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Chapter Text

~Early Summer, Begnion Era 628~

The boy was a small thing, quiet, easily missed. He felt like he could easily hide in the shadows, long black hair tangled and snarled into a mass at the back of his head. The tattered clothes he wore were stained with all manner of messes, a few coppery ones from the red red blood that fell out of his skin like tears when the lady hit him too hard.

His eyes were the only thing that stuck out, he saw them rarely, only when looking in his reflection in the window during the night or in a bucket of water. They were bright red, and glowed a little in the darkness. The lady's eyes didn't do that.

But otherwise, he felt like he could blend into the shadows and dark corners well, using his hair to hide him, his muddied clothes closely matching the dirty tiled or wooden floors and wooden walls of the little house he lived in. All he had to do was close his eyes and curl up in a corner, perfectly still, and he could avoid the lady seeing him.

The boy honestly thought he was doing the lady a favor. She hated seeing him. She hated knowing he was there. She never wanted to see him again. She was disappointed every morning when she called for him and he came to her, as if expecting him to have disappeared in the middle of the night.

But she also hated his hiding. She hated not knowing where he was. She hated feeling like he was watching her from some corner.

He might have tried to explain to her that he wasn't watching her. He was curled up in a corner of a room she never spent much time in all day. If she came in, he didn't look at her, he closed his eyes and counted until she left without seeing him.

But anytime a noise came out of his throat she'd hit him, so he stopped making noises as best he could. Even when she hit him so hard his body started crying blood and he wanted to scream. He bit his tongue and closed his throat, because she would hurt him more if he didn't.

He wished he could make tears stop coming out of his eyes too. She'd get mad at him for that. Asking him why he had any right to be sad, when she was out here in this country of beasts taking care of an abomination like him?

Sad? What was sad? He wanted to ask. Was it what she felt, that she didn't like him? Was sad the reason she hit him? Was sad the reason she never wanted to see him?

He didn't think he was sad, if that was what sad was. He just hurt, all the time. His body ached from holding still, his tummy ached from being hungry all the time, and his chest ached from feeling so empty, from being unwanted. The hurting made the tears fall down from his eyes, and he didn't know how to stop it.

He wished he did. So she would yell at him less.

She made him sleep in a locked chest in her room with her sewing supplies, to make sure he didn't do anything in the night.

She left him in there all day only once, because the mess he had made had ruined her needles. He had spent the entire next day cleaning it up with her standing over him and yelling the entire time.

Sometimes she forgot to lock the chest, and he could just barely lift the lid enough to breath easily.

---

“You horrible, wretched child! Don't look at me like that!” The lady screeched as she slapped him. The boy whimpered and disappeared into a corner. “That is all the food I have for you, you vile, disgusting boy. You should be grateful for what you have!”

He looked at the piece of bread she had torn from her roll. The piece barely filled his palm. His eyes filled with tears.

“Don't you dare cry. I can't stand your wailing! Filthy brat!” She walked over and snatched the piece of bread from his hand. “If you can't show any gratitude for what you have been given, then you deserve to go hungry.” She walked back to her chair and ate her food, intermittently screaming “Why me? Why was I chosen to care for this animal?” between bites whenever her eyes landed on him, spitting crumbs over the table.

Hours later, the woman lay in her bed. The boy lay inside a small chest filled with sewing supplies. The lid was cracked open a few inches, he had his mouth against the crack. His stomach growled, he felt sick. He remembered the crumbs that were sitting on the table.

She hadn't fed him at all that day. She usually gave him a little food. The crumbs wouldn't be much less than he was used to getting.

He slipped his hand through the crack and pushed slowly. The chest opened inch by inch. He managed to get his other hand through the crack. The top of the chest moved so slowly. He pulled himself to his feet and tumbled out of the chest, the top of the chest slammed down on his left ankle. He winced, covering his mouth with his hands, tears flowing freely down his cheeks, face in the dirt floor. When the initial shock subsided, he twisted himself onto his back and used the bottom of his right foot to lift up the top of the chest. His left foot fell to the floor, limp, swollen and bruised. He slowly closed the chest by gently lowering his right foot.

He pulled himself to his feet, his left foot was unable to bear weight. He knelt on the ground and crawled out of the room towards the table.

Ants were swarming the crumbs. He swatted them away and began to eat what he could find in the pale moonlight.

“What are you doing?” The woman shouted.

The boy whirled around, twisting his injured ankle. She slapped him across the face. He yelped, tears forming in his eyes.

“Thief! Aren't you ever satisfied?! You don't have a right to live! You don't have the right to take food from creatures that belong here. Creatures like them!” She pointed emphatically at the ants. “You don't belong in this world! I don't know why I have to keep you alive!”

---

Why was he alive? Why did she keep him alive?

He didn't know.

Sometimes he dreamed. He dreamed of a different lady, with a kind smile and dark brown skin. She smelled of juniper, sage, and red clay. Her long, wavy locks of dark teal hair wrapped around him, and she had eyes like his, red that glowed in the dark.

He dreamed that she sang sweet songs to him, and held him when he cried, kissing him on the red marking on his forehead.

He dreamed of the nice woman giving him to the lady with a promise to see him again, with such sadness in her eyes.

He didn't like those dreams. That woman didn't exist. She wasn't real.

If she was, he wouldn't be here, with this lady, who hated him. Who mocked him while he hurt.

He tried to forget the dreams of her. He never wanted to have them again.

Sometimes he dreamed of nothing. Of darkness. Of fear. Of blood and death scattered over the blackness that came with closed eyes.

And a loud roar, the kind he'd never heard before. He didn't know where it came from, trembling, making the earth shake and his bones reverberate with the all consuming noise.

Just from the darkness in front of him. The noise was all around him. He needed to run, but he couldn’t.

From these dreams, he woke up screaming, covered in sweat. He'd beat on the lid of the chest, wanting to run. Needing to flee. The throbbing in his arms demanding that he escape.

But all that awaited him was the lady. She'd yell at him for interrupting her sleep and shake him until he was still and she'd lock him back inside the chest.

---

The lady brought him outside some days, to help her do laundry, very early in the morning, sometimes before the sun had come up. She made him wash clothes in a bucket filled with soap that burned his fingers and arms, but he scrubbed the clothes anyway. Not his clothes, never his. They were always dirty and smelled so bad sometimes he’d tip the bucket of soapy water over himself after it was done. It burned and burned until his skin was bright red and sometimes the skin under his clothes bled, but it was more bearable than the smell.

He wasn’t allowed outside any other time, and if people visited the house, she locked him in the chest.

He tried to stay very still when there were other people there. He didn’t know what they would do if they found him, but it would be very very bad.

~Early Fall, Begnion Era 630~

He was outside on a nice day scrubbing away at the clothes for the lady when a man walked past the house. He was an older man with graying hair and wore very nice clothes.

The man stopped walking and looked at the boy with eyes as wide as the boy’s. The boy’s fingers started to burn, submerged in the water too long, but he hardly noticed.

“Boy! Get inside!” the lady yelled, grabbing the boy by the back of his shirt and throwing him towards the door.

The boy scrambled to his feet and turned to run into the house.

“Wait!” the man called out, and the boy’s feet froze. “Can I look at him closer?”

The woman moved, between the boy and the man. “What’s your interest?” The woman asked.

The boy did not move. He did not dare.

“Are you the boy’s mother?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“My name is Fuzaka, I’m a traveling sage.”

“Well, Fuzaka, I ain’t, but I’m all he’s got in this world.”

“That mark upon his face, how did he get it?”

“Born with it.”

“Born with it?” The man asked incredulously. He sounded like the lady did when she started to laugh hysterically. The boy wanted to do nothing more than run inside and lock himself in the chest. “I’ve been looking for someone like that for so long. Please, may I see him?”

There was a heavy silence. “C’mere,” the lady commanded and the boy obeyed, standing obediently by her side.

The man walked closer and crouched down in front of the boy. The boy turned his face, but the man reached out and grabbed him, turning his head back forcibly with pressure on his jaw. The boy wanted to scream, and tears formed in his eyes.

He remembered cold claws grabbing his face like that. And a crazy laugh. He didn’t know where he remembered that from. He just did. It scared him and he wanted to run inside and hide.

He wanted to pull his face away, but he couldn’t. He was frozen, feet rooted to the ground like vines had grown up through his sandals and into his body.

“Yes, yes,” the man muttered. “He’ll do quite well.”

“Well for what?” the lady asked.

The man stood up straight and looked at the lady. “I’d like to take the boy and teach him magic. He’d be phenomenal.”

“The boy stays with me.”

“Please, miss- ah- what was your name?”

“Eris.”

“Miss Eris. I’ve been looking for someone as promising as him for a long time.”

“I don’t know,” the woman said, looking over the man. “He’s special. I couldn’t just give him to you. I am caring for him, after all.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” The man hemmed and hawed. “How about a thousand gold for the trouble?”

“A thousand?” The lady spat out. “He’s worth more than that. Go on inside, boy.”

The boy nodded and turned.

“Two thousand? Three?”

The lady looked at the fine silver threads on the man’s robes. “Five thousand, not a gold less.”

The man looked at the boy again. The boy looked at the man, and at the lady.

“He’s always very obedient,” the lady said, smiling sweetly.

The man crouched down in front of the boy again, pulling a frosted glass ball out of a pouch. He held out the ball to the boy.

“Go on. Hold it.” The man said.

The boy looked at the glass ball and gently lifted it up, his hands shaking. What was going to happen?

“Now, focus all your energy on the orb, like you’re breathing into it through your hands.”

The boy nodded with shaking lips and focused on the glass orb. The frosted fog obscuring the center of the orb cleared, and five wispy worms of smoke formed within the orb, ends of the worms snapping at his fingers and palms. Like little bug bites, he felt welts forming where they touched.

The boy yelped, dropping the orb into the grass and it clouded over again.

“No, don’t let go,” the man said sharply. “Those spirits can’t hurt you.” He lifted up the orb from the ground and held it out again.

The boy’s hands shook harder, and he could barely keep the orb in his hands as he tried again, closing his eyes as he did so. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he felt the snapping from the spirits again, his heart beating in his ears. The palms of his hands were throbbing with the pain.

“Phenomenal,” the man whispered as a swirling breeze picked up nearby.

The boy cracked one eye open to look at the orb. It was glowing with a bright green light, while one of the worms, also glowing green, was strung out within the sphere between his palms. The stinging feeling on his palms subsided.

“I’ve never seen the spirits react to a child so strongly before,” the man said. “How old is he?”

“Uh? It’s uh, 630 Begnion Era, yeah?” the lady asked. “He’s got to be, what, four now? Yeah. Four.”

“Incredible,” the man muttered. “Five thousand gold is more than fair.”

The boy’s brows furrowed together and he gulped, holding the orb out to the man. The man took the orb and pocketed it before pulling out a pouch, and handing the lady two red shiny rocks. The woman looked them over closely and the boy watched silently.

What was gold? What was five thousand of it? Why was it paid in red rocks?

What was going on?

“Well, take him then,” the lady said.

“What’s his name?”

The lady scoffed derisively. “Call him whatever you like.”

“Come along, child,” the man instructed.

The boy looked at the lady and she shooed him away, a large smile on her face. “Go on. Go and leave me alone, boy.”

He really didn’t think he had seen her happier before.

Chapter Text

~Early Spring, Begnion Era 630~

The man led the boy home to a small building in the middle of the forest surrounding them. It was cleaner inside than the lady’s home. Once they were inside, the man looked the boy over and scrunched up his nose.

“Unsightly,” the man hummed. “Come this way.”

The boy followed the man closely into a kitchen and the boy sat down in a corner like he was instructed to. The man came over with a length of rope, and tied the boys hands together, and then tied the other end of the rope to a wooden beam in the ceiling.

“Stay here and don’t kick up a fuss,” the man said.

The boy nodded and sat back against the wall, unable to bring his arms down to be comfortable, but he didn’t like making people mad so he sat there without making any noise while the man left the house.

It wasn’t so bad. At least he wasn’t left locked in a chest while the man left the house, like he would be if the lady had to go get food and things. He looked out the window, bobbing his head in time with a tune that the woman he tried not to dream about sang to him in his sleep.

He couldn’t really remember her anymore. What she looked like, what she sounded like. She smelled warm. A nice warm scent and a nice soothing song. The only song he knew.

He wasn’t even thinking of her, really, as he bobbed his head and looked out the window at the jungle. It was just the song that was with him. There were brightly colored birds in the trees, which was nice to look at. When he hid from the lady, the room had no windows, and the chest had no windows and so he very rarely got to look at the birds in the trees.

Or watch the clouds drift by like lazy wool balls.

That was nice too.

If the boy had to put up with the rope holding his hands up, that wasn’t so bad.

What he decided he liked the most was watching the beetles that crawled along the tree trunks. They were much more interesting than ants, and they deserved big pieces of bread if ants deserved crumbs. They had such shiny shells that were all different colors in the sunlight.

The man came back after a long time, holding little wrapped packages. The lady sometimes came back with packages like that. They had clothes and things. The man hadn’t had to go get any food to care for the boy, which the boy understood. He didn’t really deserve food anyway.

The man nodded at the boy and then set the packages down on the table. He walked out of the room again.

There was the sound of water splashing somewhere in the house a while later.

The man came back into the room and untied the rope, and the boy’s hands dropped into his lap. The boy looked up at the man curiously, tilting his head to the side. The man grabbed one of the packages from the table.

“Come,” the man said sternly, tugging on the rope.

The boy got to his feet and followed the man into another room in the house. There was a wooden bathing tub filled with water and an empty, but wet, wooden bucket.

“Take those clothes off and get in,” the man said, after removing the rope from the boy’s hands.

The boy did as he was told, slipping and falling into the wooden tub since it was so big. He pulled himself up on the side and looked up to the man. He’d never had a bath before.

The man knelt down next to the tub with a bar of soap in his hands and began scrubbing the boy with it vigorously. It didn’t burn as much as the laundry soap did, so the boy didn’t even yelp. He squealed a little as his head was forced under the water without warning and then pulled up, gasping for breath.

The man grabbed the boy’s long, tangled hair and yanked on it, pulling it this way and that way. The man groaned. “It’s like she’s never heard of hygiene before,” the man muttered. “Stay here.”

The boy sat quietly in the tub, looking down at the dirty brown water and brown soap bubbles on the surface of the water. The man came back holding a pair of scissors and the boy yelped, trying to run from the scissors. He didn’t want to get hit with them.

What had he done that was so wrong?

“Sit still,” the man commanded, grabbing the boy by the shoulder and settling him in the tub. The boy trembled, but then stopped, his brows furrowing together as he heard the scissors cutting behind him, but didn’t feel anything. And then a great weight was lifted from his head and the boy’s hair was thrown to the ground, on top of the clothes.

The boy shrieked, putting his hands up to his head. His hair was gone.

“Oh be quiet, it will grow back, and we’ll keep it from getting that bad again.”

The boy calmed down, breathing heavily, as he looked at the man. He closed his throat to keep from making noises, but tears fell down his face.

Was that all it was?

“Get out,” the man said, pulling up a towel and wrapping it around the boy when he climbed out of the wooden tub, more carefully than he had gotten into it.

The man picked up one of the packages from the floor and opened it. New clothes.

“Get dressed,” the man commanded.

The boy reached for his clothes on the floor, soaking wet from his old hair, but the man grabbed the boy’s shoulder.

“Not those. These,” the man said, thrusting the package at the boy.

The boy pulled out the clothes, they were definitely too small for the man. The boy frowned, but then pulled his new clothes on as best he could. There was a long black cloth he had no idea what to do with, but the man snatched it out of the boy’s hands and wound it around his shoulders, tying some strings together around his neck.

“There. A proper student of magic.”

The clothes were a little big for him, but he kept growing, so one day the clothes wouldn’t be so big. That was very clever of the man. The lady kept giving him clothes that weren’t so big for him, and would get mad when he got too big for them soon after.

“Now, for your lessons to begin,” the man said, standing up. “We haven’t got much time to spare.”

The boy followed the man out of the room into another, third, room. Just how many rooms did this house have? The lady’s house had only had two rooms and a little pantry, but the man’s house had lots of doors.

Inside this new room were lots of books and papers. There was a little table against the wall with papers and feathers and bowls that had a foul smelling liquid in them. The man lifted up stacks of papers and books from a chair that had been hidden by them, and pulled it up to the little table, next to the other chair. The man pulled down a thin little book from a shelf, it was old and worn, the green paint on the leather cover nearly gone away.

He set the book down on the desk and sat down in the second chair. “Come, boy, sit.”

The boy climbed into the chair and looked at the book. It was covered in many odd squiggly lines, that didn’t at all look like what the lady wrote when she wrote things. Which wasn’t often.

“Now, boy, I’m going to teach you magic, you understand?”

The boy shook his head.

The man sighed. “Magic allows us to understand the world, interact with it. Some people use it to fight with, like it’s a weapon. Magic is more than that. Magic is the interaction with spirits.”

The boy’s eyes brightened and he made a gesture with his hands, as if holding up the orb from before.

“Yes,” the man said. “Like what I used to test you before. Inside of that were five spirits. There are light spirits, from which light magic comes from, which allows healing. There are dark spirits, that let you practice fell magic, forbidden by the goddess. And there are anima spirits, which control wind, fire, and thunder magic. You are attuned to wind anima spirits, so we’ll work on wind magic first.”

“Watch.” The man tapped the book muttered something incomprehensible and a light breeze gusted around the room. The man picked up one of the feathers, and it danced around in the air in front of the man, in time with the way the wind changed the direction it was blowing.

The boy’s eyes widened.

“Now you,” the man said, tapping on the marking on the boy’s forehead, “Have a wind anima spirit within you, which is why the wind spirit in the orb reacted so strongly. It sensed its own kin within you. Wind spirits will obey you effortlessly.”

The boy put both hands over the mark on his forehead.

“Some people might mistake that kind of mark for a Branded marking, but I can tell. That’s a spirit’s charm,” the man said. “A spirit chose you when you were born as a host, because you’ve got so much essence to offer the spirits as energy so they can create spells. That’s what that marking means. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded. The spirits ate his energy for Magic. He didn't quite understand what his energy was, but he hoped it wouldn't hurt.

“Now, let’s begin your lessons in learning to harness that spirit’s power.”

---

The man wasn’t as bad as the boy had feared. He struggled a lot with the man’s lessons. It was really, really difficult. The man started speaking mostly in the ancient tongue, the language of magic, so the boy could learn it faster. Only speaking the modern tongue to reprimand the boy.

But the boy had such a hard time learning to understand it. And his tongue had trouble forming the right sounds.

And if the boy took too long to respond to a question, the man would yell. If the boy started making the wrong incantation, the man would hit a switch across the boy’s knuckles. The boy barely ever had any time to sit and think any more, they spent all day from sun up to sun down working on magic.

The man often reminded the boy of how much gold he had spent to get him to be his student, and he needed to prove he was worth the expense. The boy still didn’t understand what gold was, just that five thousand was a whole lot. He could count thousands now.

But when they retired for the evening, the boy had a nice soft pillow on the floor to sleep on in the bedroom. He wasn’t locked up in the chest anymore and he got a whole slice of bread and a whole fruit for breakfast and dinner. Sometimes he got things like nuts or seeds or even a bit of cooked meat.

So he didn’t mind working so hard to make the man happy, or sometimes working by magic lantern light until the sun came up to get a spell just right.

What the boy hated the most was his reflection with the short hair. It was wrong. It made him sick to his stomach when the short short hair grew and was still short, but not as short. The hair on the top of his head was longer than the sides and the back and it looked evil.

The boy stopped looking at his reflection, closing his eyes when he passed windows so he didn’t have to see the short evil hair on his head. He didn’t like it.

---

“Don't you dare mess up again, boy!” a large stick rapped against the boy's knuckles. The boy whimpered. A small pinwheel rested on the table near the boy.

The boy read over the small, worn, book in front of him. His crimson eyes scanned the words. He could see them if he closed his eyes. Where was he going wrong?

He placed one hand on the open pages and recanted the spell in his mind. He held out another hand out towards the pinwheel and spoke the incantation. A spiraling vortex of wind struck the pinwheel, gusting over it, and it budged slightly for the first time. He smiled.

“Listen, boy, you aren't going to be of any worth to anyone if you can't put that contracted spirit to use. Try it again.”

The boy's eyes fell, tears stinging his cheeks.

“I didn't buy you to have you waste my time crying. Try it again.”

The boy nodded. The pinwheel moved slightly more than before with this attempt.

“Worthless,” the man muttered. “Absolutely useless. Maybe you are just Branded trash afterall.”

The boy felt gutted. He really was trying as hard as he could to learn magic.

---

One day, the boy moved his head and his hair fell in front of his face. It was long again. The boy smiled as he grabbed at the long enough strands of hair and pulled on them, hoping to make them longer, but it just hurt his head.

The man brushed the boy’s hair, and taught the boy how to wash it and brush it so it never had to be short again. The boy never wanted to look evil again, so he took care of his hair. Learning how to tie it back with help from the man to keep it out of the way for his lessons.

His arms were often too sore to tie it all back at once, so he learned to pull his hair into two sections that he could pull in front of him and tie as separate tails. And then he could tie them both together when they grew more and were further down his back and he didn’t have to stretch so much.

The boy liked this look in the reflection. It made him feel warm and fuzzy, and just a little sad. But he liked it long, and he liked it loose, but tying it three times made it almost look loose, but still out of the way, so he kept his hair like that, not needing the man to help him with his hair anymore.

The man guffawed at how ridiculous it looked, but didn’t tell the boy to change it, so he kept tying his hair like that as it grew longer and longer again.

---

The man started yelling at the boy less and less, but the boy still struggled with more and more difficult incantations, so his knuckles were always sore.

But the boy knew what he was expected to say now, so it was easier for him, he was almost never being yelled at.

He also learned just how much five thousand gold was worth, and it was a lot. The boy owed the man a five thousand gold student. He also learned how to read and write in the modern tongue, and that was really easy. He had picked it up, mostly, from the lady’s letters, anyway. He learned all sorts of stuff about how magic worked and what spells could do using different or multiple types of spirits from books written in the modern tongue.

It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside when the man would praise him for getting a spell right on the first try and the boy tried as hard as he could to get every spell right on the first try, to make the man happy.

If the man was happy, the boy got honey drizzled over his bread, and that was the best food of all.

---

"Good job, boy," the sage said with a warm smile one day after the boy had successfully created a small vortex of wind that had rattled a ring with dangling blocks. It was the incantation for a tornado of wind, made smaller by the little bit of spiritual essence trapped within the primer tome. "You really are something with magic."

The boy smiled.

"Here, this is yours now," the man said, pushing the primer to the boy.

The boy looked up at the man with big, wide eyes.

~Summer, Begnion Era 633~

One day, the boy woke up before the sun did, and he ran into the library to begin his lessons, which always started with him reading a big fancy book about a new kind of spell, and he had been in the middle of one last night.

It was about thunder magic, which the boy liked least of all, but he was determined to learn it. So he started reading the book and didn’t notice how much time had gone by until the room got really dark, and the shadows made it harder for him to read.

The boy frowned and jumped down from his chair. He looked for the man around the house, and found the man in the bedroom, but something was wrong.

It was silent, and the man always snored very loudly. The boy walked over to where the man was sleeping, and he wasn’t breathing.

That was an odd trick, the boy thought. He needed to breathe all the time. He wondered if it was some kind of magic.

If the man was tired, the boy could keep learning and let the man rest.

---

The next morning, the man started to smell. It was unpleasant.

The morning after that, the boy tried to nudge the man awake, jumping back and yelping when the man’s body fell off the side of the bed with a wet thumping noise.

The boy cautiously looked around the side of the bed, and stumbled backwards, legs giving out underneath him. The man’s head was bleeding all over the floor. And his eyes were wide open.

The boy ran out of the room and closed the door, hiding in the library.

The man was dead. The boy had read about death in the man’s books. The man was dead. That was what had happened to him.

Chapter Text

~Late Summer, Begnion Era 633~

The boy stayed in the library for a whole day, only moving because his stomach started growling.

The boy went to the kitchen. There was still bread, and fruits, and other things the man ate. The boy used a chair to climb onto the counter and found the loaf of bread. He tore a little piece off and it crackled in his hands, very dry. The boy ate it anyway.

He took a while getting water from the nearby stream, but got a whole bucket into the house so he could drink.

The boy drank and ate a little more bread and looked out the window at the trees with the birds and the beetles and tried to figure out what he should do.

The man had so many books that needed to be read. That the boy ought to read.

The man had paid five thousand gold for the boy to read all those books and learn all the magic the man knew.

The boy went back into the library and started reading again.

He slept in the library and tried to avoid the bedroom because it smelled really really badly through the cracks. He put blankets over the cracks, and it smelled less bad. He got water from the stream and washed himself and took care of his hair and washed his clothes so he was a good little mage student and had good hygiene.

Within a week, he had finished the bread, which was very very dry, and needed lots and lots of water to eat.

The boy decided he ought to make more bread. The man made bread often, and the boy had watched it. He thought back to what the man had done and nodded.

He used the fire primer the man had and started the oven and made the bread. It was lumpy and a little burnt, but it was fresh. He read more books while he let the bread cool.

The next week, the boy accidentally knocked over the ceramic pots that the man stored his flour in. He scooped the flour he needed from the floor and made more bread.

When he went back to the flour pile the next week, the bugs were all over it.

He mustn’t take food away from the bugs.

He went to the dried foods, beans and other things he had seen the man cook sometimes.

Within eight weeks, all the dried food had been eaten, or dropped on the floor and left for the bugs.

The boy wasn’t even halfway done with all the books in the library. He needed more food.

The man went outside sometimes and bought food. The place where food was bought was closer to the lady’s house than the man’s house, and the boy still knew where he could find the lady’s house.

But she didn’t want him. But it was just a landmark to find the place where he could buy food.

The boy knew gold was needed to buy food, so he pinched his nose shut and went into the bedroom and got the man’s gold pouch and ran out, slamming the door shut behind himself.

He threw up anyway, and his eyes stung.

The boy cleaned up the mess and tied the gold pouch around his waist.

He found the wind primer that the man had given him, and held it tight to his chest as he walked out of the house.

He took some water with him too. One of the books he had been reading said water was very important to stay alive.

~Late Fall, Begnion Era 633~

The village was hard to find in the jungle, but the boy found his way there after a while. He got lost trying to avoid the lady’s house and went in the wrong direction, but after about four days he got to the village.

He needed to get some food back to the man’s house so he could eat. He wasn’t supposed to be seen by people, but that was only where he lived. He could manage getting some food.

He kept his head down as he walked through the village, curled up as small as he could to avoid being seen, on the lookout for something, anything, that promised food for sale.

The boy was jostled by another child, a larger boy, running into him. The boy fell to the ground, dropping his primer.

“Hey! Just what do you think you’re doing?!” the larger boy demanded as he pulled himself up from the ground.

The boy turned and looked at the larger boy with wide eyes. The boy opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out aside from a strangled groan.

The boy knew the words he wanted to say. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. But his tongue didn’t know how to form the sound. He only knew incantations for the ancient tongue.

“What, got nothing to say for yourself?” The larger boy asked, looming over the boy.

The boy grabbed the primer, trying to scoot back from the larger boy.

“Garran!” A woman’s voice called out, loud, scolding.

The boy whimpered, trying to hide behind something. Anything. Maybe that wall?

There was a loud gasp and the boy looked up at the woman standing over him. She was staring at his forehead, and then she grabbed the larger boy and pulled him behind her.

“Aloura, what is it?” Another woman called out.

“It’s one of those- those animals,” the first woman hissed out venomously.

The boy was frozen still. They were looking at him just like the lady had.

“An unclean one!” One of the woman shouted.

And then there was a lot more yelling, and everyone was mad at him. They threw rocks and other things at him and he ran out of the village as fast as he could, not able to avoid being hit by many of the stones. He was hurting and cut and bruised all over.

The boy could find other food. The forest had food. The boy didn’t need to buy food. He just needed to read the man’s books about food that could be foraged. A survivalist guide he had started reading before he had decided to go get food.

Eventually, the boy made it back to the man’s house and he froze.

There were people standing around the man’s house. People with tails and furry ears and fuzz on their faces, and other people. People that looked like the people he was used to. They were talking about the man, who was dead, and looking around the house.

They thought someone had killed the man, and they were looking for the culprit.

The boy turned and ran into the forest again, away from the village and away from the man’s house. He didn’t want to be found. He hadn’t killed the man, but he couldn’t tell them that.

He couldn’t tell them anything.

---

The boy looked around for maybe food growing on plants near the village. If people ate that food, it would be safe for him to eat, and food on plants didn’t belong to anyone.

But one day he got spotted and a whole crowd of people started chasing him out again.

He kept trying to find food around the village, but never had much luck. Sometimes other kids would see him and offer him food that made his mouth bleed.

Sometimes adults would go looking for him, and if they found him, they would try to hurt him, so he ran further away.

---

The boy hid in a bush, amongst the leaves. No one could see him that way.

“Hello?!” A woman’s voice called out. “Are you out here?”

The boy curled up tighter, hiding deeper in the bushes. If the woman was looking for someone else, he needed to do his best not to be seen.

The woman’s voice carried through the forest for a while, until the sun was setting, and then there was silence.

The boy waited until the sun was setting the next day before he moved.

Sometimes the lady threw food out. He shouldn’t take food from bugs, but maybe he could find some thrown out food that wasn’t feeding the bugs yet.

If he went at night, he would be harder to see, because of how tiny he was and how well he could hide.

And after he got some food, then he could- well, he wasn't sure what he could do.

The people had been taking away all the books, so he couldn't keep reading them.

The boy frowned at the ground.

The man had paid so much gold for the boy to read those books and learn magic.

Maybe he could find more books somewhere else.

But he was really hungry. He needed to eat, he felt so weak in his arms and legs and his stomach hurt just so, so much. The boy pulled himself out of the bush and made his way back to the village.

It was really dark out when he got there, and he crawled along the ground to be quiet, like he used to when he lived with the lady, and he made his way around the houses, looking for thrown out food.

It took some crawling, and he was really really tired by the end, but he managed to find some food sitting by a very smelly barrel that was buried in the ground. The bottom of the pile had bugs crawling around it, but there was the end of a loaf of bread and some half eaten fruits that had no bugs.

He didn't know how much the food was worth. If a worthless student who had no right to live was five thousand gold then how much was the food worth? The man's gold purse jangled as much as it usually did, and all the food he purchased, tons of it, didn't decrease the jangling too much, but if he could figure out how many gold coins the difference was, then he would know how much food was worth.

The boy set his primer on the ground and then put his food on the primer and then he pulled out the gold purse. He jangled it a little bit and pulled out some gold coins and jangled it some more. That sounded lighter. He took out more until it sounded as light as it did when the man came back from shopping.

But he wasn’t getting as much food as the man did. The boy frowned. How much was this bit of food worth if all the food was worth twenty gold coins?

He looked at how much food he had and compared it to how much food the man bought. He realized he couldn't break a gold coin into two pieces, so he left one gold coin by the pile and picked up his primer, pressing the food against his body.

And then he thought of something and scribbled "thank you" in the dirt next to the coin with his finger and then he ran off back into the jungle.

Maybe people were scared of someone with a spirit, one of the man's books had said they weren't well liked because they did bad things in the past, before people knew how to control them very well. Maybe that was why the lady didn't like him.

But the man had liked his spirit, and the boy always tried very hard not to do bad things.

So maybe if he was polite, they wouldn't think he was mean or bad.

---

The boy lived like that for a while, sneaking into the village every few days after dark, taking food that had been thrown out and leaving gold and a message in the dirt.

Some days a woman walked around looking for someone in the woods. Sometimes a man joined her.

Who kept getting lost in the woods all the time? He needed to be careful so they, or the lost person, didn't find him.

Until one day, when he was grabbing a coin from the old man's coin purse, a lantern flickered to life, shining light down on him. The boy froze, his face turned down towards the ground.

"Oi, who goes there?" A man called out.

"A child?" A woman's voice asked. "A child's been taking the trashed food?"

The boy dropped the coin bag and grabbed his primer with a little food on it.

"Child, come here." The woman said softly, more softly than anyone had ever spoken to him before in his life.

The boy pursed his lips together and stood up, legs a little wobbly, and he slowly faced the lantern, his head still bowed so he could look at the ground.

There were slow footsteps, as the woman came closer until her skirts were in his view. A soft hand was put on his shoulder as she bent down and she lifted his face with her other hand.

He didn't like that. He felt like the metal claws were on his face again. He yelped, pulling away from her and tripping over his too long cloak. He looked up at the woman, holding his primer and food tightly against his chest with one hand, using the other to crawl away from her.

She screamed. "It's- It's that devil!"

The boy felt cold.

The lantern light moved as the man did, reaching for something leaning against his wall. A long wooden stick with three metal prongs at one end.

"I'll make sure it stays away," the man snarled, approaching the boy with the metal prongs sticking out.

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran away, but he wasn’t near the edge of the village. There was a lot more shouting and lanterns and there were more stones.

They didn't stop at the edge of the village this time, but gradually, it faded as he ran far, far into the trees.

~Late Winter, Begnion Era 633~

He awoke the next morning under a large tree to the sounds of the birds calling out to each other.

He sat up and looked down at the ground. He couldn't go back to the village anymore. They talked about him to each other, and they had been waiting for him to come last night.

He didn't have enough energy to do things, he was already still so tired from running as much as he did, but maybe he could forage for food on his own, without the man’s books.

After a few hours, the boy got to his feet and went to the nearby river, washed up and then wandered off again, looking for food.

He found things that looked like stuff the man brought home and ate. Some of them smelled very bad or bitter and he couldn't put them in his mouth. Some of them tasted okay.

Sometimes the things he ate made him feel very sick, so sick he wondered if he would die.

The book said that could happen, if you ate something poisoned.

He cried thinking of how the man had looked, half on the bed, half not, eyes empty and blood weeping down the top of his head and pooling on the floor.

The boy didn’t want to end up like that.

So he remembered the things he ate that made him so sick and stayed away from them, and only took tiny little bites of things so he wouldn't have too much of a poisoned thing if it made him sick.

---

One day, there was a very loud storm. There were always lots of storms, with rain and wind and lightning. The boy hid under trees with low branches and big leaves during storms. He had learned to sleep through them, the rain felt calming and the thunder wasn't so scary as long as it wasn't too loud. In the morning, he'd go to the river and clean himself up from all the mud and take care of his hair as best he could without any soap or brushes.

This storm was much worse than other storms. It woke him up. There was a bright flash of light and a loud clap of thunder that made his ears ring and a tree nearby crashed down to the forest floor, on fire.

---

The boy wandered further and further away from the village. Maybe there was another one. He followed the stream as he left the village, just in case he needed to go back.

---

One night, he woke from his sleep with a start. He had dreamed of nothing again, the loud roar snarling in his mind. As he looked around, he heard the roar again.

He wasn't sleeping.

The roaring thing was out here. Had he run into it before?

The boy ran to the stream and followed the path back to the village.

---

There wasn't much left to eat in the forest by the village, he couldn't find anything aside from the things that made him sick. So he didn’t eat for a very long time, working in wide circles around the village looking for food.

He couldn't go back into the village, they would chase him away again. He didn't have the energy to run anymore. He couldn't even make it to the river to get clean.

There was another storm, and he spent the night sleeping under a large tree.

~Spring, Begnion Era 634~

The next day, he awoke many times. Each time he closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep to ignore the pain in his stomach until he was able to stand up and look for food.

Any food.

He awoke to a stream of ants marching by him and he watched them, pushing himself to sit, legs curled against his chest to try and keep warm.

How was he cold when it was so warm outside?

His primer was hidden between his legs and his chest. The man had said these things were valuable. He couldn't lose it.

“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice called out.

The young boy looked at the bugs. So insignificant. Trampled on and never noticed. No one cared about them. And he was worth less than them. He didn't bother to look up, no one could be speaking to him, and if someone was going to throw more stones at him, he didn't want to know.

“Hey, you!”

The voice was closer this time. The ants were carrying crumbs to their home, several feet to his left. What he would give for even one of those crumbs. But the ants were more significant than him, and he ought not take things from more important beings.

 “Can you hear me?”

It was darker all of a sudden. The shadow of another person had eclipsed him.

He looked up. Another young boy was mere feet away, his blue hair lit softly by the sun, blue eyes big and wide, a concerned look on his face. He was wearing blue and yellow clothes.

“Can you hear me?”

The boy blinked. He looked around. There was no one near the two of them.

He sat up and unraveled his right arm from his body and pointed at his face.

“Yeah you.” The other boy crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees. “Are you okay?”

Was he okay? What kind of question was that? He was alive. That was all that mattered. He shrugged, looking away from this other child.

“Why are you out here by yourself?”

Where else did he belong? He shrugged again.

“Where are your Mom and Dad?”

Mom and Dad? He shrugged again.

“Where do you live?”

He shook his head.

“You don't live anywhere?”

He nodded.

“Who takes care of you?”

He shook his head.

“No one?”

He nodded.

“What's your name?” The other boy asked.

Name? He frowned. Names were what people were called. Idiot. Child. Beast. Devil. Spirit Charmer. Branded. These weren't names, but he didn't know of anything else to call himself. He couldn't answer this boy's question correctly even if he knew how to speak. He gripped his knees harder and grimaced, tightly shutting his eyes, the backs of his hands recalling the sting of the switch the man had used when he didn’t know how to complete a task.

“Are you hungry?”

He slowly opened his eyes and stared up at the other boy. What was he planning? Was he hiding a bunch of rocks in the bag he carried? He shrunk back against the tree.

“Here, you can have my lunch,” the other boy said and held out the bag.

He whimpered and tried to move away. His leg gave out underneath him and he fell to his side, the book falling a foot from him.

“Are you okay?!” The other boy reached out, but the boy snatched his book and crawled away from the other boy.

They stared at each other for a long time. He couldn't understand the other boy. There was no deceit in his large blue eyes. No hatred. No judgment. It felt like, well, he couldn’t remember why he knew what it felt like, but the look in the other boy’s eyes felt kind, and safe.

But what was in the bag? The other boy couldn't truly be offering him food.

No one just gave him food. He had to do something first.

But what was he supposed to do?

“It's really okay. You can have this.” The other boy pulled something out of the bag, a sandwich. His mouth watered the moment he saw it. It smelled so wonderful. The other boy set the bag on the ground and the sandwich on top of the bag. He then got up and walked a few feet away before turning around and sitting on the ground.

He watched the other boy for a little longer. What was happening? Who was watching this? Any others behind the trees? Ready to throw sticks and stones at him? But the sandwich smelled so good and it had been so long since he had found anything to eat.

He snatched the sandwich with his right hand and sat against the tree. The other boy didn't move. He put his book between his legs and chest and held the sandwich in both hands. He lifted up the top piece of bread. There didn't seem to be anything hidden inside. He took a bite. It was good. The other boy didn't move. The sandwich didn't burn his mouth. It seemed it was really just a sandwich. He devoured the rest of it.

After he finished the last bite, he looked back at the bag. Was that all there was?

“Are you still hungry?” The other boy asked. “You can come back home with me if you want more.” The other boy stood up and walked over to him.

He shrunk back against the tree. What was the boy planning? He shook his head.

The other boy knelt down on the ground. “Come on, if you don't have anyone else, we can help you.”

He shook his head.

The other boy pouted. “Well, what if I came back tomorrow and brought you more food? Would you still be here?”

He nodded.

The other boy grinned, a large sloppy smile with his eyes closed. “Great! I'll bring a lot!”

Tears welled in his eyes. This other boy was true. There was no deceit. Only kindness.

The other boy held out his hand. “My name's Ike, by the way. We can be friends, okay?”

He stared at the hand. What did it mean?

Ike’s smile fell a little. He withdrew his hand and scratched the back of his head. “No, huh? Well, that's okay. I'll still help you out.” Ike stood up. “See you tomorrow!” He called back as he ran off.

The boy sat for a while after eating and decided to quietly follow Ike.

He played in the forest a bit, finding a stick and swinging it around like a sword.

The boy frowned, with brows furrowed. How did he know what a sword was? He had never seen one before.

And yet he knew that was what Ike was doing.

When Ike went back to the village, the boy headed back into the forest.

The boy decided, just in case, to move somewhere else for the night. What if Ike’s parents found out about him giving away his sandwich? What if they were mad? What if they made Ike show them where the boy was?

His stomach hurt and he felt a little sick, not like he had eaten bad food, but like he had when he had first started eating food given to him by the man.

He shouldn’t have eaten so much food all at once. That was what it was. That’s why he was sick. He’d be more careful tomorrow.

If Ike came back.

Ike had been kind. But the boy didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

The next day, he was less sure. He felt better, but he just wasn’t sure. What if Ike brought people with him? What if someone else from the village wandered out there, he obviously had been too close.

Was Ike the boy always getting lost in the woods? Had those voices been his parents searching for him?

He felt like Ike wouldn’t be mean or hurtful.

And that smile and those kind eyes had been so warm and so safe. He couldn’t explain why he felt that way.

It just was the truth.

The boy decided to go back to the area, and hide behind a tree where he could hide if anyone other than Ike came.

He felt stronger today, and he wasn’t nearly as cold. He had even been able to march over to the stream and clean himself up this morning and drink some water.

He waited and he waited. He waited until a long time after Ike had come yesterday.

Ike never came.

The boy felt like crying, more than he had whenever the lady or the man had yelled at him. He felt so empty inside and his chest ached.

He didn’t know why.

It just hurt so much that Ike hadn't kept his promise.

But then the boy smelled something as the wind shifted and started blowing in from the village. Blood. Lots and lots of blood. The boy put his hand over his mouth. It was more blood than the man had lost after dying.

The boy crept his way through the forest towards the village, afraid of Ike having lost that much blood. What if the people in the village had hurt Ike for helping the boy?

What if Ike wasn’t as good at running away?

The village was a lot. The dirt paths had blood everywhere, pooled around bodies with big injuries on them.

Lots of bodies with lots of injuries.

The boy ran back into the jungle and hid behind a tree. Was it the roaring thing? Had the roaring thing done this?

There was shouting. The boy looked around and people in armor were walking around the village, yelling at each other. Some of them had ears and tails, and some were people the boy was more used to. He recognized some of the faces from the man’s house.

They started looking in the woods, shouting about finding who had done this.

The boy hid himself as well as he could, waited for them to move away from him, and he ran into the village.

Was Ike alive?

There were more people looking around in the village. The boy didn’t want to be seen by them. He crept into an open door and hid inside a house. He looked for a little room to hide in and snuck into it as quietly as he could. He could hide in here.

He froze when he saw a man, with a bleeding wound in his side, leaning against the far wall of the small room. The man’s eyes were glazed over, unfocused, but he was still breathing. The boy watched the man, afraid.

“Greil,” the man whispered in a hoarse, broken voice, “why?” And then he fell still, no longer moving.

The boy shuddered, staring at the dead body until nightfall, when it got a lot quieter outside.

He left the house and started looking through all of the dead bodies. Some were still in the streets, but most of them had been gathered up and were laying near a large stone building in the back of the village. He had never come this far in before, but he'd read books about churches and graveyards after the man had died and he hadn't been given books about only magic every day.

So he looked through the graveyard, there was fresh dirt over some of the graves, but Ike's name wasn't carved into any of the tombstones. The bodies that had been gathered up were lying on the floor in a big room of the stone building that had lots of benches, with dirty and blood stained cloths laid over them.

He made sure to neatly cover each body again after he checked it to make sure it wasn't Ike.

He went through all the village and didn't see Ike's body anywhere. Not in the streets. Not in the houses.

Not even in the house that was hidden down a long path. There was one grave by that house.

Odd.

It said "Elena, 599-634, Beloved Wife and Mother"

The boy didn’t know why, but he took a flower from the field nearby and put it with the others. It seemed like the right thing to do.

There were other flowers there already. The books said people put flowers at graves as a tribute.

The grave was fresh and the flowers were fresh too. There were also some fresh footprints, some small ones belonging to children, walking down the path to the village.

So if Ike wasn't dead in the village, then Ike was alive, wasn't he?

The boy bit his lip. Where had Ike gone?

The sun started to come up, lazy pink rays of sunlight breaking through a dirty windowpane.

One of the man's books had talked about different countries. He was probably in Gallia now, because of all of the jungles and the people with ears and tails. Gallia was ruled by beast tribe laguz, who could turn into cats, tigers, and lions.

That meant Crimea was to the north. The book said Crimea was ruled by beorc, like what Ike and the boy were.

The boy looked to the north.

The roaring thing was in the woods still, but he thought of Ike's smile and he knew that was the way he needed to go.

And he needed to go before the people came back to bury the bodies.

He had lost the man's money, but he found some other money in another house in the village, under the mattress of the biggest bed. It was fine. The village had taken the money he had been using so he could take their money to get his money back. He had found some dried meats and fruits in a basket in the center of the village yesterday, and filled a little pouch with them.

The jungle had plenty of water, but he found a waterskin and took it with him just in case before sneaking out of the village and heading north.

Chapter Text

~Spring, Begnion Era 634~

Gallia's forests were thick and hard to navigate, the underbrush dense. It was filled with snakes and animals that made the boy's heart race. He found the coast, eventually, and even though the sun beat down on him constantly, he felt safer that way. The coast went north and that made it easier.

But after a day, there was a big storm, and the ocean swelled. A large wave crashed over him and he was dragged into the sea, dark and terrifying. He found a rock to climb and that was hard, his hands kept slipping in the rain, but he was able to curl up at the top, so he stayed there until the storm faded, occasionally drifting off into a fitful sleep where he'd wake up feeling like he was falling, so he curled up tighter in the center.

When it was clear, he was able to climb down the rock, slowly, carefully, as it was part of a large rock formation jutting out from the beach, and he landed on the hot sands that were almost pure white in color.

The boy trekked back into the jungle. The storms were safer in the trees.

But after another fierce storm made him hide somewhere deep in the roots of a tree to avoid other trees falling on him, he realized he no longer knew which way was north.

He smelled food cooking and voices. There was a village nearby. Maybe if he kept his head down, he could find out which way north was.

---

The boy wandered the streets of the village, his primer clutched close to his chest. Houses were intermittently dispersed amongst the trees, unpaved dirt roads indicating the paths most traveled. Laguz strolled about, stopping to talk to each other on occasion, but they didn't even really look at him, so maybe they didn't mind him as much as the beorc.

He walked between houses. He tried to catch the attention of one of them as they walked near him. The laguz skirted around him.

He tried another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another. 

They never looked at him. His chest tightened. He brought his free hand in front of his face. Did he exist? Had he died and never realized it?

He approached another. She moved to the side. He reached out and grabbed her hand. She pulled it back and looked down at him. A look of anger and disgust on her face. After a moment it passed, she looked away and walked off, like he hadn't been there.

He reached out to others. They all reacted similarly. A look of anger and disgust, but then pretended like he wasn't even there.

He moved on to another village. They never even looked at him when he grabbed them. They just shook him off, throwing him to the ground, and continued on as if he was nothing more than a leaf that had caught in their clothes.

He wandered in the forest for days, not sure of where to go, until he smelled another village in the distance.

It was the same as the last.

And the next was the same as well.

Near sunset several days later, after hundreds of people had rejected him, after weeks of wondering if other people could even see him, he grabbed the hand of another large laguz. Tears were in his eyes.

Please. Please. Please. He couldn’t talk if he wanted to still. But please notice me, he thought.

The laguz looked at him. The boy's eyes widened, a glimmer of hope shined in his eyes.

“Go away. You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere. You shouldn't exist,” his voice was dull and monotone. He walked away as soon as he said the last syllable, pulling his hand from the boy's grasp.

The boy fell to his knees. He held the book close to him, his body trembling. The woman didn't think he had a right to live. The sage hadn't thought he had any value to the world without using magic. The other humans hadn't thought he belonged with him. And now with these laguz, he didn't even have the right to exist.

He fell forward, forehead crashing into the dirt path. He screamed until he couldn't scream any longer. His body heaving with his strangled sobs. Laguz passed him by without so much as slowing in their course.

He pushed himself back onto his knees. His body still heaving though he had run out of tears to cry. Maybe he shouldn't be alive, he thought. Maybe he should find a ditch to crawl into and die in.

An image came to him. An image of that blue-haired boy with the outstretched hand, asking for them to be friends. He reached his hand out to the boy. Yes, Ike. We could be friends. He took Ike's hand, and grasped thin air.

Reality came back crashing back to him. He was still in the laguz village. He looked around. The laguz were still pretending like they didn't know that he was there.

He got to his feet and staggered on his way. There was a fleeting whisper in his mind, urging him to head to his right, like that was where Ike was, in the distance.

---

The boy found food in the forest a lot after he ran out of dried foods from the beorc village where Ike had lived, being careful not to eat the things that made him sick.

Sometimes, he felt like he was being watched, but everytime he looked around, there was the sound of something large running away.

Was it the roaring thing?

Sometimes he still dreamed about the roar. Sometimes he dreamed that he had found Ike's body in the village.

It took him a long time to convince himself that Ike was alive when he woke from those dreams. He stayed still the whole day, unsure what to do if Ike was dead.

He could feel that Ike was to the north, far away from here.

He found mountains, he thought, because when he climbed up them, he was much higher than the canopy and he could see for a long way.

He climbed up higher, so he could see further.

Without the trees covering the entire sky, he saw that the sun was setting in front of him.

If that was west, then north towards the river cutting through the line of trees in the distance.

He saw little red fruits growing on a low bush. He had run into other red fruits like that which were sweet and savory, but those had been fatter, these were thin, shaped like his fingers.

Maybe they were just not fully grown. But he was hungry now, and they were safe to eat.

He picked one from the bush and bit into it, and it snapped with his bite with a crunch that meant that it wasn't bad to eat, so he quickly chewed and swallowed, taking another couple of bites before he dropped it to the ground, tears in his eyes as his face got hot.

His lips and mouth and tongue and throat were burning .

Sometimes the things he ate burned, but not like this . It was like he had swallowed the flames he could produce through magic. He realized the fingers of his right hand were burning too.

He started wiping his fingers in the damp dirt and used his left hand to open up his waterskin, almost dumping the water inside down his throat.

It cooled the sensation in his mouth for a moment before it came right back. His right hand was burning now. He whimpered when he shook the waterskin and only drops came out.

The boy remembered the river in the distance and picked himself up, crying as he walked to the water so he could cool his mouth and hands down.

By the time he made it to the river, the burning on his hand had faded, leaving his skin feeling cool, and it really was kind of pleasant, the cooling feeling.

The same for his lips and tongue and throat.

But his chest was burning a little now, so he started drinking the river water as much as he could, until he felt too full to drink anymore. He filled up his waterskin and curled up in the forest undergrowth near the river.

If the burning fruit made him sick, he wanted to be close to the river to clean up.

The food burned all the way through his body.

But it didn't make him sick. So if burning fruit was the only thing he could find, he could eat it.

~Early Summer, Begnion Era 634~

The rivers made traveling through the jungle hard. He usually followed them until they got thin and shallow enough for him to wade through, holding his primer up above the water as he went, but one river was just too big, and he followed it for a week and it never seemed to change, and he couldn't find a fallen tree over it or anything.

He needed to go north. He was so far away from Ike.

So he wandered back and forth along the riverbank for a day during a light rainstorm, looking to see the best spot to cross.

It rained a lot in Gallia. He'd never get anywhere if he never moved during the lighter rains.

There was one place that looked promising, there was a bit of a log in the river and the bank was a little higher from the surface, so if he ran and jumped, he could land on the log, and then he would be halfway across without needing to swim.

He stuck the primer down his shirt and used his belt to tie it to his chest. And he ran and he jumped and he landed on the log.

But the log was wet and damp, and the green moss growing on it made it slippery.

As he fell into the water, he held his left hand tightly against his chest, and closed his eyes and held his breath.

With his right hand, he managed to swim up to the surface of the river by clumsily pawing at the water, and he took a deep breath, gasping for air, rain pelting his face.

He saw the river bank in the distance, and he tried to swim through the water with just his right hand, but he got tired.

Water was heavy and hard to move through.

And the river was fast.

He tried to grab onto a branch hanging over the river, but it snapped under his weight and he kept going the wrong way.

The river got a lot rougher, and he was tossed around by white plumes of water before his head hit a rock and he saw stars before he saw nothing.

He dreamed briefly of a dark, warm smelling dress, and arms holding him kindly before he felt the pain in his head and he woke up to a clear sky above him.

The boy blinked and sat up, rubbing the back of his head, wincing at how much everything hurt and he huffed, his chest squeezing tight. He felt like he was about to cry, but there were no tears in his eyes.

He felt his chest and the primer was gone, and that made the boy feel like crying a lot more and he shot up to his feet, almost falling over from how dizzy he was and he looked around.

There was a waterfall in front of him, at least sixty feet high, and there was a lake between him and the waterfall. He had been lying on a rocky shore around the lake, which was nearly tranquil near him.

To his left, his book was lying on the ground. He carefully walked over to his book, trying not to fall down on the slippery rocks and picked it up.

Beyond that, there was a bunch of fruits and nuts lying on a large leaf on the ground, surrounded by bits and pieces of the burning fruits.

The boy stared down at the food with brows furrowed. He looked around.

Had an animal dropped it? Sometimes they dropped food.

But this was- well, it wasn't stacked neatly, like the food in the markets were. They had fallen onto the leaf and been scattered. Big leaves fell down all the time, but they were usually at least a little brown, and the only tree that had big leaves like that was kind of far away from this spot. The stem looked fresh and green, like it had been pulled off. The nuts were already shelled too, and roasted, like what the man did to the raw ones he bought.

It was the circle of pieces of burning fruit that was the most weird.

And the weird impressions on the ground and some pawprints leading from the food to the forest.

The boy looked around again, his head feeling a little more clear, and he saw a little tuft of light blue fur stuck in the vines of a thorny plant where the pawprints led.

So an animal had definitely dropped it.

But he was really hungry, and this was a lot more food than he could eat at once.

The boy bit his lip, looking down at the food again.

He sat down by a tree, hidden in the bushes, and watched the fruit, waiting to see if the animal that had dropped it came back.

By sunset, no animal came back, and the boy decided it was safe to take the food. He sat down and ate a little of the food and lied down for the night, hanging his clothes up to dry and he cleaned up the blood from his head and hair.

The next morning, he packed up the food in his pouch and started walking again, climbing up the cliff so he could keep heading north.

Eventually, it started getting cooler and the trees became less dense and less dense until there were just tall plants that came up to his chest.

Ike was still so far away.

The boy walked through the tall plants until he came to a wide dirt road. He walked along the road for a while, until he ran out of fruits in his pouch and water in his waterskin.

There wasn't any water nearby, he realized.

The jungle always had plenty of water, but there wasn't any near here.

He didn't even have an idea where a river was.

He started walking at night when there wasn't any sun and he slept under shade during the day.

Eventually, he sensed water again.

It wasn't a river, but maybe a small pond? Or maybe smaller than that.

He walked towards it, his body weak and slow to respond to what he wanted, he clutched his primer to his chest as he walked.

Until he collapsed.

Chapter Text

~Summer, Begnion Era 634~

The boy awoke in a cool, soft space. Softer even than the cushion the man had let him sleep in. And there was something lying over him.

He slowly opened his eyes and saw that he was inside a stone building, with a wooden ceiling. He blinked slowly and sat up.

He was in a bed. He looked at the sheets and the mattress curiously. No one had ever put a sheet over him before.

He didn't hurt at all, but he was thirsty, and hungry.

His eyes widened and he felt around his body, looking for his primer, casting anxious eyes around the room.

But there were only empty beds in the room.

The door opened just then and the boy jumped. A woman walked in, wearing white robes and carrying a small tray with a bowl and a towel on it. She had loose light brown hair.

The boy crawled back in the bed until his back hit the stone wall and he shuddered, seeing bloody snow in front of him.

He didn't know why he knew what snow was. He just did.

He looked up at the woman, his breathing shaky. Where was his book? What if he had to run away if she started throwing things at him? How could he ever find his book?

The woman blinked and called out over her shoulder, "Get Father Emanuel, please. The child is awake," she said loudly, to an affirmation of another woman somewhere else, and then there was the sound of hurried footsteps.

The boy curled his legs under his body, trying to become one with the wall as the woman came closer.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the woman said sternly. She set the tray down on a little table nearby, the bowl had water in it. She sat in a chair by him.

The boy watched her anyway. There was a brief, stern, glance, at the mark on his forehead and then back to him. There wasn't any kindness in her eyes as she looked at him.

"Are you feeling well?"

The boy nodded.

"Where did you come from?"

The boy stared up at the woman, really wishing he could pass through the stone. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know the answer and he couldn't say it.

She was going to yell at him or hit him with a switch.

"Well?" She asked impatiently.

"Sister Irma," a man's voice called out from the doorway, old, as old as the man’s had been. "A little gentler with the poor thing. He's trying to crawl out of his skin."

"He'd only have to fear giving an answer if he was Branded."

"Sister Irma," the old man said in a sad and tired tone. "Why don't you go on with your day, let me handle him, hm?"

The woman stood up, gave the boy one last disdainful glance, and left the room. The old man sighed heavily and walked into the room, sitting down on the chair the woman had been sitting in.

Another woman, this time with an anxious face and loose dark orange hair, burst into the room, holding another tray. "Here's the food, Father Emmanuel," she said, in a voice that reminded the boy of branches shaking in a storm.

She nearly tripped over nothing on the floor and the tray settled on the table, jostling the first, causing water to spill out of the bowl.

"Thank you, Sister Rita," the old man said.

“Of course, Father Emmanuel,” she said, firmly pressing down on the handles of the tray with her hands, as if to be sure that the tray was securely in place, before she let go and smiled at the boy before hurrying out of the room.

“You will have to forgive Sister Irma,” the old man said, sitting back in his chair and arranging his hands in his lap. “She is rather lacking in the grace that makes a good servant of the goddess.”

The boy swallowed and nodded. The old man's voice was much softer than the man’s voice.

“Now then, my boy, a traveler found you passed out on the side of the road and brought you here, but we couldn’t find any injuries on you. Are you hurting anywhere?”

The boy shook his head, eyes still locked on the old man.

“Do you know where you are?”

He shook his head again.

“You are in the church of Balhan, to the southwest of Arbor territory of Crimea.”

So he had made it to Crimea. The boy looked to the side, how big was Crimea? How long would it take him to find Ike?

“Do you have any family?”

The boy’s eyes snapped up to the old man’s. He shook his head.

“So you’re on your own?”

The boy nodded. He clutched at his chest. Where was his book? Had the traveler taken it? Had they taken it? Could he get it back if they had? He pouted, his lower lip trembling as he tried to keep calm.

“What’s wrong, child?”

The boy’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply. He shrunk in on himself and shook his head.

“Here, drink some water,” the old man said, reaching over to grab a cup from the tray and held it out to the boy. The boy took the water with trembling hands and drained the cup, holding it back to the old man.

The old man took the cup and set it back down on the tray with a soft sigh before he turned back to the boy. “What’s your name, child?”

The boy squeaked and shook his head. Why did all of these people expect him to say things? The lady and the man never had, aside from casting spells.

“You don’t have one?”

The boy nodded.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the old man murmured. “Tell me, child,” he said, pulling something out from behind the tome at his side, and held up the primer. “You had this on you when you came in, do you know what it is?”

The boy nodded with certainty. It was his book. The one the man had given him for being so good at magic. He held out his hands, brows pinched together and lips pressed firmly together.

“Can you use it?” The old man asked.

The boy nodded and immediately held the primer to his body again once it was in his hands once more.

The old man smiled down at the boy. “Would you mind showing me a nice spell with that book, child? We clergy don’t get to see anima magic that often.”

The boy nodded and opened up the primer deftly. He looked around and picked up the towel that was lying on the first tray the stern lady had brought in. He gently tossed the towel up in the air and spat out the incantation, making the towel rise in the air. He bounced the towel twice more before he was too tired to do any more and the towel fell to the foot of the bed. The boy slowly looked back to the old man, closing the book and holding it tight against his body again.

The old man nodded. “That was very skillful, little one. You’re quite adept at magic.”

The boy looked up at the old man with dubious eyes. His teacher never thought so. He was always lacking, despite his talent and his growth.

“Here, have some food,” the old man said, picking up a plate from the tray and held it out to the boy. There were so many good things on the tray, not quite as fancy or varied as what the man bought, but there were two slices of bread and cheeses and a whole apple.

The boy took a smaller piece of bread, and when the tray wasn’t taken away immediately, he darted a hand out to grab a piece of cheese and then scooted back against the wall.

“That’s all that you want?” At the boy’s nod, the old man sighed and put the tray back down on the table. “Well, aren’t you polite?” He mused aloud. “Where were you going, child?”

The boy’s brows drew together and he looked down at his knees.

Ike.

But where was Ike? Where could he find Ike?

He shook his head.

“Just walking, hm?” When the boy shook his head again the old man tilted his head to the side. “You were looking for something?”

The boy nodded slowly.

“What were you looking for?”

The boy looked up at the old man. Ike. He was looking for Ike. “Ah che,” he mustered in a strangled voice, fighting back the panic that threatened to consume him as he heard the lady’s voice and felt her hand on his face.

“Hm? What was that?”

The boy curled up on himself, his heart racing and his breaths shallow and rapid. He shook his head desperately with eyes closed.

“Child,” the old man muttered. There was the sound of him shifting in his chair, as if leaning forward and the boy shuddered, but then the old man sat back in his chair.

A few moments later, the boy raised his head and looked up at the old man.

“As long as I am the head of this church, you are safe here, little one,” the man said and then rose to his feet. “But you must be weary from your long search.” The man put a few fingers down on the tray that had the food. “Please rest and eat to your heart’s content.”

The old man closed the door behind himself, leaving the boy alone in the room.

The boy relaxed his hands, which had been squishing the bread and the cheese and then he slowly started nibbling on the food he had been given.

---

The old man and the odd lady came back later in the day to check on him and ask him if he needed anything. The odd lady tried to pour water into the empty cup but spilled half the water over the tray, a little splashing on the food. She apologized to the boy a great deal for that, which was odd. Why would anyone apologize to him?

That night he slept in the bed and held his primer close to him.

In the middle of the night, he woke up with a strangled cry in his throat, the image of Ike as one of the dead bodies in that village still in his mind. He blinked, trying to forget the image, trying to convince himself it wasn’t real, Ike was still out there.

He had checked.

He had.

He heard voices just beyond his door.

“The boy can stay as long as he needs to,” the old man was saying.

“He is not one of the goddess’s beloved children,” the stern lady retorted.

“He’s quite talented with magic,” the odd lady said, “You can’t know what that kind of mark means for sure, Sister Irma.”

“Sister Rita, it hardly matters,” the stern lady said, “The goddess forbids fell magic, and if that is a Spirit’s Charm, then that mark is as much a blemish as his being Branded would be.”

“What if the child had no say in it, Sister Irma?” The old man said in a scolding voice that made the boy flinch, his hands already stinging. “It could have picked him at birth or been done to him.”

“But-”

“No, Sister Irma. It is not our place to judge a child for a ritual he could not have possibly partaken in.”

“If not us, then who?”

The old man harrumphed. “You could use some of my old bishop’s grace. She was a true servant of the goddess, and if we could all have her kindness, the world would be a much better place. So please try to learn at least some of that kindness by treating this boy well, for as long as he is here.”

The stern lady sighed heavily. “Very well, Father, I will try.”

The boy settled back in the bed. He didn’t want to stay here very long anyway, he had to find Ike.

---

The next day, the boy awoke to a gentle knock on the door and the old man walked in, carrying a new tray with food, and a book.

“Hello, my young friend,” the old man said cheerfully, setting the tray down on the table.

The boy watched, like a branch about to break, ready to run if he needed to. He had stuffed his pouch full of the extra food they had given him yesterday.

“I believe I noticed that you seem to have some difficulty speaking the modern tongue, is that correct?”

The boy looked down at the bedsheets, shrinking back, and nodded.

“I thought so.” The old man picked up the book and opened it. It was a book filled with pictures. “Tell me, child, do you know what this is?” He pointed at the picture, which was a large bowl of fruits.

There was some text on the bottom, and the boy squinted his eyes to read the words.

“Can- can you read this?” The old man asked.

The boy nodded, and held his hands out, taking the book and resting it in his lap.

“And you know what it should sound like if I read it aloud?”

The boy nodded, looking through the pages. The words were small and easy to read.

“Well, then, how about this? I have some duties to attend to for a little while, why don’t you try reading the book aloud while I’m gone, and then you can show me how far you got when I come back?”

The boy looked up at the old man and nodded.

After the old man had left, the boy turned back to the book and swallowed, hands shaking and sweating as he looked down at the pages. They were easy, small words, easier and smaller than anything that had been written in the man’s books. It took him a little bit to get the first syllable right, with a voice that wasn’t rattling or squeaking, breathless. The second syllable was even worse than the first. It was like his tongue was as slow as honey.

His fingers were digging into the pages of the book as he took a few deep breaths and moved onto the next word. Each syllable felt like it was being slowly pushed out of him with sharp edges scratching his throat and mouth.

Some of the words he had never heard before. He'd read them. He knew what they meant. But he didn't know what they sounded like. He looked at the other words he knew, and the sounds the letters made and guessed.

He closed his eyes and stopped, curling up.

The room was empty.

No one would yell at him for making noises. He was doing what the old man had asked him to.

He needed lots of water, lots more water than he was used to, while he worked on reading the book aloud. Talking made his throat dry. That was odd. He didn’t understand why that was.

Hours later, the old man returned. The boy had eaten a little more food, and stuffed the rest of it into his pouch. He’d be leaving soon.

When the old man came back, the boy was able to read through the whole book. Slowly. It took him so much longer to say the words than to read them.

“I see, you were taught how to read then?”

The boy nodded.

“And who taught you?”

The boy’s chest shook. He had to speak to answer. “Say-guh Fuh-saw-caw.” He had squeezed his hands into fists, holding the bedsheets and closed his eyes tight, tensed up.

“Ah, I think I’ve heard of him,” the old man said, “A famous scholar in Sienne, once, I believe.”

The boy opened his eyes and looked up at the old man.

“Where did he wind up? I hear he retired some years ago.”

“Ga-lee-ah.”

The old man nodded. “And why aren’t you with him?”

“Duh-eyed. Suh-lee-pee-n-guh.”

“Should we all go as peacefully,” the old man mused aloud. “You made it all the way from Gallia to here, by yourself, child?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, aren’t you independent, little one? And what brought you up here?”

The boy shrank back. “Fruh-eh-und.”

“You’re looking for a friend?”

The boy nodded.

“Do you know where he is?”

The boy shook his head.

"Well, I'd hate for you to go back out looking for him when you still have so much trouble talking, child. The world is a dangerous place, but I'm sure you already know that."

The boy nodded, looking down at the book.

"Being able to talk will help you a great deal while you look for your friend, as well. So why don't you stay here for a little while, my boy, and head out when you're better prepared? I'd hate to think of you passed out on the side of the road again."

The boy bit his lip. It would certainly be easier if he could ask people if they knew of Ike when he ran into them. He nodded, running his thumb along the pages of the book.

"Good. Sister Rita will help you with your lessons starting tomorrow."

The boy nodded again.

"Do you know how old you are?"

The boy frowned and pursed his lips as he looked down at his book. "Fore en wim-tur sex-thur-tee."

"You were four in the winter of 630, hm? Well, then you must be just about eight or nine now."

The boy nodded.

"And how about a name, child? Would you like to have one?" The boy’s eyes snapped up to the old man's. "I think you ought to. When you meet your friend again, wouldn't you like them to know your name? You know theirs, don't you?"

The boy slowly nodded. Ike had asked for it before. He'd like to be able to answer that question.

"Would you like to pick one out yourself?"

The boy paused. How did he pick out a name? What was a name? Was it any random word? Did names mean anything? There had been all those names in those books, but which one could he have?

"Easy, my child. You don't have to answer now."

But he had to know the answers. He had to know what to do. He rubbed the back of his right hand with his left.

"Would you like me to pick one out for you?"

The boy slowly looked up at the old man.

"If you don't like it, you can change it later, but I can give you a name for the others to use when they speak to you. Would you like that?"

The boy nodded.

The old man looked off into the distance, as if he was putting a lot of thought into it. That felt right to the boy. He liked that the old man wasn't giving him any old name, though he really didn't deserve a very special name. But it made him feel warm inside.

The old man's eyes widened and he looked very sad, but he smiled to himself and nodded.

"How about Soren? Does that sound good to you?"

The boy bit his lip for a moment. Soren? It was a name. Was it a good name for him?

It was a name. He wanted to say it. He had to be able to say his name. "Soar-en. Soren." It felt a little familiar. It reminded him of the pleasant smell of warm spices. He nodded, a shy smile on his face.

"Very well, Soren. Take it easy today, and Sister Rita will come tomorrow morning for your lessons." Emmanuel stood up and patted the boy’s head gently.

None had ever done that before, but it felt nice.

---

The next morning, the odd lady came to see the boy, like Emmanuel had promised. She bounced a little in the chair, holding a book in her arms, under the tray filled with food for him to eat. When she went to put the tray down, it slid a little, clattering onto the table.

"Good morning, Soren," she cheered after she sat down, nudging the tray to him a little.

He took a little bite of bread and cheese and nodded at her.

She smiled. "Why don't we start with good morning?"

The boy tilted his head to the side.

"It's a greeting for when you see someone in the morning, you see. And if someone says it to you, then you should say it back, okay?"

The boy dropped his food, looking up at her with wide eyes and the color draining from his face. Had he been bad?

"No, no, it's okay. But why don't we practice saying it so you can say it next time?"

The boy nodded. "Guh-ud more-neeg."

The odd lady laughed. "There you go, Soren. Except it's more ooo than uh in good." She pronounced it more slowly, and he watched the way her mouth moved carefully.

"Goo-duh."

"Just like that." The odd lady drummed her hands on the cover of the book and looked out at the window as the boy ate the rest of his food.

She sighed, her focus off towards the clouds. "It really is too nice outside to be stuck in here. How about we go outside, Soren? Can you walk yet?"

The boy nodded and climbed down from the bed, grabbing his primer from the table.

They went outside and sat under some shade from a large tree. The odd lady opened the book and started teaching him how to say different words.

They stayed outside until the sun was starting to set. As they came back into the church, the stern lady looked at them disapprovingly, but walked by without a word.

The odd lady shook her head with a small tsk. "She could learn how to be more polite herself." She laughed and smiled down at the boy. "But don't tell her I said that."

The boy nodded, following the odd lady back into the room and he went to bed.

---

He spent a long time at the church, learning how to talk. He got quite good at it, figuring out how to pronounce all the long and difficult words that the man’s books had used. Rita laughed at him sometimes when he said those big words before enthusing about how cute and smart he was.

Emmanuel always checked in on the boy at least once a day to see how he was getting along.

The boy started helping out cleaning his room some days because the stern lady told him to. Rita had come by while he was struggling to pick up dirt he had swept up with his hands and taught him how to use a little pan with a flat edge to pick up the dirt instead.

He kept his pouch full of food, and snacked on it at night when he was hungry to keep the food from going bad so if he left in a hurry, he wouldn't get sick from eating it.

The church held services most days, and the boy hid in his room during them. There were too many people and his sides and arms ached, recalling how the stones had felt when they had hit him when the villagers chased him out. Rita showed him a hidden place high up in the big room of the church where he could watch the services without being seen by the congregation.

He liked that. Wedding services were very cheerful, despite how many people cried. He stopped watching funeral services after the first one, because he always thought of that odd little grave for Elena, and he worried that Ike had a grave back in Gallia that he had missed.

He thought about leaving often, he really wanted to see Ike again. But he'd mess up saying a word and then he'd decide to stay a little longer.

Why were some letters silent, like the S in islands? He needed to know that before he left.

Rita's warm smile and hugs and Emmanuel's kindness made him hurt a lot less at the the stern lady’s suggestion that he'd never be able to find Ike again.

---

"Father Emmanuel, why do you always look sad when you talk to me?" Soren asked one day when it was just the two of them. He was helping pull apart herbs for Emmanuel to cook a meal for the service that night.

"Sad, is it, my child?"

Soren nodded. "Your eyes get all distant and teary."

"Sharp as ever, my boy," Emmanuel laughed, but it was a sad laugh. "Well, you remind me a lot of my grandson, who was also named Soren."

"Your grandson?"

"Yes. My daughter died giving birth to him, and her husband abandoned the poor thing in his grief, so he was brought to me, where I was at the time."

"Here?"

"No, my child, no. I used to work at a different place, Palmeni Temple up in Daein. He was born about a year before that awful plague tore through the country and killed so many people." Emmanuel sighed, setting his knife down for a moment. "The plague took my grandson away, too. But he was a bright child with dark hair like yours."

"I'm sorry," Soren said.

"It's all right, my child. Truly. I'm grateful for the chance to have met you."

Soren continued pulling apart the herbs. "Why did you come down here? It's really far from Daein."

"There, well, there was a lot going on. My old bishop died, and I didn't get along with the new head of the church and it just seemed better if I found another place to do the goddess’s work. Eventually, I came here."

"You talk about your old bishop a lot."

"Is that right?"

"You looked up to them?"

"Yes. She was an amazingly kind woman, but unerringly straightforward and honest as well. She could see through people almost as well as you do." Emmanuel sighed. "Shame she died so young, she had such a bright future ahead of her. But the plague was like that."

Soren nodded quietly, continuing to work on his task. "Is kindness better than honesty?"

Emmanuel laughed. "What a question.” He pondered for a moment. “I wouldn’t say so, no. The truth is always best, my child. I'd do you no favors if I told you that you'll find that friend of yours easily without issue, but I do think that if you apply yourself fastidiously enough, you can find your way to them." He sighed. "Although the way Sister Irma puts it is a little abrasive."

He didn't respond. He didn't know how. The stern lady wasn't wrong, it was probably almost impossible for him to find Ike ever again. Crimea was very large and it had taken him months to get out of Gallia.

But he always felt like running away to immediately start looking for Ike if she said that, and when he slept, he had bad dreams about Ike being dead.

But it was the truth.

He hoped Emmanuel was right, that if he worked hard enough, he could find Ike again.

---

The boy spent all of summer at the church, learning how to talk and how different people worked together when they weren’t angry about him being there. He learned a lot about the goddess, listening to the services that Emmanuel gave, the support Rita offered to parishioners who visited during odd hours, or the lectures that the stern lady gave. The goddess seemed to be a completely different person depending on who was talking about her.

So he read the books about the goddess’s teachings. None of them seemed to be right. He didn’t know what to make of the goddess. So many of the teachings were contradictory.

Laguz and beorc were supposed to live side by side in peace and harmony.

Laguz and beorc could never have relationships.

Which one was it?

The boy didn’t like rules that were inconsistent. They didn’t make sense. That she could hate him for having a Spirit’s Charm without ever wanting it or deciding to have it. He didn’t like that either.

Her teachings seemed to bring hurting people comfort. But they didn’t make the world make more sense to him.

“Should I like the goddess?” The boy asked Emmanuel one day. “Do I have to worship her?”

Emmanuel sighed and patted Soren on the shoulder. “Soren, you can make up your own mind about your path in life, including worshiping the goddess or not. I wouldn’t tell you to worship her if you do not feel comfortable doing so, that will not endear her to you.”

Soren nodded.

~Early Fall, Begnion Era 634~

The leaves on the trees started to change colors. This was autumn, nothing like that had ever happened in Gallia. It was interesting, fascinating, when he had lessons outside, he’d stare at the leaves while listening to Rita.

Why did it happen? How did it happen? They said there was magic in nature. Was this what they meant by that?

But one day when Rita came in for lessons, she had a very somber look on her face. Her cheeks were puffy and wet with tears as she looked down at the ground, dispirited.

“Did something happen?” Soren asked.

“I’m sorry, Soren, but Father Emmanuel- he died last night. He’s- Sister Irma and I will be preparing for his services today and- I can’t help you with lessons for a little while.”

Soren’s eyes widened and his hand tightened into a fist on top of the bedsheets, the book he had been holding in his lap falling to the floor. He grimaced and nodded, curling up over himself. A moment later, there was a shift in the weight of the mattress and Rita put a hand on his back.

“I’m sorry,” Rita whispered, her voice breaking as she pulled him into a hug. “His loss hurts us all.”

Soren nodded, feeling empty.

---

He felt emptier and his chest hurt more than when the sage had died. He didn’t understand why. He stayed inside, in the room, staring at the wall for most of the day, only leaving when he had to, but when there was a service for Emmanuel, and there were a few, he hid up in the chapel and watched from his hiding place.

A week after Emmanuel had been buried, the stern lady walked into the room in the morning, throwing the door open with a bang. The boy jumped and he looked up at her.

“Sister Irma?” He asked, wishing he could run through the wall to get away from the look in her face.

“I have been appointed as the leader of the church,” she said firmly. “The deacon saw fit to send Sister Rita to another church in the area to help with her spiritual growth, she left after morning prayers.”

The boy’s eyes widened and his face fell. Rita had just left? "But she didn’t say goodbye."

The stern lady harrumphed. "Well, why would she? You were such a parasite of her time."

The boy swallowed. But Rita had always been so nice.

"She only spent so much time on you because Father Emmanuel told her to, but she told me in private how much she hated dealing with such filth. She said you were a distraction from her duties, nothing more."

The boy was silent now, feeling like his insides had been torn out from his body.

"And honestly, I'm glad for her, that she's been able to separate herself from you. Truly, only a man from a country like Daein could even put up with such filth."

"Why Daein?" The boy asked, in a shaking voice.

"Because Daien is full of heathens that reject the voice of the goddess herself. They have such a backwards way of viewing the goddess’s rules, I'm sure his treatment of you won't allow him a peaceful rest. Don't expect me to lose my way caring for you."

With that she walked out.

Every day after that, the stern lady would yell at him every morning or night, chastising him for darkening the church's doorstep for longer than necessary.

The boy looked around the church, but Rita wasn't there. Maybe she had really left without a word because she didn't like him.

But she had seemed so honest.

The only good person was Ike. Ike would have come back, if the village hadn't been destroyed.

It took him a little while to realize that the stern lady wanted him to leave without a word as well.

It was what the lady had wanted too.

It took him even longer to realize that he could. But there was nothing stopping him from leaving.

The boy picked up his primer, put on his pouch filled with stale food and cleaned up the sheets and the room before he left around mid afternoon.

After he left the church, he went to the graveyard and found the new grave where Emmanuel had been buried. There hadn’t been a lot of wild flowers growing in the fields around the church, but he had found one kind. It was purple and had numerous thin and pointed petals. He had gathered up a few and tied the stems together with a long blade of grass.

“Thank you,” he whispered, bending and placing the flowers by the gravestone. “Thank you for everything.”

Chapter Text

~Fall, Begnion Era 634~

Soren searched through the southern towns and villages of Crimea for several months. There was snow, eventually, and he had to find a way to stay warm, as the sandals he wore allowed his feet to get extremely cold really fast in the snow, so cold that they hurt.

There wasn’t much food to forage either.

He found a job at a tavern in a larger town, earning a small closet to sleep in and food to eat by helping patrons with their mail, reading and writing for them. At night, he helped bring food and drinks to tables, clear plates or mugs, collecting payments.

He listened to the patrons of the tavern, maybe they knew something about Ike. A boy with bright blue hair and blue eyes. He never had much luck asking people before, they sneered at him or shouted at him or made him leave. The owner of the tavern made him wear a headband that covered the mark on his head.

The man had told him to wear it proudly as a mark that showed his mastery of magic, but he needed to stay out of the cold, so he wore the headband.

It was easier for him that way, being in the tavern and working with the people, with the headband.

Sometimes the drunk patrons grabbed at him and saying things about why such a small child was working at the tavern, but he was small and evaded notice easily, even while he did his work so he could keep his room and his food. After the first time, which involved the owner yelling at the patron grabbing his shoulder, the boy was more alert to people trying to grab him, and more evasive of their attempts, so they never could again.

~Spring, Begnion Era 635~

When the snows started melting, the boy moved on. He felt pulled to the west, so he walked that way, until he came to the coasts of Crimea. Recalling his time at the beaches of Gallia, he went back east, and north.

Ike was still north.

Some towns chased him out.

Sometimes he came across thieves and bandits on the road and it was hard for him to run and hide from them, but he recalled good spots he had passed by very quickly, and he managed.

Some places, there were people who remembered seeing a boy with blue hair passing through, but didn’t know where he was going.

He passed through a town called Ohma and reached the northern coast of Crimea just as it started to snow.

He got another headband and found work in another tavern in another town near the border of Daein. It was almost exactly like the other one, and he quickly fell into a routine as he had before.

He was getting bigger, and had a harder time hiding when he wanted to, but he still managed things well enough.

~Late Spring, Begnion Era 636~

It was much later in the year when he was able to leave the tavern again, but he had also been paid well.

So well that when he passed by a merchant in a small town and he spotted a magic tome on display, he paused.

"Hey, there!" The shop owner called out, a well dressed woman with bright red hair tied back into a high ponytail. She smiled as she walked up to him.

The boy shrank back from her.

"What's a kid like you doing out here all by your lonesome?" She asked.

"I'm looking for my friend," Soren said quietly.

"Oh, okay. Well, I noticed you looking at my wares, anything catch your eye? Want to get a gift for them?"

"A gift?"

"Well, sure. It's nice to bring your friends gifts."

Soren bit his lip. "What’s a good gift?"

"Well, what's your friend like?"

"He's nice. And kind. He helps people." The boy closed his eyes, trying to consider Ike. He knew so little of him. He looked at the ground, frowning.

"And how old is he?"

"Ten?" They were about the same age, weren't they?

"And what sorts of things does he like?"

"He liked to play around like a swordsman."

The shopkeeper smiled. "I think I know just what your friend will like," she said as she rifled through a couple of bags and then came back holding a polished wooden sword, small enough for a child to hold. "This is meant to look like the holy swords that Empress Altina wielded to defeat the dark god," the shopkeeper explained, holding it out for Soren to see.

"How much is it?" Soren asked. He had about a thousand gold on him, from all the work he had done during the past two winters.

He needed to make sure he had gold for food.

"Well, it's usually 80 gold, but I can sell it to you for about 60."

Soren blinked. "Why?"

She bent down in front of him and rolled up the side of her sleeve, she had a Spirit’s Charm too, on the side of her left forearm. Looking at it made his forehead itchy, so he looked away. She quickly lowered her sleeve. "Friends are important for people like us." She said with a wink.

The boy didn’t really know how to respond. But he nodded. "I'll take it."

"That's great!" She said.

"And how much for the wind tome?" He asked. He could use a way to protect himself while he was traveling. The spells he could do with the primer weren't very strong, but they usually worked to intimidate someone if he wasn't able to outrun them and give him an opportunity to escape.

"Huh? Oh, that's about four hundred gold. I can't really discount it."

Soren nodded, pulling out his coin pouch. "Both, please," he said.

After the gold was counted, he thanked the shopkeeper for her help and walked away, holding the tome to his chest, with the primer and the sword on top between the tome and his body.

He had three things now, and he smiled. He hoped Ike would like the sword.

~Early Fall, Begnion Era 636~

Soren explored the western edges of Crimea, heading south. It just felt like Ike was south of where he had been, but the southwestern edge of Crimea was wrong.

Some days, he had trouble getting the things the stern lady would say out of his head.

Crimea had thousands of people living in it. How could he find one child when he had no idea where to look?

Was he even sure Ike had survived? Gallia had reported that there had been no survivors of a tragic massacre in the beorc populated village. King Ramon had been forced to end the officer exchange program over the outrage over the deaths of so many Crimean born beorc.

It would have helped Gallia tremendously to report survivors, any survivors. So why wouldn't they have?

But he felt it, always, a soft whisper in his mind, like the way the wind spirits sounded when a breeze blew across the plains. Ike was alive. Ike was somewhere to the east.

He clung to that feeling more than anything else.

But there was something else in the wind today, the sound of drunken revelry, loud voices, heavy footsteps, clanking armor and leather straps. A group of traveling warriors, mercenaries or rogues, it didn’t matter. They were usually hard to deal with.

And if they were knights who somehow got it into their head he was some criminal or runaway-

He wandered off the side of the road, further and further he went until he was sure that they would never notice him amongst the tall grasses. People never seemed as observant as he was.

Their noise faded, so he thought about going back onto the road, as it would be easier for him to walk without having to wade through the thick amber grasses.

He could smell the dirt road ahead, and turned towards it.

When he went over a hill, his footsteps faltered and his eyes widened as he saw a group of six or seven armored and armed men resting on the sides of a bridge.

The river was several dozen feet below the bridge, wide and fast. He grimaced, recalling the river he had fallen into in Gallia. He needed to use the bridge.

He held his books and the toy sword closer to his chest and he continued walking, goosebumps forming on his skin as he felt all of them staring at him, watching him.

When he got close enough to the bridge, one of them called out.

"Hey, you there," the warrior called out, hefting an axe over his shoulder.

The boy stopped, and looked at the warrior. "Yes?"

"Bridge is closed, you need to go back home, squirt. Come back with your parents."

The boy frowned, hands tightening around the wind tome. "I need to go across the bridge. What is the fee?"

"Fee?"

"You're obviously charging people a fee to cross. What is it?"

They looked between each other for a moment. “What makes you think that?”

“Why else would you be here preventing anyone from crossing?”

“It’s unsafe to use the bridge.”

The boy looked over the bridge, moving to either side a little to get a good look at it. “It’s structurally sound.”

One of the burlier ones, another axe wielder, scoffed. “And you think you’re some kind of engineer? You ain’t even big enough to-”

“The fee, may I pay it and cross or not?”

A swordsman snickered and stepped forward. “You’re a dogged one, aren’t you? The fee is 100 gold per person. We don’t discount for children.”

The boy huffed. He had spent a lot of his gold, even being as careful as he could. He only had about a hundred and forty gold left. But it was time for the harvest, and food that could be foraged was plentiful this time of year. What was more, he only had a little bit of Crimea left to search, the area between Melior and Port Toha, if the map stuck in his wind tome was accurate. He could finish that before the snows came.

He was so close to finding Ike.

“Fine.”

He pulled out his coin bag and deposited the gold into the hands of the swordsman.

“My, aren’t you well to do? A hundred gold all to yourself and an expensive tome like that?”

“Not really,” the boy said.

“Hey, boss, what if he reports us?” One of them, an archer, asked. “He’s clearly got money from someone important.”

The boy frowned. It would be worse for him if they knew he was on his own. “I don’t care what you do here, I merely wish to pass.”

The swordsman put the coins into a side pouch on his hip and looked at the boy. “The book too.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal. Besides, what would you do with it? None of you can use magic.”

“We can resell it for more money.”

The boy looked over at their formation. He was small and nimble. The archer was the only problem, but he could manage a solution.

“I’ll find somewhere else to cross. Give me back my money.” His money was lost, but he wanted to buy a few more moments as he figured out what to do.

“No. Now give us the book,” the swordsman reached down and put his hand on the top edge of the wind tome.

The boy stuck his hand into the tome and quickly spat out the incantation for a spell, sending the swordsman flying back. Once the tome was free, he ducked his head and turned, running towards the bridge.

They weren’t quite prepared for a child to fight them, so he managed to slip past most of them and set a foot on the bridge when the broad side of a large axe slammed into his body, sending him flying into the stone railing of the bridge. His head spun, but he quickly clambered to his feet and turned to face the brigands, hand still stuck into the pages of his tome, merging his essence with the essence that had been ensnared within the ink covering the pages while the wind billowed around him.

His heart was pounding so hard he swore he could feel the skin of his chest pulsing with it. He swallowed, a tingling fire spreading throughout his body. The long bloody cut on the side of the swordsman's face and upper body made the boy nauseous, but the fire rose higher within him at the sight of it.

He would not back down.

He had to make it to Ike.

Fortunately, the bridge was narrow enough that they couldn’t crowd around him, there was really only enough space for three of them to approach while having enough room to swing. They didn’t seem eager to charge at him recklessly.

Magic was dangerous. If someone like him, someone so closely aligned with the spirits, misspoke, the effects could be catastrophic. The primers contained little essence, though it was more flexible than normal tomes, so the dangers had been limited.

But it was why the man had been so strict with his incantations. He had to be careful.

But the commanding spells had been drilled into them. He could recite them in any condition.

So when the archer fired an arrow and it hit the boy in the shoulder, he was still able to counter with a spell, creating a wall of wind that pushed back the brigands that tried to approach him. It only bought him a few feet, but that was enough for him to turn and run.

As he heard their footsteps gaining on him, he jumped up to the railing to avoid their attacks, and then back down to the surface of the bridge again.

The other side of the bridge had flat plains as far as the eye could see. He’d never escape them that way.

But the bank leading down to the river, though steep, wasn’t a sheer drop. Rolling down that might buy him enough space to figure out his next move.

He should have thought it through more. Losing them in the forest on the other side would have been easier.

Near the end of the bridge, he spun around, casting another spell to ward them off, tripping and falling to the ground as he did so, feeling a distinct pop in his left ankle. But the spell worked well enough.

He sprung to his feet, despite how much it hurt to stand, and climbed up to the railing and jumped off onto the riverbank.

But with his weak ankle, he wasn’t able to land like he wanted, instead tumbling and falling down, striking a sharp rock with his left side and arm as he did so. He laid on his back for a moment, stunned and reeling, clothes becoming damp as the gravelly sand of the riverbank bit into his exposed skin. He saw the archer peer over the side of the bridge. His tome was still held tightly to his body and he cast another spell, this one sending the archer flying back over the bridge, and the archer fell to the bottom of the riverbank moments later, landing amongst rocks and gravel with a sickening crunch. There was shouting above him and the boy pulled himself up, trying not to look at the archer’s body.

He still had his things. Tome. Primer. Sword for Ike.

As the other brigands started to slide down the river bank, the boy rolled weakly into the river and was quickly carried away by the current. There was no other way to escape them. He swallowed, struggling to hold onto his things while keeping his head above water, as he watched them shrink in the distance while the river carried him away.

The fiery feeling in his veins slowly faded, and he was wracked with pain from where he had been hurt.

It was worse than anything the lady had ever done to him.

Eventually, the river slowed and he was able to push himself to a soft river bank and he passed out after crawling a few feet away from the river, coughing up water.

When he awoke, the sun was beating down on him. He pushed himself to sit up, grabbing at a broken arrow shaft and pulling it out with a sharp cry.

He woke up again in the middle of the night, smelling blood. His mouth was so dry and he barely had the energy to sit up. He pulled out his waterskin and drank from it, more of the water pouring down the sides of his face than he was able to weakly swallow.

He woke again in the early morning, to the sound of birds chirping in nearby trees. His waterskin was draped over his face, empty. But he was still so thirsty. He slowly rolled himself to the river, hissing as he rested his weight on his left side, lapping at the water and pushed away as he felt himself drifting off again.

It continued like this for a while, he only became lucidly conscious again when a chill wind blew through him during the night. He struggled to sit, his head swimming, and he looked at his pouch of dried foods, they were wet, soggy, and covered in blooming mold. He emptied the food on the ground by him and swished the pouch in the water of the river, using the edges of his cloak to dry the leather.

He lay back and grasped his waterskin with the tips of his fingers, slowly dragging himself to sit up, wincing as his side burned, and filled the waterskin. He drained the contents before filling it again and dried the outside on his cloak before putting his food pouch and waterskin back onto his belt.

He looked around at the area, lit serenely in the light of the full moon, and saw farm fields of golden wheat in the distance.

He examined his body. His shoulder hurt so much if he moved it, and his side had a thick red scar peeking out through a cut in his clothes, which were spotted with blood. His ankle was swollen, straining against the straps of his sandals.

He spotted his other things nearby. He gathered them up and slowly stood, hobbling over to a nearby dirt path, slowly making his way to the town.

No one in this town really wanted to speak to him, every time he tried, they yelled at him to leave before they went to go get the priest, who chased him out, calling him a devil. He didn’t think he could really walk to another settlement, as in pain as he was, so he hid in the forest nearby, which was thick with ripe fruits and safe mushrooms.

He worked through those, eating whatever he could reach easily at first, slowly able to stand and climb after weeks of waiting. Then he started to dry them out using fallen branches and leaves and flowers to make what he needed to allow the foods to dry without the bugs getting to them. They had enough food on the ground already.

At night, he slept terribly, hearing the roaring thing, finding Ike dead in the Gallian village, the man hanging off the side of the bed with blood pooling around his head, the archer’s mangled body amongst the rocks. Sometimes he saw himself dead, lying in a Gallian village until he rotted away to bones, the laguz ignoring him the whole time.

When winter came, he found his way into a nearby barn and climbed up to where the hay was kept in the loft, hiding in dark corners whenever he heard footsteps approaching. When he was beginning to run out of dried foods, he made his way out of the barn during the night and walked along the icy and muddy roads to another town, the bitter winter winds cutting through his clothes.

He found a town with a tavern he could work in with a headband for a while, and resumed his search for Ike a month after spring started, when it no longer hurt for him to move and he felt like he could walk again easily. He got himself a holster for his tome, and a pack to keep the sword in, so he would have an easier time running if he ran into trouble again. He hadn’t been able to work as much as he had in other winters, so he had a lot less gold when he left. But he was much closer to Ike, he felt. So he could manage.

---

~Early Summer, Begnion Era, 637~

The boy was at a port town along the north western coast of Crimea, buying dried foods from a man who was looking at him suspiciously.

“Oh, did you hear?” A woman standing amongst a group of others at a nearby butcher said, “The Greil Mercenaries took care of those bandits that were plaguing Wickhill. For free .”

The boy stood still, barely breathing, his eyes wide. Recalling the man he had found in the Gallian village.

Greil…why…?

“Oh yes,” Another woman said. “I hear they’re hired by the royal courts too. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of money for charity work.”

“Yes, and have you heard? Their commander, Greil, is said to be such a handsome and chivalrous man.”

“They say that he has two children, but no wife. I wonder what happened?”

“Oh, what if his wife was killed by some bandits and that’s why he’s always helping stop them for free?”

“You read too many stories, Typhane,” another woman chided with a laugh.

The boy swallowed, quickly finishing his transaction, stuffed the food into his pouch quickly, and ran over to the women.

“Excuse me,” Soren called out, his heart pounding.

“Yes?” one of the woman asked and then gasped as she turned to look at him.

“I’m looking for a mercenary to offer my skills in magic to,” he said, raising up his primer for emphasis, “and you were talking about the Greil Mercenaries?”

The woman who had read too many stories nodded. “Oh, you’re a little mage, huh? Yeah, the Greil Mercenaries are one of a kind.”

“Do you know where I could find them?”

“What about your parents? Are they okay with it?” One of the other woman asked.

“I don’t have any,” he said, “So their opinion hardly matters.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” the storied lady cooed. “They live in the old fort up by Nargany. Do you know where that is?”

Soren considered for a moment, recalling his map of Crimea. “That’s to the east?”

“Yes,” she said, “You just follow that road,” she turned and pointed towards a road that led out of town, “And you’ll get to Nargany in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Thank you,” Soren said, nodding his head at her and then quickly turned to leave the town.

Chapter Text

~Late Summer, Begnion Era 637~

Soren walked along a winding dirt road, the fields around him swayed in the breeze, long grasses glimmering in the sunlight. His long black hair shimmered, smooth as silk and tied into two long tails at the nape of his neck. He had gotten new black robes to wear on his way to Nargany. Clutched to his side was his primer. His red eyes scanned the fields for unusual movement.

The dirt path led to a fortress atop a hill. The base of the Greil Mercenaries, if the woman in Nargany had provided him accurate directions.

He reached the top of the hill and stopped just outside of the gates to the fort. A tall man with a long red ponytail was leaning against the wall.

“What'cha doing all the way out here by yourself, kid?”

“I'm looking for someone.”

“Commander Greil?”

“No, a boy around my age. Ike?”

“Ike? What do you want with him?”

“I want to see him.”

“What for, kid?”

“I've been looking for him.”

“Why?”

“I,” Soren fell silent for a moment. Why had he been looking for Ike for so long? “I want to thank him.”

He wanted to see that bright smile again. Shake Ike’s hand, now that he knew that was what Ike had been trying to do. Tell him that they could be friends. That they were friends.

Everything would be okay, if he could just see that smile again. Repay that kindness. That hope.

“Hmph. All right.” The man turned around. “Hey! Gatrie!”

“Yeah, Shinon?” A deep voice called out from inside the fort.

“Go get the commander's kid. Some brat wants to see him.”

“You sure that's a good idea?”

“Ain't nobody around here but this whelp. I can handle him if he means trouble.”

“Okay. Give me a minute.”

Several minutes passed. The boy studied Shinon, he was thin, but not frail. His movements were deft and certain, and his confident stance was more imposing than the brigands he had encountered. Almost as much as the knights Soren had occasionally run across. A quiver was strapped to his back, and a bow leaned against the wall nearby. This man was undoubtedly a skilled archer. The boy had no doubt that he stood no chance against Shinon. But he also had no intention of fighting here. Shinon seemed to be studying him as well, which was to be expected. He may have been young, but he was a stranger, and people were always wary of Soren.

A tall broad shouldered man wearing blue plate armor with short brown hair walked up, behind him was a young boy with blue hair. The boy's large blue eyes looked over to Shinon.

“Hey,” the other boy said, looking at Shinon.

“Don't look at me, twerp. You know this brat?” Shinon nodded his head swiftly at Soren.

“Um,” the boy looked over at Soren with a steady, curious, gaze. “Hi.”

This was the same Ike, there was no doubt in his mind. “Hello, Ike.”

“Do I know you?”

Soren froze. His heart pounded. Had he made a mistake? No. This was the same Ike. The same hair. The same eyes. The same awkward hand at the back of his head. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had changed so much, no longer skin and bones, washed, well-kept clothes. If Ike couldn't recognize him, he couldn't be surprised.

So why did he hurt as much as he had when he had escaped from those brigands at the bridge? His chest aching worse than his shoulder had from the arrow.

“Yes. You helped me a long time ago.”

“I did?” Ike smiled.

“Yes. You might not have thought much of it, but you changed a lot for me. I never got the chance to thank you properly.”

“Oh, well, that's okay. I'm glad it helped!”

His eyebrows furrowed. Ike was far too trusting. Ike didn't remember the incident at all, and yet Ike believed every word he said.

“What's your name, brat?” Shinon asked. Shinon had the proper amount of mistrust and caution.

“Soren.”

“You said all you meant to say?”

“I-” This couldn’t be it. “No.” This was the same Ike. The only person who had ever shown him any kindness. The same person who had saved his life. Mere words could never do enough to repay the debt he owed Ike. “I would like to speak to the commander here about working as part of his mercenary group.” 

“Commander's out right now. He'll be back tomorrow.”

“I can wait.”

Shinon stood up and walked closer to Soren. “Look kid, you need to get lost. We’ve got no use for weaklings here.”

Soren pulled out his wind tome from under his cloak and showed it to Shinon. “I'm a mage.”

“Come on, Shinon,” Ike said. “Let him stay and talk to Father.”

Shinon scoffed. “Fine. But if you are a mage, we'll hold onto your weapon until you speak with the commander.”

Soren looked at the tome he held. He had only wanted it to find Ike. He nodded. “Fine.”

Shinon snatched it out of Soren’s hands and tossed the tome to Gatrie. Gatrie fumbled on catching it, a page tore and it landed open on the dirt. Soren stiffened. Such mistreatment of a tome would have landed him a broken arm as a child.

Gatrie bent over to pick the tome up, but Ike grabbed it.

“You could treat it better,” Ike said. “It's obviously valuable.”

“400 gold,” Soren said.

“Right.” Gatrie plucked the tome from Ike’s grasp. “I'll be more careful with it.”

“What about that?” Shinon pointed to the book clutched in Soren’s right hand.

Soren held it tighter to his body. “It's nothing, just a primer. It has no ability to cause damage.”

“Then you won't mind if we hold onto it for you,” Shinon said.

“I would. It's very rare.”

“Something that ratty and useless?” Shinon asked.

“It's not the same thing as a wooden training sword.”

“Give it here, you brat.” Shinon reached out to grab the primer. Soren ducked under Shinon’s outreached hand and darted to Gatrie.

“Just don't drop it.” He held the primer up and closed his eyes.

“Uh...yeah. All right.” Gatrie took the primer and put it on top of the tome.

“I don't have anything else.” Soren said as he lifted up his cloak with both of his hands.

“Gatrie, put the brat in the shed so he can't cause any trouble and lock the books in the armory.” Shinon turned his back to them and returned to leaning against the wall by his bow.

“I'm sorry about Shinon,” Ike said as they followed Gatrie into the fort.

“He's just doing his job,” Soren said. He couldn't expect better treatment. Even children could be dangerous.

They walked to a building towards the right of the entrance. Gatrie opened the door, it was a stable. At the end was another door. Gatrie led Soren to the end, behind the door was a small room, there were brooms, shovels, bales of hay, and various other supplies.

“You'll need to stay in here until the commander gets back,” Gatrie said.

These were certainly far from the worst accommodations he had ever had in his life.

“Come on, Gatrie. He can stay in a regular room, can't he?” Ike asked.

“Shinon is in charge until Commander Griel and Titania come back.”

“It's fine,” Soren said and walked inside.

“Sorry, kid.” Gatrie closed the door. Soren heard a bar lower in front of the door and locked him inside.

Soren sat down on a bale of hay and laid down. He looked out at the sky through the high barred window. The clouds ambled through the sky. He closed his eyes.

The sky kept changing colors each time his eyes fluttered open. Orange and red with sanguine clouds. Purple with stars and inky black clouds. Pink and yellow with light orange clouds. Blue with fluffy white clouds. He had no need to expend energy. He closed his eyes again.

Ike was here.

Ike didn't remember.

Did it matter?

It shouldn't.

But it hurt.

That moment had been everything to Soren, but nothing to Ike.

A quiet knock broke his reverie.

“Yes?” Soren called out. He sat up.

“Hey,” Ike’s voice responded from the other side. “How are you?”

“There's nothing ailing me.”

Ike was silent for a moment. “Are you hungry?”

“I ate a few days ago.”

There was no response.

“Ike?”

He heard the sound of something dragging across the floor and being pressed against the door. Soren raised an eyebrow. A few moments later, there was the clanging sound of wood being dropped against wood.

Ike's face appeared in the barred opening of the door. He wavered and grabbed the bars. He grinned, large and wide with eyes closed. “Hey. So,” Ike paused, wobbling a little, “is that a,” he paused, looking down at Soren with concerned eyes. “I mean, are you hungry?”

Soren’s mouth flickered into a smile for a moment. He was starving. He opened his mouth, “Well,” he recalled being slapped for asking for food. He grimaced and shook his head. “Not particularly.”

“But you said you haven't eaten for days.”

“I'm all right.”

“Huh,” Ike leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back down towards Soren. “Would you eat food if we gave it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. So, I've been thinking and I really don't remember you.”

“It was several years ago. I can't blame you for not remembering. I also look quite different.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I,” Soren paused, struggling to find words his throat would allow him to say, “had no home nor money. I was quite dirty and my clothes were torn and ragged back then.”

Ike's eyes widened and then his face softened, eyebrows furrowed, a pout. Soren’s mouth was agape, he had never seen a look like that before.

“Oh. But you have a home now?” Ike asked.

“No. I stayed with some priests who were kind enough to give me new clothes for a little while, but I've been wandering on my own for a few years.”

“Oh.” Ike pouted. He looked to the side and then back at Soren. “So what did I do for you?”

“You said you wanted to be my friend.”

“Oh! Okay. So we're friends. That's great!”

There were loud voices outside. Ike looked behind him. “I think my dad's back! I'll see you in a bit.”

Soren sat back down on the bale. There was commotion outside. Voices. Discussing a fight with a group of bandits. The whinnying of horses. Whatever Ike had moved by the door was dragged away. Then silence. After a few minutes, Soren lay down and stared out of the window. Clouds passed by lackadaisically.

There was a banging on the door. Soren jumped from the bale to his feet, stiff and pale.

“Yes?” He called out.

The door opened. A woman in light, white armor stood in the doorway. She had long red hair held back in a braid, and light green eyes.

“You're Soren?” She asked.

He nodded.

“Come with me.” She waved him closer to her.

He took a breath and walked towards her, out of the room. She let the door close behind her. It slammed shut and he jumped. She led Soren towards a building at the back of the fortress. He followed silently, trying to understand the expression on her face. There was a deep frown. She was upset about something. Was it his presence bothering her, or had something happened?

She led him into a room with long wooden tables and benches arranged as seats by the tables.

“Have a seat,” she said. He sat down on the closest bench and looked up at her. “Wait here.”

He turned and rested his forearms on the table. Had the commander returned? Was Greil coming? Would Greil entertain his request? What would he do if Greil turned him away? He set his mouth into a firm thin line. He would not be turned away. There were no mages in this group, and his skills were highly prized in armies since they were so unique. Anyone could pick up a sword. Few could practice magic. If Greil attempted to reject him, he would find a way to convince Greil of his strategic worth.

The door opened and the woman walked back in. She carried a tray with a large cup and a plate of food. She set the tray down in front of him. He looked up at her, his brow furrowed.

“I understand you have had nothing to eat nor drink since you arrived here. Do I have the right of it?”

“I,” he swallowed, thinking of the lady. “Yes. That's correct.”

“Please eat. The commander and I will be in to speak with you in a little while.”

He looked down at the tray. Clean water in the cup. A large roll and assorted raw vegetables were on the plate.

“This is for me?”

Her cheeks flushed and put her left hand over her right forearm. “Yes. I know it's not much, b-”

“But there's enough for two or three meals here.” Soren pointed out, looking back at the food and back at her.

Her eyes widened. There was a softer emotion on her face. Something he had never seen before, except with Emmanuel, but she seemed sad. “Eat what you can then.” She walked out.

The water was cool and clean. Obviously sourced from a well. He hadn't had access to such clean water in a while. He took cautious sips between bites of the bread and vegetables. He wanted to drink all of it, but he didn't want to run out before he could finish eating. The vegetables were earthy, but fresh. The bread was a little hard, but light and chewy.

“Hey,” he heard someone call out. He turned and saw Ike walk in, holding the primer. “Don't be mad at me for touching it, but I know this must be pretty important to you and I didn't want Shinon poking through it.” He put the primer on the table next to Soren.

“I-” How could he ever be mad at Ike? “Thank you,” he whispered before putting the primer on the seat next to him.

Ike smiled and sat at the table across from Soren.

Soren felt a strange warmth wash over him. He nodded and finished his water. Half the vegetables remained, and he had only eaten part of the roll.

“Not good, huh?”

“I'm used to foraging for food, a handful of berries or roots at a time. This is a lot more than I'm accustomed to eating.”

Ike frowned. “You'll get used to it.”

There was a knock on the door frame. Soren and Ike looked over, the woman was there as well as a tall, well built man. He had short brown hair, tan skin, and dark eyes. He wore dark brown clothes.

“Ike, can you go play with Mist?” This man said, with the tone adults used when they were politely telling a child what to do.

“Yes, Father!” Ike said and jumped off of the bench. He ran out of the door, darting between the two adults.

Soren pushed the tray to the side. He took a deep breath and looked up at Ike’s father. “Commander Greil, I presume?”

“I'm told you wanted to speak with me?” Greil said as he walked over and sat where Ike had been.

“Yes, and then you would be Titania?” He asked as he looked at the woman.

She nodded and picked up the tray. “Are you finished?”

He nodded. Titania looked at Greil, their look appeared to be one of disapproval. Greil nodded. She walked out with the tray. Was their decision made by how little he had eaten? Did they think he was too frail to become a member of their group?

He gulped and looked at Greil, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Any confidence he had worked up vanished instantly with the thought that he was powerless in this situation.

“Well, what did you want to talk to me about?” Greil asked, resting his folded hands on the tabletop.

He could turn this around in his favor. “I want to join your mercenary group.”

“How old are you?”

“11, maybe 12.”

“Maybe?”

“I was 4 in the year 630. I don't know which day of the year I was born, so it's hard to say with precision.”

“In either case, you're still a child.”

“I'm a mage. I've heard a lot about your group, you lack a mage. Our ability to strike from afar is very useful in combat, sometimes more useful than what an archer can offer.”

“So you claim.”

“If you require a demonstration of my abilities, I would only need the tome that your guard Gatrie took.”

“I cannot have a child fighting my battles.”

“But-!”

“But,” Greil’s voice was commanding and stern, causing Soren to fall silent, “If I have the right of the situation, you do not have a home.”

Soren nodded.

“I also understand that Ike is a friend of yours?”

Soren nodded.

“And that you came all this way in search of him?”

Soren nodded.

“Where are you from?”

“I met Ike in the human-populated Gallian village off the coast of Gallia three years ago.”

A dark expression crossed Greil’s face. He looked down for a few moments and then back at Soren.

“You may stay here until you're older, and then we can discuss this again.”

Soren stood up, his heart racing. 

“Is that acceptable?”

“But I cannot offer to pay you for staying here! If I cannot work for you, what can I do?”

“You can help out around the fort where we need it.”

“All right. I'll do it.”

“Then we're agreed.” Greil stood up. Soren walked away from the table. Greil walked over and placed a hand on Soren's head. “It will be good for Ike to have another boy his age around.”

“I,” Soren bit his lip. “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank Ike. He wouldn't stop arguing until I agreed to let you stay here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Greil cleared his throat. “I believe Ike wants to show you around, Soren. Are you okay with that?”

Soren nodded, clutching his primer to his chest.

“Good, I’ll go let him know.” Greil walked out of the room and a few minutes later, Ike ran into the room, a young girl with the same brown hair as Greil, but bright light blue eyes, following him.

Ike grinned at Soren. “So you’re gonna live with us now!”

Soren nodded.

“Cool! Titania said your room would be ready in a little bit, but come on, I’ll show you around!”

“Okay,” Soren said slowly.

“Oh!” Ike proclaimed as he turned around and nearly ran into the girl, who had walked up behind him. “This is my sister Mist.”

“Hi,” Mist said.

“My name is Soren.”

Mist nodded. “Hi, Soren.”

“Come on!” Ike exclaimed, waving at Soren, and quickly ran out of the room. Soren followed Ike and Mist followed behind them.

Ike showed Soren the kitchens and the pantry, but they had to ask for food if they were hungry, and the library, which had only a few books, and his dad’s office, and the training grounds, and the stables, which Soren already knew how to find, and the upstairs, where all the bedrooms were.

“And this is gonna be your room,” Ike exclaimed, stopping short by an open door.

Titania was in the room, laying some sheets down over the mattress. There was a little wooden table with his wind tome on it. “Hello, Soren,” Titania said with a soft smile. “Did you want to put your things down?”

Soren paused, and shrugged the pack off of his shoulders. He paused and blinked, pulling out the wooden sword he had gotten and set the empty bag down just inside the room. He turned to look at Ike, biting his lip.

“I- um- the merchant said I should give you a gift when I found you.”

Ike’s eyes widened and he took the toy sword.

“She said it was supposed to look like a holy sword of a legendary hero.”

“What do you say, Ike?” Titania prompted, now standing closer to them.

“Oh! Um! Thank you, Soren! It’s great!”

“I’m sorry it’s a little dirty from my travels,” Soren said, looking at the scratches and water damage to the polish.

“We can clean it up,” Titania said gently. “Would you like that, Ike?”

Ike looked down at the toy sword and then back up at Titania and shook his head. “I like it just like this! Now come on, Soren! You gotta see the flower field! It’s lots of fun to play in!” Ike reached out, grabbing Soren’s wrist, and dragged him along out of the fort.