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Chapter Text

"No matter what happens, I’ll have Sothe by my side. I have nothing to fear as long as he’s with me."

There were times when she looked at him and wished that he would have followed that man—the saviour of Tellius—to journey beyond the land, faraway from her. Perhaps if he did so, she wouldn't have to witness how his green hair turned silver, or how those small hands—back then they were still filled with vigour—turned bonier… and more fragile. But Sothe chose to stay around and be her companion in life, despite what the future held—despite his mortality, despite her longevity, despite their stations  afterwards—and it (sickeningly) gladdened her heart then when he did so.

This time—the moment she knelt by his bed, her Sothe lying pale and weak  and casting shadows upon their sixty years worth of perfect memories—was one of such.

Sothe’s frail chest slowly rose and fell in a rhythm that Micaiah knew too well. Both of his hands were on his sides—something that the young Sothe would never do, not when they were constantly on the run from Begnion soldiers. It was clear that he was sleeping soundly enough to let his guard down. She could see weary lines around the edges of his eyes, his sagging cheeks, his kind eyes staring at her sharply—

—then a smile, a hand on her cheek, and a soft whisper that almost went unheard.

"You have that thoughtful look again," he muttered, worry apparent on his ageing face. Micaiah suddenly felt guilty for being part of the problem that etched his already-pallid face. "Tell me what is on your mind, Micaiah. Tell me the things that leave you awake in this late hour."

You, she wanted to say, to scream, you haunt my mind whenever I be. Your devotion, your life, your love, your death—they are the foundation that supports me as well as the knot that will unravel my life. To see you like this threatens all that is about myself—

—who will I be when you are gone?

Micaiah instead cast her gaze low to avoid eye-contact altogether. That frail hand did not stop to lock her face, his lack of physical strength prevailing over his wish to look at her eyes. She knew, and her mind eventually trailed to the eventual moment when that hand would cease to move at all—how the now-course skin would turn cold without the warmth of life. The Queen of Daein whimpered as the inevitability sank in.

Sothe's grip on her face tightened, enough to make the woman snapped out of her thought and be forced to look at him once more. Those eyes spoke of longing and yearning and sadness and worry and— 

(He should have left her then and never looked back; he should have denied her offer to make him the Queen’s advisor; he should have looked for someone else, be they man or  woman, for companionship in life. There were many what-ifs she could think of that should have ended with anything but that melancholic gaze, and Micaiah wondered why she never interfered in fate to cause so.)

"I promised to protect you years ago," he said with a fond smile, and it only compounded the ache in her chest, “when we met again back then, I even promised myself that I would ever protect not only your well-being, but also your heart. You—the only person who showed kindness when none even bothered—have become so precious to me that I would gladly offer my life."

Hearing his soft voice (so different than years before she took the throne, so weak but still sharp) only furthered her pain. So she reached out for his hand once more, her small hand intertwining with his (they are not skeleton, they are not skeleton—) as though it would dispel their reality away. Perhaps when she opened her eyes, she would have traded part of her life to him, prolonging his life in the living--anything to keep him there, with her.

“Please do not make me break my promise, Micaiah. Talk to me."

It was a soft plea, softer than spring breeze yet stronger than a storm, against her crumbling wall. But the damage was done; despite her reluctance to remain unbudged, Micaiah found herself shaking by his side as the unsaid words broke into streams of sobs and pleas, a sad story of her inability to let go.

She noticed the movement of his hand, also his attempt to steady himself at the bedpost. The next thing she knew, Sothe was already pulling her frame into his embrace, his hands soothingly stroke her head to calm her. The sobbing never stooped, even as he whispered the words that she needed to hear, or even adoringly planted a chaste kiss on her head as he hushed that everything will change— 

—but change did not mean the end.

(Sometimes she wondered when her Sothe had changed, to the point that their roles reversed; when had he been the one comforting her rather than the other way round?)

The hands in her grip were cold, the skin too coarse, the smiling face hurting her crumbling heart—her thoughts continued to trail away, from the dreadful fact that was before her, from the nation she loved, from the people who put her on pedestal, from the one man who could be king but chose otherwise.  But his chilling hands were real, his smile too soft, his still chest a reminder that she had doomed herself.

Her thoughts continued to drift, until they arrived in that one moment where all her insecurities were brought to light.

Gentle strokes, chaste kisses, and a promise—

“Your story shall not end with me. Give yourself time, and when the hurt clouds you no more, look at your people. Look at the person whom you choose to love afterwards, be with them, and return to me with a fond smile. This shall be your story. This, I know, because you are the strongest woman I have ever known. You can stand, Micaiah... you can."

—his voice ringing inside her mind and she sobbed, screamed, and grieved.

(She was weak without him. Why couldn't he see that in her?)

Sothe was dead and her world crumbled.

Chapter Text

"I see... You have someone you cherish very much. Someone you rely on."

Sothe was buried the next day—a quiet funeral attended by many who loved him dearly. Most of the attendees were commoners and merchants, though she was quite surprised with the appearance of some influential-yet-antagonizing nobles among their midst. Perhaps they were trying to garner what little sympathy the reigning Queen had for them. They certainly knew not that whatever shards of sympathy she had, for they were already buried seven feet under, along with Sothe’s lifeless corpse.

(Sothe was always there when she faced them, with their lingering thoughts being corrosive acid on her instinct. He would then steady herself to snap out of her trance in the middle of their court meetings, to remind her that, despite their vile interests, they were necessary evils to rebuild Daein. Micaiah knew that first-hand, yet she grew to love being reminded again and again, once in awhile. It was a sign that Sothe was still there—still caring, still living.)

The following day felt surreal; despite her memory remembering his last breaths, his final words, and his closing smile, part of her mind still drove her to walk into his chamber. She expected Sothe to be there, yet the chamber remained empty, and she saw no one. Sothe’s scent lingered, torturing her mind with 'he would have shown himself , that he was only hiding somewhere in his chamber, if she could just speak his name— 

But Micaiah stilled her tongue, the name of her adored held back in silence as she shook and fell and whispered by the edges of his bed, “I still need you... I can’t do this without you…"

Silence reigned eerily as her hope in her heart died. He quiet sobbings slowly turned full-blown. Perhaps it was her hysterics that prompted her attendants to arrive in his room then. She was quickly ushered back to her own chamer, whatever work she had as a Queen being delayed until further notice.

(She was weak and Sothe was wrong.)

Micaiah avoided the room like a plague afterwards and chose to drown herself in work. She flung herself into court sessions more frequently, her mind blanching at vile greedy thoughts masqueraded with false smiles of the nobles trying to usurp her throne, but at least she would have felt something other than grief and confusion over his death. Her frequent visits outside castle gates slowly dwindled, leaving her people wondering of their beloved Queen’s well-being; never had she distanced herself from common folks, and what rumors her unruly nobles were stirring among them only furthered their confusion. Some even dared to say that their maiden of Dawn was no more, that she was turning into another unfit ruler.

Pelleas was the first to voice his growing concern. The once king of Daein knew enough not to to do it in the court, though, and rather chose to inform her during one of her breaks. His invitation for an afternoon tea break was not something she could easily decline; being one of the few people who fought with her during their stance against Dawn Goddess Ashera, Pelleas might be one of the people left in Tellius who understood the weight of being left behind. His wife had long passed away after all, and sometimes she could feel his thoughts yearning for her.

(One of those remaining people, because Micaiah thought that most of them were probably dead by now. Pelleas' graying hair was evidence in itself of how time's claws gripped harshly unto the lives of beorc, harsher than her seemingly ageless existence.)

"Is there anything I can offer to relieve you of this pain?" He asked ruefully, his eyes glinting with empathy. She told him no, for it was an irrevocable truth that, no matter how much Pelleas adored her (loved her, because he could never kill his blossoming feeling despite it being unreturned), his love could never replaced Sothe's, and vice versa.

She could imagine him on his deathbed, and Micaiah knew for a fact that she would never survive his death, no matter when. Such thought, fleeting it might be, made her still, her cup returning to its plate slowly as she slowed her breath. If anything, Micaiah would not want to impose any unnecessary weariness to the former king. But Pelleas, ever-so-perceptive Pelleas, seemed to know this—to sense what had run inside her fragile mind—because the former king quickly reached for her hands and stroke them gently, his once-saddened gaze quickly shifted into reassuring glance, "I am not going anywhere, Micaiah. You will always have me here."

Pelleas hands were smooth for his age, unlike Sothe's, and she wondered how long would she have to wait until those hands turned scaly.

The Queen eventually sighed briefly, before nodding at him. A forlorn smile graced her lips, "I know."

(She was too scared to add, 'but for how long?')

When they met again for the first time since their parting, Micaiah never imagined that he would lowered his head and bowed before her. This man never did as such before anyone; too proud and self-centered sometimes, be it to the valiant Queen of Crimea or to the Magnanimous Queen of Begnion. No, this man never genuflected before kings and queens; if anything, he would have bowed to the hero of Tellius if said man were to give the words.

She asked him to rise. There were many questions rolling inside her mind (why was he here?, had his travel ended? when can he leave?), yet all of them quickly halted in one shrill moment when he looked at her with those red eyes blankly—

—and she saw herself staring back, trapped in a body that eluded time's grasp, lost in the eddies of lives and death.

In that one moment, she understood why the hero was not around—why he looked so lost despite maintaining such proud stance. His head was kept high, his thoughts screaming of hollows, despair, and death.

(Just like her.)

"Welcome to Daein, Tactician Soren. How can I help you?"

(There was nothing she could do for him, not when she could not even do anything to better herself).

Chapter Text

 "I walked through the empty streets, checking bodies to see if you were dead. But I couldn't find you. I decided that you had to be alive."

He remembered her being brighter than a mess of forlorn silent gaze compounded with gentle nudges that whispered authority. The way she gestured her adjutant was less compassionate and more mechanical, so unlike the time when she headed Daein's army. He remembered her empathetic gaze during their face-off, her reluctance to fight slowly fading as she resolutely found the determination to protect her loved ones.

But now, to Soren, she was not that woman.

(He was bowing his head out of courtesy. While he was pretty much confident with his skills to fight her adjutant if things went south, Soren was not there to sow disorder. He bowed because it was circumstantial, and there was no other meaning possible to interpret his action.) 

"I am here to bring you news from beyond the border."

He had always preferred getting to the business at hand rather than indulging himself with small talks. But for once, he wondered then, if he just attempted to do them instead of being direct, perhaps she would have given more reaction than just a cold distracted gaze and an unbelievably curt nod. The changes were too disorienting for his mind to comprehend, but Soren carefully kept his expression leveled.

Decades could easily change a person after all.

(Image of his saviour came easily into his mind to remind him that Tellius was filled with exception like him. Ike, the radiant hero whom all Tellius yearned for, remained as righteous, good-hearted person he was until the end of his days, and part of him wondered if beorcs in general could be a little bit more like him—remained unchanged, or at least shifted more slowly, so that he could keep up with—

Soren bit his lips just before the unending pain rolling in, his mind quickly compartmentalising them away before his ego overwrote his better judgement. Thinking of his dead hero tended to do that.)

The Queen asked for him to be escorted to the little garden by courtyard, much to his surprise. She invited him to an afternoon tea, and part of him could not imagine such irresponsibility; she could have politely allow him to rest first and talk later, yet she shrugged her other responsibilities to her people and favoured his request. 

“You claim to bring the news from beyond the border, but I know that is not all,” the woman finally broke the silence that became the very foundation of their meeting some times after his arrival. Her golden eyes lingering on the beverage served sometimes ago. He noticed how she avoided his gaze whenever possible as if she knew a sliver of something which he kept hidden. Soren knew that she owed it to her inherent instinct, but he was becoming so irritated that he could barely contain himself from saying, ‘whatever gut feeling you had about me, it is wrong’.

(It was his ego screaming at the back of his mind, of course. The logical part of himself simply reminded him that she was half-heron, and that should invalidate his ego’s statements.)

Soren chose to breathe and slowly, coldly, spoke, “on contrary, dear Queen of Daein, I told you not a lie. I bring to you only news beyond border, for it was his last—“ wish, instruction, request, “—direction, and nothing else. When it is done, I shall take my leave… and we shall not cross path again."

She flinched, if only for a moment, under his spiteful words, though her expression quickly returned neutral. Her gaze had finally left her cup, her golden eyes glinting with sadness and pity—the things that only further stirred that bitterness and coldness, and shewasnothelping— 

“Tell me… tell me what both of you have found,” she quietly asked, “tell me why he is not…"

—here, with me, and be happy, why he was left behind in an island where monsters walked the land, where their deaths seemed inevitable, where he should be by his side to comfort him as death knocked—

Suddenly it was hard for him to breathe, but Soren nodded. His mind whirring quickly to staff off that unending pain, so that his lips could move to speak and tell. He told her of their finding, of a barren land beyond Animus where a giant structure resembling a gate stood tall ethereally. He told her how peculiar it was, to gaze upon something which was never made by laguz or beorcs alike; beorc simply did not make such enormous design, and, while dragons were capable to such feat, the design simply did not quite fit with dragon tribe’s culture. He droned forward, like a trained parrot, of the sentient gate that spouted monsters unimaginable, of their unending battles, of his slip-ups and Ike’s saving grace, of Ike’s failing stamina as his years finally caught up with him, until there was no more saved for one final sentence: ‘It… they know of her, the Dawn Goddess. They recognised her as the entity who banished their master to the edge of the world long before the great flood… long before Zunanma’.

But Soren stopped, his lips still moving quietly, failing to continue his story because he saw Ike’s blue hair, flashes of blue flame, roars of mighty beasts, his last smile before everything went south and exploded before his face in blue-red fire—

—Micaiah’s hands were already grasping his own. Red eyes met worried golden; part of him wanted to laugh and scream at her piteous gaze, but his thoughts were silenced quickly, because—

(He remembered everything, and the unending pain was slowly seeping out from the cracks of his stoic masquerade. He… simply could not hold his back together, for he was too tired of all the grief and despair.)

—Ike was stupidly selfless enough to protect him when the sentient gate wailed for their blood, when they consumed them whole, sending them to goddess-knows-where. All he remembered was Ike, gripping unto his lithe form, starlights dancing around them like meteor shower and everything felt like burning away. The buffoon held him in his arm, and Soren could see the lines of his face just as clearly as he could feel the gate pulling apart every part of his body. But for a moment, it stopped, and he heard him, the words of a hero to the final end.

“Live for me, Soren. Live, so that you may tell of this evil to her—to both of them."

He remembered someone pulling him away from Ike's grip—an invisible pair of hands that would not budge despite his wriggling. When everything within his vision cleared out, he was already in Tellius' sky falling to his death. No Ike—

"...don't push yourself too hard, Soren," the woman whispered quietly, her hands still caressing his softly, "you can stop now. You are safe... and everything will be alright."

(Lies, all lies.)

He was wrong about her. He thought the woman would have sat quietly as he broke. But apparently Micaiah still had the personal empathy to hold him comfortingly. Soren found himself unable to push away, for he was too tired. 

His hero was dead and the unending pain swallowed him whole. He couldn’t care less.

(He wanted to be dead.)

Chapter Text

"He was so skinny, but his gaze was so piercing… I wondered how such a young boy could look like that."

It was disorienting to see that man whose coldness was widely acknowledged broke down before her. If he were one of her close companions, they would have stuttered incoherently, and Micaiah would have gladly offered her shoulder to cry on. But Soren, for all his title and closeness with the former general of Laguz army, was mere acquaintance to her. They only shared similar predicament—both of them having faced prejudice wherever they went for being a branded—but it never warranted her of his trust. A sense of aloof companionship, yes, but not trust.

But here he was, confined within Daein's keep despite his previous claim under her care. The man was stubborn at first, demanding her to let him go so that he could continue his journey to Begnion, where the sleeping goddess laid. Micaiah simply forbade it, and her adjutant quickly moved to restraint said man. In retaliation, Soren simply flicked them away with his strongest wind spell, while telling the Queen that she had neither power nor control over himself—that no one should ever bar his path.

To voice her disagreement, she duelled him there, right before their adjutant. They were caught in swirling torrents of light and wind, the latter seeming evading Micaiah's lithe form with dancer's grace while the former grazed many parts of his. He regretted his tactical error when she murmured the strongest spell she could throw at him, the light of Rexcalibur enveloping him with ease and coaxing him to surrender. He would not have done so if not for something in his mannerism that made him stagger in his spells. In that moment of weakness, he fell. His body eventually kissed the ground as the last light of Rexcalibur vanished.

(He was distracted with grief, just like she was even then. Even she noticed how slow her chants were when she faced him in that duel, how her mind trailed back to Sothe’s smile, yearning for the man who was already gone. Yet despite her own setbacks, she still won, and it said much about Soren’s condition being worse than his previous claim, or even her previous assessment. Soren was a top-notch sage, one she believed who would not go down this easily.)

Now, when they were back within the same room again, he looked at her begrudgingly. Micaiah simply ignored his sentiment. She had better things to do than facing a brooding sage after the best course of action had been selected—paperworks that needed to be signed, hearings that needed her attention… and one ignored little room who reminded her too much of hurt better buried.

For all Soren’s justified reasons to throw tantrum, Sothe’s passing was still fresh; the last thing she wanted to do was to deal with Soren and these all at once.

(Sometimes, she just wanted to drop on her knees and wished for her life to stop. It got better—or at least, she believed she got better. The pain in her heart grew dull with each passing day as she slowly accepted that Sothe would not be there at every turn to smile back at her. But that pain was slowly displaced with sense of aloofness as familiar as the one haunting her life before she met him. Part of her wondered if such development was for he best, but a childlike voice inside her mind that resembled so much like Yune's chastised her mercilessly at that, and there was nothing she could do save for staying silent.)

She should have expected the message.

Soren’s words echoed once again inside her mind as the Begnion messenger relayed the message fearfully, as though he was there when they happened. He reported sightings of beasts around the seas of Animus months ago, beasts that did not resemble Laguz in one way or another. He spoke about giants, mudlike moving statues, overrunning the city of Animus, the pleas of many beorcs before their reckoning when they were devoured whole. Every word that came from his lips only furthered Micaiah's sense of dread, for with it followed memories of pain and death so deep that it made her bowel churn.

After thanking the messenger, she asked, with quavering voice, for her adjutant to escort him to his chamber. Before the other adjutant could ask for her well-being, however, Pelleas, sweet caring man he was, was already by her side, his hand lain gently on her shoulder to steady her form.

“I believe you need a quiet tea break."

She looked at him, her golden eyes looking, tracing around the edge of his face, the soft smile gracing his lips, the off-handed command that sounded too light and frivolous to be him—

—Micaiah exhaled what air was left in her lungs as she convinced herself that his hair was not green, his eyes were not brown, and his smile was certainly not that full of serenity.

“…Yes,” she answered, or more likely rasped, “I need that."

(In times like this, it was easy to fall back into that bad habit—to believe that Sothe would be there encouragingly, despite knowing full well that he would never be. At such times, her aloofness would waver, while her elation, though almost none in presence, returned. She was trying her best to break it up, and she was getting there—slowly.)

He came to her personally, ignoring some of her adjutants in the process. Micaiah herself had no qualms with facing the tactician, but even Soren’s breach of protocol became more of nuisances that made her head throb after some attempts. His last attempt, however, was able to pert her growing headache to partial clarity. Perhaps because she saw something burning within those red rubies, something more than just survival instincts.

Something that made him stay despite his previous claim to leave, as quickly as possible.

“We need to see Ashunera and speak with her,” he started, “I have a hunch that she has the answer to our predicament."

She could have asked for his silence there when she had the chance. Micaiah was Daein’s Queen, and even Soren begrudgingly acknowledged her title; within the confine of Daein’s keep, he would have to bow to her wishes or risked recrimination (not that she would; how could she do that to a friend? But Soren needed not know that). So she let him drone about the monsters they heard about, how similar they sound, how the gate remained open despite Ike’s sacrifice (she knew his voice broke then, even if slightly), how her name was rolled out so casually that it would have been sacrilegious to do so were they still living in previous 60 years ago.

What made her to agree with his proposition was never his sound advice, but rather the way that fire burned, seeping out of that cold, hard exterior. It did not matter it was driven with revenge and hate—for Micaiah, such ember was too much of reminiscence of her dead adored. They were not breaking her heart, and she wondered if it was a good thing.

After all, she was replacing all that was Sothe with the familiarity that came with Sothe.

(Perhaps the only reason why she was getting there—breaking her habit—slowly was due to these step-backs. But Micaiah could not find any other way to cope with grief, so she excused herself within her own fabrication.

At least it dulled the hurt.)

Chapter Text

"Soren, you're smart, but you're no good when it comes to your emotions."

Their ill fortune began with a condescending screech of a dragon.

...No, that was not how their bad luck started. Micaiah believed that the wheel of fate was set into motion when Begnion came for her aid. While hearing the message itself surely relayed what information she needed, the fear which gripped the messenger's heart was so alarming that she cringed. She had witnessed enough unspeakable deeds, having carried an order she could not refuse (her hands were still drenched with the blood of Begnion's soldier at the base of that gorge, their screams echoing in her memories as they burned to their death), and she knew well the horrors and grief from remembering even a sliver of that memories. For what the messenger had to witness, Micaiah could sympathise with the man.

The wheel turned for the worse when Soren successfully convinced her to agree on their little journey. Daein's court—no, Pelleas—was strongly against the idea, claiming that the Queen of Daein was needed within her sovereignty, to which Micaiah simply retorted that she also had to do her duty as the Apostle, the mortal who listened to their goddess’ wisdom; that their journey was as important as preserving the daily lives which Daein's people had built on the ruins of Mad King's War. Pelleas would then resign to her argument while pleading to her that if she would not let him do his duty as her councilman, the at least he was permitted to send her away with trusted companions of old. She agreed to his terms; if she could placate her dear friend's worry with that small request, she would.

That was how she met Ena again.

(She was appointed by Goldoan King to be the ambassador of her nation—a decision that Kurthnaga confidently took to maintain peaceful relationship between both nations. Micaiah found his choice both bold and smart; Ena was a well-known as the strategist who brought countless victories for Daein during the Mad King's war. Those who served under her mostly survived and, in turn, found themselves being indebted to her, despite the eventual revelation of her origin as a Laguz. For these people—and the families they belonged to—she was the one officer who managed to bring them back home. It was enough for them to ‘forgive and forget’ her nature. But what could she say about the rest of her people who still looked at Laguz like ants under their feet, the ones who did not serve under her?

At her concern, the dragon prince turned king only smiled fondly and told her that the first step was always the hardest. He knew this firsthand, she mused, as she could listen to the flow of his thoughts reminiscing to that one fateful night when he chose to come to his sister’s aid—his first step to break the rules that bound him under Deghinsea’s iron-fisted reign.

That was sixty-years ago.

Having witnessed the gradual changes of her people, the way they began to heal from that sickness called bigotry, she was glad that Kurthnaga made that call.)

Soren seemed somewhat uncomfortable with the addition of their companion. It showed in how he absent-mindedly regarded her despite their shared journey long ago and how he avoided her presence altogether whenever possible. To her curiosity, she found Ena at similar position, with her warmth easily greeted Micaiah like old companion did while sparing uneasy glance at the dark-haired Sage.

Micaiah loathed to involve herself in another’s matter. But there would always be a line that should never be crossed, and Soren’s gruff disrespectfulness towards said Laguz-woman was growing into outright hostility. Oh, she could feel the electricity crackling in the air during one of the nights when they were forced to camp at the edge of Grann desert. Ena was looking at him quietly—too quiet even for her—when she huffed under her breath something that caught Soren’s hearing.

The Queen did not know what the ambassador had uttered, but it was enough to break his composure (his face did not betray his mask, though; the only indicator was his scrambling thoughts and whispers of ancient tongue). He would have shot thunder, screamed bloody murder in old tongue (because thunder spells really consisted of curses and profanities in ancient language) if she did not quickly grip for his hand and siphoned what magic he was brewing away. For one moment, he gasped; red eyes met golden as they were locked in a brief staring contest before Soren slapped her grip away repulsively. He promptly left then, claiming that he needed air.

She asked Ena afterwards, but said woman did not budge. It was a secret, she said, and she was bound to the king himself not to reveal anything.

When he returned to their camping site, she was already barring the entrance to his tent. She could hear him growling under his breath, and Micaiah wondered if he was descended from the dragon tribe; neither cats nor tiger had such growl. Nevertheless, she kept her grounds, her golden eyes piercing starkly at him.

(She wanted for her words to be truth—that everything will be alright in the end—when Soren let his weakness be shown, and she knew well enough that if she did not take the first step… her words would become empty promises.)

“What is it that make you so distressed?” she started. Whatever ruthlessness she had for him (because Soren should know better of his power, should know that his thunder, had it strike where Ena sat, would have killed her) quickly turned empathetic. “You have always been immovable. Nothing ever got under your skin, and yet… her words, how could they twist you so?"

He stiffened despite the lack of emotion on his face, “it has nothing to do with you."

She could feel that forgotten ruthlessness shattered, which then reformed into anger. “You have made it my business when you almost decided to kill the ambassador of Goldoa,” she rebutted, frustration lacing her every word. “You know far too well that her presence is important to maintain balance, that her death on my watch—because you are under my responsibility for now—will break what I and Kurthnaga had been striving for years: Equality."

Soren was about to comment, but Micaiah already cut him off first, “It is one of his dreams,” he flinched at the mention of Ike, "to see Laguz and Beorcs standing together, side-by-side, helping each other,” she stated loudly. Yet the the following words that came afterwards, while lacking strength, were voiced all too quietly despite its weight. “are you trying to honor him by unraveling this at its seam?"

(It was unfair of her to pull Ike into this. She knew he was grieving, and pulling Ike’s name into the fray could only mean that she was desperate to control what little she could.)

Soren looked as if he had been slapped. She could sense how his focused streams of thoughts quickly turned jumbled, his gaze sharpened as the air crackled with formidable force, threatening to suffocate her right there and then. She could have stepped away, could have stopped pushing those wrong buttons of his so that she might save herself, yet Micaiah chose to stood her ground as she stared back. If his rattled thoughts made her squirm internally, she did not show her discomfort.

“It has never been my intention to kill nor to hurt,” he growled, his head tilting high as he glared at the Queen condescendingly (but it did not matter; his thoughts are still scattered, his anger continued to drain away), “but we all have lines that must never be crossed—and Ena did as such. And now, you are doing what she did. Leave the matter alone."

At that moment, all she could feel rolling out from him was his distaste and anger—bundles of frustration being bottled up under layers of indifference and coldness, waiting to surge at that moment to damage everything. Then, Micaiah had enough of those; should he even lash the way she thought he would, the Queen would probably retaliate with her own.

Soren never had the chance to lash out further, though, not when their night quickly filled with screams of dying people, fire that razed the ground, growls of a Dragon as she wailed and screeched like a wounded animal. It was easy to fall back into their usual emergency-response pace—Soren, quickly running to the source of chaos as he gave out orders to their escort forces, Micaiah, promptly dashing towards the one of the hurting officers—without thinking about their previous clash. Micaiah felt the familiarity as a war general rushing back to her as her brain whirred to determine their next course of action.

Then she realised that there could never be one, not when she saw Ena’s frenzied form on the ground, thrashing madly as if she was burning. Each thrash sent tremors to the ground, while each spit of her flame drove the air temperature several degrees higher. Micaiah thought back on those awful experiments being carried out decades ago, when the Mad King still reigned, to strip away a Laguz’ identity—of Feral Ones whose thoughts were strings of wild instincts and ungoverned desire. But Micaiah sensed nothing of the sorts.

Instead, at the edge of her sense, she could sense unfamiliar coldness that quickly seeped under her skin as she heard a soft whisper that she could only associate with Yune.

“Come to Mother, child."

(Thinking back, Micaiah felt foolish for presuming that voice to be Yune, of all people. Their goddess could never feel that cold. Comfortable, yes, but perhaps it was more like a sense of comfort that a freezing man felt when they drifted away—a comfortable numbness that would eat away one’s sense of self until there was nothing more than a husk.

Even Ashera was more compassionate than that.)

The wheel of fortune kept on spinning as she pondered upon the sin of slaying her valued companion.

(She couldn't even imagine herself doing such deed.)