(A/N): I've been gone for a while. Way longer than I should have been. Things in my life came up but I didn't forget about this story.

Please enjoy.

Without a second to waste, Marth drew her sword and slashed her way into the wrecked tent. Fatigue? Pain? All afflictions that plagued her body were thrown aside as a frenzy took hold of her.

Sword in one hand and the broken staff in the other, she tore through the wreckage with the madness of a hurricane.

She cut.

She cut.

She cut.

"Genny!"

"Lucina, wait!" Inigo yelled, but his voice did not reach Marth. There was only one thing that mattered to her in that moment. Nothing else would get in her way.

Inigo scrambled after the swordswoman who blazed ahead.

"Genny! Where are you?!" Marth screamed, cutting her way through the wreckage, her sword paving a wretched path amidst the debris. She could barely see, the darkness enveloping her. Still, she could make out the same faint, dim light she had seen from outside. Only a single wall now lay in her way. Channeling her strength into her weathered legs, Marth kicked forth.

"Genny!"

She swung her sword. The wall crumbled around her.

No sooner had she broken through and stumbled forward, an immense sense of dread bloomed within her. The room was brighter than the darkness she had just left, a flicker dying candlelight a much welcome reprieve, but Marth still felt like she was swallowed in cold, perpetual darkness. Every nerve in her body fired signals, telling her to leave, to get out of this place, like a primal instinct gripping her heart.

However, she remained still, alone in the dark. Her legs didn't budge. Whether it was out of fear or strength of will, she did not know.

Marth gritted her teeth and gripped the shattered staff in her hand even tighter. Its weight felt heavier with every passing second.

She mustn't give in.

With a shaky bearing, she took another step into the miasmic chamber. No sooner had she stepped forward, a familiar sensation came clawing back to her. Her mind was taken back to an ashen field, alit with fire. Embers swept across the sea of burning grass, sallied by a whirling wind. She was standing amidst it, all alone.

It was the same vision she saw from many moons before, after the Field of Fire.

The dread she felt then was identical to what shook her now.

But why?

Another step.

A sickening sound underfoot.

Her mind was catapulted back to the present, her eyes upon the foot she had stepped forward with. From the dim light, she could see a reddish, fleshy mass underneath her boot. It squelched beneath her weight.

It was then Marth realized she had been holding her breath.

She gagged, nearly collapsing unto the fleshy mass below. Marth retched as her empty stomach contorted with pain, her fingers futilely gripping her sides at the fervent cries of her gut. She could barely breathe, her lungs near refusing to take in the fetid air. What she had smelled outside paled in comparison to the noxious odor that swathed the room. But the worst part of it was not the smell.

It was how familiar it was.

It took her to the battlefield. Not of a battle, but its aftermath. It smelled of decay and rot, of rotting flesh and human waste, the stench of hundreds of worm-ridden corpses being torn apart by vultures and beasts. It was through this smell that Marth began to understand why the images of her ash-covered nightmare flashed across her mind.

It smelled of Home.

Her eyes watered. Marth could feel the sharp sting of bile building up in the back of her throat again. Gritting her teeth, she swallowed back the rising acid and brushed away her tears. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

Though, she almost wished they hadn't.

Two bodies lay before her feet.

At least, what was left of them.

The top halves of the corpses were completely blown to pieces, explaining the entrails and flesh that painted the floor and walls of the room, all corners of the room stained with a deep crimson. The mangled corpses were undeniably human. The armored legs were the only parts of the bodies left in recognizable pieces. Black blood stained the armor, the splatters glistening in the candlelight.

There was a third body that lay several feet away from the shredded ones, resting against the damaged remains of a splintered storage trunk. It was a man's and appeared more intact than the others, but Marth couldn't make out very much from where she was standing. She would have to get closer.

While Marth had been exposed to the horrors and violence of war, it never made seeing the carnage easier. Her mind lasted as long as it had because she pushed those images away from mind, choosing to not dwell on the violence but instead her own survival. Her selfishness was the shield that guarded her from the gruesome world she fought in. It made carrying the weight upon her shoulders slightly easier to bear.

And now, she came face-to-face what she avoided for so long.

The Dead.

Corpses captured the grisly remnants of a person's last moments. For the unfortunate observer, they'd be lucky if the body remained in one or two pieces. Anything beyond that was poison to the soul. And right now, that toxic vial felt jammed straight down Marth's throat.

She absolutely did not want to go near the corpse but without doing so, she would get no closer to uncovering the truth of what happened here. She still felt the weight of Genny's broken staff in her hand.

She couldn't turn back now.

Pushing away her trepidation and revulsion, Marth pressed forward, passing over the two corpses carefully, trying to avoid falling into the visceral mess at her feet. Every step however, no matter how careful she was being, still gurgled with the entrails beneath, sending chills down Marth's spine. It was like wading through a swamp. What should have been only but a several steps away felt like it spanned miles.

She arrived at the body and Marth realized how much the darkness had deceived her eyes.

A large hole had been punched through the man's torso, taking with it the right half of his upper body. What remained of his innards had spilled out from the cavity onto the floor. Cracked, charred flesh outlined the wound, flakes of ash and burnt blood coating what remained of the man's armor.

The "hole" didn't stop there. Half of the man's helmet and face was missing, from jaw to crown, blown away by the same attack that obliterated his upper body. What remained of his face was frozen mid-scream, capturing the man's last moments like a harrowing portraiture.

"What could have—"

"Dark magic."

Marth spun around, sword in hand. Her sword hand trembled but seeing who awaited her at the end of her blade made her sigh with relief.

Inigo had finally caught up to her. Sweat streamed down Inigo's soot-caked face, his breathing heavy. He too had to clear through the debris just to reach her. Were she any calmer, Marth would have felt guilty for what her rash actions put Inigo through. She turned her gaze begrudgingly back to what was left of the bodies.

"The only thing capable of such grotesque power," Inigo replied, making his way toward her, "is dark magic."

While the mercenary seemed unfazed at the gruesome scene before him, Marth could faintly see Inigo's eyes narrow. No one could truly be undisturbed at such a sight.

No one with a soul anyway.

"Dark magic?" Marth inquired.

Inigo nodded, his sharp eyes hovering over the mangled body.

"Blades can hack you to pieces," Inigo said, pointing at her drawn sword, "but they can't make you explode. Not like this."

His hand moved to the bodies behind them.

Indeed, Inigo's observations were correct. There was something otherworldly about this level of carnage.

"Elemental magic couldn't possibly do this."

Gently flicking his wrist, a small red orb of flame appeared in Inigo's palm. Marth could feel its heat as well as the aura it gave off. It was much like its user: pleasant.

Inigo whisked away the flame by swiftly closing his hand. "That sort of magic would have left residue throughout this room."

All that covered the walls were guts.

"What does dark magic leave behind?" Marth asked, her voice but a whisper.

Inigo met her eyes. "You felt it when you stepped foot in here, didn't you?"

Marth remembered the overwhelming dread that threatened to consume her when she first stepped foot into the room.

Her expression was enough to answer his question.

Taking out a small dagger hidden in his boot, Inigo gently scraped the tip against the charred corpse's flesh. Marth shut her eyes and turned away. However, Inigo insisted that she look. Bracing herself, she faced the corpse.

It was the complete opposite of what she expected.

Like a mound of dust, wherever the dagger's edge touched began to crumble away, the ashen flakes scattering onto the floor. Instead of revealing the grotesque flesh beneath the charred skin, the blackened body seemed to disintegrate into a hazy, ashen mess.

"Anything that is marred by dark magic's touch will eventually crumble away to dust."

Inigo wiped his dagger against the corpse's tattered clothes, smearing dark, striking streaks across it, before sheathing his blade.

Marth stared hard at the part of the body where Inigo prodded with his knife. The area began to slowly crackle apart, disintegrating into a mass of blackened mulch. It was as if the corpse was ceasing to be.

Even though it was unfolding right in front of her eyes, she couldn't believe what she was seeing. The gore had been bad enough for her heart but what she saw unfolded before her elevated everything to another level of hellishness.

"Had we been any later, we would've missed this damning evidence," Inigo muttered, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He glanced towards Marth. He gave her a dry smile. "Though, I suppose that would've been easier to stomach."

She couldn't help but agree. She didn't want to spend any more time in this room but she had to find answers. Against her will, Marth's eyes continued to wander back to the corpses, the once mutilated bodies all now slowly melting into blackened nothingness.

"I have seen dark magic before," she said, reminiscing about the horrors back home, "but nothing like this."

Inigo shook his head. "Of course you wouldn't have. This world's magic differs from that of Ylisse. It's… far more terrifying."

Marth could see a tinge of ice glaze over Inigo's eyes. Marth couldn't tell whether it was out of fear or because she had made him inadvertently recall painful memories of the past. Selfishly, her heart prayed for the former.

"There's something about the dark magic of Zenith," Inigo explained. "It unwinds the essence of life, turning men back into their most primal form."

The bodies continued to disintegrate.

"Dust."

The flesh that had coated the floor started to darken as well. Marth no longer smelled death. Rather, she began to smell ash and smoke, as if the crumbling bodies began to smolder.

"How do you know so much?" Marth asked. She had been curious ever since Inigo showed that he was capable of magic to some degree with that fireball from earlier.

Inigo gave her a surprisingly sorrowful look.

"Owain. He taught me."

Her eyes went wide. Another name. Another face.

Like before, another window to the past.

This time it showed a blonde young man, a playful look adorning his face. He was flanked by two people, one being Inigo and the other, a woman with fiery red hair to match her temper…

Yet, Marth couldn't recall her face.

"Owain?"

Marth unconsciously said his name. Inigo saw a light shimmer in her dim eyes for a moment, a hopeful glint in overwhelming darkness.

"Y-you… remember?" He asked, a slight shake in his voice.

"I-I…"

Her words trailed off. She would occasionally see bits and pieces of her past come back to her but never in the same level of clarity that she had seen today. It was only after she had met Inigo when the glimpses to her past became sharper and more vivid.

But it wasn't enough. Her memories were still shrouded behind a thick fog, veiling the full portrait of her past and who she really was. The present situation pushed the thought far away from her mind but ever since what Inigo had told her about "Lucina," it still nagged at her:

Was she a dead person, come back to life?

Genny's words to her on the day they met echoed in her mind.

She shook those thoughts away. She couldn't afford to be rattled by such matters right now. She had to find Genny. After that was done, maybe then she could begin to look for more answers.

Marth paused. Glancing at Inigo, it seemed he was still awaiting an answer.

"It's… not clear to me." Marth replied, casting her eyes away.

She could see the disappointment sapping away at Inigo.

"But I can recall his face. Owain's." She quickly added. She gave Inigo as gentle, reassuring expression. "Our cousin truly was the odd one."

A flicker of hope returned to Inigo's dim demeanor. He smiled in return.

"He's here in this world too," Inigo said. "He's out there somewhere, caught up in this same mess with his apprentice. He's alive. I'm sure of it."

Inigo's smile continued but Marth saw past it. An air of uncertainty exhumed from beneath the front Inigo had put up. He had no way of knowing. Their cousin could be dead for all they knew. But perhaps thinking, hoping, that there was a chance, even the smallest sliver of one, that the swordsman with a penchant for theatrics was alive was enough. Then that would be what Marth believed and wished for too.

And as much as she wished for Owain's safety, she wished the same for Genny, that she would be safe in all of… this. Marth prayed that they would see a sign of life soon.

She didn't account that her prayer would be answered so quickly.

The moment she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, Marth leapt from where she stood, her sword poised against the shuffling in the dark recesses of the room. The dying candle left a big portion of the room still much too dark to make out. Aside from the corpses she and Inigo had examined, much of the room remained shrouded from their vision.

But something was there. Marth knew she saw something. While she couldn't make out much in the dark, Marth felt for certain that something had shifted from behind her. It was akin to looking at a thing for so long, that one would be able to know when something was wrong. Something had broken the still pool of the darkness, causing ripples to go about.

Marth stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Inigo, their weapons at the ready. Marth reeled in her sword, holding it with both her hands. She fastened Genny's staff along her belt. Inigo held the hilt of his dagger, pressing the flat face of the blade against his wrist. He shifted his feet into a combative stance, scraping some of the viscous flesh beneath against his boots.

The pair held their breath and waited silently, waiting for whatever hid in the shadows to make its move.

At first, all was quiet. Then, a strange sound broke the silence. It was rhythmic, happening at intervals. It sounded of something heavy being dragged along the floor, a brief pause in between every step. And it was inching closer.

Shhhhk…

Silence. Marth gripped the hilt of sword tightly.

SHHHHHHhhhk… Her breathing quickened, her pulse rising rapidly.

Silence.

Then from the dim light, Marth could finally see what was coming towards them.

Or rather, clawing towards them.

A small, bloodied hand peeked out from the darkness. Its fingertips were oozing with blood with no nails to speak of yet it clawed at the ground all the same. Its fingers were bent at unnatural directions but it continued to press another forward. Another hand appeared, in a similarly disfigured state. Then an arm. Then another.

Someone was painfully crawling their way towards the two. Once they got closer, Marth saw that the hands belonged to a body covered in a large woolen cloak and hood. Their face was heldd down and not visible but streams of dirty hair peeked from beneath the hood. Marth could not see it clearly before but when she did, she audibly gasped.

Hidden by the dark, the person's body was drenched in blood, smears covering the dirty cloak from head to toe.

The ruined hand stretched out to them one last time before falling flat against the blood covered floor.

Before Marth could even move, Inigo had rushed over to the unknown person's side. Helping them was a thought that Marth had not yet even processed. She almost stopped Inigo from going towards the body, which seemed to barely cling to life. Inigo quickly knelt down next to the body and gently turned the cloaked individual over. She held her hand to her mouth.

It was a woman. A large cut ran diagonally from her below her exposed collarbone down to her hip. The gash was deep as it was large; her innards were displaced onto her breast and stomach, trailing behind her due to how she had dragged herself over to them. Shattered pieces of her rib cage poked out from the terrible wound. It was a miracle how she was even still alive.

Inigo immediately held out his hands above the garish wound. A warm, radiant light shone from the palms of his downturned hands unto the woman.

But as soon as he had, the near-dead woman's arm shot up straight at Inigo. Her hands tightly wrapped around Inigo's wrist, so tight that he grunted with pain. Marth almost couldn't believe what she was seeing but quickly charged forward with her sword to free Inigo. Rearing her sword to the side, Marth launched herself onto her dominant foot and swung the blade.

"Don't!" Inigo yelled.

Marth stopped her blade inches from the Inigo's wrist, who was shielding the woman. Had she been a second faster, her blade would have cleanly went through his arm, severing it entirely and maiming him. Marth glared at Inigo, demanding an explanation.

Inigo went silent. He lowered his hand. The woman's grip on his arm had weakened, falling slowly to her side by Inigo's knelt feet.

"Why did you stop me, Inigo? What's going on?"

Still, he said nothing. His eyes refused to look at Marth, remaining glued on the woman. Specifically, her hidden face.

"I-Inigo…?"

The mercenary shut his eyes, biting his lip. With a trembling hand, he reached for the woman's hood and gripped its hem.

"… I'm sorry."

And pulled the hood off.

END