Many times have we faithful fans of Fire Emblem wondered what became of the story's most elusive character(and judging from all these fanfics, the most popular), the faceless tactician, Mark. Feeling the frustration of having our avatar in the Fire Emblem universe shoved under the rug and forgotten after the events of Blazing Sword, I decided to take it upon myself to write a fanfic chronicling his exploits during and after the Sword of Seals, but with a twist, as the series' unforeseen antagonist.
Now the work itself will take place in three different time story arcs: recently after the events of Fire Emblem 7, during Fire Emblem 6(Prequel to Fire Emblem 7), and finally four years after Fire Emblem 6. What the first part of the story will deal with is Mark's consequent "fall to the darkside" and the realization of his ambitions. The second part of the story will detail Mark working behind the scenes during the Sword of Seals to further his own ends. The last part of the story will show Mark's plans coming to fruition and the war between himself and Roy's Regiment. Part I-II will take place from Mark's point-of-view and provide some insight into his actions in addition to the rationale behind them. Part III, which will be the majority of the story, takes the perspective of Roy and Co and their struggle against this invisible mastermind who is now threatening the stability of Elibe.
For those of you who haven't lost interest due to my long introduction, I sincerely apologize. So without further adieu, Conquest of Elibe. I don't know own Fire Emblem or any of its characters.
"Then I saw there was a way to Hell even from the gates of Heaven"
John Bunyan,
Pilgrim's Progress
"I suppose this wasn't the ideal time to travel," remarked a youngman donning a forest-green cloak, "Regardless, I've gone far enough."
Within the last half an hour the weather had taken a turn for the worst, going from humid clouds to a torrential downpour in the blink of an eye. Since leaving the port city of Firstgrasp, he had the ill-luck of happening upon one misfortune after another. His most recent one being accosted by half a dozen bandits en route to his destination. The trouble following his bandit-run-in was not the bandits themselves but the precious time he lost during the whole encounter. Afterall, he was no fighter and had to rely on hit-and-run tactics during the entire conflict. Using trees, undergrowth, rocks, shrubs, etc as cover during the bandit assault, not to mention a slew of other guerrila tactics, helped him prevail without any permanent bodily harm, but also consumed much of his valued time. Realizing his delay, he continued at an increased walking pace and failed to take into consideration the weather.
While on the move, the tactician began to recollect what had recently transpired since the defeat of Nergal. Mark had taken refuge in an isolated Bernese village he had stumbled on earlier in his travels. The village itself wasn't any place of repute, but the locals had taken a liking to him, in particular, a certain female villager who was quite smitten by the strategist. She had proven an amiable creature toward Mark despite his occupation as a staff officer for hire. It was well known that commoners had less than endearing sentiments toward mercenaries. The former group being perceived as ill-tempered men willing to sell their swords and conscious for money and never willing to work an honest day's labor in their entire lives, coupled with the fact bandit raiding parties made frequent use of mercenaries, you have an animosity between peasants and hessians superceding class warfare.
Social standing aside, the relationship between the villager and the tactician had gotten intimate enough for the latter to seriously contemplate settling down and forgoing his current life in favor of a more humble and rustic one. This dream was quickly dispelled when he received a formal summoning from Marquess Ostia, requesting an audience regarding an urgent matter. Mark heeded the call and met with Hector, unable to not comply with his old friend. The greater bit of the meeting was nothing short of pleasantries exchanged between old comrades, but the thing of interest was information gained via Ostian spies: that Bern and Etrurian were interested in procuring Mark's tacticial prowess by any means necessary. What this meant was anyone close or of any relavance to the tactician could be taken as collateral to coerce him into service for either of the two nations.
His hand forced, all the Superb Mind could do was disappear out of plain site. On his way out of the throne room in Castle Ostia, he requested a messenger be ready to carry a letter back to his former residence in the Bernese village. The letter itself was addressed to the general populace of the town explaining that he could not return due to recent complications. He had the sagacity not to mention Bern and Etruria's aims incase the letter was intercepted, but detailed enough to convey the meaning something is preventing him from returning.
And now here he was, in a remote part of the Western Isles, in the heart of Etruria's war-effort to annex pending territories. Mark, believing that no corner of Elibe was truly safe, intended to hide ride under the nose of Etruria to avoid capture. To the casual observer, the tactian's gambit was utter idiocy which put him in unncessary jeopardy, but it accomplished a number of goals advantageous to himself: first, it lessened the Bern presence by Mark moving in the epicentre of Etrurian conquest where no Bernese interests were not at stake, second, it was such a bold movement in itself that the Etrurian government would never suspect Mark hiding out in the very place they're waging war, finally, by relocating to a remote area, he severely lessened the risk of having those close to him involved. Seeking out safe-haven in either Pherae or Ostia was out of the question for the reason it would create a political hurdle for the respective marquesses to painstakingly overcome. The last thing Hector and Eliwood needed was international pressure to hand over the continent's most renowned tactican.
With his mind fixed upon a present goal, he snapped out of his reminiscing and returned to his current predicament
"The only way for this sojourn could go anymore amiss would be for me to encounter the devil himself," jokingly added the strategist.
The Superb Mind, in all his weird mannerisms, had the habit of talking to himself even when others weren't around to hear. Sain had often quipped that the cause of this particular eccentricity was unwarranted-importance on the strategist's part. The tactician's rebuttal to this charge was to promptly give Sain frontline duty or the bothersome task of escorting the band's craven merchant, Merlinus. Despite the occasion friction of the group, he(Mark) had nostalgic memories of Eliwood's Elite. He recalled Serra's attempts to have a vassal assigned to her and how Matthew frequently complained to the tactician of having to guard Serra.
Mark looked forward with a grin while remembering one incident where Hector attempted to throttle him for a ballistae nearly taking Florina's head off and Lyn consequently hitting Hector over the head with her sword's sheath. Lyn, the sister Mark never had. Out of all those who served under his command, none were more convinced of his tacticial prowess than Lyn herself(1). He remembered the first encounter he had with the Sacaen princess; waking up half naked in a cot, with a bandage across his shoulder where a bandit's handaxe had struck, and finding a lithe figure across the hut, bowl in hand, who had nursed him back to health. Fortunately they had not left Mark naked, but they had pilfered anything of value including all his money. Had not Lyn stumbled upon his form in the scorching Sacaen plain, he most likely would have died of dehydratrion.
Veiling his head with the cloak's hood, the tactician continued onward at an increased walking-pace hoping to avoid continued exposure to the elements. For the time being, his priority will be finding a place of shelter such as an inn, or at the very least, a hovel, to take refuge in until the storm subsided. The worst scenario that could occur would be a flashflood and he had no intention of being caught in the deluge's destructive path. The area he was currently traveling, the coastal portion of the Western Isles, was prone to such flooding. With the knowledge of region's tendency to be submerged, he went further inland hoping to find higher ground.
After walking two hours and enduring the fury of the storm, he came up on a rickety tavern located to the side of the rough mountain road with the name "Jake's Place(2)" inscribed in the bar's sign. The building itself was two stories high, constructed of plywood and the size of a small house with a stone chimney protruding out the side. The hinges on the doors, windows, and the cellar off to the building's other side were comprised of worn bronze. The place gave off an air of olden age far beyond its years, even though the bar itself couldn't have been built any longer than thirty years ago.
"Odd, who in their right mind would establish a pub in such a desolate place?" Skeptically mused the young tactician.
Standing there observing the place, he deduced that this could either be an elaborate hoax by highwayman to lure unsuspecting travelers inside... or that the owner of the bar had lacked any sort of business sense. The weather, if it were at all possible, seemed to agree with the notion of Mark entering the tavern, because the rage of storm intensified to the point of producing howling winds causing the rain to start falling diagonally and the surrounding foliage to sway back and forth. Without further doddling, the would-be master tactician entered the the tavern with a divine tome in hand incase he needed to ward off the attacks of ambushers. Fortunately, he had learned to use light magic back in his days at the priory(3).
"What can I do ya for, sir?" Asked the bar's proprietor and bartender, Jake, to the traveler who just entered.
Jake noted that this new patron had an unusual air about him. Something told the bar owner that there was something different about this green-clad vagabond. That being said, Jake took his every features into account. From what could be told, this person was between the height of 5 ft 10 in - 6 ft 1 in, he was neither fit nor scrawny being just lean. The bartender guessed his new customer was foreign, considering his unsual garb and distinct gait. Beyond all that, Jake couldn't tell of this man's face because it was obscured by his cloak's hood.
"Nothing for the time being, unless you have a vacant room for the night," replied Mark.
"Yep, sure do,' liltingly replied the barkeep.
Feeling more at ease, Mark withdrew his spell tome and fully crossed the bar's threshold. Proceeding over to the pub's counter, he noticed that the place was brightly lit and in no dire need of repairs inside. The tables were decorated with quasi-ornate utinsels, plates and cloths, objects those of nobility would of scoffed at, but decorative nonetheless. Silver mugs lined the counter neatly and indicated a great deal of care went into the bar's arrangement. His brilliant mind always at work, he dedcided the tavern wasn't a trap and took a seat infront of the counter.
"What brings you out this far, stranger?" asked Jake, trying to sound as least nosey as possible.
"Political feuds here and there," casually replied the stranger as he removed the cloak's hood revealing his facial features for all to see.
From what Jake could see, this person was in his early twenties and his appearance included: short and dark-brown hair, gaunt facial features with a proportionally shaped head, thin lips which were contrasted by a thick neck, an exposed forehead with long eyebrows, along with a tanned skin indicating this person had traveled a great deal under the sweltering sun. In addition to his eminent aura, there were two more unsual things about this man. The first being his ocean-blue eyes; spheres which seemed to pierce a man to his very core. Jake inwardly blanched as this newcomer passively looked him over with those eyes as he scanned the surrounding abode. The second feature, perhaps more subtle than the first, was the clearness in which this wanderer spoke. The barkeep wondered whether this was a necessity for whatever this person's occupation was, whatever it could be...
"How much?" inquired Mark.
"What?" dumbly replied the barkeep being snapped out of his reverie.
"How much for one night's stay?"
"Well, let me think for a moment...since I haven't gotten anyone in a while I'll give ya a discount. How does fifteen helmunds sound?"
"A reasonable payment" Mark matter-of-factly stated as he withdrew the exact amount of copper coins from one of the many pockets in the enterior of his cloak.
"So what exactly did you mean by 'Political feuds?'" asked Jake.
"I meant what I said," retorted Mark and followed up with "And you'd do well to mind your own affair."
Silence, except for the furious barrage of the storm on the building's roof.
"I...apologize for that, it was uncalled for," said Mark apologetically.
"Hey, if you got some emotional baggage you don't feel like sharing that's aces by me."
"Much obliged" replied the strategist. In truth, Mark wasn't inclined to being so terse, but recent occurences in his life have rendered him weary.
Searching desperately to dispel the awkward silence, Jake tried to start a new conversation.
"Sooo... what do you think about Etruria declaring martial rule of the Western Isles?" emphatically asked the barkeep.
With more emotion than before the wanderer answered with "I'd say that any Etrurian forces are in for one hell of a haul. I highly doubt the free people of Caledonia will kowtow to foreign rule without so much as a fight."
"I heard that," said Jake visibly pleased to not have earned the ire of his only patron in Elmine knows how long.
Off on a better foot, the two sat conversing for hours on a wide range of topics ranging from warfare, former experiences, the latest gossip, their past love experiences(the strategist noted how much this one would of irked the former female members of his army if they were there to hear), and much more. Mark found Jake's simplicity refreshing in the same way a mathematician is relieved to be able to use simple arithmetic over the complex number theories, algorithms, esoteric theorems, along with the study's nomenclature. After conversing for a number of hours, Mark decided it was time to turn in. He found his room on the second floor to be sparsely renovated with nothing but a cloth cot on the floor, an empty shelf on the wall, a wooden chair in the corner, and a watering bucket in the opposite corner. Extracting his cloak, he finally withdrew from the world of the waking ignorant to the fact this would be the last peaceful slumber he'd ever get.
Upon waking and peering out the hallway's window, he discovered the next morning's climate was an immense improved over yesterday's rainstorm. Without further delay, Mark packed his possessions and opted to exit the inn. On his way out, Jake tried to warn the tactician of prowling Etrurian scouts in the area, but before the words could escape his mouth a voice in his head resounded:
"I'm fully cognizant of those footsoldiers. You need not concern yourself over my well-being," without so much as turning around, Mark continued walking and exited through the door(5).
Jake stood there dumbstruck for a moment before going back to polishing the tavern's mugs.
"I really outta find a better location for this place."
His traveling gone unabated without pesterous bandits or the cause-and-effect of dysentery-inducing food, Mark concluded that today was a much more suitable time to travel. He took a moment to gather his surrounding and surmised he was once again traveling Caledonia's coast. He was still too far inland to visibly see the ocean, but he could smell the sea salt, and the chorus of seagalls as they fly en masse.
Traveling for roughly four hours, stopping here and there to take a break, exchanging greetings with other travelers on the road, and getting a baring on his location, he continued forward hoping to not have any repeat incidence from yesterday. Walking on a winding and worn road between the ocean cliff and a forest, the tactician overheard authoritative commands coming further ahead. Without pause, he maneuvered into the forest to the path's side and skulked forward adjacent to the road. What sight greeted Mark as he moved into the outer fringes of the overgrowth were three similarly clad soldiers holding up an old merchant and his young daughter, most likely in her mid teens, along with their wagon. Judging from the blue armor and crests adorning their shields, they were most likely an Etrurian patrol, undoubtably conscripts considering that the professional army wasn't known to be as barberous or hostile toward unarmed peasants.
"I'll ask one more time. Where are you taking these crates, old man!?" demandingly shouted one of the soldiers.
"I told already you, sir, I'm a mere fur trader transportating my goods to towns within this region," fairly responded the elderly merchant trying his best not to anger his interrogators.
"Horse shit, I bet you're one of those Caledonia insurgents! Do you think lying to us will help ya any!?"
"What can I possibly do to avoid any sort of incident, good sir?" Now pleadingly asked the trader.
"Well, for starters, you pay us tribute and we'll let this whole thing slide. Plus, handing over this pretty little wench might help your case," said soldier grinned as he grasped both of the young girl's wrists upward.
"Eww, let me go, you pervert!" the young girl screamed and started thrashing violently against her captor's grip.
"Don't screw with me you little bitch!"
The annoyed conscript then backed handed the girl across her face with his gauntlet-clad hand, forcefully knocking the defiant girl to the group with a bloodied cheek. This action earned the sadistic laughter of all troops present.
At this point, Mark was debating whether to leave these poor commoners to their fate or doing something to help them. In the past, he wouldn't of a finger lifted to help anyone unless it directly benefitted himself, but being a member of Eliwood's Elite, and by extensions, being exposed to the chivalric beliefs of its knights has rubbed off on the tactician. In the end, knightly idealism prevailed against the Social Darwinism.
Before the soldier could do the now sprawled-girl anymore harm, a beam of light came burning through the vegetation and incinerated the soldier. Before the remaining two soldiers could pinpoint their assailant and even realize what had just happened, they heard chants coming perpendicular their location. Without further hesitation, the two charged into the thicket iron lances held in an offensive position. All the first soldier saw before his death was a man in a forest green cloak uttering a euphonic incantation "Per the Divinus Luminarium, adiuvo me per annullo the scelestus" and with that, the soldier collapsed with a burning hole through his torso.
Mark now noticed the second and last lancer was too close to cast a successful spell without being skewered; so he compensated by gathering an orb of magical energy with his free hand(Or in Mark's case, light energy), and attempted to parry the incoming the spearhead. This was a common trick employed by mages when a melee fighter was too close for a long-range spell. The result was disastrous, Mark's feeble attempt to counter the soldier's weapon not only did not work, but it was so weak that the spearpoint penetrated and successfully impaled Mark's right shoulder. His nerves screaming at him, he could do little but stagger backwards. This is when it dawned on Mark that his opponent was now in vulnerable footing, and therefore susceptible to a counterattack. With a last ditch effort to down his foe, the tactician tapped the last remnants of his magical reserves and concentrated it into his palm. With an even greater sphere of energy, he thrust it into the head of the soldier. The effect was instant as the contents of the etrurian's head exploded out the back of his skull. The most disturbing part of the whole confrontation was not the violence, but the passive expression on the now dead soldier's face as he fell to the ground lifeless, as though Mark's deathblow had not been delivered at all.
Confrontation over, the tactician staggered out of the thicket unto the road and proceeded to pour a vulnerary on his gaping wound. Rushing over the merchant and his daughter were quick to thank Mark for his intervention.
"By the prophet Elmine we're indebted to you! If you had not come sooner who knows what those knaves would of done to me or my daughter. What can I possibly do to repay you?"
"All I require of you is to leave this place," responded the strategist.
"But..."
"You don't want to be here when a second patrol stumbles upon their slain comrade's corpses, now go!"
"Sir, at least give me the name of my savior."
"It's Mark."
As commanded, the old man retreated with his daughter but not before thanking his rescuer once more for his service. As they left, the young girl turned around looking at this injured stranger and resolved to never forget the face of this man who had spared her and her father the soldiers' wrath.
Still feeling fatigued, the tactician took a moment to regain his breath. The last attack had taken a toll on his stamia and he was not used to engaging in open skirmishes. After a period of what seemed a few minutes, Mark finally began to weakly walk forward only to be stopped by a sharp, piercing sensation in the lower-left portion of his back, located above the second rib. He didn't need to turn around to examine the wound to know what it was; an arrow had lodged itself in him, and judging from his sudden light-headedness, it was coated with some sort of potent hematotoxins from a local pit viper.
Before his world went dark, all he could do was curse himself for his failure to the check interior of the forest for any free-roaming Etrurian foresters.
Yeah I used a cliffhanger, so sue me. What will become of our beloved tactician now that he's been subdued by an archer's arrow? Find out in the next chapter.
-Ahem- Now for the footnotes.
(1) For those of you cringing at the thought of another damned Tactician X Lyn story, have no fear. I had no intention incorporating this pairing into the story. The relationship between Mark and Lyn is a strictly platonic one. For fans of this pairing, my apologies.
I will concede whether or not I will have one or the other character secretly harboring romantic feelings for the other...if it will add character depth to the story.
(2) Jake is not my OC, but a recurring character within the Fire Emblem franchise such as Anne from the tutorials. Don't believe me? Look it up on a FE fansite.
(3)You read correctly. I'm casting Mark off as someone who spent time in a monastery earlier in his lifetime. "But we thought Mark was a tactician and not a friar!" Well, I'll elaborate more on that sticky situation in later chapters with additional backstory to the tactician. The primary reason for him being a light-user is because an antagonist who usesdark magic is already done to death.
(4)I'm also giving the tactician minor psionic abilities. This is intened to reconcile how he was able to maintain communications with his units at all times. Do not confuse this with some sort of sorcery and take it as one of Mark's more innate abilities.
Criticisms are appreciated and reviews are a welcome change. This is my first fanfic so tell me if I'm doing it wrong.
Thank you for reading.
