015 ✭ my love, we can live on the sun

[copernicus]

haha wow i sure did forget to repost this here


our identical hands
3200ish, fire emblem tellius, jill/mist, soulmates au with soulmate markings. pg? ish? some stuff about wounded soldiers but nothing graphic. i'm so bad at content warnings and ratings.

In Port Toha Jill is too focused on other things to notice. The heat of a battle, her wyvern moving under her, her axe a sure, anchoring weight in her hands. It all blurs together into dizzying excitement. She feels her chest is going to burst. She imagines herself coming back to the camp, her armour and weapon both splattered with blood. Everyone looking at her with awe and fear. She imagines herself a terror to all who would dare oppose Daein. She loses herself in her reverie like in drunk haze. This is why the burning sensation around her left wrist escapes her.

After the sun has set and she has swallowed her anger and disappointment, she retires to her tent and takes her gloves off. This is when she finally sees the lines on her left wrist. They braid together like a thin but complex bracelet. They are dark pink, different enough to draw the eye, and when she touches them, they still feel warm. Jill grabs her wrist, trying to cover the marks up. It stings, and she hisses.

Jill grits her teeth and puts her gloves back on. The lines looked already faded, and they didn’t burn much until she touched them. Whatever – whoever – they were reacting too couldn’t be close by, then. It definitely wasn’t one of the soldiers in the camp. But if not in here, then the only other place would be—No. This must be some mistake. She must have put her glove on too tight, it must have rubbed against her wrist too much.

By the time the sun rises, Jill has a new goal in mind. The mark on her wrist is an unwelcome distraction, and she puts it out of her mind for now.

 

On the ship, Jill is calmer. She holds her head straight, her grip on her axe is tight, and when she calls to the commander her voice is clear. She’s pleased with herself. Her mind and resolve aren’t clouded by anything. This clear state of mind is why the burn doesn’t escape her attention this time. She feels every thin line of the bracelet like a separate thread of white-hot iron. This isn’t the time, this isn’t the place, she thinks, and forces herself to focus on the battle. She adjusts her grip on her weapon, reminding herself she’s in enemy territory and that to reveal herself would be dangerous. And, as an afterthought, that to pursue the source of the pulsing warmth on her arm would be treason.

Jill doesn’t introduce herself to anyone, nor does she shake anyone’s hand after the battle. She doesn’t greet anyone the next morning, either. People talk behind and around her, not to her, but that’s good. All the better if nobody thinks to approach her. She isn’t one of them and she will never be.

One evening, she overhears the commander’s sister ask the medic about something to soothe burns. The man says something Jill doesn’t quite catch, and she doesn’t stay to listen more. Of course the girl would have burns, they all did. They fought fire mages a few days ago, after all. When Jill is back in her cabin, she takes a deep breath, and realises her fingers are wrapped around her wrist again.

 

A few weeks later Jill approaches the medic herself.

“Give me something for burns,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Please.”

“Certainly.”

The medic – Rhys, his name is Rhys – nods and turns away to look for what she wants. Jill folds her arms and looks around the tent. She recognises almost nothing inside it. She picks up a vulnerary pouch from a table and weights it in her hand. This is familiar, at least. A vulnerary is a soldier’s best friend. She understands this saying now better than ever, as she has been trying to take care of her injuries on her own as much as she could. Even in Daein’s army, she did her best to avoid the medics’ tents. It was a matter of pride more than anything. She remembers looking at other wounded soldiers, men and women swaying on their feet despite using crutches, their faces covered in dirty bandages. She had felt both pity and disdain for them, promising herself never to be pathetic and helpless like that.

These mercenaries are different. They have medics running around the battlefield, risking their lives like common soldiers. And they feel no shame asking for their help. Not even from the commander’s sister. The girl – was her name Mia? No, something else. Meg? Marcia? No, that was the pegasus rider.

“It’s better to prevent sunburn than to treat it,” Rhys says, and Jill snaps her head up. She almost drops the vulnerary. Her cheeks burn and she rushes to put the pouch back in its place. The medic just smiles.

“I told Mist the same thing. At least you cover more of your skin,” he continues. He holds out two small bottles to her. Jill takes them and mumbles a thank you, but it’s hard for her to focus. Her head is buzzing. Mist, the commander’s sister’s name is Mist.

 

Her wrist pulses with warmth even if she puts a wet cloth on it, even if she buys expensive lotion made for Begnion nobles. Mist smiles at her, asks her to eat with her, and Jill feels like her hand will be seared off. She sees Mist run around the battlefield, healing people or cheering them on, and the heat spreads from Jill’s wrist through her entire body.

She finds herself wishing Mist would heal her, too. She wonders how the magic of a healing staff feels. It must be warm, she decides. Warm, but like a blanket wrapping around you, warm like standing in soft sunlight. Not blinding hot, like her mark.

 

Mist wears gloves, too. Jill notices this one day, after the other girl has brought her dinner. They’re off-white and go almost up to her elbows. They look thin and soft.

Mist wasn’t wearing them when Jill joined the mercenaries.

Jill wants to ask about them, but can’t find words that wouldn’t betray her. She knows that this might be the last chance she gets in a long while. There haven’t been many occasions for her and Mist to talk in private. Or to talk at all, really. Mist spends so much time around her brother and his companions, among people Jill has neither a place with, nor any interest in. These rare meals are the only time they spend together.

Unable to find a better solution, she pretends to notice the gloves when her mouth is full, and gestures to Mist’s hands with her fork. It’s crude, but it will have to do.

“Oh, these?” Mist chirps and rubs one hand with the other. “Titania bought them for me. She got me a dress, too, but I think it’s too pretty to wear on the road, so I’ve got it packed away for now.”

“They suit you,” Jill says after swallowing. “It’s a nice colour.” She hopes this is what she should be saying in this situation.

“Isn’t it?” Mist beams. “And the fabric is so smooth, too, look!” She holds out her right hand to Jill, who freezes. She isn’t wearing her gloves. Her sleeves are usually long enough to make do, and even she has to admit that it’s more comfortable this way. When she’s alone and can keep her hands to herself, at least.

Mist is still smiling and holding her hand out, and Jill knows that the longer she waits, the ruder it will be. She weights her options again. She doesn’t want to upset Mist, she realises. She’s surprised to find it’s her priority. She will have to consider that later. For now, she takes a deep breath and takes Mist’s palm in her left hand, careful not to expose her wrist. She feels the material with her other hand. She can’t tell what it is, but it’s smooth and pleasant, just as Mist said.

Jill’s fingers brush against Mist’s wrist. It feels warm, but it might be just her imagination.

 

After Talrega, people from the army approach Jill. People she had never spoken to before. Unfamiliar voices say, I’m sorry, I know how it feels to lose someone. Strangers say, if you need to talk to someone, talk to me. Jill shakes her head and says, no, thank you. Her eyes sting. The commander tells her, you have the right for revenge. Jill keeps quiet. She knows that at least some of these people speak the truth. This only makes it hurt worse.

It doesn’t hurt when Mist comes to her. Mist has cried in front of Jill before. Jill, too, has cried in front of Mist before. She doesn’t have to feel ashamed. Mist only says, “I know.” She opens her arms and Jill almost runs to her, she wraps her arms around Mist and finally cries.

“I know,” Mist says, and her voice quivers. Jill embraces her tighter. Mist puts one of her hands at the back of Jill’s head and strokes her hair, whispering “I know.”

A warmth spreads through Jill. It’s gentler than the burn around her wrist.

 

Despite everyone being all too eager to put the war behind them, the goodbyes in Crimea drag on. Not everyone has plans like she does, Jill supposes. She knows that other people have more goodbyes to say.

She has thanked the commander already, but she hasn’t found an opportunity to talk to Mist yet. Haar is urging her to leave, in his own way. She refuses; not yet, not yet. Not before she can say a proper goodbye to Mist.

Jill finally finds her after a few days, sitting on a parapet, sewing something. When Mist hears footsteps, she looks up, and smiles when she sees who it is.

“Jill! It’s been so long since we last talked,” she says. Like it’s been years, and not a week at the longest. Jill can’t fault her for that, this is what she feels too. Mist moves aside a little and pats the space next to her, inviting Jill to sit down. Jill does just that; the stone is cold but she’s more comfortable being on eye-level with Mist.

“How long will you be staying in the castle?” she asks. “I’m not sure. Ike and Titania mentioned staying around until the coronation, but I don’t know when that will be.”

“But you’ll still be here for a while, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re going with Haar?”

Jill nods, more uncertain about their plans than ever. It was an opportunity to start something on her own, and she had been looking forward to it. She knew that the people she would meet through this job wouldn’t recognise her. There would be no expectations placed on her, good or bad, based on where she came from. It would be a new feeling. Liberating. She was excited and eager to start working before, both when she and Haar have discussed it, and when she told Mist about their plans. But now she has second thoughts.

“I’ll miss you,” she says. Her throat tightens up and her stomach twists in a knot. There’s more she has to say, more she wants to say, and she can’t manage. “I’ll miss you a lot.”

“I’ll miss you too, Jill. But,” Mist scoots closer to her and takes Jill’s hand between her own, “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon. And in the meantime I’ll write you letters!” She smiles widely, infectiously. Jill can’t help believing her. She carefully removes her hand from Mist’s grasp. The other girl seems surprised, until she sees Jill take her gloves off. She smiles again, then, understanding the intentions.

“I’ll look forward to that, then,” Jill says, and laces their fingers together.

 

Jill regrets not telling Mist then and there.

 

Mist does write to her. At first her letters are short and messy, with ink spilled everywhere. They improve over time, but even the early attempts are precious to Jill. It’s easy to imagine Mist saying all the things she writes about. Her older brother, the jobs they take, the rare meeting with old friends. The letters always end with Mist wishing she could see Jill, too. Jill always writes back, as soon as she has a chance, she will visit. She can try befriending Mist’s family, too.

Her wrist doesn’t burn at all these days, and Jill realises she misses the feeling. In the last weeks of war, she had grown used to it, and its absence is more noticeable than she expected. It feels like she’s always just a little too cold. She puts on extra layers, sleeps under as many covers as she can, but some part of her is always uncomfortable.

Before she can see Mist again, a new war breaks out.

 

Three years have passed and Jill is once again fighting and killing for Daein. It turns out that this is something you never forget how to do, much like walking or riding a wyvern. She has new armour and new weapons now, pristine, without chips and stains. Jill knows that soon enough they feel as natural as her old ones. It’s like stepping back into her skin, in a sense.

Lady Micaiah seeks her out, and others follow suit. The Dawn Brigade, and then the new Daein army, welcomes Jill among themselves. Even the people she recognises from three years ago look at her like at an old friend. It doesn’t seem to matter that they had spoken little, if at all, when fighting for Crimea. Maybe they have forgiven her for keeping to herself, and for what she preached and practised before joining the Greil Mercenaries. Maybe they have simply forgotten.

The war seems to end with King Pelleas’ crowning. Yet soon enough, the news of unrest from Crimea reaches Daein. When Jill hears about that, her blood freezes in her veins. She tells herself that Mist’s brother decided to stay out of the matters of queens and kings, that Mist is safe far away from Melior. This doesn’t suffice to calm her fear, and it grows inside her chest, suffocating her with its weight.

King Pelleas sends his army to fight alongside Begnion’s. Lady Micaiah says she trusts him. Another war is going on, and Jill curses it, knowing it’s pointless, and that she will not see Mist until it’s over.

 

She and Mist meet on the battlefield. Jill can feel her before she sees her, there’s a familiar heat bursting around her wrist. In an instant, she feels her chest fill with joy. Then she remembers where they are and her blood freezes again.

Mist sees her first and calls to her. Mist says, I won’t fight you, Jill, we’re friends, and Jill’s blood thaws. She makes up her mind, says she will join Gallia, and Mist says, I love you, Jill. Then she runs to heal someone, and if she hears Jill call after her, she doesn’t stop to listen.

 

The world is quiet after the judgement. A new goddess walks among them and guides their actions. She says there’s something of a goddess in Mist, too. As if Jill didn’t know that already. She doesn’t really understands these divine affairs. She knows she can trust her commanders again, and she knows how to follow their orders. And she’s been lucky enough to be assigned to the same army as Mist.

It’s winter now, and the snow reminds Jill of fairy tales from her childhood. Old stories from distant lands, in which the world ended with long snowfalls and endless silence. No matter how much trust she places in the commanders, a small part of her feels like the days are numbered, finite. And this is why she finally tells Mist.

Jill approaches her in the evening, on a day they haven’t had a battle on. Mist is sitting by one of the bonfires in the camp. Jill waves to her and sits down next to her.

“Aren’t you too cold out here?” she asks. Even with her mind made up, she delays the inevitable.

Mist shakes her head and says, “No, I’m fine here. My tent felt too small for some reason.” She tilts her head back. “And here I can look at the stars.”

Jill says nothing and looks into the fire. Its dance reminds her of the burn inside her chest. She sighs, takes her gloves off, and rolls up her left sleeve. Her bracelet is clearly visible. It pulses. Jill has become used to it now.

“Mist, there’s something I need to tell you,” she begins. “Or, rather, to show you.” Mist turns back to her and throws a glance at Jill’s wrist. Just a short look, that’s all. Jill isn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

Then Mist laughs.

“Jill, you’re so silly! I’ve known for a long time now.” She stops laughing, and peels her right glove off, too. There are matching lines around her wrist. They braid together like a thin but complex bracelet. It doesn’t stand out as much as they do on Jill’s – Mist’s skins is ever so slightly darker – but there’s no mistaking it.

“See? It felt warm when you were close. I missed that feeling when you were gone,” Mist continues. She aligns her arm with Jill’s so their bracelets line up. Jill’s wrist flares up, the lines turn brighter red, and Jill winces. Mist doesn’t. She keeps smiling.

“And, you know, even without that, I’d want to always be with you, Jill.”

Jill feels herself flush. It’s different from the warmth spreading from her wrist, distinct from the warmth from the fire.

“I know, Mist,” she says. “I feel the same. You’re a precious friend to me. And,” she hesitates.

“And?” Mist hums. There’s a glint in her eye. I know you know I know. But if she wants to hear it, Jill will say it.

“And I love you.”

Mist’s cheeks colour a little. “Yes, I know,” she whispers, and moves closer to Jill. Then, she kisses her.

 

After the goddess is defeated, Mist’s brother leaves, his tactician along with him. Jill wonders if these two hid their markings as well. Maybe she just didn’t pay enough attention to notice. Mist, on the other hand, doesn’t seem surprised.

Her bracelet doesn’t burn her, these days. It’s still a little warm, if she pays attention to it, but the blinding heat is gone. This is good. It could distract her from learning how to be a mercenary. Mist’s family is big, but they gladly welcome a new member. She would think they would be sadder to lose Ike, but it seems they understand his reasons well. As family would.

“Jill,” Mist asks as she climbs into their bed one rainy evening, “do you think we’d have met, without the war?” Her hair is a little messy. Jill takes a moment to brush a strand of it from Mist’s face before replying.

“I don’t know. Maybe we would,” she says. “Or maybe we wouldn’t have. Who knows?”

“Well,” Mist says, her voice certain, “I absolutely think we would have. I’m sure of it.”

“Good thing fate didn’t prove you wrong, then,” Jill replies, and rolls closer to embrace Mist. “I’m really lucky to have met you.”

She falls asleep soon after that.