Yowch. This one... this one hurt me a bit. It's also coming to you a day late, so... sorry?
Warnings: PTSD, discussion of death and violence, implied/referenced past child abuse, and survivor's guilt.
Veteran
Jagen still remembered the first life he'd taken.
That had been years and years ago, of course; after all, Jagen was a very, very old man, and he'd become a knight at a relatively young age. He and his fellow teenage soldiers had their first kills before their first kisses. Now, a good forty years later, it was almost surreal to think of how much time had passed, because the memory was still so strangely vivid in his mind.
He'd been mounted on his very first horse, a tawny mare named Scotch, with His Majesty the King walking beside him (though, at that point, His Majesty the King was merely Lord Cornelius the crown prince). More experienced knights rode on Cornelius' other side and protected his flank. So, naturally, when the assassin lept suddenly from the foliage, he went for Jagen's side of the formation, clearly seeing that he was the youngest and most inexperienced of the lot.
Jagen acted almost without thinking. Before the attacker could slip past him, he yanked Scotch's reigns, pulled out his lance, and skewered the would-be-assassin through the middle.
It was over so quickly. At the time, he shook it off immediately, pushing the body off of his lance with his boot as the others searched for accomplices in the underbrush. Once they'd determined that this particular assassin had acted alone, one of the elder knights (Arthur, his name had been) silently gave Jagen a congratulatory slap on the back, and they continued on their way.
In the many, many years to come, however, that innocuous moment stuck in Jagen's mind. The surprise of seeing the bandit from the corner of his eye; the instinctual reaction to ready his weapon; the thoughtless way he lunged, without pausing for a moment; the light glinting off his lance and the shocked look on the would-be-assassin's face; the sound his weapon made as it passed through flesh―
Jagen was lucky; nightmares plagued him very infrequently, so he rarely had to relive the moment against his will. Any time he remembered it, though―whenever that specific moment crossed his mind for whatever reason―he saw it play out once again, in full, vivid detail.
Over the years, the shock had worn off, and, now, Jagen was mostly able to shrug off the memory whenever it resurfaced. Besides, many years had passed since then, and Jagen had killed many, many people in that time, so that particular memory had long since been drowned out by many, many, many others. Still, he didn't think he would ever forget it, nor would he forget the night after, when he tossed and turned restlessly for hours, nauseous with guilt, until Sir Arthur plopped down next to him and gave him The Guilt Talk.
Every knight has to deal with these things, he'd said. Memories; nightmares; regret... Just know that you did the right thing, and try to ignore them as best you can.
Since then, Jagen had become an elder knight himself, and he'd given The Guilt Talk to plenty of fledgeling knights when they had their first kills, Cain and Abel being two of the more recent examples. It wasn't hard to tell, after all, even if you weren't in the habit of keeping track of which knights had and hadn't killed yet. Just by looking at them, you could see it. Remorse, usually. Even more so, uncertainty. Self-doubt. Self-loathing.
Of course, these were all emotions which Prince Marth displayed most, if not all, of the time, despite his only experiences with battle being sparring matches, which made things a little more complicated in his case.
When Jagen overheard Marth muttering as they boarded the ship to Talys, tugging restlessly at his hair and whispering unkind words to himself, he didn't think a thing of it. He intervened, of course, placing a hand on the Prince's shoulder and reassuring him that he was not a craven at all, but it didn't exactly strike him as strange. He had long since become accustomed to the Prince's frequent bouts of self-deprecation, although they were generally triggered by harsh words from His Majesty rather than the death of a comrade, so he barely gave it a second thought.
But, that night, as he lay on one of the rickety cots they'd procured and felt the ship bob underneath him, Jagen couldn't sleep for the life of him.
It was late―so late, in fact, that dawn was probably not far off. The room was underboard, with the only light coming from three small windows along one wall, so it was far too dark to see. Still, he could hear Cain and Abel dozing on the other side of the room, marked by the sound of Cain's rumbling snores. Gordin and Draug must have also drifted off, because he could no longer hear them murmuring to each other in the corner. Most pertinently, Prince Marth had finally stopped tossing and turning, and his breaths had evened out, which meant Jagen was officially the last one left awake.
Perhaps it was just because they'd spent the past day or so on the battlefield, but he was too alert to sleep at the moment. Having been a knight for most of his long life, he'd become adept at calming his own nerves, yet tonight he seemed to be particularly on-edge. Even his most calming breathing exercises had failed him; he was still just as tense as when he'd started.
Perhaps it was because of Prince Marth's presence, Jagen speculated quietly, still trying his best to relax into his cot. Having his liege nearby for the first time was likely throwing him off-kilter, especially given the dangerous circumstances. Not that he would ever dare voice those thoughts out loud; knowing Prince Marth, he would probably apologize profusely and feel guilty about it for the rest of his life.
The soft thump of bare feet hitting the ground pulled him out of his thoughts.
For a minute, Jagen almost thought he had imagined it. Then the cot closest to him creaked quietly as―he could only presume―its occupant eased himself onto his feet. It must have been Prince Marth, he realized belatedly; Abel and Gordin were on the other side of the room, Draug would've made a much louder noise, and Cain was still snoring away.
Sure enough, when he listened closely, the prince's steady breathing was a bit louder and faster now, and his movements were accompanied by the characteristic swish of his cloak. After a brief moment of stillness, Prince Marth's footsteps padded away, and the door opened and closed with a quiet click.
Jagen waited a few seconds before sitting up, staring into the dark room as if it held answers. As far as he knew, Prince Marth didn't struggle with sleep, but, then again, these weren't exactly normal circumstances. This could very well be the prince's first time leaving his home, and finding sleep was much harder when you were on an unfamiliar boat rather than your own bed.
After a moment, Jagen sighed quietly and pushed himself onto his feet, his stiff body groaning in protest. In the absolute darkness, he groped blindly along the wall; luckily, he managed to reach the exit without incident, and he carefully shut the door behind him, leaving the others to their slumber.
Technically, checking on Marth at a time like this was far outside the realm of his duty, but the thought of doing nothing was... unappealing. Besides, someone had to at least offer some meager comfort, and it certainly wouldn't be any of the knights still sleeping downstairs.
He emerged onto the deck and almost immediately caught sight of Prince Marth. The boy was curled into a ball and pressed against the ship's railing, his cloak wrapped around him like a blanket and his forehead pressed against his knees. For a moment, Jagen thought that he'd fallen asleep like that, but then Marth shifted in place, clutching his sheathed rapier tight to his chest, and buried his face into the bundled material of his cloak.
Several minutes passed in silence as Jagen struggled to think of how to approach the prince. He'd never been very good at handling Marth during his more... vulnerable moments, although it seemed like he was always forced into that role anyway, given King Cornelius' contempt for his son's "weakness". More often than not, any attempt at consoling Prince Marth just seemed to make him feel worse (Jagen suspected that His Majesty's rather... harsh treatment of his son likely had something to do with it). Perhaps it would be best to just leave the boy alone.
Before he could make his decision, though, Marth stretched his legs out, raised his head, and opened his eyes. For a moment, he seemed to be reaching for his rapier; then he glanced up and met Jagen's eyes, and his face immediately turned crimson red. "J-Jagen?!" he cried, pushing himself backwards into the railing, and the rapier slipped out of his hands, landing on the deck with a sharp clang.
Jagen winced.
Perhaps it really would've been best to just leave the boy alone.
It was far too late to turn back now, though―Jagen liked to think that he understood Marth's thought process well enough to know, definitively, that the prince would not react very well if he just turned around and walked away. Given his past experiences with his father, he would most likely interpret that as disapproval or even disgust. So, making sure to keep his face impassive and his voice even, Jagen stepped forward and said, "Lord Marth, shouldn't you be sleeping?"
To his credit, Marth composed himself very quickly, hastily wiping the shocked embarrassment off of his face and scrambling to his feet with minimal stumbling. "I'm―um, I'm sorry if I woke you," he muttered, his gaze fixed on his feet and his arms rooted firmly to his sides. It was the exact same posture he adopted whenever he expected Jagen to scold him for something minor that wasn't worthy of a scolding, or whenever King Cornelius entered the room.
"No need to worry yourself, Lord Marth," Jagen replied simply; "I was already awake." He strode forward carefully, closing the gap between him and the prince without making too many sudden movements. "You've also had trouble sleeping, I see?"
Unfortunately, his plan backfired; now that they were closer, it was all the more obvious how much he towered over Marth, and the disparity between their heights clearly made the boy uncomfortable. "I―I, um―y-yes, I did... I did have some... I had trouble falling... er, it was hard for me to..." he stammered, cringing noticeably each time he stumbled over his words. Finally, he managed to spit out, "I-I couldn't fall asleep," shrinking back from Jagen's gaze. Clearly, he was awaiting a reprimand; whether for his stutter or for his inability to sleep, it was hard to tell.
Either way, Jagen had no real way to directly reassure him without embarrassing him, so he just hummed in acceptance and turned away, trying to give Marth a moment to regain his composure. Then, with a steady mental mantra of 'Do it for Lord Marth, do it for Lord Marth, do it for Lord Marth,' he grit his teeth and slowly lowered himself to the ground, his old joints popping loudly.
"Wh―what're you―J-Jagen!" Marth squeaked in protest, but it was too late; Jagen managed to get himself to the floor without falling over, and he promptly leaned against the ship's railing, stretching out his legs with a series of quiet cracks.
"I hope you don't mind if I sit with you, Lord Marth," Jagen said casually, very deliberately not making eye contact in the hopes of alleviating the prince's nerves somewhat.
After a moment, Marth stopped fussing and awkwardly sat back down, leaving a wide berth between him and Jagen (which Jagen knew was supposed to be for his benefit and therefore tried not to take personally). Retrieving his rapier, Marth placed the sword in his lap and crossed his legs, staring determinedly ahead.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes, Marth obviously hesitant to break the silence and Jagen waiting for him to relax a little. Eventually, Marth did release his vice grip on his rapier and slumped over a bit, his head lolling forward. Despite being so tightly wound, the poor boy was obviously exhausted, and Jagen took a moment to wonder what had been keeping him up.
Wondering did him no good, of course, so, once the atmosphere between them wasn't quite so heavy, Jagen leaned over a bit and asked, "Was there a specific reason you couldn't sleep well, my lord?"
Blessedly, Marth didn't startle, though he did bashfully lower his head, his grip tightening on his rapier. "Er... well... yes, there is," he admitted, his voice suddenly very quiet, "but..."
"But?" Jagen prompted.
Marth's head only sunk lower. "It's stupid," he whispered, covering his face with one hand, as if he was admitting to the most heinous crime imaginable.
Jagen frowned. "If it's bothering you, then talking about it might help." Besides which, he seriously doubted it was as stupid as Marth seemed to think―although, no doubt, King Cornelius would've agreed with him.
If anything, though, the idea seemed to make Marth even more upset. "I just... I don't want you to think less of me," he muttered, turning away from Jagen. He was gripping his sword so tightly, now, that his knuckles had gone white. "I... I'm sorry. I know that's... childish."
Jagen thought back to King Cornelius' enraged snarls whenever Marth failed to perform well during training; his belittling shouts during spars; the way he would terrorize his son to the point of tears, then call him weak for crying.
"No, my lord," he said softly, leaning sideways to place a gentle hand on Marth's shoulder, "it's perfectly understandable."
Finally, finally, he'd found the right thing to say. For a moment, Marth didn't respond, but then he shifted closer, turned his head back towards Jagen, and spoke.
"It's just..." he began, pulling his knees closer to his chest, "I can't... I can't stop thinking about... those soldiers we fought."
...Jagen wasn't really sure what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't that. "The soldiers, my lord?" he asked; then, realizing that Marth was likely to take his confusion as disapproval, he hastily added, "Did they... say something to you?"
Marth tucked his chin against his chest, turning his rapier around in his grip. "Not... really," he admitted, still refusing to meet Jagen's eye. "But... there were just a lot of them. And..."
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I... I didn't really stop to think about... how many I killed."
Jagen froze.
Now that he'd started, though, Prince Marth kept on talking. "I just―I mean, I know it's silly to dwell on it," he hastily amended, "and―and most of them, we had no choice but kill. And I―I definitely don't think I did much work, I mean! You knights... you and Cain and Abel and... a-and Frey... did much more than I could've." Hugging his rapier to his chest, he curled his entire body around it like a lifeline. "But... I just... there were men there who... who probably had kids. And, you know... families. Like... like Father did. And I know he's... gone now, and Elice and Mother are probably gone, too. And I just... I just can't stop thinking about how someone killed them. Someone killed Father and Mother and Elice, and I... I just..."
He cut himself off, wrapping himself so tightly around the rapier that Jagen wouldn't have been surprise to see it snap.
"I did that, too," Marth whispered, so quietly that his voice was nearly swallowed by the faint crash of the waves. "I killed someone's father. I... killed someone's Elice."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Marth was too ashamed, and Jagen was too winded by his words, already berating himself for not noticing. Of course that was the issue―he should've realized that Prince Marth had never been on the battlefield before, and right after receiving news of King Cornelius' death, and with his mother and sister's status unknown... How could he have been so blind?
"Prince Marth," he began hesitantly, unsure how to respond. How was he supposed to give The Guilt Talk to someone who already spent so much of his time being guilty for things that weren't his fault?
Marth just let out a short, choked laugh, lowering his head. "I know. It's stupid, right? Not at all how a prince should act. I'm sure Father k-killed lots of men." His voice cracked. "Until..." He trailed off for a moment, then laughed again, though it sounded more like a sob than anything.
"I'm scared to think," Marth muttered, "what he'd say if he saw me now."
The silence was deafening. Underneath them, the waves continued to churn, and the stars still shone overhead, but, in that moment, on that boat, time stood still.
Then Jagen reached forward and, for lack of anything else to do, pulled Prince Marth towards him, wrapping both arms around the young, young boy in an uncertain hug.
"Prince Marth," he said again, stifling the emotion in his voice as best he could, "you are not weak, or childish, or a monster. You're... human. That's all."
Despite his best efforts, he couldn't quite manage to choke out the rest of The Guilt Talk―couldn't tell Marth that feeling remorse meant he was a better person than those who'd killed his father, or that he'd had no choice and had done what was necessary to protect his own life, or that all soldiers had emotions, despite what King Cornelius may have lead him to believe. But perhaps any words would have proven paltry in such a situation, anyway. So Jagen just held Marth close, in a way he sincerely doubted Cornelius ever had, and said nothing.
Marth didn't hug him back; just clutched his rapier to his chest and buried his face into Jagen's tunic, stifling a sob in the rough fabric. After a moment, he shifted closer, choking out a soft mewl, and Jagen heard and felt the tears that Prince Marth hid against his shirt.
The waves crashed against the side of the boat, and the moon stared forlornly down upon them, and the remaining knights of Altea dozed below deck, and, safely hidden from view in the arms of his trusted retainer, Prince Marth of Altea finally allowed himself to break down.
Jagen may have been the most experienced veteran in all of Archanea, but there were some things that even he didn't know how to fix, so he simply closed his eyes and allowed his liege a moment to mourn.