Chapter Seventeen

Shinon rounds the corner, taking a look around. This old Crimean town has been updated quite a bit through the years, but there are still some parts that retain its former charm. Looking up ahead, Shinon sees it, the small cottage he'd been searching for. It's a cute, quaint little building, surrounded by old oak trees to help with the privacy. Privacy indeed, Shinon thinks. I barely found this place myself.

His steps are slow and soft as he makes his way to the front porch of the house. The old wooden stairs creak as he steps on them. The porch itself doesn't act as if it can hold a lot of weight. Shinon's thankful for his slim body.

He reaches for the door handle, but stops, his heart suddenly slamming into his throat. Does he really want to do this? Does he really want to see what's inside? Shinon closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. There should be no reason for feeling nervous. Shinon never feels nervous. There's no time for nerves anywhere. He should just open the door, walk in, and deal with whatever he finds inside.

Shinon's fingers brush against the door handle, then pull away again. He can't do it. He just can't. Turning away, Shinon starts to head off the porch, get out of here, when he stops again. Closing his eyes and clenching his fists, he scolds himself, Come on. You came here to do this. You can't just leave now. What will people think of that? World-class archer, fought in wars, bravely protected the people, but can't walk through a stupid door.

Just do it.

Groaning to himself, Shinon turns back around, grabs the door handle, and forces him to twist it. He feels his heart thudding against his chest, but he pushes open the door anyway and carefully steps inside.

Flowers and soap immediately fill his senses. Shinon scrunches his nose. It's too clean a smell. After years of dealing with the scent of sweat, blood, metal, and death, the smell of soap nearly makes him gag. It's not a real smell.

Shinon's boots make a soft clumping noise against the scratched hardwood floor. He glances around and notices a small table with three chairs around it. It doesn't appear that anyone has eaten on it in quite some time, judging by the layer of dust on it. Shinon stops for a moment and looks at the walls. A large, shining, beautiful sword decorates one, while a strong, bold axe hangs on the other.

Ragnell and Urvan. Shinon smiles. They still look as sharp and ready to use as ever.

Entranced by the weapons, Shinon almost doesn't notice when an elderly lady wanders out of a room.

"Oh!" she exclaims as she sees him. Shinon gazes at her, his throat closing up, suddenly feeling as if he wants to cry. Bah, what is this, Shinon scolds himself. Crying just because you see an old lady? That's stupid and pointless.

Still, his body doesn't respond to anything. It stays frozen and still as his eyes wander over the old woman. Her pale blue eyes are soft and friendly, yet still weary and low on life. Her hair is short and silver, shiny near the tips, yet oily at the roots. Wrinkles adorn every inch of her body. There is a small hunch on her back, and though they are clutching together, Shinon can see her hands are gnarled and malformed. She emits the universal smell of the elderly.

"Shinon?" her weak, trembling voice squeaks. Shinon can see she's missing a few teeth, and a few of the remaining ones have blackened. Shinon swallows, trying to get his throat to open up enough to speak.

"Mist, right?" he asks.

The lady's thin lips smile, her head nodding longer than expected. "Come," she croaks. "Ike is this way."

Shinon watches in pity as Mist hobbles slowly, step by step, into Ike's room. If this is how Mist looks, I don't think I want to see Ike, Shinon thinks. Things have certainly changed since he and Ike last saw each other. Years and years before, when Shinon was a young thirty year old and Ike an even younger twenty, Ike had decided to give commandership of the Greil Mercenaries to Titania. He then sailed off to explore other lands, his faithful companion Soren by his side. Shinon hasn't seen him since then. It was only recently that he heard Ike had come back to Crimea thirty-five years before.

Slowly Shinon steps after Mist. The last time he saw Ike, they were both young and healthy. Now Shinon doesn't even want to see his former commander - and younger brother - as anything less. Ike is strong, brave, fearless. It would be a disgrace to see him old and feeble.

Shinon closes his eyes as he steps into the room, taking a deep breath before daring to open them again. His face remains expressionless, but inside his heart falls to his feet. No, that man lying in bed can't be Ike. He's too thin to be Ike. His face is too worn to be Ike. He's too frail to be Ike.

Yet studying him over, Shinon realizes it's the truth. He can see the hint of light blue in the man's piercing white hair. Although weak, the man's eyes are still passionate and caring, and his face is still stubborn as a mule. It makes Shinon laugh.

"Shinon…you came!" a horrible rusty sound emits from Ike's throat. Shinon winces slightly. He hates seeing Ike like this, hates seeing him this old, hates seeing him fall apart…especially because Shinon knows he himself looks nothing like this.

"I said I would," Shinon states simply.

"How old are you now, Shinon?" Ike croaks.

"I celebrated my 103rd birthday last week," Shinon says with a small smile.

"Seriously? Why, you look…" Ike creakily laughs, pausing as he examines Shinon over.

"Not a day over twenty-two?" Shinon suggests, glancing down at himself as well, feeling a little sick. His skin is still young and fresh, his body trim yet strong. His hands have never been better for using a bow.

"…fantastic," Ike finishes his own sentence. "Exactly as I remember you."

Shinon nods, semi-consciously tugging his ponytail over his shoulder. He can see the bright redness of his hair through the corner of his eye.

"I almost wish I were Branded," Ike coughs out another laugh. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to be ninety-…ninety…oh, however old I am. To be in my nineties and still look like a twenty-year-old. Even Soren hasn't changed a bit, and he's just about my age, aren't you, Sor?"

Shinon has been so focused on Ike's withering body that he never even noticed Soren sitting quietly in a chair beside Ike's bed. Ike is right - Soren is in every regard still a teenager, even in his nineties. His hair is still long, shiny, and black, his face youthful, his body tiny but not frail. For the first time in his life, Shinon actually feels sorry for Soren. The little mage is so attached to Ike, and when the old man finally passes, Soren still has a lot of life to live.

Sighing, Shinon moves his eyes back to Ike. It's almost more pleasant to look at him, rather than the bitter tears of despair slowly falling down Soren's cheeks.

"You know we're the last of the original Greil Mercenaries?" Ike states, his weary eyes moving between all of them. "All together again."

Shinon looks down. He hadn't realized it. Of course they're the only ones left. Ike was among the youngest when the mercenaries started. Everyone older than him - save Shinon himself - have all passed already, some earlier than they were meant to. Illness finally claimed Rhys at the age of thirty-four, and Rolf, who had become the leader of his own mercenary group, had been killed in action at twenty-nine trying to defend a village against a ruthless group of bandits.

Now Ike is on his death bed, and Mist will soon follow. It will just be Shinon and Soren, living alone for goddess knows how many centuries, waiting to see which one will become the very last of the Greil Mercenaries.

"I have one more request to make of you, Shinon," Ike croaks, his breathing getting more and more shallow. "And of you too, Soren."

Shinon steps closer to Ike's bed and kneels beside him. Ike stares into Shinon's face for a moment or two, then slowly reaches his trembling hand to touch Shinon's ponytail. Although uncomfortable, Shinon lets him do it. The crooked fingers slide through Shinon's smooth red locks like a hot knife through butter.

"103 and your hair still looks and feels like that," Ike mumbles, bringing his hand back, then glancing over at Soren. "You two are obviously going to be the last of the Greil Mercenaries."

Shinon and Soren remain silent.

"Adopt each other as brothers, will you?" Ike says, his voice fading fast. "Stick with each other. Don't let each other face the world alone. Who knows, maybe you'll both live to see the day when the Branded are finally accepted among society."

"Maybe," Shinon says with a smile. Among his travels, Shinon had visited Stefan in the Grann Desert. The rascal had just celebrated his 314th birthday and had shown Shinon the ever-growing community of Branded in the desert. With the vast numbers, Stefan was even talking about creating his own country.

"Can you promise me that?" Ike asks in a whisper. "Promise me you'll support each other until the end of your lives."

Shinon looks up across the bed, his eyes meeting Soren's. Soren bites his lip, tears pouring down his cheeks faster and faster. He's just like me, Shinon sighs. He carries the same curse I do. He's faced the same punishment and rejection as I have. We're not so different.

"Well, I don't know about Soren, but I'll agree to it," Shinon says, looking back at Ike.

Soren chews on his lip for a while longer, seemingly trying to regain control of himself before squeaking out, "Yes, Ike. I promise."

"Good…" Ike breathes, closing his eyes. "I have always been proud of you both. Never forget that."

The minutes tick on forever, silence beating against Shinon's eardrums, before the old man's heart finally gives up. Mist tries to take Ike's pulse, but finds her hands aren't strong enough. It is Shinon who confirms that he's dead. Without a word, Mist hobbles out of the room, leaving Shinon and Soren alone.

Soren's tiny body trembles violently trying to hold in his sobs. Shinon can't bear to see the boy's suffering any longer. Quietly stepping over to his side of the bed, Shinon simply says "Brother," and opens his arms. Soren ignores them for exactly four seconds before collapsing into them and releasing his emotion. Though the sobs and tears are intense, they last only for a few moments. Even Shinon feels the sudden and strange calmness. Finally he looks down and discovers where it comes from.

In Shinon's embrace, the brand on Soren's forehead lies pressed against the brand on Shinon's chest. They share the same blood, the same rejection…and the same peace when they support each other.

For the first time in many, many decades, a single solitary tear slides down Shinon's cheek.

Shinon and Soren, having truly become new brothers, comfort each other until no more tears can be shed. Without words, their presences share in Ike's memory, and soon Soren opens up about his adventures with Ike. They eventually find themselves swapping stories, causing Shinon to open up in a way he never has before.

A few hours later, Mist passes on in her own bedroom. Deciding that both Ike and Mist would have wanted it, Shinon and Soren bury them beside their father, Greil. They hold a small, private ceremony, then continue on their way.

Sixty-three years pass before the Branded community is established. Within the next thirty years after, the Branded are able to live among beorc and laguz without fear of prejudice, hatred, harm, or rejection. Soren had never believed it to be possible, but Shinon saw it coming.

Stefan, the leader of the Branded community as well as Shinon and Soren's friend, dies eighty-four years later at the ripe old age of 491. He'd only begun to look middle-aged. The Branded community regards him as a hero and honors him at his funeral, building a monument in his name.

A few years later, Shinon establishes his own mercenary group, places it in Greil's name, and finally fulfills his dream of becoming commander. He enlists Soren as his deputy commander and tactician, and with a band of beorc, laguz, and Branded following them, Crimea goes without major trouble for centuries.

When both men are in their 400's, Begnion attempts to start a war between the Branded and the beast tribe of Gallia. Casualties are suffered and relationships are damaged. However, the legacy of the Greil Mercenaries lives on, and much like Ike during the first two wars, Shinon and his mercenary group conquers in the third. Relations are restored between the Branded and the beast tribe, and Begnion is brought to order once again.

Shinon finally passes away at the age of 602, making Soren the last of the Greil Mercenaries. Many mourn at the news, especially the Branded community, as Shinon was the first of their kind to establish a mercenary team. They insist on building Shinon a monument as well and burying him with Stefan. However, Soren buries his friend in private next to Greil.

Soren carries on the Greil Mercenaries long after, fulfilling not only the legacy of Greil and Ike, but of Shinon as well. At age 850, Soren passes the group down to a well-loved apprentice and travels all of the world, spending extra time where he and Ike hadn't been able to go because of Ike's aging and failing health.

On his 1,000th birthday, Soren wanders back to the Greil's burial ground. He places a flower each on the graves of Greil, Ike, Mist, and Shinon, then lies down in front of them to rest himself. He never wakes up again.

Note from the author: This is the ending of this story. I hope you enjoyed it - refer it to your friends and ask them to review. I am always looking to improve my writing, especially because, though I did quite a bit of fiction writing in the past, the story is the only fiction piece I've done recently. Let me know what you liked about the content and my style of writing, and what I could improve. As much as I admittedly don't like criticism (heh heh), constructive criticism is very useful (as long as it IS constructive, of course...).

If you liked this story and might like to read more of my stuff, in the near future, I'll be publishing a one-shot split into four parts (meaning I'm posting it all at once, but it'll be split into four chapters since it's kind of long) about Naesala and everything that happened with him and his blood pact, entitled I Never Wanted To Be King. Keep an eye out for it and tell me how you like it.

If you have any more ideas for stories you'd like to see, I'd love to hear them. I used to do a ton of short stories, so send your ideas to: live (underscore) to (underscore) lose at hotmail dot com (I think you should be able to figure out how that goes). Send me your ideas, or just chat. I'd love to talk with you. Thanks for reading, I loved writing this story!