For as long as he could remember, Marth had been pushed behind people whenever danger reared its head.
As a child, his father had developed a habit of taking out his emotions on his family, and, whenever Father was in a bad mood, he would usually seek out his children and scream at them until he felt better. Elice, being the elder sibling and Father's obvious favorite, would always push Marth behind her during these lectures in an effort to protect him. Marth had always been grateful for it, of course, but, even as a young boy, he couldn't help but feel guilty as he stood by and allowed his sister to take the brunt of Father's anger onto herself.
When he was a bit older and Father had become more distant, he was assigned a small entourage of knights to ensure his safety, as well as Sir Jagen, a personal retainer. Their job, first and foremost, was to guard Marth with their lives, and they were very good at their job. They accompanied Marth whenever he left the castle grounds, and, on the rare occasion that some sort of danger erupted, he would immediately find himself surrounded by soldiers, their weapons drawn. He, of course, would be ushered into the most easily-defensible position―the back.
Protecting him was their sacred duty; a duty that they'd chosen of their own volition. And, of course, being one of the few remaining descendants of Anri, his survival was crucial to the kingdom of Altea, and even Archanea as a whole. Nevertheless, when Dame Rabella leaped between him and an assassin's blade, her lance piercing the bandit's heart right as the bandit's blade embedded itself in her neck, he couldn't help but feel personally responsible for her death.
When he was older still and Father's behavior shifted again, no longer being distant and cold but doing his best to control every minute aspect of his children's lives, Marth began a strict training regime under the tutelage of Sir Jagen. A few younger, more inexperienced, but still very capable knights were chosen to train alongside him; namely, the cavaliers Cain and Abel and the heavily-armored Draug. Draug's younger brother Gordin, who was training to be an archer, also sometimes attended.
To his credit, Jagen showed Marth little favoritism; he sparred just as frequently and as intensely as the other trainees. His sparring partners, on the other hand, were understandably hesitant to harm the crown prince. Only Cain ever seemed to truly give it his all during their sparring sessions; Draug and Abel were both much more reserved. As if they were afraid they might make a wrong move and break him. Pairing up for team spars only exacerbated the issue; his partner would spend the entire time protecting him rather than themselves.
Marth understood that, as knights, they were only preparing for a lifetime of putting his life above theirs, and, as the prince, he should get accustomed to being protected in such a manner. But when Jagen whistled, signaling the beginning of the match, and Abel almost immediately jumped in front of him, barring an arm across his chest in the universal "stay behind me" signal, he couldn't help but feel like a child being told to sit back and let the adults talk.
When Dolhr attacked the castle, Elice stayed, Mother stayed, and Marth fled. Jagen hoisted him up on the back of his horse, Cain and Abel backing them on either side, Frey bringing up the rear, and they rode.
Before that, of course, he fought. When the saboteurs cornered him in the empty corridors between his quarters and the throne room, he had no choice but fight, and fight he did. His rapier slid easily between the gaps in his enemies' armor and pierced their hearts, their lungs, and their throats.
And, as they made their escape, he continued to fight. If the others had their way, he would have stayed on the sidelines, but, quite frankly, with their measly numbers, they needed every man they could get―even the shaky sword-hand of the prince. So he fought alongside Cain and Jagen and Abel and Frey, dodging attacks when he could with the assurance that he had his knights―his friends―at his side. If they stood together, they could overcome any adversity, he was sure.
Then Frey rode off to his death, alone, dressed as Marth, and the real Marth watched, unable to do anything but silently assure himself that his friend's sacrifice would not be in vain. He could see, now, that his life was no longer his to wager. Yet, as Frey vanished into the trees, Marth couldn't help but think that a better man, a better fighter, a better prince, wouldn't have needed to wager Frey's life in place of his own.
They arrived at Talys one man short, but the rest of them were miraculously alive, and Marth could only be grateful for that small blessing. When the king of Talys not only agreed to shelter them indefinitely but even offered to support their eventual journey back to Altea, Marth could only bow his head and accept the generosity. It may have been far, far more than a craven like him deserved, but his men deserved all of it and more after the hell he'd put them through, so he certainly wasn't going to refuse.
Mere hours after their arrival, before they had time to settle in to the abandoned fort they'd been gifted, he met Caeda―or just the Princess of Talys, as he'd known her at the time. They'd been organizing their meager belongings in their new home, Draug and Cain hauling the heavy crates, Abel unpacking them into smaller packages for Marth and Jagen to organize and put away, while Gordin diligently wiped the dust and grime off the shelves and cleared out the insect and vermin.
Caeda, of course, entered the same way she did everything: quick, considerate, and confident. The doors flew open and she strode in, abruptly enough to be surprising but not so suddenly as to startle the tense knights fresh from the battlefield. Immediately, she zeroed in on Marth, and she was upon him before he could even register it, offering him an affectionate hug, as if he was an old friend. It's such a pleasure to meet you and Oh, how rude of me! I'm Caeda; I heard about you from my father and I'm sorry to hear about your kingdom―not to worry; when you're ready to take it back, Talys will be right behind you, I swear it! and You all must be tired from your journey; please, take this moment to rest, and let us get you all set up―if that's okay with you, Ogma? Good, good―no protesting, now; you're dead on your feet! Lay down, come on―
Before Marth could get a word in edgewise, he had been ushered into his room, which Gordin had already cleaned at least partially. By the time he regained his composure and emerged, the fort had been cleaned wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, the shelves and storerooms now fully stocked, and Caeda was cooking something that smelled amazing while a very flustered Abel hovered nearby, weakly insisting that she sit down and let him take over, really, he could handle it, this work was beneath someone of her station, they'd already accepted too much of her generosity, Princess Caeda, please―
Once they'd all partaken of her delicious stew, she dragged Marth towards the door, her hand warm around his. If you're up for it, I'd like to take you on a tour of the island; I know you probably miss your home, but I think you'll love it here―no, no, please sit down, Ogma―Talys is peaceful, and I know where I'm going; no need for an escort. So cheerful; so reasonable; so self-assured.
Marth knew that, no matter the circumstances, the Altean knights would probably never stop being protective. Still, when Caeda's retainer just shrugged and obediently sat back down, with nothing more than a fond smile and a casual Stay safe, Princess, Marth couldn't help but look up at the Princess of Talys and see an ideal that he could only hope to reach someday.
Then Talys went up in flames, Marth made his choice, and the war began. Cain slaughtered pirates by the dozen, his sword flashing, and Abel followed closely to clean up the stragglers, the reach of his lance inescapable; Draug held the line effortlessly, arrows and axes alike bouncing uselessly off of his great shield, and Gordin rained down bolts from behind him, deftly nocking a new arrow as soon as the first left his fingers; Jagen circled around the battlefield, hemming the enemies in with the threat of his glimmering silver lance, and Marth―
Marth held back, mostly, and watched Caeda soar overhead, darting through the bandits with the speed and certainty of a predator; shattering the enemy's ranks as easily as glass; as sudden and inexorable as a strike of lightning.
He watched Caeda rule the battlefield with more poise than he could ever hope to have, and he choked on his own inadequacy.
Logically, Marth knew that Caeda flew ahead of him because it only made sense; she was the superior fighter with mobility that far exceeded his, and it would be pointless for her to slow down and stick by him. Still, each time she flew overhead while he stayed back and watched, he couldn't help but wonder if he just wasn't strong enough to fight by her side.
He confessed as much one night, when they'd already seized the enemy castle and their troops were resting there for the night. "Is something wrong?" she had asked in the dark, empty corridor, as observant and thoughtful as ever, and Marth hadn't meant to spill his entire life's story to her, but his rapier hadn't seen a single battle that day, and Caeda had been the one to cut down the enemy general, and Cain was currently unconscious in their makeshift hospital because he'd shielded Marth from a debilitating blow with his own body, and the words spilled out before he could stop them.
"I'm supposed to be the leader, not the load," he said, his voice shaky and desperate. "I learned to use a sword for nothing―I never get the chance to use it. I just stay back and let everyone else fight, and I'm the one who claims victory at the end!" he said, and Caeda listened intently. "Can't you see that you're all risking your lives just to save the hide of some pathetic, worthless coward whose only redeeming quality is his bloodline?" he said, and his voice cracked noticeably.
For what felt like hours after his outburst, Caeda remained silent. Marth's chest was heaving with each exhale, as if he'd been shouting for hours, and his face was crimson red, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and overall he just felt very childish.
Then Caeda stepped forward, her hands fluttering towards him, as if to offer comfort, only to hesitate at the last minute and fall back to her sides.
"Marth," she said softly after a moment, her voice barely more than a whisper, "it's the best we can do."
Marth just stared.
Caeda, luckily, had enough words for the both of them. "You're the one with the heavy load," she said, apparently unaware of how senseless those words were. "You're carrying this whole continent―the army, the kingdoms, the living, the dead; all of it. And I―" Her voice cracked to match his; such a singular occurrence that it was nearly frightening. "I can't help. I can't carry it too, because I'm not you. So I―I just―Marth, at least let me steady you."
Still, Marth stared, his mouth suddenly dry as a shriveled riverbed after a drought. "I... I don't..." he croaked, because that was exactly what it felt like, sometimes―like the whole damn continent, with its petty little wars and dozens of useless armies and suffocating bloodbaths, was pressing against his shoulders with the weight of a thousand corpses―but he knew, he'd always known, that he was just a feeble little boy who couldn't even carry his own body, much less a country's worth of them.
Suddenly, Caeda's voice grew very, very soft. "When I look at you," he said, "I don't see a weakling who needs to be sheltered from the world. I see a man who has been beaten, belittled, and beset by troubles―and who survived. The world keeps trying to bring him to his knees, but he's still on his feet because he refuses to be knocked down."
(Marth didn't think he'd ever been "on his feet" in his entire life, but he couldn't summon his voice to tell her as much, so she continued unimpeded.)
"When I look at you, I think, 'I can't protect this man'," she said too emotionally to be considered brusque, but just as straightforward as ever. "'I can't protect him from the world, or his memories, or himself. But battles―swords and lances and knives in the back―those, if nothing else, I can stop. And if I can do that―if I can remove a single, petty burden from his shoulders―then that will be a life worth spent'."
Marth made a soft noise of disagreement, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, and Caeda paused for a moment, staring back at him. Then she placed both hands on his shoulders, and he couldn't be ashamed that he was trembling, because she was trembling, too.
"Marth," she said shakily, her eyes wide and unguarded in a way he'd never seen before, "I promise you, I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Cain, or Abel, or Jagen, or Draug, or Gordin―or any of us. We'll always be here for you, because it's the least we can do."
She pulled him into an embrace―a movement so unfamiliar to him that he nearly flinched―and placed a hand on the back of his head, guiding it down to her shoulder.
"So you can lean on us when you need to," Caeda said. "We'll hold you steady. You just have to keep walking."
For all of Marth's life, he'd been shuffled around from protector to protector: a burden to be carried until you either crumpled under his weight or decided to leave him behind. Father dragged him along by the scruff of the neck, Jagen cradled him like an infant, Elice hefted him up onto her back, and Caeda pulled him onto Tempest's saddle. 'My legs must not be strong enough,' he'd assumed; 'my pace must not be fast enough; I must be too stupid to find the way myself.' He had told himself that one day, one day, he would get up and walk for himself; one day, he would be able to keep up with everyone instead of weighing them down. One day, he wouldn't need to be carried.
That day had never come, he'd thought. Each time, he'd been yanked back by his lapels and told, No, Marth, you're still too weak; no, Marth, you're still too naive; no, Marth, you're not enough. He had come to resent both his helpers and himself: them, for not giving him a chance to prove his worth; himself, for being so pathetic and helpless that he couldn't even stand on his own.
What a fool he'd been not to notice that they'd put him down a long time ago and he'd been walking ever since.
The next morning, Cain would wake up and demand to know if Marth was alright. Abel would smack him upside the head―Worry about yourself, reckless idiot―and tell him that the Prince was just fine. Malledus would say something scathing, and Jagen would reply with an almost-insult that wasn't quite rude, and they'd argue with politely even voices until Marth inevitably sided with Jagen and Malledus resigned with a scowl. Gordin would excitedly present Marth's chestplate, newly polished because he'd found a few hours of free time, and Draug would make his daily half-hearted attempt to convince his brother and his liege to both wear more armor; once you get used to it, it's not even that heavy.
Then Marth would have to decide what to do about all the enemy soldiers they'd captured, and the criminals already imprisoned in the castle, and the townspeople who were at risk of revolting, and Malledus' cruel suggestions of how to deal with each situation. But Abel would bring him dinner even if he couldn't get away from his desk, and Jagen would keep Malledus in check and help him with a good two-quarters of his paperwork, and Caeda would disappear all day only to triumphantly return with a peace treaty from the town mayor awaiting only Marth's signature. And, when they next took to battle, Marth would see very little combat―not because he was unqualified, but because his family had his back.
For now, though, Marth just tucked his face into Caeda's neck, wrapped his quivering arms around her, and silently wondered if this was what it felt like to have both feet on solid ground.