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Soren knows that there is a breeze, but he can’t feel it.
He can see the leaves on the trees in the courtyard sway in the wind and the tips of Rosado’s hair tangle together as he walks away from the fountain. The sky is straining towards darkness and a few stars are already shining above the Somniel. It is a peaceful kind of night, despite the ever-looming threat of a world-ending Fell Dragon hovering just beyond the bounds of their haven. The illusion of such tranquility is easy to maintain when they are so far removed from the real world. Perhaps that is just how gods live; Soren has seen enough of the divine to know that they rarely have the best interests of mere mortals at heart. They are just as fallible—just as basely human—as anyone else, except for the unnatural power they wield.
Voices drift across the quiet grounds as Jean and Clanne hurry along the path that circles back into the main plaza of the Somniel. They are chattering amiably about the night’s menu and whose turn it is on cooking duty (it’s Alfred’s, for better or worse—in Soren’s experience, royalty rarely had competent cooking skills). They don’t notice him watching from the hallway suspended above the courtyard which is draped in climbing ivy and half-hidden by the sweeping branches of a large weeping willow. It’s for the best, he thinks; the children remind him too much of those he knew back home, and he isn’t entirely sure he can keep his concern for their wellbeing hidden.
It isn’t as though he is a stranger to children fighting in a war. In fact, the coldly tactical part of him knows that anyone who can be of use ought to fight; it shouldn’t matter to him that they are missing out on their childhood because anyone who can cast a spell or lift a healing staff should be put to use, even if it’s far from the frontlines. The battlefield is about life and death; wins and losses hinge on how well you use your resources.
Yet Soren knows what it is like to not have a childhood. He knows how difficult it is for children like them to keep up with adults more than twice their age and experience. Despite the many years that have passed, he can still recall how much time they spent coaxing just one more step out of Rolf and Mist as they fled Crimea and then Gallia. It wasn’t fair to them, and no one wanted to see them fight but they needed whatever help they could get, even if it came in the form of a small bow and patching up wounded soldiers after a fight. He is logical, but he isn’t cruel; it pains him that he must accompany Clanne into battle, and Soren tries hard to keep enemies at bay so that the danger is lessened (as much as it can be on a battlefield, at least). He would like to see them survive this war so that they can go back to having a childhood, if such a thing is even possible once one has seen the horrors of war firsthand.
He sighs, hands clasped together within his long sleeves. He feels useless, floating on a bridge in the Somniel. Once, he would sit for hours at his desk poring over maps and making notations for the next war council. He would review their ranks, drawing up possible tactical formations using whoever wasn’t confined to the medical tent and present them to Ike, Titania, and the others before their next battle. They would often spend hours debating the pros and cons of each option to find a comfortable balance of risk and reward. The Divine Dragon and his lieutenants don’t really do that; their councils are far more informal. They don’t spend much time quibbling over where to go next or how much gold they have to support their growing army. It’s a far cry from the sleepless nights Soren spent hunched over ledgers and inventory accounts or flirting with shopkeepers for the sole purpose of extracting a substantial discount on future purchases.
“Soren?”
At the sound of his name, Soren turns to see Ike coming up the steps to his right. If he was the affable sort, he might have found the sight of the Hero of Crimea purposefully walking through the air like he was still human rather funny. Instead, it only makes him sad to see Ike reduced to a floating spirit who can neither eat his fill nor enjoy the warmth of the sun on his skin. All the small joys he found in day-to-day life with the mercenaries have been taken from him as an Emblem. He exists mostly to augment the power of the people of Elyos, and to perhaps offer what advice he can to those who seek out his counsel. He is a seasoned general, after all, and the royal children do seem to take his experience seriously.
But life as an Emblem is not the same as life as a human.
“Ike,” Soren says, nodding his head in greeting. The two boys are already out of sight as Ike closes the distance between them and the night is quiet once more. If not for their insubstantial forms, they could be promenading together through one of Melior’s many gardens.
“I thought you might be here,” Ike says, smiling. His eyes are no longer the blue that Soren remembers. They always reminded him of the ocean, but now they are little more than cloudy imitations.
“There is too much noise in the plaza,” Soren replies. It occurs to him that he sounds like an old man; he was used to noise among the Greil Mercenaries, of course, but that noise was normal. It was comforting to hear familiar voices all around him as he worked back then. The voices that fill the Somniel are not the same. He feels a bit like an intruder in their lives even though no one has ever accused him of that. In fact, many of them—especially the children—seem downright fascinated by him.
When was the last time he fascinated anyone? He is so used to people looking past him or spitting at his feet that Soren can't remember anyone outside of Ike expressing an interest in him or his experiences. Perhaps it is because Elyos does not have any laguz, so they have no concept of a Branded. It should be comforting, but Soren’s heart feels oddly heavy in his chest. He isn’t sure if he deserves such unconditional acceptance in a world where people like him can’t exist, but he can’t deny that it is a refreshing change from the treatment of the ignorant masses of Tellius.
“Yeah,” Ike agrees, lacing his hands together behind his head. He stares off into the distance, toward the orchard behind the gazebo. “It’s kind of like being back at the fort, but not quite. Everyone seems so much more relaxed here.” He pauses. “It’s a little unnerving.”
“Our wars were very different,” Soren concedes, although he, too, feels unnerved by the levity that fills the Somniel every day. “Perhaps this is simply their way of coping.”
They stand—or rather, float—together in silence for a time, the breeze that they can’t feel rustling the through trees. He can hear a windchime ringing somewhere in the distance. Elyos seems like a pleasant place, aside from the issue of the Fell Dragon, but it feels restrictive. Perhaps that is in part because Soren is bound to his bracelet; there is only a limited distance he can travel away from whoever possesses it, so his presence anywhere is at the mercy of Clanne—at least for the time being.
“I missed you,” Ike says abruptly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet night.
The words are so simple, but they touch Soren’s heart in a way no one else could ever replicate.
“And I missed you,” Soren replies, smiling. He doesn’t smile much, but Ike has always been able to bring out the best in him. “I’m sorry we had to fight. I would never have challenged Alear if I had known you were with him.”
Ike reaches out a hand to ruffle Soren’s hair, but there’s no contact between them. He can’t feel the reassuring weight of Ike’s hand on his head. Disappointment flashes through Ike’s eyes and he lowers his hand once more.
“It was fun,” he says, and Soren knows he means it. “You’re a tough opponent to beat, Soren. I have missed sparring with you. You always give me a run for my money when we practice together.”
“I have to work hard to stay by your side,” Soren murmurs, face flushing at the praise.
“You say that, but I know that you have real talent,” Ike counters. He raises his hand like he wants to brush the hair away from Soren’s face but stops himself halfway through the motion. Such casual touches used to be commonplace between them, and Soren misses the ease with which they used to interact. “There is no one else who could ever replace you.”
It has been so very long since they were this close together, but Soren has never felt further apart from Ike as he does now. He wants to reach out to grasp Ike’s hand, but he forces himself to remain still. They’re Emblems—things work differently for them. They are little more than spirits whose power can be used by whoever holds their rings. They cannot touch anyone else or feel anything at all, and nor can they eat or smell the sweetness of the world around them. It is very limiting to only have two senses to rely on. Soren has always been capable of making the best of a bad situation, but it is so much more difficult to do that when the one thing he wants is entirely impossible.
“Thank you, Ike,” Soren says, shifting closer to him. He tries to weave their fingers together on instinct, but his hand goes through Ike’s as though he isn’t there at all. It feels like someone is squeezing the life out of his heart.
“Do you miss home?” Ike asks into the silence. He is staring at Soren with something close to anguish in his dim eyes.
Soren’s instinct is no, he doesn’t miss their home world. What is there to miss about a world where he was ostracized and hated simply for the circumstances of his birth? How can he possibly think fondly of a world where he was abused by adults who sought to use his talents for their own gain? He has dozens of bitter memories that surface in horrifyingly vivid detail. He doesn’t miss the judgmental stares or whispers as he passes by people in the street; that was part of the allure of simply leaving it all behind to accompany Ike beyond the borders of Tellius and into the lands beyond.
And that is the crux of it, isn’t it? Home was never simply a physical place to Soren—home is always where Ike is. He can withstand the uncomfortable feeling of being watched in the halls of Sienne and the deeply rooted prejudices of the laguz so long as he is with Ike. Such things are meaningless to him—the only person whose regard Soren has ever cared to earn is Ike’s.
“Yes,” Soren says truthfully. “I do, very much.”
“So do I.” Ike’s voice is somber. “Nonetheless, I am glad you are here with me now.”
“As am I.” He smiles again, wider this time and a little bashful. There is no one else nearby to see them, although Soren is long past the point of caring. There are no secrets in a war camp; he is more than used to fielding teasing jabs from the likes of Boyd or Ranulf or even Mist, and he doubts there is anyone amongst the Divine Dragon’s brood who would dare to speak out against an Emblem ally of their savior. Still, he is at his most comfortable when he and Ike are alone, without the prying eyes and ears of others to carry gossip far and wide.
It hurts that he cannot feel the moment that Ike embraces him, strong arms pulling Soren in close against his chest. He hates that he can’t inhale the comforting scent that is his husband or feel the warmth of his body amidst the breezy coolness of the night. No matter how tightly he tries to clutch at Ike’s tunic, his fingers can’t find purchase. If he closes his eyes, Soren can imagine the sensation of Ike’s arms around him so easily. It is all he can do to keep the angry, frustrated tears at bay.
Ike strokes his hair, but Soren can’t feel his fingers threading through the strands. He runs his fingers along Ike’s jaw, but Ike does not feel the gentle caress. Soren tips his head upwards and Ike carefully presses their lips together, but it’s not right. It feels like trying to kiss empty air, even though Soren is standing right there in the circle of Ike’s arms and running his hands over his muscled back. He wants to kiss Ike so desperately; he has dreamed of this for all the long years spent confined to his bracelet.
“Soren,” Ike whispers close to his ear. His voice sounds strained and there are tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, too. “What are we?”
“Even I don’t truly know that.” He wishes that he had a better answer. More than that, he longs for a physical body once more. “Spirits, I suppose. Pieces of our original selves that have been drawn to this world in its time of need.”
“Does that mean we’re…dead?”
“Perhaps. I don’t recall either of us dying, though.” Soren would remember that. He knows that he could never forget watching Ike die, whether on the battlefield or peacefully in old age. “My best guess is that our current selves were drawn here from some time shortly after we left Tellius.”
Ike considers his analysis with a slight frown.
“Don’t overthink it,” he advises, cupping both of Ike’s cheeks in his hands. There isn’t even the faintest sensation of stubble against his palms. It is like trying to hold on to a ghost. “We’re together. It is enough—more than enough—for me to simply be by your side once again.”
“As long as we have each other, nothing else matters,” Ike agrees. He tries to gather Soren’s hands in his own. It doesn’t work, but Soren pulls them back anyway and holds them up between Ike’s. It’s not the same, but it’s all they have. “Let’s never be separated again.”
Ike’s optimism is only one of the many things Soren loves about him. He reaches to brush away the singular tear that is coursing down Ike’s cheek. Neither of them cry often, but it’s been a long, lonely existence sealed within a bracelet. He thinks they are allowed this moment to indulge in the sorrow of loss even as they vow to face the future together, just as they always have.
When their lips meet once more, Soren cannot feel it, but it doesn’t matter.
The warmth in his chest is proof enough that their love is real.