Scars
A sword pierced the winter earth under the mercenary's feet, two large, battle-worn hands gripping the pommel so tightly the knuckles had turned white. There was a grave before him. It wasn't ornate, having been one of the hurried sort of graves dug by hard-eyed soldiers after a battle.
There wasn't even a headstone or grave marker, just a knife's cuts in the tree behind it, scars white against its russet bark. A name. Lucius.
The war was over. The Heroes had been victorious. Raven had a new scar to show for it, but it didn't give him pride to see it. It ran across the back of his right arm, almost wrist to elbow. Had it been won in a duel or in any other battle, he might look at it with fondness, but this was not the mark of a victor.
The scene had played in his dreams a thousand times. Raven had been defending Lucius as he threw spells at a line of enemies that seemed to have no end. They weren't speaking, having just gotten into another fight about Raven's plans for revenge, so they fought in silence, the sun beating relentlessly overhead.
Raven had been sweating like a pig, only the rough hilt of the sword keeping it in his hand. Lucius' spellbook seemed to be shredding, as he used up the spells on each page, the newly empty pages falling to the ground.
He saw the sniper too late.
Priscilla had tried to convince him later that there was nothing more he could've done, but what did she know? She wasn't there.
She didn't hear the whish of the arrow cutting the air, didn't see the look of horror that blossomed on his face as he was hit, the arrow burying itself deeply into his shoulder, turning his blue robes a dark purple.
Raven spun around, the world suddenly moving sickeningly slowly. All he could think was to protect Lucius. He stood over him, battling more recklessly than he ever had before, or since.
The scar was born from an enemy axe, swinging down from above, aiming for Lucius's head. Raven tried to block with his sword, but his arms were heavy and stiff, and the axe met his arm instead.
Blood was everywhere. Lucius must've still been alive at that point, because Raven remembered him yelling for help. The wyvern rider dropped the purple-haired thief from overhead, and he made quick work of the remaining foes, digging daggers into their sides before they even saw his face. The world was starting to spin before Priscilla rode over, tears turning her eyes red as she waved the staff over Raven's arm again and again, while Raven ranted deliriously, telling her to heal Lucius instead.
He remembered clutching his arm, standing in a pool of blood as Priscilla waved her Mend staff over the monk, but no matter how hard she concentrated, no matter how brightly the staff shone, the wound didn't close, and Lucius's eyes didn't open.
Lyndis and some of the Caelin knights had buried him. That stupid archer, Wil, even said some words over the grave, but soon Eliwood was hurrying them forward, putting on a brave face that only barely masked his shaken heart.
Raven almost stayed behind, but the knowledge that Priscilla was going on pushed him to follow them, fingers gripping the scar that was the mark of his mistake. He lingered just long enough to carve the name into the trunk, using a dagger that was silently handed to him by the red-caped thief. Raven didn't even know his name, but he felt a kindred spirit for just a moment, recognizing the shape of the man's sorrow.
But the war was long over. The victors had returned to their homelands. Raven knew that, once, he would've been angry that Hector had a home to return to, but such rage felt hollow now. He'd told Lucius to leave him so many times, told him to stop pestering, told him to go kiss the boots of the gods he loved so much.
But he never meant it. Not a word.
With a jerk, Raven pulled the sword up and walked forward, stabbing it definitively into the head of the grave.
"With you I leave my sword, my friend," he said. "Keep it from my hands and my heart."
As he said the words, a breeze blew up, ruffling his red hair, shaking the branches of the tree overhead, and his heart did feel lighter.
A smile almost played across his mouth. "Thank you, Lucius."
And the mercenary left, leaving behind his bloody past, just as his family would've wanted.
A/N: Christening my old-made-new account with a death fic. Starting this party classy.