[Fire Emblem 10] The Distant Shore

[runiclore]

The Distant Shore
By: Myaru
Theme: 009 - terror / 100-700 words
Game: 10: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Micaiah
Words: 642
Warnings: n/a

Notes: I don't think it's spoilery unless you already know the events of chapter three. Also, you learn about Micaiah's peculiar abilities very early in the game.



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This, Micaiah thinks, looking at the mist above the Ribahn River, must be what the spirit charmers see.

Ghosts.

She ran too far west when she fled Daein, knowing the boy she left behind would follow her. His ghost is here, and so is hers, figures of mist among faces she doesn't recognize. A cold, south-blowing wind cuts them to pieces. Micaiah can feel spirits curled in the rocks that ford the river to make them icy and slippery. Her feet twitch and cramp when she tells herself it's time to cross. Moss, wet leaves, mud, the mineral scent of the water, it all makes her cold. Her hair whips back with the wind, slaps her bare arms; her scarf twists around her neck. She isn't dressed for this; her leggings are thin and ripped over the knees, and her sleeves are threadbare, ripped for bandages a month ago when she slipped and scraped her hands up.

She's supposed to be better at this - at wandering. She does it all the time. The voices of the past and present follow her everywhere, every time she hikes past a settlement, walks through a town, talks to strangers. Their mouths tell her one thing and their hearts tell her another. Micaiah doesn't know how to turn it off; she might walk down a road in Begnion, see the fields crowded with workers taking in the harvest, and watch them cut the grain down while their thoughts twist in her stomach until she throws them up. Tired. Tired tired hate this where is my little girl they said families would no longer be separated tired, water, blood somebody is bleeding water and with the Ribahn so close, a sparkle on the western horizon that winked at Micaiah as she walked.

When she first came to the river, she saw her own face yelling at her, pointing, and a pixie-faced boy nocks an arrow to shoot at her from the rocks in the middle of the river. They're gone now. She can't see Sothe anymore either, just herself, but she smells blood. The river slithers past her boots in silky waves that reflect the dingy gray sky and do not shine at all.

Instead of just walking, Micaiah stomps and splashes across the river. The spirit faces shatter when she steps on them. She knows how ephemeral they are. Women line up to hear their fortunes when she stops to rest, and their dreams flicker by, brief as an early frost; children run into her while they play, or beg her for coin, and she sees their ghosts too-- children wearing masks of blood and staring at themselves while their living counterparts apologized to her, smiled at her, told her how pretty her silver hair is.

But Micaiah had never seen her own future before. Not like this, like sketches or paintings she gets to look at for an instant before they're taken away.

She stomps into her own reflection and the water splashes her knees, soaking through to the skin. Thunder mumbles from behind her, where there would be mountains if the fog didn't hide them like it blanketed the sun. She can see the far shore. How long has she been walking? Micaiah can hear them talking now. Rocks slide and clatter when she starts climbing up the incline to dry land.

There aren't any towns nearby - no friendly lights. Nothing but grass crackling and rattling in the wind, her own heavy breathing rasping in her ears. Water, frothing and bubbling. Her own voice shouting at her: there, on the rocks. Fire!

It isn't her imagination. The day is getting colder.


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