Micaiah left the strategy room and plunged into the chaos of the infirmary. She wanted time before she considered Soren's idea, and a little bit of chaos still cleared her head. Whether that was because of having Yune in her body years ago, or just lingering nightmares of turning into a statue... she had never thought hard about it. Right now, she could help the injured soldiers, so the hospital was her place.

Time slipped by. Micaiah found herself working next to familiar faces: she caught glimpses of Elincia's gentle smile, Mist's cheer even in this place, Rhys looking pale in the soft blue glow of his staff. The galdrar of the three heron siblings filled the room, somehow dimming the screams of the wounded without impeding the healers' communication. Micaiah fell into the rhythm of the room, and hardly noticed the time passing.

At last, though, a hand on her arm broke her from her reverie. "Come on, Micaiah," Sothe urged quietly. "There's a new shift taking over. You should get some rest."

She nodded and handed her staff over to a new healer. Sothe let her lean on his shoulder as they navigated the halls; she was suddenly so tired, the weariness she had managed to offset suddenly crashing down on her. She must have actually dozed off at some point, because she opened her eyes with a jolt when Sothe set her down on her bed. She rubbed her eyes blearily — then as he moved away, she caught the sleeve of his coat.

"Sit," she commanded, stifling a yawn.

Sothe raised an eyebrow at her. "You need to—"

"Rest, yes, I've heard. I will, after you're healed."

"Micaiah, I'm fine."

Micaiah stood up. She wasn't anywhere near eye level to him — the top of her head came about to his jaw — but she knew that he would give in to her, anyway. "Nothing short of perfect is fine anymore, Sothe," she insisted. "Not when you mightn't have time to heal properly before you have to fight again. If you die because of a small injury—"

He sighed, cutting her off before she really warmed to her tirade. Secretly she also sighed with relief. She didn't feel up to it, just now. "All right, Micaiah," Sothe murmured. "On the condition that you don't use Sacrifice."

"I won't," she promised, reaching for one of her staves. "Look, a mend staff right here. See how easy that was?"

Sothe didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He slipped his coat off, his features stone-like. But even he couldn't control his complexion, and Micaiah made him sit down when she saw the color leeching from his face. He sat very still as Micaiah lifted his shirt away from an ugly red gash across his ribs. "Are you ever going to get proper armor?" she murmured, concentrating mostly on her staff.

"No," Sothe snorted quietly. "If I wore armor like Nolan's, I'd be dead a thousand times over."

"How so?"

"It's a burden, especially to a knife-fighter. If I wore armor, I'd definitely get hit."

"You have been hit," Micaiah pointed out sternly. She pulled his shirt back down and set her staff aside. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Sothe."

He smiled at her. "Nobody's going to go through this without getting hurt." He brought his hand up and brushed her hair away from her face. "Except you, if I can help it."

Micaiah closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand. "I'm worried," she admitted for the first time.

"Because of Soren's plan?"

She nodded. "Has it really come to that? Already?"

Sothe pulled her into his arms. "Micaiah… you know… we won't last until winter. Not even here. The defenses on this side of the country just weren't enough. We've become used to peace in Daein — busy reconstructing. We just weren't ready for this."

"It's so dangerous, though," she whispered.

"Have you had any visions? Heard anything from Yune?"

"… Not in a while, no."

"No news is good news, Micaiah."

"Unless—"

"Your abilities aren't going anywhere," Sothe said firmly. "I thought we'd been over this."

Finally, Micaiah's tense frame relaxed just a tiny bit. "We have." She smiled slightly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." He kissed her forehead. "Why don't you get some rest. You'll feel better."

"Stay," she whispered.

Sothe tucked her hair behind her ear. Deftly he removed her jewelry and her cape, and set them aside. "I will," he promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

Micaiah sighed and stretched out on the bed, letting her eyes drift close. "Sothe?"

"Hm?"

"What do you think of Soren's idea? Truly."

She felt his hand touch her face gently. "I think it's better than sitting here waiting," he replied honestly.

Micaiah opened one eye and stared at him accusingly. "You're excited for this."

He offered her a tiny smile. "I won't deny that. It's not like I'm looking forward to it, Micaiah — but it will be better than this. Besides, I think we need to do something to strike back." He brushed her silver hair off her forehead. "What do you think?"

She sighed wearily. "I think… it may be the best chance. But that doesn't necessarily mean I like it."

"No one likes it," Sothe sighed. "Nobody wanted this war."

…

Someone did, though. The Ketaran army war gearing up again, heading out to challenge the new defenses. Their position was untenable, and they knew it — there were too many directions here in the mountains for their enemies to strike from. Especially those flying units, Captain Markus thought, scanning the mist-shrouded peaks. And those birds. They could be upon the camp and gone again within minutes. Constant vigilance was required.

Markus kept up that vigilance, even when he wasn't on watch duty. He kept his mind on the battles to come, occasionally analyzing the few they had already fought, forming plans and thinking through contingencies. It was easier than thinking about the cool metal in his hand.

Every soldier in the Ketaran army carried an identification tag on his uniform. Markus, however, held these two in his hand. He had just threaded one onto a chain he normally wore around his neck, under his uniform and armor. It clinked softly against the older tag, glinting in the firelight.

Porter, Jason
Onyx Guard, First Lieutenant

Rachel had handed it to Markus this morning, before he had even asked for it. Her own tag had shone against her dark shirt, brand-new as of that same morning, when she had been promoted to fill the vacant spot of First Lieutenant. But she had looked anything but happy about her promotion; she had only said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be stupid," he'd replied gruffly. "Wasn't your fault."

It was mine.

Markus turned the tags over in his hand. "You had to follow me," he murmured bleakly, "didn't you?"

He tucked the tags away and stood briskly, adjusting his sword. He stalked around the encampment again, scanning the surroundings even though it wasn't his watch. He needed to move; he didn't need to sit and stare at those damned tags for hours. He already had the other one memorized, every last detail after how many hours turning it over and over in his fingers.

Markus, Jonathan
Fifth Legion

…

Author's note:

Very sorry for the lack of updates, I've been very busy, and have also unfortunately discovered the Harry Potter fanfics, which are a huge time-sucker because there are so many on my favorite understated characters and I just lose track of time… sigh. Bad. Anyway. The next chapters will be moving away from the sitting-around-waiting-for-the-next-assault thing, because if I'm getting bored with that, so are the characters. So I figured I could try out some of the stuff more like what we see in the games, with just our core group doing cool dangerous stunts. What could possibly go wrong?
Thanks again to everybody reading. Hey, if you've got any sneaky Soren-like plans, I'd love to hear about them.