Author's Notes: I was working on a much larger Tanith/Marcia fic (per friend's request, I'll explain when I'm done), but I got sidetracked and began a story concerning Matthew, Guy, and fishing. Then I got sidetracked again, and wrote this drabble, which is quite possibly the worst out of the three that I've started lately. Eh. I'm too lazy to edit it 'til it's good.
Disclaimer: I do not own Intelligent Systems, Nintendo, or Fire Emblem.
I'm not really that old. Or, at least, I'm not if you look at my lifespan. I've lived for sixty years or so – I gave up keeping track somewhere around forty-six – but I've some hundred years to go. But I feel old. Sixty years is enough. Sixty years is more than most beorc have. When I stay within Grann Desert, the changes aren't really evident. Not much changes in a desert. But I do get out sometimes. For example, with Ike's mercenaries. Going on that little journey wasn't quite intentional, but I can't say it was a bad time.
There were some changes from the last time I had wandered outside the cave – some twenty years before, I went to investigate a ruckus over in western parts of Begnion – but it was disappointingly little. Oh, I did enjoy the new sewer systems, the new style of mattresses, but technology isn't everything.
There was a little branded boy by the name of Soren in our little troupe. He was a sweet little thing when it came to the commander, but otherwise, he was a terrified and paranoid kid. When he looked at anyone, his face clearly said, "What do you want?" Seeing it was worth a chuckle, when the later repercussions haven't yet floated to the surface of the mind. It's sad to imagine what could happen to him and his stubbornness within a few years. Clearly, some things about the world haven't yet changed.
He reminds me of a kid my group picked up in the Manial slums. The boy was Soren's age, around fifteen or sixteen, spirited and yet not spirited. He was quite intent on staying where he was, forcing himself to belong. Sullen and rebellious, he had told the old branded who came to pluck him away to "go roast a laguz pie or something, you senile old duck." The old branded's eye glimmered: he caught the use of 'laguz'.
It was a matter of weeks later, however, when the little fledgling mercenary stumbled into a nearby forest to hide. His group had decided to drive him out. They couldn't very well have a ratty incompetent branded lead them, could they?
As he quietly fumed and sharpened his sword, he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. "You mustn't lose yourself in revenge," he heard. The boy turned a loathing eye to the old branded before him. "You have talent. It would be a shame if you were to fall in an attempt at spite."
He had never really been good at controlling his desire to act on anger. He knew that it was unwise to wreak vengeance upon his former companions. And yet-- and yet--
"There is a part of you that is calm and understanding."
He stared at the old branded.
"You would be a good leader."
He required more persuasion.
"They are of your kind. You would fit in."
With this, the boy sheathed his sword and followed the old branded into the desert.
When I think back on myself like this, like an old man, I somehow feel that forty-five years isn't much more than a measure of wasted time. All these years seem to wear energy away without leaving anything behind. A day's done more to me before.
