Sorry for the long wait. I blame school once again. Also, I've been fuming.

Ahem

Collabarateur, I know that your review was just some big misunderstanding. I'm not getting mad at you. But I feel that I need to say this:

I. Love. The. U.S. Military.

I used to be in the Navy NJROTC. The Gunnery Sergeant in that program is one of the most inspiring people I know, and I've met some great visitors (we get visitors from all branches of the military. They give presentations). I do not blame the U.S. Military for the Iraq War. If I sound critical about the war, I'm being critical of the WAR, not the troops. I just think that they deserve better than having to fight for old men's pride and oil.

Yes, I believe we should have stayed out of Iraq. I think we should have concentrated our efforts in Afghanistan.

Furthermore, I gave instances of Marines shooting RPGs into lakes and Army Engineers destroying a town. Some people shoot RPGs into lakes. It's fun to watch. Furthermore, if I ever tell about the U.S. Military performing some sort of atrocity, it's because that's what militaries do. If you think that the history of U.S. warfare has been all rainbows and butterflies, with the U.S. military fighting for nothing but the greater good, you are sorely mistaken. Ever fighting force has its darker side, and the U.S. has done some nasty things.

Phew

Once again, I'm not blaming you, Collabarateur. I just needed to get that off of my chest. I thank you for bringing to my attention that I may be sending the wrong impression.

Now for other stuff.

I've been very unhappy with the quality of my older chapters. I've looked over them, and realized how much they lack. Therefore, this chapter is a back-to-basics sort of thing for me. I'm going to try ultra-hard from now on.

All peoples; I'm sorry about the typos. I'm dyslectic. I often forget letters in words. I always try to scour over my works to find errors, but I usually miss something. I've been looking a my older chapters and noticing a lot of typos, and I'm sorry if they detract from the reading experience.

Anyway, here's my next chapter. I hope I haven't put you off by my rant.

Chapter 11: Fausty and Fiche

Snip snip snip.

Mark sat in a barber's chair, covered with a white cloth as clippings of his hair fell around him. The realm of darkness was now an endless beach. Nothing ostentatious. Just an expanse of clean sand and an expanse of peaceful blue ocean. No wildlife. No annoying children. No surfers. Just water, sky, and sand.

And Gabriel.

Gabriel had taken the form of a stereotypical Italian barber and had spirited a barber's chair from nowhere, informing Mark that hair could not be cut magically if one wanted it cut well. He was explaining the theory of dark magic as he worked.

"The correct term for dark magic is 'Elder magic', as this form of magic is the oldest of all three types. It is the most difficult form to master… Look around. See this place? This place represents people. Each form it takes is indicative of a person that has lived, is living, or will live. This beach, for example, represents a little old lady currently living in Russia. She has lived her life to the fullest, and she has no regrets. She is now like a peaceful sea: still active, but calm."

Gabriel pulled out an electric razor and attacked Mark's sideburns.

"Elder magic revolves around self-actualization; the key to mastering Elder magic is knowing who you truly are. Those desiring quick power flock to this magic, but they are not willing to learn how to truly know themselves. Some are too arrogant, seeing themselves as greater than they truly are. Others see themselves, but do not like what they see, and deny what they are seeing. The ones who know themselves, and accept themselves, are the ones who become powerful. This is why shamans are often ruthless, with little regard to the wellbeing of others. They have become so introverted that they cease to regard others as actual, sentient humans."

"And this is why Elder magic is not well thought of?"

"In a way, yes. Much of the hatred of Elder magic stems from the Church. The clergy of St. Elimine's order tolerate Anima magic users, for they deal with the many wonders of the natural world, which the clergy believe were created by God. Or St. Elimine, some people believe them to be one and same. But they do not tolerate Elder magic, for the point of church is to give, to be selfless and help others, while shamans care about nothing but achieving their very own, personal goals. But of course, shamans can be all personality types."

Snip snip snip.

"The only requirement for Elder magic is intelligence. Shamans in general are a pretty surly bunch, but that doesn't mean they all are. In fact, there's a very polite shaman currently wandering out of Ilia, heading for the port of Badon. Unfortunately, he's a bit absent-minded, so all signs point to him ending up in a Bern jail cell. I'm going to blow a hole in the wall for him."

"Well, I hope he gets to Badon."

"Oh," said Gabriel slyly. "He will."

Snip snip snip.

"You don't grow much facial hair…"

Mark gently shook his head. "Not really."

Gabriel chuckled. "Then I'm done." He clapped his hands, and every little bit of loose hair and dirt flew away from Mark's head. Mark stood up and Gabriel clapped his hands again. The blood and dirt on Mark's uniform disappeared, and Lyn's father's cloak turned pristine. Mark felt himself grow cold then warm as he was magically wiped clean. Gabriel appraised him for a moment, then gave a low wolf-whistle.

"Men, lock your sweethearts away! Ladies, avert your eyes! There's a new gentleman in town, and boy is he a looker!"

"Ha, funny," said Mark, smirking. His head felt light with all the hair gone, and the magical bath felt wonderful. His clothes smelled like jasmine, and felt unbelievably comfortable.

Gabriel whisked a mirror from nowhere. "I'm serious, mortal." Mark walked over and took a deep look.

His black hair was short. Not short enough to see the skin underneath, like Marine Corps haircuts, but well within Navy regulation, and it looked a lot healthier. His gray eyes seemed to be more vibrant, staring from the mirror, piercing through Mark, the gaze traveling to lands beyond. His skin had gained a little color, though it was still pale. He looked all right, in his opinion. Not great, but not bad. He looked a great deal more impressive, at the very least. He used to exclude an aura of frailty, but now it seemed that the scent of authority leaked out of his every orifice.

Mark felt a little pride. That was how a leader should look. Now all had to do was develop the leader mentality.

"What are you talking about? I look better, but I don't look that handsome."

"Trust me, mortal," said Gabriel, grinning and turning the small mirror into a full-length one. "You'll be turning heads as you walk down the street."

Mark twirled, trying to get a glimpse of every angle. Gabriel was obviously just flattering him.

"Well, Gabriel, regardless of how I look, I can't thank you enough."

"Oh," said Gabriel. "But I think you can. In fact, I think you will."

Mark stopped turning and felt an ominous chill. Of course. No one gave things for free.

"I came into being a long time ago," said Gabriel. "Day after day, century after century, I wandered the cosmos. I'd occasionally run into another celestial being, but they were all so snobby, caring for nothing but themselves. They were even rude to me. Me! They should have been terrified, considering what I am…"

"And what are you?" asked Mark, warily. Gabriel stared off into the ocean.

"I got bored," he continued. "One year I tried to amuse myself with 'unsolvable' mathematical theorems, but that ended quickly. Those theorems are unsolvable… So I thought I'd try my hand at creation. I created this place as an empty slate, an endless expanse of white. I wondered what to fill it with… but then I found the realms of the humans. Your realm, to be exact"

Gabriel smiled a strange, chilling smile.

"Humans fascinated me. Surely any being with intelligence could see the problems with killing one another? But humans did it. They killed and killed. I watched and watched, and decided to visit. I visited Europe, to be exact, and I came in the form of a bacterium known as Yersinia pestis."

"The Black Plague." said Mark.

"Precisely. I thought to myself, this will calm the humans down. I thought that those medieval idiots would unite against a common enemy, stop fighting, and try to find a cure. But no. They blamed lepers and the Jewish for the malady, and burned them all. It was then I discovered the darkness present within all people. I took that darkness into my land and I shaped it. I nurtured it. I created Elder magic. This realm began to change constantly, providing something new every day. I was ecstatic. I felt like the world's greatest gardener."

Gabriel sighed.

"But I got lonely. I tried to create life, but only One can do that. And so, I began interact with humans. I brought them here and tried to spar with them, both physically and intellectually. None were up to the task… I ran circles around them in debates. I crushed them in combat. Then I found the ultimate game. One that I did not have an unfair advantage in. Well, I do have my superior intellect… I probably do have an unfair advantage, but I never get tired of playing the game. You will play with me. I call white."

Gabriel clapped his hands. Two chairs and a table materialized. On the table lay a board, with black and white pieces already arranged.

"Oh!" said Mark. He felt relieved. "Chess! Well… I don't know how to play."

Gabriel blanched.

"You can memorize complete books, you have one of the highest IQ's in your country, but you don't know how to play chess! That is a crime and a travesty!"

"Surely you already knew that," said Mark.

"There are limits to my omnipotence," sniffed Gabriel. "But enough about that. You must learn!" Mark sat down, and Gabriel taught him the rules of the game. Mark learned quickly, and the two played their first game. Gabriel won within twelve moves.

"Ha ha," said Gabriel as Mark tipped over the black king. "I checkmate most people in six. Sometimes three, when I can wrangle it."

"I'll get better," said Mark. "But I need to ask you a question, unless you already know what the question is."

"Ha," said Gabriel. "I know much of the past, some of the present, and can only make very educated guesses about the future. I'm usually right."

"You said you were constantly bored, so you kept bringing humans to this place. Why did you bring me here? Do you truly care about how this drama plays out, or are you just looking for entertainment?"

"Yes," said Gabriel, grinning.

Click click click.

Mark walked down the path, his dark green cloak billowing around him in the morning wind. He knew that he looked impressive, and he derived a certain amount of pride from that fact.

Click click click.

Mark played with the butterfly knife, making it dance across his fingers. Doing tricks with the blade always helped Mark relax; the hypnotic clicks lulled him. He thought about Gabriel. It seemed as though he couldn't trust anybody in this forsaken dimension. Except perhaps Sain and Lyn.

The city of Araphen rose up before him. There seemed to be a great deal of soldiers about, but Mark could not blame them. He marched up the gates, where a long line of people was being searched. Mark sighed. With this heightened security, he would be waiting for a long time…

"Lord Misery!"

One of the guards detached himself from the wall and ran over to Mark.

"Hello," said Mark. "Erm… who are you?"

The soldier removed his helm, revealing a face with a few burn wounds. "I'm one of the guys you rescued from the fire, sir!"

"And how are you doing?"

"Great!" said the soldier. "These burns are going to be scars, but I don't mind. My lady thinks they make me look brave." The soldier grinned impishly, then gave a start. "I just remembered! Lord Fiche ordered that if you ever came back into the city, you were to be taken to the castle!"

"Lord Fiche? What happened to your old lord… Aion?"

The soldier grinned. "Lord Fiche will explain, sir."

The soldier led Mark past the checkpoint. Several soldiers waved at Mark, calling out to him.

"Milord!"

"Good to see you, sir!"

"Honestly," said Mark, waving back. "All I did was rescue you guys from a fire, then shout at your Marquess. Why am I so popular?"

The soldier grinned again, practically skipping with glee towards the castle. "You'll see, sir." Mark sighed.

Mark and the soldier entered the main streets, and had to maneuver through the bustling crowd. Araphen was as crowded as ever, with its narrow streets and many street vendors. Mark was jostled several times over, but the people got out of the soldier's way without question. The soldier looked to Mark, a bemused grin on his face.

"You're popular with the ladies too, sir!"

"What?" asked Mark. He looked around, then spotted a group of young women, mostly in their late teens, standing by an inn, pointing at him. When they saw him looking, they quickly looked away, breaking into giggles. Mark coughed nervously. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his boonie hat, slamming it over his head and eyes; this only made the girls giggle louder. His face grew warm.

"Let's hurry," said Mark, picking up the pace and actually getting ahead of the soldier.

The two reached the castle, where the soldier bid Mark farewell as another soldier took Mark into the towering structure. Most of the art was gone, with an exception of a few somber paintings. The once ostentatious halls were now minimalist, with soldiers standing by the walls, as motionless as the sculptures that had once filled the place. The whole place had a feel of cold military efficiency and strength. It was a nice change from the disorganized, burnt castle that it had once been.

"Hurrah! You're back!"

Mark and his escort turned to see the a blond, tall, and slightly-chubby man in general's armor clank towards them. The soldier stepped to the side and bowed his head slightly.

"I present to you The Most Honorable Marquess of Araphen, Lord Fiche."

It was the same general that Mark had met when he had first visited the city. What was he doing as Marquess?

"Lord Misery! It's wonderful to see you again! I just received news of your victory in Caelin an hour ago!"

"Please call me Mark, milord," said Mark, wincing slightly as he extended a hand, remembering the general's powerful grip. Instead, the general kept walking forward and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

"Get off!"

"Sorry," said Lord Fiche, stepping back. "But it's thanks to you that I'm Marquess!" Mark gave him a questioning look. "You see, we soldiers of Araphen have never been very happy. We're the second largest city in the Lycian League, and we should have a military that reflects that fact. We tried to train, but Lord Aion kept on interrupting our drills and making us move paintings around. He also spent a great deal of the treasury on his hobby, money that should have been spent on the military. Bandits were ravaging the countryside, people were dying, but did he care? No! We were getting ready to revolt, but it was your glorious speech that clinched it."

"Glorious speech? More like a crazy rant," said Mark. "And I'm pretty sure that I got saliva on that man… but continue, please."

Fiche continued, "The day after you left, we revolted. It was a bloodless coup, but Aion managed to escape with a group of dark-robed men, heading to the west. I was named Marquess of Araphen. I've sent a messenger to Ostia to explain the situation; we're waiting for him to come back. I really hope Ostia accepts me… after all, I have no royal blood. If they take offence, I will be destroyed, for we can't match Ostia for strength."

Mark started to pat the man on the shoulder, but stopped. After all, he was a noble now.

"Ah well," said Fiche. "No point in worrying, right? Lord Uther is a good ruler. He'll understand. But anyway, I told my men that if you ever entered the city again, you were to be taken to me. I need to reward you for your bravery during the fire, and for getting me this position."

Mark backed off, shaking his hands. "No need, milord! No need!"

"Poppycock, you will get a reward," said Fiche. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

"FAUSTY!"

There was a clamor and the sound of someone running down the halls. A middle-aged, balding man with a brown handlebar mustache appeared around the corner, skidded, and crashed into a wall, rebounding and falling on his rump. He leapt to his feet and snapped off a smart salute.

"Quartermaster Fausty reporting, milord!"

"Get me a sword!"

Fausty snatched a huge broadsword out of the hands of a standing guard and held it to Fiche, who grabbed it.

"Kneel, Lord Misery."

Mark backed away even more. "Y-you're knighting me?"

"Of course," said Fiche, stepping forward. "I'm making you an honorary knight of the realm. You'll get all the benefits of being a knight without actually being a part of my military. Kneel."

Mark sighed, and kneeled. Fiche raised the sword and brought the flat down on Mark's right shoulder.

"Ow!"

"By the power stolen by me in a massive military coup, I name you Sir Mark, Honorary Knight of Araphen. Stand and accept your blade."

"What? That thing's my weapon?"

"There's nothing like a good broadsword, Sir Mark!" said Fausty, twisting an end of his mustache and nodding. Mark shook his head.

"I'm sure it's a great weapon," said Mark. "But I'm already carrying a lot of stuff. Could you give me something smaller? A… knife, maybe?"

"Of course not!" said Fiche. "A knife for a knight? Ha! But we'll get you something else… Fausty! Get the man a Naval Saber!"

"That's… fine, I'll take it," said Mark unhappily.

Fausty ran off, rounding the corner again. Mark heard him crash into another wall, then heard the sound of him falling to the ground.

"My hip…"

"Wait…" said Mark, rubbing his shoulder. "A Naval Saber? Isn't Araphen landlocked? Except for that small river?"

"Yes," said Fiche. "That is why we have a surplus of sabers."

Mark opened his mouth to register his disbelief, but a soldier approached Fiche and saluted. Behind him was an out-of-breath man clutching his side.

"Lord Fiche! The messenger has returned from Ostia, bearing news!"

"Lord… Uther…" panted the messenger, "Recognizes… you as… the ruler…"

"HURRAH!" roared Fiche, thrusting his arms in the air and accidentally sending the messenger flying with a brutal uppercut. "Now I can have my party! You're invited, Sir Mark! We'll get you some fancy clothes!"

Fausty rounded the corner and slipped, his feet flying up in a comical fashion. The saber slipped from his hands and slid across the floor, stopping at Mark's feet. He bent to pick it up.

Magnificent. The saber had a hilt of silver color, with a black leather grip and a slim guard that was more for show than actually protecting one's fingers. The sheath was a glossy black. Mark drew the weapon. The blade was clean and cold, easily reflecting his face, and was a little broader than the ceremonial blades of U.S. Navy and Marine Corps, for this weapon was actually meant for combat. The saber was perfectly straight, perfectly balanced, and sturdy. Above all, it was light.

"Does this weapon suit you, Sir Mark?" asked Fausty, getting to his feet.

"Yes," said Mark. He sheathed the sword and clipped it to his belt. It felt as though it belonged there.

"Good," said Fausty. "Let's get you some better clothes."

"Right now?" Mark slapped a hand to his eyes and moaned again.

"Stupid party…"

Mark tried to blend in with the wall, scratching at his new clothes. Gabriel was probably watching and laughing.

The orchestra was skilled, playing a slow song as the various partygoers danced a dance nearly identical to the waltz. Fiche had invited many barons, baronesses and viscounts, and they had all arrived in surprisingly short notice. The hall had been decorated with brightly colored streamers and confetti, and ice sculptures dotted the room.

Fausty had tried to get Mark to wear a blue suit covered with lace and fake flowers. Mark slashed it to pieces with the saber and had gravitated towards a long, black frock coat. The coat was lined with silver, and had strange, metallic shoulders. After Mark had selected a pair of matching black pants, Fausty had protested that the suit was too somber for the occasion. Mark stuck with his decision. The black-sheathed saber went along perfectly, and now Mark was here at this party, looking around.

There were roving waiters carrying goblets of wine, but Mark had never really liked alcohol. He had followed a waiter carrying a tray of delicious cream cakes for a while, but had soon gotten full. He now watched the dancers. Most were pretty good, but Mark could spot a few flaws. Mark smiled. What would Lyn think if she knew that he was an accomplished dancer?

Mark looked across the room and spotted a young lady, also standing against the wall. She had brown hair and was petite, wearing a lavender dress and looking very sad. Mark bit his lip.

I brought you here to improve this world.

Poor girl. She had no one to dance with. Mark didn't want to dance today. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, but he supposed that a dance would be good for him. After all, he needed to change himself. He didn't want to be a moody little brat anymore. If he was going to improve the world, he was going to get started now.

Mark sighed and stood straighter, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. He maneuvered around the dance floor, keeping to the edges of the party, until he got to the side of the girl.

"Excuse me, milady," said Mark, giving her a smile. The girl looked shocked, then blushed furiously. "I don't think we've met. I'm Mark, a… knight in service to Lord Fiche."

"Hello," said the girl, "My name is Colette. I'm the daughter of an Araphen Baron."

"Colette. That's a pretty name… Well, young Colette, would you care to dance?" asked Mark, trying to prevent himself from turning red as the girl turned an even deeper shade of the color.

"I… I don't know how…" said the girl sadly. Mark's grin brightened.

"No need to know how. Trust me." Mark grabbed the girl's hand and gently led her to the floor as the band struck up another song.

"Put your feet on top of mine," said Mark. Colette obliged, blushing. Mark tried not to cringe as her shoes dug into the tops of his toes.

"Maybe I should just…"

"All right then!" said Mark. He lay one hand on the girl's waist and grabbed her right hand with his left. And he was off.

Left foot forward. Slide right foot over. Bring left to right…

The girl nearly fell from Mark's feet, but he adjusted quickly. It felt good to dance again.

"I'm going to fall!" cried Colette. Mark laughed.

"You're doing fine," he said. He continued swirling along with the masses as the violins were roused to a fury. "See, there's a pattern. Can you feel it?"

Left foot forward. Slide right foot over. Bring left to right…

"Ummm…"

"I hope you do!" guffawed Mark. He tipped his feet, letting Colette slide off them. She gave a small shriek and stumbled. Mark slowed down, and Colette struggled to keep up. After a few moments, she found the rhythm and stepped clumsily along with Mark, muttering under her breath.

"Left foot… left… eek!"

Mark chuckled. "Try not to think about it. Just dance."

Colette stopped muttering and closed her eyes tightly. After a few more stumbles, she was stepping in time with Mark. Mark smiled. Now she was getting somewhere.

"I'm dancing, Sir Mark! I'm dancing!"

The violins dipped back down again, playing wistfully. Mark closed his eyes and let himself drift. Life was simpler when one was dancing. He listened to the dips and highs of the song, the stomp of feet against the floor, and the happy squeakings of Colette. He was swirling, lost among the notes of music. He was free. He was larger than life itself, covering entire continents with his dance steps.

The musicians ended their song, and partners across the halls stepped away from each other, bowing and curtsying. Mark stepped back and bowed to Colette, who blushed again, turning nearly purple, and curtseyed back.

"If you excuse me, Miss Colette, I must go."

Mark gave the girl one last smile and walked away briskly, back to his spot on the wall. Once there, he allowed himself to turn beet red. He had just made a wallflower's dream come true; it was like something out of a Disney Movie.

But it made him feel a little daring. It was time for a night on the town.

The few people out in the streets looked at Mark in confusion. Who was this gentleman in the fancy suit, and what was he doing out here late at night?

Mark felt giddy and light-headed. He looked around at the darkened streets and night sky. It was beautiful. In New York, the lights would block out the stars. In Iraq, Mark couldn't appreciate the sky. Here however…

Mark's attention was caught by the sounds of raucous laughter coming from a brightly lit pub. He hesitated for a moment, then strode across the street towards the dingy building. A sign proclaimed the establishment as "The Angry Stallion", and he pushed open the door.

The pub was crowded enough and noisy enough to prevent Mark from drawing attention to himself, although he caught the attracted stairs of a few men. He was overdressed, and he knew it, but that was what made everything so fun.

He looked around and spotted a brown-haired man in a blue vest, pants, and headband, drinking a mug of frothy beer. Mark sat down across from him and motioned to waitress. She came over, and he ordered a glass of milk; she looked at him oddly, but nodded and walked away. The man sitting at the other end of the table looked up from his drink.

"Who're you?"

"My name is Mark," said Mark, giving the man a mock salute. "And who might you be?"

The man slammed his fist down on the table. His beer mug jumped.

"I am Bartre, the greatest fighter in the land! I've killed hundreds of puny men like you! I've crushed them with my bare hands!"

"Have you really?" asked Mark, mimicking Gabriel's upbeat tone.

"Yes!" roared Bartre. "Come, Mark! We fight now!"

Mark raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What?"

Bartre slammed his elbow down on the table. "Arm wrestle me! Show me your strength!"

Mark stared at Bartre's arms. They were as big as his thighs, bulging with muscles. "I… think I'll pass, my good man."

"What?" asked Bartre. "You refuse? You think you're too good to fight?"

"No…"

"Then you're a coward!" yelled Bartre. "A filthy coward! And you call yourself the strongest… the strongest… the… what are you?"

"I'm a medic."

"Medic!" shouted Bartre. "And you call yourself the strongest medic alive! You're nothing more than a dandy!"

"Actually," said Mark, "I'm also a tactician." Bartre offered up a confused look. "I study strategies and command troops upon the field of honor, and watch over them as they fight the hordes."

"Nguuuuuuooooooooohhhhhhh!"

"Are you all right?" asked Mark, leaning forward in his chair. The guy was crazy.

"Hard words… make head hurt…"

"I didn't use any hard words, Bartre," said Mark. Bartre snapped his head up, looking furious. Mark quickly sat back down in his chair.

"You calling me stupid, medic-man?"

"No."

Bartre brightened. "Oh. Then it's alright then. Your milk's here, by the way."

A young waitress brought the milk over on a tray. Mark grabbed the glass and smiled at the girl, who blushed and fled. Mark frowned. Perhaps Gabriel was right, and he did look handsome. It was funny what a single haircut and a few weeks of marching could do. Bartre slammed his hand back down on the table. Mark jumped.

"What's with the fancy getup, anyway? You come from a party?"

"Yes," said Mark. "I was dancing with aristoc… rich people a while ago. I've just been made a Honorary Knight of Araphen this morning."

'Really?" roared Bartre, slamming both palms on the table. Mark winced as his milk went flying, spilling all over the back of a burly man. The guy jumped from his stool, which went skidding away behind him.

"WHO DONE THAT?"

The pub went quiet. The bartender crouched behind the bar, and the rest of the customers slowly edged away. Bartre sat open-mouthed, and Mark stood up as the man's friends chuckled dangerously.

"I'm sorry, sir. My companion here got a little excited and swept the glass off the table. Please excuse us."

"Excuse you?" shouted the man, stepping forward. "This is my best shirt!" Mark sniffed. The shirt was dirtier than his old uniform had been before Gabriel had cleaned it. The man was obviously just looking for an excuse to fight, so Mark let his hand stray lazily to the hilt of his saber.

"I'll wring your fancy little neck, boy!"

The man strode forward, seeking to grab Mark's throat. Mark drew the saber and smashed the hilt into the man's stomach. He fell back into the arms of his friends.

"Get him!"

The men drew knives and clubs, and one smashed a bottle, creating a jagged knife. Mark waved his saber threateningly, but he knew that he wasn't skilled with it. His knife was back with his uniform in Fiche's castle, and Apologetic Irony was in the duffel bag, also back in the castle.

"Not fair!

Bartre stood and hefted a huge axe. "Yellow bellies! Ganging up on Mark like that!"

"Don't kill them, Bartre!" yelled Mark, taking a few steps back and assuming a defensive position. He had watched a few fencing videos, and knew a little of swordplay. Bartre laughed.

The men surged forth as one. Bartre bent over, picked up a chair, and tossed it at the men, who scattered to avoid it, crashing onto tables and into other patrons. One bystander raised his beer mug and brought it crashing down on one of the thug's head.

And so it began.

The pub erupted into pandemonium. People leapt from their seats and launched themselves at their fellows. Bartre dropped his axe and stepped forward, swinging his fists at everything in site. The bartender pulled bottles of wine from the liquor racks and began tossing them at the heads of pub-goers. The flying bottles were soon joined by flying stools, mugs, and steak knives. The waitresses stood on other tables and swung chair legs at anyone who got too close. Mark ran over to the bartender, sheathing his saber.

"Call on Lord Fiche tomorrow! He'll pay for the damages!"

The bartender tried to smash a bottle over Mark's head, but Mark socked him in the nose and ducked out of the bar as Bartre hefted an entire table over his head and let fly.

Mark ran and ran towards the castle, and didn't stop running until he reached the gates. The guards gave a start.

"Sir Mark! Are you all right?"

Mark leaned against the wall, panting wildly. His side hurt badly, and he was sweating profusely. He began to chuckle. Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, sliding to the ground, clutching his stomach. For the first time in a long time, he felt that life was good.

"Are you sure that you don't want to stay for a little longer?"

"No thank you," said Mark. "I have places to go. Things to do. You know the drill."

"Well," said Fiche, "where will you go from here?"

"I've been thinking about going to Bern," said Mark. "A friend told me about the place, about how it's got an incredible military. I could learn some strategy from the tacticians there, perhaps. Or maybe they have a library. You never know."

Fiche sighed. "Sometimes I wish I could wander around like you. But I've got a city to rule. I'll see the world someday, I know. I'm sure of it."

Fiche held out a hand. "I guess this is goodbye, Mark. Our gates are always open to you. Come again someday."

"I definitely will," said Mark shaking Fiche's hand. "Tell Fausty that I love the saber."

"I will," said Fiche. "Oh, and are you sure that you don't want to take the clothes along?"

Mark patted his cloak and military uniform. "Keep it for me, milord. I wear it at one of your parties again."

"Right," said Fiche. "Oh! Before you go… guess what happened at the party!"

Fiche looked gleeful. Mark shrugged his shoulders, so Fiche told him.

"My son found a girl! Her name's Colette. She came up to him during the dance (he's a little bit of a wallflower) and asked took him to the floor. They couldn't keep their eyes off each other, I tell you! Isn't young love wonderful?"

"Yes," said Mark. "I guess it is."

He turned away from Fiche and marched through the city. Soldiers waved and girls giggled. Mark grinned at them all, and whistled a merry tune.

Wow. My eyes hurt.

I think I ended that last chapter, Chapter 10, too quickly. Oh well. I'm going to have one more filler chapter before Eliwood's story begins.

FYI: Mark is not a Marine. The U.S. Marine Corps does not have a Medical Corps. It has to get medics from the U.S. Navy. Any Hospitalman in the U.S. Navy wanting to be attached to a Marine unit has to undergo brutal training (some of the nastiest in the entire military) before getting transferred. That's what Mark did.