Hi guys, sorry for the long hiatus. Anyway, here's a chapter--and it only goes to prove how long I've been inactive, since I completely forgot the author's note thing. Props to my lovely beta, The Tears of Ages, as usual... she's the one who deals with my awful drafts, so... everybody give her a round of applause! And now to the story.


Having been escorted to a suite set aside for visiting nobility, Princess Zelda combed out a couple of loose knots in her hair caused by the journey to Altea. It had been the general assumption that the roads would be in better repair than they had been in reality, but barring that discomfort it had really been a pleasant trip. She smiled thoughtfully as she recalled it was also said that the prince who ruled this land was not only unmarried, but rather handsome. "Impa? If I might inquire something of you?"

"Of course, Princess. What is it that you would like to know?" the woman replied.

"Please tell me about this 'Prince Marth' who rules this kingdom…"


Dinner was plain home fare—nothing fancy, like the rich, savory array that the King of Hyrule preferred. It was decidedly different for the princess, who had only tried what the royal family called "commoners' fare" at the various times she had snuck out of the castle. Unfortunately, when she tried to pay and found that she'd brought far too much ("Three hundred rupees? But we only charge twenty for meals!") her cover was usually blown and more often than not she was escorted back to the castle by whatever guards were nearby. Nevertheless, it was not a displeasing change, merely unusual. When Zelda asked an advisor what they thought of this, he replied, "Prince Marth insists that the kingdom's gold be spent elsewhere than to secure delicacies for his table. We eat what most of the citizens in this city eat, and in the rare occasion that times are lean we must stop the prince from giving his supper away to the first hungry pauper he runs across. It also serves to leave a little extra gold for the military, his most trusted general knowing well where it will do us the most good."

Curious, she investigated further. "His most trusted general? And who might that be?"

"A young man with flame red hair and strikingly blue eyes… or so the prince himself would phrase it. They were very close for a while, but as of today the general has departed to put down a rebellion brewing in the north. There have been numerous attempts on the prince's life as of late, and though our prince disagreed with this action we must take his general's side. Without taking any sort of action, His Highness may well be dead before spring comes." The advisor looked around suddenly, as if remembering where he was, and murmured quietly, "Please do not speak carelessly of this, Princess. There are unfriendly ears everywhere, and there exists a foe that would only love to see our prince's good name sullied and his life forfeited." Promising to keep her silence, the princess walked away. Inside her mind, the gears began to click and grind, already thinking of possible ways to help keep this prince alive.

Prince Marth seemed a decent man. He did not squander gold on fancy meals that fed only those in the castle, and he tried to keep the kingdom from ever going hungry. From talking to others she knew that he'd set in place a program designed to increase literacy, so that those gifted with a glib tongue and a sense of entrepreneurship could not stoop to deceiving the lower class with any piece of paper that looked vaguely important. It was also widely claimed that he welcomed refugees from far and wide with open arms, so much that once his people had to stop him from handing the castle over to a rather shady-looking group seeking asylum in his land. He had also imposed laws concerning the punishment of those who exploited or violated women and children—they possessed a wide, and at times seemingly sadistic array of punishments for offenders. She had also seen common women wearing fairly discreet, slim daggers—one of these which she had glimpsed the prince wearing for the second in which she had seen him. So far he was still busy, and had not the time to greet her as royals did when others of similar rank came to visit. However, it was clear that the daggers were for a measure of self-defense, and another advisor had proudly claimed that such crimes were nearly nonexistent in Altea.

Yet… with the sword that the prince was well-known for mastering, why did he have to wear the dagger? The princess had received a surprising reply upon the inquiry—silence. She roamed the castle freely, for the prince himself (though he was occupied, and had to send a female guard named Laitha with the message) had welcomed her to do so, and knew nothing until she wandered down to the dungeon one day—more specifically, down to the oubliettes.

The guards there were equally silent, but some for other reasons. Two prisoners wasted away within the confines of the stone cells, neither of them anywhere over twenty-one. One looked to only be fifteen, and the other about twenty… and both wore the most utterly miserable and hate-filled expressions she'd seen anywhere since she'd arrived. (In truth, Roy wore a similar expression, but he was marching to Sayre's Keep and attempting to deal with a guard platoon whose leader was, or so he suspected, turning traitor.)

"Who are they?" Zelda asked a guard whose assigned cell was empty.

"Traitors to the kingdom. They made attempts on the prince's life." His reply was clipped and somewhat strained.

"Why would anyone try to kill the prince? He seems a very good man, from what I've seen." The guard glanced at her noble raiment and decided that it was safe to express his opinion. After all, she didn't seem like the ordinary lost princess wandering down to the dungeons by accident.

"I frankly don't know of any real reason, Your Highness, but they tried anyway. Both failed, thankfully, but one of them caused enough damage that our general blamed himself for the attack." He pointed with his lance at the cell holding the younger prisoner. The princess nodded and went over to talk to the young man, the guard shaking his head as she turned her back on him.

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"What's your name?" the princess asked.

The prisoner stared at her sullenly and refused to speak. Recognizing that she was some form of visiting nobility, he raised a hand and made a rude gesture.

"Oh, come now. The guards back home have taught me much worse," she told him, pasting a smug expression on her face. "You'll have to be much more vulgar to get under my skin."

"Feh… I can get more vulgar, if that's what you want. Why the hell do you want to know my name, girl?" the prisoner replied venomously.

"I can skip right to the chase and demand to know what the hell you did to the prince, and why you did it."

The prisoner's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed, until his expression became an ugly sneer. "You really want to know what I did to the prince, huh? It's not pretty… no, not nice at all. Are you sure a princess like you would want to know? Hmm?" He smirked. "My name is Apollo." Standing up, the teenager did a mocking bow that Zelda noted with a growing flicker of cold rage was impeccable, despite its clearly disrespectful intent.

"Well then, Apollo… explain yourself." Her voice was icy, suddenly not as neutrally inquisitive as it had been before.

"Well, excuuuuuse me, Princess!" Seeing her stiffen up and a flicker of something—maybe magic—rise in the air around her, he shut his mouth. "All right, all right, chill out. Yeah, I can explain if you want. You still won't like it, though.

"Yeah, so I work for the Embyrr Faction. People who don't like Marth, y'know, 'cuz they wanna rule Altea. The pretty-boy doesn't know this, but Embyrr? She's my sister. And she isn't the one who's going to take over Altea, it's my mom. Yeah, but Mom promised me one of Marth's circlets, once I got rid of him and she took over. She just uses Embyrr's name so nobody will know it's her. Nobody knows except me, but she sold Embyrr to some slave traders some years back. Haven't seen her since." He paused to laugh cruelly.

"So I went, and I tried to kill him with poison first. Didn't work, stupid advisor got in the way. Then Mom hired some toughs, and they came in and tried to knock him off. That didn't work either, that stupid general of his rescued him before they could properly kill him. Then I went back again, only I posed as a guard. It almost worked, except… well, damn. I got carried away. So I drugged him, tied him up, carved him up a little. Then that stupid general of his bursts in again, I have fun teasing him, the bastard screws up my arm by throwing one of my own knives into it, and then when I try screwing his precious pretty-boy prince he knocked me the hell out. So here I am. But damn was that prince tight! He probably wasn't getting any since that one night when that precious general of his went out in a blizzard and almost got himself killed."

The princess' eyes hardened. "You're right… I didn't like that at all."

"Ha! Serves you right, girl. Shouldn't go poking around in what isn't your business." Apollo snickered.

"In fact, I'd say I'm quite angry with you," she continued. Placing a hand through the bars of the cell door, she aimed at Apollo and concentrated a fraction of her power. "Din's Fire!" she shouted. An explosion rocked the cell's interior, the smoke clearing to reveal a rather thoroughly charred Apollo, his body covered in a large second-degree burn. "'Serves you right' indeed. Just because I'm a princess does not mean that I cannot do anything with my anger. And the prince does not deserve having such done to him—I know someone who can destroy your faction. If he works with this general I've heard so much about—you don't stand a chance," she snarled.

"My apologies that you had to hear that," mumbled one of the guards as the princess walked by. "He was much more polite before he was thrown down here, although I don't sympathize with him at all."

"You might want to have a healer look at him. It isn't necessary that he be treated, just make sure that I didn't go overboard on him—you don't want him to die before he gets properly executed," she replied curtly. The guard didn't have the courage to tell her that the signs that she'd done something were rather obvious, if the soot on her gloves was any indication.


"You did not get yourself into any trouble, did you Princess?" Impa asked. The Sheikah could only sigh at the soot all over the princess' glove. "It is usually fairly obvious when you have been using Din's Fire in enclosed spaces. Your garments are covered in soot. What on earth prompted you to use it anyway, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"There was an unruly prisoner down in the oubliettes. He told me the nature of his crime in such a manner that I lost my temper and taught him a lesson he won't soon forget."

"Is that so, Princess?" Impa knew better than to pursue the subject any further, though, and did not say any more.

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"Impa?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"I would like to meet this Prince Marth soon. I know he is very busy, but if somehow you could help me arrange a meeting…"

"Very well, Princess. As you wish, I will speak with his advisors."

"Thank you, Impa."


Roy wiped his forehead off with the back of his hand. Clearly, things were not going as according to plan, if the supplies dwindling at a rate far faster than normal were any indication. Then there was a platoon leader who was acting strangely, jumping at shadows and continually swearing that he wasn't up to anything—not that Roy had ever asked. Still, he shouldn't let it panic him. Panicked generals only lost battles, and eventually wars… and this could only be called war.

"Serge, Jeanne, Belle, Raphael!" he barked, sending the four Sixth Unit members scurrying to his side.

"Yes sir!"

"Serge, you have first watch with Raphael. Take ten soldiers each and tell them to spread out and stay sharp."

"Sir yes sir!" The two men saluted, each already mentally compiling a list of guards.

"Jeanne, Belle… the two of you have second watch. Take ten soldiers each, and do the same—tell them to spread out and stay sharp, especially at the late hour this will be at."

"Sir yes sir!" The female guards exchanged a glance and nodded.

"I will take the third watch myself. The watches will be in four-hour shifts, starting in thirty minutes. Serge, Raphael… you have twenty minutes to collect your men and prepare for your watch. Report back promptly in twenty-five minutes."

"Sir yes sir!"

"You have a question, Raphael?" the general asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well, sir… with all due respect, what are the extra five minutes for?"

Roy sighed. "Five minutes to use the latrines, meditate, contemplate your possible death—may I remind you that you'd better not die, otherwise I'll find you and kill you again—whatever it takes to complete your preparations for guard duty. Are those five minutes not necessary?"

"No, no sir, not at all. They'll be very useful," the guard replied, a little mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Very well then. Report back to me in twenty-five minutes, with the rest of your watch in tow. I will brief you and then make sure you station yourselves appropriately. Dismissed!" The two male guards saluted sharply and split off from the group to find the soldiers they'd already chosen mentally. The general and the two remaining guards continued on their way to Roy's tent. Stopping just in front of it, he turned and faced the guards. "You two should get some sleep. Wake up in four hours, choose your ten, and go relieve the first watch. I'll come relieve you when third watch starts."

"Sir, yes sir!" The two women saluted and strode off to alert their squads of ten of the assignment.

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Roy turned his face away to give the pair a little privacy as they exchanged a sisterly kiss before they separated—or… rather, it had started out sisterly. Now it resembled what he and Marth had snuck out of meetings to do in deserted hallways and the corridor just outside of the prince's chambers. He couldn't help but watch out of the corner of his eye, struck by the familiarity of it.

That had all been from before the blizzard, though. Now there was nothing—no furtively stolen kisses, no playful wrestling on the bed (until one thing led to another and they were no longer wrestling, but exchanging such sweet pleasure that the mere memory was agony to recall), not even the discreet caresses they exchanged in the hallways when they didn't have time to spend alone with each other.

They had nothing now, and Roy felt the rift in his heart widen until all he could feel was cold, clear rage at the circumstances that had torn them apart. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, and he couldn't—no, he could! He would make things right again. Take that rage and direct it at those who threaten your most beloved, then, snickered a voice that sounded suspiciously like Xavier had, that one night. You have the strength and the raw, burning hatred to do that, don't you? I can help you with everything else…

Something didn't feel right, but the general ignored the gut feeling screaming at him to say no. That's right… you'll be able to put everything back to how it was. He'll remember, he'll love you again, and you'll never have to be without him ever again. Won't that be just lovely?

"What do I have to do?" he whispered. Something inside him kicked and screamed and cried to be heard, shouting how something was off, was wrong… that this voice was making empty promises. He squashed it, telling himself that this could be his only chance.

Will you make this deal with me? I promise I won't ask for much. Think of how much I can give you. And all you have to do is say yes.

Hesitating, Roy looked towards the rest of the camp, and the soldiers that were setting up their tents and talking to their neighbors. He thought for a moment that if he were to just say no, things might turn out better—but how many of those soldiers would he lose? Too many, he thought. 'Marth was right… it would be suicide to think that these numbers could win.' He took a breath.

"… Yes."