To fight for the people, not for the money

Ike is set about a year post RD. He's set in his solo ending.

Ike is not currently in a relationship, and I don't want to change that for the moment. Any possible ship be it TOA canon or AU will be tagged "Ike & [partner muse]".

I do not want Ike/Soren mentioned in any capacity. I don't like the ship, and I'd rather it was kept away from me.

I'm assuming all supports are at A unless specified.

Do NOT make jokes about Aimee. How she speaks to Ike in canon is inappropriate, especially as a minor.

Ike had been fourteen the first time.

He’s used to danger, the kind that one needs a weapon to fight off. He’s never been afraid, and never been the type to cower behind the legs of his father’s mercenary group. So, when asked to go on errands by himself, he was more than happy to. To him, this is another step in proving that he is ready to become a mercenary; if he can fetch supplies, he can do anything.

They’re in a town Ike doesn’t know, but towns begin to bleed together into one after years of travel. This one, Ike still remembers the most clearly. The paths feel winding and narrow, the buildings too tall.

The market is busy, bustling with people. Voices overlap on top of each other. The smell of too many foods mingle, suffocating Ike. He’s quick on his feet as he circles the market in his search. All he needs is a whetstone from the blacksmith, and he can head back to his father. As soon as he finds it, he slips inside the door, quick as a shadow.

The shop is quiet. The din of outside is silenced when he closes the door behind him, and Ike feels a few beats of peace from it all. He takes a moment to breathe in, before he looks around. A wide array of weaponry sits on the walls: maces, axes, bows, and even a staff. A sword with a decorative hilt woven in blue and black catches Ike’s eye. Curious hands reach over to it.

“Ah-ah, didn’t someone tell you not to touch what isn’t yours?”

Ike startles, dropping his hand. He looks at the source of the voice; it’s a woman, possibly in her thirties, but Ike can’t tell ages. She seems normal enough, well-built with dark hair. He bows his head.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“That’s okay, darling.” She puts her hand on his shoulder.

Everything in Ike tells him to shrug off the hand, but it’s rude, so he doesn’t. His father would be proud of him.

“I’m here to pick up a whetstone.” He pats his pocket, and the coins jingle lightly. Yes, he’s still got the money.

Her eyes look up and down at him, appraising him. Surely even a stranger can see how strong he is. Ike stands taller, chin tilted up, the image of a proud warrior. The woman chuckles, like she’s watching a particularly amusing puppy. Pink dusts Ike’s cheeks; none of this is funny. Why does no one take him seriously as a warrior?

“You’re pretty cute, you know.” Her voice drops to a register that makes Ike’s skin prickle with cold. He hates being made fun of. “Eager, too. I can just give you a whetstone.”

“Really?”

Nothing in life comes free. Even Ike knows this, but he can’t imagine what the woman would want in exchange. His mind reels with tasks, ranging from running an errand across town to slaying something for her. Whatever it was, he can do it.

“Really,” she purrs. “All I want is a little company. You can do that, can’t you?”

Her hand moves. Ike freezes for a second, two, before he panics and shoves the woman away. His chest heaves, and she lays crumpled on the ground. He stares at her, wide eyed. She doesn’t move. Why isn’t she moving? He didn't want to kill her, he—

“Guards!” she calls pathetically from her heap. “This boy, he- he struck me!”

It’s true, he had, but it was in self-defence. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Had he? He bolts, because he doesn’t know what else to do. The faster he runs, the less he feels his own skin, and the less he can hear her voice in the back of his mind.

Ike doesn't know the streets, and doesn't know where to go. He runs straight, then down a winding path. His boots pound against the dirt tracks, until a pair of guards appear from behind a building. They apprehend him easily, like grabbing a petty thief. Before long, he's cuffed and hauled away to the town's jail.

Ike finds himself at the bottom of a cell, sitting with his knees close to his chest. He wants to bathe, and scrub at himself with his nails until he can’t feel it anymore. He doesn’t understand; why would she do that? He feels better here, safer; no one is going to bother him, except the rats.

A heavy door opens, but Ike doesn’t look up.

“Alright lad, tell me what happened,” the guard says.

The guard would understand if Ike explained. He just needs to find the words, but he's never been good with words. His nails bite into his arms.

“She touched me, and I pushed her away.”

The words feel heavy and strange to say, but they’re out now. Ike waits for a reaction, maybe a surprised sound, or perhaps even anger. The silence stretches, bends, until it is snapped by laughter. Genuine, full-bellied laughter. The sound grates, and Ike’s nails dig in harder, until he can feel the skin tear.

“Goddess, that takes me back! I remember the first time a girl took a liking to me. Got so scared I nearly cried. Ha!” The man unlocks the door. “Next time lad, be nice to the girl, yeah? Won’t be long before girls don’t want you no more. The things I’d do for my Carole to want me.”

Ike doesn’t move. He hadn’t wanted it. Had he? Had he done something to invite that? Maybe he’d overreacted; it’s not like she could’ve known anything about him. Maggots squirm in his flesh. It's not a big deal, Ike is making it a big deal. Maybe he did lead her on. Maybe he did something. Maybe this is his fault, somehow. He replays the moment over and over again, like a training drill that his brain can't stop going through.

He’s let out of the cell, and when he leaves the building proper, he swears he sees her again. Before he can say anything, she’s gone, like it never happened.

There’s no proof any of it happened, no mark on his skin, nothing. Yet he still feels it, like a brand on him.

***

This had not been the last time.

At least it’s mostly comments, now. He’s so cute, so handsome, so strong. How he’s growing up, how nicely his shape is filling out, and more intimate comments on his body. Ike is seventeen, and it hasn’t stopped.

Now, at least, he's a man. He must be a man; he's a war veteran now, and the leader of his own army.

Ike makes no effort to maintain a good appearance, for no reason beyond laziness. Yet the comments don’t stop. Somehow, this makes him cuter.

Most don't touch him, at least. Instead, he is looked at like an object for their pleasure. It doesn't matter the age, the gender, or anything else; it doesn't stop. It dulls Ike's confidence like a dent in his armour. Much like dents in armour, he hammers it out privately; why bother letting it show? They would only laugh harder at his weakness.

The comments make people around him laugh. It's funny when someone older tries something with Ike, it's funny when they clearly want him. It's so funny that Ike can't bring himself to laugh about it.

At the end of the war, a title is draped across him like a scratchy blanket, and land is bestowed upon him. Ike is no longer a lofty commander or anything like that. He has proven himself, and his strength, and he is now among the nobility.

It's funny to think of himself that way. With a title, he's offered more protections than before. Commoners deem him less attainable, and true blue nobles will have no interest in him. Why would they? Sometimes, classism is a boon.

He feels safer in his title. He only needs to worry about his small plot of land, and how best to help Elincia. He may be rough around the edges, but he knows the edges will smooth out.

The first test is his first formal event. The outfit is too tight, suffocating. He's under explicit instructions not to rip off his sleeves; if not for himself, then for Elicina's image.

Ike stays by himself by the sidelines. The easy social flutter of nobility hasn't been brow beaten into him yet. He's offered champagne that he doesn't take - the last thing he needs is for alcohol to destroy his judgement. He's on edge enough, he can't afford it.

His name is passed around the room in whispers, along with glances at him. Ike, the Hero of the Blue Flame, a common noble. He scratches his arm, but his fingers never make contact with skin.

Five minutes. He needs five minutes outside, then he can come back in and try to socialise. Ike can suck up whatever discomfort he feels for someone he loves.

He steps out of the ballroom with a heavy breath. The cold air is already better than the stuffy, humid air of too many bodies. He's alone now, and he could not be more glad for it.

In the dark, something grabs for him. Then something else. He wants to fight and cause a scene, but what would be the point? The image of that woman's body crumpled on the floor, and it had been Ike's fault. Both of those things flood his mind, and he can't move. If he acts stupidly, how does that reflect on the queen? If he fights back, can he guarantee that it would only be him that gets in trouble?

Ike drops his arms.

Laughter echoes from inside the ballroom.

  ***

Ike is twenty years old.

The second war is finally over. There are no more world-ending events to stop, no more all-powerful foes, nothing else to worry over.

Yet Ike stays awake, worried. It works, because he stands guard. He knows he shouldn’t feel anxious anymore - it’s over - but there are more dangers in the night than the enemy. Ike would know. He inhales slowly, and exhales just as slowly.

He knows what it means to be a part of this war. He knows what it means for him. Legends come with time, when dust coats their bones and they’re long gone. You can make up things about a legend. A hero? They are very much alive, they are reachable, they are something one can reach for and grab. A shiver passes through Ike. He tucks his knee to his chest, his boot tapping rhythmically into the dirt.

He has choices, of course. He can stay with his friends - his family - and suffer through the fame again. He’s grown too big and too strong for most to think they can get away with anything more than words now, but the words make him feel like a child again, scruffy and new to the world. He sees Mist, he sees Rolf, and he cannot imagine anyone doing anything of the like to them. He can't allow anything close to it to happen to them.

The comments are funny. They are funny, because everyone laughs when women try it on with Ike. They are funny, but Ike always forgets to laugh. His body must not understand the joke either, because his skin feels cold and clammy every time. Ike doesn’t always understand jokes; this must be one of those times.

He knows he can’t keep this up. He can’t keep up the mantle of leader. He can’t be what everyone else wants, when Ike himself doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He wants to be there for his people and protect them, but is he enough? He had fought two wars and won; then why does he not feel strong? Why does he still feel a weakness in himself? For all his strength in body and spirit, there's still something in him that will never feel like enough.

The group could go on without him. Titania could take over, or Oscar, or even Mist. She’s smart, she’s capable, she’s strong. The fact that Ike is even considering this tells him that he isn’t enough.

He isn’t. He can’t be a hero again, and he can’t be public property. He wants to be Ike - does he not deserve to be Ike? Not commander, not captain, not anything but himself. Does he not deserve to know who he is outside of the hero? He wonders if the others will see it this way. He wonders if he’ll even tell them his plans.

He looks up at the waning stars. Dawn will soon break. He’ll have to make his choice.

Perhaps a vanguard is best alone, leading the charge.

  ***

Ike is twenty-two.

He's called on a mission by the church, but none of them could have seen this coming. It’s a horror show, rotting buildings and rotting people. There’s a part of Ike that calls for him to command, even after two years away from the mantle.

It’s why when he had found that place with Seadall and Bruno, he thought to push through. The pinprick of light could have saved them, even at the cost of his own life. He could do something, even if he feels something seep into his flesh. Corruption, though he didn’t know it at the time.

Yet he pushed the blame and guilt onto Seadall, praying that Ike is wrong about it. He doesn’t want to send that man to his death in the dark. However, someone has to take charge, and someone has to risk the dark. Someone has to try and guide half of them to the other side. Half of them could make it.

Mistake: Seadall had been spared, as had anyone. Ike should have tried harder to save everyone. He could have always saved everyone before.

It’s that guilt then, that’s what drives him to help Bruno. It’s obvious that something is wrong with him, his mask gone and his flesh rotten like an overripe deer carcass. If Ike had been thinking, he would have done the kind thing, and simply killed Bruno then and there. He can’t bring himself to do it. He almost got Seadall killed - pointlessly - and he won’t do it to Bruno.

No more a leader now, but a follower. Ike follows him to both their ends.

Why did Ike think he could save anyone, when he could never even save himself?

He too has become nothing but meat puppeteered. Is it not easier this way? Is it not better to move without thought and free will to hold him down? The dead have no responsibility, and nothing left to protect. Ike has nothing left to lose. Ike has nothing.

The blade comes whirling in. If Ike is capable of feeling anything, it might be relief.

  ***

Ike’s birthday is quickly approaching. He will be twenty-three, but he feels closer to thirty.

He ought to make some plans, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He could drink, but who would he invite? He could work, but even by Ike’s standards, that feels anti-social. Maybe he’ll be forced out to do something. It’s hard to tell.

He’s so far from home, and the titles and accolades that anchored him. Yet still, they weigh him down. If he looks outside of his house, there are a couple of people from home. It doesn’t feel as crushing as it did in Tellius. Here, Ike is a no-name mercenary with a smattering of friends and family, ever-growing as these things always do.

There are still some from home he’s too cowardly to face. He may stand tall, and he may still wear armour like a general, but inside he still feels like he did as a teenager. Will he ever feel big enough for the armour that he wears? Will he ever feel strong enough? He still feels like he’s ten years old, swinging about a stolen sword until it’s taken from him.

It comes with time. Healing and strength all come with time, and the love of the people around him. They are what keep him going. That should be his birthday wish: for their continued protection, with him as their shield.

He readies himself for the day - he has to be at the academy by mid-morning for a mission. He straps the armour on, and checks himself in the reflection of his sword. It isn’t quite the regalia of war time, but it’s comfortable, and it’s Ike.