This is a story about what happens when you don't properly A-support your units, folks. (But mostly about how I love Soren.)

The basic storyline will follow Soren after Radiant Dawn: it's semi-inspired by what I really think would happen, and how I would want another Tellius-era Fire Emblem game to start.

~~ Prologue ~~

It was Titania who initially found him, of course. She was the mother of the mercenary troop, even to the children who only reluctantly belonged to the family, as evidenced by the fact that her affectionate attempts extended to Shinon. She was always making sure everyone was all right.

The base had never been more peaceful than in the last week. With no events in the surrounding autumn countryside, and no requests for aid in almost five days, some of the mercenaries—for example, Mia—were getting antsy. Rhys himself was enjoying the calm, the few thunderstorms that had passed through providing him with an excuse to linger indoors. He hadn't really had time for study in a long time, and had pulled out the majority of his old prayer books.

The mercenaries were all out on separate pursuits, some together and some alone; the base was silent except for the sound of rain dripping from the trees. He had just bolted the window and lit a candle, and was opening a book.

"Rhys!" His name was frantically shouted from upstairs, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the prayer book onto the floor. "Rhys, please!"

She said nothing else, gave no reason for the shaking of her voice, and Rhys felt a brief flutter of panic. He reached under his bed and plucked a healstaff from the pile, then took off running for the stairs.

He saw at once why she had called; Mist came bolting down the hallway and skidded to a halt, gasping in a little strangled shriek. Titania was frozen in front of Soren's door; Rhys felt a chill at the look on her face.

"Is it locked?" he asked, feeling his lips going numb. He tried to make himself think of all the other horrible injuries he'd treated—Kieran, plunging axes into his head—Mist, the first time she'd tried to swing a sword on horseback—even all the times Rhys had to heal his own wounds, inflicted by Mia—but nothing was helping. His stomach lurched.

"Yes," Titania said blankly, after a moment. Both women seemed stunned. "I think we'll have to break it down."

"I'm gonna get Boyd," Mist said abruptly, wiping a tear from her face. They watched her go, calling in her light voice for the fighter; Rhys heard him bellowing in the interrogative from the courtyard.

They were only alone for a moment together, but Rhys glanced into Titania's face. "I knew this was coming," she said softly, and he was grieved to see guilt reflected in her eyes.

"You couldn't have done anything," he said, knowing the words were useless.

Then Boyd was there, his axe in his hand, covered in sweat from training. He looked down and swallowed, pausing. The sensation of fear was palpable in the hallway, though there were only four of them.

"Just do it, Boyd!" Mist finally said, pleadingly, breaking the tension.

The fighter didn't hesitate any longer; they all stepped back as he adjusted his grip on the axe, raised it, and smashed it into the door. It was only a practice weapon, but obviously Boyd's apprehension had improved his accuracy. The door flew open with a single strike, the bolt clanking to the floor.

Titania wasted no time; she stood in the doorway before any of them had a single glance at the interior of the room. "Boyd, Mist, wait here." They made no argument, but stood aside; as he followed Titania into the room, Rhys saw Boyd put a hand on Mist's shoulder.

They knelt down next to Soren, curled up in a comma to one side of the door, eyes closed and face white. For a moment Rhys couldn't understand what had happened, and he gulped mightily to hold down the horror as he figured it out.

The mage had slashed one wrist with the knife, hard enough to sever the tendons; unable to hold it, he had braced the knife between his knees to draw the other wrist across the blade. The blood had pooled across the floor, a crimson river snaking past the door lintel and into the hallway.

The room was freezing, a chill breeze blowing through the window. "He's still alive," Titania said, almost sobbing the words with relief, putting her hands over her face. "Rhys…"

Rhys didn't answer: holding out the healstaff, he chanted softly. The wounds closed, leaving no trace of their existence. He reached out and put a hand on Soren's cold forehead. Yes, he was still alive, but only just, his breath hardly discernible. Rhys thanked the goddesses that their tactician obviously had not known the successful technique to razor one's own wrists.

Reaching up, Rhys removed his own outer robe, ignoring the chill that swept over him as he did so, and tucked it over Soren's small figure. The mage had obviously not intended to turn back, and was dressed very lightly, torso exposed to the elements; despite the sick feeling growing in his stomach, Rhys found time to wonder how old Soren really was. He'd been with the Mercenaries for years, yet his form was that of a twelve-year-old boy.

Rhys shook himself, swallowing. "Let's get him to someplace warm," he said quietly.