a country fall if you could prevent it." Ike cracked a smile.
"Gnawing off my arm is rather tempting at the moment," he teased.
"Mm. The bandits shared mutual feelings..." Ike laughed, and Soren's lips twitched in silent wry amusement as the halls seemed noticeably brighter, though the thought of Ike injured in any form sent his mind into reels again and he had to force his creeping eyes away from the injury nearby...
"Speaking of Daein horrors…"
They paused in the open corridor once more, and Soren felt his jittery nerves settle in a way that he knew they shouldn't have.
The eyes were what drew him in: cold, distant, malicious, and so seemingly inhuman that he couldn't fathom why they led him to see something else, see the wife beside him and the child the woman held beside her breast, an insignificant detail when the painting was obviously focused on the king and his outward hostility. Ashnard held his wife close, though the love that should have been there between the two was displayed with a possessiveness and fervor that was easily seen as madness. Soren recognized the woman's face quickly, but did not speak. Ike was peering steadily at the picture.
"Huh. I'd forgotten that Lady Almedha was married to Ashnard. She doesn't look any different than she does now… does she?"
Soren swallowed and forced himself to breath normally.
Ike didn't see what he did, the unspoken words that raged inside the woman's crimson eyes, and the defensive stance she took when holding her child in her arms. The better part of him silently prayed the Ike did not come to recognize that side as easily as he. He'd known it far too long and well to ever be comfortable around it when it came to visit.
"…It's because of her Goldoan heritage… She may have turned beorc when she became pregnant, however, I do believe she would still refrain from aging…"
His eyes were drawn back to the woman, and Soren silently pondered as to why the nations outside her own were so intriguing as to lead her down the path he'd heard she'd taken. Wasn't it enough to be accepting of what she had?
Perhaps greed attracts greed—and stupidity all the more.
It was a bitter thought, indeed.
"Soren—what do you think it'd be like to live over hundreds of years?"
He nearly jumped. "What?"
"I said, what do you thi-"
"Ike, I heard you the first time. ...Now what do you mean by that?" He spoke carefully, and smoothed a cuffed robe placidly to hide his fumble.
"Exactly what I said, Soren." Ike's smile was carefully arranged, but Soren did not miss the strained attempt with which he tried to conceal it.
"Do you… look forward to the years ahead? I mean, after we leave Tellius behind… what do you think it will be like? Where we go; here; back home…" He trailed off.
Soren hesitated for a split second, if only to reconsider the words that tied his tongue in knots. It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with Ike's constant and limitless questions—no, it was the degree with which he pertained to speak it—as if it were incredibly important that he answer it the way he specifically wished to hear it.
It was a fragile moment without question.
"I think—I believe it will be incredibly different here… And where we go… I honestly can't say."
"Why not?"
"You haven't suggested a destination. Moreover, you haven't even mentioned our leaving hardly at all if not for the quiet comments…"
And the ones about you sister.
Ike furrowed his eyebrows. "I haven't?"
"No…"
"Oh—heh." He grinned. "Well, I do have a slight idea in mind…" Soren immediately felt weary.
Somewhere far away, please…
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He waited.
…
"Um… Ike?" It was as if he'd gotten lost within the confines of his mind, and the blue eyes turned to face him with a look much like when they were younger and suffered from fewer burdens and knew less. It simply wasn't a look Soren was expecting to see from him—so… innocent.
"…Hatari."
Hatari. Heh, I shouldn't be surprised...
"…And from there?"
"And from there… we'll go east from there." He grinned. "I want to see the end of the continent."
Brilliant…
Sore exhaled calmly. "…I hope you have a well thought out plan for this trip of yours."
Ike leaned against the stone cold wall behind him casually, waving at Ranulf as the cat laguz hurried down the hall unexpectedly with the Dawn Brigade trailing behind, a look of urgency written on his face—though his eyes remained ever fixated on his friend. He smiled kindly.
"Hey, that's the reason you're my tactician, right?" Soren paused, then slowly allowed a small smirk to make itself known.
"Good answer, Ike. …I'll see what I can do."
.
0o0o0o0
.
Nailah stared at Daein Keep before her in what could have been interpreted as disbelief—and then scowled, pale lips curved down conspicuously. She was certain there hadn't been as much snow the last time she'd visited. Time couldn't have passed that quickly…
White powder was clinging to the panes far above her reach, lingering in every little crack within the stone walls, spreading its frosty silver webs over the length of it. The surrounding trees and foliage were hidden, and walking beneath them was like walking under a canopy of evergreens, everything soft and aged. When the gusts of winds blew hard, little silver ice shards made loops in the air, and danced across the back low castle grounds in little twirls. Nailah watched—mystified.
It could have been an ageless Hatari encased in ice—or rather, desert sand.
"…My queen?"
She let her good eye rove over to her right distractedly, finding Volug watching her with a raised eyebrow. Snow had crept into his hair and over his ears and tail, frosting to every little bit of available surface that did not come in contact with the warmth of his leathered skin.
"Yes, Volug?"
A frown appeared slowly on his face, and Nailah half expected a sly comment to burst forth from it—another something undoubtedly picked up from before his time as her loyal vassal. They were habits that were yet to be broken, though in truth Nailah didn't mind the majority of them. Language was not something he could be called skilled at, though his sundry comical wit and vast knowledge of warfare made him useful to her as an ideal traveling companion. His overall charm only contributed to it.
…Mildly.
"You seem… distressed. That is all." Nailah's ears twitched subtly and snow cascaded down her silver curls in small flurries. She turned her head sharply and they all dispersed themselves from her at once, mingling with the flakes that still fell from the black sky above.
Fantastic; he's turning into a heron.
"Hardly," she replied dryly.
"…You can't expect me to believe that."
"No, but I do expect you to keep your mouth shut." It went without question and he and his vociferous eyes were silent.
She gnawed on the inside of her numb cheek contemplatively, staring at the surrounding area with her arms crossed and fingers tucked under her arms for warmth. To keep the citizens of the country at ease, she had been wise enough to wear a cloak as to cover her distinctions that set her apart from the typical beorc, and as such had managed to cover the streets of Nevassa smoothly and without interruption, Volug traveling beside her in his dog-like half-shifted form. She'd received several screams from children and shocked stares from groups of bundled beorc workers who mistook him for a rabid dog, though nothing enough as to bring about having to converse with anyone in particular on the subject of her 'pet' companion. She wasn't so sure whether it was an extreme stroke of luck that brought upon that, or rather an extreme change in the citizenry's conduct.
Surely, Queen Micaiah was a beloved ruler, but not skilled enough as to be able to change the citizenry's minds about everything in such a short time—and Nailah didn't believe in such coincidences as luck.
Volug shifted the position of his feet slothfully towards Daein Keep—and one carelessly placed foot shot him up to his knees in a bank of snow instantly. He looked extremely disgruntled as he sat there, light flakes slowly burying him alive.
Nailah stared at the scene before her.
"…You should shift. I don't want you scaring the palace guards away when we arrive like last time's visit. Your glare worked wonders on their self-esteem as soldiers." He gave Nailah a toothy grin and brought himself to a crouch, flicking away the light little patches from himself with a brush of his hands.
"That was fun. If only they ran that fast when we were fighting Begnion, their casualties wouldn't have been as high as it were."
She snorted in dismissal and turned her head towards the Keep. "Perhaps for you—I was the one who had to explain the situation afterwards."
"Micaiah thought it was comical."
"She obviously doesn't know the truth of the matter then, hmm?" Her words were frosty, and Volug's smirk distanced itself. He frowned slowly, dark eyes narrowing.
"…Something's eating at you… Are you really going to keep denying me that?"
She scowled at the castle walls. "It's nothing you need worry yourself with. We'll discuss it later."
When I'm not focused on migrating the country, she added silently.
It wasn't unusual for him to question her feelings on matters, though it was typical for him to be persistent about it. Nailah supposed it was one of only a few downfalls that he donned that truly irked her so.
The crunching of snow signaled Volug's movement and Nailah twisted her head to find him assessing her, tattooed arms crossed and strong expression weary where he stood. She knew that look—much too well.
"…Whatever you want to say, speak." He frowned.
"…It's Queen Micaiah, isn't it? She bothers you."
Nailah kept her face smooth and impassive as she spoke, hiding her surprise. "I don't think 'bothers' is the right word for describing how I feel. It's moreover the fact that she's young and a ruler of a country that's known for its reputation of being anti-laguz…"
"That troubles you?" His tone was dubious.
She gave him a sharp look with her good eye, blinking hurriedly when white flakes caked her lashes in bunches. "Admittedly, it even worries me. Whatever her actions are for Daein affect Hatari directly. Our nations are as close to being neighbors more than Begnion is, and any decision she makes may affect mine in the long run. …I don't like having to change my decisions so they can cooperate with another country's ruling."
"That shouldn't be too much of an issue. She doesn't come across as one of the beorc who would knowingly propel anything ill-willed towards us. She likes Prince Rafiel, and she likes you."
Yes, but as displayed in this last war, sentiments don't play much of a part here politically speaking…
She frowned. "Feelings can only go so far when you're responsible for thousands of people. They can't change what may be a necessity, nor can they avert political prejudice against us. I have every reason to be concerned over this."
Volug was quiet. "So… you're going to worry yourself to death over something that hasn't even happened?"
She snorted. "No. I'm simply planning for possibilities. I don't want to rule anything out that could happen."
"…That moreover sounds like the smartest course of action."
"Glad you approve. However, I wouldn't put it past history to blindside us. It's happened in Hatari and it's happened here. Seems like a recurring habit," she finished dryly, shifting her gaze back to the Keep.
"Well I suppose we'll just have to be careful, won't we?"
"Exactly. Now shift so we can go."
Volug looked annoyed, but Nailah was all ready moving away before he could respond, her stride making determined and graceful steps towards the castle that laid before them like a beast, it's true malice yet to be uncovered.
She silently hoped things weren't all that cracked up she had led him to believe.
.
0o0o0o0
.
(A/N): As strange as this is, Nailah and Volug are wholly easier to write than Ike and the rest of them are. (Did it show? D:) I think the reason Nailah's so much easier to write is simply because she's not a character that many people write about. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't have to own up to much, only her canon personality (and the incredibly awesome fics in her catergory... woops). And Volug? Heck, he's got what, maybe ten lines in the game? He's practically free game, personailty wise. ...Shame on me for liking the conveniences he offers to writers? :p Haha, anyway... thanks for reading, and, um, I would *love* a review. Seriously. Criticism is loved, and even a single thought on this would be so appreciated. Here's to hoping that didn't sound like begging...
Yeah, anyways... have a wonderful evening everyone. Best to you and yours. :)