A/N: So, I decided to take part in the Fire Emblem Secret Santa this year. First time I ever did anything like it. It's been interesting, I'll say that much. Anyway, this one is for you, Hammerschlag. I hope you like it.

A big shout-out to Cormag Ravenstaff for giving this a once over. And as always, I'd also like to give a shout-out to The Erudite. Both of them pretty much convinced me to take part this year, so this story wouldn't exist if not for you.

Soiled Pride

An uneasy hush filled the air, growing heavier by the moment. Anticipation dripped as Ike glanced all around at the horde of armed men in front of him, silver armor shining in the late-afternoon sun, iron-tipped lances pointing at him. Behind the first line stood another, and then another behind it, and behind that line, yet another. The lines went without end, stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction. While most might have trembled or threw their weapon away to plead for mercy, Ike only smiled, a confident, almost mocking expression. His hand, eager, itching for battle, moved towards the scabbard on his back. Metal clanked as a rustle moved through the crowd. As his fingers closed around the hilt of his broadsword, the curl on Ike's mouth only grew wider.

"Stop him," one man shouted, and that was all it took. Booted feet rumbled. The still and silent air filled with clatter of armor. Ike had not even drawn his sword. Closer came the spears, ready to impale him. He did not move or cower. No sign of fear appeared at all on his face, and he felt nothing that even resembled fear. If anything, he was more amused. Finally, with one fluid motion, he pulled his sword free. With a wide swipe, four men flew backwards, their spears falling to the ground. Ike swung again, and again men flew and wood splintered and showered. Loud cheers arose, almost drowned by the sounds of battle, but discernible to Ike. With each man he brought down, the chant grew louder and louder.

"Ike…Ike…Ike," they called, and with each cheer, pride blossomed within his heart. And when the last man fell at his feet, Ike raised his sword aloft, a silent declaration of victory as more cheers filled the air, "Ike…Ike."

"Ike," came a stern voice, louder than the adoration. Suddenly, he was no longer on the battlefield but in the training hall of the fort. His broadsword transformed into a wooden blade, the men lying at his feet vanished, and the applause and joyous chants fell silent. He turned to see his father, Greil, standing in the doorway. A slight heat filled the boy's cheeks, wondering just how long he stood there. "Now, that I have your attention, what are doing in here?"

"I was…" he trailed off, hoping to put it in a favorable manner, "training. Yeah! I was training."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it, Ike. I mean, why aren't you in the stables like I told you? Or did you forget it was your week to clean them?"

"No, I didn't forget," the boy admitted, sliding his hands behind his back.

"Then why aren't you doing it?"

"Because, I didn't want to," he announced, pouting his lips. Greil sighed.

"Well, if anything, you're honest, Ike, but I still expect you to do a job when I give you one."

"But father, don't you think I was good?" he asked, eyes large and pleading. The man only chuckled.

"Well, I wouldn't call waving that thing around like a lunatic swordsmanship. So, how many men were you fighting this time; two-hundred, five-hundred, an entire battalion?" The heat in his cheeks grew as a sheepish grin appeared on Ike's face. He could not help but recall the first time he confessed letting his imagination run away from him and his father's reply about keeping his head out of the clouds when it came to the sword. "You need to improve your focus for starters, Ike."

"I think I'm doing okay. Can we have a lesson now? Can we? Can we?" Greil shook his head. "Oh, that's right. Please, can we have a lesson now? Please, father?" Once again his father shook his head.

"I told you I'd train you, but only after you finished the stables. You're eleven years old now; old enough to start pitching in."

"Can't someone else do it?" he begged. "I really want to train today."

"Well, if you hurry up and get the stables done, we'll have time for it."

"Please, father, can't we train instead? I want to show you how good I've been getting. I bet I'm as a good as you when you were my age."

"Oh really," Greil replied, stroking his chin, a wry smile forming and an odd twinkle in his eye. "So, you think you're pretty handy with a sword." Ike nodded. "Well, in that case, how about we find out."

Ike bounced on his heels, an wide grin on his face. "You mean it, father?" he asked, blue eyes sparking and a ring of excitement in his voice. He was all but jumping now. "You really mean it? You really, really mean it?"

"Of course I mean it. I'm sure since you're doing so well fighting imaginary men, you're eager to take on a real man for a change. We'll have a little sparring match right now."

"Yay," the boy cheered, leaping around, thrilled at the idea of not only seeing his father fight but beating him as well.

"Settle down for a minute, Ike. How about we make it interesting? If you win, I'll take over your stable duties, and you can train as much as you want." His face lit, and his mind rejoiced with the idea of never having to spend the day smelling like horseflesh and manure, like Oscar and Titania did at times. "You like that idea, don't you," his father added, his voice slowing, "but if I win, you have to clean the stables every day for the next month, no complaints."

"I'll beat you," Ike proclaimed, without need to think about his answer twice or even once. "I'll beat you," he repeated, savoring the tone of victory.

"Well, aren't you the sure one. Well, here's another idea for you. If you go on to the stables and clean them all this week, like I told you, we'll have a lesson every day once you're finished. Now, what do you say, Ike?"

"I'll beat you!"

Greil only shook his head and shrugged.

"All right then," he remarked, walking to the rack and returning with a wooden sword of his own. "There's still time to change your mind. After all, I am teaching you how to fight; you don't know everything I do." Ike envisioned him on his knees, like the warriors straight out of his mind; foes he had beaten without fail repeatedly. He tightened his grip and held his sword at the ready. His father shook his head again, and a rather impish grin appeared on his face as he took several steps backwards. "Don't hold back, Ike. Come at me with everything you've got."

The words had hardly left his mouth when Ike rushed forward, ready to win with one blow, one swipe, and one single swing. He thought nothing of the calm in his father's eyes or how at ease he seemed with the sword. The distance was closing fast, and Greil did not move. With each step forward, Ike was all the surer of his victory. Ike swung his sword with a loud battle cry, but to his surprise, empty air met his blade. He swung again. Greil took a step backward, seemingly without effort at all. Another shout passed the boy's lips, and struck out again. His father dodged. He swung his blade, a wide, reaching strike like the sort that sent men flying by the dozen in all his fantasies.

This time, his father swung his own sword, ramming into Ike's blade with a force he had never once imaged. His arms shuddered, and his eyes widened as his fingers lost their grip. The wooden weapon sailed through the air, landing with a definitive thump. Before he could even consider racing over to retrieve his fallen weapon, a quick poke in the chest sent him stumbling backwards. The next thing he knew, the stone floor met his seat, a soft 'oof' escaping his mouth.

"And this would be you dead," Greil remarked, the tip of his blade pointed straight at Ike's throat. He blinked once, twice, then a third time. To say Ike was confused was a severe understatement. He sat there on the floor for what felt like hours, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

"I…I lost," he croaked. With a small laugh, his father offered a hand and helped the stunned boy to his feet.

"Unfortunately, son, fighting real men is much different than you expect, but right now, there are some horses whose stalls need cleaning. Now, off you go."

"Aw, father," Ike whined, remembering the bargain he had made.

"Now, son, we agreed that you would clean the stables without complaining if you lost, and you lost. Don't you 'aw father' me."

"Let's do it again," his voice carried a pleading tone. "Come on, one more. I'll beat you this time."

"Not the way you handle a sword you won't. I was even holding back. Now, put down the sword and get to work."

"But father, it stinks in there," Ike waved his arms.

"It's a stable, Ike. It's supposed to smell." The boy searched for some reason, anything at all that his father would accept; anything to keep working with the sword instead of the horses. Ike's head jerked as the idea came to him. Perhaps that was the way to approach it.

"I don't even a ride a horse," he pointed at his father with triumph. Greil shook his head.

"First lesson of being part of a mercenary troop; everyone pulls their own weight. Mist does the laundry. Oscar does the cooking, and everyone takes a turn cleaning the stables."

"But father…" Ike said no more as Greil's brow furrowed, and his eyes squeezed into narrow slits.

"If you say, 'but father' one more time, Ike," he began in a slow but forceful tone, pointing one sharp finger at his son's chest, "the next thing that training sword will be used for is to give your backside a few good licks. You're old enough to do what you're told without complaining. If you were a page to a knight, you would be doing the same thing, and they have less tolerance than I do."

"How do you know?"

"Never mind. Now, get going; those stables aren't going to clean themselves." With shoulders tight, small hands clenched, the boy stomped out the door, mumbling under his breath with every step. While he may have had to do the work without complaint, that didn't mean he had to be happy about it, and he made sure that was perfectly clear. As he passed the door, he heard Greil call over his shoulder, "and remember, Ike, you have to do this for the next month."

Ike paused a moment, a low growl deep in his throat before tromping off again. He passed by Titania, and the woman called to him, but he did not care.

A red haze settled over Ike's mind as he jabbed at the dirty straw in one stall with his pitchfork, each time more viciously than the last. With each poke, his anger did not decrease as he hoped. Instead, it seemed to grow. He growled at the sweet smell of the fresh hay and the earthy scent of the floor. They stank as much as the sharp smell of manure. The stalls seemed appeared more numerous than he remembered, and the three stalls he had already cleaned took what felt like hours.

"Why do we have so many horses?" he snarled with another forceful jab. "We only have two riders."

A whinny came from one stall behind him, and it sounded more like a laugh. Ike looked over his shoulder at Titania's white mount.

"Shut up," he ordered, but the horse only neighed again. "I said shut up!" he yelled and stomped. The horse, however, did not seem to pay any mind to his words, shaking its head and snorting. Ignoring the amused animal, Ike growled and jabbed the hay again, half-paying attention to his work. The other half of his mind focused on how much he hated the task. A sword belonged in his hand, not some farm tool.

An idea fluttered into his mind just then. It was an idea that was sure to land him in trouble if his father caught him, but he did not care. Ike set the pitchfork down and crept to the stable door. Cautious eyes looked back and forth to make sure no one was watching. Satisfied, he reached a hanging ladle, one meant for the occasional drink, but today, it would serve an entirely different purpose. He had to stand on tiptoe and even then he had to stretch his fingers, but he managed to pull the ladle off its peg.

"So far so good," he grinned, racing to an open spot on the floor. He took his stance, holding the ladle as he would a sword. While he did think of the paddling he might receive, he was certain his father would not even think to come to check on him. His mind conjured the image of Greil standing in front of him, wooden sword in hand and at the ready. He swung wide, stepped forward, and swung again faster this time, remembering how nimbly his father had evaded. Faster, he swung, and faster still, with strokes widening. He would make his father duel again, and then he would be the one cleaning the stables for the next month, no two.

Another wide stroke and another step forward but this time, Ike found himself falling forward. What he tripped over, he had no idea at all. He flapped his arms wildly but could not catch himself, and he fell straight into one of the stalls, the ladle slipping out of his hand. A foul smell drifted into his nose as he hit the straw on the floor; a smell he was, by now, very familiar with.

"Oh," Ike wailed, unwilling to think about what he had just landed in but unable to prevent himself from doing just that. "Could this get worse?"

"Ike," his father called his voice far off at first. The boy balled his hand and pounded the floor. A sickening squish met his ear, and a cringe formed on his face. "Ike," Greil called again, voice a bit louder this time. Heavy steps sounded in the stables, coming closer and closer. Ike only lay there, indifferent of whether his father would see him or not. "I-what in Ashera's name are you doing down there?" The boy narrowed his eyes. "Get out of that stall, Ike? Do you have any idea what you're lying in?"

Ike stood, face squeezed so tight, it turned red. "I have some idea," he muttered. He took one look down at his soiled clothes and hated the idea of turning around for his father to see. Still, he did turn around, growling at sight of his father's eyes growing wide and his mouth dropping open slightly.

"What did you do?" asked Greil. Ike crossed his arms, ignoring the question.

"What are you doing here?" he fumed.

"I came to give you a hand, son." The boy blinked once, then a second time. "Titania came to do some sparring, and she mentioned she saw you in the hall. Well, I told her what happened, and she told me that was a dirty trick I played on you. I got to thinking about it, and she had a point."

Ike's hands clenched into fists, and he thrust them into his hips. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, come on, Ike. Why do think I made that deal with you? I knew you couldn't beat me, and that's why I made it. So, I thought I'd help you out, just so you could finish the job sooner. Looks like my little joke was dirtier than I thought," he remarked, pointing towards his son's soiled clothing. Ike's face soured. Even when first covered in horse dung, he had not worn a face as sour as he did now. "How did you end up in that stall anyway?" Without waiting for an answer, he peered passed the boy, and Ike was sure he had seen the ladle lying in the corner of the stall. The frown on his face affirmed it.

"Oh, I see," Greil uttered, "you were shirking your job, weren't you."

"So, you're going to paddle me now?" Ike huffed. His father shook his head.

"I think you've been punished enough. I hope that'll be a good lesson for you. Anyway, let's get this finished so we can get you cleaned up."

With a small, reluctant frown, Ike picked up his pitchfork again. His father selected one of his own, and the pair set to work. Although the winds of springtime blew fair and the air was mild, the silence between them was as thick as the heavy, dripping summer days. The only respites came from the occasional neigh or snort and sometimes even the soft passing of a breeze.

"All right, Ike," his father said at last. "How long are you going to stay mad?"

"I'm not mad," the boy exclaimed.

"Oh, yes you are. You've done nothing but sulk ever since we finished out little sparring match. So, how long are you going to keep it up?"

"I don't know."

"All right, how about you tell me why you're so mad in the first place? You've had to do thing you didn't want to do before, and I've never seen you pout so much. You didn't even pout this much when I didn't buy you and Mist candy on our last supply trip. So, what's got you so mad this time?"

Ike could not say why. In truth, he was not even sure himself. He hated this task, and he was sure it was part of it. He thought back to the duel with his father. With each moment, recalling the moment when he stared up at Greil from his seat, his vision began to grow redder by the minute.

"Oh, I think I know," his father remarked. "You're mad because I beat you, aren't you?"

"No," Ike answered in an instant. He looked over to see Greil nodding, a look of satisfaction on his face.

"I thought so. Ike, if there's one thing I know, it's the look of a swordsman whose pride has been wounded or soiled in your case."

"Titania was right," he snorted, his small brow knotting. "That was a mean trick."

"Ike, did you actually think you would beat me?" Silence was the boy's reply. "You've only trained for a week, and badly at that. I've been fighting most of my life."

"With an axe," his son pointed out his father's weapon of choice, "I want to fight with a sword!" Greil nodded, a small smile forming on his face.

"And you will, one day. Son, these things take time, and you're going to get a lot worse than a sore backside and sore pride along the way. Trust me; my teacher sat me on my backside just like I did to you." Ike's eyes widened. While he'd never seen his father in battle, the idea of a man like him beaten as soundly came as quite the shock.

"He did?" the boy asked in awe, his earlier anger forgotten in an instant. "Did he ever play any tricks on you?"

"More than once and he did a lot more. Once, just to teach me a lesson, he had us fight on a rotting log over a muddy river, and he made sure I got the side that was worse. No amount of washing ever got those old clothes of mine clean again." Ike could not keep himself from laughing; neither could Greil.

"Did he ever make you clean stables?" A wicked little grin formed on his face.

"How do you think I know how knights treat their pages? He had me do more than that. I cleaned the stables, polished his armor, groomed his horse, sharpened his sword, and whatever else he could think of for me to do. I hated it just about as much as you do, but if I as much as frowned," he looked around and beckoned Ike to come closer, "he said he'd run me naked into the cold." Now, Ike's eyes grew even wider, and if he could have resisted asking about his father cleaning the stables, he had no resistance in asking about that incident.

"Wow, did he?"

Greil pursed his lips and stroked his chin, though his eyes had a most insincere look to them.

"You know, Ike," he began with a light, almost humorous tone, "I honestly don't remember if he did." Ike had a sneaky feeling that his father had made up most of that story, but he didn't care too much. It was a rather amusing tale. And he did find himself grateful that his father had never threatened to do something like that. "I'll tell you what, son. If you'll do the stables for the next month like we agreed, I'll help you out every time. Then afterwards, we can work on that technique of yours, but only if you don't complain. How about it?"

"You bet, father," Ike piped up with an excited bounce, eyes taking on the same sparkle as they had earlier.

"All right. Now, let's get the rest of the stalls finished. You definitely need a bath before supper."

When they had finally cleaned all the stalls, the two of them walked side by side out of the stable. While Ike may have hated the smell of horseflesh and horse dung, he was sure he could bear it if it meant more time sparring. He wondered if perhaps one day, the image of taking on hordes of men would become something more than just a child's fantasy.

"Father," he looked up at Greil.

"Yes, son."

"Do you think I'll ever be as good a fighter as you?"

Greil paused for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye, Ike saw him glance at his right arm. A sad, almost wistful expression appeared on his face, as if he were thinking of something rather unpleasant. His head tilted, wondering what it could be.

"Better," he began, ruffling his son's hair. "You'll be so much better."

Ike beamed.

A/N: Well, I hope the story wasn't like what Ike fell into. Am I fully satisfied with it? A better question would be am I ever satisfied with anything I do. But I hope it's still enjoyable.

Until next time.