fic: Shifting Chaos
Oct. 29th, 2019 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Shifting Chaos
Series: Fire Emblem 9/10
Character/Pairing: IkeSoren
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2930
Summary: Soren wages wars against his own internal demons.
Author's note:
I noted on twitter recently about how I'd accidentally been writing Soren with OCD for years, so here is intentionally OCD Soren.
Contains canon-typical gore, mentions of intrusive thoughts, there's also some rather unsanitary mentions from Soren's past (and spoilers for said past.)
Anyways, Intrusives suck.
*
It was not necessary, but Soren walked Ike to the end of the brick lined alley that lead into the courtyard. Whatever safety he could provide, Soren would, until his death. It was covered in ivy, with green leaves spiraling around and the thick leftover stalks of parts that had died back remaining. Ike had seemed caught in his own thoughts, which did happen from time to time, though it was uncommon.
Evening had fallen, and a soft chill had come with it. Soren drew his cloak tighter around himself.
Thoughts reverberated and repeated and echoed in his mind. Over and over and over. He mentally counted each step to be even. step on a crack, break your mother's back. That old rhyme, overheard near the fountain when he was a child. He didn't even have a mother to lose, but the song remained.
The ghosts always lingered with him, with black claws reaching towards his mind. He flinched as Ike held up the training foil. In his mind he could see a thousand deaths. Like waking nightmares, they appeared to haunt him whenever the ghosts got hungry.
A sword through the throat, a stab through the heart, the back. Fallen upon a blade, cut asunder from a blade, a parry too late. He was no oracle. They never came truth, but Soren had experienced Ike's death thousands of times. No matter how much he told himself the visions weren't real, the memories of them remained.
They stole his sleep, and came to him in battle. His ghosts were closer to him than any parent ever had been.
*
Ike stood at the end of the desk. Between them were twenty-seven papers, pushed together so perfectly until they looked like one thick paper. Soren pushed the quill back into its inkstand. He frowned at a smear of ink at his palm. He grimaced as he rubbed away the dark blotch from his skin.
Unclean, he thought. Diseased, broken, unclean. His skin reddened, chafed and cracked from repeated washings, but he didn't stop. But try as he might, he couldn't wash it away. And the thought remained, over and over...
You're unclean, you're unclean, you're unclean...
"You've been so distant lately," Ike said.
Unclean. He could feel it coursing underneath. It didn't matter how many times he pushed his hands into scalding water, the corruption would still be there. The veins at his wrist were distracting. No matter how much he stared, he couldn't see a difference, but now he knew. He could scrub until his fingers bled and he had to wear gloves again, lest Ike notice and it would make no difference.
He'd made an excuse (The Daein winter, of course.) But Ike knew, he knew. It wasn't enough for Soren to be thrown out, tossed aside, worthless.
He had balanced his hand just precisely near the cup, just precisely to keep the ghosts quiet for the few moments while everything was just as ordered as his mind was disordered.
The pen could go through your wrist, it could slice through your skin, it could slice through your skin, it could slice your skin.
Soren tried to focus on the page. The ghosts circled around him. They moved on to images. Since the war had started, not even Ike could always chase out the ghosts lodged in his head.
No, he thought. He wouldn't let Ike die. Each image was a possibility he would stamp out. He wouldn't let the ghosts devour Ike. He alone would be haunted.
"I haven't been sleeping well," Soren said. He paused for a moment. The pen hovered above another paper. "That's all."
He'd told half a truth, and now Ike would want the rest.
"You know where I am. If you need anything..."
"Of course," Soren said.
And the chorus of ghosts in his mind reminded him: he'll die, he'll die, he's dying right this second, this moment. Every second you're losing him by degrees.
No matter how much he focused upon tasks, the ghosts were always with him. It was pathetic to ever think someone like him could ever have peace.
*
There was but one solution at hand.
Had he traded peace for power, with the ghost right along? Soren couldn't remember a peaceful moment. Only around Ike did the ghosts settle, only then could he sleep.
Soren held up the meat. He could see grease dripping off each bite. During the starving years, he'd had to pull things from refuse. Maggots had crawled through the kitchen scraps. The filthy, memories, those bitter tastes still haunted him. Each bite reminded him of that gritty taste, which had not faded with time.
Now as he lifted the piece to his mouth, he could remember pushing his hand into that stinking refuse to try and find something to eat. The beast kind would not even look at him, would not offer him food or even acknowledge him as a person. He was a ghost to them.
The scent was as clear as if it was right here. At odd moments it would overtake him. He always kept several pieces of jerky nearby. Eating in front of anyone made him draw back.
Grease dripped on his tongue, to his lips. Unclean, unclean, unclean. He licked his lips and forced another bite in. He'd put the meat back into the fire until it blackened, tasteless, just to get the image of the fly-ridden garbage from his mind. Appease the regrets, leave an offering for the ghosts. Salt across the windows, an offering of rice outside the doors to distract. Soren kept this up faithfully. Nothing sated them expect his own suffering.
He was not a suspicious man by nature, but as a magician, he knew how to work with spirits. But these ghosts would not be appeased. He'd lifted up his calm, his desperation, left salt at his corners and burned sage. When he woke, they woke with him.
The rituals were all that kept him alive. So it went. Salt to the corners, sage until his clothes reeked of the scent. Done an even amount of times, and then, then maybe it would finally pass.
But no matter how much he tried, no exorcism came.
*
Then, it changed. A diagram in a book. The unclean, the cursed. He had tainted blood. He was no spirit-charmer, but half beast.
Had the people known? Sensed it? Was that why so many had turned aside?
Then, the thought: Ike too will turn away, just as the beasts in the forest. He will leave you to die.
And that thought joined all the horrible thoughts. The memories of starving, of his ribs showing through his skin, and of losing Ike in every possible way a person could.
As much as Soren wanted to cling to his trust of Ike, the only person worthwhile in this cold world, his mind was drowned out by the ghosts. As he took to his tasks, his tactics, these thoughts were always there with him. Weighing him down, reminding him that happiness could never be his.
One day, you aren't going to need me anymore. One day, Ike will leave you. Savor each precious moment, because soon he will leave.
That one little vile thought had settled inside him. He'd pushed that worry aside until this happened. Until he knew, could see the lines forming that would take Ike away from him. It knocked the breath from him, a suffocating dark truth.
Chores were a comfort. The clean, orderly lines of the book of hours. The even swish, swish of a broom. The dust banished. All smooth, for once, pristine.
When sleep evaded him, when the dreams came to him, with dark claws to scrape against his mind, then he would set himself to tasks. Work until he was too numb to think again.
Ike appreciated every extra task, and that too was a reasoning.
Except, sometimes thoughts came through. If I could sacrifice myself to stop him dying within my mind over and over, I would.
*
His fingers curled as the breath caught in him, a feeling like slowing. They'd been happening more and more, these episodes where it felt like his chest was closing in on itself, bones cracking around his heart. It was falling into the water, clawing at a surface light and the air he needed.
Try to breathe, just try to breathe.
He'd tried to research it, but ointments for curses and the evil eye were less than useless. A cure staff would close up his wounds, but not take away this shadow that followed him, swallowing him up in cold.
Soren clung tighter to his book, until his hands hurt, but it did not steady him. He still felt as if he were falling off an incline, panic and fear and emotions eating up at him.
"What's wrong?"
Soren stepped back, and shook his head. "I don't know," Soren said.
But he knew: the ghosts. Or, perhaps, the spirit within him. He never could tell whether it was a pact or a haunting. The lines seemed so thin. The thoughts, the thoughts, they were always here. His very own possession by something dark and beyond his means.
No matter what victory came, or his part in it, they were always there. A dark cloud on a sunny day.
The thought of Ike knowing, Ike turning away from him, thinking him disgusting lodged in his brain, until he could think of little else.
The reality had Ike drawing nearer. His face tinged with concern. Ike's hand rested close. His shoulders looked so strong. Strong enough for Soren to rest against.
It wouldn't fix anything, but he might feel calmer for a moment.
But he wouldn't not ever, not now.
Soren didn't respond.
"Listen, whatever you're going through, I'm not going to leave you. You know that, don't you, Soren?"
As much as Soren wanted to believe, he knew it was a lie. A well intentioned lie, but one nonetheless. If Ike knew, or if Ike died, then he'd leave Soren all alone again.
"Ah....yes." Soren cleared his throat. He couldn't meet Ike's eyes. "But, I have things to do..."
"Something's tearing up at you."
Another cyclical point. They'd had this very conversation in the desert, before Tormod and his band of laguz. The word was new and sharp across his tongue. The word was a part of him, unsaid, beneath his tongue.
"It is a war. Morale is bound to be low at times. It's...nothing."
Soren stepped out, back into the cold. The brutal wind cut straight through his cloak.
When Ike was gone, the ghosts returned.
He will never be yours. He will never be yours. You're a fool, you're corrupted and a fool and he will reject you once he knows.
"Do you think I don't know this?" Soren's voice cracked, as each sharp, cold breath was icy air to his lungs. His voice was lost in the coming storm. "Is it too much for you to ever give me a moment's peace?"
He will never be yours echoed in his mind. Soren closed his eyes and clutched his hands to his ears. It did nothing to drown them out. Obsessive, endless, the dark thoughts plagued him.
He was never going to have a happy ending. At most merciful, he'd die in battle for his sake and never have to watch him marry someone else, or watch Ike die from a brigand's axe or the ravages of time.
"I know this...you don't have to always remind me, haunt me...."
The ghosts within his mind was all too ready to offer a million images of how he could die, how Ike could die, how this could end in tragedy. To be free from this and this life full of disgusting, self-serving people would be a sweet release.
It would be just him and his ghosts. But Ike would mourn him, and that thought kept him alive, just as an offered bit of food, a bit of kindness had kept him alive years ago.
He would never want to cause Ike any sadness. So he fought on. He forced himself to re-order the desk, and wash his hands exactly three times, until the cracks grew further. The ritual calmed, protected him. Though it made no logical sense.
*
Soren ducked beneath the tent flap. The flames had grown dim, and Ike's gaze had grown unfocused. His left eye twitched, and Ike reached to rub his face. Ike was just as exhausted as him, even more. If Soren could take even half of his burden, he gladly would. No matter how much it hurt, or how much of his life was taken away.
As much as his thoughts weighed on his mind, there was his duty.
He read off the words. Facts and figures, who had fared the best. Where they could improve. It was easier when he had a task to focus himself on. Then the fleeting fluttering of his mind couldn't bring him back to stark reality.
The beorc wouldn't want him. The laguz wouldn't want him. Only Ike had accepted him, but would that last?
Did anything in this putrid world?
But even sentences, simple facts, those wouldn't betray him. They could steady away from the thoughts long enough until he could be alone again.
(But Ike was like being alone. He rarely made Soren feel irritated, and never left him drained with the contact.
"...There's the rest of the staff report."
He'd meant to simply hand the papers over, but as he did, he found his hands enclosed. Soren stared down at the warmth of Ike's fingers enclosed with his own.
Ike didn't draw back. Given the trajectory, it could've have been a mistake. He tried to meet Ike's gaze, but he was reading the last of the report.
"...Ike?"
"You always do a good job, and if nobody else is going to say it, I will: I really appreciate it. I know you're going through a lot now. Even if you don't want to talk about I want you to know I'm always here."
Soren didn't respond for a long time. It was like he'd stumbled into a dream. Every time Ike showed him any form of affection, Soren had to mentally face a chorus of negative voices reminding, reminding, reminding him.
His blood was tainted. He could never be enough for Ike, not in a world where queens all would gladly give him a share of their kingdom, their bed, their hearts.
But he could have these seconds. No one could take them away from him, not even the swirling negative voice within his mind. Because when he was around Ike, the swirling winds, the ghosts quieted for a second or more.
"...Thank you, Ike."
They stood there, wordless and huddled together. Soren couldn't ruin this moment with the truth.
The thoughts left sometimes, though only for a short period of time. He hadn't spilled out his secrets before Ike, but inside there was a still. A calm before the storm. The firelight crackled. Soren had to lean in to turn each page and see the writing. Ike hadn't sent him away yet.
Reading near Ike, quiet away from the din of the other mercenaries, something like peace would come over him.
"You look a little calmer. Are you feeling any better?"
"A little," Soren said softly.
Ike got up, and Soren's gaze followed him. His book was long forgotten in that moment. A blanket was laid over his shoulders.
"I'm not pushing you, but if you need anything--I'm here. Always."
Soren gazed down. The blanket wrapped tight about him. If only that were true. If only he could live in a world where Ike was always there for him, where Ike accepted him, loved him completely.
Even loved Soren as much as Soren loved Ike.
"Thank you, Ike. For everything."
Always putting up with his sharp tongue and sharper view of this world. Unlike Mist's rosy world of flowers and love, Soren always saw the shadows beyond.
The ghosts were a distant haze. Even as he knew this existed within him, and would surely return with all their foreboding of Ike's and his own demise.
"The truth is, I believe you can do it. You can win this war," Soren said. Logically, he knew it was nigh impossible. A feat of fools. They would've been better to ally themselves with Daein and try and curry favor with their conquerors.
But if Ike could do the impossible and save him, if Soren could do the impossible and find him again, then a war was a pretty little pittance by comparison.
Ike smiled, though his smile was rough around the edges. "I know. That's why I know we can beat this."
Soren looked up. Ike's hand remained at the top of his head, a soft pressure, a shield against the dark inside him.
Just that contact could temporarily break the storm inside him.
The thoughts would return, but Soren savored this moment, and just what Ike could give him.
Peace, trust in another person, and sometimes even hope.
**
Series: Fire Emblem 9/10
Character/Pairing: IkeSoren
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2930
Summary: Soren wages wars against his own internal demons.
Author's note:
I noted on twitter recently about how I'd accidentally been writing Soren with OCD for years, so here is intentionally OCD Soren.
Contains canon-typical gore, mentions of intrusive thoughts, there's also some rather unsanitary mentions from Soren's past (and spoilers for said past.)
Anyways, Intrusives suck.
*
It was not necessary, but Soren walked Ike to the end of the brick lined alley that lead into the courtyard. Whatever safety he could provide, Soren would, until his death. It was covered in ivy, with green leaves spiraling around and the thick leftover stalks of parts that had died back remaining. Ike had seemed caught in his own thoughts, which did happen from time to time, though it was uncommon.
Evening had fallen, and a soft chill had come with it. Soren drew his cloak tighter around himself.
Thoughts reverberated and repeated and echoed in his mind. Over and over and over. He mentally counted each step to be even. step on a crack, break your mother's back. That old rhyme, overheard near the fountain when he was a child. He didn't even have a mother to lose, but the song remained.
The ghosts always lingered with him, with black claws reaching towards his mind. He flinched as Ike held up the training foil. In his mind he could see a thousand deaths. Like waking nightmares, they appeared to haunt him whenever the ghosts got hungry.
A sword through the throat, a stab through the heart, the back. Fallen upon a blade, cut asunder from a blade, a parry too late. He was no oracle. They never came truth, but Soren had experienced Ike's death thousands of times. No matter how much he told himself the visions weren't real, the memories of them remained.
They stole his sleep, and came to him in battle. His ghosts were closer to him than any parent ever had been.
*
Ike stood at the end of the desk. Between them were twenty-seven papers, pushed together so perfectly until they looked like one thick paper. Soren pushed the quill back into its inkstand. He frowned at a smear of ink at his palm. He grimaced as he rubbed away the dark blotch from his skin.
Unclean, he thought. Diseased, broken, unclean. His skin reddened, chafed and cracked from repeated washings, but he didn't stop. But try as he might, he couldn't wash it away. And the thought remained, over and over...
You're unclean, you're unclean, you're unclean...
"You've been so distant lately," Ike said.
Unclean. He could feel it coursing underneath. It didn't matter how many times he pushed his hands into scalding water, the corruption would still be there. The veins at his wrist were distracting. No matter how much he stared, he couldn't see a difference, but now he knew. He could scrub until his fingers bled and he had to wear gloves again, lest Ike notice and it would make no difference.
He'd made an excuse (The Daein winter, of course.) But Ike knew, he knew. It wasn't enough for Soren to be thrown out, tossed aside, worthless.
He had balanced his hand just precisely near the cup, just precisely to keep the ghosts quiet for the few moments while everything was just as ordered as his mind was disordered.
The pen could go through your wrist, it could slice through your skin, it could slice through your skin, it could slice your skin.
Soren tried to focus on the page. The ghosts circled around him. They moved on to images. Since the war had started, not even Ike could always chase out the ghosts lodged in his head.
No, he thought. He wouldn't let Ike die. Each image was a possibility he would stamp out. He wouldn't let the ghosts devour Ike. He alone would be haunted.
"I haven't been sleeping well," Soren said. He paused for a moment. The pen hovered above another paper. "That's all."
He'd told half a truth, and now Ike would want the rest.
"You know where I am. If you need anything..."
"Of course," Soren said.
And the chorus of ghosts in his mind reminded him: he'll die, he'll die, he's dying right this second, this moment. Every second you're losing him by degrees.
No matter how much he focused upon tasks, the ghosts were always with him. It was pathetic to ever think someone like him could ever have peace.
*
There was but one solution at hand.
Had he traded peace for power, with the ghost right along? Soren couldn't remember a peaceful moment. Only around Ike did the ghosts settle, only then could he sleep.
Soren held up the meat. He could see grease dripping off each bite. During the starving years, he'd had to pull things from refuse. Maggots had crawled through the kitchen scraps. The filthy, memories, those bitter tastes still haunted him. Each bite reminded him of that gritty taste, which had not faded with time.
Now as he lifted the piece to his mouth, he could remember pushing his hand into that stinking refuse to try and find something to eat. The beast kind would not even look at him, would not offer him food or even acknowledge him as a person. He was a ghost to them.
The scent was as clear as if it was right here. At odd moments it would overtake him. He always kept several pieces of jerky nearby. Eating in front of anyone made him draw back.
Grease dripped on his tongue, to his lips. Unclean, unclean, unclean. He licked his lips and forced another bite in. He'd put the meat back into the fire until it blackened, tasteless, just to get the image of the fly-ridden garbage from his mind. Appease the regrets, leave an offering for the ghosts. Salt across the windows, an offering of rice outside the doors to distract. Soren kept this up faithfully. Nothing sated them expect his own suffering.
He was not a suspicious man by nature, but as a magician, he knew how to work with spirits. But these ghosts would not be appeased. He'd lifted up his calm, his desperation, left salt at his corners and burned sage. When he woke, they woke with him.
The rituals were all that kept him alive. So it went. Salt to the corners, sage until his clothes reeked of the scent. Done an even amount of times, and then, then maybe it would finally pass.
But no matter how much he tried, no exorcism came.
*
Then, it changed. A diagram in a book. The unclean, the cursed. He had tainted blood. He was no spirit-charmer, but half beast.
Had the people known? Sensed it? Was that why so many had turned aside?
Then, the thought: Ike too will turn away, just as the beasts in the forest. He will leave you to die.
And that thought joined all the horrible thoughts. The memories of starving, of his ribs showing through his skin, and of losing Ike in every possible way a person could.
As much as Soren wanted to cling to his trust of Ike, the only person worthwhile in this cold world, his mind was drowned out by the ghosts. As he took to his tasks, his tactics, these thoughts were always there with him. Weighing him down, reminding him that happiness could never be his.
One day, you aren't going to need me anymore. One day, Ike will leave you. Savor each precious moment, because soon he will leave.
That one little vile thought had settled inside him. He'd pushed that worry aside until this happened. Until he knew, could see the lines forming that would take Ike away from him. It knocked the breath from him, a suffocating dark truth.
Chores were a comfort. The clean, orderly lines of the book of hours. The even swish, swish of a broom. The dust banished. All smooth, for once, pristine.
When sleep evaded him, when the dreams came to him, with dark claws to scrape against his mind, then he would set himself to tasks. Work until he was too numb to think again.
Ike appreciated every extra task, and that too was a reasoning.
Except, sometimes thoughts came through. If I could sacrifice myself to stop him dying within my mind over and over, I would.
*
His fingers curled as the breath caught in him, a feeling like slowing. They'd been happening more and more, these episodes where it felt like his chest was closing in on itself, bones cracking around his heart. It was falling into the water, clawing at a surface light and the air he needed.
Try to breathe, just try to breathe.
He'd tried to research it, but ointments for curses and the evil eye were less than useless. A cure staff would close up his wounds, but not take away this shadow that followed him, swallowing him up in cold.
Soren clung tighter to his book, until his hands hurt, but it did not steady him. He still felt as if he were falling off an incline, panic and fear and emotions eating up at him.
"What's wrong?"
Soren stepped back, and shook his head. "I don't know," Soren said.
But he knew: the ghosts. Or, perhaps, the spirit within him. He never could tell whether it was a pact or a haunting. The lines seemed so thin. The thoughts, the thoughts, they were always here. His very own possession by something dark and beyond his means.
No matter what victory came, or his part in it, they were always there. A dark cloud on a sunny day.
The thought of Ike knowing, Ike turning away from him, thinking him disgusting lodged in his brain, until he could think of little else.
The reality had Ike drawing nearer. His face tinged with concern. Ike's hand rested close. His shoulders looked so strong. Strong enough for Soren to rest against.
It wouldn't fix anything, but he might feel calmer for a moment.
But he wouldn't not ever, not now.
Soren didn't respond.
"Listen, whatever you're going through, I'm not going to leave you. You know that, don't you, Soren?"
As much as Soren wanted to believe, he knew it was a lie. A well intentioned lie, but one nonetheless. If Ike knew, or if Ike died, then he'd leave Soren all alone again.
"Ah....yes." Soren cleared his throat. He couldn't meet Ike's eyes. "But, I have things to do..."
"Something's tearing up at you."
Another cyclical point. They'd had this very conversation in the desert, before Tormod and his band of laguz. The word was new and sharp across his tongue. The word was a part of him, unsaid, beneath his tongue.
"It is a war. Morale is bound to be low at times. It's...nothing."
Soren stepped out, back into the cold. The brutal wind cut straight through his cloak.
When Ike was gone, the ghosts returned.
He will never be yours. He will never be yours. You're a fool, you're corrupted and a fool and he will reject you once he knows.
"Do you think I don't know this?" Soren's voice cracked, as each sharp, cold breath was icy air to his lungs. His voice was lost in the coming storm. "Is it too much for you to ever give me a moment's peace?"
He will never be yours echoed in his mind. Soren closed his eyes and clutched his hands to his ears. It did nothing to drown them out. Obsessive, endless, the dark thoughts plagued him.
He was never going to have a happy ending. At most merciful, he'd die in battle for his sake and never have to watch him marry someone else, or watch Ike die from a brigand's axe or the ravages of time.
"I know this...you don't have to always remind me, haunt me...."
The ghosts within his mind was all too ready to offer a million images of how he could die, how Ike could die, how this could end in tragedy. To be free from this and this life full of disgusting, self-serving people would be a sweet release.
It would be just him and his ghosts. But Ike would mourn him, and that thought kept him alive, just as an offered bit of food, a bit of kindness had kept him alive years ago.
He would never want to cause Ike any sadness. So he fought on. He forced himself to re-order the desk, and wash his hands exactly three times, until the cracks grew further. The ritual calmed, protected him. Though it made no logical sense.
*
Soren ducked beneath the tent flap. The flames had grown dim, and Ike's gaze had grown unfocused. His left eye twitched, and Ike reached to rub his face. Ike was just as exhausted as him, even more. If Soren could take even half of his burden, he gladly would. No matter how much it hurt, or how much of his life was taken away.
As much as his thoughts weighed on his mind, there was his duty.
He read off the words. Facts and figures, who had fared the best. Where they could improve. It was easier when he had a task to focus himself on. Then the fleeting fluttering of his mind couldn't bring him back to stark reality.
The beorc wouldn't want him. The laguz wouldn't want him. Only Ike had accepted him, but would that last?
Did anything in this putrid world?
But even sentences, simple facts, those wouldn't betray him. They could steady away from the thoughts long enough until he could be alone again.
(But Ike was like being alone. He rarely made Soren feel irritated, and never left him drained with the contact.
"...There's the rest of the staff report."
He'd meant to simply hand the papers over, but as he did, he found his hands enclosed. Soren stared down at the warmth of Ike's fingers enclosed with his own.
Ike didn't draw back. Given the trajectory, it could've have been a mistake. He tried to meet Ike's gaze, but he was reading the last of the report.
"...Ike?"
"You always do a good job, and if nobody else is going to say it, I will: I really appreciate it. I know you're going through a lot now. Even if you don't want to talk about I want you to know I'm always here."
Soren didn't respond for a long time. It was like he'd stumbled into a dream. Every time Ike showed him any form of affection, Soren had to mentally face a chorus of negative voices reminding, reminding, reminding him.
His blood was tainted. He could never be enough for Ike, not in a world where queens all would gladly give him a share of their kingdom, their bed, their hearts.
But he could have these seconds. No one could take them away from him, not even the swirling negative voice within his mind. Because when he was around Ike, the swirling winds, the ghosts quieted for a second or more.
"...Thank you, Ike."
They stood there, wordless and huddled together. Soren couldn't ruin this moment with the truth.
The thoughts left sometimes, though only for a short period of time. He hadn't spilled out his secrets before Ike, but inside there was a still. A calm before the storm. The firelight crackled. Soren had to lean in to turn each page and see the writing. Ike hadn't sent him away yet.
Reading near Ike, quiet away from the din of the other mercenaries, something like peace would come over him.
"You look a little calmer. Are you feeling any better?"
"A little," Soren said softly.
Ike got up, and Soren's gaze followed him. His book was long forgotten in that moment. A blanket was laid over his shoulders.
"I'm not pushing you, but if you need anything--I'm here. Always."
Soren gazed down. The blanket wrapped tight about him. If only that were true. If only he could live in a world where Ike was always there for him, where Ike accepted him, loved him completely.
Even loved Soren as much as Soren loved Ike.
"Thank you, Ike. For everything."
Always putting up with his sharp tongue and sharper view of this world. Unlike Mist's rosy world of flowers and love, Soren always saw the shadows beyond.
The ghosts were a distant haze. Even as he knew this existed within him, and would surely return with all their foreboding of Ike's and his own demise.
"The truth is, I believe you can do it. You can win this war," Soren said. Logically, he knew it was nigh impossible. A feat of fools. They would've been better to ally themselves with Daein and try and curry favor with their conquerors.
But if Ike could do the impossible and save him, if Soren could do the impossible and find him again, then a war was a pretty little pittance by comparison.
Ike smiled, though his smile was rough around the edges. "I know. That's why I know we can beat this."
Soren looked up. Ike's hand remained at the top of his head, a soft pressure, a shield against the dark inside him.
Just that contact could temporarily break the storm inside him.
The thoughts would return, but Soren savored this moment, and just what Ike could give him.
Peace, trust in another person, and sometimes even hope.
**
