This is a short forward to this piece, which was written as a contest entry for Suikoden Day 2014—you're looking at the winning entry. :D Feel free to skip the next two paragraphs if they don't interest you. I just thought it prudent to include the description that I added to the fic when I submitted it. Thanks for reading!

The relationships amongst the Successors have always fascinated me, and I can never get enough of exploring those relationships. This piece was born from that. In honour of Suikoden IV, I've written this story, examining a hypothetical meeting between Lazlo and Tir, where they speak of Ted (and how much it sucks to be immortal).

The title is a metaphor for death, or the lack thereof, using the hymn "When the Saints Go Marching In" (which is itself a metaphor for death/the apocalypse) as a base. It felt appropriate, given the whole apocalyptic nature of the True Runes (and the specific number of Successors)/the number marching on in the hymn. Since they cannot die, they march on.

Disclaimer: I do not own Suikoden. All associated characters and settings are property of Konami. No copyright infringement is intended; no profit is being made.

They Go Marching On

The bar stank of wood smoke, supplied by a burning hearth several feet away. It cut the chill from the air, but no amount of filtration would make the air comfortably breathable. Only a few patrons frequented the inn's common room at this time of day, many having retired to the comfort and privacy of their own rooms. The few people who remained chatted in quiet groups, filling the room with the soft lull of muted conversation.

It was not a cheap inn. The tables were well crafted and polished, the chairs padded. The alcohol was costly and foreign, and the people enjoying it were well-dressed. None of this was of any interest to the common room's oldest patron.

The trail of steam rising from the mug in front of him dwindled far too rapidly as Lazlo stared bleakly off into space. Why it was so cold in this room, he had no idea, but it was a far cry from the warmth that was so common in his home.

Home. That was a place that was all but foreign to him, now. How long since he had last been to the Island Nations? Eighty years? Ninety? More than a hundred? The days, years—Rune Spirits, the decades—all seemed to blend together after a while. But did it really matter, anyway? It had clearly been long enough that he had lost track. Maybe if he thought back—how old was he, again? He had left when he was…

Lazlo shook his head, fighting back the drowsiness that was muddling his thoughts. He could not remember. Maybe when he was more awake he could figure it out, but by then he would probably be disinterested again. His current thoughts were only the product of a sleep-deprived mind.

He shivered as the inn's door opened, letting in some nameless, faceless soul who would eventually be lost to the ravages of time. Everyone was, eventually. Well, everyone but him, of course. Him, and the other poor saps burdened with the True Runes. What would it be like to age, he wondered. To feel one's body grow weaker and more frail; to wrinkle and lose the straightness of one's spine. It was a strange thing to imagine, and something he would likely never know. If he ever did die, he doubted it would be old age claiming him.

The result was that one got lonely, after a while. His friends were all long gone, claimed by none other than time. Time was, after all, supposed to take everyone. Everyone but him.

Well, not everyone. His thoughts drifted once more to the other True Rune bearers. He had met a few over the years, but the only one with whom he had been around long enough to really get to know was Ted. He wondered, not for the first time, what had become of his old friend. After the brunet had vanished, following the war, Lazlo had heard nothing of him. Nothing more than rumours, anyway.

Rumours were what had brought him here, to this miserable inn in this cold, dreary country in the peak of winter. Apparently, a man had surfaced here, one wielding the power of death itself, and then vanished. However, as he would learn when he finally arrived, the rumours he had followed were actually months old. The man was long gone, providing he had ever been at all. It was a striking disappointment. He had not realised how happy he had actually been with the idea that he might reunited with Ted until he had once again seen his chance to do so evaporate like fog over the Razril Bay.

Well, he could search for as long as he wanted to keep trying. It was not like he was going to die of old age any time soon.

The door opened again, and this time Lazlo glanced up in annoyance—that breeze was cold. He scowled at the man who entered, holding the door to admit a young teenager, possibly his son. With a glower, he raised his cup, taking a drag before all but spitting it back into the glass. Cold tea was not his favourite thing.

Setting the mug down with a sigh, he shoved it away grumpily. He should just go to bed. There was really nothing keeping him up, so why not? Standing up, he shoved his chair back without looking. It hit something firm behind him, and Lazlo heard a grunt. Apologetic, he turned to find himself face-to-face with the teenager from before.

"I—sorry about that. I wasn't watching what I was doing and…"

"It's fine," the stranger replied quietly. "No harm done."

Lazlo stared at the stranger for a long moment, the boy meeting his gaze calmly. There was something about this boy that felt…familiar, though he could not put his finger on how, exactly. After living for well over a hundred years, however, he had learned to trust his gut.

"Would you like to sit down?"

He eyed the boy appraisingly. Although, after a longer look, Lazlo realised the stranger was older than he had initially thought. He was perhaps in his late teens, although it was difficult to place an age to him, exactly. Something in the boy's eyes said he was older than even that, however, and Lazlo always trusted his gut.

The boy was watching him just as keenly, though little expression showed on his face, and after a moment, he waved over to his guardian and took a seat. The guardian acknowledged him with a nod, before returning to his discussion with the innkeeper.

"Aldo," Lazlo introduced, using the name he had decided to go by, here on the mainland. His real name had fallen back into history by now, but he still preferred not to use it most of the time. It was still recognisable, sometimes to the wrong people. This one he hoped was enough to catch Ted's attention while still remaining unnoticed by others.

The boy stared at him for a long while, and then shook his head minutely. "I know your face," he said quietly, but emphatically, "but that isn't the name I know."

Lazlo's breath caught in his throat, though he covered it up, letting only a flicker of his surprised show on his face. Years of practice had made wearing the mask he desired an easy trick, and he played it well, now. "I—I'm sorry? I don't believe we've met." Had they? But when? He had only switched to using Aldo less than a year ago, so it was plausible they had met before...

No. Meeting the teenager's eyes, he knew that that was not it. He let out a long breath, but waited for the boy—man?—to continue. Silence prevailed for a long moment, and then the stranger sighed, glancing down to the table. "No, sorry, I'm probably mistaken."

A careful dance. Not revealing too much, but still letting a few things slip. Those few things told him a lot, but also not enough. How many other Successors had he met? Not many, that was for sure, and he certainly did not recognise this one. Although, he was probably wrong about the whole thing. All these thoughts about Ted had thrown his reasoning for a loop. He had True Runes on the brain, so he was assuming one was involved here. It was as simple as that.

But that feeling…!

"Young Master, I've booked the room." The teenager's companion strode over to them. The man was not young, a hint of white at his temples and the faintest hint on lines around his eyes standing out in stark testament to that fact. He stood with a straight back, however, and his gaze was warm. Overall, he did not look old enough for white hair, but there it was.

"Thank you, Gremio. I'll be up shortly."

Gremio, Gremio…that name sounded almost familiar. His brows furrowed before he could stop them, his mind working in overdrive as he tried to recall where he had heard the name. Something about it seemed relevant. He had scrounged for every bit of information he could find, he always did when following a rumour, so was that when the name had come up? If it was, he needed to figure out its relevance, and quickly.

"Very well. We're in room four. Please try not to stay up too late."

Lazlo, despite being distracted, did not miss the carefully appraising look Gremio sent his way. He nodded once, offering a small smile. The look was returned, and then Gremio was gone, winding his way between the tables.

"Lazlo." He threw caution to the winds, catching the teenager's gaze and holding it calmly.

Silence settled for a long moment, and then the boy leaned forward. "That's the name."

They held gazes for a long moment, and then the teenager sat back once more. "Tir. Tir McDohl."

That name he knew. Tir McDohl, the man, boy really, who had founded the Toran Republic. He had likely heard Gremio's name in relation to this young man. It had been nearly a decade since that war. The rumours of death had first stirred there, in that nation, in fact. Though Lazlo had been too late to follow them back then, when he had heard them rekindled here, years after, he had been unable to resist the urge to investigate.

This was a person who might know something about those rumo—he froze. He had never met Tir McDohl before, but the man knew both his face and name. Or claimed to, at least. The correct question to ask was not how Tir could help him, but how the man knew him.

"Sor—"

"The Rune's memories." The words were quiet, but they still cut him off as easily as a hot knife sliced through butter. Lazlo swallowed hard.

"The…" he hesitated, then ventured, "Rune?"

"You knew Ted."

It was a simple statement of fact, and Lazlo felt his heart plummet into his gut. The Rune would not be here, with…with this man, if Ted were still alive. Ted was dead. They were all dead. His shoulders sagged, and he dropped his gaze.

"Yes, I did."

"You helped him see, see that there was more to life than simply existing; that he could live without always having to run. He wanted to tell you that, but never did. He never got the chance. So, I'm telling you. For Ted."

The way the man—all outwards appearances aside, Tir was certainly that—spoke, in choppy, broken sentences, rang of a man who was struggling to find the right words. Was this a sensitive topic, or merely something that was difficult to express? Both, perhaps?

"How well did you know him?"

"Better than most." Sad, brown eyes rested on Lazlo for a moment. "He told me once, of a friend named Aldo. He said he had died in a battle a long time ago."

Lazlo flushed slightly, glancing down. "I…wanted to use a name I thought Ted would recognise." There was more to those words than the obvious, however. If Tir had the Rune, then he knew a great deal about Ted, and his relationship with Aldo. However, if Ted had willingly spoken of Aldo to him, even a little, it was indicative of how close Ted and Tir must have been.

As though reading his thoughts, Tir sighed and glanced down at the polished tabletop. "He was my best friend, you know, but he only ever mentioned the Rune to me, because…because…" Lazlo glanced up. Tir's expression was stony, his brown eyes all but boring holes into the table. "I wish he had told me more."

"You have the Rune." It could tell him plenty.

"The Rune remembers what it wants," Tir all but spat. "You have another Rune, so of course you matter. And Aldo became…" Tir cleared his throat. "It remembers the day Windy tried to steal it. But the happy stuff? Of course not. That's not important enough."

Lazlo glanced around the room. It was getting late, and so only a few patrons were still lingering. As he was looking, a woman shook her head, frowning to a man—her husband?—and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Lazlo knew that look: disapproval. He glanced to Tir.

"I still remember."

Tir met his gaze steadily. He could all but see the cogs turning behind the man's eyes, and after a moment, Tir seemed to reach a decision.

"You know, I always hoped I would bump into you some day. I think Ted believed you were dead, but I—I hoped anyway; figured I had plenty of time to look."

"Forever is a long time."

Tir snorted, but did not otherwise respond. There was no reason to. After a moment, Lazlo ventured, "You're lucky, you've still got your friends."

Tir fell silent for a long moment, then smiled sadly. "It's been a long time since I've thought of myself as lucky, but…yeah, I guess I am."

A quick glance confirmed that the woman was still watching them, frowning—how dare two children be up so late unattended, right?—and so Lazlo, sensing an end to the conversation, made to stand. "It was good to meet you, Tir. Perhaps we'll meet again, someday."

He was just stepping away from the table when Tir's voice reached his ears, quiet but firm, "Gremio and I were thinking about heading to the Island Nations."

Lazlo froze. "Is that so." It was not a question.

"We've never been. We could use a guide."

He felt a smile break out on his features, the first in a long time "I might know someone who could help." After all, it had been a long time since he had been home.