First off, let me thank you for deciding to read Fire Emblem Legacy. This AU took about six months to write and has been planned and outlined for much longer than that. I have perhaps treated this story far more seriously than I should, meaning this whole thing went through multiple revisions. Which is the perfect moment to shower my brother with thanks for all his feedback and pointing out the obvious when I couldn't see the forest for the trees anymore.
Since this is an AU, you can expect a couple ideas not present in canon. I hope those won't bother you. I did my best to incorporate these ideas into this world in a way that makes sense. But I must also admit that my expertise on the Fire Emblem series has some noticeable shortcomings. This is my first work in this fandom after all. So, if you do find inconsistencies or contradictions in this story, please don't hesitate to point them out to me. I'm open to learn.
If this is by some chance your first contact with Fire Emblem then welcome! You won't need any knowledge on the various games to follow this story. But it could help you to keep track of all the names. And if you like what you read, please consider dropping a comment. Or if you have things you want to criticize, those comments are welcome too. I'm already anxious at the thought of how this fic will be received, and well, it would be nice not to stumble in the dark for too long.
Lastly, a link to this fic's world map: https : /64 . media . tumblr . com/26f49b1484194e12cb64a95d37d220e5/c6c009e1ad7ab0f1-d3/s2048x3072/b300c7c056b9227e83f187760fff6c5a97488ee5 . pnj (because of ffn's wonderful limitations, you will have to erase the pauses around each dot. Sorry about that.)
Tl;dr please enjoy
Prologue
Then:
They are coming. An ocean of them. The Pheraen army washes against the walls of the Glass Fortress under roars and battle cries. Eliwood rides among them, without a doubt. His men sing his praises, and the echoes of their hoarse voices ring through the halls all the way to the chambers of the south wing from where one can catch a glimpse of the sea. A salt-lashed breeze enters through the open window and disturbs the heavy brocade curtains, colored in the exact same shade of blue as Caeda's hair. When Marth closes his eyes, he hears her laughter as she scooped up their daughter and spun her in circles until she swayed and had to lean into his arms for support.
Marth, king of Altea, first of his name and protector of a city that is doomed to fall within the next hours, turns a black arrow in his hands. Such a small piece of craftsmanship with such a painful story to tell. Someone, maybe Cain, has washed the blood from the head, but whenever Marth strokes the metal, lets his fingers follow the fine carvings, his mind latches onto two people: the one the arrow has killed and the one who ordered the shot.
Multiple of his best marksmen and weapon masters have identified the carvings of the arrowhead as Pheraen work. But Marth had suspected the mastermind behind this attack long before the reports have dripped into his ears. Who else but Eliwood would resort to such drastic methods even before war broke out, even before the northern villages of Altea were raided to supply the steady advance of the Pheraen army?
Now, they stand at Marth's doorsteps.
His honor would urge him to take up his arms and protect his home and the few people left under his command, his knights have pleaded him to order the counterattack, but Marth finds no strength to fight. May they come. May Eliwood break through the gates and seize the throne of Altea for himself. May his men unleash fire upon the fortress. Little does it matter now.
A tiny hand reaches for the arrow in Marth's grip and holds tight. Marth strokes his daughter's blue locks. She is too young to ask for her mother and too young to understand the source of commotion outside of her room.
"Nothing bad will happen to you," Marth says. "Trust in Naga. She will always be with you. And so will I."
She considers her father's word with round eyes and pats his hand. This little gesture is all the support he needs. He holds her close for a moment, even though she wiggles in his arms, even though he feels Caeda's faint warmth against his cheek, even though the end is fast approaching.
Then, the door flies open.
Abel steps into the room, Cain close behind him. Against Marth's wishes, both wear their armor, and a sword hangs at both their sides.
"My Lord, the enemy has broken through the outer gates," Abel says. "The battlements of the inner fortress won't hold much longer. King Eliwood demands your surrender. We ask for permission to lead a charge that the bastard won't forget."
"Permission denied," Marth says and climbs to his feet. His daughter protests with a gurgle. "I would rather see you out of the fortress before they surround every last exit of our tunnels."
"My Lord—"
Marth pries open Abel's grip on his weapon. "My dear friends, there is no need for a fight. Eliwood will receive what is entitled to him. If he asks for my coming, I will face him."
Cain pushes forward and opens his mouth for a remark, but Abel's raised hand silences him. With gritted teeth and his fingers clenched around his sword hilt, Cain bows his head.
"Don't give any of these Pheraen monkeys the satisfaction of killing you," he says.
Marth nods, but his thoughts are not with his men, not even with the mighty army below the fortifications of which almost all knights would sacrifice their brothers and sisters for a chance to throw his head at Eliwood's feet. The black arrow weighs heavy in the pocket of Marth's belt. His daughter tugs at his hair, dissatisfied with the fewer blue strands there are to play with compared to her mother's locks.
Marth places a kiss on her forehead. "Be strong. Live. No matter what journey lies ahead of you, you must never forget to cherish the kindness and the joy given to you. Meet friends. Find love. Hold your own daughter in your arms. Before we know it, these tender moments run through our fingers like sand. But as long as you are strong, as long as you live, you can start a new chapter. Promise me to continue the journey, will you do that for me?"
With these words and a last look into her round eyes, Marth hands her to her lady-in-waiting, who has huddled beside the bed with trembling limbs since the cries of the first enemy wyverns have shrilled across the fortress. But now, her grip around the tiny girl is firm as she begins to hum her favorite lullaby.
The sight almost strangles Marth's determination to place the next step. He wants to reach out, hold his daughter, and forever stand beside her to fight off Grima's greedy shadows in her place. But his hand remains by his side, inches away from the black arrow. He made his choice days ago. Only one path stretches out in front of him, and for her sake, he will follow this line until the end.
Cain and Abel flank him on his way through the hallways decorated with massive paintings of Naga when she created the world, when she battled Grima, and when she gifted Altea with the Divine Sword Falchion. The light seeping through the uncounted fractured glass windows illuminates the brushstrokes of Naga's features. Devine. Untouched by the conundrum outside the fortress walls. The ancient pillars lining the walls tremble under the stomps of ten thousand Pheraen soldiers, the drums of war that call for Marth's surrender.
Before he reaches the battlements of the upper fortifications, Marth takes a bow from an armory stand, an elegant weapon of flexible wood used for hunting. Caeda, although she hated the sport, could hit a pheasant into the eye from four hundred yards away with nothing but her delicate fingers on the bowstring. No magical assist.
Marth gestures Cain and Abel to stay behind and steps into the open. A few nervous guards claw their hands into the merlons, unable to avert their gazes from the army below them. Eliwood has spared no expenses in his path of conquest. The gold eagle on a red field of his house spreads its wings on thousands of banners, adorns uncountable armors. The hungry wyverns under his command arc over the horizon, and the finest horses of the land scrape the dust of the battlefield with their hooves.
And on the frontline of it all rides King Eliwood on his valuable white charger. Grim lines distort his face, but he holds his head high, and the gold of his winged crown catches the light as the sun edges past the clouds. Beside Eliwood sits Roy, despite his mere sixteen years the splitting image of his father.
Marth's shoulders slack. Roy should have stayed home. What will happen next is not meant for his eyes.
When Eliwood notices Marth on the battlements, he raises his voice. "Come to your senses, Marth. There is no need for further bloodshed. Your troops are defeated. Your garrisons and outposts overrun. No one will come to aid you. Surrender yourself and this fortress to me, and I will spare your people. Otherwise I have no guarantees for you. Or your daughter. I can't imagine Caeda would agree to this madness."
Marth steels his grip around the bow. Split-tongued snake. How dares he to speak of Caeda, to poison her name with his traitorous voice?
"You killed my mother!" Roy shouts when Marth refuses to answer. "I believed you to be a good and honorable man, but there is no line you wouldn't cross if it serves your purpose. How many more lives will your hubris cost, Marth?"
Only one. If Naga is generous.
Eliwood squeezes his son's shoulder, and while their focus drifts away from the battlements, Marth draws the black arrow from his belt. He pulls the bowstring behind his ear. The wind is still and the arrowhead points at its target, ready to split the air and bring undoing to the one who ordered its previous kill.
Marth sends a prayer to Naga. Caeda's laugh echoes in his ears.
And then he lets go, and the black arrow flies four hundred yards before it pierces Eliwood's throat above his breastplate. He spits out a gush of blood. He reels. No one moves, even the horses have fallen silent, and the wyverns have stopped their circles above the fortress.
Then Eliwood drops from his horse. His crown rolls through the sand, and Roy screams, but he cannot dismount in time to stop his father from hitting the ground with the thud of finality.
Marth turns and makes his way back inside. "Surrender the fortress."
The cries of disbelief from the guards mingle with Roy's screams for a healer, for a helping hand, for someone to save his father's life before his blood stains more of the earth. It's no use. Marth knows where he struck Eliwood. The king of Pherae will breathe his final breath within the minute. His death will only delay his army for short while before the desire for revenge and conquest draws them to the fortress again. Little does it matter now. They will find no opposition from Marth.
Compared to the warm but dust-laden air outside, coldness enwraps him when he enters his throne room. He casts the bow aside, and the weapon clatters on the meticulous marble tiles. A long time ago, Marth welcomed Eliwood into this hall. A long time ago, Caeda accepted his hand, and they had spun across the floor for their wedding dance.
And a long time ago, when the days turned into ages, Marth kissed his wife goodbye one last time, her skin cold under his lips.
Roy will first look for him here, in the throne room. And here he shall find Marth unarmed. Surrounded by the memories of days past, before Grima's shadow covered the land.
Marth lowers himself onto the step before the throne, a marvelous construct of glass, forged in the fiery breath of a dragon. While the sounds of hurried steal boots gain volume, he waits. Cain and Abel will ignore his orders and raise their weapons for his sake as they always do, but perhaps a glimmer of rationality will convince Roy to spare them. He does not share his father's cruel nature, and when Marth has had the pleasure of conversing with him, he found the prince to possess both the cunning and the kindness of his late mother. But tragedy can change a man.
Marth knows this better than most.
When Roy breaks through the grand gates of the throne room, his face has abandoned all kindness. A fire burns in his eyes to match the red color of his hair. The sword in his hand shows no signs of use, the steal is free of bloodstains, but based on the way Roy directs the blade, he won't hesitate to take a life with it.
The murderer of his father and the alleged murderer of his mother should expect no mercy from him.
"You…," Roy says when his eyes find Marth, but all the curses and insults die in his throat, strangled by the fangs of hatred.
Marth raises his hands. "The fortress is yours. I am unarmed, and my men are ordered not to fight you under any circumstances unless they fear for the lives of their friends and comrades. You have won the war."
"Why did you do it?"
"I have served Naga all my life. Everything I did, I did in her name. But this arrow, I shot for myself."
Roy fights with himself. Perhaps the villages his father burned return to the forefront for a moment. "He didn't deserve to die. No matter how often he took a wrong turn, he didn't deserve to die. Not like this." His voice breaks.
But the fire returns, stronger than before, eager to consume everything in its path to destroy the one who robbed his world of all its stability. Roy raises his sword, and Marth reacts just in time to avoid the slash that would have otherwise severed his head. One armrest of the glass throne shatters. The splitters scatter across the floor, a hundred crystallized thorns in which the end of Altea reflects.
Marth stumbles when he evades Roy's next hit, and the shards cut deeply into his palm. All of Roy's focus rests on him. If Marth manages to draw his hatred for long enough, if he allows himself to become the demon in Roy's story, the one he must slay to move on, this war may end with only one more casualty.
His daughter may live.
For a brief moment, Marth lets his eyes travel to the halls to his left, to her seaward chamber. His bleeding hand fabricates the touch of her small fingers as she pats him. But he turns the other way, towards the long plateau outside the throne room. Roy pursues him without remorse, the fire spreads from his eyes to his muscles, and he splits the air with a barrage of mighty strokes.
Marth falls back further and further. His feet catch a bump in the stones, once, twice, and Roy's sword cuts into his right arm, into his thigh. And still he makes no move to defend himself and leads Roy further down the plateau.
Away from the seaward chamber.
Beneath them, the Pheraen army rampages through the lower layers of the fortress. Smoke rises from the houses the wyverns have enwrapped in flames. Marth coughs as the ash of his home bites his lungs. One of the winged creatures lands on the highest tower and breaks the flagpoles on its way like matchsticks. The pair of crossed silver keys, the symbol of Altea, is ripped to shreds under its claws.
But Roy doesn't see the victory at his hands, he doesn't see the ruins in his path. He chases Marth down the plateau until his enemy has nowhere to run. Beyond the waist-high balustrade, a two-hundred-yard fall awaits.
The sun breaks through the clouds and lets the waves of the ocean sparkle. A shade of blue as deep as Caeda's hair. And if Marth squints his eyes, he can see the islands of Talys amidst the tides, where she first approached him on her Pegasus, beautiful like the sea itself.
He hardly feels the pain when Roy buries his sword into his chest.
Roy's voice reaches him through the haze of a dream, but all sounds are fading fast. "I will make sure that Altea burns. Nothing will remain of you when I'm done. Not your kingdom, not your legacy, not even your name will be remembered."
And then the world tilts, and when Marth reels backwards, there is no ground beneath his feet. The ocean shimmers in the sun.
Caeda's laugh echoes in his ears.
His daughter pats his hand.
Marth, king of Altea, first of his name, falls alongside his kingdom.
The smoke stings in Roy's eyes as rows upon rows of survivors from the Glass Fortress shuffle past him. Most of them focus on their feet, desperate not to fall out of fear for what the Pheraen soldiers will do with them. But a select few hold their heads high and glare in Roy's direction in the only act of defiance they can carry out. The brave knights of Altea. Men and women who still swear by King Marth after he received the payment for betrayal and murder.
All of them will burn.
Not in a literal sense.
But they will watch when their beloved Altea crumbles to ash, they will stand aside when Roy fuses this land with his father's kingdom, they will bow their knees to him, and this punishment will burn their spirits until they curse Marth and his name for having placed them in this misery. They will see the monster he was.
Roy fiddles with the hilt of the sword by his side in an attempt to unhear the cries from the crowd. A red stone the size of a dove egg adorns the rain-guard and elaborate gold decorations in the form of flames run along the hilt. The Binding Blade.
He didn't think he would carry the sword into war so soon.
But it is the scabbard in his other hand that weighs him down, the one in which the greatsword Durandal rests. His father's blade.
Ten years ago, Roy sat on Eliwood's lap and admired the excellent work the blacksmith had done. With a laugh, Eliwood promised that Roy would one day inherit Durandal alongside the crown and all of Pherae, from the Black Wall in the west to the endless grass plains of Sacae in the east.
Was that only ten years ago?
This day alone seems to stretch for an entire year, and the sun has yet to kiss the crenellations of the high keep.
Angry shouts sound across the yard. Roy tears his eyes from the western sky towards the source of the uproar. A Pheraen soldier gestures at a woman in the crowd with his spear. But his orders are drowned out by the brawny Altean who shields the woman with his body and hurls a gush of insults at the soldier. The steady stream of prisoners halts. Voices inquire what is going on, and more soldiers leave their positions to put an end to the interference.
"Everyone will be searched for weapons!" the soldier with the spear shouts.
The Altean is either oblivious to the deadly blade pointed at him or he no longer cares. "Have you Pheraen pirates no mothers to teach you about manners? Leave this woman alone!"
"By the order of crown prince Roy, future king of—"
The Altean straightens to make full use of his considerate height. "I spit on your crown prince."
And he does.
And for this, he dies.
A moan runs through the crowd when the Altean slumps to his knees. Blood pours out of his mouth, but he makes no sound, neither screams nor whimpers, only shortens his suffering by pulling the spear out of his gut. Two heartbeats later, his face meets the cobblestone, and he moves no more. In death, all men look small.
The taste of iron climbs Roy's throat, a taste that has followed him since Eliwood ordered the destruction of a nameless village two miles south of the border. The fires painted the hills in reds and oranges past nightfall, long after Eliwood allowed his men to set up camp. That evening, the knights shared tales of their heroics.
And as Roy looks at the scenery and the dead Altean, he sees nothing heroic in his victory. Only grime and blood.
He moistens his chapped lips and walks towards the soldier with the spear. The death of the Altean has messed up his protocol, but the soldier has reclaimed his senses enough to see to the correct execution of his lord's orders. He drags the woman away from the crowd, and repeatedly demands the bundle she is carrying. Despite her widened eyes and her trembling knees, she presses the blue fabric closer to her chest.
Before the soldier can think to bathe the head of his spear in blood a second time, Roy takes a hold of his wrist. He nearly stumbles over his own feet in his haste to bow.
"My lord." He stabs the woman with an outstretched forefinger. "She claims to be a lady-in-waiting of this fortress, but she refuses to let any of us search her for weapons. Perhaps the prospect of a public whipping—"
"Enough of this," Roy says. "You have murdered her protector, maybe a friend or relative of hers in front of her eyes. No wonder she doesn't comply. Return to your post. Let me handle her."
For a moment, the soldier looks like he plans to complain. He opens his mouth, but then bows and turns on his heels to grunt more commands at the defeated Alteans. In Eliwood's presence, the soldier would have never dared to hesitate. He would have bowed five inches deeper and with twice the feigned enthusiasm.
But Roy is not his father.
He turns his empty palms towards the woman, and although she doesn't ease her grip around the bundle, a part of the tension flees from her shoulders. For once, Roy's boyish looks, the round eyes, and the soft features work in his favors – it's easier to trust a boy than a king.
"May you be so kind as to tell me your name?" he asks with a calculated smile.
The woman hesitates. "My name is of no importance, Sire. Let me go along with the others is all I ask. My son is surely waiting for me."
"Perhaps I can carry your bundle for you instead?"
With the sudden alertness in her posture, the woman reveals the crux of the story. Her work-hardened fingers claw into the fabric, and the bundle complains with a whine. Just as Roy anticipated.
"P-please don't take her from me," the woman begs. The typical Altean defiance forbids her to throw herself into the dirt at Roy's feet, but her composure is crumbling. Fear drives the tears into her eyes.
"I promise I won't hurt her." Roy needs hardly any force to free the bundle from the woman's grip, her arms slack as soon as he reaches out. Without seeing the burning towers of the fortress or the wyverns in the sky, the woman gazes into the middle distance.
Roy unwraps the indigo velvet, a blanket more valuable than a lady-in-waiting can afford after a lifetime of servitude. A pair of blue eyes look up to him, and only at the last second does Roy find the necessary strength to save the girl from a fall towards the unforgiving cobblestone below. His hands are burning as if he is holding glowing coals instead of this child. With these unbelievable eyes, the girl stares into Roy's heart and reaches for his face with a tiny hand.
A faint, ornament symbol shimmers in her left iris, visible only when the sun meets the blue at the perfect angle.
Roy has seen this symbol once before.
On the day of the tournament in Leonster when he sat on the wooden fence outside the oval of trodden dirt where knights from all across the continent came to joust. Marth talked about the glass halls of the great Altean fortress and what sort of gift he could bring home for his daughter.
His daughter.
Marth said she inherited her looks from her mother, but now that Roy stands face to face with her for the first time, all he sees is Marth and the symbol of the royal bloodline in her iris.
She has wiggled herself out of her blanket far enough to put her hand against Roy's cheek. She doesn't smile or cry, she only looks. And this hits him harder than anything that has happened on this yearlong day.
Marth is gone, Eliwood is gone, his mother, Ninian, is gone, but he and this child have remained in the ruins of their parents' world. One as lost as the other. And he convinces himself that she understands the emptiness in his chest.
"I'm sorry," Roy says while he holds this fragile bundle in his trembling arms. It is the only time he apologizes for what he took from her.
The woman stumbles after him as he passes the metal gates. Six horses could trot side by side underneath the archway without trouble. With a clipped gesture of his hand, Roy stops his men from following them.
The girl snuggles into his arms with a trust only children possess. If anyone shall survive this day unharmed, it must be her. Roy cannot return the homes to the penniless villagers, he cannot return the knights who fell in battle to their families, and he can return neither the Pheraen nor the Altean king to their people. But he can hold the daughter of his enemy close to his chest and make sure that she survives.
The smoke stings his eyes as he walks down the street. Not heroically. But not alone either.
Behind him, the great keep collapses with the sound of glass shattering, and the fortress burns down to the foundation stones.
