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Mist and Jill send each other letters often. Jill’s are usually well-structured, with scritchy handwriting and thoughts organized in neat paragraphs; Mist’s have more ink splotches than she’d ever admit to anyone, and she tends to ramble on and on, though Jill says she doesn’t mind. Better to know more than less, she says—or writes, rather.
The last one, dated a few days before Daein’s involvement in the war, is folded in Mist’s inside pocket when she sees Jill for the first time in three years.
Sothe won’t be convinced to join their cause; Jill’s letters already say that he’s way too attached to this Micaiah to even consider it, and Ranulf’s drawn expression pretty much confirms it. But Zihark is a good guy that hates any kind of persecution against the laguz, and Jill has grown so much from that all-consuming loathing and need for approval. What happened at the Ribahn can’t be something they’re proud of. They just need a little push, she’s sure, and she’s not the only one who thinks so: she’s talked with Mordecai and Brom and Ilyana. Even Haar had been wide awake when she’d asked him to help.
She is so grateful to them all.
And here she is, with Ike and everyone else, facing off against Daein yet again. She pushes past mangroves and steps over fallen logs, up to her shins in murky muck. Fog parts around her glowing staff as she heals a deep line running down Soren’s leg. The tactician nods grimly, and then mutters a quick ‘thank you’: it’s something he never would have done in the Mad King’s War, and Mist has to mash her lips together to prevent a pleased smile. She also does that to stop her teeth from chattering—the water’s cold, and just moving is exhausting—but that’s neither here nor there.
“Mist!” a voice calls out, and Mist looks up to a bush of green hair; it’s Rolf, running towards them both, pointing at somewhere in the fog behind him. He’s slightly out of breath, but his eyes glimmer in anticipation. “She’s here!”
The flutter in Mist’s chest can’t compare to how her muscles tighten, ready to get running. “Okay. Soren—”
“Go,” Soren tells her. “This is your best opportunity.” There’s nothing but dry ice in his tone, but Ike has trusted Soren from the very beginning, and Mist has learned to trust him too. She’s grateful to the tactician, for a lot of things but also for this: he’d adjusted his plans when he’d learned about their desire to poach some members off the enemy.
(“Anything that deprives Daein of an advantage is welcome, and anything that gives us that same advantage is even more so. Jill and Zihark are competent warriors; having them on our side will prove useful.” His words, not hers. But she thinks that maybe, hopefully, he doesn’t really want to see them hurt either. It’s not like they stop to try and recruit every single enemy, after all!)
Soren isn’t done, though; his eyes narrow. “Just know that if she doesn’t listen, or if you get injured or worse, then I expect you to live or die with the knowledge that you have burdened Ike for nothing.”
Ugh. Once a jerk, always a jerk. “I know, I know!” she gripes, but he’s got the right of it; Rolf’s become a great shot, and Mist herself is far from helpless, but a battle like this always means death isn’t far behind. And there’s no point in reaching out if it just means she’s gonna get her hand chopped off.
Besides, as the both of them squish and slosh their way through the river, it’s not like Jill’s the only enemy out there; Mist hears a halberdier’s splashing footsteps before she sees them burst out of the haze, face covered by a pitch-black helmet. They thrust, a single efficient motion, but she leaps away from the attack and away from Rolf’s sights, who wastes no time in firing an arrow, then another; the first bounces off armor, but the second one strikes right in the inside thigh. Mist kicks the gasping figure down with a big sploosh, and their lance is lost to the water. She and Rolf keep running.
(There’s no reason to finish off an unarmed opponent: they’re meant to be a decoy, a distraction, and they’re not here to kill if they don’t have to. Mist is used to death, and she’s gotten used to taking lives, but becoming accustomed to something doesn’t mean you have to like it or that you’re at peace with it; when she sees the glow of Physic from the corner of her eye, she can’t help her quiet exhale.)
Somewhere to her left lands the distant boom of thunder: hopefully Ilyana, making her way towards Zihark with Brom and Nephenee. Far to her right are Gatrie and Mia, and for a moment, something in Mist’s heart pulses in resonance: that must be Reyson behind them, giving them enough vigor for another go. There’s a slow, rhythmic leathery flapping behind her: it’s Haar, keeping enemies off her back like he said he would. And ahead, as they keep moving, she hears such a similar sound, but it’s faster, more frantic, and Mist’s heart races faster too, because as she gets closer she can see that—
“There she is!”
It’s Jill. It’s hard to miss that wyvern, but Jill herself has changed too. She’s taller, even while sitting, and the features on her face have sharpened, hardened: even from where she stands, Mist can tell she’s scowling. She thinks of the last few letters, of Daein’s liberation and Jill’s joy. What in the world has happened?
Jill dives and her axe swings in a wide arch, all controlled power, but the cat she’s attacking leaps out of the way: Lethe’s fur is drenched and there’s a small gash digging into her side, but she still holds her head up with that good old laguz-slash-Lethe pride and her movements are as swift as ever. She’s playing defense, dodging rather than attacking, buying time: Jill swoops again, and Lethe evades just in time but doesn’t lunge.
Lethe’s waiting for Mist to get there, she realizes with a jolt, and that does it. Her grip on her staff goes white-knuckle taut. “Rolf, I’m going in. Cover me!”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Rolf asks her, cautious as he should; he still plucks an arrow from his quiver, loyal as he is.
“I have to be,” Mist replies. She reaches out to squeeze his gloved hand just once before letting go, and as she does her best to run towards her friend, she gathers all her energy to form a wide smile.
There’s not really enough time to catch up afterwards.
It’s been a tense few days. Crossing the river, the flight into the Kauku Caves, the battle inside the Kauku Caves (and Begnion really should have a better vetting process with those senators), and then that confrontation with the dragons in Goldoa…
Jeez. Putting it that way, they’re lucky to be alive and kicking, relatively safe in Gallia. So it doesn’t make any sense for Mist why she catches Ike still hacking away at a dummy when the sun’s almost done setting—except it does, because Ike is her brother and she knows him, and through the bad taste in her mouth, she begins to walk towards him. He’s always been bad at sitting still when he’s got something on his mind, after all.
Ike can get really intense when he gets in these broody-sorta moods, so Mist makes sure to announce her presence. “Go to sleep, Ike,” she scolds. “Seriously. You already had dinner.”
Her brother’s slash loses momentum midway; he whirls around, but his expression settles when he spots her. “Oh, Mist. It’s you.” He stinks of sweat and steel, and his voice is a bit hoarse; that’s what he gets for not staying hydrated, the dummy.
But Mist is still his little sister, and she’s gotten way better at watching out for her brother in both the battlefield and outside it: she hands him a bloated waterskin, and shakes her head at how quickly he downs it. “I keep telling you, you’re gonna get sick if you drink so quickly all the time.”
Ike wipes his mouth with his ridiculously beefy arm, but doesn’t smile. “Thanks, Mist. I’m just finishing up. Don’t worry.”
Mist won’t have it; she puts her hands on her hips and tries to fashion her face into something stern. “Is this about the Black Knight?” Ike stays silent, but a grimace flashes for a second: bullseye. “Ike…”
“He was holding back, Mist.” Ike’s teeth grit together. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice until he spelled it out for me. It just goes to show how much I have left to go. How pathetic I was.”
Everyone knows the Black Knight’s always been a touchy subject for Ike. Less people know that it’s almost just as touchy for Mist: she remembers her hope curdling into fear, and two figures approaching from the distance, and doesn’t remember much past that except dull pain as her knees hit the ground and her screams becoming rasps becoming nothing and the rising sun warming her face as she sat in front of her father’s grave. She’d rushed straight after Ike through the long dark halls of Nados Castle, unwilling to lose more of her family to that demon, and she remembers how her sword had slipped through chinks in armor and how her staff had glowed and glowed until her vision was blurry and tinged with red and her head pounded like a pickaxed rock, and her brother’s face, the way he’d stood—
“Mist?”
Mist snaps out of her memory, and sees Ike, crouching slightly: the furrow of his eyebrows means he’s worried, and for some reason, that really annoys her.
“...You’re not the only one who hates him, you know.” Mist’s voice is flatter than she’d intended. She exhales in one of her sighs, but it doesn’t help to loosen that knot strangling her foodpipe. “He’s your fight; I get that, and I don’t want to get in the way of that. But I want him gone as much as you do.”
Mist also knows that Ike doesn’t hate the Black Knight anymore, or at least doesn’t just hate him. This zeal for training, the way his pupils almost seem to glow in blue flame—there’s joy in there somewhere, joy Mist could never understand. Ike relishes in the simple act of fighting itself, especially in true tests of strength, but even a verbal conflict is often enough to leave Mist with a bit of a headache afterwards.
They’re pretty different as far as siblings go, and not just physically. Ike is stalwart and serious, and never hesitates in battle; Mist is cheerful and reliable, always with a smile for anyone. But Ike can laugh at Ranulf’s silly jokes and look afraid when Mist really lays into him about his habits, and Mist has learned to never ever let that calm mask slip when there’s a dozen injured needing her help. They both still have a mean temper after all this time, they both always try to make their parents proud every day—and Mist knows that Ike loves as powerfully as her.
Here it’s just them two, and Ike can afford to tug at his collar: for all his strength, he’s long lost the battle of lying to his sister. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “Mist…”
It’s just them two, and Mist can afford for her hands to clench into fists. “You’ve grown really strong, Ike. You’ll get your chance, I know you will, but you won’t do anything with it if you’re too tired to even stand straight.” She won’t tear her gaze away from her brother’s widened eyes; his left one is twitching. “Be honest with me, Ike: how are you?”
“...Excited that the Black Knight is back for me to fight against.” The corners of Ike’s lips quirk up at Mist’s sigh, but it soon settles back into an honest frown. He shakes his head. “Worried, too. For what will come next. And frustrated.”
“With what?”
As if given permission, Ike’s jaw clenches. “You want the full list?” he says, sharp and bitter, as cutting as his strikes. “The Black Knight holding back the whole time. Dheginsea’s stubbornness almost killing us all. The Begnion senators being senile war-loving fucks—and don’t even get me started on Daein’s sudden insanity.”
“Mmm… I don’t think anyone expected Daein to jump into the war, least of all on Begnion’s side. Not even Jill or Zihark, and I’m pretty sure they know the king.”
“I can imagine,” Ike says, and means it. His mouth is set on a grim twist. “Speaking of Jill, how is she holding up?”
Mist bites her lip, not surprised in the least that he asks; he and Jill might have started off on two wrong feet, but time can change a lot of things. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “We haven’t really had the time to catch up, but I think she feels really guilty for what she helped Daein do, and she also feels guilty for turning her back on her country.”
“Well, she’s helping us now, isn’t she?” Ike replies, frowning deeply. Typical Ike. Mist can’t disagree, though. “I get that it wasn’t easy to betray her friends and her home, but I’m glad she’s with us. Zihark too. They made the right choice.”
“It’s really selfish of me, but I think so too.” Mist can’t feel even the slightest bit guilty about getting Jill to join them; she’s just glad she won’t have to fight a friend. “I haven’t seen anyone in particular be hostile to her or anything…”
“Good, but keep an eye out if you can. The last thing we can afford is for resentment to fester right under our noses.”
“You got it,” Mist says, and thinks of Jill’s strained voice when she’d been convinced to switch sides—the way she’d blazed ahead afterwards in the Kauku Caves, her blows all certain and strong. “Actually… I think I’ll go find her. It’s about time we talked.”
Ike nods. “All right, you go do that. As for me—”
“You’ll go and relax.” Mist cuts her brother off before he can say something stupid like, ‘I’ll continue training’, and she crosses her arms to emphasize her point. “It’s for your own good, you know it. Now go wash up, because you stink—” Ike sniffs at his armpits, and here she chokes down a gag. Ugh. Boys. “Ike, that’s so gross! Just go get teased by Ranulf, or compete with Skrimir over who swoons more over Soren—do anything else. Just stop it for today.”
“I…” Instead of saying whatever was gonna come next, Ike shakes his head and throws his hands up in fake surrender; it doesn’t really have the same effect when he’s got a steel sword in hand, but still. “Okay, fine. You win, Mist. Just be sure to rest too: we’re marching tomorrow. Take care, okay? And good luck with Jill.”
And with that, he begins to walk away. Mist is used to seeing her brother’s back; he’s always leading the charge, and she’s always behind, too frail to be there with him, too vital to afford the risk. And as much as she wants to be with him, she accepts it. She knows her place. She knows where she’s most useful.
But it’s impulse, just like all those years ago, that makes Mist reach out to her brother. It’s impulse that accelerates her heartbeat and dries her mouth, and it’s impulse that makes her take a breath—
“Ike, wait a second!”
Her brother turns around. “Yeah? What is it?”
“Just…” It takes Mist a moment to gather her thoughts into something coherent, something beyond ‘please’ and vague sorrow. What does she want to tell him? What should she say? She swallows, and dives right in.
“Don’t leave us behind, Ike.”
Ike goes still. His left eye still twitches.
And that just emboldens Mist more, because now her voice comes clear. “I don’t—look, I know there’s gonna be things only you can do, and paths where I can’t follow you. I get that. I won’t stop you from doing what you feel is best. I trust you.”
Mist remembers pieces of stone passing for a grave, a sword’s half-buried blade shadowed in the sunrise. She remembers Ike’s features twisted in rage she’d never seen before, all the way back in Port Toha: she’d had to pull his arm and shout at him to stop him from running towards his own doom. She remembers a father holding the weight of a secret all by himself, never letting an inkling of it show, and her heart is overcome by a powerful wave of emotions so blended together she could never examine them individually.
It’s just them two, and Mist can afford to sniffle; Ike’s arm reaches out as if instinctual, then slowly flops to his side.
“But…” Her voice wavers for a second, then rebounds with force. “But don’t forget us, and don’t forget that we care for you as much as you care for us. You’re not alone in this. Me and Soren and Titania and everyone—we want to support you. We want to help you. I want to help you in anything I can! So if you ever want to tell me anything, anything at all, I’m here. Okay?”
Don’t lose yourself again, she doesn’t say. I don’t want to lose you again. But the message is clear.
Ike stares. His feet are still rooted. Mist is suddenly aware of the lack of a weight gently pressing against her chest, one she thought she’d made peace with. She tries to gulp down the ball in her throat.
Then, she gathers herself up again. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I…”
The energy drains from Ike’s shoulders. His features soften; his muscles go limp. It makes him look years younger, almost like back then, when they knew nothing.
Mist exhales.
“...I do. Don’t worry.” Ike’s tone is quiet, gentle, so unlike his rough barks and shouts when he’s the Commander. “But I guess I need reminding sometimes. Thanks, Mist. For everything.”
“Anytime, Brother.” Slow warmth unfolds itself from Mist’s chest. She’s not crying, but she blinks anyway. “I love you.”
Her brother’s lips curl into something rare and precious. “I love you too.”
Mist has gotten really into the habit recently—the ‘I love you’s. It’s been three long years, full of jobs and sweat and wounds to mend or bear, and she’s had time to figure this out: her last words to her father were a simple naive ‘Good night’, and she regrets not telling him ‘I love you’ enough more than anything else in the world.
The Greil Mercenaries are her family, and family is there to support and to love one another. Even Shinon, prickly racist weirdo that he might be: they might not exactly get along, but he has saved her in combat more times than she’d like to admit, and she’s pretty sure she’s gained some level of esteem in his eyes as of late. They’re all her comrades, partners, friends—there’s so many words to describe them, but the one that fits most is family. They eat together, fight together, go together. Mist’d do anything for them, so much so that she’d been nagged at to stop working hard enough for two lifetimes, and they’d do anything for her. She loves them so much it’s almost scary: maybe that’s another thing she and Ike got from their father, that fierce protectiveness for those they care about.
The Greil Mercenaries are her family, but Ike is the only brother she has. He has been there for Mist as she faced her fear of the dark and has survived all her first attempts at cooking; she has been there for him in his first failures against Boyd, then their father. She knows she’ll never reach his heights, will rarely be considered more than her brother’s sister. She’s fine with that: she knows what such attention has done to Ike, how he loathes it and wishes to escape it, how heavily his responsibility weighs on him, and she wants nothing of it. She’s more than happy helping him bear that burden in any way she can, and she knows how much her happiness and safety means to him.
Who else is there? Mordecai, of course; the kindest person she’s ever known. Ranulf goes without saying. Everyone, really: they fought for a year together, through snow and forests and mountains, in boats and mansions and all manner of fortifications. They’ve seen each other through the worst battles of their lives and have kept each other safe and alive through it all. That sort of bond doesn’t go away easily.
But her feelings for Jill… those are in a letter she also keeps in her pocket, never quite sent, always present, never regretted.
After all, there’s no better way to communicate than by talking face to face, isn’t there?
When Mist steps into Jill’s tent, the woman instantly sits up. “Mist—”
“Come with me, Jill,” she says, and holds out a hand. Jill takes it, wide-eyed and confused but trusting her anyway, and off they go.
Mist leads Jill through the camp, weaving between tents and gathered soldiers, and they pass multiple people she knows along the way: a hawk she’d saved from a sniper in the nick of time, a tiger whose slight limp should vanish soon enough. They wave and call out her name. Mist always waves back with a smile, and Jill eventually starts to dip her head too.
Then there’s those she knows better. Boyd, Oscar and Titania are sitting around a fire, Boyd loudly telling a joke and failing to deliver the punchline; Oscar puts a hand on his forehead, Titania chuckles low and fond. Mia brushes past them, chasing poor Rhys despite the latter’s protests that he will not ask to borrow Haar’s wyvern, and Mist can’t even imagine what kind of plan she wants to rope him into this time. Heather paints Nephenee’s nails; the other woman is helmetless, and her body is lined with tension, but she doesn’t take her hand away from the thief’s own. Janaff and Ulki say hello, chipper and quiet, before going back to their bickering. There’s Lethe too, and her keen eyes examine them for a moment. She nods, satisfied with whatever she sees, and returns to her conversation with Kyza.
They’re without armor, without weapons, without anything but their clothes: the Ertz Mountains mean that Begnion has to go through Crimea to get to Gallia, which won’t happen. Mist has trusted Queen Elincia since they were both scrambling in the mess hall, grabbing food and supplies and anything they could; seeing her resolve in the whole coup mess, Mist now trusts her even more. Elincia won’t let them down.
Finally they reach her destination: a spot marked by a couple of blankets, close enough to camp for security but far enough for privacy. She’s spread one of them on the ground, upon which she plants herself. “Come on, sit!” she tells Jill, tapping the space next to her, and the other woman slowly does so.
“Mist, what—”
Mist points up. “Watch,” she says, and Jill does so.
She doesn’t need to say anything more: Jill’s mouth instantly goes slack, and her body soon sinks into the blanket. Mist smiles before looking up herself. It’s a beautiful night. Millions of shimmering stars are studded all over the sky, like an infinite tapestry that stretches on as far as her eyes can see. The stars look so tiny, swallowed by dark indigo, dwarfed by the moon. It’s a bit sad, Mist thinks, that the stars have never touched each other for as long as she’s seen them. It must be lonely. But it’s still beautiful.
Time passes with the sound of their breathing. There’s distant laughter coming from somewhere, and once in a while, cheers and groans fill the air: probably some sort of gambling game, one that Marcia’s stupid brother—Makalov, that’s it—would enjoy and inevitably lose. The air is cool, but not cold, and it wraps around Mist like a gentle reminder of what she’s here for. She lets her back fall with a soft thump, and besides her, Jill does so too; the two lie side by side as the night goes on.
After some time, enough time, Mist breaks the silence. “It’s so pretty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…” Jill mutters, voice slightly faint. “Yeah, it is. It’s wonderful.”
“Mm. I wish I knew any constellations. I’m pretty sure Rhys knows all of them.”
“Rhys? Really?”
“He’s read a lot of books. And he has a huge weakness for anything romantic: he’s a big dreamer.”
“Huh,” Jill hums. “Lethe knows some. Lyre really likes them too.”
“Oh, Lethe wanted to bond with her sister? That’s so sweet.”
“No, no—Lyre just talked her ears off enough for some of it to stick.”
“Oh.” A giggle escapes Mist’s mouth, unbidden, a bit mean, but felt. “That makes much more sense.” Lyre is kind of a brat (though Mist isn’t one to talk), but her heart’s in the right place, and they’ve become friends of sorts.
The quiet atmosphere falls upon them once again, but Jill’s not exactly at ease anymore with the ice broken; Mist can feel the blanket shift beneath them as Jill’s elbows fidget. She stays quiet, though: it’s really hard to resist the urge to fill the silence with meaningless babble, but that’s another thing she’s learned recently.
“I do like the stars, though.” Jill’s voice eventually comes out, calm but tinged with wistfulness. “They’re not like this in Nevassa, but in my village… Talrega’s a pretty mountainous region, you remember.”
Mist does. She remembers Rhys teaching her how to watch for early signs of hypothermia and frostbite. She remembers how much her hands shook even with thick gloves, how numbness had spread through her every limb and how the theft of the medallion had been like losing one. She remembers snowstorms and a hundred snow angels, and waterlogged fields. She remembers so much misery. Images form in Mist’s mind: Jill’s ashen face, her muscles coiled in readiness, the tears running down her cheeks as they’d sobbed and grieved together.
“Yeah, I do,” she says; they both understand what she doesn’t say. “I’d never felt so cold before. It was always freezing…”
“That’s Daein for you, really. ‘Cold in body, burning in spirit’, we say.” Jill lets out air through her nose; the moon’s pale glow marks her cheekbones. “It almost sounds laughable now.”
“Jill…”
Unable to think of an alternative, Mist leans her head against Jill’s shoulder, solid, muscular, there. Jill stiffens for a heartbeat, but then she relaxes again. Mist is glad; back then, she had always somehow been touching Jill, holding her hand, tugging at her arm, mending injured skin.
Jill’s eyes are fixed on the sky. “But that’s neither here nor there. When Father…” Her voice fades out, lost to the breeze; she chews on her bottom lip, then continues. “I was shipped off for basic training at thirteen, like everyone in Daein under Ashnard’s rule. But before that, when my father was off on sorties or skirmishes, I was left alone at home.”
The concept of being left alone is unknown to Mist; Ike has featured in her memories for as long as she can remember—they’d even shared a room for a while—and when he was off training and she got bored of watching, there was Titania to babble a million questions to; then Rolf came along with his brothers, and then Rhys, and the three would sometimes spend long days together holding hands and hoping for the best.
Jill must not see Mist’s drawn eyebrows (just like Ike, some say), because she continues her story. “There was always someone there to take care of me until I was old enough: Father stood up for them, and they helped him back. And there was always something to do in the day. But on those nights, when it was just me…” Jill’s eyes slowly close. “I’d go outside with his thickest cloaks and just sit there for hours.”
“Why?”
Jill’s shoulder shakes beneath Mist when she huffs. “It’s silly, really. I just… felt connected to him that way. He’d be under the same stars as me, so I thought that maybe, when he looked up at them, he would feel how much I loved him, and we’d both feel less lonely. We’d be together even when apart.”
Mist’s breath is cut short. “Oh. That’s…”
“See? Silly.”
“No! No, it’s not!”
Jill’s eyes blink open in surprise, and she finally turns to face Mist. She feels hot despite the slight chill, feels like she’s about to trip and fall, but she holds her chin high and continues anyway.
“I think it’s beautiful, Jill.” Mist reaches out to lace her fingers with Jill’s; they’re cold, coarse, and after some slight hesitation, their hold turns tight. Their hands rest on Jill’s torso. “Being connected, no matter the distance… I like that. I really do.”
Mist’s gaze strays back to the dark sky, and as she sees hundreds of stars glitter (like gems, maybe, or like shaken salt in soup), she wonders: Volke in the middle of somewhere, under a tree for shelter; Elincia taking a break in a night full of drafts and discarded plans; Tormod and Muarim sitting around a fire. Are they safe? Has she, too, passed through their thoughts recently? (Probably not with Volke, despite her best attempts. Still…)
Jill’s chest falls and rises beneath their joined hands. Did you ever look at the stars and think of me? she thinks.
“...Do you regret it?” she asks instead. It’s about time they cleared the air.
Jill’s fingers twitch. “Regret what?”
“Defecting.” Mist tries to sound matter-of-fact, and hates how her voice is quiet instead. She hears Jill suck in air through her teeth. “Abandoning your country, leaving Sothe and Micaiah behind. I know from your letters how much you care for them and your other friends in the Daein Army.” She swallows. “So… do you regret it?
An eternal second passes. Mist hopes that her own pulse doesn’t tremble beneath Jill’s fingertips as loudly as it rushes in her ears. She tries to not imagine the worst possible answers Jill could give.
But Jill’s reply comes quick, without hesitation. “I don’t. Not at all.”
And now Mist is the one to snap her gaze towards Jill in surprise. “Jill—”
“I regret a lot of things, Mist. You know that. But you all taught me how to follow my conscience, and I haven’t regretted much since then.”
Jill shifts onto her side, and Mist does so too; their hands, still clasped together, rest between them on the blanket. Jill’s face is so close now, and under the clear moonlight, the determination in those garnet eyes is so clear that Mist is struck speechless, breath stolen, heart speeding.
“I’m proud I stuck with you all in the Mad King’s War. I’m proud of helping free Daein from tyranny twice—and I’m proud of doing what’s right and joining you. I’m proud that I’m with you.”
“But,” Mist tries, and it sounds like an excuse, “but Jill, to fight against your country again—”
“I still believe in Micaiah. She loves Daein with all her heart. And I know she’s doing what she thinks is best for its future.” Jill takes a deep inhale and sets it free. “But I can’t follow her if it means going against what I believe in. I won’t compromise my ideals ever again. This way, I can save them from themselves.”
Jill isn’t done, though; something in her expression loosens. “Besides, I have friends here too. I’m lucky I got to know so many wonderful people. I thought about them often when I watched the stars in Daein these last few years.” She wets her lips, then steels herself. “But most of all, Mist, I thought about you.”
Then, Jill moves their joined hands up, slowly, like she’s about to handle something so delicate it would shatter with the slightest error: her chapped lips brush against the back of Mist's hand, just barely a touch, and Mist’s heart forgets how to pump blood. Her brain grinds to a halt. She is suddenly deeply aware of the two letters she still carries in her pocket.
“I’m so lucky I got to know you, Mist,” Jill murmurs; her gaze is intense, intent, but also soft and nervous in a way that makes Mist go weak. “You reached out when I didn’t deserve it, and I don’t think I could ever express what that means to me. Thank you for everything.”
Mist remembers piercing cold and tears running down Jill’s face. All my worries go away—hard and cold and terrible—you make me want to keep going. She fights to seize her voice again, and finds it: she will not be left behind here.
“I should be the one saying that,” Mist says. Her smile is watery, but she’s not sad. “I’m so glad you’re here with me, Jill. You make me want to keep going too: just knowing you’re at my side makes me feel stronger. Like everything will be alright. Like I can face the world.”
She leans in closer; their foreheads touch. Like this, she can count every she can see how Jill’s nose is crooked just slightly, how her pupils are blown open, how her lips mouth a silent ‘Oh’.
“I love you,” Mist says; her voice is thick, and her eyes prickle, but she doesn’t care. “I love you, Jill.”
And Jill’s mouth parts open before it slowly builds into something Mist will cherish forever. “I love you too.”
Their lips meet, and it’s a simple thing, her first kiss, light and quiet. Jill's other palm caresses Mist’s flushing cheek, gently, so gently. There’s no sparks or explosions or all-consuming fire. Mist wouldn’t have it any other way: something inside her she hadn’t even known was wrong settles into place.
When they separate, Jill’s smile could outshine the moon. Mist’s own cheeks are starting to hurt, and when she breathes, the sound is wet and shuddery. But that’s alright.
It’ll be alright.
Nothing else needs to be said, really. They stare at each for a while, both smiling. Jill’s hand moves to brush Mist’s hair away from her face; her arm then loosely wraps around her in a loose cuddle, warm and comfortable and safe as safe can be. Just like that, they go back to watching the sky with matching breaths and brimming hearts.
She thinks of those that aren’t here, those that can’t be here, watching out for her through the stars above. She thinks of the others in the camp, her brother, the mercenaries, her comrades, who wouldn’t hesitate in coming to her aid. She thinks of Jill, of how much they’ve both changed yet are the same, how her presence is enough for Mist to feel safe. This, she thinks, is what it should be like. This, she knows, is peace.
She's sure Ilyana's still stuffing her stomach full of leftovers even now. Rolf might be trying to carve a new bow, and Mist is looking forward to seeing it if he is. Reyson's probably trying to convince Tibarn to stop coddling him so much, and he's probably failing. Gatrie's got to be off getting rejected; he’d have more success if he stopped trying so hard. Ranulf is likely desperately trying to stop Skrimir from moving too much, despite the latter's protests that he's fine already. (He's not: Mist has already spent enough time healing him to know he needs a day or two more.) Mordecai must already be dozing off.
Ike’s probably with Soren. He might even be watching the same sky she is now. She wonders whether Soren’s brow is smooth and relaxed, whether Ike is finding it easier to smile. They're good for each other.
Jill’s shoulder is still warm. Her arm is too. She rubs her thumb over Mist’s knuckles. She loves her so much.
They are all under the same firmament. No matter how far apart they are, Mist won’t ever be alone. She won’t be left behind. She won’t leave others behind. Her bonds with everyone will remain. She won’t forget them, not when every night there will be a reminder. It’s an amazing thought.
(Mist doesn’t know this yet, but in the future, she will be outside, surrounded by mountains and snow. She will look up at those twinkling stars, and that uneasy quiver in her stomach will settle. She will smile, a touch nostalgic yet so very happy; she will wish Ike and Soren well. Jill will then come, and after sitting for a while, they will go back inside together.)
Mist thinks, and hopes, and loves; she doesn’t notice her eyes are slipping shut until she fully falls asleep.