Please remember me
I know it is too late
But promise
You will spread the ashes of our past
- Lacuna Coil
"Through the Flames"
Young Lions
((n+1)/3)
The Sword of the Last Chrysanthemum
Ganondorf had sent three dozen roses to the hotel room, and they were waiting in a glass vase when Marth arrived. He set down his bags and picked up the vase. He carried the flowers to the bed, where he spent the next several minutes tearing off their heads one by one and leaving the red petals scattered over pristine white sheets.
He dropped the vase with the water and bare stems onto the dresser.
The Gerudo king was half a year into a marriage with a proud queen of his same nation. That he thought he still had anything to do with Marth was obscene.
Marth surveyed the massacre on the bed.
The petals were a brilliant shade of red. He picked up a handful of them somewhat mournfully.
Roy had never sent him flowers. Neither had Falcon. Nor had any of the others.
Roy sent him memes, shots of pigeons mating, roadkill, phallic shaped graffiti, and other street side attractions he saw around his neighborhood.
Falcon sent him texts detailing very specific sex acts, graphic requests, as if Marth were a vending machine that dispensed blowjobs or whatever else at the press of a button. (To be fair, at one point, that had been true. But not anymore. Or, at least, that was what Marth had chosen to tell himself this season.)
Ike only sent messages if Marth sent them first, and only to say either stiffly professional or warmly platonic things. If he'd been more open about his personal life, Marth wouldn't have bothered. He'd found out about Ike's marriage, sealed quietly without ceremony, only a little before everyone else. It was settled then, they were only friends, and Marth had no room for animosity.
In any case, relationships lasted longer between friends than with lovers. Marth had long since come to that rueful understanding.
Ganondorf was pushing his luck too far. Marth did not entertain married men. This was largely out of respect for their wives. The problem with dealing with nobility was also having to deal with their accompanying entitlements.
But even common men like Falcon held tight to certain privileges. The Captain was known to play the field, regardless of established commitments. Some fires just could not be contained. And so, as with all good things in his life, Marth had decided to let that one go.
That. And whatever else might have been.
They were over. It was done.
Though, in reality, all it would take was a single text, a slight crack in the door that Marth kept barred, and a blue sports car would immediately pull up to the front gates. And they would be on again for another few weeks at least.
Falcon had promised him some things. Not eternal devotion or deep friendship, or anything of that nature. Just decency and open honesty. Falcon, under the bravado and the attitude, could be surprisingly protective of those with whom he had once shared a bed.
Sometimes, Marth wondered what it would have been like, being taken care of all the time by a man like the Captain, or by anybody. It must have felt nice. He'd have to ask one of the princesses about that. He himself didn't know a thing about it.
Marth's own personal demons came out in his loneliest moments. Lying next to a warm body helped. But not always. Not everything could be fixed that way. In his most cataclysmic episodes, he felt compelled to be the most reckless. He thought often of running straight off of balconies and rooftops. He imagined the fall. He felt, in some ways, that he'd been standing on the edge, preparing for it, his entire life.
And once he'd found himself there, on that edge, there'd be only one person who would come for him then.
Provided that that person wasn't drunk or stoned or in jail or under house arrest over some misdemeanor offense.
Marth let the rose petals fall through his fingers. He was reminded of the only time Roy had ever gifted him a flower.
Marth had been on his way to an evening function, for work related reasons, and Roy had been headed to a funeral. A bouquet had arrived from a local flower shop. Roy had pulled out one flower from the arrangement and pinned it to Marth's uniform.
"I know you like these. I'll see you when I get back."
"Do you need me there?"
"Nah, it's cool. It's for a friend of my mother's. I have to go. But I'll be good by myself. I'll text you when it's over."
Marth would leave the flower where Roy had attached it, on the front of his traditional gown, left of center. Over the heart.
And it had stayed there until he'd met Ganondorf at the gathering of delegates, lingering by the fountain in front of the venue, while the other attendees mingled. All he'd been thinking at the time was that the structure in the garden had clearly been intended to be a replica of the Fountain of Dreams, when he'd turned around and found the hulking form of the Gerudo king looming over him.
And then a large hand had reached out and seized the flower, yanking it free from the pin. Marth had watched those fingers close over the petals and crush it completely.
Opening his palm over the brim of the fountain, Ganondorf had then let the mangled petals fall into the water, some floating, some sinking.
"It's offensive," the Gerudo had said. "Chrysanthemums are flowers of mourning. It is indecent to wear one. That honor is reserved for the dead. The other ambassadors are already questioning your manners."
There were things that Marth later realized he should have said at that moment. But at the time, he'd known that the other man was right. Roy'd had no training in cultural sensitivity or etiquette. He'd known nothing about the significance of what he'd done. Marth had been in the wrong for going along with it, for being charmed by it.
Some months later, when he and Roy had fallen into another war of attrition, Marth would meet again with the Gerudo warrior king. At a hotel. And he'd let himself be crushed, like that flower, against the floor of a dark bedroom, beneath the weight of a man with a body as hard as stone.
Any satisfaction or release he might have felt had evaporated by the morning after. And he'd made up an excuse so that he could leave. He had fled from the room as quickly as possible.
He never thought that their arrangement would have lasted this long, nor did he think that he would be the one ultimately trying to sever the tie between them.
Marth gathered up the fragments of roses in his hands. The scent of them was still fresh. He knew that the fragrance would linger, as with all bitter regrets.
After Roy. After Falcon and Ganondorf, there'd been a few others.
Snake had only been acting in accordance to his profession, seeking out government intel. Marth had let him believe an exchange was happening. It was a quiet handshake between a covert operative and a public diplomat, each working for different allegiances, each seeking out different ends. Their brief collusion would, however, eventually lead to a necessary partnership in the bid to redirect the political fate of several continents.
And as for Wario, Marth would just go on calling that a bad fever dream.
And yet had it been all that wrong?
If he'd known back then that he'd never feel right about it, any of it, he wouldn't have done it.
Instead, he would have lived alone and kept his vows.
To the living, to the dead.
To a delinquent with red hair and strong hands, asleep on an old mattress in a motel, dreaming of the arena and the fast life, seeking peace at the bottom of every bottle.
The walking disaster whose name was now inked into Marth's skin. He just didn't know it yet.
"Men always lie," Rosalina said as she ran the comb and scissors through his hair. "That's why you should never put their opinion of you before your own needs."
Marth watched her deft fingers move. She used to run her own salon. She was still the co-owner of that business, but now she worked for him exclusively during the on-season.
"If you even pay them the slightest bit of attention," she went on, "they think they can control you. And if they think it, let them think. Just don't let them do it."
"You're right," he said.
"I know."
She fluffed out his hair with her hands. Then she tugged off the apron from around his neck.
He turned his head left and right in front of the mirror. She took a silver reflective plate to show him the backside.
"How is it?" she asked.
He ruffled his hair, shook it out, tossed his head from side to side, testing how it'd look while moving. "That's how I wanted it," he admitted.
"Excellent!"
She opened the makeup case on the counter. It was an intimidating box, heavy framed, double latched. Rosalina carried it in a roller suitcase that contained all her supplies.
She chose a few powders, a palette, a bottle, and a clean brush.
Marth drew away slightly. "This isn't a photo shoot."
"It's an exhibition match," she said.
"Yes."
"I have what you need." She held up the bottle. "This will stay on your face, even during a fight."
He blinked. "That's incredible."
"I know!"
"But who really needs such things?"
"Well, you, for one. Think about it. Opening night. Cameras everywhere. You'll look good even if somebody's punching you in the face. It covers bruises too."
He made a slight face. "I don't think..."
"Trust me, honey. I'm a woman. We know these things."
"That sounds..."
"Dire. Tragic. But here we are. From bad things come good things. That's how you survive in this world."
He wasn't about to argue. "I suppose it's all right."
"Of course it is."
She took a wet towelette to his face.
"Rosalina..."
"Hm?" She tucked a napkin under his collar.
"Tell me your story one day."
"My story?" She laughed. "That would take more than a day."
"That's already longer than mine."
She applied cream to a sponge and began work on his face. "We all have stories."
"Yes."
Marth felt something nudge at his shoulder. He glanced back as a large grey cat stepped off the vanity and fell onto his lap.
"You're much too big to be doing this," he admonished the animal, to no effect. Instead, it headbutted him in the chest until he scratched behind its ears.
"That's a big boy!"
"He was smaller when I found him."
"Don't move too much," Rosalina advised. "I'm trying to get this right."
"Sorry."
He almost reminded her not to make it too heavy, but he had a feeling she already knew.
"This is a special formula. It won't smudge, even with sweat. Or tears. Or blood."
"That's..."
"Hey, hey, no talking."
He watched his reflection in the mirror. She moved the brush over his face with expert motions.
He wondered how the others would have looked in his position. He couldn't picture any of them going through the trouble. He couldn't even picture any of them sitting through it with him.
Falcon didn't care about these things. He'd stay away until it came time to swing by and give Marth a ride out in one of his signature cars.
Ike might have waited patiently nearby, eyes on his phone, Marth's coat on his arm, an extra bottled water on hand.
Ganondorf, though, would have chosen the look and the outfit himself. He would have had the clothes he preferred Marth wear laid out on the bed already, with the boots, belts, gloves, everything planned out, down to the pin on the cape. He would have chosen the makeup powders himself. He would have insisted on his favorite colors, the dark reds and solid kohl.
(And Marth would have woken up in a haze sometime later, surprised by his own emptiness, his own willingness to be molded into someone else's desired shape, and he would have bitten down on his tongue until the taste of blood reminded him of who he was, among the palette swaps of disposable personas he wore depending on the day.)
But Roy.
Roy would have died of boredom or started chewing on the furniture. He might have set a couple trash bins on fire or drawn dicks on the walls with expensive eyeliner.
Because Roy was an idiot with impulse control issues that he tried to smooth over with swagger and a stupid grin.
And more than any of the others, Marth realized, he missed Roy.
"You're smiling," Rosalina noted. "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Anyone new in your life?"
"No."
"Really? That last one." Rosalina made no attempt to hide her disapproval.
"He's not... No. We're not seeing each other anymore."
Rosalina smiled sympathetically. "Don't be sad. It's over. It's done."
"I know."
"I think you let people tell you what to do, what to feel, how to think, much too often."
Marth had nothing to say in return. He couldn't deny that claim.
"Who cares what these men think?" She tossed her fringe of blond hair out of her eyes and continued her work. "They want you to carry their shame. Don't. Carry your pride instead. Carry it well, and take them on. Take them all down."
Marth was fond of Rosa, in part because she said things he never would.
He'd been champion once. They'd all resented him for it. They'd all rather have lost to Ryu. Or Cloud Strife. Or Simon Belmont. Or any of the monsters the Pokemon trainers brought to the field.
Anyone but a guy who flipped his hair and wore women's jewelry.
Everyone had a story. Everyone had secrets. And Marth's lay out in the open. Whispered behind his back. It brought shame to any who took a loss at his hands.
And as it were, that number not only turned out to be many, but also included men with whom he would come to know intimately behind closed doors, in rented suites at hotels, or in the backseat of expensive foreign cars.
In his mind, he called it a consolation prize. Maybe he even felt a little sorry for them. For the humiliation he knew they suffered. It was enough to let some of them use him for a night or two.
And though it added to the notoriety of his name, it seemed to work at soothing bruised egos.
For everyone except Roy.
If Marth had been humble enough to throw a match or two in favor of his rival, the tenuous thing between them might have lasted. But as it were, Marth had struggled too hard and too long to give up a title and a win-loss record that he knew he had earned. And Roy would never have accepted anyone's pity.
They'd both had too much pride. And the fighting stage fed off of that.
Between the two of them, Roy had always seemed a better fit for the dynamics of the professional arena and its underlying tensions. Marth, by nature of who he was, and what he was, made certain types of men uneasy. And it was the dangerous kind of unease. Perhaps he should have long ago given up his ambitions toward combat sport for that reason. But Peach had assured him that it was no worse than what women went through every day in society. And in the end, he'd been too good at it to stop.
But now that the height of it had passed for him, he wondered if it was finally time to let his legacy fade. He could return fully to his original purpose, the world of diplomacy, foreign relations, high stakes politics.
In light of recent events in the greater world, that might have been his rightful calling.
Rosa dabbed something onto his lips. Marth held still and hoped it wasn't red.
When she brought out the mascara, he got worried again.
"You have nice lashes," she said.
"Thanks."
Things like that didn't amount to anything much, he thought. Looks only got you so far.
But if they already hated him for it, he might as well reinvent the role they had given him. Wear it like armor.
They'd long since stopped underestimating him. He'd earned a certain measure of respect among them. What that was worth, he couldn't really say.
One day, they'd see all the things he'd held within...
When she finished, she handed him a small mirror.
He took a close examination of his face.
"Well?"
He nodded in satisfaction. She did good work.
He handed the mirror back. Mewtwo had curled up and fallen asleep in his lap. Marth didn't have the heart to disturb him, despite his crushing weight.
"I'll help you get ready tomorrow," he told Rosa.
"That'd be great! I want the same look you gave me last month. For the session with that one photographer, you remember? That weirdo?"
"They're all weirdos."
"Agreed."
"Yes, I can manage that."
"Great! Oh, and one more thing!"
"What...?"
She retrieved a suitcase, threw it onto the couch, and popped it open.
"Got this from the seamstress. Your special order."
He accepted the bundle from her. It had been neatly folded, wrapped in tissue. He carefully removed the outer cover and held the suit up by the shoulders. Everything looked right. He checked the inner lining. It was done up exactly the way he had requested. He folded it again and replaced the protective wrapping.
"Thanks, Rosa."
"Of course. Are you up for a pre-celebration?" She skipped to the mini-bar and came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"I shouldn't," he said. "I have to fight today."
"That's not until later!" She shoved a glass into his hand.
Marth accepted it reluctantly.
Rosa filled his glass about halfway. Hers, she filled to the top.
Marth remembered that Roy's drink of choice had been malt liquor in a forty ounce can. Too bad they had none of that here.
Rosa clinked her glass against his. "Cheers!"
"What are we drinking to?"
She winked. "Tomorrow's victories."
For some time, Snake had been pushing him to turn Roy.
Marth had always said no. Because Marth worked for Altea, not for Snake, nor for Snake's organization.
And he may have been the son of Lyndis, but Roy had never shown any interest in war or politics.
They were in bed one night. Marth lay turned to the wall, scrolling through material on his phone. Roy was at his back, headphones over one ear, dozing off.
"Do you ever have trouble sleeping?" Roy asked suddenly.
Marth turned off his phone. The images on it faded to black. He had a privacy screen on, but Roy was directly behind him and could see it clearly. And Roy had apparently been watching him go through it for some time.
Marth had two phones, one for personal use, one for work. The things that came through his personal phone were not sensitive in terms of national security. But they were sensitive in terms of subject matter and content.
"Yes," Marth whispered back, in answer to the question. Because that was the truth. He carried the trauma of a witness to a crime, a witness to suffering. A witness, not an actor, unable to change the outcome for a victim.
Roy said nothing, but the arm he had around Marth's waist tightened a little.
They never discussed Marth's work. Marth had never wanted to. And he'd just assumed that Roy was ignorant of the history of their home continent. Roy had, after all, spent the last decade on foreign soil. But silence didn't always mean an absence of knowledge, and an absence of knowledge didn't always mean disinterest.
Roy had grown up for a time at a refugee camp. That much he'd shared. What he knew of his mother's war was more uncertain. He wore scars on his body that had not come from the fighting stage. Marth could tell. He knew the difference.
There'd been rumors. During the war, a royal heir had escaped a siege on the capitol by using a decoy.
The tactic was old enough to be an accepted tradition. Marth himself held a post that belonged to a king's sacrifice. He'd given up his name, his past, his identity, to serve the nation, to be their mouthpiece, their ambassador and representative on the world stage. "Prince Marth" was a title, and he'd been sworn in during difficult times. He knew that he belonged to a lineage of civil servants that never lived on into retirement. Others who'd held the post had all died in the service. Usually while protecting the kingdom from threats both external and internal. Sometimes by suicide as a form of protest against an injustice.
That was the expectation placed on him. Marth had known it all well before taking the oath. He had every intention of living up to the standard set before him.
Roy, it seemed, lived only for himself.
This, the audacity of such a life, had always fascinated Marth.
"How much," he asked Roy, "did you see? Back home? During that time?"
The music thumped faintly on, hard bass, an aggressive beat.
But when the vocals hit, they were surprisingly soft.
"I've met her," Roy finally said.
"Who?"
"The girl in the photo you were looking at. She's married with kids now. They lived across the street from us. They called my mother 'Lady Lyndis.' They came over for special occasions, or sometimes just to chill. They'd bring fruits from their backyard. My mother liked to put lemons in her water. So they always brought lemons. They washed their own dishes every time. My mother checked in on them. Made sure their electric bill was paid. One winter, their lights and heating got turned off. So my mother helped them out. They take in other people's kids if the parents go to jail or whatever. They took me in for a while. They're good people. You'd like them."
Of all the possible answers, Marth hadn't expected that. He smiled against the pillow, against the tears.
'No,' he'd later offer in a report. 'The son of Lyndis is an addict living high on newfound fame and fortune. He spends most of his nights getting high and going to parties. He is entirely ignorant of history and current events. He is useless for your purposes.
'And for mine.'
They paged him in his dressing room. The hallways had been cleared of all but staff and press. He could now take the walk into the arena.
He had asked to be alone.
Marth stood before the mirror. Fixed his cape. Ran fingers over his hair. Checked the scabbard and his sword. He was ready.
Roy had wanted him to wear red. But he couldn't do that. Not this time.
He opened the door and stepped out into the grey corridor.
Marth always took the long walk alone. He did not have a team in his corner.
The press cameras flashed. Security held down at specific intervals.
Marth kept his eyes forward. Music filtered in over the speakers, muted in these back halls. He could measure the distance to the stage by the sound of it, the swell and rise of it.
In these moments, Marth's heart was usually calm. Nothing could wound him. He was not anyone special. He did not have the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was just another animal with a savage spirit. All that he normally held within, the storms he was forced to hide, could be freed now.
But this time was different.
This time, the two parts of his life were conjoined. The fighter who competed in the name of personal pride, an entertainer, was now merged with the political actor, who stood for the people.
Altea was a small country whose historical footprint granted them global influence. Known for their neutrality, they were often called on as arbitrators in international conflicts. They were set to host the upcoming emergency summit regarding Bern's aggression against the League of Lycia.
A last minute addendum had also included Sacae and the united federation of tribes as affected entities.
Though the formal positions of the attending countries were expected to be announced during the summit, their alliances and intentions had already been decided. The information was only not yet public.
No matter how much Snake pressed him, Marth gave nothing away. Even though he knew.
Altea would maintain its neutrality, effectively siding with Bern.
And Marth, who had seen the raw footage from the conflict zone, who had spoken with the survivors of massacres, who remembered Roy's silence - Marth had made a decision. He was about to lose his state position in spectacular fashion.
He wore white. He had the world's attention. He planned to use it.
These bouts were never entirely free of the greater context. Each fighter was a representative of at least a hometown, if not a nation. Each one of them carried a responsibility. Each one had at least one life, one love, to protect or avenge.
The music blared loud now, the vibration shaking the floor beneath his boots. Ahead of him, the last set of doors waited.
They opened as soon as he came before them.
The arena was like an ocean. Vast and all consuming. The screams of the crowd almost drowned out the announcers.
Marth stepped onto the platform above the stage. The lights glared below. At this level, the combatants stood in half shadow. No fighting was allowed on the top platform.
His opponent stood facing him on the other side.
Marth had read the file on Cloud Strife. He knew who the man was, his occupation, and why he was here.
Everyone has a story. Everyone has a reason.
Marth bowed. The other fighter did the same.
When they both straightened up, the bell rang.
The platforms dropped like trapdoors beneath them.
Marth embraced the fall.
Or, perhaps, the fall embraced him.
Roy had asked him once, "Who were you? Before you took the oath."
"No one," he'd said in reply.
"That sounds like something you were trained to say."
"There's nothing special about that person."
"Well, okay. Is that why you threw him away that easy?"
"It wasn't easy."
"Okay. So he meant something to you."
"He...wanted to do great things. He wanted to be a voice for justice. He wanted to protect those who were persecuted. He wanted to stand up against what was wrong. He wanted to stop the tyrants who crushed the lives of the most defenseless."
"Sounds like he still wants to do all that."
"Because he came from that, Roy. He came from a people who'd been targeted for mass slaughter. He came from the bottom, like you. Sorry, no, not like you. He never had it that bad. But you know what I mean. We all suffered differently."
"Sure."
"Wherever there's a fight, or a struggle, not for pride or fortune, but for freedom and for life, he wants to be there. Because, in spite of everything, he still wants to believe in humanity and fairness in society."
"That's noble."
"Is it? It isn't anything like that to me. It's just the only way I can conceptualize peace."
"Let me know if you ever need help with that."
"I will."
During the drop, Marth threw his sword. It struck the floor, point down, embedding itself into the stage.
Its fighter landed next to it.
But he made no move to pick it up.
Instead, he stood and faced his opponent empty handed.
Cloud glanced at the sword. He seemed to hesitate. But when Marth made no attempt to take the weapon in hand, Cloud charged forward, his own sword drawn, its heavy tip dragging against the floor as he ran.
Marth let the other fighter come. Waited for the steel.
He had always fought for Altea. But now...
There were some things in life more important than being good at a game.
I hope you see me...
I hope you understand...
Consume me
But I will not repent