My Father's Sword, Chapter 2

Wandering Cat

Ready to figure out who the second chapter is about? Well, be ready for shock. But first, Review Responses:

ManaMage: Thank you very much. Marisa is a hard character to do.

lalalalalaa: uh, wh0t to you, too! Thank you very much for the kind words. Well, I'm not so sure about Valks using swords, but if I can find enough info on Mist, then I'll take a whack at it.

AuthorOftheDark: Well, nobody knows anything about Marisa's dad, but that didn't stop me. I'll do Karel and Karla, but they have to share a chapter, being that they share part of a past, but then I'll split the rest up between them. 'Kay?

IceBlade28: Thanks, mate!

Thank you guys!

Now ready to learn of this chapter's focal point? Hold on to your hats, you won't believe me. I bet NOBODY (excluding Ice, because I told him) thought of this character.

This chapter's star: --drum roll--MARCUS! That's right, Marcus. No, I'm not going to make fun of him. Well actually, I made him kinda dumb as a kid, but that'll fade right quick. Let me tell you, I love Marcyboy. I never would have made it as far as I did without him; he doesn't sap XP because I leave him in the middle and use him only when needed, nor does he waste weapons because I just give him crappy slim and iron swords, and he STILL kills everything that attacks him. He doesn't use vulneraries or any other healing thing because he never gets hit. So there. Here's to you, oh mighty jeigan.

...This one is rather short and crappy, though.

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I was an obedient kid. I did everything my mother and father told me too. Mother was a small, gentle woman. I surpassed her in height when I was eleven and in weight probably years before that. Father was a big, strong man with an aura and scowl that made even the brashest boy cower. They came in handy, his being a General in the Pheraean army, and in charge of training promising, and usually arrogant, new recruits. Perhaps it was those skills and his blood in my veins that made me so obedient. Even with that, I was possibly the stupidest of my peers, as far as common sense went.

Despite his ability to strike fear in grown men's hearts, I could tell he loved my mother and me to the ends of the earth and back again, no matter how he expressed it.

My father wasn't the smiling type, at least not in public. But when it was just us, our family of three, he was the kind of man that would laugh and joke and smile. If one of his recruits saw him, they'd drop dead with shock at his behavior.

He wove incredible, intricate yarns that wrapped my mother (who often faked surprise to humor me) and I so close, we were left breathless when he was done. He spoke of mighty knights who battled dragons in the Scouring, and likewise, the gentle, quite Dragonkin. During those tales, my jaw would drop, and my mind would spin. In each tale, there were Pheraen knights, whom my father said were the strongest of all. This is where my lack of common sense twirls in; I believed that a knightly title would make me just like the fantasy ones. I would be able to knock down entire castles with my bare hands, fight of hordes of monsters from another continent my father called Magvel, and I would converse with the dragonkin, and then kill them later. Dear Saint Roland, was I a stupid kid.

It was no surprise that when I was fourteen, I practically bounded out the door to sign up for training. It was a shock, however, to learn that I had been assigned under my father.

On my first day, I couldn't have been more excited. I didn't know why the other boys, most of whom were dirty and looked like farm boys, were so frightened. But then the reason walked through the door. I rarely saw my father's war face, or as the boys called it, "death glare". He scrutinized each of us, even me, like a vulture overseeing a dying animal. He glared at me twice when I smiled and waved to him. I never did it at training again.

I think I still ache from those few weeks I spent in 'boot camp'. We ran miles in the swamp carrying packs the size of a large dog, picked our way through an obstacle course that was more like a small half-wrecked forest, and survived hundreds of push-ups. It was, as we would have said back then, evil. The real training afterward was worse. If boot camp was evil, knight training was the king of the Underworld.

Oddly enough, I loved much of it. Even though my father had randomly turned into some cold man I didn't know, even though knighthood was what it was cracked up to be (at least not at this point), I still enjoyed it. I learned that my father developed a split personality, the war-man and the father, so it became easier to accept his rough side. The castle was far from home, so I stayed in the barracks and returned every weekend. I began to miss home, as well as my mother, despite the visits. But what I missed most was the time I spent with father. Sure, we spent hours together; him yelling and me doing whatever he said (thanks to my natural obedience, that was easy). What I missed were the stories and the warm looks and the stories he told to me.

For years, I endured the training I loved. I steadily rose in the ranks, up to a captain. I was honored and I could see how proud my father was. One day, father approached me in the barracks, face weathered from age. He wore his usual serious expression, but a pained look in his eye. I followed him out to the training ground, to the farthest, most barren corner. He handed me a wooden sword and took a spear for himself. For what must have been an hour, we sparred in that corner, taking small breaks and not saying a coherent word to each other. I did not know what exactly he was procrastinating telling me.

Finally, he motioned for me to stop. "Son, you've gotten stronger. More sensible, too. Good, I can't believe the idiot you were a years ago was my son." He paused. "Look, what I'm trying to say is...I'm glad you're getting far in life. I hope you keep going. You can be a general one day if you keep going as you are."

I couldn't understand. "Why are you saying this to me, Sir?" He winced heavily when I said "sir" and told me never to do it again. Again, I was confused and asked him to.

"I'm...resigning from the Knights of Pherae."

I was shocked; old as my father was, he was still incredibly powerful and he could keep up with knights half his age. I questioned him on it and he took a pained expression. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, looked up at me, and sighed again.

"I have to tell you something else. I'm so sorry, Marc. But I'm not going to see you become general." He gave me a sickly look, and for the first time, I saw how old he really was. He looked so frail. "I'm not going to see it, because I will not live that long. I've been ill for a year now, though I hid it well. It's been sapping away at me, and soon there will won't be anything left."

I dropped the training sword, and he handed me the silver one at his side.

Two years later, when I was twenty-three, he died. It was a grand funeral fit for a general like him. I did my best to console mother, but it was useless, she kept on going. He wished he hadn't been hardened. Then he could cry with her.

A few years later, I was in the ballroom with with the other high-ranking knights and nobles congregated when a nurse came in, followed a few moments later by Lord Elbert. In his arms were his smiling wife, who was holding a young baby.

I page stepped forward and announced, "Let the world know of Pherae's heir, Prince Eliwood! May you all and your children serve him well!"

I looked in Lord Elbert's face, and in his eyes shown with the same pride and joy that I remembered from my father.? I saw the same glow in milady's eyes, and it hurt to think of those eyes crying. And when I looked at the baby boy in her arms, I saw hope.

I swore by my father's sword that as long as there was an heir to the throne, a child to become a mother or father, that I would serve with my life. Almost two decades later, I renewed my vow when I witnessed Lord Eliwood cry over his father's corpse. I envied his tears, but renew I did.

I served first Elbert, then Eliwood. I would serve Eliwood's son as well.

My father's sword cut a swath through anyone who threatened them through three generations.

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WC: Whoo! I should hire someone to do endings for me, I hate them so much. But all in all, this wasn't so bad.

I hope I gave someone more respect for Marcus.

Next up: Karel and Karla