The air is stuffy and warm; the room is small and while the window is relatively big, the winds barely ever come from the right angle so the airs stagnates. This has never been a reason to complain for Marcus, though. The wing in which the room is situated is silent for most of the day – the perfect place to work. There is no distraction; only his desk, chair and a small bed fit in this room. He wouldn't want it differently.
Despite his retirement as a general many years ago, Marcus still lives in Castle Pherae and serves Lord Roy. He could never leave him or Pherae. This is and always has been his home. To pay for his food and accommodation, he does some of the more menial paperwork – complaints and petitions that repeat themselves over and over again, where the answer is always the same. Marcus doesn't mind the repetition; it is still an important duty that mustn't be neglected.
His fingers and joints ache when he reaches forward to dip his quill into the ink. He stoically endures it just as he endures the pain in his arm and hand when he writes. The pain is no reason to stop; he remembers how late Lord Eliwood continued to work despite his illness. If illness is not enough to keep a man from working, then old age is even less a reason.
The rest of the morning is filled with the scratching of the quill on the paper. Only once there is a small interruption – around letters 58 and 62 – when a man screams in pain. Marcus frowns lightly. He hears other people quickly hurrying to the man's aid so there is no need to stand up and look. Marcus sighs and continues his writing. His eyes hurt a bit and he has to squint to properly discern the letters. His fingers are in constant pain by now.
Around midday a meal is delivered to his room and generally he eats alone. Rarely his assistant, the man who brings and takes the letters, comes and sits with him and on every first day of the week, Lord Roy insists on Marcus' presence at his table. Today, he eats alone and immediately afterwards continues to write; there are too many letters for a midday walk.
Tiredness comes earlier and earlier with every passing day. Marcus' arm and hand become numb, just as the sun is sinking behind the horizon. He forces himself to continue until the light has completely disappeared; before that he doesn't allow himself to stop.
Marcus wakes up late the next morning and the letters are already sitting on his desk. He frowns; so many? Shaking his head, he immediately sits down and reaches for his quill. He has to decimate the stack before breakfast.
His movements are a bit sluggish as he dips the quill into the ink. Marcus attributes that to the early hour and continues. His fingers and arm and hand and shoulder and chest are hurting again, like always. After the first letters, though, they already become numb. Marcus is irritated at himself. After a good night's sleep he is still this powerless? He needs more discipline. Stubbornly, he leans closer to the paper to work against his bad sight.
Marcus stays in this position for a long time. Letter after letter passes through his hands and the numbness stays. When he looks up at the stack of finished letters, he is not yet satisfied. The number is alright, but the unanswered letters are still towering over it. Marcus shakes his head to get rid of the cloud of tiredness floating around him and just continues.
"– is sorry to say that at the moment there are other priorities –"
Time passes slowly. The sun has finally risen and spreads cold light over the paper. Marcus shifts to the side so that he isn't blinded. His body doesn't protest.
"– already taken care of by the Marquess and –"
Mindless, Marcus grabs for another letter and he has a sense of deja-vu but that is nothing new and so he continues.
"– that at the moment there are other –"
When he looks up at the stack with the finished letters, it's still at the same height. Marcus turns his gaze back to his work, not even noticing. When he grabs for a new letter, that stack still reaches for the ceiling. Marcus doesn't notice.
"– care of by the Marquess –"
The sunlight slowly starts to turn into a glare. The blue veins under Marcus' skin grow clearer and clearer. They seem to shine in the cold light. The sun is still standing at the same place, but Marcus doesn't notice.
"– the moment there are –"
Marcus doesn't think anymore. He just picks up a letter and writes. It's always the same anyway, he doesn't need to think.
"– the Marquess –"
Suddenly someone grabs Marcus' hand – the old knight startles and blinks confused. It feels like he was ripped out of a dream. Slowly he sits up – his back doesn't hurt – and looks up.
"Lord… Eliwood?" he asks slowly. Even his tongue is numb. Eliwood nods; his grey hair still has some traces of red here and there.
"Marcus, you need a break," he says and smiles friendly.
Marcus' forehead draws together slowly and shakes his head. "No, Milord," he mumbles. "I still have much to do." When he throws a glance at the letters, the stack towers over him. For a moment that seems strange to him.
Eliwood chuckles lowly. "Marcus, I allow you to take a pause." He steps to the window. "Come here for a moment." Marcus stands up and his body is still numb. Yet, he can walk over to the window without any stumbling.
The sun glares at him and he squeezes his eyes shut. "Look," Eliwood says and Marcus obeys. There are two children below, playing on the ground. An old man is standing in the shadow of a tree and seems to be talking with them. Marcus is confused; the only red-headed man who would wear such an expensive cloak with the emblem of Pherae is Lord Roy. But this man is far too old…
The man laughs and suddenly Marcus understands. "Lord Roy…" He turns to Eliwood confused. Eliwood is still smiling and puts his hand on Marcus' shoulder.
"It's time to leave. Someone else will take over your duties."
Marcus nods slowly. "Yes… It might be time to retire."
Eliwood's smile widens. "Yes, it is."