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bonnefoisI was going to wait until the 17th to post this, but I know I'll never get any work done on anything else until I post it. And I totally need to work on my CC entry, even if I'm already over halfway through it~~
Either way, the first part/prologue is here.
As a final note, oddly enough I find posting WIP chapters far more nerve-wracking than simply posting oneshots. Hm.
Title: The Lost Children: II. The Tongue-Cut Sparrow (Ten)
Fandom: FE9, but quite au.
Day/Theme: 10 . 28. wild at heart
Character/Pairings: Ike, Mist, Soren
summary for this chapter: A memory only half-remembered and two children in the woods. Through this a mute boy finally finds his voice.
Wordcount: 6,200+ this chapter, 7,300+ total so far.
A/N: ..and by tomorrow I obviously mean a year later. For my defense, my computer crashed taking my almost-finished chapter and ficnotes with it.
There’s some allusions to RD spoilers, though nothing too concrete yet.
--
They’d spent the week wandering. The leafy green forest looked far less inviting at night, with each rustle Ike was alert, gripping the hilt of his sword – the lightest he could find and yet still too heavy for his small frame. Every morning he practiced,. Swinging the blade in arcs,. tying to remember the exact words, movements, his father had taught him. Every day, the memories of his father seemed a little fainter, a little less certain. He clung steadfast to every small detail, memorizing the cragged landscape of his father’s face. The sound of his deep, laughing voice, the way he held his sword. Ike would practice until his arms burned and ached, blisters forming on his small hands. He pushed father, he would grow strong for Mist’s own sake. They survived mostly on nuts and berries, his attempts at hunting were unsuccessful, Though as of yet his attempt a t starting a fire were an exercise in failure. Even if he had caught anything, it could only be eaten raw. Mist bit her lip to stop the tears and tried to put on a brave face.
“We’ll be like the Sacae, remember in the books Titania read us? We’ll get horses and we’ll find father much faster!”
“The Sacae lived on the plains, Mist. I don’t think they lived berries. Besides, they aren’t real, they’re just faerie tales.”
Mist stuck her tongue out. Her brother had no imagination at all! “Then we’ll be faerie children,” she said. Ike stared blankly . Really, her brother was so dense sometimes.
—
At night they’d nestle close, curling together, with Ike’s cloak wrapped around them. Without fire, there was nothing to drive back the chill of the night, the clammy nightmarish slivers of fear that crept around them, always hanging near. Mist clung close and begged for stories, and Ike complied. Not faerie tales, as she wanted, but tales of Greil, their father. As if to keep him alive via memories, however light, Ike would keep that flame alive.
—
If anything, Ike was stubborn. So stubborn that as they wandered further, through the forests of Gallia, where beasts supposedly ruled; even as all of this attempts at hunting failed, Ike left every morning, following the still-damp footprints in new mud. Ike had never hunted with his father, thus he had never been taught the most common rules and techniques. Even through this, he persisted in his own clumsy way. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that if he could unlock the secrets of finding and catching animals, he would be that much closer to finding Greil. Pressing his fingers to the damp earth, he focused on the trail, as if it would impart some unknown knowledge; the one fact that eluded him, how his father had literally vanished into thin air.
He perhaps had focused too much on the finding and less on the path. He lost the sense of time and direction, and along the way, he lost the rabbit. He was far from the camp where he had left Mist, still sleeping in a hollowed out tree.
Ike noticed other tracks then, cat paw prints, so large that he could fit his entire hand inside them, even with his palm stretched and fingers splayed out. The tangle of trees all looked the same, Ike fought the rising panic, he was a man now. His father had driven in the point as soon as Mist could walk that he was to guard her. Ike promised himself to never let either of them down.
Ike retraced his steps, with the swallowing of fear came clarity seeping through him. The prints increased, with sounds that tent terror coursing through his veins again. He heard aa growl, a swoosh of powerful limbs leaping through the bush. The creature before him was feline, yet the largest he had ever seen in his short life. The cat was sleek, its lithe body tensed, as if it could pounce at any moment. The cat had a coat that was, strangely enough, blue, and its were two different shades, gold and purple. The cat looked like some creature from Mist’s stories, it regarded Ike with a face that seemed to have a human quality, with shades of seeming bemusement. “G-get back,” Ike yelled, clutching tightly to the handle of his tiny sword. If anything, this seemed to ‘amuse’ the blue cat all the more.
“I’m warning you–“ Ike said, louder, as if volume would cover the frantic beating of his heart.
The cat looked at him, for a long moment, studying the curious hairless soft being before him, the little lost boy that was Ike. Then, finally, it made a moment almost like shrugging, leaned unto a crouch and leapt. Ike froze, adrenaline screamed, instincts alight, but the blue cat soared over him and landed gracefully in into the bushes, disappearing into the forest beyond. It took several minutes before Ike could even move, still his blood pulsed anxiously, the trace of ancestors that knew what it truly was to be prey.
He noticed something lying on the ground where the cat had been, Ike went to inspect. It was the rabbit he had been following (or at the very least a rabbit) he picked up the broken body, still damp from the saliva of the cat’s maw, and the lifeblood of its last breath. It was limp in his hands, he was so hungry that the thought of eating it only caused slight revulsion. A gift from the cat. He’d shown that cat, spitting and hissing like a kitten and almost drawing his thorn-like sword. Maybe he’d slay lions one day. Escaping alive was his first step.
Ike took the gift and followed his path back towards the camp.
–
Mist woke some time after Ike left. She stretched and wiped away the last of the sandman’s dust from her eyes. Or was it faerie dust? Maybe both, she thought, her mind still a little groggy as she settled into the afternoon’s sunlight. She smoothed the creases from her dress and frowned at a spot on the skirt. Usually she’d never notice such things, too busy playing to consider the consequences, but she liked this dress. Titania had boughten it with her and it was a pretty yellow, like sunlight or spring dandelions. The memory of Titania and her father, something so soon, as if it had been just yesterday and it made tears sting at her eyes. She balled her fists and pressed them until the traitorous tears went back and she saw colorful stars and faerie dust behind her eyes.
Still, what to do about the clothes. Ike’s were already turning ragged and she hadn’t learned mending yet. She hadn’t been old enough to help with the washing, even though she had liked watching Titania with work, she could hardly remember what it entailed.
When her thoughts returned to home, she saw linen hanging out to dry, white and fluttery like clouds, like flags of things she didn’t fully understand, things called ‘war’ and ‘surrender’. Still, Mist was determined to help. She hummed as she shook the leaves and dirt off their sole blanket. Then she peered around looking for the tell-tale flashes of red through all this green and brown. She’d seen a bush with brilliant red berries, such pretty things that looked so juicy her mouth watered.
It took a few minutes to locate it again. It was farther than she thought, near the edge of the forest. She’d picked up broken sticks to use like crumbles in the tale of Hansel and Gretel. It crossed her mind that the story was very much like them, except their father hadn’t abandoned them in the woods, he’d simply disappeared. She couldn’t waste breadcrumbs, especially when the birds would snap them all up. But these specially bent and broken sticks would have to due until then. Mist only hoped there wasn’t a witch about to snap them up, like the birds with the crumbs, even if there was a house made of candy.
She reached up as high as her tiny arms could reach and plucked a berry. Mist pipped it into her mouth, expecting a sugary sweet taste. Instead, she found it bitter. She grimaced and felt like spitting it out, but her stomach twisted with hunger. Resolve firm, she grabbed another handful and popped the entirety into her mouth until they were bulging like a squirrel’s. It tasted dry and rough, even more bitter than the first taste had been. Hot tears ran down her cheeks but she forced herself to swallow it down. Maybe the berries were actually nice but just needed sugar? She wondered where you could find sugar in a forest. Under a tree, maybe? She’d have to look harder for hidden sugarflowers. She was sure she could find them if she looked hard enough.
Titania had said that the bitterest cherries made the sweetest pies. (Her mind went back to home then, the warm hearth that she’d scoot as close to as possibly, but not too close., lest she get burned again. Sweet aroma of baking food, especially sweetcakes and pies.)
She didn’t feel strong or brave, just sick. She popped another handful into her mouth. She’d be as brave as she could be. And she needed her strength if she was going to help Ike find their father. She chewed and swallowed the horrible berries. Her stomach gurgled and a sudden wave of pain hit her as she crumpled to the ground. Hot tears fell against her face, suddenly seeming farther off. She’d be....
---
Ike returned. It had been harder than he had thought it would be, retracing his tracks. Even with his feet leaving prints in the damp ground, brush and leaves often covered it. The rabbit was light in his hands, sodden wet. He could feel the indentation where teeth had punctured through the fur and skin.
“Mist!” He called. No response came, no high and cheerful voice welcoming him back. Maybe, he thought, she was still sleeping,. His sister was such a silly sleepyhead.
He dropped the rabbit down and scanned the camp, feeling for a moment like the mighty hunter that he wasn’t.
He called her name, but heard nothing but his own echo in response. He poked the bedding blanket, but found it almost folded, as best as should could do. He checked the ground for signs. The earth was kind and willing today, and it didn’t take him long before he found her footsteps beside a trail of broken branches.
She’d left a path for him to follow. Smart girl.
Ike traveled it fast, wondering if she’d been kidnapped or dragged against her will. There wasn’t another set of tracks and no dragging or struggle, but it was always a possibility.
When Ike finally came to the edge, he caught sight her tiny body lying in under the bushes, red juices dripped from her mouth like blood.
“Mist!”
He ran to her and bent down and shook her, terror ripping through him. He’d told her to be careful, he’d told her—
“Mist, Mist, you’ve got to wake up!”
She groaned, and coughed, clutching her stomach.
“Brother...”
Her skin was clammy and yet unnaturally pale, and her eye looked dazed, unfocusing. He tried to pull her up but she couldn’t stand and was so cold.
“Mist—!”
---
Father Radolphus dipped his quill to the inkwell, only to find it dry. He frowned, his lined face creasing as he tried to remember if there was any more red ink stocked. Manchaw berries were quite prevalent around the area, and while poisonous and uneatable, they made excellent ink, especially for the preservation of such sacred texts as these. Manchaw berries resembled the smaller, sweet-smelling Michew berries which made excellent jams.
Every year the healers and monks were called for some child who had mistaken the two. Sometimes, they weren’t found soon enough and another victim was claimed to the twin berries. The will of the gods was a strange thing, he thought. To make two berries so alike and to take so many lives from that trickery.
He touched his forehead where his reddish hair was already receding, the ebb of time pulling him back like tides. Only in humans, the waves did not return in this lifetime.
“Soren,” he called gently. He heard the soft padding of footsteps as the boy came into view.
The boy was always silent, his eyes blank and impassive. Most of the other monks in the brotherhood found him disconcerting at best, downright repulsive at worst. True, there was much scorn in those blood red eyes, which were wary, like a beaten stray. Still, Father Radolphus saw the skills which this child had. Already he could write and transcribe as well as the newest initiates, and he knew the child couldn’t be over ten. Soren was a dutiful worker and complied to every task, no matter the difficulty or tedium involved.
Then again, he never spoke, thus could hardly give complaint.
“I need you to get some Red Manchaw Ink from the widow Percina on the edge of the forest.”
The boy gave the slightest of inclinations of his head, the only sign that he had heard Father Radolphus at all.
“Pack yourself some food from the storage, it’s a long walk.”
The boy blinked once. His mouth was a firm line that never wavered. His eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“And be careful, they say there’s beasts in the forest. Remember, the beasts fear fire.”
Father Radolphus smiled.. He knew there was little to fear, for he knew this boy’s secret. It had been accidentally revealed, for he did no delude himself to think that Soren would trust him enough to share this untold talent with him.
The boy had magic. Even at such a young age he could control flame and wind alike with admirable skill that would be lauded in any mage.
One of the first things he gave to the boy were some magic tomes; books that captured the essence of wind and fire. Soren was still too frail to wield about the essence of lightning, which proved a more weighty read than the others. And Soren hid these gifts well as Father Radolphus had told him in no uncertain terms that the books were to remain their secret. Shortly after that Soren had traded his rages for the small black and gold robes of the initiates and officially begun work under Father Radolphus.
With talents like this at such a young age, the boy was certainly a prodigy. With a little grooming, a bit of taming he could turn into quite the magician. Once that could perhaps change the flow of time, or even the world. A child like that was one he could put his hopes in.
--
Soren packed a small lunch and consumed one small fruit and a moderate amount of bread before he left. Simply enough to make the lunch last as long as possible. Perhaps he could supplement it with some nuts, herbs and berries upon the trip home. He knew well to limit his rations, even if Father Radolphus had shown him some kindness, it did not extend to the rest of the monastery.
Father Yulius, the cook and storage-keeper begrudged every bit of food given out, especially to Soren. However, despite the hostile nature of some of the lesser monks, Soren found this place far more appealing than digging through refuse and sleeping on doorsteps with stray dogs. It took only a little maneuvering to keep his place, and it was well worth the effort. He’d already learned enough to have a skilled trade, and if he did choose to stay, he could likely rise in the ranks quite early as long as Father Radolphus didn’t die anytime in the near future.
Of course, Soren knew he wouldn’t stay that long. Still, it was heartening to know that the option was there.
He still hadn’t found the boy, the one with the warm hands and deep blue eyes. The dreams of him had become more frequent now, even as they weren’t as desperately needed. When he had been alone, Soren had searched deep and formed the dreams, fitting together the pieces together so carefully lest he lose one. They were his finding stars, his hope. Conjuring dreams was only one of the talents pressed into him at a young age, and it didn’t take Soren long to master it.
It galled him to stay in this town for such a long period of time without searching. With autumn would come the cold nights and Soren did not want to spend another winter feebly searching for warmth and sustenance on the filthy streets.
Soren packed the tome with the essence of fire as a last resort. If he was attacked by a beast, perhaps this would scare it off and give him enough time to escape. Soren was pragmatic enough to know that he couldn’t take one on alone, not at his current level of training. However, the beasts in this area were weak, easily frightened, and not particularly aggressive.
Soren shouldered the pack, wincing slightly at the sheer weight of the tome. He would have to manage a more efficient way of towing the heavy books.
The path to the forest turned rough a third of the way and Soren stumbled over ruts and large rocks.
He passed through the unseen gates of the forest, his hand on a warding charm given to him by Father Radolphus. One could never be too careful.
He kept a careful eye out as he neared the Manchaw berry bushes and the residence of the widow Percina. He noticed children out of the corner of his eye, and but for one odd twist of fate, instead of keeping to his duties, Soren turned to look at them.
Soren was not in the habit of stopping to help beggars or orphans of any kind. They could take care of themselves, few had ever given him even a passing glance when he had lain there at the side of the road, few had ever stopped to give him kindness.
And yet this one child drew him nearer. He had to step closer to see if his eyes were deceiving him or if this was in fact an older version of that boy.
All the details fit. The deep navy eyes and the same hands, the hair turned blue, like stormy skies and seas. But he was thinner, and taller now. But still, the same face, the same feeling around him. The cycle had come to full circle. From a young boy giving food to a starving, stray of a child to now where the same boy was on the other side.
The irony of this situation did not escape Soren, though he hardly reveled in it.
The boy was bent over a young girl who lay beneath the berry bush.
Ah, Manchaw berries. It happened every year. Soren knew the stages of the poison with intimate detail. First they became disoriented and racked with stomach pains. Then their skin would turn cold and damp, and finally it would end with paralysis and death.
Soren touched the boy on the shoulder, and the boy whipped around and stared at him, one hand on his sword hilt.
“Oh, you’re my own age,” he said, obviously relieved. He relaxed his hand on the hilt, and his wariness ceased just as quickly as it had began.
Foolish and naive, Soren thought. Thieves could be any age, and more than once he’d witnessed children used to lure prey by adults. Given the gift of food and gold many would turn a blind eye to whatever their clients asked for.
But it was most definitely the same boy, the one he had been searching for all this time. The dreams coalesced with reality and memories. A thought crossed his mind that there hadn’t been recognition across the boy’s face... Soren pushed the thoughts aside for the moment and attended to the small girl. The poison looked as if it hadn’t set in completely, upon seeing him in her dazed, delirious state, the girl moved her arms in a weak gesture.
Soren bent and wrote in the soft dirt. She’s poisoned. Get her to a healer
The boy looked at the lettering and squinted hard.
“Shh....eee.... Po..poi...son--” the boy said, reading along out loud. It was obvious that reading was not his skill.
Soren signed internally. He pointed to the girl, and then to he berries. He drew a finger across his neck as if it were a knife.
“I don’t understand, you’re saying the berries what?”
Soren dug through his pack. pushing aside tomes and lunch. The herb which he had packed lest the Manchaw seep into his skin.
He crushed the antidote over her mouth and the green juices fell over her lips. He lifted her head as he had often seen the healers do and crushed more of the essence into her.
The paralysis hadn’t stuck yet, that was a good sign at least. Still, the herb could only stave off the initial symptoms, once it had reached too far, the curing process became a great deal more complicated.
Soren pulled out the food and pushed it into the other boy’s hands.
The boy looked confused. “For her?”
Soren shook his head and pointed at the boy’s chest. for you....
He’d never give something for nothing, especially not to a simple beggar never – to anyone but this person. Soren searched for the words which bubbled up within him, the dreams he’d had all solidified before him. He shook them away before they could blind him any further.
He grabbed up his now lighter pack and hurried away. The reunion would have to wait a little longer
--
When Soren came into his room flushed and with an expression of urgency on his face, Father Radolphus knew something was very wrong.
Soren tugged at the father’s sleeve, pulling insistently. Father Radolphus had never seen him this agitated. He collected his heal staff without another word and pulled over the last of his monk’s habit over his head.
Soren shook his head and pointed to the staves in the corner.
“A mend staff?” Father Radolphus replied.
Soren shook his head again.
“Restore?”
Soren nodded.
Another poisoning, he thought grimly. Odd, as Soren took the dangers in life with a blank, uncaring attitude. He’d never seen the boy actually race to his side to save a poisoned child before.
Soren pulled at his sleeves the entire time, leading him towards the woods. Father Radolphus walked as fast as his ailing legs could take him, and yet it never seemed fast enough for Soren.
When he finally reached the area, he saw a boy bent over a small girl, the tell-tale signs of red Manchaw’s poisoning well on the way.
She was a young thing, brown hair matted and stained yellow dress. Her cheeks were still quite plump, she couldn’t have been alone for long.
Yes, through the red staining her mouth was the green of the leaves with antidote quality. Already it would be working against the toxins. Soren had done well, he thought with pride.
Father Radolphus held the restore staff over her and said a prayer to the gods that this one would be spared. Bathed in the light color returned to her pallid skin and warmth began seeping back into her.
“She needs rest, child..”
The boy looked wary, his face so much like Soren’s when Father Radolphus had first brought him inside the walls of the monastery. But unlike Soren, that wariness soon passed to a childlike trust.
The boy allowed Father Radolphus to carry his sister back. She slept the entire time, even when being over the bumps and ruts of the twisted dirt path. Upon reaching the monastery, he laid her in the sick bay and charged Father Kinnias, the order’s healer. Father Kinnias left her to he care of Brother Ishes, a shy young novitiate who already showed a marked talent in care of the sick and injured.
He soon found out their story. The boy was named Ike, and the girl was called Mist. He had guessed them to be no older than Soren and he was quite correct. Ike spilled out the story all at once without any trace of his earlier suspicion. The story would seem to most false, ringing of a child’s fantasies and nightmares, but Ike seemed so determined and sure of himself that he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it.
And besides, Father Radolphus knew the veracity in that tale. He had known that nightmare and its name. The vision that Ike had detailed matched his very own.
Soon after the telling and even before night had fallen, all three of the children were fast asleep. Ike in on the floor near the sickbay where his sister was still fast asleep, and Soren on the couch near to them. Father Radolphus lifted them one at a time, each as light as kits, and placed them on the empty cells of the unused novitiate rooms. The room he chose was a double room, which seemed fitting. They each slept soundly from their separate sides, facing each other from across the distance.
--
The next morning, after a breakfast of tea and lukewarm porridge, Soren cleaned and dressed himself and wrote a clear, concise note. He busied himself with chores while Ike slept in. After every few swoops of the ink Soren would look up and see if the boy had risen, only to return sullenly to his work when he saw that Ike had not.
Ike slept until noon and Mist slept even longer. Soren had watched silently from outside the sickbay while Ike bent over her bed and ruffled her hair. He called her ‘sleeping beauty’ and ‘princess’ while she sputtered at him.
The poison hadn’t seemed to have any lasting effects other than a slight weakness.
When Ike finally left he almost bumped into Soren, he hadn’t taken the cue to leave from his post soon tenough. Soren thrust the paper to Ike’s hands, a lilting expectation fluttering in his chest. My name is Soren the paper said, written in large clear letters, easily read by any beginner.
Ike stared at the paper and made clumsy sounds as he tried to decipher the letters.
Father Radolphus was near enough to overhear the exchange. He smiled benevolently, took the paper from Ike and read it aloud.
“He’s saying that his name is Soren.”
“I’m Ike,” he said, for the first time showing the hint of a break in his frowning, the first hint of a smile and the first sign that he was still a child.
“It’s rare for him to try and talk to outsiders.”
But Soren ignored Father Radolphus, his gaze locked solely on Ike, as if he would vanish if he took his eyes off of him for a minute.
--
Even with the treatment of the antidote and restore, Mist still remained somewhat weak, certainly too fragile to travel immediately.
It was disconcerting, almost, that mere weeks ago he would’ve been off playing or training, swinging his sword about and waiting for his father’s laughter or a pat on the head but that was all gone now. A pang of sadness hit him as he remembered again that night: the leaves, the moon, the well of darkness that his father had vanished into.
Even though they couldn’t begin looking again until Mist got better, Ike never let himself dwell on the memories. With his father’s passing, he had grown far older than his years. He busied himself helping Soren with errands.
Soren never talked, but sometimes Ike thought he saw lips moving, almost-whispers that he never could seem to hear.
Soren had saved Mist’s life, and his own. That’s all Ike needed to know to like him. Yeah, he didn’t look anything like anyone Ike had ever seen, he looked almost doll-like with his deep-white skin and piercing eyes, but Ike felt a sort of unexplainable camaraderie towards Soren and he never questioned it.
Not once.
He’d noticed that the townspeople and the monks (with the exception of Father Radolphus) had a certain aversion towards him. And it took a lot for Ike to notice things, Mist didn’t call him rockhead for nothing.
So when he went to get ink, as the trip of yesterday’s had been forgotten in the commotion, Ike didn’t miss the uncomfortable air as the neighborhood children stared at Soren.
They followed them almost the entrance of the woods, their toys forgotten as the children stalked them like predators stalk their prey. All to the forest they had said nothing, but Ike noticed the renewed blankness in Soren’s expression, the tight set of his jaw. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed the changes at all if the thin, flimsy makeshift walkingstick Soren had fashioned hadn’t broken under the tightness of his grip.
Even the exchange with the widow Percina was terse. She pushed aside a greying strand and brought out the ink without another word. The payment was done quickly, but her cold grey eyes never left them. They burned with suspicion.
Ike was glad to be rid of her and the entire forest.
He hadn’t expected the crowd to be there when they returned, for there was no knowing how long a trip like that could take. However, the children all were there waiting for them, like a murder of crows perched in the trees.
And this time they were not silent.
“Scaleling!”
“Cold one!”
Soren looked ahead, each step metered and exact. He did not run or make any note that he sensed the angry insults that rained down on him. But even with such a show of strength, his lower lip trembled, ever so slightly.
“Filthy half-breed scum!”
Anger built up in Ike, like fire engulfing dry brush, he didn’t even think before he grabbed the first boy and punched him It was a raw, untouched fury which burnt inside him. He grappled and scratched and pummeled the group of boys. He barely felt their returned blows. Their numbers overwhelmed him and even as he fought the boys closed
It was the sound of wind that made them scatter, a howling that came closer and closer. He saw green light spinning towards them. He did not see the wind surround the children for the ensuing dust storm had caused him to close his eyes. The sound of the wind silenced their cries and fear.
“Soren--! Are you ok?”
Soren was unhurt despite it all. Ike felt relieved for that at least, for a moment he had worried that the nightmare had come to take Soren away too, that this spinning green howling wind was a sign that Soren too would vanish into thin air.
They did not talk on the way back, nor would this incident be mentioned, not until many years later. The children all survived, the scrapes and bruises and broken bones, for Soren’s handle on magic was still new. His powers had not come into full bloom yet.
When they returned to the monastery Soren cleaned Ike’s wounds. He refused to let any other monk help, it was his task alone.
--
By two more days, Mist had regained her strength and Ike’s bruises had already turned several different shades. Mist called them beautiful, but she didn’t have to live with them.
Soren rarely left his side now, he was like a second shadow, following after every step. The days were warm and long, the nights soft in their coolness, like a caress.
Already Ike was getting antsy. With each day that they spent here, his father would be farther away, maybe miles and miles ahead by the time they left.
Of course this left the question of where his father had gone. Ike had never focused much on the where. He merely knew that his father had disappeared and it was his duty to look for him, even if that meant searching under every stone in Tellius for some clue of his existence.
Ike only stayed one more day, by then that Mist was already running around with flowers in her hair, the poison long purged from her system. By midday his few belongings were packed.
Father Radolphus stood at the gates. He looked aged beyond his years.
“You should stay here, child. We’ll care for you until you’re reunited with your remaining family.”
“I have to find my father. I know he’s out there – I saw him!”
Father Radolphus nodded, a bit sadly. “I wish you well on your journey. Please, take some more food. Soren will get it. Soren—”
Soren came with a rather large pack and set it down before them.
“That’s it, I suppose,” Father Radolphus said. “They’re leaving now, Soren, you should say your goodbyes.”
Soren’s eyes widened and for a moment he was still and blank, and then something inside him that had been holding back for so long broke, and everything flooded out at that moment. He gave a sound like a cry lodged deep, a pain that had kept too long and amplified under the pressure of being hidden.
“N....no.....!” he gasped.
“Soren?”
Soren looked anguished. In all his years Soren hadn’t made the remotest of expressions save for scorn, nor had he ever spoke, his voice had been caged with every blow. Each vowel and syllable was new, each emotion felt rusty and strange inside him.
“No... st..ay.”
Soren clung to the edge of Ike’s sleeves. He held on so tight he could feel his own fingernails through the material.
“Soren? You want to come with us?”
Soren didn’t answer directly, but clutched Ike’s hands. The same hands that hand saved him, the tiny forming callouses and dirty nails. The same fingers interlocking. The same person he swore he’d never lose again.
“Of course you can come, Soren, but it’s a long ways, you really want to come?”
Soren nodded, a quick bob of his head and struggled to lift the pack again. Ike helped him, and they carried it together, Mist skipping behind them.
--
Father Radolphus watched them leave until they became mere specks in the distance, their shadows eaten up by Gallia’s thick forests. He prayed for them and their long journey ahead, for he knew very well that they would need it.
With this task done, the Father called Radolphus disappeared, his death a convenient one that no one questioned. He was old and far too fond of the half-breeds. Many of the order were glad to be rid of his ideals, and those that did miss him were quickly silenced by their more powerful brothers.
Human life was so transient. One could work their whole life for peace only to have it ripped away when the pyre’s embers were still warm.
In the middle of the forest the spell broke. Red hair peeled back and the humble monk’s habit turned to colorful silks.. It had been an easy enough disguise, an old benevolent monk relocated from a larger, more prestigious order. Just enough presence to find the secrets of the brotherhood, and then to have just enough to save a few half-breeds. Little enough to be forgotten and swept into dusts on his passing.
Nothing would change drastically, but perhaps he had swayed the path ever so much with his movement. As long as the Goddess Ashunera slept and the rest of the gods bickered in her absence, little would change. Only tiny threads that he himself had plucked and twisted, tricking fate to do his bidding.
Sephiran unfolded his dark wings for the first time in more than half a year. He stretched from his stooped position and flew. The stars shone as if in welcome to his return.
Either way, the first part/prologue is here.
As a final note, oddly enough I find posting WIP chapters far more nerve-wracking than simply posting oneshots. Hm.
Title: The Lost Children: II. The Tongue-Cut Sparrow (Ten)
Fandom: FE9, but quite au.
Day/Theme: 10 . 28. wild at heart
Character/Pairings: Ike, Mist, Soren
summary for this chapter: A memory only half-remembered and two children in the woods. Through this a mute boy finally finds his voice.
Wordcount: 6,200+ this chapter, 7,300+ total so far.
A/N: ..and by tomorrow I obviously mean a year later. For my defense, my computer crashed taking my almost-finished chapter and ficnotes with it.
There’s some allusions to RD spoilers, though nothing too concrete yet.
--
They’d spent the week wandering. The leafy green forest looked far less inviting at night, with each rustle Ike was alert, gripping the hilt of his sword – the lightest he could find and yet still too heavy for his small frame. Every morning he practiced,. Swinging the blade in arcs,. tying to remember the exact words, movements, his father had taught him. Every day, the memories of his father seemed a little fainter, a little less certain. He clung steadfast to every small detail, memorizing the cragged landscape of his father’s face. The sound of his deep, laughing voice, the way he held his sword. Ike would practice until his arms burned and ached, blisters forming on his small hands. He pushed father, he would grow strong for Mist’s own sake. They survived mostly on nuts and berries, his attempts at hunting were unsuccessful, Though as of yet his attempt a t starting a fire were an exercise in failure. Even if he had caught anything, it could only be eaten raw. Mist bit her lip to stop the tears and tried to put on a brave face.
“We’ll be like the Sacae, remember in the books Titania read us? We’ll get horses and we’ll find father much faster!”
“The Sacae lived on the plains, Mist. I don’t think they lived berries. Besides, they aren’t real, they’re just faerie tales.”
Mist stuck her tongue out. Her brother had no imagination at all! “Then we’ll be faerie children,” she said. Ike stared blankly . Really, her brother was so dense sometimes.
—
At night they’d nestle close, curling together, with Ike’s cloak wrapped around them. Without fire, there was nothing to drive back the chill of the night, the clammy nightmarish slivers of fear that crept around them, always hanging near. Mist clung close and begged for stories, and Ike complied. Not faerie tales, as she wanted, but tales of Greil, their father. As if to keep him alive via memories, however light, Ike would keep that flame alive.
—
If anything, Ike was stubborn. So stubborn that as they wandered further, through the forests of Gallia, where beasts supposedly ruled; even as all of this attempts at hunting failed, Ike left every morning, following the still-damp footprints in new mud. Ike had never hunted with his father, thus he had never been taught the most common rules and techniques. Even through this, he persisted in his own clumsy way. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that if he could unlock the secrets of finding and catching animals, he would be that much closer to finding Greil. Pressing his fingers to the damp earth, he focused on the trail, as if it would impart some unknown knowledge; the one fact that eluded him, how his father had literally vanished into thin air.
He perhaps had focused too much on the finding and less on the path. He lost the sense of time and direction, and along the way, he lost the rabbit. He was far from the camp where he had left Mist, still sleeping in a hollowed out tree.
Ike noticed other tracks then, cat paw prints, so large that he could fit his entire hand inside them, even with his palm stretched and fingers splayed out. The tangle of trees all looked the same, Ike fought the rising panic, he was a man now. His father had driven in the point as soon as Mist could walk that he was to guard her. Ike promised himself to never let either of them down.
Ike retraced his steps, with the swallowing of fear came clarity seeping through him. The prints increased, with sounds that tent terror coursing through his veins again. He heard aa growl, a swoosh of powerful limbs leaping through the bush. The creature before him was feline, yet the largest he had ever seen in his short life. The cat was sleek, its lithe body tensed, as if it could pounce at any moment. The cat had a coat that was, strangely enough, blue, and its were two different shades, gold and purple. The cat looked like some creature from Mist’s stories, it regarded Ike with a face that seemed to have a human quality, with shades of seeming bemusement. “G-get back,” Ike yelled, clutching tightly to the handle of his tiny sword. If anything, this seemed to ‘amuse’ the blue cat all the more.
“I’m warning you–“ Ike said, louder, as if volume would cover the frantic beating of his heart.
The cat looked at him, for a long moment, studying the curious hairless soft being before him, the little lost boy that was Ike. Then, finally, it made a moment almost like shrugging, leaned unto a crouch and leapt. Ike froze, adrenaline screamed, instincts alight, but the blue cat soared over him and landed gracefully in into the bushes, disappearing into the forest beyond. It took several minutes before Ike could even move, still his blood pulsed anxiously, the trace of ancestors that knew what it truly was to be prey.
He noticed something lying on the ground where the cat had been, Ike went to inspect. It was the rabbit he had been following (or at the very least a rabbit) he picked up the broken body, still damp from the saliva of the cat’s maw, and the lifeblood of its last breath. It was limp in his hands, he was so hungry that the thought of eating it only caused slight revulsion. A gift from the cat. He’d shown that cat, spitting and hissing like a kitten and almost drawing his thorn-like sword. Maybe he’d slay lions one day. Escaping alive was his first step.
Ike took the gift and followed his path back towards the camp.
–
Mist woke some time after Ike left. She stretched and wiped away the last of the sandman’s dust from her eyes. Or was it faerie dust? Maybe both, she thought, her mind still a little groggy as she settled into the afternoon’s sunlight. She smoothed the creases from her dress and frowned at a spot on the skirt. Usually she’d never notice such things, too busy playing to consider the consequences, but she liked this dress. Titania had boughten it with her and it was a pretty yellow, like sunlight or spring dandelions. The memory of Titania and her father, something so soon, as if it had been just yesterday and it made tears sting at her eyes. She balled her fists and pressed them until the traitorous tears went back and she saw colorful stars and faerie dust behind her eyes.
Still, what to do about the clothes. Ike’s were already turning ragged and she hadn’t learned mending yet. She hadn’t been old enough to help with the washing, even though she had liked watching Titania with work, she could hardly remember what it entailed.
When her thoughts returned to home, she saw linen hanging out to dry, white and fluttery like clouds, like flags of things she didn’t fully understand, things called ‘war’ and ‘surrender’. Still, Mist was determined to help. She hummed as she shook the leaves and dirt off their sole blanket. Then she peered around looking for the tell-tale flashes of red through all this green and brown. She’d seen a bush with brilliant red berries, such pretty things that looked so juicy her mouth watered.
It took a few minutes to locate it again. It was farther than she thought, near the edge of the forest. She’d picked up broken sticks to use like crumbles in the tale of Hansel and Gretel. It crossed her mind that the story was very much like them, except their father hadn’t abandoned them in the woods, he’d simply disappeared. She couldn’t waste breadcrumbs, especially when the birds would snap them all up. But these specially bent and broken sticks would have to due until then. Mist only hoped there wasn’t a witch about to snap them up, like the birds with the crumbs, even if there was a house made of candy.
She reached up as high as her tiny arms could reach and plucked a berry. Mist pipped it into her mouth, expecting a sugary sweet taste. Instead, she found it bitter. She grimaced and felt like spitting it out, but her stomach twisted with hunger. Resolve firm, she grabbed another handful and popped the entirety into her mouth until they were bulging like a squirrel’s. It tasted dry and rough, even more bitter than the first taste had been. Hot tears ran down her cheeks but she forced herself to swallow it down. Maybe the berries were actually nice but just needed sugar? She wondered where you could find sugar in a forest. Under a tree, maybe? She’d have to look harder for hidden sugarflowers. She was sure she could find them if she looked hard enough.
Titania had said that the bitterest cherries made the sweetest pies. (Her mind went back to home then, the warm hearth that she’d scoot as close to as possibly, but not too close., lest she get burned again. Sweet aroma of baking food, especially sweetcakes and pies.)
She didn’t feel strong or brave, just sick. She popped another handful into her mouth. She’d be as brave as she could be. And she needed her strength if she was going to help Ike find their father. She chewed and swallowed the horrible berries. Her stomach gurgled and a sudden wave of pain hit her as she crumpled to the ground. Hot tears fell against her face, suddenly seeming farther off. She’d be....
---
Ike returned. It had been harder than he had thought it would be, retracing his tracks. Even with his feet leaving prints in the damp ground, brush and leaves often covered it. The rabbit was light in his hands, sodden wet. He could feel the indentation where teeth had punctured through the fur and skin.
“Mist!” He called. No response came, no high and cheerful voice welcoming him back. Maybe, he thought, she was still sleeping,. His sister was such a silly sleepyhead.
He dropped the rabbit down and scanned the camp, feeling for a moment like the mighty hunter that he wasn’t.
He called her name, but heard nothing but his own echo in response. He poked the bedding blanket, but found it almost folded, as best as should could do. He checked the ground for signs. The earth was kind and willing today, and it didn’t take him long before he found her footsteps beside a trail of broken branches.
She’d left a path for him to follow. Smart girl.
Ike traveled it fast, wondering if she’d been kidnapped or dragged against her will. There wasn’t another set of tracks and no dragging or struggle, but it was always a possibility.
When Ike finally came to the edge, he caught sight her tiny body lying in under the bushes, red juices dripped from her mouth like blood.
“Mist!”
He ran to her and bent down and shook her, terror ripping through him. He’d told her to be careful, he’d told her—
“Mist, Mist, you’ve got to wake up!”
She groaned, and coughed, clutching her stomach.
“Brother...”
Her skin was clammy and yet unnaturally pale, and her eye looked dazed, unfocusing. He tried to pull her up but she couldn’t stand and was so cold.
“Mist—!”
---
Father Radolphus dipped his quill to the inkwell, only to find it dry. He frowned, his lined face creasing as he tried to remember if there was any more red ink stocked. Manchaw berries were quite prevalent around the area, and while poisonous and uneatable, they made excellent ink, especially for the preservation of such sacred texts as these. Manchaw berries resembled the smaller, sweet-smelling Michew berries which made excellent jams.
Every year the healers and monks were called for some child who had mistaken the two. Sometimes, they weren’t found soon enough and another victim was claimed to the twin berries. The will of the gods was a strange thing, he thought. To make two berries so alike and to take so many lives from that trickery.
He touched his forehead where his reddish hair was already receding, the ebb of time pulling him back like tides. Only in humans, the waves did not return in this lifetime.
“Soren,” he called gently. He heard the soft padding of footsteps as the boy came into view.
The boy was always silent, his eyes blank and impassive. Most of the other monks in the brotherhood found him disconcerting at best, downright repulsive at worst. True, there was much scorn in those blood red eyes, which were wary, like a beaten stray. Still, Father Radolphus saw the skills which this child had. Already he could write and transcribe as well as the newest initiates, and he knew the child couldn’t be over ten. Soren was a dutiful worker and complied to every task, no matter the difficulty or tedium involved.
Then again, he never spoke, thus could hardly give complaint.
“I need you to get some Red Manchaw Ink from the widow Percina on the edge of the forest.”
The boy gave the slightest of inclinations of his head, the only sign that he had heard Father Radolphus at all.
“Pack yourself some food from the storage, it’s a long walk.”
The boy blinked once. His mouth was a firm line that never wavered. His eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“And be careful, they say there’s beasts in the forest. Remember, the beasts fear fire.”
Father Radolphus smiled.. He knew there was little to fear, for he knew this boy’s secret. It had been accidentally revealed, for he did no delude himself to think that Soren would trust him enough to share this untold talent with him.
The boy had magic. Even at such a young age he could control flame and wind alike with admirable skill that would be lauded in any mage.
One of the first things he gave to the boy were some magic tomes; books that captured the essence of wind and fire. Soren was still too frail to wield about the essence of lightning, which proved a more weighty read than the others. And Soren hid these gifts well as Father Radolphus had told him in no uncertain terms that the books were to remain their secret. Shortly after that Soren had traded his rages for the small black and gold robes of the initiates and officially begun work under Father Radolphus.
With talents like this at such a young age, the boy was certainly a prodigy. With a little grooming, a bit of taming he could turn into quite the magician. Once that could perhaps change the flow of time, or even the world. A child like that was one he could put his hopes in.
--
Soren packed a small lunch and consumed one small fruit and a moderate amount of bread before he left. Simply enough to make the lunch last as long as possible. Perhaps he could supplement it with some nuts, herbs and berries upon the trip home. He knew well to limit his rations, even if Father Radolphus had shown him some kindness, it did not extend to the rest of the monastery.
Father Yulius, the cook and storage-keeper begrudged every bit of food given out, especially to Soren. However, despite the hostile nature of some of the lesser monks, Soren found this place far more appealing than digging through refuse and sleeping on doorsteps with stray dogs. It took only a little maneuvering to keep his place, and it was well worth the effort. He’d already learned enough to have a skilled trade, and if he did choose to stay, he could likely rise in the ranks quite early as long as Father Radolphus didn’t die anytime in the near future.
Of course, Soren knew he wouldn’t stay that long. Still, it was heartening to know that the option was there.
He still hadn’t found the boy, the one with the warm hands and deep blue eyes. The dreams of him had become more frequent now, even as they weren’t as desperately needed. When he had been alone, Soren had searched deep and formed the dreams, fitting together the pieces together so carefully lest he lose one. They were his finding stars, his hope. Conjuring dreams was only one of the talents pressed into him at a young age, and it didn’t take Soren long to master it.
It galled him to stay in this town for such a long period of time without searching. With autumn would come the cold nights and Soren did not want to spend another winter feebly searching for warmth and sustenance on the filthy streets.
Soren packed the tome with the essence of fire as a last resort. If he was attacked by a beast, perhaps this would scare it off and give him enough time to escape. Soren was pragmatic enough to know that he couldn’t take one on alone, not at his current level of training. However, the beasts in this area were weak, easily frightened, and not particularly aggressive.
Soren shouldered the pack, wincing slightly at the sheer weight of the tome. He would have to manage a more efficient way of towing the heavy books.
The path to the forest turned rough a third of the way and Soren stumbled over ruts and large rocks.
He passed through the unseen gates of the forest, his hand on a warding charm given to him by Father Radolphus. One could never be too careful.
He kept a careful eye out as he neared the Manchaw berry bushes and the residence of the widow Percina. He noticed children out of the corner of his eye, and but for one odd twist of fate, instead of keeping to his duties, Soren turned to look at them.
Soren was not in the habit of stopping to help beggars or orphans of any kind. They could take care of themselves, few had ever given him even a passing glance when he had lain there at the side of the road, few had ever stopped to give him kindness.
And yet this one child drew him nearer. He had to step closer to see if his eyes were deceiving him or if this was in fact an older version of that boy.
All the details fit. The deep navy eyes and the same hands, the hair turned blue, like stormy skies and seas. But he was thinner, and taller now. But still, the same face, the same feeling around him. The cycle had come to full circle. From a young boy giving food to a starving, stray of a child to now where the same boy was on the other side.
The irony of this situation did not escape Soren, though he hardly reveled in it.
The boy was bent over a young girl who lay beneath the berry bush.
Ah, Manchaw berries. It happened every year. Soren knew the stages of the poison with intimate detail. First they became disoriented and racked with stomach pains. Then their skin would turn cold and damp, and finally it would end with paralysis and death.
Soren touched the boy on the shoulder, and the boy whipped around and stared at him, one hand on his sword hilt.
“Oh, you’re my own age,” he said, obviously relieved. He relaxed his hand on the hilt, and his wariness ceased just as quickly as it had began.
Foolish and naive, Soren thought. Thieves could be any age, and more than once he’d witnessed children used to lure prey by adults. Given the gift of food and gold many would turn a blind eye to whatever their clients asked for.
But it was most definitely the same boy, the one he had been searching for all this time. The dreams coalesced with reality and memories. A thought crossed his mind that there hadn’t been recognition across the boy’s face... Soren pushed the thoughts aside for the moment and attended to the small girl. The poison looked as if it hadn’t set in completely, upon seeing him in her dazed, delirious state, the girl moved her arms in a weak gesture.
Soren bent and wrote in the soft dirt. She’s poisoned. Get her to a healer
The boy looked at the lettering and squinted hard.
“Shh....eee.... Po..poi...son--” the boy said, reading along out loud. It was obvious that reading was not his skill.
Soren signed internally. He pointed to the girl, and then to he berries. He drew a finger across his neck as if it were a knife.
“I don’t understand, you’re saying the berries what?”
Soren dug through his pack. pushing aside tomes and lunch. The herb which he had packed lest the Manchaw seep into his skin.
He crushed the antidote over her mouth and the green juices fell over her lips. He lifted her head as he had often seen the healers do and crushed more of the essence into her.
The paralysis hadn’t stuck yet, that was a good sign at least. Still, the herb could only stave off the initial symptoms, once it had reached too far, the curing process became a great deal more complicated.
Soren pulled out the food and pushed it into the other boy’s hands.
The boy looked confused. “For her?”
Soren shook his head and pointed at the boy’s chest. for you....
He’d never give something for nothing, especially not to a simple beggar never – to anyone but this person. Soren searched for the words which bubbled up within him, the dreams he’d had all solidified before him. He shook them away before they could blind him any further.
He grabbed up his now lighter pack and hurried away. The reunion would have to wait a little longer
--
When Soren came into his room flushed and with an expression of urgency on his face, Father Radolphus knew something was very wrong.
Soren tugged at the father’s sleeve, pulling insistently. Father Radolphus had never seen him this agitated. He collected his heal staff without another word and pulled over the last of his monk’s habit over his head.
Soren shook his head and pointed to the staves in the corner.
“A mend staff?” Father Radolphus replied.
Soren shook his head again.
“Restore?”
Soren nodded.
Another poisoning, he thought grimly. Odd, as Soren took the dangers in life with a blank, uncaring attitude. He’d never seen the boy actually race to his side to save a poisoned child before.
Soren pulled at his sleeves the entire time, leading him towards the woods. Father Radolphus walked as fast as his ailing legs could take him, and yet it never seemed fast enough for Soren.
When he finally reached the area, he saw a boy bent over a small girl, the tell-tale signs of red Manchaw’s poisoning well on the way.
She was a young thing, brown hair matted and stained yellow dress. Her cheeks were still quite plump, she couldn’t have been alone for long.
Yes, through the red staining her mouth was the green of the leaves with antidote quality. Already it would be working against the toxins. Soren had done well, he thought with pride.
Father Radolphus held the restore staff over her and said a prayer to the gods that this one would be spared. Bathed in the light color returned to her pallid skin and warmth began seeping back into her.
“She needs rest, child..”
The boy looked wary, his face so much like Soren’s when Father Radolphus had first brought him inside the walls of the monastery. But unlike Soren, that wariness soon passed to a childlike trust.
The boy allowed Father Radolphus to carry his sister back. She slept the entire time, even when being over the bumps and ruts of the twisted dirt path. Upon reaching the monastery, he laid her in the sick bay and charged Father Kinnias, the order’s healer. Father Kinnias left her to he care of Brother Ishes, a shy young novitiate who already showed a marked talent in care of the sick and injured.
He soon found out their story. The boy was named Ike, and the girl was called Mist. He had guessed them to be no older than Soren and he was quite correct. Ike spilled out the story all at once without any trace of his earlier suspicion. The story would seem to most false, ringing of a child’s fantasies and nightmares, but Ike seemed so determined and sure of himself that he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it.
And besides, Father Radolphus knew the veracity in that tale. He had known that nightmare and its name. The vision that Ike had detailed matched his very own.
Soon after the telling and even before night had fallen, all three of the children were fast asleep. Ike in on the floor near the sickbay where his sister was still fast asleep, and Soren on the couch near to them. Father Radolphus lifted them one at a time, each as light as kits, and placed them on the empty cells of the unused novitiate rooms. The room he chose was a double room, which seemed fitting. They each slept soundly from their separate sides, facing each other from across the distance.
--
The next morning, after a breakfast of tea and lukewarm porridge, Soren cleaned and dressed himself and wrote a clear, concise note. He busied himself with chores while Ike slept in. After every few swoops of the ink Soren would look up and see if the boy had risen, only to return sullenly to his work when he saw that Ike had not.
Ike slept until noon and Mist slept even longer. Soren had watched silently from outside the sickbay while Ike bent over her bed and ruffled her hair. He called her ‘sleeping beauty’ and ‘princess’ while she sputtered at him.
The poison hadn’t seemed to have any lasting effects other than a slight weakness.
When Ike finally left he almost bumped into Soren, he hadn’t taken the cue to leave from his post soon tenough. Soren thrust the paper to Ike’s hands, a lilting expectation fluttering in his chest. My name is Soren the paper said, written in large clear letters, easily read by any beginner.
Ike stared at the paper and made clumsy sounds as he tried to decipher the letters.
Father Radolphus was near enough to overhear the exchange. He smiled benevolently, took the paper from Ike and read it aloud.
“He’s saying that his name is Soren.”
“I’m Ike,” he said, for the first time showing the hint of a break in his frowning, the first hint of a smile and the first sign that he was still a child.
“It’s rare for him to try and talk to outsiders.”
But Soren ignored Father Radolphus, his gaze locked solely on Ike, as if he would vanish if he took his eyes off of him for a minute.
--
Even with the treatment of the antidote and restore, Mist still remained somewhat weak, certainly too fragile to travel immediately.
It was disconcerting, almost, that mere weeks ago he would’ve been off playing or training, swinging his sword about and waiting for his father’s laughter or a pat on the head but that was all gone now. A pang of sadness hit him as he remembered again that night: the leaves, the moon, the well of darkness that his father had vanished into.
Even though they couldn’t begin looking again until Mist got better, Ike never let himself dwell on the memories. With his father’s passing, he had grown far older than his years. He busied himself helping Soren with errands.
Soren never talked, but sometimes Ike thought he saw lips moving, almost-whispers that he never could seem to hear.
Soren had saved Mist’s life, and his own. That’s all Ike needed to know to like him. Yeah, he didn’t look anything like anyone Ike had ever seen, he looked almost doll-like with his deep-white skin and piercing eyes, but Ike felt a sort of unexplainable camaraderie towards Soren and he never questioned it.
Not once.
He’d noticed that the townspeople and the monks (with the exception of Father Radolphus) had a certain aversion towards him. And it took a lot for Ike to notice things, Mist didn’t call him rockhead for nothing.
So when he went to get ink, as the trip of yesterday’s had been forgotten in the commotion, Ike didn’t miss the uncomfortable air as the neighborhood children stared at Soren.
They followed them almost the entrance of the woods, their toys forgotten as the children stalked them like predators stalk their prey. All to the forest they had said nothing, but Ike noticed the renewed blankness in Soren’s expression, the tight set of his jaw. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed the changes at all if the thin, flimsy makeshift walkingstick Soren had fashioned hadn’t broken under the tightness of his grip.
Even the exchange with the widow Percina was terse. She pushed aside a greying strand and brought out the ink without another word. The payment was done quickly, but her cold grey eyes never left them. They burned with suspicion.
Ike was glad to be rid of her and the entire forest.
He hadn’t expected the crowd to be there when they returned, for there was no knowing how long a trip like that could take. However, the children all were there waiting for them, like a murder of crows perched in the trees.
And this time they were not silent.
“Scaleling!”
“Cold one!”
Soren looked ahead, each step metered and exact. He did not run or make any note that he sensed the angry insults that rained down on him. But even with such a show of strength, his lower lip trembled, ever so slightly.
“Filthy half-breed scum!”
Anger built up in Ike, like fire engulfing dry brush, he didn’t even think before he grabbed the first boy and punched him It was a raw, untouched fury which burnt inside him. He grappled and scratched and pummeled the group of boys. He barely felt their returned blows. Their numbers overwhelmed him and even as he fought the boys closed
It was the sound of wind that made them scatter, a howling that came closer and closer. He saw green light spinning towards them. He did not see the wind surround the children for the ensuing dust storm had caused him to close his eyes. The sound of the wind silenced their cries and fear.
“Soren--! Are you ok?”
Soren was unhurt despite it all. Ike felt relieved for that at least, for a moment he had worried that the nightmare had come to take Soren away too, that this spinning green howling wind was a sign that Soren too would vanish into thin air.
They did not talk on the way back, nor would this incident be mentioned, not until many years later. The children all survived, the scrapes and bruises and broken bones, for Soren’s handle on magic was still new. His powers had not come into full bloom yet.
When they returned to the monastery Soren cleaned Ike’s wounds. He refused to let any other monk help, it was his task alone.
--
By two more days, Mist had regained her strength and Ike’s bruises had already turned several different shades. Mist called them beautiful, but she didn’t have to live with them.
Soren rarely left his side now, he was like a second shadow, following after every step. The days were warm and long, the nights soft in their coolness, like a caress.
Already Ike was getting antsy. With each day that they spent here, his father would be farther away, maybe miles and miles ahead by the time they left.
Of course this left the question of where his father had gone. Ike had never focused much on the where. He merely knew that his father had disappeared and it was his duty to look for him, even if that meant searching under every stone in Tellius for some clue of his existence.
Ike only stayed one more day, by then that Mist was already running around with flowers in her hair, the poison long purged from her system. By midday his few belongings were packed.
Father Radolphus stood at the gates. He looked aged beyond his years.
“You should stay here, child. We’ll care for you until you’re reunited with your remaining family.”
“I have to find my father. I know he’s out there – I saw him!”
Father Radolphus nodded, a bit sadly. “I wish you well on your journey. Please, take some more food. Soren will get it. Soren—”
Soren came with a rather large pack and set it down before them.
“That’s it, I suppose,” Father Radolphus said. “They’re leaving now, Soren, you should say your goodbyes.”
Soren’s eyes widened and for a moment he was still and blank, and then something inside him that had been holding back for so long broke, and everything flooded out at that moment. He gave a sound like a cry lodged deep, a pain that had kept too long and amplified under the pressure of being hidden.
“N....no.....!” he gasped.
“Soren?”
Soren looked anguished. In all his years Soren hadn’t made the remotest of expressions save for scorn, nor had he ever spoke, his voice had been caged with every blow. Each vowel and syllable was new, each emotion felt rusty and strange inside him.
“No... st..ay.”
Soren clung to the edge of Ike’s sleeves. He held on so tight he could feel his own fingernails through the material.
“Soren? You want to come with us?”
Soren didn’t answer directly, but clutched Ike’s hands. The same hands that hand saved him, the tiny forming callouses and dirty nails. The same fingers interlocking. The same person he swore he’d never lose again.
“Of course you can come, Soren, but it’s a long ways, you really want to come?”
Soren nodded, a quick bob of his head and struggled to lift the pack again. Ike helped him, and they carried it together, Mist skipping behind them.
--
Father Radolphus watched them leave until they became mere specks in the distance, their shadows eaten up by Gallia’s thick forests. He prayed for them and their long journey ahead, for he knew very well that they would need it.
With this task done, the Father called Radolphus disappeared, his death a convenient one that no one questioned. He was old and far too fond of the half-breeds. Many of the order were glad to be rid of his ideals, and those that did miss him were quickly silenced by their more powerful brothers.
Human life was so transient. One could work their whole life for peace only to have it ripped away when the pyre’s embers were still warm.
In the middle of the forest the spell broke. Red hair peeled back and the humble monk’s habit turned to colorful silks.. It had been an easy enough disguise, an old benevolent monk relocated from a larger, more prestigious order. Just enough presence to find the secrets of the brotherhood, and then to have just enough to save a few half-breeds. Little enough to be forgotten and swept into dusts on his passing.
Nothing would change drastically, but perhaps he had swayed the path ever so much with his movement. As long as the Goddess Ashunera slept and the rest of the gods bickered in her absence, little would change. Only tiny threads that he himself had plucked and twisted, tricking fate to do his bidding.
Sephiran unfolded his dark wings for the first time in more than half a year. He stretched from his stooped position and flew. The stars shone as if in welcome to his return.
