Faded

Disclaimer: I own nothing

He sat bolt upright from the thin mattress he used as his bed, gasping for breath. Rolling over slightly, he put a palm to his forehead as he remembered the events that had transpired during the last battle…

The Black Fang had attacked, yet again. There seemed to be unending numbers of them, always hunting their tiny group.

He had, as usual, been out on the frontlines. Fighting, as he always did. Always making sure she was in his line of sight.

Always protecting her.

Crashing through the undergrowth of a forest, he found himself at the edge of the dense woods, an enemy Sage standing but a few meters away staring towards the forest.

Stunned silence for a split second. Then both masters of Anima burst into action, charging energy in their palms, each ready to fling it at their foe.

He sidestepped a bolt of fire that his foe had flung his way. Gathering magical energies unto himself, he retaliated in kind.

Just then, a flash of light from the woods, and a long, snaking blast of lightning lanced from the trees. Of course there would have been others lying in wait. Of course they would have struck just when his attention was diverted to another foe. No time to dodge, no time to cast a defensive barrier, just enough time to yelp in surprise, throwing his hands up in a futile effort to ward of the blow.

Then a searing pain drilling into his head, and a strange, dreamy slide into darkness…

He cupped a hand to his forehead, drawing in another deep shuddering breath. He was not dead. Alive. Good.

He heard the slight rustle of the tent flap, and a surprised- but joyful- voice call out. "Erk! You're awake!"

Priscilla. Lady Priscilla, adoptive daughter of Count Carleon. His charge.

With a smile, he turned towards her, opening his eyes, wanting to see her gentle smile, her quiet dignity, a face that still shone with a purity, untouched by the daily horror of the battles they had been put through. He wanted to see her.

Empty blackness yawned before him.

An endless eternity was spent as he sat, stunned. Then his hands, clawing frantically at his face in the desperate hope that there was some sort of material, feather light, perhaps, that he couldn't feel, obscuring his vision, anything, anything, anything that could explain this away, rationalize the dark void that was all he could see, because he could not, just could not, could not possibly be-

Blind.

He sank to the floor. He could hear, from some great distance, Priscilla's voice frantically asking what was wrong, what he was doing, but even that couldn't shake him out of his stupor.

He didn't cry or grieve at first. He couldn't. Just sat in mute silence. He couldn't believe it. He wasn't blind. He wasn't. Any minute now, he'd open his eyes and see the mundane, green fabric of his tent. He'd see the rising sun once again; observe the delicate beauty of a single red rose. He'd see Priscilla's face again, smiling at him.

He didn't.

When the shock passed, the sobs wracked his body so hard he was sure he the whole tent could hear. He was blind. Cursed to a lifetime of endless darkness. Never again to watch the fiery orb of the sun as it sank in the horizon, painting the evening sky rose and orange.

He could no longer fight, of course. He would merely be a liability on the battlefield. Still, perhaps out of compassion or pity, they let him continue to travel with them. Small comfort, he thought bitterly, if any at all.

He now spent his days sitting in his tent, reminiscing…

"Erk… your eyes… they're beautiful, you know that?"

"Lady Priscilla? What are you talking about?"

"Your eyes… they… I just… they're a beautiful colour…"

"… Oh?"

"You know… there's this old Lycian thought that violet eyes symbolize dignity and wisdom."

"I believe Serra has eyes the same colour as mine."

"Heh… yeah, that's right. But they're still beautiful, Erk. Maybe the most beautiful eyes in the world…"

And always, he would return, pulled from his daydreams filled with colour and brightness, back into a dark, pervasive world where everywhere was empty and soulless.

Worst of all, perhaps, were the nightmares. Like specters from the darkest depths, they assailed him almost continuously as he slept. Always, he would jerk upright, gasping for breath. But, never an awakening to the quiet night scene of the camp. Always, the same dark yawning gulf that had come to be all he would ever see. What scared him the most was that, as time passed on, the nightmares would slowly become more real, more vivid than any of his memories he kept of happier days. Were they becoming more real? Or simply that images of life were fading? He didn't want to lose them. He didn't want to lose his colours, his memories. Of his master, Lord Pent, Lady Louise… of Lady Priscilla.

Through it all, she had been his only true source of comfort. In the evenings, as he sat quietly staring at nothing, she would enter the tent, drawing him into a warm embrace. She would sit at his side day after day, reading aloud to him the words of his books, her hand clutched tightly in his. When they were on the move again, she would help him mount her mare, then guide it along the road, carefully maneuvering it past rocks or holes in the way. And when, all too often, the stark reality of his disability overwhelmed him, as he sat weeping softly to himself, she would hold him close, offering gentle words and a shoulder to cry on, speaking to him softly that it would all turn out okay in the end.

As they slept in the night, Priscilla still holding on tightly to him, he would trace his fingers softly over her beautiful, delicate features, running his hands through her soft, silky hair, doing everything possible to preserve the image of her in his mind. He would hold her close, breathing in the scent of roses, feeling the warmth of her body pressed close to his.

One day, she entered their tent as he was sitting disconsolately, staring at nothing. Sitting down beside him, she placed a comforting arm around his waist.

"Erk…"

"Hm?"

"I don't… I don't like seeing you like this."

He sighed. "I know… it's… it's just… I feel so… so alone…"

There was a silence. Then a warm embrace, holding him tight. "Erk… you're not alone. You have me. I'll be there for you, okay?"

He smiled slightly. "I know."

The next thing he felt was the touch of his lips against hers as she drew him into a long and passionate kiss.

Slowly, slowly, the pain in his heart began to fade.

The next day, Priscilla was dead.

He had been sitting in his tent when suddenly, inexplicably; a strange twisting feeling had wound his way through his gut, refusing to go away. The knot in his stomach refused to diminish, even as he heard the sound of the returning army in the distance.

It had been Raven who had broken the news to him. Going straight to his tent, the fiery-haired youth had paused slightly, before telling him softly that Priscilla had been killed in battle. His voice had cracked as he recounted the details of what happened to the young mage.

Midway through yet another seemingly endless fight against Nergal's morphs, Raven had heard Priscilla's voice cry out in surprise and alarm. Instantly he had turned, fighting his way towards her.

But it had been too late. He had found her lying on the ground, a dark gash on her green tunic mute testament to what had happened. Rushing to her side, Raven had picked her up, cradling her in his arms, even though he hadn't been sure she was aware of anything in her surroundings any longer.

Her last word had been a whisper. "Erk…"

For a while all he felt was fury. He wanted to scream and never stop. He wanted to leap at Raven and rage at why he had been unable to protect her. He wanted to cry, to lash out, to berate each and every other member in the group for failing.

He couldn't. Because he had failed, because of his own carelessness, he had not been at her side, hadn't been able to save her.

He pressed his cloak against sightless eyes, weeping as tears flowed freely. And no one, no one to comfort him, to cradle him as he cried, telling him that it'd be all right in the end. It wouldn't.

The others did what they could. Serra, formerly one who absolutely refused to shut up, and hitherto blind to anyone's feelings save her own, had tried to offer several awkward words of comfort. His master sat at his side, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say. Even dour Raven had pressed a tiny cross into his hand, telling him that she had planned to give it to him when the time was right.

Empty. All of it, empty. Almost every night afterwards, the nightmares would be of him wandering a field stricken with battle, smelling the stench of the dead and dying, hearing screams begging for water and for mother and for death.

And Priscilla would be there. She would be standing on the stricken field, fending of a seemingly endless number of foes. Wyvern riders, sneering brigands, shadowy druids, on and on they marched, assaulting her relentlessly.

With a cry of alarm, he would break into a run, stumbling over a muddy ground, cadavers strewn this way and that. Panting, taking great gulps of the scorching midday air, he'd dash towards her, praying, praying that he'd reach her in time.

And, always, always, as he reached her, as he stretched out arms to hold her tight and ferry her away from the death and misery and fear, he would see.

He would see a curved blade descend on her back, scything through her with pitiful ease. He would see her kind, gentle eyes widen with shock, before she slowly sank to the ground. And then he would cradle her gently in his arms, begging her not to go, watching with horror as her eyes glazed over and then that rattle, that awful, awful choking noise at the back of her throat as she gasped for breath, one last time.

And then he would be awake; cast once more into a world where colour had no meaning, where sight was but a dream.

Eventually, they succeeded. Nergal was defeated, his morph armies torn to shreds, and they split up, to return and enjoy happier lives.

Only he didn't. Oh, he traveled back to Etruria with Master Pent and Lady Louise, but joy was entirely foreign to him now.

He would simply sit in his room, staring at nothingness, letting salty tears fall.

Then one day, he realized. He no longer saw colour.

For a long time, he had guarded his memories with a jealous fury, refusing to sacrifice the slightest scrap of detail, to lose the slightest hues from the images in his mind. But after Priscilla died… he simply stopped caring. He'd let them slip away.

The world was now shown to his mind's eye in shades and hues of grey. People were formless faces, their voice their only means of identification to him. But not her. He refused to let her memory die out. While everything else faded, she alone remained, still beautiful, her image fresh and clear in his mind.

But still, he felt that by giving up, he was betraying her memory.

So one day, with the help of an aide, he went for a walk in the gardens.

That turned into a daily ritual, of sorts. He knew little of what everyone else was doing. Eventually, his world was reduced to his room, and the sounds and scents of the Reglay gardens. It could find some measure of solace in the wide sprawling grounds.

Soon he became so used to it that he could find his way through the gardens alone. A staff serving as his walking stick, he'd traverse the gardens daily, returning to the castle only perhaps for meals, or to sleep.

And as he walked, stopping perhaps to listen to the sharp trilling of a bird, or to breathe in the fragrant smells of the flowers, he would remember.

"What are you thinking about, Erk?"

"Hm? Oh… just… just home. Castle Reglay."

"Oh?" Her voice carried a hint of teasing quality about it. "And just what about home is so memorable? Someone dear to you, waiting anxiously for your safe return, perhaps?"

"Ha." He snorted. "No. I was just thinking about the gardens."

"Gardens?"

"Yeah. They're… well; beautiful is the only word I could use to describe it. A glorious blaze of colour wherever you go, different flowers from all over the continent, roses in bloom, lilacs in the spring, or maybe tulips peeking out from the bushes. Everywhere you go, life and beauty is yours to find. It's the perfect hideaway when you want to be alone to read, and yet if you wan to hold a party there, your friends will be delighted."

"… It sounds lovely. I'd like to see it one day."

He had cocked one eye open from his resting position. Then he smiled and replied. "If you like, I'd bring you there. When all this is over… when we've returned safely."

"Okay, so it's a promise?"

He nodded. "I'll bring you there one day. I promise."

And then tears would once again fall as he continued his pilgrimage, walking in silence through the woods.

One day, he walked through the gardens yet again, his feet slipping comfortably into well-worn grooves in the earth.

He rounded a corner, then another. Then he stopped. He knew what lay in front of him.

Kneeling on one knee, he reached out, feeling the hard stalk, feeling the sharp thorns digging slightly into the skin of his fingers. Slowly, slowly, he twisted the stem, until it broke free and sticky sap oozed from the severed flower.

Then, standing up to his full height, he brought the rose to his face, and inhaled its sweet scent in one long intake of breath.

Grinning slightly, he picked off the last of the thorns from the rose stalk. With a smile, he ran through the encampment until he found her, rubbing down her horse.

"Here." He offered, to her obvious puzzlement. Feeling further clarification was necessary; he reached over and tucked it neatly behind her ear.

Her first reaction was to flush red with embarrassment and pleasure. "Erk…" She said laughingly. "People are watching."

"I know." He had replied. "The rose is your favorite flower, right? They're rare around these parts, so I had to search quite a bit. You… like it, right?"

"Of course I do! However…" She reached over and plucked it from her ear. "Not as an earring!" She laughed, and he joined in with her.

Those were memories of happier times, he thought, when the future looked so carefree and wonderfully inviting. When everything seemed perfect.

Even as he stood there silently, he felt tears streaming down his face once again. Old hurts brought forth, missed chances, broken dreams, a shattered life…

He blinked once. Then he stared in shock.

In front of him, clutched tightly in his hand, he saw clearly a beautiful rose in full bloom.

Instinctively he squeezed his eyes shut, then cautiously, peeked out again.

Everything, everything, the soil, the grass, the trees and flower bushes and birds singing… he could see them. So bright… so clear…

"Erk!"

And then he heard that voice, and he froze, hardly daring to hope, hardly daring to respond.

And then he turned, and he saw her. Priscilla, smiling at him, holding out her hand in open invitation, and he rushed forward, drawing her into a tight embrace, afraid that she would suddenly slip away, suddenly become another vision that would vanish in the morning sun.

But she didn't. She held in close in turn, crying tears of joy onto his shoulder, and finally she drew back so she could look him in the eye.

"Hey." He said softly.

"Hey." She replied. "Long time no see."

Then she leaned over and kissed him, long and hard, as a surge of emotion and sensation coursed through him, threatening to overwhelm him.

And when it was over and she slowly pulled away, she smiled again. "Come on, let's go."

"Huh? W-where?" He stuttered.

Her smile broadened, and she reached out a hand. "You'll see."

And he reached out and took her hand and as he did so, they were no longer in the cold drizzly gardens of Castle Reglay, but instead were in a place where life, warmth and light was plenty, a place where sadness and fear were but distant memories, where people celebrated love.

A place where they would be together forever, in paradise.

But back in the castle, in the cold grey light of dawn, they found him, lying facedown on the earth, clutching a singlewithered rose in his hand. 'Just lost the will to live.' Some said, as they shook their heads and sighed.

And then the men came, to throw a sheet over his body, and to carry him away for burial.

Okay, as requested by Link015, here are some reasons why Erk/Priscilla is my favourite pairing.

Priscilla's personality, as a whole, strikes as me one that feels extremely vulnerable whenever a given element of her life is uprooted and torn away. Perhaps this stems from the fact that she left home at the tender age of six.

Now, it is obvious Raven, whom she searched so long for, is actively trying to push her away until the very end of their A-support. And even then he only begrudgingly lets her stay at his side.

Sooner or later, Raven has to leave. And once again she will feel confused and vulnerable.

Of the available choices, Heath and Guy both make lousy decisions. The Wyvern Rider will never have a life of stability. After all, he is a wanted fugitive from Bern. Guy is pretty much focused on his studies of swordplay. Both of them cannot provide the stability, the constant care and affirmation that she will not be abandoned again.

Enter Erk, who promises that 'No matter what, I'll not leave your side, Lady Priscilla." He is shown to be extremely loyal, and steadfast to a fault. Furthermore, both of them click very well in their supports. Call me biased, but Guy running away every time she tries to talk to him is not the foundation for a good marriage.

And of Erk's choices, the only other one that makes sense is…Serra. Never mind.

Of course, there is a certain amount of irrationality in this pairing. I'm not one hundred percent sure why I chose this as my favourite of all. I suppose it could be compared to the same way a fan chooses his football club to support. There is very little rationality involved in this choice.

In any case, Please read and review!