shinon | Another Archrival, chapter 3 (Reply)

Title: Another Archrival, chapter 3
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance
Character/Pairing: Kieran/Mia...ish, Rhys, various guest appearances
Genre: Humor/friendship/romance/something. Mostly humor.
Word count: 4,064
Rating: PG
Warnings: :le shrug:
Notes: One of my reviewers asked for more Soren, so there's some more Soren here. Probably OOC.

An arrow whistled by her ear and clanked harmlessly off someone else’s armor. Lightning magic crackled on the air, striking the same place as often as it damn well pleased, thanks. Some ways off, a cat laguz yowled. Reyson chanted intently over Largo. Her most immediate opponent’s axe made a heavy whooshing sound as he swung it through the air, missing (of course) and leaving himself off-balance. She pressed the advantage, cutting him down. Above all the other sounds of battle, Mia could hear her sword sing.

Sadly, Kieran’s bellowed warning didn’t add a whole lot to the wartime harmony. “Duck!” She ducked. His hand axe flew by overhead. Craziness! If her reflexes hadn’t been so ridiculously good…

Kieran, naturally, didn’t notice. “Thus always to Daeins! Crimeaaaaa!” It seemed to Mia that this “knightly valor” business was based on riding a horse and therefore having enough breath to yell ridiculous things in battle.

A ballista bolt came screaming out of the sky, narrowly missing Marcia. “Oh, crackers!” the pegasus knight said feelingly, and Mia had to wonder if Begnion’s knights had the same idea of valor.

“Marcia! You shall not go unavenged!” Kieran yelled, heeling – um, Mercutio? – into a full-on gallop towards the offending archer.

“I’m not dead!” Marcia called after him. Mia could have told her that he wasn’t going to listen, or that you didn’t necessarily have to die to be avenged, but instead occupied herself with cutting a path through the tight Daein formation, which had closed after Kieran’s passage. Rhys had also said they should watch out for each other, and if that sounded a little odd, well, she’d believed odder. Besides, the man was a priest. Priests didn’t lie, and divine inspiration was supposed to sound strange.

She lunged backward to avoid the javelin cutting across her path and lost sight of Kieran. Well, he was probably still somewhere near the ballista, so she’d keep heading that way –

“Mia!” An arm came down out of nowhere, wrapped itself around her waist, and scooped her into the air. Before she quite figured out what was going on, she’d been hauled up onto one horse, passed off onto another, and dropped some ways away. Now she was definitely never going to find Kieran. Not that that was too disappointing. Mia fought on. Her sword work was dazzling and terrifying – but she’d expected that, because all her dreams the previous night had been full of nothing but good omens. Things were going really well, with fewer and fewer enemies rising to meet her blade, when again someone roared “Mia!” and hoisted her into the air.

She was actually almost ready this time and managed to seat herself behind the rider, though she got a faceful of red armor in the process. “Kieran! What are you doing?”

“Rescuing you,” he said. He didn’t say “you stupid ingrate,” but it sounded like he wanted to. “Just hold on – Hah! Daein scum! I am Crimean Royal Knight Fifth Platoon Captain Kieran! Behold me and tremble!” If Mia had been on the ground, she probably would have. He was laying about with a much bigger axe than she’d ever seen him use, and probably bigger than anyone really needed, with a total lack of concern for his horse or himself. Mercutio was not too happy about that, and probably only kept his riders on his back because they could do less damage there.

“Put me down!” she shouted into his ear. Instead he wheeled Mercutio around, nearly throwing her off in three different directions. She threw her arms around Kieran’s waist and clung on grimly, sometimes smashed against him by Mercutio’s uneven gait. She liked horses, really – it was riding them that started giving her trouble. “Put me down, you oaf!” she shouted again, but at exactly the same time he broke into another roar of “Crimea!” so she couldn’t even hear herself. She had to take matters into her own hands, she decided as she watched the ground lurching by beneath them. All right, Mia, on three. One... A small tornado ripped through the grass toward them. Five! She let go of Kieran and pushed off against Mercutio’s flanks, and almost got clear before a flying hoof hit her in the head.

The taking of Castle Delbray had been a truly magnificent military feat – no, that didn’t do it justice. It had been a strategic masterstroke on the part of General Ike, executed faithfully and brilliantly by Crimea’s finest, led by one Captain of the Fifth Platoon. Well, all right, there was one member of Crimea’s finest whom Kieran hadn’t led, but that would have been presumption. Besides, they hadn’t even made contact until the battle was almost over anyway.

“General! General Geoffrey!” Kieran crashed to his knees in a commotion of armor, slamming a fist into his breastplate. “Crimean Royal Knight Fifth Platoon Captain Kieran reporting for duty!” The battle had ended some time ago, but that was hardly at issue here. The most important thing was to establish that his fidelity, his readiness to serve, and his love of Mother Crimea had remained untarnished through all the perils he’d endured.

Geoffrey looked a little confused, no doubt awed by the captain’s continued survival and the remarkable panache and decorum with which said survival had been achieved. In the General’s position, Kieran decided generously, he’d be dazed, too.

“Well met, Kieran. You may rise.”

Kieran wasted no time in doing so. “When I learned that you had survived, such joy was mine, such terrific joy! And now I find it redoubled! General, it is an honor and a pleasure to…” He had to stop, temporarily overcome by all the honor and terrific joy and whatnot. “I named my horse after you, you know.”

There were many things more pleasant to wake up to than Soren’s scowling face – not that that was a personal judgment. To that end, Rhys had thanked the young sage and told him that he and Mist could take it from there, which might have been a slight exaggeration. By the time he reached the last cot, his vision had picked up this annoying tendency to lurch sideways whenever he focused on anything too intently. He sighed, waiting for it to center itself again, and took a deep breath. The taking of Castle Delbray had been difficult, but ultimately well worth it, if you were one of those who considered bloodshed a particularly effective vector for change. He was not, he told himself firmly; he’d merely come to recognize as time went on that some disputes took a stronger vocabulary to settle, and that in this case war could be seen as a particularly pungent word choice – or was that too clement a stance? Had his ideals been corrupted by these years of –

This isn’t the time, Rhys. These people need you, and you can worry about your moral deterioration later. This cot bore the last of the day’s wounded, after all. Just one more patient, and then he could rest a while.

He recognized that inert form immediately and clapped a palm to his forehead in exasperation. What was Mia doing here? Unconscious, no less. Maybe he’d been overconfident; maybe he’d had too much faith in his own plan. Maybe he’d trusted Kieran with too much... Although, for a wonder, the red-armored knight had emerged from the battle unscathed, albeit slightly hoarse.

Time enough for questions later. Unconsciousness was never a good sign; staff healing worked better on external injuries, and Mia didn’t seem to have any. Absolutely anything could be running amok in the swordmaster’s body. He really hoped there wasn’t much internal bleeding. That would be torture to patch up, on top of the rest of the day’s exertions. He knelt beside Mia’s cot and resolutely planted the Mend staff between them, gathering the shreds of his power.

Right before he closed his eyes, he saw the partial imprint of a hoof on her temple. That was rather telling. He sealed the wound before allowing his awareness to seep inward. Head injuries took precision to heal properly, a certain delicacy he was no longer convinced he could maintain. But he’d already committed his energies to it; the staff would work with or without his guidance at this point, and staves really had no notion of priorities. Rhys directed the flow of healing energies toward Mia’s brain, where he found she’d suffered a (mercifully mild, Ashera be praised) concussion. He repaired it as much as possible before the staff’s magic dissipated, at which point he promptly keeled over in what was either sleep or a coma.

The world came back to him in one big, colorless smudge, as though someone had smeared a wet painting of the room across his eyes. Some painting. The composition’s terrible, he thought wryly and with the barest hint of delirium. His neck was horribly stiff, too. It seemed he’d pitched forward so that his head lay on Mia’s cot in what could very easily be construed as an invasion of personal space.

He drew back hastily, settling on the vacant cot behind him and rubbing at his neck. He should be there when she woke; he couldn’t quite recall exactly how far the healing had gotten, but there was bound to be some residual damage. In the meantime, he surveyed what had once been – and now was again, he supposed – Castle Delbray’s infirmary. A quick glance around told him that most of his and Mist’s patients had already left. Princess Elincia’s retainers were no doubt throwing all kinds of festivities, and naturally most people would want to take part. Mist was still healing Boyd at the other end of the room, and Soren had slipped back in and sat reading in a dilapidated chair. Otherwise, and apart from him and Mia, the long hall was empty.

“You didn’t miss much,” Soren said abruptly, not looking up from his book.

Rhys started, then shifted his attention to the young sage, but Soren didn’t continue. “Um... how long have you been here?”

Soren made uncommunicative noises, still not looking up.

“What are you reading?”

“Don’t you have a patient?”

Rhys sighed. He hated to admit it, but Soren gave him headaches. Actually, that could be said of most of the people he knew. He always seemed to get stuck with the difficult ones... Mia and Kieran not least, however good their intentions. “Soren –”

“I didn’t come here to talk.” Soren stood, closed his book meaningfully, and let his dark red eyes rake the priest before making for the door.

“Did you happen to see what Kieran was doing during the battle?”

Soren stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Drawing unnecessary attention, jeopardizing the battle plan, and ‘rescuing’ Mia every thirty seconds. No doubt that’s when she sustained her injury.” Rhys tried to believe that there was no especial accusation in that – that Soren was only being Soren. It was a struggle he barely won, only to undermine it with the thought that, yes, this was his fault.

“What’s he up to now?”

Soren looked profoundly irritated. For all his antisocial attitudes, he was a keenly observant young man – and he liked to keep that knowledge to himself, thank you very much. Rhys tried to ask him as few questions as possible, on general principles as well as out of a sense of self-preservation. “Before I left, he’d attached himself to General Geoffrey. Given that he plainly worships the ground the General walks on, I would assume he’s still there.” He stared at Rhys seriously, as though ripping the answers to unspoken questions from the priest’s head. “If you feel compelled to seek him out, I’ll take over for you here.” He gestured at Mia with his book.

It was a tempting offer, but Rhys suspected he’d find some excuse to use the reprieve for rest and not for finding Kieran –which was as good as lying. Certainly there were ulterior motives behind Soren’s offer – the pursuit of silence, for one – but he rather skillfully pretended he hadn’t detected them. “Thank you, Soren, but I’ll stay.” The sage’s response was a vowel-less monosyllable that might have indicated contempt, assent, contemptuous assent, mild disapproval, milder amusement, or an impending sneeze, and he left with no indication as to which.

Rhys looked over at Boyd and Mist on the other end of the room. The healing had finished some time ago, and it seemed they’d been bickering since then – or possibly even earlier. Those two could carry on the same argument for a week, and their last one had just ended in stalemate when Shinon and Ike had actually agreed on something long enough to get them to “take this up again when there are fewer lives at stake,” in Ike’s words (in Shinon’s, “shut up or start knitting, you sound like a couple of old maids”). He couldn’t tell who was winning until Boyd got up and left in what was clearly a strategic retreat if he’d ever seen one. Mist joined him shortly thereafter.

“Everything all right over here?” she asked, plunking herself down next to him.

He wanted to say “yes.” Mia seemed to be all right, after all. Still, “seemed” and “was” were two entirely different concepts, and though he didn’t want anyone thinking he couldn’t pull his weight, or even thought he couldn’t pull his weight… “Probably,” he said after a pause. “Could you check?”

After an equally long pause in which Mist gave him a look for which there was no clear justification, somewhere between annoyance and concern, she nodded. “All right. What am I looking for?”

“A slight concussion – I think I took care of that, though – and anything else I might’ve missed.”

The young healer closed her eyes for what seemed like only a handful of seconds, then lowered the staff and smiled at Rhys. “Yup, you got it. She should wake up soon.”

He smiled back, but only for a moment. This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. He couldn’t stop himself asking, “Did I do the right thing?”

“What?”

“Kieran and Mia.”

“Hm.” The pause that ensued was very long indeed, which Rhys didn’t find particularly comforting. “I think you were right. Kieran’s just Kieran.”

“And isn’t that the whole problem?”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t I?”

Mist sighed. “Well, Mia’s going to be fine.”

“At least there’s that.”

There was yet another interminable pause, one that truly lived up to the name. Not another word was spoken. Mist sighed again, shrugged, and walked out. Very not-particularly-comforting indeed.

Voices. There were voices nearby. She strained to hear. That seemed like a good start, since the only other sense that seemed to be working was her sense of sight, and everything was this dull reddish color anyway.

“…ild of destin…”

“…ith a swor…”

She was pretty sure they were talking about her, but she really wished they’d use complete sentences. Or at least complete words. People were so rude sometimes. She moved in a direction that might have been forward, but just as easily might have been up. Well, she thought she moved. Being stuck in this blurry place with no senses was a pain.

“Mia…”

“Hey! Who’s there?” It might have been her talking. It might not have been.

“Help me…” That probably wasn’t.

“Sure thing, where are you?” Suddenly the haze lifted and she could see two children with sticks, only everything was kind of washed-out and yellow. What was wrong with colors today?

“C’mon, help me get this parry right. I’ve almost got it figured out.” said one of them, a boy. “Here, you come at me like – Mia! Hey, are you paying attention?”

“Yeah, sure,” said the other, a girl who really looked a lot like Mia, only about a foot shorter. Wait, that boy was her brother, wasn’t he? Man, he used to be so skinny! This must be a memory, then. But what was that business about destiny earlier? You know, this is probably a vision. At any time now someone would descend out of the sky and say something like “Mark well what you have seen here, for blah blah blah fate blah chosen one blah.” Or something.

“All right, then – you’re still not holding it right! Mia! You have to help me train so I can become a famous wandering swordsman! You want me to fulfill my destiny, don’t you? And I’ll go around everywhere dueling people…” He could see he was losing her attention again. “I’ll bring you presents!”

“What kind of presents?” The younger Mia asked shrewdly.

“The best.”

Come to think of it, this was sounding pretty familiar. When she was six, a mercenary had stayed in the mayor’s house for a week waiting for the rest of his company to come back from somewhere. Her brother had followed him around the whole time and talked for months about how he was fated to become an even better swordsman than that one, which was going to be tough, because he was pretty great.

Well, if this wasn’t a real prophecy, she didn’t think she cared about the rest of it. She’d already seen everything. How her brother outgrew his wandering swordsman phase and got himself apprenticed to a blacksmith in another town. And then he’d come back with a crooked sword that might fall apart if you looked at it too hard and said it was the first sword he’d ever made, but maybe she could take it on her adventures since he obviously wasn’t going anywhere.

Actually, those were pretty significant memories. Maybe this was one of those passive guidance type prophecy dreams, where they reminded you what you were supposed to be doing. Okay, so… was she supposed to start learning the sword from someone? No, that was ridiculous. She was already death on two legs. Or maybe it was an admonition not to give up on your destiny and become a blacksmith?

Hold on, why was she dreaming anyway? She wasn’t supposed to be asleep, there was a battle going on –

“Oh, goddess! Am I dead?”

A question that was almost always its own answer, Rhys thought dryly. “You’re fine. You were, um, kicked in the head near the end of the battle. By a horse.”

Mia felt her head, and Rhys was a little insulted despite himself. Did she expect him to have left a mark? “Whose horse?”

“That’s a bit hard to tell.” That was not a lie, so as long as she didn’t ask any more questions –

“Was it Sabin?”

“Who?”

“Sorry, it’s Mercutio today –”

“What?”

“You know. Mercutio. Kieran’s horse.”

“Ah,” Rhys said lamely. No point denying it now. “Yes, I think so.” She nodded slowly, chewing on her hair. “Um, why…?”

“Why did I think it was him?” She looked genuinely annoyed, a rare expression for the usually laid-back mercenary. “Because he kept dragging me all over the place. I’d be fighting some guy with an axe and then Kieran would come out of nowhere and grab me and put me on Mercutio. I don’t fight well on horseback!”

“Is that really all you’re concerned about?” Rhys asked in a low voice, not really intending for her to hear.

“Well, yeah, I guess.” Mia laughed. “You’re right, that sounds kind of silly. But why would he do a thing like that?”

Rhys sighed, looked away, fidgeted. “I, um, I’m very sorry, Mia, but I believe this was my fault.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

He smiled ruefully. “I appreciate that, Mia, but it’s the truth. You remember that I told you and Kieran to look out for each other?” He wiped his palms on his robe, wondering how they got to be so sweaty. “I think this is a result of that. I think his behavior was based on his interpretation of ‘protecting’ you.”

“Protecting me?” Mia was taken aback. “You never told him to do that, did you? I mean, watching each other’s backs is one thing, but” – she was getting annoyed again, and Rhys was beginning to feel absolutely horrible – “I don’t need protecting!”

“No, I never told him that, but I should have realized… You’re familiar with the concept of chivalry, aren’t you?” Mia shook her head. Rhys sighed, trying to phrase it so that she wouldn’t explode righteous indignation. “It’s considered a virtue for knights to give women preferential treatment. A certain amount of respect, and, well –”

“So is that why all the other knights defer to Titania?”

Rhys blinked. “Pardon?”

“Well, if knights are supposed to respect women and other knights, wouldn’t a woman knight be in charge of everyone?”

He had to smile at that. “A reasonable assumption, but it’s not the same kind of respect. It’s thought that women shouldn’t have to experience many of the harsher realities of life. I suppose Kieran’s counting flesh wounds as a harsh reality.” Though you wouldn’t know it to see his “glorious and heroic” scars.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. When I see Kieran, I’m going to tell him a thing or two –”

“No, no, please wait…” Mia stared at him in confusion as he fumbled to put his thoughts in order. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This conversation was not supposed to end in Mia hating Kieran for all time. The whole point was that this mess was his fault – his. Rhys. But for some reason everyone was so reluctant to believe anything bad of him that sometimes he wanted to grab someone and yell “I’m fallible too.”

“Uh, Rhys, are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, I’m –” He couldn’t quite conceal a shudder as a violent wave of nausea passed over him. There really isn’t time for this, he thought absurdly. Too many things still to set right.

“You don’t look so good. Maybe you should lie down.”

“No, Mia, listen to me, you can’t hold this against him –”

“I know, I know, he’s just an idiot.”

“Where’d you get an idea like –?” It shamed him that he didn’t react more quickly. Kieran wasn’t stupid, though in moments of extreme subversion Rhys had to acknowledge that the knight frequently gave that impression. Still, that could be said of a fairly significant portion of the mercenaries, and he really mustn’t think less of anyone for being born without common sense.

“Rhys? Rhys. You really don’t look good. Take a break. I’m serious.” Mia shoved him with unwonted gentleness – though it was still definitely a shove – back into a reclining position on the cot. He submitted, telling himself that he was of very little use now anyway. Everyone was fine and, he was certain, would prefer not to be vomited upon. And now he really wished that thought hadn’t occurred to him, because once you acknowledged the possibility it was practically inevitable.

He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. Not now. There isn’t enough time in the day to be sick and pitiful. “What are you going to do?”

“Actually…” Mia chewed on her hair absently, the way she always did when she was thinking about matters of spirituality. “I had this dream just now, and I think it meant something.”

“What was it about?” he asked, relieved that she didn’t seem to be pursuing a quarrel with Kieran.

“Actually, I’m going to try figuring out what it means by myself this time. Should be fun, right?” She shrugged confidently, something Rhys had never seen achieved before. “Actually, I already have a pretty good idea. But I might need your help later, so rest up, all right?”

“I’ll be glad to help.”

“Great.” Mia gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and strolled out of the infirmary into the adjoining hall. Not three seconds had passed before Rhys had to scrabble for the chamber pot.

Geoffrey was plainly still taken aback, and Kieran had to fight down the ungentlemanly urge to congratulate himself effusively. “Kieran,” the general said at last, “As great a relief as it is to know that you live, you’ve made this speech twice already.”

“Oh. Really? I don’t remember that.” Kieran frowned. “Must be the overpowering elation.”

Geoffrey smiled. “Yes, I can understand that. But” – his face took on that look of confusion again – “your horse’s name is Edgar.”