Authorramble: This is all Amethyst Bubble's fault. Well, not really. I asked her to give me four random common nouns, and she did so. And then ... it's hers AND Riykon's fault, for providing an abstract noun when harassed. And this, my friends, is the result of me wanting to write Ike/Soren for once, and the melding of those four words. (Of course, I had to mix angst in with the pool.)
As a side note, this was also difficult to name. On my computer, it is called capeknifetreeglassapathy.odt. Just a random fact for those who care about random things.
Ike's cape is red as a Ranger and blue as a Lord. Given the setting, it's post-game, so therefore, Ike's cape is blue. Just wanted to point that out for people who like to go 'OMG ITS RED.' ... Oh, and replaying the early chapters of PoR is the most inspiring thing ever.
Fall In
He had watched enviously from his spot by the window as he dipped his pen into the ink. Lethe's knife expertly cut off a slice of an apple off of that tree that she perched on, Ike below, and offered it to him. She had graceful, strong arms, and was able to keep her balance excellently. He could see Ike eying those arms, Ike imagining those arms around him.
She made him sick.
Those like her, sub-humans all alike, had taken everything from him in the past, before Greil, and consequentially, before Ike. Ike was the remedy for his life – although, it was degrading to think of him as just that. But to say any more would require thought on Ike's part. Thoughts that, he was almost certain, were not there. The sub-humans took Ike as well.
He watched him eat the apple, and Ike began to make him sick as well. A different sick, with a different toll on his attention – but still, sick sick. She pounced on Ike playfully, and he shoved her off, laughing. Someday, perhaps they would embark further into that, and somewhere along the line, a part of Ike would be treated as he was.
He turned to his work and made a pitiful attempt at apathy.
Sundown, the laugher outside stopped. He turned to watch them leave. For a moment, he was entranced at this, tightening his grip on his pen, watching how their fingers fit, her hand slightly smaller than his, and lighter in color. He wondered how much smaller his was. He watched her tail tease his eyes. He was morbidly fascinated with that which hurt.
They turned to walk to the front of the fort, and he resisted running up to the window and pressing his face against the glass – the glass that separated the taunting image and himself – so he could watch their perfection leave. Because – it was sick to him, how well they fit, together. It was sick to him, how different he seemed.
For both Ike's and his sake, he sat at his table and forced himself not to care.
But then, he spotted a patch of blue on the grass. Perfection had forgotten his cape.
He took this excuse greedily, rising from his chair and fleeing from the musty confines of his room and into the field within the fort walls.
Next to the rusty apple core, he leaned forward and picked up the cape. It was soft but strong, apparently made out of tightly woven wool. He folded it in his hands, marveling at how much it smelled like Ike, pressing it against his cheek for a moment, wondering if this was what being Lethe felt like.
Ike was the commander. He shook his head and held the cape away from him, walking through the fort. Ike was the commander, and more importantly, Ike was not his.
He knocked on Ike's door and found it difficult to fall out of love.