A/N: Wow okay this is old. like, mid last year kinda old... I wanted to throw it here for nostalgia's sake, even though I'm not really satisfied with the end result to this day. Thank you for reading!
"Do you think it will rain soon?" Marth looks up into the darkening sky, head tilted as if the further he leaned up, the closer to the breach in the clouds he would become, heaven's warmth just past.
Silence.
Such is the usual. Every conversation started begins and ends in silence.
He turns to "Ike", to take in the familiar features of the man's broader shoulders and taller form, and he sighs.
This man is not his. He knows this well; he's but a puppet, nothing more, a walking specter of a higher power. But... it's still the same as the stoic, boyish mercenary he'd always known, right? His face, his body, his voice. He'd say his eyes, too, but those hold nothing but a show of the wicked, blank and glowing a menacing scarlet, just as those captured before him had. It's... enough of him, though, for Marth to feel the pain swell up inside his chest, fit to burst from it all. He's all he ever wanted.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The prince shifts into a ready stance, Falchion pointed to where his opponent stands.
"I believe so," Marth whispers to himself.
It had rained the day he first found him, too.
Does he remember that day, this puppet? How, slack-jawed and disbelieving, he collapsed to his knees? How he cried and cried? How the prince's tears fell with the conviction of the rain surrounding them? Like a child, he fell, trembled with fear, with rage. "Ike," He called out, begged him, "Please, please!" Searched for a response, a sign of life behind those dull red eyes... for anything at all. The feeling of a heart being ripped from its cage, still beating but not really, not with the purpose in which it was founded upon... that was what Marth recalls most vividly. The way the rain pattered of his back, soaked through with cold sweat and dread. Ike's blank stare in return.
Of course, that likely wasn't what this ghost of a man had thought important; not as Ike cast aside the fallen sword, as he pointed his own blade down at the sobbing form of a once friend. Not as he raised the holy sword, delivered that final mortal blow, cleaved the heart from the mind and ended that pitiful display.
But that was the past, now, something to leave in the winds of time's exchange.
Again.
His grip was slipping.
Slipping, slick with blood, (he thinks it's blood, but it isn't his, he knows this,) Marth holds tight to Falchion.
How many times? How many more times…?
Again.
Steel clashes with steel, the sharp metallic ringing brings the aching prince back into the moment. Just in time, it seems- were it not for reflex, he'd have lost his footing, and it would only have taken two blunt swings from his opponent to knock him flat. He's learned this.
Trial and error.
The dust of the colosseum stirs at the sudden movement, catching on the warm wind and rising in fury. Despite the blackening clouds, the smell of rain on desert air that stings with each heaved breath, the air is dry. The puppet of Ike doesn't seem to notice; no sweat, no wavering glances.
It scares him so.
Would he be able to live with the final result? Were things to go so horribly wrong, and the blow exchanged were fatal to the other party, could Marth live with himself? Every time the prince has implored this selfish question unsuccessfully. The increasing uncertainty in each passing time that failure set in was beginning to itch in the back of his mind. Paranoia was such a beautifully tragic thing— it starts with a whisper, what if, what if, blooms into a seized consciousness and inability to see clearly. Right now, there's no puppet, but a warm hand and warm eyes. He's waiting for him. The storm means nothing, not as droplets being to stain the dirt and steel.
And then, the opponent moves.
Paralyzed, there's no time to think— Marth dodges to the left, just barely avoiding his partner's blade. Instantly, Ike's back into a controlled stance, lunging for an opening. The reflexes of war and nightmares bring the prince into a counter, though a rather sloppy one at that, off kilter with fear.
Falchion was not meant to withstand the repeated onslaught like this, and neither was he, his arm buckling in consequence. Another, another: each blow from Ragnell takes more and more force to block. Why had he insisted this be done alone? Some form of pride? Was this an apology to the man he- he– his friend, whom Marth had not been quick enough to protect that eternity ago, when Galeem first arrived? Had he been only a second quicker, that beam would have evaporated Marth, instead. There was no forgiveness in that… not for letting a friend die. Not for having to witness that horrific end himself.
The next blow strikes not upon the blade, but the legs of one not quick enough again. It burns, the swipe to which he collapses with. There's not enough time— a boot to the side of the head, and Marth sees stars. The taste of iron stings in his mouth, a cough resulting in red stained upon his palm. Realization sets in, the prince's chest caving in to follow with another blow to the side. No, please-! He can't let this happen. Not again.
He screams, something a mix between agony and rage, and throws a fist at his opponent. However, the arm is caught in a single hand, thrown to the side with the rest of his weight like nothing. Marth falls onto his side, Falchion's hilt digging into his skin. A foot falls onto the sword just above where Marth grabs on, though instead of forcing himself against it, he pushes himself up with one arm, putting the power of his swing within his elbow. This time, he connects with flesh, and momentarily Ike is stunned back. There's only precious seconds between life and death— enough time to take hold of his sword once more, try to stand upright and wipe the blood out of his eyes. Enough time t-
One final strike to the side of the head lands the prince onto his back, a heavy foot pinning him down by the chest. Marth screams; out of fear or pain, it's hard to tell. It's shrill, the cry of someone who's had this nightmare before. But now it's real, and it burns with everything in him to have to face that. Wake up, something within cries, please, wake up.
He would give anything for that again, for the old days when this would end with a gasp, the black of night as dreams finally receded to their subconscious place. It was dark, but never cold; a pair of arms was always there to keep him safe, by request some nights, out of habit others. No matter how bad it got, he was there— again and again, without fail, the darkness would fade with a whispered hush, the calm of hands finding Marth's own under the covers, to card through locks of vibrant blue that stuck to him with the sweat of anxiety.
"I'm here."
Tears begin to well from dazed eyes, dilated and unable to focus with the ringing in his ears that was simply too loud. Was it blood or tears that dripped from the sides of his face and into the dirt?
An eternity passes, strung along by the breathlessness of weight on his lungs. It hurts— there's cracking, though Marth's not entirely sure if that's thunder or bone. Who cares. He's failed him again. Deep, glowing red eyes are all that look down upon him now, empty as ever. It seizes, all at once, sending the terrified noble into panicked breathing. The weight shifts, but only for seconds, coming to a close with a hand upon his throat.
This is it.
"Pl…. please, listen-" Marth gasps against the cool skin of his hand. "Ple- Ike… don't do this. Don't--"
"Don't worry. I'm here with you. Always."
The puppet squeezes harder, fingers digging into the sides of Marth's neck. There's no more room for words, but the thoughts only come faster. Who would be there to tell of what happened? Of what they were, or could have been had he only been just a little bit faster? Had he spoken with clarity, without fear getting the better of him? Next time, he swears, in a better life he would.
A weak hand, covered in dirt and blood, reaches to caress the face of the possessed man. Marth smiles against the pain.
"I… I love… y-y…"
This wasn't the first time he's gone like this. He would do this, this timeline and this battle, repeat this exact moment a thousand times over if it meant that one day, he could reach that happy ending. He wouldn't let him go.
Not ever again.