Author's Note: Some of Harken's history is hinted at in his support conversation with Marcus, but I decided to write the story in such a way that he grew up in Pherae. Most of the conversations are modeled after the support conversations of the characters (if not copied completely).
Kyden is fictional. Sorry if it is not geographically possible for Kyden to have pirates, because I don't think anything situated beside Pherae can be near the sea. Since Marcus said, "The house you once served is no more. The marquess that betrayed your loyalty and threw you out...is dead", I decided to invent a whole new canton. Although I tried to follow this strictly, I think that there are some gaps that are open for discussion – he wasn't exactly thrown out in my story, depending on how you argue it.
I have quoted many (not so) epic battles with bandits, and this is because of what Lowen says to Harken in their support conversation: "I was born to peasants. My home was a small village, far outside Pherae... A village with little value, far from the sight of the castle. We were so poor, there was hardly any value to be gained by protecting us from bandits. All knew this, for certain. Still, he came. He came to protect us, his subjects." Isadora also mentions her ambition to become a knight in her support conversation with Renault: "Your Excellency... I was born as the youngest daughter of a country nobleman. I wanted to become a knight from my earliest childhood, so I spent many long, bitter hours in training... I hoped to someday protect my country proudly..." As a matter of fact, I wrote all of this before referring to the support conversations, but I suppose I would like to be on the safe side.
Some of the fighting scenes are quite unbelievable, but I've watched the Fire Emblem animations too many times to expect no less than doing an amazingly acrobatic somersault before amazingly accurately killing the opponent, so forgive me.
Since I don't think there is an official version of what happened to Lord Elbert and his knights, I decided to invent my own version. This is my own interpretation, and not what actually happened.
Oh, here's a random fact: Harken ends all his support conversations with Marcus with "Sir!"
If you had read whatever fraction of The Second Division I wrote before I decided that I had no time to commit myself to a long term project, I thank you sincerely, and I also apologize for reusing some of the names in this story for my OCs. The prospect of plowing through lists of 4-, 5- and 6-lettered names to find suitable ones was not very appealing. I am also very sorry for deleting The Second Division if you had enjoyed reading it, and I may upload it again at a later date if I think that I will be able to upload new chapters at a rate of at least one per month. Right now it is saved in my computer, and I will continue adding on new chapters (I hope).
The Last Knight
It was apparent from his first training session that he could not, and would not, make a paladin. The lance, which mastery was second nature to most cavaliers after years of hard work and training, felt ungainly and unbalanced in his hand. And it was obvious after his first riding lesson that he was not meant to fight from horseback.
He would have been dismissed if the Pheraen Knights had not been facing a shortage of soldiers, and were willing to train whichever young boy voluntarily enlisted. While joining the army was once the only way a young boy from a poor family could make a name for himself, policies implemented over the years by benevolent rulers had changed that. Which parent would willingly see their sons throw their lives away, even if it were for a cause as noble as defending their country? When a better solution presented itself, the people seized at that. While the populace rejoiced, the army suffered, unfairly, it may have seemed.
He faced none of those problems. He was a runaway from an orphanage run by the Eliminean Church. Though the clerics and bishops treated all the children with care, he felt restless and empty. Nearing his twelfth birthday, he wrapped his meager belongings in a cloth and set off for the Pheraen Castle.
"I want to be a knight. I want to defend my country."
Startled at the conviction this mere boy exuded, the servants brought him to the Knight Commander, who looked him over with a critical eye. He stared back resolutely and repeated himself, "I want to become a knight."
After dedicating most of his life in the service of House Pherae, Knight Commander Marcus had trained many recruits, but none had the unwavering gaze that this boy had when they had declared their intention to journey into knighthood. "What is your name?"
"I'm Harken."
"Alright, Recruit Harken, the servant will bring you to your barracks. You are to report to the training field promptly at eight tomorrow."
.
The commands for the drills rang across the practice yard as Marcus approached. Seeing the Knight Commander, the knights and the recruits hastily ceased the practice and stood at attention, save a boy at the end of the line, who continued hacking at a dummy with a practice sword with dogged concentration.
"Psst!" The recruit standing beside him elbowed him, and he looked up before raising his hand in a respectful salute. Marcus saw with satisfaction that the boy had the stance of a professional soldier, no doubt achieved through the careful studying of one of the older knights, and his neatly combed hair and meticulously polished training armour exhibited conscientiousness that boys this young seldom demonstrated. This boy was every bit as passionate and serious about his training as Marcus thought he would be.
"Why are you practicing with a sword?" The other recruits had been practicing drills with lances when he approached. The knights in charge of training the recruits seldom granted permission for individual practice, and even more seldom the privilege of wielding a different primary weapon.
"Recently, the villages near our borders have been looted by bandits. With my sword, I would defend Pherae." The bandits had left the orphanage alone because they had not thought it worth their time.
"Continue with practice," Marcus said, dismissing the other recruits, and turning back to the serious, earnest boy, asked, "Would you like to spar with me?"
"It would be an honour, Commander."
As Marcus went to retrieve a practice sword, he was joined by one of the senior commanders who were in charge of overseeing the training of recruits.
"Commander, the boy was terrible at fighting with the lance. I hope you are not displeased."
"You have done well, Sir Irvin."
.
Having observed Harken's sword strokes from a distance and thinking that he showed unusual flair for a new recruit with no prior training in arms, Marcus was not disappointed. He had gestured for Harken to attack, and the boy did, responding with a quick thrust to Marcus's ribs. He had blocked automatically, and was surprised when Harken followed with a quick overhand stroke that could only be blocked by bringing the sword up with lightning speed, or sidestepping the stroke entirely. Most recruits tended to follow the sequences in which the strokes were taught, and many took years to be able to gauge how best to best their opponent, but this boy seemed to have the uncanny ability to follow up his strokes with attacks that were difficult to block. He had turned his weakness, his height, into his strength, and the sword came from deadly unexpected directions that a less experienced swordsman would struggle to block. However, the heavy armour that all recruits had to wear, made to imitate real armour as much as possible so that they could get used to its weight and limitations, slowed him down, and he was soon panting for breath despite his best efforts.
Marcus lowered the sword. "You're a good swordsman, Recruit Harken. But the armour affects your speed. Your opponent could turn that to his advantage."
Harken bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Commander. I'll practice more."
Marcus shook his head. "I don't think you should train as a knight, but you'll be good as a mercenary."
"Mercenary? But I want to defend Pherae; I won't fight for anyone else, not even for gold!" He spoke with such indignation and conviction that those who did not stop their practice to watch their fight turned around to stare.
"You misunderstand me. Mercenaries are sword-wielding warriors, though they are rarer in Pherae. They haven't an official class name, and they are referred to as mercenaries as they are more often sell-swords. You're fast, and you fight like a duelist, not a soldier. I think the armour hampers you more than it protects you." He remembered the rapid killing strokes of the mercenaries he fought with, and against, that he had encountered on his travels with Lord Elbert, and Harken's seemingly impossible blocks with only his sword and a shield. This boy could follow in their footsteps, Marcus was sure. His talent with a sword would only be wasted on horseback, and so would his instinctive footwork. "Perhaps you should be trained specially."
At this, everyone on the practice field gasped collectively.
"Yes. After you've mastered all the drills and exercises, perhaps. Practice more and you'll become an outstanding swordsman."
.
He sat alone in the canteen. He scarcely minded that the other recruits treated him with indifference, and even coldness. After all, he was used to being alone. Instead, he thought about his sword training and ran through the sequences in his head.
A bowl dropped on the table he was sitting at, and he looked up from his thoughts. A girl with blue hair had elected to sit next to him. He did not understand why – after all, there were still many unoccupied tables. He shrugged. He did not really care for friends; to him, doing his best in training was ranked a few dozen places higher on his priority list, and a twelve-year-old boy did not have many priorities, and he was rather surprised when she spoke.
"My name is Isadora. What is yours?"
"Harken."
When he did not elaborate, she asked with genuine curiosity, "Why wouldn't anyone sit with you?"
He shrugged. He had not given the matter much thought. Finally, he said, "It is because they're going to be cavaliers and I am not."
"Aren't you a recruit?" she asked conversationally.
"Yes. But I am going to be a hero. I will defend Pherae with my sword."
Her eyes widened. "But all recruits are trained to become cavaliers, or maybe soldiers! I'm going to be a paladin myself."
"You? But you're…"
She froze. It was not uncommon for people, upon hearing her ambition, to express their incredulity, followed by scorn as they sought to persuade her that a weak, defenseless girl like her was not meant to fight. For a moment, she was filled with a certainty that this boy was different, that he would understand, but she was wrong, she thought bitterly.
"…are young for a recruit."
She lifted her chin defiantly, but inwardly relaxed. "I'm ten. And my father is training me to become the best paladin in all of Pherae."
"Good luck, Isadora," he said absently, but she smiled brilliantly and decided that she would be his friend.
It was with a heavy heart he set out from Castle Pherae, after six years of training and service, though despite the humiliation he had suffered he knew that Pherae was his home and where his allegiance lay.
Two faces watched the retreating figure from the castle windows. Marcus shook his head, feeling a sense of disappointment and disbelief. He was surprised, no, utterly incredulous, that a knight with such a bright future would throw it away for a bag of gold by betraying their plans. He remembered the boy who so resolutely and steadfastly swore to protect Pherae, and his subconscious told him that that was impossible, despite the overwhelming evidence that had led to his banishment.
Isadora stared into the forest long after Harken had disappeared among the trees, and she willed him to emerge once again from the shadowy depths and stride purposefully towards the castle, like how he did every time he returned victorious from defending a village against a group of bandits, ready to throw himself into his training and duties once more. Harken wouldn't, he couldn't! she told herself, angry at the harsh words she had spat at him that she now could not take back, that she would never be able to apologize for. It had to be a mistake. But her only friend had been exiled from Pherae, and she felt lonelier and more alone than she ever had in her life.
In a wine shop a safe distance away from Castle Pherae, two friends were congratulating themselves for a job well done. They had planted the incriminating evidence well, and they were safe, as well as one step closer in succeeding delivering Pherae to their Lord, and a substantial reward.
.
Harken eventually found himself in Kyden, a province of Lycia situated beside Pherae, working as a sell-sword to keep himself alive. Bitterly, he recalled the conversation he had a long time ago, where he proclaimed that he would never work for anything other than Pherae, not even for gold. He tried not to think about the life he had led previously, but he still wondered from time to time how the damned piece of paper that ruined his life had ended up where it ended up. He found himself thinking about Marcus, about Isadora, about the marquess that he had come to respect and serve with his absolute loyalty. Did they think him a traitor? Or did they believe him despite the incriminating evidence? Sometimes he reminded himself that it did not matter what they thought about him, that he was forever banished from his home and could never return, but still his mind lingered on memories that were both a blessing and a plague.
Soon, his reputation spread, and he was enlisted as a senior knight by the marquess of Kyden. He executed orders efficiently, removing threats from gangs of bandits, pirates, and even a small army from Bern which tried to attack Lycia when they were unprepared. Eventually, he gained the trust of the marquess and was promoted to a lieutenant in Kyden's military, rivaling the rank he previously held in Pherae. He convinced himself that he was fighting for the good of Lycia, and Pherae indirectly benefited from his efforts.
.
His greatest fear was realized one morning, when it was announced that Kyden would be going to war with Pherae. He should have guessed earlier. One of the marquess's generals counseled expanding Kyden's territory, and he had slowly influenced the other members of the marquess's council. The marquess was predominantly a good man, but the thought of the power that he could potentially have corrupted him.
Harken requested for a private meeting in the marquess's quarters one morning.
"Marquess Kyden." He knelt and bent his head in the required gesture of respect, but he could not control the stiffness of the action, or the tightness of the clenched fist that performed the salute.
"Ah…Lieutenant." The marquess motioned him to stand, but Harken remained resolutely kneeling.
"Marquess, you should not wage war on Pherae. That would be a violation of the Lycian Peace Alliance. A hostile act on Pherae would condemn Kyden."
The marquess laughed. "Lycian Peace Alliance? This peace which we have lived by is not going to last any longer, Harken. Ostia is expanding her borders, and my spies tell me that the marquess is preparing to bring Cornwall down. When war is waging, only one country can rise out of the ashes to assume power – and that will be Kyden. Not Pherae. Not Laus. And certainly not Ostia."
"That will not happen, Marquess. The lords of Lycia value peace."
"Oh, it's just a matter of time. I know that Pherae was once your home, lieutenant, but don't let me catch you throwing your bright future away by doing something stupid."
.
It was winter when the armies clashed, and the snow was stained red with blood. From the castle battlements he counted the casualties clad in Pheraen blue, wondering how many of his previous comrades would die because he failed to do anything to halt the foolishness of the marquess, his self-blame overriding his common sense that told him that he could not have done anything to prevent this clash, which now threatened to plunge Lycia into a civil war. Harken had abstained from the fighting, citing an arm injury he had sustained in his previous battle. He no longer could determine where his loyalty lay.
"Sir Harken." A nervous serving boy appeared by his side, bearing a slip of paper. The lines around his mouth tightened, and the boy scuttled away as soon as he could.
.
The men that gripped his arms were not the common foot soldiers deployed to escort ordinary prisoners, but seasoned veterans in senior positions. Another twenty guards marched behind them, dissuading an escape attempt. Marcus knew that to wage war singlehandedly against twenty-two heavily armed, experienced soldiers was madness, especially when anything that could potentially be used as a weapon had been taken away from him. Even if he succeeded wresting a sword or a lance from one of the soldiers, he would not have the time to make an escape before the alarm was sounded and more men were mobilized. He had always maintained that knowing one's limits was as important as knowing how to fight.
He had led his men in a surprise attack, bypassing the fighting entirely by taking a lesser known route through the forest. He had been confident of surprising the Kyden forces, trapping them between his men and those commanded by Lord Elbert. However, Kyden troops were waiting for them at the edge of the forest in numbers that far surpassed the number of men that he had brought. Though they had fought valiantly, the Pheraen soldiers had gradually been overwhelmed by the sheer number of the Kyden forces. Those that had not fallen in battle had been captured and brought to the castle, where they awaited their fate, as did he. They had been betrayed by someone who had access to the very top military plans. There was no other way the marquess of Kyden could have known about the surprise attack. The only consolation was that with a number of men staved off from Kyden's main army to wait at the forest, Pherae's troops would have an easier victory. Marcus was sure of Pherae's triumph as they dragged him into the main hall. Why else would the marquess have ordered to take him alive if Pherae's army had been crushed? Clearly, the marquess intended to use him as a bargaining tool, and clearly, the marquess did not know what he was doing. He surely was misguided if he thought that Lord Elbert would allow such an ineffective ruler to helm the Lycian League because of one man.
Their relentless grip on his arm loosened as he was brought before the throne. The soldiers retreated, lining the walls of the room, another testimony of their fear of him, he thought grimly. The marquess, he realized, looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes, while his general leaned forward, gazing at him with an avid interest.
"Ah, Marcus, my old friend, I hope I find you well?"
"Zion, you know as well as I do that Pherae would never surrender to Kyden."
"Perhaps it will, with a little persuasion. After all, Lord Elbert would hardly like to see his friend and most trusted advisor tortured or killed, would he not?"
"Lord Elbert would never surrender Pherae to you and your whims on the account of one man, Lord Zion," he said through gritted teeth.
He knew he had struck home. "Silence!" the marquess hissed with anger. "Since you are apparently worthless to Lord Elbert, you are worthless to me as well. But before we send you on your way, perhaps you would like to meet an old friend."
.
"Lieutenant Harken, you were previously of Pherae, were you not? Then perhaps you recognize this man here."
He had recognized the voice that snarled that Pherae would never surrender, and he forced himself not to look at his former mentor, one of the men he most respected as he struggled to come up with an answer that would not result in the instant death of his Commander.
"I have never seen this knight in my life, and he is of no relation to me." Behind him, the same voice that had instructed him sounded cold and dispassionate. He did not turn, but he knew that stern eyes of gray were fixated on him, driving in a wedge of disapproval and fury, and his captain's condemnation pained him more than he would care to admit, even to himself.
"No?" The general Zion's voice was softly mocking. "Then perhaps you are growing senile in your old age. Harken here is one of the best swordsmen that I have encountered in recent years. I propose we give him a chance to demonstrate his abilities." The general descended from the raised platform, stopping a few metres in front of the mercenary. "Originally, I had wanted them to destroy the evidence, but my men's blunder resulted in our gain. They also told me about you, Harken. I know that this man stood by and did nothing about your banishment, despite your reverence for him and loyalty in serving Pherae. Surely you long for revenge."
"It would be an honour, sir," Harken heard himself say, as he drew his sword.
With the whole hall looking on in silence, he swung his sword downwards in a silver flash. It passed harmlessly in front of the paladin, slicing neatly through the ropes that bound him. And before anyone could react, a sword hilt was protruding from the general's chest, driven through the armour by the intensity of his desperation and rage.
"Would Pherae really accept me again? After all that I have done?"
"You saved my life and you killed the general, Harken. I can bear witness to your innocence – the general himself confessed that you never were a traitor."
"Sir!"
.
He had left Pherae a criminal, he returned a hero. For Marcus had declared his sword work exemplary and urged him to pick up fighting with axes.
No one knew exactly what Lord Elbert's quest entailed, even, it seemed, the marquess himself. Lord Elbert had summoned his top-ranking soldiers to court and had chosen the best among the paladins to accompany him – Leon, Aden, Marcus. Harken was a hero, not a paladin, it was reasoned, and he could not fight on horseback – an important skill considering the risk of ambush, and thus he was to protect the marquess's son, Lord Eliwood, from harm, while Isadora was to remain to defend the Lady Eleanora. A sudden change in plan, however, saw Marcus deployed instead to protect Eliwood, while Harken joined the select few elected to accompany Lord Elbert.
Isadora joined him after the meeting was concluded and slipped her hand into his. Together they walked towards the barracks.
"Oh, Harken, do be careful."
"Why do you worry, Isadora? This quest is just like any other. Lord Elbert does not pick battles that we cannot win."
"And yet the marquess is worried. Did you not notice how he frowned when he picked the knights?"
"Lord Elbert is unwilling to place even a single man in danger, Isadora. He is also reluctant to deprive Lady Eleanora and Lord Eliwood a single guard."
"Harken, I cannot explain this to you, but I have a feeling in my heart that this will be unlike anything you have experienced before, more dangerous…"
They stopped outside her room, where she motioned for him to wait. He could hear the sound of something heavy dragged along the floor and the shutting of a chest, before she reappeared with a sword in her hand.
"My father gave me this sword, Harken. Please, take it."
"This is a brave sword, Isadora! It must be a family heirloom. I cannot take it from you."
"I would sleep better, knowing that it would protect you. Take it, Harken, and keep Lord Elbert safe. Keep yourself safe."
"Lord Elbert!"
He pushed past the surprised paladins and shoved his lord out of harm's way. The silver arrow meant for his lord passed harmlessly an inch away from his horse, but it nonetheless reared in fright, throwing him to the ground. Winded, he saw Aden make a move to restrain it, but another deadly accurate silver arrow stopped the animal in its tracks.
Somewhere to the north horses neighed, alerting them to the presence of enemy cavaliers. To the west the silver-spear tips and axe-heads of several dozen generals and berserkers glinted amidst the trees of a forest, accompanied by the red and dark cloaks of magic users. In the distance in the northwest Harken spotted ballistae poised for attack. Clearly morphs, he thought grimly. Not many men with even the smallest ounce of common sense would dare cross his lord after hearing about all the battles they had fought in the past few months.
"Thank you, Harken. Can you ride?"
"I can, but I'm afraid Isla is fatally injured."
Lord Elbert looked at the injured animal and regretfully shook his head. "Leave her. This glade leaves us too vulnerable to arrows."
Harken knew how much it pained his lord to abandon an animal without trying to help it, but they were running low on vulneraries and the cleric Kale had declined to accompany them to the Dread Isle, electing instead to return to his lord in Santaruz. Retrieving the supplies, they retreated to an abandoned village they had previously passed, where they made plans for the assault.
"Nergal has the entire fortress reinforced with ballistae. He is planning to force us into the forest, where his troops are waiting."
"Simple, but effective. Horses travel slowly through the forest, and that would make it the best place to plan an ambush. You saw how he made no attempt to hide his forces today. He knows that there is no other route that we can take."
"Either leave ourselves exposed to ranged attacks, or to take on his troops in a terrain that benefits them."
"Yes. Plus the paladins can always surround the perimeter of the forest in the event that we decide to retreat."
"I think," said Lord Elbert at length, "the best course for us would be for Leon, Aden and I to take on the paladins. Our weapons are unsuitable for plowing through hordes of berserkers and heroes in the forest. The forest could provide us cover from ranged attacks, yes, but the enemy paladins could serve as reinforcements if we are held up by the fighting. There is no way the slow-moving units can reinforce the enemy paladins in time to pose any danger for us. By taking the way Nergal is not expecting, we reduce the troops we have to battle by half. And Harken…"
.
He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword and a close watch on his surroundings. He had trekked for half an hour without seeing a single enemy soldier. Where were the berserkers and the heroes and the sages and the druids? They had all witnessed Nergal's deployment of troops the previous day. The unsettling silence was making him feel uneasy.
Whoosh. The unmistakable sound of long distance dark magic. Harken ducked instinctively, but there was no crash to indicate that the spell had hit a tree instead of him, the only sound that followed being the neighing of a frightened horse. Lord Elbert! That could only mean one thing – that yesterday's troop deployment had been a trick. On foot and in a forest, spells were easy to evade but sages and druids out in open terrain was a different matter altogether, which certainly would not bode well for Lord Elbert and the paladins. He, Harken, was the only one at the advantage now, if the paladins were indeed redeployed to the forest, and he would make the best of the advantage.
He had sprinted for a few hundred meters when he saw the javelin pass harmlessly over his head and thud into the tree behind. Advancing carefully, he drew his sword instinctively and raised his shield. Seconds later, a paladin was charging towards him, gold eyes blank and devoid of expression as it raised its javelin a second time.
One of the disadvantages of mastering two or more weapons was switching between them, but Harken managed this quite masterfully, dodging the javelin and sending a hand axe spinning in the direction of the morph-paladin. The morphs were trained as ruthless, mindless killing machines and this one did not make any attempt to move out of the axe's range. Retrieving his axe, Harken leapt forward and dispatched of another morph-paladin.
The next morph-paladin was armed with an axe and Harken dodged the potentially fatal blow and threw his axe towards a morph-sniper lurking among the trees. He did not turn to see if it made contact, as was his instinct, for he knew that a slight moment of distraction could lead to death, and drew his sword in time to block another axe-stroke from the morph-paladin. The morph-paladin disengaged and drew his lance instead, but Harken was quicker and dispatched of it with a swift sword-stroke.
He blocked an arrow with his shield and pressed forward. The trees ahead hid a mixture of mounted units and foot soldiers, and Harken slung his shield onto his back and opted instead to keep both sword and axe on hand. The silver-blue edge of the brave sword swung to meet his opponent's challenge, and soon corpses of morph-heroes and morph-berserkers lay littered among the leaves on the ground.
Magic-users next. He hardly paused, just stopping to apply a vulnerary to a wound on his arm and check the condition of his weapons. He had lost a hand-axe during the confrontation with the paladins, and his steel axe could only strike a couple more blows, at the best. He approached the corpse of a berserker cautiously and turned it over. Devil's axe. He shook his head in distaste and opted instead for a hand axe that lay a few paces away – weaker, but more reliable. He also picked up a steel sword from the body of a hero and sheathed the brave sword. Isadora would be wanting it back. Slinging his shield back onto his arm, he advanced.
A bolt of lightning hit the trees surrounding him and he threw his hand axe. However, the bishop stepped behind a tree and raised its healing staff. Immediately, a sniper which he thought dead rose from the bushes behind and nocked an arrow to the string. Harken swore and lunged at the sniper, striking with his newly acquired sword. Sages and Bishops swarmed forward, books in hand, and lighting and thunder blazed together. Harken blocked the majority of spells with his shield but was thrown backwards by the sheer number of morphs emerging from the trees.
Angrily, he matched them for strength as he threw himself forward, using his shield to shove the morphs out of the way. Bursts of light darted among the tree tops as the sages and bishops healed their comrades. Harken hardly cared, so intent he was on reaching his marquess that he ran full speed towards the opening in the branches. He did not see the sage partially hidden by the foliage, did not hear the hastily muttered incantations of a spell of unrivalled complexity. The Fimbulvetr spell threw him off his feet and onto the ground, and he stared at the unnatural brightness of his surroundings, winded. The sage raised his hand a second time, prompting Harken to hastily roll out of the way and scramble to his feet, sending his hand-axe spinning in the sage's direction. Even with blood staining the front of his robe did the sage continue to chant, until finally buckling to the ground. Sickened, Harken turned away from those unblinking gold eyes.
He was nearing the edge of the forest and he pressed forward, cursing as he was hampered by the dense vegetation. When he finally emerged from the forest, what he saw made him cry out in horror.
The knights were slumped on the ground, and Lord Elbert was nowhere in sight.
.
As he approached, Aden stirred, and Harken could see a vulnerary he clutched between his blood-stained fingers. He made a move to apply it on the paladin's wounds, but Aden pushed his hand away with a great effort. "Harken, it's…too late," he said weakly. "Take the vulnerary and hide yourself. They'll come back for us."
"I won't leave you and Leon here to die."
"Leon…he's already…he's already dead. There is nothing you can do for us. Lord Elbert…they captured him alive…save…him…"
The stone gates swung slowly open, and Harken, obedient to the last wishes of the dying man, threw himself into a nearby copse of bushes. Weeping, he watched as the assassin drove a killing edge through the bodies of the valiant knights, watched as they were dragged into the stone structure, watched as the stone gates swung close.
.
Why weren't you faster? Why didn't you detect the trap? You're a failed knight, Harken! You let your comrades down; you failed to protect your lord! Because of you, my father is dead! He could see the accusation and anger in Eliwood's eyes as clearly and as surely as he could see the blood that stained the grass where Lord Elbert and his knights had made their last stand, and he knelt in shame and defeat before the stone gates.
I am sorry, Lord Elbert, Lady Eleanora, Lord Eliwood… I have failed you… I am not worthy of the trust you placed in me…