[open] your breath was cold and tight

[silentsavant]

Who: Soren & Various
When: Aereuer 13th
Where: Inside of his Looking-Glass House mirror
What: "Dream a Little Dream" event: memory replays
Warnings: Prompts may contain: severe child abuse (emotional and physical); suffocation; bloodshed and violence; fantasy racism; war themes; loss and depression. Will be labeled accordingly.

(( Individual prompts below in the comments. If you want something else or would like to plot a little, feel free to contact me through wingything or paingel#4140. Here are some more possible memory descriptions if any of these catch your eye instead of any below, but there are always many more than just the ones I cobbled together into a quick list.

Some of these memories are written with transcriptions of dialogue taken from canon events, while some are based on canon descriptions of events. ))

Comments

it's all in the past, soren...

[silentsavant]

The chamber echoes with every sound, the flicker of violet flames bouncing off the soaring columns and boundless staircases, licking at floors so polished it makes some stretches of tiles look like mystical pools caressed by moonlight. There is something ineffably hallowed about it, so hallowed that it engenders a kind of profound loneliness that arises when gods sleep and mortals never tread.

Two figures face each other in the midst of it, a poignant mood hanging between them, dwarfed by the expansive surroundings. One of them is a big swordsman, the other a small-framed mage with long hair and white robes: Soren. The midst of their conversation fills your ears.

"...Yes. You'd forgotten that day in Gallia," speaks Soren with soft weight, the tone that carries his words unusually warm and cracking with tender emotion. He shakes his head, a grateful smile forming on his lips. "But I didn't care. My only wish was to see you again." He shuts his eyes, a sublime peace he's never found at in Geardagas washing over his face. But when he opens them again, it's cause for the man standing before him to raise his eyebrows in mild concern. "I just wanted to see the only boy who had held out a warm hand when I had nothing."

"Soren... Don't cry."

Genuine astonishment seizes him, which shortly flushes to shades of clumsy embarrassment. "Don't cry? What? I'm not crying..."

"Soren," he replies with a faint, fond chuckle lacing his name, "you're smart, but you're no good when it comes to your emotions." He holds his broad, well-muscled arms out in invitation. "Come over here."

"D-Don't treat me like a child! I'm not that—"

"Come on."

"Shut up!" He heaves a sob. The tears roll in inexorable streams down his cheeks; he shakes his head and covers his eyes with the breadth of his sleeve. "Shut up..."

"Then I'll come over to you."

He closes their short distance in a few steps and bundles the crying sage up against him in a tight but gentle hug. Soren is so small compared to him that he all but disappears in his embrace, burrowing into it and purging the rest of his tears in muffled howls against his chest. The blue-haired warrior softens, draws him closer, runs a comforting hand over his back in slow strokes.

"It's all in the past, Soren..."

They remain like this for a while longer, Soren emptying all of his repressed grief and anguish into his dear friend, but the balance shifts, and it's as if he... notices a foreign presence. He peeks up from the security of his arms and finds his suspicions confirmed. But as he does so, the cherished memory invariably ends.

Ike shatters into millions of shards. Rattled, Soren swipes at them desperately only to disperse the crystals further away until they blink into nothingness. "No! Ike!" Soren whips around and glares accusingly at you, like you're the one who took his friend away from him, tears still erupting from his eyes like a broken pipe and the ragged sobs still alive in his throat.

"You...!" A hiccup bursts. "G-Go away!" He drags his broad sleeves across his eyes, can't bring his wretched ribs to stop convulsing with sobs bigger than he is, and turns away so his wet and ruddy face can't be seen, marching off to cleave more distance between until he bumps into a column and leans. "How could you! J-Just... Leave! Leave me be! Aaaah..."

...with a hope of rolling over to the childhood memories

[incinerating]

It's hard to watch.

Emil has never really considered himself particularly emotionally savvy. In fact, it isn't something he's even put much thought into, whether or not he's great with dealing with emotions or emotional people. He's always been more invested in his own social anxiety and presenting himself perfectly so he doesn't make a bad impression. Strangely, it's a trait he underestimates in himself, his emotional intelligence. Not that it would take much to understand what's happening here, even if he doesn't know the reasons behind it. And it's hard to watch.

Soren isn't someone he knows extremely well, not yet, even if he feels pretty invested in him as a potential friend already. But he does know him well enough to know that he's going to be pretty upset that Emil saw this, even before Soren notices he's there. Emil tries to close his eyes or look away or pretend he can't see what's happening as the big guy folds Soren up into his arms and holds him while he cries, but he can't seem to make himself. It isn't a compulsion or anything else unnatural...Emil just likes Soren and wants to be sure he's okay, even if this is a memory. He reminds himself it's already happened and it's over, that there's nothing he can do, not right now, and that Soren is the type of stoic, private person that would hate it if someone watched him cry without permission.

By the time Soren turns and calls for his friend (Ike...the name lodges itself in his memory as something important to a person he likes) Emil has just convinced himself not to watch anymore. He's half turned away, his hands lifting to cover his ears, when Soren shouts at him.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude!"

Lifting his hands in the universal gesture of harmlessness, he takes a step back as Soren glares at him, tears rolling down his red face, his breath coming in big gulping sobs. It hurts, to see a friend like that, and what he really wants to do is put a hand on his shoulder or give him a hug. But Soren is making it pretty obvious what he wants Emil to do, so he clamps down on the urge and turns away, biting his lip and dropping his hands, retreating a few steps further, making a point of not looking at him.

"I swear I was just turning around when you noticed me." he says, then pauses, biting his lip thoughtfully, eyes still downcast so he's not directly looking at Soren, "I can pretend I didn't see any of that. That's totally okay. I don't want to cross any lines. But...if you need to talk or anything, once you can...I'll listen."

your ticket is clipped and your destination is an emotional trainwreck!

[silentsavant]

Emil's words are a hateful blur, buzzing flies to him, no matter how they're fashioned to defend his intentions or console him into wanting to talk. Soren's heart is still too recrudesced, throbbing inside his chest like a wounded organ. He knows it's not Emil's fault. It's just a memory reflected by the magical mirrors. But for all that understanding, it doesn't dissolve the raw bitterness he feels, like Emil's presence replacing the phantom of Ike's is a cold reminder of the kind of company he has no choice but to keep when he would prefer to have only the one taken away from him.

For a moment, he just burbles into his sleeve, head nodded against the column. Curiously enough, he has not reverted back to a dragon form, taking on the appearance of who he had been at the time this memory took place. Naked of horns, wings, tail, scales — just soft, milky skin and ornate white robes.

"Wh-What is there to say...?" He wrenches another sob from his throat. "He's gone. My only friend.... I wish to talk to him."

[incinerating]

When Soren just continues to sob, burying his face into his arm and doesn't respond to him, at least not right away, Emil continues his turn, so his side is toward the other young man, keeps his eyes downcast. Soren chides him, asks what there is to say, says that his friend from the memory is the only one he wants to talk to, and Emil frowns, mouth pursed.

It isn't Emil's fault, he knows it's not his fault that he was here and saw what he saw. He also knows it isn't his fault that Soren's friend isn't here. And he knows it isn't Soren's fault that he doesn't want to talk to Emil about any of this. He knows that Soren can't be blamed for wanting the attention of one particular person and feeling upset that he isn't that person. But it still stings, he still feels responsible. He still feels guilty for not being that person, who is able to help.

"I'm sorry I'm not him. But he's at home, though, isn't he? Your home?"

[silentsavant]

A long and stifling silence passes. Then, Soren breaks it with a heaving, strangled sob, cries and gasps furiously until his throat isn't too clenched to form words again.

"Wh-What if he isn't?! What if I g-get back and..." He needn't finish the rest. The mere idea deals a heavy blow to his crumbling emotional state, collapsing him further into hiccups and tears. He shakes his head as though to openly defy such an unpleasant notion.

It's foolish to worry, he would tell himself if he were more put-together, his standard force of reason rather than a bewailing mess. People have come and gone through the mirrors. Even the dead have come through in spite of their final fates. Chances are, Ike is where he should be. But ever since those striking moments last summer, when two separate incidents led him to believe that Ike had not only touched this world before, but could be trapped dreaming? Slim what-if scenarios like these keep him up at night.

If he lost him, he would lose everything. Happiness, meaning, someone he can really trust. Even while preparing to lose him someday, he should never have to lose him like this. He bangs on the pillar in raw frustration at Talam, the Sisters, whoever was responsible for his abduction.

"This is all so... stupid! I should have never been taken from him... I don't want to be here anymore!"

just like me

[silentsavant]

You touch the surface of the mirror. It ripples, distorting the reflection of you and your surroundings. Cool glass melts against your fingers, sifts through your fingertips like the gentle flow of a river.

Your reflection changes to a dull gray sky. A wvyvern courses overhead, circling with a massive bird of prey in courtship of a skirmish. Sure enough, a river passes through your fingers, and you splash right into the water. Luckily enough, the vast stretch of the mature river is shallow, breaking for many towheads and gravel bars, so unless you're gnome-sized, you're probably not floundering. The din of a battlefield surrounds you on all sides. Metal screaming against metal. Cries of victory and defeat. The rush of wing beats. Thunder that doesn't come from the sky.

At the bank of an islet, a boy with long black hair and a curious mark upon his forehead meets a girl with shimmery silver locks. When their eyes meet, a connection strikes them both in the same measure, as though they recognize something about each other missed by everyone else.

"...Ah, that explains quite a bit about the stories that surround you," the boy says.

"Who are you?" It's as though the foundation of her world is rocking back and forth, hand crushed to her chest and golden eyes wide with wonder. "You’re... You’re just like me!"

Soren nods. "Yes, they call our kind the Branded. As the years pass, I understand better and better how others see us."

A charged silence passes between them. Her desperate gaze pierces him, softens into ruefulness. She clutches the red brooch of her off-shoulder capelet's clasp. "You are so... cold. It’s like you’re cloaked in frost. Is there even blood in your veins?"

"There is. Blood very similar to yours, in fact. Blood that teaches us what it means to be rejected and alone."

She closes her eyes. Her fingers unfurl. He watches her carefully. A smile alights upon her lips as she looks upon him once more. "Your heart is frozen, but I feel a warm core trying to melt through that ice. I see... You have someone you cherish very much. Someone you rely on."

Soren bristles then, his boot sploshing into the water as he twists and frowns at her like she'd stumbled upon him naked. "Do not presume to understand me, you ridiculous girl," he scolds with a cold-hot tone. "You have no idea who I am and what I can do. None at all." He straightens up into a ready stance, an emerald gust of magic sifting and furling about him with a spread of his fingers, playing with his billowing clothes. "Daein has no business in this war. I will defeat you swiftly and send you and your army back to Daein."

A consummate sorrow takes over, spilling into her words as she shakes her head in slow sways of disbelief. "I finally meet my own kind, and he is an enemy..." Her mourning ends there, hardening into the resolve to banish her personal feelings and do what she must. "...I will not retreat. I won’t let you go any further!"

He sweeps his sleeve and slices his Elwind into her; she meets him with a devastating ray of her light magic. The mages engage in this dance of battle, never closing distance, neither of them seeming to best the other before the memory begins to fade, the actors becoming like mist floating along the river. The war dies to the peace of running water. Only Soren remains, coming to as though snapping out of a spell. He holds his tome to his chest, glances about the whole field as though in hope that something remains, and sighs when he comes up unsatisfied. He sends a sidelong look at the interloper of his memories, unruffled by your presence. But he shakes his head and gazes out into the distance again.

"I'm not sure if that conversation held much meaning to you at all."

spitting image (cw: war, descriptions of violence and bloodshed)

[silentsavant]

The frosty air is whipped and broken by screams and steel, snarls and claws, blood and ballista bolts.

You stand just past the outer gate of a formidable castle thats curtain wall has been breached. Reinforcements continue to pour in; a platoon of tigers and big cats dash right through you on their way to the lowest rampart ahead, where more of their comrades bowl past the garrison forces with razor-sharp fangs and powerful bodies, fluid agility and the plunge of giant talons and beaks. And their armed and armored enemies cannot mask their fear when so many of their own troops have collapsed, so many snow-dusted steps soak up the stark spillage, when the army of bird and beast men scale past each layer of defense and keep barging in by the second.

It would appear at a glance that the side of the army you have been placed on is composed of... animals. And the commander stands just inside the outer gate as the monstrous warriors flood the castle, one of only two figures lacking wings or tails: a blue-haired man with the robust build of someone who's lived his life fighting, his heavy sword a brilliant golden luster with a distinctive spade-shaped tip. The small man who attends his side with dark hair tied back, garbed in pristine white— anyone who knows him can tell it's Soren, back when wings didn't hang off his back and horns didn't poke through his skull. Their focus on the battle never wavers, even when an ear is lent and whispers are spoken between them about the shift and flow of their battle.

A man with blue fur, a cat's ears and tail, and a flappy orange cap stops to engage the swordsman with words that look to hold the weight of information from a distance; Soren listens in as well, then glances behind them as a strong and regal woman with pointed ears, a colorful drape of cloth covering one eye, and a fluffy tail arrives with a willowy ethereal beauty of a man: snowy robes, feathered wings, and a pale gold cascade of hair. She has something to add as well, scanning the battlefield ahead and locking her eyes on the inner gate, her goal and theirs.

The battle rages, consumes more ground even when the defending army tries valiantly and desperately to repel them. Just a few moments later, a group of about ten soldiers, this time with no animal features, crowd in from the breached gates, a variety of hair colors, equipment, weapons, and ages, but many of them on the younger side verging their teens and twenties yet carrying a comportment seasoned for battle in spite of their youth. Snipers; cavalrymen; a priest; swords, axes, lances... It is at this point that the commander moves out with his mercenaries, and so does the cat warrior who took his place on the side opposite Soren's. The wolfish woman takes this as her cue, too: her form shifts, the seraphic being carefully mounts her, and she bounds into the fray, expertly ducking and dodging every lance and arrow flung at them to skirt past and advance up the platforms.

Soren alone stands back, gripped by a feeling of foreboding he wouldn't begin to know how to explain, his vivid red eyes transfixed by the sky. Their victory should be secured here; they've broken past the inner gates; their opposition has crumbled in numbers and morale. Something in the thick and violent air is changing.

Soon, it becomes clear what that sense of impending might have been. A vast, winged shape darkens the horizon like black ink leaking onto a painted sunset. And then...

The dragon throws bright, searing breath into the castle, collapsing a turret as easily as one might topple a sandcastle. Soldiers on both sides scatter and scream. The earth reverberates with its fall.

Soren still remains transfixed by the sight even after he's snapped out of the memory, reclaimed recognition that he was reliving one through the mirrors and that soon, like all others, it should come to some natural end. But a quick flitting glance sent your direction indicates that he is no longer a figment, realizes your presence aligns with his. Calmly, with a trace of unsettled wonder, he sweeps his hand palm-down as if to admire the softness of his fingers, dull human nails, before its structure is steadily displaced by something rougher and clawed, the nightly scales just as dark as the dragon's ahead. The rest of Soren's transformation unfurls in the same measure: his four pointed horns growing in fast-forward, his wings bursting out his back like a flower blooming all at once, his tail slithering out of his backside... All a painless procedure.

The dragon shares his colors, his features, like they're one in the same species. And he regards the other one like he's harnessed a new appreciation, one that disturbs the usual placidity of his features.

( ooc: the memory will continue to play out in the background while present Soren can be engaged with. It will fade out soon. )

[nishiki]

His tail is now twice it's normal size, fur puffing up as Soren acknowledges this kitsune's presence. The transformation in front of him forces Kaden's eyes to widen, mouth parting slightly as the the horns sprout and the wings and tail make themselves known. They're features that Kaden recognizes as dragon-like, ones from another Mirrorbound he's met before, and that allows his tail to finally stand down after a time.

Especially because he's not getting charged at and tackled a high speed. This would be the worst place for some roughhousing to begin with.

But now he feels awkward, and Kaden opens his mouth to say something at first before closing it. Then, he tries again:

"... there were so many of them. But... I didn't see any Beaststones."

[silentsavant]

The fighters scramble about in rattled disarray even while the battle all but ceases, especially as a small, pink-haired girl sharing a majestically-suited pegasus with another rider commands all to throw their weapons down. The winged mount remains close to the hovering dragon and its crashing wing beats, indicating an alliance. Soren's attention is now more divided than before, allowing his curiosity to encompass his guest. He turns to get a better look at the kitsune, who, for all he knows, may just be a Turnskin warped into a beastlike shape by the influence of Talam. It's not his body that warrants as much interest as his remark.

"Beaststones?"

[nishiki]

With a few firm nods, Kaden again looks at that dragon and then back to Soren. Carefully, he reaches into the folds of his scarf and pulls out the cracked amber colored stone with the smallest paw print in the center. Sadly, a visible crack mars that symbol, and has rendered it inert. It still glows, though from constant care and not from the magic it once held.

"Yeah, one of these. My people need them in order to change."

He takes this time to close the distance between the two of them, in order to get a better look... but also to feel more comfortable. While Kaden is no Turnskin himself, being near one is a very shallow way to feel more at home.

"I know it sounds odd, but it's true."

[silentsavant]

Kaden imbues even more curiosity into the young dragon, who angles a little more to face him. "So you're not a Turnskin, then. You've always looked like this."

He glances over to some of the laguz up ahead, many of them reverting from their feline, aquiline, and corvid forms to stand on two legs. Like this fellow transported to his memory, they're mostly human in appearance sans tails and ears and wings. If anything, he looks a little bit like one from the wolf tribes— not that he's seen many of them.

A long time ago, back when he first arrived in Aefenglom, he'd made the mistake of assuming someone with the same sort of catlike features was a laguz who'd found himself in Aefenglom, taken from Tellius just like he'd been. This definitely doesn't appear to be the case, but he can't help but draw some interesting connections. Him changing doesn't seem strange at all. It's the stone. Sure, laguz stones exist to help trigger a transformation even while tired, but they never needed them to do it.

"You mean to tell me you cannot shift without the help of that stone?"

no love (cw: child abuse; suffocation)

[silentsavant]

The mirror transports you into the dingy interior of a cramped house. Sickly daylight and a spitting hearth serve as the sole sources of light. A woman heaving a basket of linens slices into the dimness with a bump of the door, a miserable etch to her face. She shuts it behind her with a swing of her body upon distant mockery. A fresh bruise blooms on her temple. The floorboards creak with her steps as she moves further into the house, so distrait that the sight of a tiny, pale boy with black and matted chin-length hair toddling along with rickety steps goes unnoticed at first. When she does see him, she unhinges a gasping shriek and nearly drops her laundry.

"You're... Oh, by the Goddess. You're walking."

Her astonishment dies with her voice into a flatline, like she's disappointed to learn that her little one-year-old has reached a milestone. No ascension into parental rapture. The tyke fails to register this as odd, however, and breaks into a laughing smile at her attention. She groans on a heavy sigh as she sets the basket down, uneasiness casting shadows across her face as she watches him.

"How did you get out, anyway?"

In the memoryscape, another figure stands by, witnessing the scene play out with folded arms, distant focus, and a deep frown. The young child shares this figure's features, from his crimson eyes to his dark hair to the unmistakable mark stamped over his brow. He's much different now, standing at just over five feet tall... and with the draconic features that his time spent in Aefenglom had earned him. Seeing this memory does not bring any amount of joy to his features. Rather, he looks solemn. Dreading. He doesn't seem to pay you any mind.

It is at this moment that the child chooses to test his new legs to see if he can wobble his way over to his caretaker. He makes great headway and doesn't even trip. She backs up in instinctive fright.

"No!" she barks. "Stay away from me! Get— Get back, you creep...!"

She shoves him. He topples and slams into the floor, stricken with shock and stupefaction. Then, his face screws up. Fat tears roll out of his eyes and he breaks the quiet with wails of hurt.

The woman looks just as stricken as he did for a moment. Upset, even, like she didn't know what possessed her. Her hands start to shake, her face reddening along with his. But sorrow doesn't crinkle her face; her jaw hardens and her brow closes with temper.

"You stop that!" she demands on a desperate and heated voice that quakes. He doesn't heed her, only gurgles and shrieks in louder peals. "Curse you! Stop that infernal noise! Right now! I'll— Oh, I could go crazy!"

Soren averts his eyes. He squeezes his finned arms a little more tightly to his chest.

( ooc: this memory is not done playing out, but as a warning will proceed to get darker and continue to feature the blatant emotional and physical abuse of a very small child. )

[seemstressed]

<sub>[From a young age Tataru never had the luxury of going through life with rose tinted glasses. Injustices and hardship were simply the reality of growing up and she's seen her fair share of both. Still, it's hard not to feel compelled to act when such an innocent is suffering abuse, like the toddler in the memory. The poor babe can barely walk, having only learned to waddle. How cruel could a mother be to her own child? How could one carry life inside them for so long, only to despise it once it was born? There were concoctions one could take, herbs to ingest to stop a woman from becoming an untimely mother...but even Tataru knows those can be luxuries some cannot afford. Accidents happen and childen, unfortunately, could be seen as such.

Just like the child here before her.

She knows from previous memories she's stumbled into that she cannot change what transpires, but it's impossible to not be compelled to do something. Over she hurries to the crying boy, kneeling beside him, hands hovering worriedly over his form.]</sub>

A-Ah! Don't cry darling, please!

_{[Maybe she should tell herself that. After all, her own eyes are wet with tears.]}

[silentsavant]

[Her feckless attempt at comforting his past self manages to prick him in the chest, makes him release the tension built in his self-squeeze. What does she think she is doing? She probably doesn't know what she hopes to accomplish. She's running on instinct. She probably just wants him to stop as much as his caretaker did.]

He can't hear you. He's only a memory. Nothing real.

[The real boy lives on in the corner of the room, the energy of this place whipping a storm inside of him, enough to have made his words tight. He can't help but wonder if Tataru had really been there, would she have been able to break his cries? Or would the sorry sheen of her eyes only exacerbate them? She looks about ready to join in any second, after all.

... It wouldn't matter. She cannot change his past, no matter how much she might want to. The agitated woman starts to pace, wringing her hands and muttering curses for her fate. The child can't be ordered to put a stop to his wailing; it only pitches and crescendos.]

...I would step away, if I were you.

[seemstressed]

<sub>[He's only a memory. That may be true, but that doesn't make the whole experience any less traumatic. These are old wounds she's bearing witness to. Soren's voice cuts through the scene playing out that she's submersed herself in, wide, worried eyes fixing on his form. He's tense, anxiety present in his limbs as he holds himself. He tells her to step away and it takes everything in her to do as she's told. To extract herself from a situation she can't change. It's the past, after all. That's not something that can ever be changed.

Sniffly and cheeks now wet as she moves away from the toddler she hurries her way toward where Soren is, reaching up with her tiny hands to wave them anxiously.]</sub>

T-This...I know it may be out of line to say but...this isn't something you ought to have to relive!

_{[All she can think of is Henry and the agony he went through, and how she had to drag him away from the scene, to calm down in the forest of his mind. If this is another instance of something similar she doubts it will end well.]}

[silentsavant]

[Soren's not sure how to respond to that insistence for a moment. He fixes his attention on her frantic, wriggling form and the tears misting her eyes before he finds himself too affected by a near-stranger's concern for his childhood's sake to bear witness. It's too late for pity. The damage has been done.]

...Reliving it? That's easy.

[That's an overstatement, but one that remains true as long as reliving it like a bystander in his own mind can be compared to something much harsher. His caretaker reaches a tipping point. With a monstrous scream she bustles over, yanks one of the rags from the bushel, and pounces upon the child to shove it in his face, stifle him, her hand a white spidery claw attempting to suck the wind out of his howling by panic and force. Muffled cries pierce through the fabric sharper than before, whetted by heightened fear.]

Living it was harder. But it shaped me into who I am.

[She shakes him, increasingly horrified. Blurts 'monster' like she sees one in the house but knows where it really lurks. And knowing where whips her into displacing her hysterical burst of frustration out on the child with the mark, and yes; he's a monster, a fiend, should cut that cursed wailing out because she's the one who should be crying about what he's done to her, what they're saying about her, and he's lucky she hasn't thrown him out! Angry tears bead her flashing eyes, each wag of her tongue steeped in more venom. Soren's glare rests upon her the color of fire but cold as winter.]

Why didn't you? You would have been relieved of your burden much sooner. And I, you.

hate... that, i could understand (cw: child abuse; fantasy racism; mob violence; minor blood)

[silentsavant]

"Devil!"

"Vermin!"

"Go find somewhere to die already, you little plague beast! Just watching you breathe sickens me!"

These invectives are slung at a small, helpless boy trembling to rise from dirty scraped and bare knees, along with rocks and clods of dirt and other handfuls and of filth and mouthfuls of spit from a mob of villagers encroaching upon him in a collective effort to run him out. He cowers, eyes shining in confused hurt and wild terror. Even when he finds the stability to stumble into a run, he collides with their brooms and sticks and is battered this way and that, pelted for not running away fast enough on skinny, feeble legs.

The poor child doesn't look fed or cared for, like he doesn't have a home he can retreat to.

"Eww! I almost touched it!" giggles a girl about his age, skipping away like this is all some game and she is on the winning team, her jeering making it clear whose side she is on.

"Get away from that thing!" shrieks her mother, wrenching her arm. "Ashera's sake! He might bite you! He's like a wild animal, you know!"

"Yes! Even the sub-hum— th-the laguz are afraid of him..."

"Huh?" The girls snaps out of her impish gaiety. "Why?"

"See that mark? It means he's cursed. If you so much as touch him, he might invite the blackest of darkness into your life..."

She hides behind her mother, changing her mind about how much fun she should be having picking on the boy everyone makes a sport of hating.

Their victim manages to gather the scraps of necessary strength to scramble away from the furthest house down that dirt lane. When he reaches the forest edge, he staggers back to his hands and knees, a dizzy, disoriented look to his hazy gaze. From the bushes, a pair of boys emerge.

"Psst. Hey," the older one whispers.

Soren shrinks away with a soft whimper. The other boy shuffles closer, holding out a loaf of bread with a smile.

"You're hungry, aren'cha?"

The damnable boy with the mark hesitates, eyeing the offering of food with palpable need while monitoring the young villager who holds it. His mouth starts glistening along with his wide eyes.

"Hey, it's okay! I saw you begging earlier. C'mon!" He waves the food at him. "Take it!"

They're both grinning at him, like they're ready to burst out laughing at any moment. Like they're waiting for a punchline. The boy breaks the bread in half and offers one of them to little Soren, whose hands tremble as he slowly reaches for this gift of sustenance. But just before he can take it...

"Eat this, you mangy cur!!"

The older kid launches a chicken egg that breaks across his face so hard he falls backwards with an anguished cry. They split into self-congratulatory laughter, peals of raucous delight at how his hope shutters so quickly to misfortune, sling volleys of eggs and dung and stones at him as they tell him to scram. The sting of this betrayal dances miserably in Soren's eyes as he crawls away for cover.

but this was denial (cw: fantasy racism; child neglect; minor blood)

[silentsavant]

When you venture into this mirror, you trade the cool Aereuer night air for the muggy, oppressive heat of a jungle. Carved into the dense and tangled woods are signs of civilization: huts; stone buildings creeping with vines; thatched stalls and fragrant smoke rising; walking paths where the natural undergrowth has been frequently trampled.

A puny boy tiptoes along clutching his sparse belongings and an injured arm that needs tending to him, weary, disheveled, a neglected look to his appearance, and on high alert. Why he might have reason to shuffle along in quiet fear becomes apparent as a massive, hairy gray tiger with protruding dagger-like fangs slinks along the bracken. It notices him trespassing. He freezes. The tiger freezes, too.

But it doesn't attack. It takes one look at the child and no more, its muzzle twitching as though it had tasted something unexpectedly bitter. Then, it continues on its way.

The boy looks mystified by its reaction, eyes wide and puzzling out why the beast hadn't stricken him down right there. Then, he moves along.

He encounters more of the same thing. Big cats, turned noses. Repulsion fashioned into cold disregard. Looks that penetrate right through him as though he is invisible. The deeper he gets into the settlement, the more of the same treatment he gets.

Most of the inhabitants don't roam on four legs— rather, they have an appearance about them like some styles of unshifted Turnskin in Geardagas. Even though he is bleeding, even though he wobbles like his head is light and he could use some food or potable water, none of them take heed of his presence. Even when they walk by him, it is as though little Soren is a ghost to them.

Branches rustle and twigs snap. The owner of this memory wears the same coldness that flashes on the faces of the beast men as he regards the interloper of his mind, but he's quick to direct it out into the clearing where his younger self struggles in anxious, mute frustration to bring the attention of a single person to his obvious plight. He empties a resigned sigh, tail lashing at the base of a tree next to him as he perches one foot upon the bulbous root.

"I see you've somehow stumbled upon this happy memory of mine," grumbles the dragon.

( ooc: the memory will continue to play out. it won't get all that much worse than this, just some hints of the racial persecution that is happening here. )

[usurpers]

[ eren huffs out the beginnings of ironic laughter, but all that seems to come from his observing gaze is callousness only gained through the exacting pull of mistreatment and oppression. it hadn't even been for most of his life, but with all the memories that live in him— it felt like three lifetimes. it felt like centuries.

his own tail doesn't sway, or move. it sits stationary behind him, and only twitches when he lowers his gaze down to the child he chooses to follow. ]

What are you to them?

[ besides the obvious nothing. he knows what this is. ]

[silentsavant]

A wound to their pride. A stain upon their way of life. My very birth foretold to unleash a whole host of curses upon their kind.

[ thump. a particularly angry flick. poor tree... ]

[ little soren treads close to a huddle of men engaged in conversation. they had already shared in their glowers and unspoken disgust, the kind reserved for pretending not to see the deranged habits of someone deemed mentally unsound, like soren was someone defecating where all can see and not a helpless, hurting child: too embarrassing to even acknowledge. he comes close to them, hoping for something different. a squeaking utterance rises from his dry vocal chords as he lifts his gashed arm up to show it to the crowd, but none of them look. they keep going on as usual, using even more spoken language than before as though to emphasize how much they are actively disregarding him. ]

I didn't know this at the time. Didn't know how they saw me, what they smelled on me. I'm one of those called the Branded. To them, I am known as the Parentless. A mix between one of their kind — the laguz — and those of the beorc, otherwise known here as 'humans'. Such a union was unspeakably taboo.

[usurpers]

[ putting himself in the shoes of the boy was a simple step, even though eren hadn’t gone through the exact event as a child. no, the persecution came later, then in the form of memories, belonging to young eldian children . . . putting himself into the shoes of one who hates was difficult, but soon understood with melancholy. he hates it. he truly hates it, but he shows little of his scorn too fatigued from the sheer amount humanity could provide that it’s useless to waste his breath and energy. still, it pissed him off. if there were any way to change this, he would in a heartbeat.

so far, the answer is apparently omnicide. ]

Were they right?

[ not— trying to be pessimistic or even insulting, but realistic as he’s been since young. there was the heartfelt way to look at it, as the victim, and there was a more rational approach to the understanding. it took eren a while to get it, but he eventually did. eldians too, were no more than a race of beings who become monstrous giants hellbent on eating people. that’s all the world would see and nothing could so much as change something that was as true as day and night. just need to find your work-arounds. ]

i'll think of you each time they wash me in their light

[silentsavant]

When your gaze falls upon this mirror, the glass reflects a bounty of nascent stars. Distant mountain peaks cut jagged shapes into the clear evening sky, aglow with the purple fade of the nodding sun. Touch the stars, and you will be transported into the balmy embrace of a summer night.



You find yourself standing on a gently-sloped hill taller and more prominent than its surrounding knolls. Meadows bedecked by wildflowers that sweeten the cooling air sweep much of the landscape below, curtained by mixed patches of forest dominated by tufted pines. From this vantage point, faint torchlight and smoke streams can be spotted, one from far glowing with more specks and one tucked within a stroll's reach below. At the swooping crest of the hill, two figures perch, palms splayed behind them, one big and broad-shouldered, the other wispy, Soren's silhouette.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, heads tilted to the sky. Crickets murmur; the breeze whispers; the sky darkens imperceptibly as the minutes creep along and shier stars emerge. One makes a bold streak across the sky. The two men turn to each other, sharing in the knowledge that they shared in the wondrous cosmic event.

"Beautiful night," the taller man remarks, turning his eyes back to the sky. "I'm glad I came up here."

"I'm glad I knew where to find you," quips Soren on good humor. He does not look back up, but wears a face like he's not missing out on a single sight by doing so.

"You always know where to find me, Soren."

"Please. It should be obvious. You've had this unfocused look in your eyes all day. Anyone can see that."

"And?"

"And it makes you restless. When training doesn't solve that, when a good meal doesn't, either... you go to the highest place you can find and gaze out upon the horizon."

"That obvious, huh?" He folds his arms behind him on the grass and rests his head on his hands. "Jeez... I swear. You know more about me than even I do."

A soft note of laughter rises from Soren. He collapses and takes his place beside him. They both rest their eyes on the stars, another spell of silence passing between them.

"Hey, Soren..."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever wondered if there's anything up there?"

"Stars, Ike. And the moon, and clouds..."

Ike snorts. "Oh, come on. Give me a break, here."

"Why are you asking?"

"Well... We've been all over Tellius. I've seen all sorts of places. The heart of Gallia, Serenes Forest, the ruins of Grann Desert... heck, even Goldoa. But even though it feels like I've seen it all, I can't help but wonder what lies beyond all of this. I can't stop thinking about it."

"I see..."

"It's been a long time since we've traveled like that. I kinda miss it. But with me in charge of the Greil Mercenaries, I can't exactly drop everything and leave it all behind."

Soren cants his head, unrest swimming in the way he regards his friend. Ike continues.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of what's become of my father's legacy. We've done a lot of good for the world, our little group, and still do. But it's getting harder and harder to scratch this itch I've been having to just... go out. See more of Tellius, but with nothing tying me down. Maybe there's even a whole new world out there, one without beorc and laguz. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Yes... I suppose it would."

Ike turns his head to meet Soren's gaze. "That's why someday, when things settle down... When the time comes, I'd like us to go on a journey."

"Us?"

"Of course."

"As in... you and I?"

Laughter shines in his voice. "If you thought for a second I wasn't hoping to take you with me, then maybe you don't know me as well as you thought you did. Well? You coming, or not?"

Starlight catches in Soren's eyes. He's helpless against the urge to smile. "Ike... Of course. I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather go." He rolls his head back up. "...That does sound nice, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. In a way, it'll be like no matter where I go, I'll always be home."

"I like that very much. Someday, Ike. Who knows? Maybe someday, we'll even figure out how to embark upon the stars."

"Hahaha..."

Ike's laughter fades naturally, then unnaturally, like an echo bouncing off the mountains. Soren's smile begins to fade, too, all the playful light dulling in his eyes as he comes to terms with this being nothing but a very vivid memory, one he replays with such frequency that, for a while, he'd become a part of it.

But it's like the rest of these reflections of these many moments: an image, nothing to hold onto. He sits up and watches the remnants of Ike's projection evaporate into the pall of night, knowing better than to grasp at it because he'll never be able to keep him. His hand unfolds with the other and rests upon the grass his companion once laid upon, his indentation still bending the weeds.

"..."

He simply cannot bring himself to say anything when his throat closes up like this.

[wylderrant]

"Oh, Soren," Iramaat breathes. She has been exploring this dream - her own and others - and seeing which mirrors grab her attention. Soren's did, eventually, and now she is here, watching the memory play out. It feels like a happy memory - or at least a calm one - but even so, she can taste the melancholy. She can see the loss and does not need to put a word to it to understand.

It's something she wouldn't have properly understood herself until a few months ago, but that doesn't make her any less sympathetic. Sort of. She knows this sense of longing.

"I'm sorry."

For seeing this? For his loss? It's not clear.

[silentsavant]

His head lifts to glimpse who stumbled into his memories this time, but as his eyes fall to her, the voice registers as one he'd heard before, too. Then, his gaze falls to the compacted grass. He hasn't the heart to take his palm off it.

A window as to what he once looked like stays wide open for Iramaat. It's as though his body hasn't quite woken up to the fact that his present-day form should look quite different, and he remains soft rather than scaly for now. Soren shows no sign of being bothered by this witness, only thoughtful and downcast about his own loss.

He lifts his sights back out to the spread of starlight, the constellations he's always known. They've never stricken him as old friends before. Seeing them now carves even more desolation into him, but in the same measure, they brighten the shaded chambers of his heart. Never before has he refused to take this sight for granted as much as he has in a moment like this. He'd be content to stay here just a little while longer, if he can.

And Iramaat, of all people, can taste what he must be feeling. It was lodged in the way she uttered his name. Nobody in any universe could replace the man who laid beside him, but his loneliness is as vast as the distance that must separate him from Ike right now. To sit here where he once was, left all alone in this precious memory... The idea of that seems unbearable no matter how much he longs to bask in nostalgia. It is with this feeling spiking at him that he chooses to keep the company that was given to him. Besides, where else could she go?

"...The night is long, and filled with memories far worse than ones like these." A pause, and then an invitation: "There is room on the other side of me."

[wylderrant]

Iramaat doesn't say anything for a long while. She just stands and watches him, not quite sure what she ought to do. True, she'd wandered in out of curiosity, not quite sure where this particular mirror was going to take her. Now she knows and it makes a few things fit together, it makes a few things click. But there's still that feeling of intrusion. At least until Soren speaks again. Then she takes a few cautious steps, hooves shifting in the grass as she comes closer.

She has loved and lost and never thought it would matter until it did. She doesn't always understand the pain that others go through, but this one, she thinks she does. The invitation sits between them and then she finally nods and accepts and pads over to settle in alongside him, drawing her legs up to her chest.

"I'm sorry. You probably didn't want anyone else to see that, did you?"