A/N: Finally.
Status: edited for style and grammar (12/11/08).
(9)
Marth remembered the morning - after, after - with unforgiving clarity:
The sky was a dull blue; the air was still and empty.
He sat up. Roy's cloak slid off him like water. Marth shivered against its absence and looked around. The stiff weeds all around stood tall and unmoving. His sword lay where he had left it.
The other items scattered about were only his.
He refastened the clasps on his shirt and fixed the rest of his clothing with quick motions, as if concealing a mistake. Sleep had evaporated, and his mind emerged raw and exposed, unable to understand the circumstances.
The silence of the morning, occasionally broken by distant chirping birds, weighed him down and kept him rooted to the ground.
This raw flavor, languishing bitterness on his tongue, was something not so foreign to him. He had known it well in the past. No champion ever earned his title without first tasting defeat, after all.
It had been so long since Marth had last had to concede to another-whether on the stage or off it-that the re-introduction left him stunned. He had fought and bled during years of training to rid himself of the times when he would be reduced to this. Every once in a while, it was a thing worth remembering.
So, he would survive this.
He rose to his feet.
The daze abated a bit during the walk back to the compound. Numbness took over. He had overslept, he knew, and the others would be awake by now. He hoped no one would notice his wrinkled clothes, finger-combed hair still smelling of grass, or Roy's cloak, the wrong shade of blue, draped over his shoulders. His own cape, badly mangled from bearing his weight the entire night, had been wrapped around the sword he carried in one hand.
Students and fighters crowded the halls when Marth stepped in through the side entrance. His attempt to escape notice failed.
"Marth! Hurry, hurry!" they urged him.
If he didn't, he'd be late for his match. The final rounds were starting in a few hours.
He willed himself awake. He had to focus. The world around him seemed to shift, like clouds, like daydreams.
This was not real.
The true reality lay elsewhere, some place far away and unattainable, in a field of scratchy weeds, beneath an open sky and the cold night, the ground hard against his back, fire in the form of a half-dragon's son pressed to his skin.
At that moment, a pair of heavy doors slammed opened at the end of the corridor. Everyone turned and quickly parted, clearing a path down the center of the hallway.
Marth bowed as the Master approached.
"Where is Roy?"
Marth held a breath; the blood in his veins seemed to freeze. And then, he realized that the question had not been directed solely at him.
"Has anyone seen Roy?"
The others exchanged looks amongst themselves, confused. They all shook their heads. Marth offered no response, waiting for his heart to slow to a more comfortable pace.
The Master turned and headed back the way in which he had come. His heavy cloak trailed behind him. He did not looked pleased.
Marth exhaled slowly. It was the first time he had not been completely honest in front of his teacher.
Deliberately withholding information was a serious infraction. It went against the code he had sworn to uphold as his Master's servant.
That he would break a sworn oath for some low-ranking deserter was insufferable.
What a fool, that one. Roy had been brought into their ranks as charity. Cast out by his own teacher, he would have stood no chance on his own. He had been bred from birth for a single purpose. They all had. None of them possessed any skill except one. They relied on it for their livelihood And no fighter ever lasted in this business without a mentor.
Marth's teacher had been excessively kind. But of course, Roy would pay him back with treason.
It was such a foolish, juvenile move to play. Roy would find generosity nowhere else. No fighter was allowed more than one master, and Roy bore the marks of two-one on his right hand, the other hidden elsewhere on his body-because Marth's Master had shown such mercy.
No other school would ever accept him.
The price for desertion was that simple-to be ignored, to become nothing. The masterless lived as outcasts; they died destitute and nameless.
Even more severe was the price owed to the school for betraying its trust. Should he and Roy cross paths again, loyalty demanded that Marth carry out his Master's decree.
As a fighter, Roy had condemned himself to this end. Marth accepted it. In his anger, the taste in his mouth became less bitter, more sweet.
x x x
The storm followed them into town. Marth's fingers had grown stiff and cold by that time. The ache in his ankle became an intense pain. He could not feel much else.
The canyon was behind them. The road had hugged a jagged wall of sandstone as it carried them on a steady decline, the wall growing taller and taller above them, until they reached the river at the bottom. A trickle in a drying riverbed a few days ago, the water now roared to life beneath the downpour, surging up past its banks. Following the river's course had brought them to the main road leading into the settlement.
Roy spotted the modest structures in the distance before Marth could see them. The black clouds overhead cast shadows over the landscape, tinting everything so that Marth could not distinguish houses from rock formations until they were well within the boundaries of the settlement.
Roy helped him dismount.
Pain shot through his lower leg the moment he set his foot on the ground. His vision faded. He reached out blindly for support. Something caught him. A voice, coarse and very close but not his own, shouted for help.
Unwilling sleep took him then.
He slept through the remainder of the day and the entirety of the night and some more after that. In his dreams, the sound of pounding rain played on his memories. It was not an entirely unpleasant place to be. He had spent much of his life trying to reach this place.
Something rough grazed his cheek. He struggled through delirium until he finally woke.
For some reason, he had expected to re-enter the world on a battleground, to the sound of clashing steel and breaking bones. But it would be stillness and an unfamiliar room that greeted him. His blood had become a force rushing through his veins. It took several minutes to ease himself into a calm. No, there was no fight here.
He was on a cot, under a rough blanket. Walls of unpainted wood surrounded him. Sunlight from a small window picked up the dust in the air. Crates were stacked in the corner.
Next to him, Roy slept upright in a chair, arms crossed, head bowed.
Marth lifted an unsteady hand in his direction.
At that moment, Roy listed to the side, still asleep, and toppled over in his chair. The swordsman hit the floor in a graceless heap and promptly woke up. He shoved the offensive piece of furniture out of his way. He hissed some incoherent curse word.
Cuts and scrapes covered Roy's arms and the exposed portion of his chest. A medical patch was stuck to one side of his face; the other side had formed a large, red welt.
Rubbing his head, appearing groggy and aggravated, Roy looked up and met Marth's stare.
"Oh. Hey."
Marth opened his mouth to reply. Nothing came out. He stopped. He tried again. Air caught in his throat, but without sound. He took a deep breath and brought a hand to his throat. Something was wrong. How could a person forget how to speak?
Roy scrambled to his feet.
Marth blinked hard and found that only one eye blinked. The other was covered by bandages. He took deep breaths. Panic boiled in his gut. He tried again to form words and failed. His stomach clenched. A sensation like ice on skin started to spread throughout his body.
Roy stepped closer. For a while, he did nothing. And then, awkwardly, he brought his arms around Marth's shoulders.
Marth pressed his face against Roy's chest. His friend's shirt was stiff and dry, smelling faintly of rain-soaked earth. A calloused hand settled on the back of his neck. Its familiarity stung and comforted in opposing duality.
Something stuck in his chest made it difficult to breathe. His entire body felt disconnected from his mind. There was one spot, at the back of his neck, that hurt the most.
Marth reached with his left hand for his right. He counted the fingers there. He hesitated before touching the nub where his pinky finger used to be. It was bandaged in rough gauze.
Something occurred to him then.
Did they know -
He had meant to voice that question, but all that came from his mouth was a small choking sound.
Half blind and now mute. They should have just -
Roy's grip on him tightened. Marth pressed in closer to him. He liked the rhythm of Roy's breathing.
"Let's get out of here," Roy said, his voice low and grating. "It's been four days, and I already can't stand it."
A whisper slipped from Marth: "Yes."
That simply, his ability to speak had returned. He looked up and met his friend's eyes. Suddenly, he realized that this could not be Roy. It didn't look like Roy.
Marth drew back.
The other allowed this.
Marth, both eyes closed, shook his head. Something was wrong. He couldn't recognize his friend's face. This was Roy. He knew it was Roy. It couldn't be anyone else. But it didn't look like Roy.
Or had he forgotten his friend's face?
"You okay?"
What a ridiculous question.
x x x
In a meeting with the town council, Roy drew out the layout of Goroh's base onto a piece of scrap paper with black marker. The older, hard faced men pored over it. Roy kept quiet when he wasn't being addressed. He watched them as they exchanged weighted looks with each other. Dressed in dirty work boots-tools and plugs hanging from their belts-the men bore the air of field commanders in a war room.
In his mind, Roy considered all the different possibilities that could have brought them to this point. He imagined the events prior to his arrival. The police moved in on a small group of bandits, only to be ambushed by their comrades. He pictured boulders pushed off the top of the canyon. They tumbled and crushed the uniformed men below. That was one possibility.
The other?
He watched the faces of the workers around him as they talked quietly over the maps that were spread out between them on the floor. Roy decided that it was none of his business. Once he collected his payment, he'd be gone. He had what he came here for.
Roy's eyes wandered to the open entryway. In the room across from the door, Marth would be sleeping through the evening. But Roy caught signs of movement within.
One council member had not shown up to the meeting.
Clinking metal brought his attention back to the situation at hand. One of the men had come forward with a bundled up cloth and laid it down in front of the swordsman. Roy lifted one corner of the fabric and tossed it open. The pieces inside were silver. He counted them, pretending he could tell the difference between real and counterfeit currency.
A different man set down another offering in front of him. Roy's eyes widened. He grabbed the full jug of wine with both hands and popped off the lid to sniff at the contents.
The men seemed satisfied with his reaction.
Roy stopped caring if those silver pieces were real or fake.
They dismissed him after the sun had set and the night lamps were ignited. His muscles strained with the simple motion of standing. He took a breath and made for the storage room that had been cleared for Marth.
Peering inside, he found that his friend was awake, sitting up on the cot, but he was not alone.
Roy kept back and clung to the wall outside, just barely out of sight.
Marth spoke in low tones. "We clashed in the dark. I did not see him." After a long pause, he continued, "I'm sorry."
Marth's hand went to his chest, grabbed something, and lifted it up over his head. A small object exchanged hands.
The councilor held it protectively. She stood with her back to the door, and Roy could not see her face.
After a period of silence, she said something so quietly that it escaped Roy's ears. Marth inclined his head. She turned, and Roy ducked back out of sight.
She stepped into the hallway and turned to move in the opposite direction. Then she stopped and asked, "How long will you stay?"
Roy stared at her back. Her dark hair ran down the length of her spine, tied with a strip of red cloth. He noted the short sword at her hip.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, "if we can't manage it tonight."
She turned to face him. For a moment, something in her made him think of his old master. "Thank you for your help. The horse that carried you is yours." She offered a slight bow before moving on. Roy dipped his head in the direction of her retreat.
When the sound of her footsteps had faded away, he swept aside the curtain and walked in.
A small lamp set on top a stack of crates filled the room with weak, yellow light. Marth stood facing the wall as he gently pulled off his shirt. The clothing had been borrowed from their hosts. His own tunic sat on the cot next to him, washed and neatly folded.
Roy watched Marth's backside reveal itself in a clash of bruised flesh and white gauze. Red and purple blotches contorted as Marth laid the shirt onto the cot and reached for his own. In the dark, the fabric looked black instead of blue. Marth got one arm into a sleeve, but he couldn't manage the other. He sucked in his breath sharply, as if in pain.
It was then that Roy took a step forward. The other swordsman paused at the sound, and Roy almost didn't take another one. Marth shot him a glance over a shoulder before facing the wall again. That could not have been an objection, Roy figured, and so he continued.
Marth let his tunic slide off his shoulder. He caught it and draped it over the cot. His voice was a whisper. "Help me with this, please." He had pulled up one end of the bandages.
Roy took hold of the gauze and started to unwrap it. Marth stood still, arms folded and held up just out of the way. The layers gradually became translucent. Roy rolled up the bindings as he undid them so they stayed off the floor.
The stitches were thick, like fishing wires etched into Marth's skin. A Federation mining colony had no shortage of either medics or mechanics. They had done their best to repair him. A pair of staples nestled close to his right shoulder blade looked like part of the reason why he had had trouble dressing himself. The skin there had been hard to close, and they had worked carefully not to ruin the muscles.
As skilled as they were however, the chance remained that the damages would limit his arm movement. All of it would scar, as well, regardless.
Marth reached back. His fingers tugged at Roy's wrist. In compliance, Roy began to re-apply the dressing, more loosely this time. His arms may have lingered as he wound them around Marth's torso. This was familiar. The circumference of Marth's waistline had not changed.
And the slope of his neck was still the same.
Roy pulled the tunic off the cot and helped his friend ease into it.
Without turning around, Marth fastened the shirt at the front with deft motions. Roy stared at the dark cloth in front of him, realizing that its color was not a trick of the light.
When the other swordsman turned around, the shirt was properly fixed, all damages concealed.
To Roy's stare, Marth explained, "They were unable to wash out the blood."
But they had dyes for fabric. Roy turned to the cot and noted the darkly crimson cloak folded on top of it. It worked, he decided. It would help hide the parts that were badly mended.
Marth took Roy's hand. He peeled back the glove to examine the cracked skin underneath.
"Does it hurt?"
Roy shook his head.
"Your seams were uneven. I didn't know if it was because you had injured your hand."
Details never escaped Marth.
"My seams are always uneven," Roy answered. Sewing had been a part of his early training, but he never claimed to be good at it. Only his rival would have recognized his work.
The other boy did not let go of his hand. Roy couldn't take his eyes off those fingers, not until the other spoke.
"Tha - "
"Don't."
The prince looked away, and Roy stared hard at his profile in the hazy light.
Marth found his voice again after a moment. "Sometimes, I think I understand. Other times, I don't. You were never really one of us. Could it just be that your bloodlust compels you? You've questioned every order you were ever given except that which allows you to shed blood in the name of people whose lives you approach as an outsider."
"This has nothing to do with them."
Roy recalled the feeling of Marth's weight on his back as he ran through dark, winding corridors. Yesterday, he had been given the chance to clean his blade, the rain shower having replenished some of the settlement's water reserves. Human bodies leaked fluids when hacked and beaten into submission. Bones didn't crack easily, even with brute force applied to their weak points. Killing was hard work.
Marth didn't know that a group had been sent on a scouting mission two days before. They'd returned bearing trophies that served as proof of Roy's story. And so, Chen's body had hung from a lamp post in the town square alongside three others until the head councilor found out about it. She had ordered the corpses taken down and given proper burial. She had also slapped the scout leader so hard that his head might well have twisted off his neck.
Marth was holding Roy's hand now. Marth was shaking his head. Marth knew the words before they came out of Roy's mouth.
"Don't…"
But Roy risked a clumsy lunge into his friend's personal space anyway, seeking one of the few places where his rival was not impervious. His arms locked tightly behind the small of Marth's back. His mouth pressed against a familiar softness he had only tasted once before.
It grabbed him now as it had then. The hooks dug into his stomach and pulled. The memory of the canyon, its vast emptiness, came back to him.
Some gentle pressure folded around the back of his neck-Marth's wrists, crossed up back there.
Roy pushed his advantage until he had the other fighter up against the wall. He swallowed a sharp hiss of pain that didn't belong to him. The gauze felt rough beneath the black tunic.
Marth broke contact by turning his head. Roy pressed forward still, latching onto his friend's exposed neck with his teeth. Marth flinched, arching backwards. Roy worked his way up to the jaw line before Marth slipped in a hand and covered the other boy's mouth, eyes averted.
"Why are you here, Roy?"
Even if Marth's fingers weren't pressed to his lips, he wouldn't have been able to answer.
After his desertion, he had spent the next few years training under various informal teachers, masters without titles or schools. He received his lessons in restaurants, bars and back alleys. His sparring sessions came at the hands of other disowned wanderers. He had finally returned to Marth's school one summer. Had found it burned to the ground, students and instructors long having fled or perished. Roy didn't know then if it was one or the other.
No one defied the Federation and lived.
But there had to be a place, he reasoned, where society's misfits and terrorists could find refuge.
His first Master had chosen the coldest mountain in the world on which to build her school. Marth's teacher had been born in the desert, and rumor went that he had returned to the desert after his school was destroyed.
Where the land was the most brutal, that was where exiles found sanctuary. No one else would want to live there.
And where the master went, the servant would follow.
Roy wretched away the hand that had been pressed to his mouth. He surged forward, pinning that wrist against the wall, and caught Marth's lips with his own. It lasted only briefly before a knee rose and slammed into his inner thigh. It didn't drop him, but he staggered, and then Marth shoved him back and punched him in the face.
That dropped him.
The pain was sharp and immediate, growing on his left cheekbone.
"I'd give you anything except that."
Roy looked up, face throbbing, vision blurred. He blinked hard.
Marth had tears on his face. "We are at war. You don't know. You left, and you don't know."
Outside, an army stomped past, sending tremors through the floorboards. The beat, like battle drums, beckoned the two of them. Marth moved from his place against the wall and headed for the doorway.
Roy grabbed his ankle. Marth wavered for a moment before regaining his balance. "You're not well enough to join them," Roy said. "I know your master wants you to guard this settlement. I know what he's after." Marth didn't look at him. "I don't care. I came for you."
"Let go."
"Make me."
Marth pulled free. Roy didn't reach for him again.
"Or do you mean to stop them?" Roy watched his friend's expression.
Marth dropped to his knees. He settled his hands on either side of Roy's face.
"You left us. You were right to do so. It's better that you aren't involved in this." He kissed his rival's forehead.
"I came back," the other swordsman rallied.
"You know the penalty for desertion, Roy."
"You haven't killed me yet."
Marth said nothing.
Roy reached under his own shirt. He held out the tiara. It had taken some time to get all the blood off. "I'll do it again," he promised. "I'll kill for you again."
The tears were gone. Marth caught him in a fierce embrace and buried a face against his shoulder.
Roy wrapped both arms around Marth's waist again. And held on.
Outside, the marching gradually receded.
x x x
"He left. I haven't seen him in four and a half years.
"He told me that if I wanted to see him again, we would likely meet in a place like this.
"I had been hoping…"
The sun had barely risen when they set out for the next settlement. The desert accepted them with cold hands and silence, without complaint.
Their horse stayed mute during the trip. They dismounted when they hit trickier terrain, and Marth led her by the reins.
The winds grew strong and pushed fragmented clouds across the sky. Marth cast one glance after another behind him.
Roy kept ahead. He only looked back to make sure Marth was following. Often, he caught the other swordsman fondly stroking the horse's orange mane as they walked.
Rain fell again the next day.
The terrain offered no shelter. The ground became soft, and as they moved down an incline, Roy feared mudslides.
But eventually, they came upon thicker patches of shrubbery. This was a good sign. Roy glanced back at his friend.
Marth stood still, head tilted heavenward, both eyes closed. The horse stayed obediently at his side.
Raindrops poured over the swordsman's face and down his neck. In his hand, he held frayed, dirty bandages.
He opened both eyes to the sky.
Roy searched for the shade of blue he remembered. But the veiled sun had muted all color.
Marth then turned to him, blinking as if he were just waking up. The skin around his injured eye looked dark and red. Roy didn't understand what had changed. He only knew that something had. He extended a hand.
Their fingers slid together, folding around one another. Marth stashed the bandages under his belt and took the horse's reins in his other hand.
The next settlement had enough residents to be considered a legitimate town. Roy's silver bought them lodging at an inn. The recent storm even allowed for a price reduction on water used for bathing.
A room with a heater and padded sleeping mats was more luxury than Roy had seen in a long time.
x x x
The storm raged outside. It had come and gone in cycles for the past few days, washing mud down the streets. No one in town complained.
In their room, Roy kneeled behind Marth on the mat and undid the bandages.
Grey and purple marked his friend's pale backside. The redness and swelling were gone, and the stitches had not torn. Give it a little while longer, and those could come out.
"It's better," he said.
Marth kept one hand against the wall, as if for balance. He stayed silent as Roy pressed fingers to his back, testing for fractures.
When the wounds had been redressed, Roy gently nudged the other swordsman.
Marth took his hand.
A breath caught in Roy's throat. He allowed his hand to be guided until the palm touched lightly to Marth's stomach. The muscles there tensed beneath his fingers.
He waited a moment before he dared to move his hand further down. Marth's palm glided over his bare arm. It trapped him when he got too far.
He froze with three fingers beneath the fabric of Marth's pants, just barely resting on a thigh. Roy kept his eyes on Marth's shoulders as they rose and fell. He waited for a sign. Marth let you in when he wanted you in.
Finally, it came as a whisper, in an unconcealed voice Roy had not expected. "I would have told you where I was going if you had asked."
Roy couldn't answer immediately. He settled for: "I would have asked if you hadn't punched me in the mouth." Silence followed, and he wondered if he had given the wrong answer. "Shit hurts," he mumbled half-heartedly. "You hit really ha-"
Marth spun around in his grasp. It was an elegant maneuver for a guy on his knees, Roy had to admit. And effective too, the way he managed to shove the fighter down onto the mat.
It was too bad, then, that he was glaring in a way that suggested something else other than what Roy had in mind. So, at risk of physical harm, Roy attempted his worst skill: diplomacy.
"You wanna talk about it?"
Instead, Marth leaned down, dusting blue bangs against the other boy's face, and kissed him.
Roy let him unfasten the clasps on the shirt, let him push aside the cloth and trace the skin underneath, even as he hesitated over healing bruises and old scars that laced Roy's chest with both fine lines and jagged ridges. He'd feel guilty about the new wounds - and some of the older ones he recognized - Roy knew. But that was fine. They'd talk about it later. Or they wouldn't, which was more likely, and also fine.
The second time Marth offered his mouth, Roy grabbed him and returned the kiss with more force than he meant to. He couldn't help it. Marth was still only soft in a few places. Roy slipped his hand down past the bandages.
Marth made a small sound deep in his throat and broke the kiss, ducking his head.
Roy drew a knuckle along his friend's jaw line, surprised when Marth pressed lips to Roy's hand and looked up.
"Want you," Roy whispered.
Because he had no place using words like 'beautiful.'
Marth smiled anyway.
Roy lost his regrets somewhere in that smile, lost himself somewhere in between the knees that had his legs trapped. Guilt fell away the moment Marth touched lips to his chest-to hard bone, scar tissue and muscle-and moved lower. Roy tangled his fingers in blue strands of hair, head thrown back, eyes closed.
When Marth stopped, it was to lean up and plant a kiss at the other boy's throat. Roy locked both arms around him and threw them both onto their sides. Marth allowed it for a few seconds, and then he pushed back with just enough room to turn away. He pulled one of Roy's arms around him.
Roy tried to pretend that the gauze wasn't there, even as it brushed against his chest. He tried to pretend it wasn't wrong to tug off the fabric covering Marth's hips and bring their bodies together.
As the evening crept in and stole the day, the two swordsmen tried to steal it back. Some battles couldn't be won, but it was within the mortal spirit to try, regardless.
x x x
The rain let up a few days later. Roy spent some time in the town center. He came back with a plan.
"A caravan is heading east today. They'll let us tag along for a reduced fee, since we have our own horse."
"Why?"
Roy unfolded the map in his hand and held it up. He dragged a finger along the route to a city in the eastern province. "Tournament." As if that explained everything.
Marth merely cocked an eyebrow and went back to grooming the horse, the sole occupant of an otherwise empty stable. Even mechanical beasts required upkeep, and this one made appreciative noises when her caretaker ran the brush through her mane. The power generator in her stall hummed softly as she recharged, tethered by the heavy plug.
"It'll pay well," Roy promised. He slipped an arm around Marth's midsection. "We can do it."
Marth rested his hand on Roy's forearm. He seemed to weigh the prospect in his mind.
They had few other options. Masterless fighters were made wanderers by necessity. Roy knew this, and Marth would have to learn. He was now one of their class. Better to let the desert bury all memory of his former teacher, Roy thought. The only thing more contemptible than a student who deserted his school was a master who abandoned his fighters.
Marth had been the last. The others had died or fled in the final moments when the Federation soldiers closed in. Only Marth refused to leave his master's side.
That devotion would have lived on in legend if they had won. But they hadn't, and now was time to let that bond die.
Or kill it if it didn't die on its own. Roy wanted it dead. He needed it dead.
The other swordsman looked over his shoulder. "I'll follow your lead."
They quit the inn by midday, their few belongings packed. When Roy failed at bargaining with local shopkeepers, Marth cut in and took over. Polite and amicable, the prince still managed to negotiate prices in their favor, in spite of never raising his voice. Roy stayed back, trying to look imposing, like a bodyguard, or something, (something more respectable than a lap dog, anyway) and carried the goods out to the horse.
"Do I look like a mule?" she huffed when he tied the packages to her back.
"Better you than me," he retorted. "And suddenly you feel like talking?"
"I don't talk to people I actually like."
"Isn't that a little contradictory?"
"Figure it out, wise one."
She fell silent again when Marth emerged and took her leash. The streets had filled up during the midday rush. They navigated the narrow roads carefully, Marth keeping a hand on the horse's neck to keep her calm in the midst of the crowd.
At the town center, the traffic slowed to a complete stop.
An urgent feeling seized Roy in the stomach. He tugged at Marth's wrist. "Let's take another road."
But Marth had already seen something. "Wait here," he whispered, passing the leash to Roy. With that, he surged forward and was enveloped by the crowd.
Roy cursed. The horse raised her head.
"Do you smell that?" she asked. "Gasoline."
A growl tumbled out of him. "Wait here," he told her. She did not object. Roy charged forcefully into the throng. He elbowed his way through.
A machine came into view in the middle of the street, a truck almost too large to fit through the alleyways. The Federation insignia marked its armored plating. Armed guards, their faces hidden by black helmets, stood around it.
They had spread out a tarp on the ground. On the canvas, rows of corpses lay in exhibit, covered by stained sheets. Some had their arms raised in the air, exposed from the sheets, fists half formed, frozen in positions that could be called defensive or offensive, depending on the interpreter.
A large banner had been strung up across two lamp posts. Roy and some of the other bystanders got close enough to read it:
THE OFFICE OF PLANETARY SECURITY OF THE GALACTIC FEDERATION OFFERS REWARD FOR INFORMATION ON ANTI-GOVERNMENT GUERRILLAS…
LAW-ABIDING CITIZENS ENCOURAGED TO COME FORWARD…
Roy's eyes glanced over the rest. He turned and found Marth standing still, one hand lingering dangerously close to the sword at his side. Roy latched onto his wrist.
"Let's go." When the other swordsman didn't move, Roy leaned in close. "Swords don't beat guns. Let it go. Not our fight. Come on."
Marth did not take his eyes off the dead laid out before him. "Can men beat machines?" he whispered, his tone severe. He shot Roy a look. "You said you would kill for me. Did you mean it?"
Roy narrowed his eyes. That was almost an insult.
With a wary glance at the soldiers, Marth dropped to a crouch beside one of the bodies. It was a woman, judging by the slender shape of the wrists. Both arms protruded from under the sheet; both hands were clenched. Dust had collected in her long hair, coloring the dark strands a greyish white. A red hair tie lay tangled and frayed against the ground. Marth waited for the soldiers to turn their heads before he reached forward to pry open one of her fists.
He rose up a moment later, back turned, poised to retreat.
A shout from one of the soldiers stopped him.
The crowd drew back. Rifle raised, the soldier approached and prodded Marth with the barrel. The swordsman turned and lifted both hands slowly. He held out a gold bracelet. The soldier snatched it back and cracked Marth over the head with the butt of the rifle.
The blow resounded with a dull crunch. The swordsman fell.
Roy waited for the soldier to turn around before stabbing him in the kidneys. The man wore the same kind of padded armor that Goroh's bandits had worn, material resistant to laser and projectile weapons but not to steel blades. Gunshots erupted as the other soldiers fired into the crowd. They had seen one of their own go down but not Roy, crouched behind him.
Screaming, the people fled in a massive stampede.
Roy grabbed the soldier's gun with one hand when the man sagged to his knees. He wrapped one arm around the man's neck and fired at the nearest enemy, but the heavy rifle proved hard to control with one hand as it jerked away from his target and sprayed bullets along the ground and into the armored truck. The soldiers ducked, and one of them returned fire, only to hit their own man, whose body shielded Roy from their bullets.
"Hold still." The swordsman barely had time to acknowledge the voice before something hit him directly on the shoulder. The helmet of the dead soldier in his arms also bobbed oddly as Marth launched himself off of it and into the air. The gunmen pointed their weapons at him, but Roy had more control of the rifle now. He muscled the barrel in their general direction and managed to shoot down two of them in a stream of rapid fire.
Marth's sword cracked the helmet of one soldier as he fell to a landing. It severed the arm of another when Marth spun around to face him. He spun again, lodging the blade into the first man's throat. It broke through the spine on impact, and then Marth had deftly withdrawn it to disembowel the second man a moment before slicing through his neck.
The head landed next to the body. The other corpses twitched feebly a little while longer and eventually lay still.
Roy wretched his sword from the man he had killed and stumbled to his feet. His hand came away warm and slick.
Marth-blood staining his bare arms, trickling from his temple-stood completely still among the dead. He closed his eyes, head bowed, and muttered a few words, too faint for an observer to understand. (A prayer, Roy realized.) Then Marth calmly wiped his blade on his cape and sheathed his weapon. He opened his left hand. A silver chain tumbled out. After a moment's consideration, he hung it around his neck and tucked the small black orb under his shirt. He looked over at Roy.
Numbly, Roy held out his hand. "Let's go." His voice sounded hollow in the deafening silence that followed the fire fight. "I mean it this time."
A sound from behind him made him turn around. A few other bodies lay in the street, living or dead, he couldn't tell. Some had been shot; others had been trampled.
But slowly, the crowd was returning. They stared at the two swordsmen, keeping a safe distance.
Marth came forward. He bent down and picked up stones from the ground. Gently, he tossed them at the people gathered around. The rocks landed at the feet of a few young men, who stepped back, apprehensive.
"Pick them up," Marth said. His tone was kind, excessively so. "Throw them at us. Cast us out. Otherwise, you will be mistaken for our allies."
Roy gnashed his teeth and glared at the other swordsman. "You fucking martyr."
Marth reached out and took his rival's hand. "You always wanted to be a hero, right?" He smiled that same disarming smile that Roy was sure had killed more men than any single sword or gun.
The first rock bounced off of Roy's back, clanging against his armor. The second hit his arm. He sheathed his weapon and tightened his grip on Marth's hand. Together, they ran through the streets.
The mob parted for them. Roy couldn't tell if they were cheering or heckling. The rocks continued to land, but he stopped feeling them.
Their horse stood waiting, patient. He sacrificed one bag of supplies to lighten the load and climbed up. He offered a hand to Marth, who took it and got on behind him.
"Run."
She needed no other command. Her pounding hooves took them from the streets of civilization and out into the barren landscape. Mountains stood in the distance. Bronze sand and dirt made up the road. They headed east.
Roy wasn't about to ask if it was worth it or not. Only Marth kept promises to the dead.
x x x
battery : end
A/N: "Chase the Sun" will continue. Samus and Zelda to appear in the next segment...alongside Marth and Roy. That's right. It's been a long year. Full notes at the lj fiction blog. This update is 6,666 words without notes (according to this site's somewhat faulty counter). Coincidence?
As always, thanks for reading. Thanks for the support as I dragged my feet. Comments, whether positive or negative, are appreciated.