Title: A Future Undone - Part 4
Description: Ambushed by bandits, Marc loses control when his Mother is injured.
Note: Fourth chapter of Marc focused mini-arc. Takes place one month following the events of A Future Disowned. Spoiler Warning, if you have not read A Future Disowned and wish to avoid spoilers for that story, turn back now.
Marc landed hard, his shoulder striking the earth with a solid thud. His vision darkened. With a grunt he rolled over, forcing his eyes to remain open.
Above him stood his mother. Pain twisted her face, an arrow protruding from her left arm. Blood oozed from around the wooden shaft, the arrowhead embedded deep. The bandits charged. She hefted her blade just in time, deflecting the first strike. Then the second. Then the third. On the forth their swords clashed, the lead bandit shoving hard. She slid back an inch, then toppled, landing roughly on one knee. A sword glinted in the fire light as the bandit lunged. At once Marc recognized his mother's peril. She wouldn't be able to recover in time.
Time seemed to stop, Marc's eyes wide with fear. No. Not again!
"No!"
Moving without thought Marc's hand closed around Falchion's hilt. Only dimly did it register that he shouldn't have been close enough to reach the spot he left it. Perhaps it has been kicked during the fighting. Perhaps it had somehow been called to him. Not that how mattered.
The blade rang as it cleared the sheath. Pain. A burning spear shot through Marc's entire body. Crimson eyes, obsidian teeth. Death. Ruin. Oblivion. He welcomed the pain, letting it wash over him, obliterating all other sensation.
Leaping to his feet, Marc hacked at the man bearing down on his mother, catching him mid strike. A cry of agony split the air, the bandit reeling back, bloody stumps where his hands used to be. Soon too the scream, was cut short, Marc cleaving down his foe with two brutal cuts. Burning blood splattered his face, yet still he felt nothing.
"Arcwind!" Marc spat, whirling on the remaining two swordsman. A vortex of wind sprouted between the bandits, tossing them aside as easily as though they were little more than a child's playthings.
Thump!
A sudden weight smashed into Marc's shoulder staggering him a step. He whirled, catching a glimpse of an arrow sticking from his back, embedded deep in the muscle. Yet he felt nothing. The pain lost in a sea of unbridled fury.
"You!" Marc shouted, lifting a hand to the treeline. Arrows buzzed past him, one bounding off Falchion's blade, another grazing his arm. "Thoron!"
CRACK! The a tree detonated in a hail of splintered wood and flaming debris that ripped through the surrounding branches. Three forms dropped to the forest floor, one blackened and burnt, another mangled and bloody. The third was motionless for a moment, then staggered upright, favoring one leg. A jagged shard of wood pierced the other, while a smaller fragment jutted from his side. A broken bow lay at his feet. He stared at Marc, his face twisted with pain and fear.
"Wind." Marc muttered, knocking the man to the floor. The man swore in pain. Marc recognized the voice, it was the same bandit who had spoken before.
"You. You could have killed her," he strode forward, Falchion seeming to glow in the light of the burning trees. "You'll pay. Not again. Never again."
The man dragged himself upright. Cornered, with no chance to escape, the man drew his own blade. "Damn ye to hell!" He spat, slashing at Marc's shoulder.
Marc smashed the blade aside, knocking the man back with the sheer force of the blow. He closed in, following up with a relentless barrage of slashes. The bandit was no novice, as Marc had guess probably from some previous military service, managing to block to first few strike despite his wounds.
Marc's blade darted in, drawing a line on the man's arm. Another across his cheek.. Then his shoulder. Again and again Marc drew blood. Each time he could have finished it, ended his foe right then and there. But that would have been too easy. Too good for him. No. He wanted to make him bleed.
Soon the bandit couldn't even raise his sword to defend himself, Marc landing another set of shallow cuts. Throwing up his knee his knocked the man to the ground. forcing the air from his lungs. "Please," the man wheezed, throwing up an arm to defend himself, "I give up! I surren–"
Marc severed the man's hand with single cut. The bandit's eyes went wide with fear, his face going white. "No. Please."
Marc kicked the man's bloody arm aside, hefting Falchion over his head. "Die," he growled, preparing to deliver the killing blow.
"Marc!" A hand seized his arm, holding it in place. He whirled, twisting free from this new foe, preparing the lash out and–
Marc froze as he realized it was his mother who had stopped him. "He was beaten and surrendered, Marc. To kill defenseless foes would mean to stoop to their level," she told him, her expression stern, her voice heavy.
At her voice the world seemed to suddenly rush back into focus, Marc taking his surroundings. The countless countless wounds he'd dealt to the man crumpled before him. The smoldering corpses under the burning treeline. The blood staining his clothes. The scent of death that permeated the camp. Every bit of it present and all too painfully real.
"I… I didn't mean…" Falchion fell from his fingers, all strength and willingness to hold the blade fleeing him.
His eyes fell on the two bandit's he'd knocked aside. One was down, conscious but disabled by a severed hamstring. The other's face was bruised and swollen, eyes closed, but was still breathing. It took a moment before he that it had been his mother who'd disabled them, without resorting to deadly force. Without losing control.
Without wasting an instant his mother moved to tend to the critically injured bandit. Ripping a strip of cloth from the man's shirt, she bound his stump arm in a tourniquet. Once in place she roughly grabbed the man by the collar, forcing a vulnerary down his throat. Her work done, she lowered the bandit, not all too gently, to the ground, turning back to his injured comrades.
"Your friend is stabilized, but may yet die unless a healer tends to him. If you value his life, you would be best pressed to see to that soon rather than follow after us. Not that the later course would prove any less ill for you." Her hand dropped down to where her own Falchion hung at her waist.
The conscious bandit nodded his head quickly, fear plain in his face. At once he dragged himself over to his comrade, shaking him in an attempt to rouse him.
"Good. Word of advice: once I return to Ylisstol I intend to see that soldiers are sent to secure this road. Find a less perilous profession, for they will show far less mercy than I." Stooping she retrieved Marc's Falchion. Returning to the smoldering coals of their fire, she hastily sheathed the blade and shouldered her own pack. "Marc, let's go."
"But what about your…" he eyed her injured arm, an arrow still imbedded deep within the muscle.
"We can tend to it once we are far from here. Come, grab your things," she answered, her voice hard.
Marc started to argue, then stopped himself, hanging his head. What right did he have to disagree with her? None. Not after the damage he caused.
Grabbing his own pack, Marc turned back to the clearing and the carnage he caused. Then he started after his mother, following her into the night.
. . . . .
They walked for almost an hour before his mother slowed her pace. Breathing heavily she dropped her pack, leaning against a tree. "That's far enough. Marc, the elixir please. Then I'll tend to your injured."
Doing as he was told he knelt, fishing out the healing potion from her back. "That arrow is pretty deep in their, how do you intend to–"
In a single, fluid motion his mother drew Falchion and sliced through the arrow haft protruding from her arm, leaving only half the length remaining. Thrusting her sword into the ground, she took the vial from him. "You're going to need to push it the rest of the way through. It's barbed, will cause too much damage if we pull it out." she explained, uncorking the elixir with her teeth.
Nodding, Marc gripped the arrow with one hand, her arm in the other to hold it in place. He sucked in a deep breath, then with a grunt forced the arrow the rest of the way through. A strangled gasp fell from his mother's lips, then a groan of pain. She raised to vial to her lips, taking a long draft while Mark pulled the arrow the rest of the way through and out. At once the muscle began to knit itself back together, until there was nothing but unmarked skin where the wound had been but moments before.
Taking the rest the vial offered to him, Marc turned around, dropping down onto the grass to sit cross-legged. The arrow in his shoulder was not in very deep, having hit his shoulder blade. Marc winced as his mother carefully worked the arrow free. The skin itched as he downed the rest of the potion, feeling as though a thousand ants were crawling under his skin as the wound repaired itself.
Marc did not move through all of it, his eyes fixed on the space in front of him. He shuddered, seeing again the flames and the charred corpses. It was so that he barely noticed when his mother kneel down next to him.
"Marc, can you tell me what happened back there? his mother asked. She reached out, putting a hand on his arm.
Marc recoiled from her touch, pulling away on instinct before he was even consciously aware of his actions. Shame filled him at once and he averted his gaze, not wanting to see the hurt look that was surely etched into her face.
"Marc, please," his mother said again, her voice no less gentle than before. "I need you to talk to me. What happened?"
"I…" Marc choked back a sob. His hands trembled and he gripped the sides of his head, dropping down onto the grass. "I was so scared. I thought they were going to kill you and– I got so angry. I just wanted to hurt them! Make them suffer. Suffer for trying to take you away again. I wouldn't let them!"
He began to tremble all over, a sudden fury washing over him. Why should he regret it? They deserved what they got. All of it. They deserved it. Memories of the corpse strewn camp flashed before his eyes, his stomach churning as he again saw the carnage dealt by his own hand. "Gods, what did I do? I slaughtered them without a thought. I… I know they were bad people but…. Gods."
"Marc, listen to me," his mother gripped his shoulders, forcing him to face her. "I'm here. I didn't leave you. I'm still here." She embraced him, holding him close.
Marc could not speak, wracked by sobs. Tears streamed down his face, staining her clothes.
"Being afraid is nothing to be ashamed of. Nor is feeling angry."
"But what I did…" Marc's voice cracked and he shook his head. "I'm a monster...
"Marc, do you regret what you did?" She asked?
"I…" He nodded meekly.
"Then you aren't a monster, Marc. A monster wouldn't regret the things he's done," Grabbing the edge of her cloak, she dabbed at the tears still streaming down him face. "Remember too, those people… they were no innocents. They would have surely killed us if given the chance. The only thing you did wrong was to strike at a foe who'd surrendered, and fought to inflict undue harm. You let your anger control you, something that I should never have allowed to happen."
She rubbed his back as she held him close, whispering soothing words into his ears. Slowly Marc's tears began to lessen, until he lay still in his mother's arms. His eyelids drooped and he felt tired. So very tired.
His mother must have noticed it too, murmuring softly. "It's okay. Mother is here. Rest while you are able."
Marc nodded, closing his eyes. Like a great wave sleep rushed towards him, the world fading in a sea of darkness. The last thing he remembered was his mother's voice murmuring in his ear.
"Sleep well, my son:"
Then sleep took him.
. . . . .
"So do you really think Naga can help us?" Marc asked, gazing up to the summit of the mountain looming before them.
It had taken them another day's travel before they reached the coast, then another by boat to cross the bay that lay between them and their destination. The sun was alright high in the sky before they reached the foot of the mountain. Mount Prism glowed in the midday light, birds singing in the trees that climbed it's slopes.
"I do," his mother replied, nodding her head. "My only fear is that Naga has since returned to her slumber. However, should fortune smile on us, yes, I do."
Marc nodded. "Well, better get climbing, huh, Mother?"
Even with the many paths and winding steps cut into the mountain in ages past it still took many hours to scale to the summit. Marc marveled at just how green and alive the mountain seemed. It was so different from the bleak nothingness that had dominated most of his life. Truly, if Grima's powers embodied all that was death, then Naga's brought life wherever her presence touched the world.
The ruined entrance to the sanctuary rose up before them, white stone glowing with golden radiance in the now setting sun. Together the two of them ventured inside, descending the steps into the inner chamber.
The temple's design reminded Marc of the royal palace, only much grander yet far older. Perhaps it had been built by the nation's ancestors in a time long forgotten, though their work could still be glimpsed in the cathedrals and shrines built by their children's children. Sun streamed in from many skylights, scattering against the silvery stone to illuminate the whole chamber. Everything was still and quiet but for the sound of their own footsteps and distant songs of birds.
"What now?" Marc asked, lowering his bag.
"Now we pray to Naga for guidance," his mother answered. She knelt down on the stone, drawing Falchion forth to hold it before her. Marc knelt as well, however he made no move to draw his own blade.
For several long moments neither of them moved. Seconds turned into minutes, yet still nothing happened. Soon Marc began to feel fear gripping him. What if Naga wouldn't appear? What then? How were they supposed to fix Falchion? Perhaps they could travel to Valm and seek lady Tiki. Maybe she could–
A brilliant flash of light lit up the chamber. Marc shielded his eyes, squinting against the blinding rays. Slowly the sea of white began to dim, taking shape to reveal the image of a woman. Her alabaster skin and snow dress shimmered as it forged from moonlight. Her green hair hung to her waist, flowing around the figure as if moved by an unseen wind.
Marc scrambled to his feet. He stare in awe, unsure what to say. Only once before had he seen the Divine Dragon in person, and only then in passing.
His mother stood as well, bowing her head to Naga in respect, Marc quickly following her lead. The last thing he wanted to do is offend a being as powerful as Naga.
"Be welcome, travelers from afar. I have wondered when this day would arrive that the child of fell and exalted blood would come seeking my wisdom," Naga said, her eyes moving from Lucina to Marc in turn.
"I…" Marc swallowed, nerves getting the better of him. His mouth felt thick, as if it had been filled with glue. "I mean, you know why I come? Milady," Marc quickly added, bowing his head.
Naga laughed, carrying with it such radiant joy that Marc could scarcely believe was possible. "Yes, I do know of your quest. Please, you may dispense with the formalities. We have no need of them here, not after all that your family has done in my stead."
Marc nodded quickly and started to bow again. He caught himself, jerking upright before he could finish the gesture. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
His mother stepped forward then. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her gaze fixed on Naga. "Milady, if you know of why it is we came, then perhaps you can shed some light on what has happened. Why is Falchion, the one Marc now bears, acting as it is? Is it some lingering effects of Grima's work?"
Naga said nothing, instead extending a hand to Marc. It took a moment before he realized she was asking for the weapon.
Reaching down, Marc closed his hands around the hilt. A tingle ran up his arm, then a sudden jolt. However, the instant he felt the alien thoughts and visions to enter his mind they were suddenly washed aside, dissolving against the soothing light that seemed to radiate from Naga's very being.
Sucking in a deep breath, Marc drew the sword and offered it to the Divine Dragon.
She did not take it as expected, instead holding her hands out until they hovered an inch above the blade's surface. A green light seems to flow from his palms, washing over the blade like water. After several minutes she withdrew her hands.
"I must apologies, the spell took much longer than I expected. Much of my power was expected when I sent summoned you to aid the very world that the child of mixed blood originates. Even now I feel sleep calling to me. It is good you came when you did. Later and I would have been unable to aid you."
"Did you determine what the cause is, milady?" Marc's mother asked.
Naga nodded. "As I suspected, part of Grima's darkness still lays upon the blade, tainting it's light. Even now my power and his is locked in struggle within, a struggle mirror the one at war within the heart of it's wielder."
"A war in my heart? What do you mean?" Marc asked, gripping his chest with sudden dread. "Y-You can still fix it, right? What Grima did, I mean."
Naga shook her head. "It is not within my power to undo Grima's corruption. But despair not," she added, before either had a chance to react to the seemingly ill turn of events. "Your quest is not futile: while I cannot rid the fell dragon's taint on my own, I can guide you through the restoration. But first you must understand what has been done.
"When Grima corrupted the blade he did not merely imbue it with his own power," Naga said. "He perverted the connection between weapon and wielder. Just as Falchion is bound to those whose blood carried my blessing, Grima connected the darkness he seeded within to the fell tainted blood you carry. It is through you that it fuels itself."
"Y-You mean I…" Marc's voice faltered, a lump forming in his throat. "That I…" We stared down at his trembling hands. Was she right? Was it because deep down, he was tainted? Evil?
"No, not evil. True evil is rare, even within Grima's servants." Naga said, as if reading his thoughts. A kindly smile breaking over her features, a serene sense of calm seeming to flow out from her radiant form. "If my words seemed to imply otherwise, then I spoke poorly, for it was not my intention. Many of the world's greatest champions have come from a dark bloodline. Your ancestry does not define you any more than they."
Like my father, Marc realized. He gripped his forearm, where his Mark of Grima lay hidden. His father had been born as Grima's chosen, yet he'd done so many great things and fought with his entire being to stop the Fel Dragon. How could he, then, pretend as though was somehow meant to be evil. That he didn't have a choice.
"I… then what…." Marc croaked, his throat tight as words proved to not come easily.
A hand gripped his arm, his mother taking a step forward to stand right behind him. "I believe the question on both our minds is then, if not some dark power of Grima's own doing, what then, does this spell draw its strength?" she asked, speaking in his stead.
"It feeds instead upon the doubts and fears of the wielder," Naga answered. "This came as no design of Grimas, but from the ties that bind Falchion to wielder. It, in many ways, becomes a part of them." She turned her gaze fully onto Marc's mother now. "Do you not recall Falchion reacting during great moments of emotional strife? Where it seemed almost alive?"
His mother nodded slowly, her expression pensive, as if lost in recollection.
"In those moments Falchion resonated with your spirit, so strong that the connection manifests itself in as a glow that suffuses the blade. It is tied, for good or ill, to the emotions of the wielder," Naga said. "This is how Grima's spell feeds itself. Where Falchion draws strength from the courage, hope, and compassion, Grima's blight draws from the things that oppose these ideals. Fear, despair, anger, pain, guilt, are the things it thrives."
Naga turned, her entire form seeming to shimmer slightly until she faced Marc once more. "While Grima yet lived and you remained his servant the corruption proved easy to fuel. However, once you'd come to this time it's power had begun to fade. It was only a question of time until the blade fought back, while the heart of it's host still carried doubt."
"So it… is still me then, huh?" Marc asked.
Naga nodded slowly, her expression solemn. "Yes. You do not believe yourself worthy of being Falchion's wielder. You fear that you're not good enough, that you have caused too much evil in this world to ever atone. It is this self-doubt that Grima's power draws upon the strongest."
Marc frowned, something occurring to him then. "But I wasn't doubting myself when the first backlash happened. How then? How could it have been because of my doubt?"
"You weren't doubting yourself then? Truly?" Naga asked.
Marc opened his mouth to reply, only to stop himself. He hadn't been… had he? Was it possible that he'd been doubting himself without even realising it. He frowned, lowering his gaze to the floor.
Naga gave a soft, knowing smile. "Whether or not you happened to be conscious to them, you cannot truly bury what you believe within your heart. When Falchion reacted to you as it did, it sought to reinforce the opinion you held of yourself, and so strengthen its hold."
"You… you speak like it can think for itself. Like this spell is actually…"
"Grima," Naga finished for him. "I could not be certain until you came here, but the corruption Grima infused within the blade is no mere curse. It part of his power, small as it may be, that lurks within. As long as this shade of the Fell Dragon remains and still draws strength the blade can never be made whole."
Marc shivered, the cold grip of dread taking hold of his heart. Again images of burning eyes and inky shadows filled his mind. Was that what I felt in Falchion? Master– No! Don't think of him like that. I'm not his slave. I'm not.
"What if we were to lock the blade away somewhere for a time?" His mother asked. "With nothing to draw upon, it would fade in time, would it not?"
Naga shook her head. "Marc and the power Grima placed within the blade are linked, regardless of who yet wields it, or even the lack of one."
"I see…" His mother frowned.
"T-There must be some way for me to fix this, right?" Marc looked up at Naga, fearing her answer. What if it was impossible?
"Indeed there is, mixed blood," Naga answered. "It, however, not a simple task. Only by facing the darkness lurking within may Grima's traint be banished."
"How? Is there some sort of ritual, or is it more of a…" he frowned. Honestly, he hadn't the faintest idea what alternative there could be. How was he supposed to fight something inside a sword?
"If you so wish, with my magic your spirit may enter the blade. Be warned, this would not... be without risk. While your physical body would remain safe from harm, damage dealt to your soul could prove just as fatal." Naga sighed, the weary sound striking Marc as almost alien coming from the god. "Despite your shared, I fear Grima's shade will resort to deadly force to preserve itself. If you are not strong enough…." she trailed off, letting the unspoken answer hang in the air.
"I'll die," Marc said simply, finishing the statement. Distantly he was aware that this should have frightened him, but somehow it just felt… right. As though the risk was something so beneath his concern that it didn't even register. He nodded slowly. "When do I start?"
"What? No," his mother said at once, her expression startled by his sudden proclamation. "It's too dangerous." She gripped his shoulder, turning to the divine dragon. "Perhaps there is some other way. Is it possible that I may go in his stead. That way I can–"
"No." Marc twisted free of her grip. He turned, meeting her look of surprise with a weak smile. "Mother, I'm not… not going to let you risk yourself for my sake. You hear me. This… this is my fault. Maybe not all of it, but I am still to blame."
"But…"
"I need to set this right. Not just to fix this, but for myself too. I…" he paused, mustering up his courage. "I need prove to myself that I am worthy of being Falchion's bearer. If I don't now, I don't think I'll ever have another chance."
Reach out he grabbed onto his mother's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Please, Mother, I can do this. But I need you to believe in me too. Please."
For a long moment she didn't move, hours seeming to crawl by even though it couldn't have been more than a couple seconds. Then his mother's expression softened and she squeezed his hand back in return. "Of course I believe in you, Marc. What sort of mother would I be otherwise?" She place placed her free hand on his shoulder. "My heart is heavy but… I know you are right. I think this has always been your task to complete. Just please, be careful."
Nodding, Marc threw his arms around his mother, hugging her tightly. "I love you, Mother," he whispered.
"I love you too," she whispered back.
Slowly their grip loosened, Marc slipping away to face Naga. It was time.
"I'm ready," he announced, hardening his nerves for what needed to be done. He gripped Falchion's pommel, a shiver running up his arm at the touch. It was time. Time to face the ghosts of his pace. Time the end the nightmares
Author's Note: Well here we are guys, only one more chapter left of this mini-arc before we return to our usual scheduled fluff programming. I hope you guys have been enjoying this exploration of Marc's character so far and look forward to seeing how this all ends.