Nearly a week had passed since Eliwood had watched his father die in the heart of the Dragon's Gate, and nearly a week had passed since Eliwood had last gotten a half-decent night's sleep. He should have been snoring merrily away in one of Castle Ostia's finest beds, like Hector and Lyn, catching some well-needed rest before they set off for the Nabata Desert. Instead, he leaned wearily against the battlements and stared down at the largest city in all of Lycia. In the cool predawn, scarcely anyone moved in the streets below. The drunks and graveyard-workers had long since gone home; the farmers and merchants had yet to wake. The only sounds Eliwood could hear were the shuffling footfalls of the night watch making their hundredth patrol of the hour and the whistle of the wind through the thoroughfares and alleyways. No clouds covered the silver half-moon or the starts that shone bright as justice in the sky.

It didn't feel right. With rumors of dragons already touching the lips of the castle guard and the threat of the Black Fang on the eastern horizon, there should be a nervous energy in the air, a dampened quality to the citizens' lives. His father's blood stained the ground of the Dread Isle, and no one even batted an eye. Ostia's best spy lay buried under that icy soil, and no one hung their head. A wild scream felt on the verge of clawing out of his throat if only he could find the energy to open his lips.

Instead, it died in his chest alongside a thousand others like it. His voice had felt strained and thin since he'd shouted for his father one last time. He knew Hector worried for him, and that even Lyn had noticed his terseness, his sluggishness. They both crept around him like a pair of church mice lest they accidentally pull any sort of emotion from him. He knew that they thought him more fragile than they were; they could talk casually about their dead parents, and woe betide the man that dared show them pity, but they treated him so delicately that they wouldn't even tell him when bandits attacked!

"Milord, it's rather late. What brings you out here at an hour such as this?"

"Oh, Marcus. It's nothing, really," he said.

Marcus nodded knowingly and came to stand beside him. He didn't speak any further, merely leaning against the battlements, mirroring Eliwood's posture.

The breeze winnowed through their hair, licking their faces and tumbling by.

"What are we doing?" Eliwood finally asked, voice cracking. "Making war with assassins and sorcerers and dragons? I set out on this foolish journey just to find my father and bring him home, and now what? Elibe's fate is on my shoulders? I don't even know if we're doing the right thing anymore."

"War isn't something to ever take lightly, milord, but there is not a doubt in my mind that this one is just. Nergal does not care for the innocents in any capacity. If someone does not stand up to him, he will kill us all," he said.

"I know you're right, but when I stop…when I think of Father and Leila and Lord Helman…of those Laus soldiers, who were only following their marquess, as you and Lowen follow me…I was so sure when we set out that this was right that I didn't think enough of it through."

He wanted to turn away and cry, to finally let out the frustration and sorrow that had been building inside him steadily since after the Dread Isle. Eliwood's legs felt leaden, though, his arms trapped uselessly by his sides, his chest squeezed and tight. He didn't even know how to begin to cope with everything, but he had to for the sake of the group. They couldn't have a weak leader. Damn it, he was supposed to be good with his emotions! Why did he choke when they needed him?

Maybe if you had planned this whole thing through a little better, your father would still be alive, a voice in his head whispered. If you hadn't brought Ninian back…if you hadn't dallied in Caelin…if you hadn't been too weak to fight Ephidel and Nergal and that silent man with the curved daggers, you could have saved him.

Marcus's voice cut through his dark thoughts.

"You made no choices that I did not agree with. Milord, you never once began a fight with malice in your heart. You tried many times to negotiate with Lord Darin and the Black Fang. Rest easy. Your father would be proud of your decisions."

Eliwood started as he felt the knight's hand on his shoulder.

"I know it seems overwhelming right now, but it will not be that way forever."

"I'm all right," he said, but the words felt hollow.

"You are allowed to grieve, Lord Eliwood. None among us will hold it against you."

"I'm trying," Eliwood managed, voice tight. He turned to face Marcus, wondering how he measured up in his friend's experienced eyes. To his own mind, he looked haggard and weak, a child playing at general, a dragon's age of difference between himself and the proud wisdom of his father. "I cried for him on the Dread Isle. I've been…I've been trying to think about all the good memories I've had. It's just…like something's catching in my chest, Marcus. Like I can't seem to move on."

The knight's usually stern face softened, and he nodded.

"It doesn't make you weak," he said slowly. "You loved your father dearly. We all did. And to expect that you could overcome his passing in such a short time is rather too much for anyone, milord. I don't think you need to move on just yet; perhaps you should just come to terms with it on your own time, and keep your sword arm steady for now."

"I'm the leader of this army, though. Hector, Lyn, Mark, and the others…Can they afford for me to be like this in the meantime?"

Eliwood heard the scrape of steel and whipped around, his hand at the hilt of his rapier. Marcus faced him, blade at the ready. He bowed deeply and shifted his weight to his back foot. Eliwood hesitated. Exhaustion still bowed his shoulders and chained his legs to the ground. Did he have it in him to fight?

One look at Marcus's face convinced him. He bowed back and drew his sword. That seemed to be the signal Marcus waited for—he lunged forward, forcing Eliwood to stumble back. That sword seemed to move with a life of its own, pushing him back on his heels, ceding more and more ground. The cut-and-thrust style that Marcus favored lacked beauty and sweeping swings, but its simple efficiency spoke volumes for why military footman across Lycia fought with it. If Eliwood didn't muster a counterattack soon, he would find himself against a wall.

He took another step back, then he ducked to the side, putting a little more distance between Marcus and himself. His rapier could only inflict serious harm with a stab, but a couple wide swings served to keep Marcus from getting in close quarters again. Not for the first time did Eliwood appreciate the reach his long sword and lanky build afforded him.

Marcus was a veteran soldier, though, and in an instant, his blade knocked Eliwood's aside. He tensed, waited a breath, then danced to the side right as Marcus lunged. With one swift move, he brought the tip of his rapier in line with the knight's chest.

"Check."

Marcus smiled and sheathed his weapon.

"Lord Elbert always did manage to beat me with that move," he said. "Does that answer your question? Do you feel your friends can count on you?"

Panting for breath, Eliwood slowly smiled.

"Thank you."

"It was nothing," he replied, patting the lord on the shoulder. "Now, if you need more time out here, I understand, but I, for one, would recommend getting a few hours' sleep before the morrow."

Eliwood took a long look over the battlements. There were a dozen dozen cities like the peaceful one below him, every one of them counting on the likes of him and his friends to break Nergal's power. He couldn't afford to dally. His father would trust him to do the right thing.

He raised his sword in a salute to the sky, then he turned and followed Marcus back into the depths of Castle Ostia. Eliwood fell asleep almost before his head touched the pillow, and for the first time in nearly a week, he didn't dream at all.