Disclaimer: Basically, if you recognize a character or place name, then I don't own it, 'k? That's kind of the point of fanfiction, and I don't even know if these things are even necessary....Ok, I'll shut up in just a minute, promise. You people thought I wrote only comedy? THINK AGAIN!
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Prince Marth of Altea stood on the balcony outside his room, lost in thought. He stared out at what had once been a grand city, but was now ruins. He may have chased out the invaders and regained his rightful place as prince, but that still didn't solve the problem of the state of the kingdom. War had torn Altea apart. Much of it was little more than heaps of rubble and charred fields. Food was scarce, and many people had died during the war and its aftermath. Marth sighed heavily. Thinking about these things always depressed him. He'd done as much as he could to help, but money was short ever since the wars started. If only there was something he could do to speed up the process of rebuilding.....
Marth felt his melancholy quickly being replaced by anger. Why did this have to happen? Why did his people have to suffer? Why, why, why? He felt the urge to punch the wall, to destroy something. Marth clenched his fists, trying to control himself. He knew there was a less harmful way to take out his anger. He headed to the training yard, where the only things that would be hurt by his anger were wood and cloth dummies.
Swinging his sword wildly, Marth pretended the training dummies were the armies responsible for the sad state of his beloved country. If only he could get his hands on them! He hacked off cloth heads, and sliced open straw filled bodies. Though normally peaceful in nature, this served as a sort of therapy for the troubled prince. He had to take out his rage on something, and at least no living beings were actually harmed. Marth often thought it was more the activity than the destruction that helped soothe his anger. "Maybe I should find a less violent way to keep myself busy," he murmured aloud. Despite the his last comment, he continued furiously slashing at the helpless dummies until he'd worked himself into a heavy sweat. Looking at the beat-up dummies, he whispered to himself, "This reminds me of that sandbag at the tournament after Roy and I were through with it."
The tournament Marth was referring to, was of course, the Super Smash Bros. tournament he'd participated in roughly a year ago. He and his new friend Roy had indeed slashed the sandbag until it was beyond recognition and had to be replaced. Marth smiled at the memory of the tournament, one of the few pleasant ones he'd had since his exile and the start of the wars. However, when he returned, the dismal conditions at home depressed him even more. Marth often wondered what his friends were up to, and hoped they weren't as miserable as he was.
There was little left to do here, with most of the dummies destroyed. Marth turned back toward the castle, mentally noting to repair those dummies tomorrow. It would give him something constructive to do, some way to keep his mind of everything. He was simply too tired to even consider it now. Lately, Marth noticed he did not have the energy he'd had before. He wondered if this were somehow connected to his constant despair.
Once in his chambers, Marth hung his sword back on the wall, where it served as a decoration when not in use. Glancing around the room, he felt the guilt creep in. True, Marth no longer lived in the kind of luxury he was used to before, but he was still better off than the rest of the kingdom. He shook his head, as if the action would somehow shake off the guilt as well. It didn't work. The guilt continued building when he thought of how he'd failed to keep the invaders out, how he'd failed to vanquish their armies sooner, and most recently, how he was failing to improve his people's lives. Rationally, he knew he shouldn't blame himself, but somewhere in his mind, something kept nagging at him, saying there was a way he could have prevented it all.....
Marth grabbed his forehead in aggravation. Stop it, stop it, it's not my fault, he screamed mentally at the part of his brain urging the guilty feelings. He was developing regular headaches from worrying so much, and felt one coming on right now. Marth was ready to start banging his head against the wall in frustration-frustration at himself for not being able to control these feelings. It was making the whole situation worse.
A servant tapped Marth on the shoulder, providing an appreciated distraction from his torment. "Something wrong, highness?" the young man asked.
"No, nothing. I'm just tired," Marth lied. He couldn't let anyone know the truth. The people looked to him to be strong, and if they saw otherwise, they might lose hope.
The servant knew better than to believe him, but said nothing. "Your bath is ready," he said simply.
This was another welcome relief. Perhaps a soak in the tub would help Marth relax. "Thank you, Shondar," he said, following the servant to the bathing room.
Marth stood silently, patiently while two serving men removed his sweaty clothes. As it was lifted over his head, Marth noticed a small hole in his tunic. Can't be helped, he thought. There were more important things to worry about than the condition of his clothes. Besides, it would go nicely with the torn knee in his breeches. His habit of wild sword-swinging was obviously taking its toll.
Marth sank into the steaming water, faintly hoping it would literally drown his sorrows. He leaned back, closing his gray-blue eyes. Darkness was a slight comfort because it shut out all the things that it pained him to see. He had learned this early on, as it allowed him to briefly pretend everything was all right. Marth tried to concentrate on the nothingness before him, until Shondar poured a jug of water over his head, snapping him back to reality. Marth peered through his now-damp bangs at Shondar, then shut his eyes once more, only this time to keep out the soap. Though once vain about his hair, Marth no longer even cared if it was clean or not. Luckily for everyone else, his servants did. In this distracted state, it was quite possible that Marth might forget to eat as well.
"Your Highness is awfully quiet this evening," Shondar remarked as he began scrubbing Marth's back. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine, I already told you," he replied, agitated. Shondar sensed the irritation in the prince's voice and said nothing more. Marth addressed his servants once more. "If you don't mind, would you leave? I wish to be alone for a little while." The two servants nodded and exited.
Marth rested his head against the side of the tub, sighing. Total relaxation seemed like a thing of the distant past. Still, fatigue overcame him, and he dozed off.
How long he slept, Marth didn't know. Next thing he knew, Shondar was gently shaking him. "Huh? Oh, it's you," he mumbled sleepily. "I'm ready to get out now." He stepped into the sheet-like towel Shondar held for him. In his younger, happier days, Marth would have shaken his hair like a dog in order to wet Shondar. Now, though, he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, and even a smile was rare.
Once he'd dried himself and Shondar had helped him into his nightshirt, Marth padded across the carpet to his bed. Even though his dreams were often haunted by war and death, sleep was the closest thing to release Marth could hope for. He noticed a letter on his bedside table, and picked it up. When did this arrive? Judging by the seal, it came from Hyrule.
He studied the letter carefully. It mentioned an upcoming visit from the Prince and Princess of Hyrule. He knew Zelda from the tournament. She was everything a typical princess wasn't-independent, loud, and a bit on the mischievous side. While at the tournament, she was his best friend besides Link and Roy.
But who was this prince the letter referred to? Zelda was an only child, so he couldn't be her brother. This could only mean one thing-she had gotten married sometime since the tournament. To whom, Marth wondered. He had heard nothing about it, that was for sure. "I hope her father didn't force her into this," Marth said to himself. "He better not be a jerk, either. Zelda deserves to be happy. I guess I'll just have to see when they arrive." With that thought, Marth slid into his bed, hoping for sleep to come quickly.
Sleep indeed came quickly, but not painlessly. Marth awoke sweating and breathing heavily from a nightmare. As usual, he'd dreamed of raging battles, huge fires sweeping the land....and Nadia. Her bloodied, suffering face had stared at him for many nights since her death. And, just like every other time he dreamed of Nadia, Marth found tears trickling down his cheeks. He cried often, though no one knew about it. He wept for himself, for Nadia, for his family, for the people of Altea. Why had everyone and everything he loved been taken from him? He buried his face in the pillows and cried himself to sleep.