Title: The Tactician
Summary: He knows he must move on, and he is incredibly tired. An interesting (new?) look at the tactician. One-shot.
Word Count: 472
There's a phantom that flits about in the pages of history, appearing here in the legendary march of the Eight Heroes, there a thousand years later as the guiding hand in the war against Nergal. A brilliant tactician, leading an army against a great evil – the same story, playing out over and over in a hundred worlds, a thousand worlds, sometimes recurring in the world's history and sometimes not.
Speak of me to no one, he instructs. Tell none of my name, or my description. Do not look for me.
With nothing more than a parting wave and a final glance, the man leaves. A heavy weight settles over his shoulders. He does not know where his feet carry him.
He walks into the forest and dies, and as he dies he remembers a million deaths and he knows. Not the creature he has become, or the creature he was; no, never that. He knows that he is done here. He knows he must move on, and he is incredibly tired.
If you asked him what he was, he wouldn't be able to tell you.
He has not even always been a "he." This enigma has worn countless faces and shapes, has loved so many and lived so much that it cannot remember what it originally was. A man, a woman, a monster; a lover, a friend, a killer. He, she, it—who knows what this creature is… this brilliant, legendary, confused creature?
Let's say it is male.
He knows he's lived a lifetime, a hundred thousand lifetimes, each one as full and rich and interesting as the last. He doesn't know his name anymore.
Let's call him Mark.
An ordinary name for an extraordinary person. This is the man coveted by continents, whose skill worlds would tear each other apart to obtain. Already his touch has altered the destinies of too many worlds to name, and yet he continues on. Elibe, blessed thrice by his presence, is on the brink of destruction. Some say he is divine. They must be wrong, for his touch brings about no miracles but those of death.
Bern and Etruria prepare for war. In the minds of their leaders, there is only one goal: find Mark. Their battle will mark the beginning of the long fight for peace that will spread across the ocean to the faraway continent of Tellius. Already, a boy cursed with the gift of mixed blood feels the spirit of Mark awakening within him. He will grow to become a predator, deadlier than any mortal animal and with the soul of a killer.
In another world and another time, a man stirs. He knows not where he is, nor why he is there. He knows only two things.
I am an apprentice tactician, traveling to hone my skills.
My name is… Mark.
A/N: I actually finished a story? No way, right? Actually, I finished this in a single sitting and it only took 20 or 30 minutes. I'm amazed. I wish I wrote like this all the time.
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! Much of my work is never completed and thus never sees the light of day(or, rather, the light of FFnet) and that means I never have anybody telling me how much I suck/how great I am.