#radiantwill

Penny for your thoughts II No Longer Accepting!

It had happened in slow motion, feeling entirely unreal until the pain pierced his torso. Greil had raised his axe, Urvan, to respond to the strike the Black Knight had presented. He was so accustomed to the practiced techniques that the Black Knight, a former student of his, had demonstrated, that he was confident of his parry. His judgment had fallen short of the mark, and he’d suddenly felt a searing pain through his heart to commune this. Greil crumpled under the weight of his newfound pain, feeling it as keenly as he once had his heartbeat. 

He’d been felled. He knew it, but Ike, by some folly, entirely contrary to his warnings, had neared. 

Stay back, damn you! Stay away from my son! You’ve killed me, haven’t you!? ZELGIUS! Isn’t that enough!?

He’d wanted to shout these words, but they’d petered out in his weary breath. He sputtered blood in the place of his sound. All at once, he began coughing, the wind in his lungs effectively knocked away. He convulsed, the pain overbearing. Numbly, he heard Zelgius speak his threats, and he coughed again, trying to muster his strength to match them. He’d almost wanted to cry. Ike was helpless, and he couldn’t protect him in his hour of need. Ike was going to die. 

If he dies ... if my son dies, I’ll never ... never forgive ....

Myself. 

By some miracle, a roar bounded through the silence of the night, and it banished Zelgius as readily as a prayer’s fulfillment had. The night stilled with its peace. Greil’s heart settled, and the stiffness that held him -- one that he hadn’t noticed -- receded. There was a pitter-patter of steps drawing close, and Greil saw his son stand above him

Don’t look, Ike! No, don’t look there, at the wound ... it looks horrible, and it’s not something a boy your age should have to see. Just run! Run for safety! Please! 

But Ike does nothing of the sort. Suddenly, Greil finds himself hoisted up, supported by his own son’s back. It starts to rain, and his sight is blurred by the stream of droplets that pour from the sky in sudden torrents. Ike’s back becomes slippery, but he clings for dear life, propping himself by Ike’s shoulders. No, he has to hold on. He can’t die here. Ike won’t allow it.

They start to talk. Greil’s voice comes back, and he cautions against seeking revenge against the Black Knight. If he couldn’t triumph, neither can his son. Whatever his student has become, he’s too powerful now. Ike, he reasons, has the right to live in peace. Perhaps it’s better that he abandon all pursuit of revenge; live a mercenary’s life, but have it devoid of an inane goal that one would be unable to achieve. Greil gave that advice in the fashion of one knowing he wouldn’t be around to give anymore. He feels the wound corroding his heart, draining his blood.

He knows it will kill him. He can already feel the process whittling his strength, drawing his mind into delirium. As he and Ike near the end of the pathway, so painfully near back the base, he can already see a mirage -- in the visage of his dear departed wife, beckoning him ...

I’d leap into your arms any day, Elena. I would, but ... let me hold on ... a little longer. Just for Ike. I’ll be with you soon, but let Ike say his goodbyes ...

He hears tears being shed, his son begging him to stay. He tries to will himself to fulfill those pleas, but his own consciousness betrays his own intentions. He’s ebbing away, slipping off Ike’s back. He can’t hold on anymore, he can’t .... he can’t hold ...

ike: i don't know them but that's just low where are they

      That’s Ike. Ike is coming to her defense? The Ike is willing to beat someone up for her...

Lips part, but no sound comes out – surprise flitters in like daylight through tree tops. Her hand’s companion has never been another’s, always simply her sword’s hilt. Seeing so many join hands, she briefly wondered what it would be like – but she’d quickly given up the notion, remembering her mission. Ylisse, Askr… no matter the kingdom, there is strife that must be ended. She’s never allowed her heart to be carried off by any such fantasies ( at least, not for very long ).

She is unsure, hesitant almost, and it’s entirely unlike her. She wonders if just this much is alright – if her people will forgive her for releasing her grip on her sword for a budding moment… If she can allow herself, just this once, to indulge in such kindness.

“I can’t say I’ve ever participated in such a thing before.” Her hand reaches out, both instinctive and going against the instincts that have sustained her all this time. A heart longing for a sense of normality amidst a life of walking from one battlefield to the next on worn soles ( with a worn soul ).

Fingertips curl around the hand he’s extended, slow and uncertain until her hand came to be gently grasping his own. The sensation was strange as it was new but her heart took comfort in it, for reasons she couldn’t begin to identify let alone explain.

A smile, then, comes to her lips. Blue eyes that have seen much crinkle softly, a sense of calm easing over the young woman.

“It’s not bad.” She says.

♕ » Let Child Loppy Draw your Muse!

✧ ┋ ❝ General Ike! I drew this for you! Oscarand Miss Titania gave me some crayons andpaper, so I drew you! I hope you like it!! ❞

come love on mom || accepting

    ❝ I promised that I would once you were ready to be tucked in for bed. Have you said goodnight to Mist and your father?❞ Elena waits for the eager nod from her son that follows her query, and it is then that the child is taken into her arms and brought into his room. 

“Not really but if Mist offers you a plate you better take it.”

Did- Did he just give him permission to EAT their food?

“Fine by me.”

Greil knew his son well. So well, in fact, that he was aware that Ike’s stoic deposition rarely ever wavered. True, the pup was but a greenhorn -- albeit, one with incredible potential. In his time as the pup’s mentor, he’d acted tough and rarely expressed his praise despite how proud he truly was of the incredible progress he’d witnessed. 

No, praise was best left unsaid if it risked a novice from growing too overconfident. He’d applied that toughened policy with many a disciple in the past. He’d considered Ike thus: a prime student who he’d pass the torch of prowess to. 

One day, his body would age from the weariness of his battles. When that time came, he would confidently pass the mantle of leadership to his son. He doubted Ike would rename his mercenary group, for the lad bore the wish of retaining the wishes of its founder.

Ike never wanted to surpass him. He only wished to better himself by gleaning every facets of Greil’s unparalleled wrath in battle. To learn how to swing a sword as ruthlessly as his predecessor. Hence, Greil’s confidence in handing him his legacy. Surely, in whatever world this version of his son hailed from, he was, at the very least, made aware of some semblance of this confidence? Of his willingness to have borne a hair who would more than deserve bearing his clothes and axe?

No. The pup’s insistence in returning these items made his initial suspicions all too clear. He’d damned himself for entertaining the notion, but he could deny its very real possibility. Whatever the case had been, Greil had utterly failed his son. He’d committed the worst offense a mercenary --- no, a father --- ever deigned to let occur: he’d died, abruptly. In fact, he’d died before he could make his true sentiments of his inheritance clear. 

Who else had mourned him? If he’d met the grave, surely that meant that whatever threat had extinguished him had also killed those in his precious group. Titania, Rhys, Shinon, Gatrie, the brothers, Mist ... had he not only wronged Ike in dying abruptly, but had cost his precious friends their lives for his incompetence? If that were true, who else had Ike mourned that day? Had he cried so profusely, no tears were left to shed?

Grief strikes him; grief at the pup’s silent insinuations. A silence so profound kept him from speaking for a long while, for contemplation -- a rare occasion -- struck him before his words could be mustered. Gently, he presses Urvan back into his son’s hands. Had he passed from that world, his axe had no right to return to a dead man’s -- ah, a dead failure’s -- hands. Urvan was Ike’s to wield. None else, not even him, deserved to lay a hand upon that sacred axe.

“Do not doubt you honor me, pup. You marked my grave with this, you say? Well, you had the guts to pluck it out of the earth. To wield it, just as I wanted.”

So what if he’d opted never to praise Ike in left? It wasn’t too late, now. Whatever hardships Ike had suffered certainly rated hearing his intoned pride, here and now.