Scarred

This is for LemurianGirl's story challenge.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It was over.

The Demon King was dead. His body had been struck, again and again, by the ancient weapons, until it was little more than a charred husk on the cold floor of the Black Temple. His… it's soul still raged within the glowing prison of the Sacred Stone, but Eirika was keeping it safe.

The victory celebration was already well under way. He could see the massive bonfires crackling merrily as the exhausted but jubilant soldiers that had fought their best danced, partied, held drinking contests, or simply sat by the fireside, a warm glow of satisfaction about their faces.

All around him scenes of celebration unfolded. The Silver Knight with a soft smile on his face as he sat contemplatively on a log, eyes half-shut as he let the sweetness of success wash over him.

The Pegasus Knights of Frelia dancing with several of the male knights. Ephraim fancied he had seen Forde and Vanessa together among the shifting shadows cast by the fire.

Eirika letting the proverbial hair down and dancing with – of all people – Innes.

Franz and Amelia, completely conked out, sitting side by side with her head resting on his shoulder.

Ephraim supposed it was only normal for them to feel happy. The whole wretched war was over. The threat of the Demon King was averted, and the monsters plaguing the continent would surely decrease in number as the knights could now spend their full time weeding them out.

They were happy. He should have been happy.

He wasn't.

He closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. It was expected, he told himself. You don't just go up against the largest country on the continent, not to mention the Ancient Evil, without casualties.

It was only natural, he told himself. No one wins one hundred percent. No archer – not even Innes – hits every target. No mage – not even Lute – chants every spell just right. No mercenary – not even Gerik – wins every duel.

And no commander – not even him, Ephraim – can save all of his men. Or women, as it were.

L'Arachel. The self-centred princess of Rausten. When had been the first time they met? On the seas, fighting that ghost ship – no, it had been before. At Port Bethroen.

He smiled as he recalled her strange, pattering way of communication. She had always appeared capable of holding an entire conversation all by herself. The smile turned into a slight chuckle as he thought of the time she had interrupted the battle with Selena Fluorspar to offer the entire company sugar cookies she had personally baked. Not that they hadn't been delicious, but Ephraim felt the entire affair would have been slightly more enjoyable had lightning bolts not been raining on their heads throughout.

The chuckle faded into grim silence and a haunting stare as he thought of how she had died. It wasn't as if anyone could have done very much to avoid it.

He closed his eyes, pressing palms to his suddenly damp forehead as he relived her final moments.

"L'Arachel!" Ephraim called. "Be careful."

The princess glanced up from where she just finished 'working' on a Deathgoyle. As the ashed remains were quickly blown away by a cold wind, she steered her mount besides Ephraim's. "Why do you always seem intent on limiting my exploits?" She asked with a quizzical look on her face. "It is my divine duty to bring judgment on these foul beasts!"

Ephraim raised an eyebrow as the hint of a smirk appeared on his face. "I merely noticed that carrying out your divine duty appears to be exhausting you far more than you let on. We're still in the thick of a fight, and you're not as experienced with offensive magic as some of the other mages. You should conserve your energy."

L'Arachel smirked triumphantly. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong. I've been preparing for such an eventuality. Should my magic ever run out, I am fully prepared to wield my staff as a weapon, like THIS!" Her last word was bitten out as she swung her Mend Stave in a wide arc that connected with the face of a Bonewalker that had been attempting to sneak up on the pair. The bone around the left eye socket crumbled slightly as the head flew off into an alcove of the Temple. The remaining bones collapsed into a shapeless heap.

Ephraim was speechless. After several long seconds, he managed, "Um, I've, uh, never seen a staff used that way before."

The princess nodded. "Oh, yes. It actually works quite well, but… I'm going to have to find a line of more durable staffs. Most snap after a couple good whacks."

Ephraim was about to offer a stunned nod before returning to the battle when a low growl distracted him. From the alcove into which the skull had flown, a huge, hulking shape had appeared. The Cyclops glared down at the two with its single eye before letting loose an ear-shattering bellow.

"Get behind me!" Ephraim bit out as he charged the creature, lance whirling. The build of a lance made it a uniquely vulnerable weapon against the axes Cyclopes so favoured, but given the sheer size of the weapon his foe was wielding, it probably wouldn't have mattered much had he been using a sword anyway. Skill was what counted in these matches.

Just as he had ducked under a wild strike and plunged his lance deep into the gray-green belly of the monster, L'Arachel followed up with a blast of magic directly to the eye of the creature.

And the wall beside them crumbled as the power of a Demon Surge spell blasted through the ancient stone, smashing into L'Arachel and sending her onto the floor.

The Cyclops staggered back, screaming and clutching its mutilated eye, while the Gorgon slithered over the crack it had made in the wall. In a split second, Ephraim made one of those decisions that qualified him as a commander instead of a common grunt solider.

Perceiving the serpentine monster to be the greater threat, he charged, leaving the Cyclops to continue in its staggering about and howling. A quick twirl of the lance to brush the Gorgon's defending arm aside, and he skewered the creature through it's lower heart. The creature hissed, twitched, and slumped over, dead.

Dismounting, he knelt beside the Princess, trying to determine how bad the damage had been. Certainly not fatal, but it might put her out of commission for a while.

"You alright?" It seemed to be the only appropriate thing to ask in a setting such as this.

"Fine!" L'Arachel chirped. "Although I feel a slight numbness where the spell hit me, but that should pass once-"

At that moment, an earthshaking bellow sounded three feet behind and above them. As it turned out, Cyclopes, while not the brightest of the monsters they faced, knew enough to aim their weapons in the general direction from which noise was coming from, especially if they no longer had the benefit of sight.

Ephraim jerked back, a purely reflex action, and one that probably saved his life, or at least his arm. However, that act left absolutely nothing but air in between the axe and L'Arachel. With a rather sickening crunch, the hammer-like weapon gouged through the floor, severing both the body and life of the Princess of Rausten.

Ephraim sighed as the last of the memory finished playing back in his mind. It had all happened so fast. The incident had occurred nigh on two weeks ago, and it still grated on him. Others had felt the loss too, but apparently it wore on them less.

They had prepared the body to the best of their ability, covering the parts they otherwise couldn't with a sheet adorned with the emblem of Rausten, before sending it back to her home country.

He stared at the dirt morosely. He had to stop beating himself up over this, he told himself. It did no one any good. With a tiny sigh, he glanced up – and happened to spot Dozla.

Of all the people who had been affected by the death of Lady L'Arachel, only Dozla had been hit harder than Ephraim had. When he had heard of what happened, he had brutalized the corpse of the already- dead Cyclops for a full five minutes before Ephraim and Garcia had managed to restrain him. After which he had just broken down and wept.

Just then, Dozla glanced up and noticed Ephraim. The Lord tilted his shoulder as an invitation for the Berserker to come sit with him, which Dozla accepted after a moment's hesitation.

After several minutes of awkward silence, Ephraim shook his head. "Will you be alright?"

Dozla blinked back tears. "Ah… I'll be fine." He said brusquely.

"… It'll be hard. Going back home without her. For all of us. We set out… we set out prepared to die." Ephraim closed his eyes. "And after we cheated death again and again… I began to think that… we could really do it. We'd get out. Alive. All of us. Foolish, I know but…"

"Not foolish, lad." Dozla replied. "If you think you're going to come out alive, well, you might not, but if you keep thinking the next foe you face will end up besting you, well, that's a recipe for disaster."

"…She would have been happy to know we won."

"She is."

Ephraim glanced up. "She always wanted… she always felt it was her calling to vanquish evil from the realm."

"Just like her parents." Dozla said wistfully. " 'Don't think she ever realized how much she resembled them. The brave and beautiful wanderers traveling to defeat evil. She talked like them, had the same unquenchable confidence… " Abruptly the smile vanished from his face. "Went out the same way too."

Several more long minutes were spent, the two warriors saying nothing but taking comfort in the shared sorrow of the other. Finally, Ephraim stirred. "Dozla… I'll come back with you to Rausten."

"…"

"I… I want to see her one last time. Never had a real chance to say farewell… not in the heat of the moment and all… I…" Ephraim shook his head angrily, his pent-up emotion still trying to find an exit.

Dozla didn't appear to have heard for several minutes, then he let out a deep sigh. "Yeah. Maybe… maybe I should think about sayin' goodbye too."

Ephraim shifted slightly, wincing slightly as his pauldron caught on an old wound. "…Heh." He shook his head. "I remember the time when she offered to heal some of the scars on my body… I was about to show her one on my shoulder when she shrieked something about how I was 'coming on' to her. Her view of life was… unique."

He gazed at her campfire. "She never did get around to patching up that scar."

Then he closed his eyes, listening to the crackling of the dancing flames.