Whilst reading other works on this section I became painfully aware of a folly of mine, namely that I haven't employed the use of my own creative writing muse. In order to honor this noble tradition, I'll do just that and introduce FE's most eccentric mage, Lute.
Lute: "AdCon has seen my clearly superior abilities and chosen me over lesser muses."
Riiiiiiiight, that or I couldn't afford the going rates for some of these other muses. Can you believe that son-of-a-bitch Volke wants me to pay him five hundred gold per word?! First, I can't afford to mint gold, secondly, I don't deal with any sort of currency not imprinted with the image of an American President.
Despite having new artwork released, FE8 has no sort of relevance since it does not any scheduled sequels in the foreseeable future, rendering any character from that genre in low demand and within my price range. That's where you come in, mage woman.
Lute: "That is an absolutely horrid thing to say! My abilities far exceed monetary stipends and you're privileged to have my commentary. And "mage woman?" Please, AdCon, do you want me to cast fire on your head?"
I'm lucky to be graced with your presence because I'm paying you to! If you aren't satisfied what I'm selling then I could always sell those physics and calculus books on EBay.
Lute: "Let's not jump the gun. There's no intrinsic value on knowledge."
What I'd like to know is what some pompous magic wench, from a videogame based in the Medieval Era no less, would want with diagrams on the Teller-Ulam Hydrogen Bomb. Seems awfully suspicious and not the "I-think-my-girlfriend's-cheatin'-on-me" suspicious. I mean suspicious as far as Bohemian Grove's concerned.
Well enough with my tangent. Just read the disclaimer.
Lute: "Now for the disclaimer: AdCon doesn't own Fire Emblem or any of its characters...and certainly not me, despite what he'd like to believe. One more thing, whenever AdCon writes something in italics it means it's one of the character's flashbacks."
Conquest of Elibe: Chapter 3
"Concentrated power has always been the enemy of liberty."
- Ronald Reagan
--
For Eliwood's Elite fighting day and night had become second nature. Given the lore of their foes being either assassins or inhuman constructs, they were on constant watch with very scarce moments of rest. So frequent were their battles that times of leisure between skirmishes seemed to become unnatural in themselves. After witnessing the death of his Father at the hands of Nergal, Eliwood and his followers retreated to the only place of reprieve, Castle Pherae.
It was a late hour and the majority of the group found solace in slumber, with a exceptional few still awake either due to anxiety or reflections. Mark was among the awake, contemplating everything that had transpired. If he wasn't able to save of the life Marquess Pherae then how could he guide the rest of these brave men and women in the days ahead? One of the main objectives of this quest was to rescue Elbert from the clutches of the elusive Black Fang, yet Mark failed his employers by not achieving that goal. Doubt beginning to manifest itself in his heart, the tactician tried to lesson the burden of guilt by walking to melancholy halls of the castle keep.
The castle itself was a subtle nuance between spartan accommodations and a few choice decorations. Other, more vain rulers excessively taxed their subjects to finance their extravagant furnishings, but so strong were the virtue of the castellans of Pherae that her people were spared this abusive central power. Within the castle's vast halls were suits of armor formerly worn by revered knights of Pherae, reminding all the honor bestowed upon those patriots who either completed or fell in service of their canton. In additions to these lifeless husks were tapestries and portraits. Within the last century, many of the lost humanities and sciences, rekindled by knowledge imparted by transcripts from the ancients, were being rediscovered by skilled laborers from artisan to scholar to philosopher, art being among them. Painters were now using more refined tints of coloring and employing more geometrical deepness to their pieces, giving the optical illusion of third dimensions and pictorial enhancement.
The tactician stopped his pacing and took a moment to look over a coat of arms hanging from the wall while recalling the story behind the founding of Pherae itself. When that war of godless violence known as the Scouring was concluded and all the Eight Legends went their separate ways, Roland settled in what was now modern Ostia. Generations later his descends grew considerably as did their disagreements, one such disagreement quickly became a blood feud between the iconoclasts and loyalists. What sparked this war were the iconoclasts, whom believed that the reverence of Roland as a patron founder bordered apotheosis and a clear violation to the of the established church's monotheism. When tensions approached the boiling point and negotiations to reform the traditions of Ostia broke down, insurrections broke out. After a long series of skirmishes, the loyalists finally prevailed and the remaining iconoclasts were either banished from the domain or left on their own accord to settle the unknown regions that were now the contemporary fiefdoms in Lycia. In those times, Pherae was a lawless area presided over by bandit warlords. When the a throng of iconoclasts arrived they did not receive a warm welcome from the regional powers. Hostilities broke out and a fierce battle to determine the fate of the land followed. Eventually, the iconoclasts were able triumph this time by bringing with them the tactics, weaponry, and warrior ethos of Ostia. These tales were all illustrated by the symbolic pictures of the coat of arms along with the ruling house's motto "By right of passage, the purveyors of righteousness," embroidered on the bottom.
"What a world," muttered the tactician. The reviled dissenters of Ostia soon became the vaunted liberators of Pherea.
His melancholy somewhat lifted, the strategist continued his rounds hoping to clear his head further occasionally stopping to take in the scenery. Walking within the royal courtyard, Mark soon found himself approaching a distraught Eliwood. Eventually he would have to face his employer and answer for his incompetence by not averting the death of the one man who was the cause for their initial quest. Feeling extremely at ill ease, Mark shifted in the spot he was standing, opening his mouth and trying to raise his voice to alert Eliwood to his presence, but only to find he didn't have the breath to carry on the message. Several attempts later, the tactician decided to clear his throat in place of oral conveyance to catch the Marquess's attention. Forced out of his mourning, Eliwood turned to face to person who approached.
Weakly smiling to hide any bereavement, the Marquess greeted the tactician in his usual pleasantness, albeit one which was obviously a facade to conceal his own sadness.
"Hello, Mark. So you're still awake?"
"Yes," the tactician answered scanning his mind for the best way to articulate what needed to be said.
"It seems I've been deprived of any sleep one could get. Eliwood, listen, this may be a difficult thing to discuss, but I'm a firm believer in manning up to one's responsibilities. That being said, it is my fault for your father's death. Had I been a better commander and friend, I wouldn't of been so indolent in my own duties ...then perhaps your late father would be standing with us. I understand if you wish if you resent me for these recent turn of events."
Eliwood took in these words with a cloud growing on his brow. Turning to the side, and looking down at the cobblestone path as though it was the most interesting thing in the world, the marquess vehemently proclaimed
"Mark, there is plenty of blame to go around, but it would do us no good to dwell on such things. No, my father's death lies at the feet of solely one man, and you're not him. You have always considered our lives when making your strategies. You're someone who we trust and look up to. So don't be as hard on yourself over this."
The tactician still felt somewhat at fault, though relieved that his friend did not consider him the catalyst. Eliwood's expression softened as quickly it lit up and he slouched down in a bench; hunched over to continue his reflections. Mark closed his eyes and sighed aloud before he lazily seated himself next to his friend and benefactor. Eliwood broke the silence with questions Mark knew were long in the making.
"Mark, do you know Bern well?"
"Somewhat, though I am loathed to admit that it's nothing more than cursory, so no."
Eliwood took this in briefly and responded.
"No, nor do I... Nothing more than I've heard at the court," as though trying to phase his next sentence apologetically for prying, Eliwood continued, "I'm sure that, with all of your travels, you know more than I."
"I am not omniscient, much to my dismay. I did outline all this in my resume?" facetiously said the tactician.
"By the way, Mark, where were you born? Before you met Lyndis in Sacae, where were you? If it's difficult to speak about, you needn't worry. It's just that we've been together for so long, and I really know almost nothing about you. If you don't mind won't you tell me about yourself? I would like to learn more about you and your life."
This was archetypical of Eliwood, always considerate of others even when he had to deal with his own personal tragedies. Mark looked up at the starry sky wondering if this could all be avoided, but decided against shying away from the question and with a smirk forming on his lips.
"I suppose I owe you a back story, eh?" Eliwood nodded at this with all attentiveness.
"My country of origin is Bern, actually. I was born to an ignoble thane with little renown, which explains my own lack of renown when I tell others my surname. As is custom in these times..." Mark pointed upward to the sky in order to convey the idea of the present "...I was enrolled in a monastery to became a monk, myself being the youngest son and with no hereditary claim to my father's position. Anyways, I studied for a number of years and received quite an extensive education at that abbey. This is where my interest in military science, engineering, and architecture manifested, as well as where I learned to cast Luminous Magic(I.E. light magic)."
Mark took a breath before resuming his monologue.
"I was inexplicably expelled from the abbey, though the head of the monastery told me he believed I was better suited for other pursuits. I personally suspect it had to do with my... other gift."
"Other gift?" Eliwood resounded with an all-too-curious tone.
"Surely you've wondered how I'm able to telepathically maintain communications?" Eliwood heard these words echoing in his mind, wordlessly spoken by Mark in order to enforce his point.
"Well...yes, but I always assumed it was some form of sorcery."
"Perhaps, but you have noticed none of the other spell casters in our party can do this? I will admit; however, that I have read in some tomes a form of magic with very similar effects...I believe it was called Seid Magic(1)? No matter, it allows me to not only mentally speak with individuals, but to feel their active emotions such affection, hate, anger, sadness, et cedera. You can see how this would be beneficial in a battle where I can monitor the morale of the enemy and my own troops."
"As for what I did prior to meeting Lyn: a number of things. I did odd jobs here and there to sustain myself such as tutoring, curating, and even a stable hand at one point. Sorry if my back round is not as grandiose as you expected," the tactician said almost a little ashamed to not live up the rumors the company at been giving him.
Eliwood retorted to the last part of Mark's speech in the same manner a teacher would console a pupil who has confided that they're mentally inferior.
"I suppose we all have our lot in life - whether big or small - everyone serves their purpose. Anyways, Mark, have you ever considered undertaking some sort of bigger endeavor in life?"
"Why yes I have, but nothing you'd find interesting, milord," the tactician replied wearing a mock-Matthew grin.
"Mark, of course I'd be interested!" emphatically replied the red-haired lord.
"Well, alright. At one interval I was considering write a book, two in fact."
"What would of been the subjects discussed?"
"The first would detail all the knowledge I've gleaned from my combat experience and would particularly deal with my own theories regarding asymmetrical warfare. Along with the aforementioned topic, it would encompass various design for some prototype weapons, siege engines, and tactical formations and strategies along with some running commentary on respective nations and their strengths."
"My second novel...(Eliwood noticed that Mark was now more than ever feigning a Matthew-esque smirk)...would illustrate some of the sexual techniques I've picked up in my travels. Brothels make an ideal place of study for this subject."
The silence created from the last part of monologue seemed like a few minutes before both Eliwood and Mark burst out in laughter. No one was nearly as upfront with him as the tactician had just been, save Hector, and it was refreshing to have another person not confined by formalities of social etiquette(2).
"Whatever happened to writing that last one?"
"Don't know. Guess I got so bogged down by my work that I wasn't able to complete naught but a few chapters of it," with another mischievous grin on his face, Mark began nudging Eliwood in the ribs in his jocund tone.
"Why so interested all of a sudden, huh? Looking to use some of the outlined maneuvers on a certain teal-haired lass?"
"T-that's quite enough!" Eliwood stammered clearly embarrassed by his compatriot's bluntness and Mark enjoying the bashfulness he got out of Eliwood. Perhaps a little too much like Hector.
"Sorry, milord, guess I pried alittle too hard." Mark got up to stretch and yawned to indicate his own drowsiness.
"Anyways, I think I'll get to bed. By the way, could you spare me one boon favor, Eliwood?" The tactician asked Eliwood in between yawns doing his best to sound like Sain.
"What?"
"Could you not repeat the last of our little dialogue with Lyn. She'd most likely kill me being the little feminist she is," Mark stated still yawning and flexing his ached extremities.
With the tables turned, Eliwood smiled.
"Well, at least I have something to hold over your head now."
Now it was Mark's turn to pout but desisted once he saw that his efforts to lighten the mood of his employer were successful. Beginning to walk off to his quarters, Mark turned his head to speak to Eliwood in a more serious tone.
"We'll likely be in for more conflict in the days to come. That being said, it would be sagacious for you to get some rest soon."
"There's still things that need my attention. My father's death has been hard on my mother.
"Ah, I guess it's nice to still have a mother."
"Why? Did yours perish?"
"Naw, she ran off once she met a nice stable boy," the tactician waved over his shoulder as he was walking in the opposite direction of the Pheraen Lord. Eliwood couldn't help but chuckle at the strategist's inscrutable sense of humor. Truly an odd fello was their group's staff officer, and yet blessed to have his insights.
With images of his deceased father, legions of unfeeling constructs, and the death of those he cared for Eliwood rose to his feet with renewed vigor and swore and oath before his forefathers that night.
"Father, I'll avenge your death and restore balance to this land!"
--
Those memories seemed nothing more than a fanciful dream to Mark now. His current predicament, ensuring that nothing pleasant would be re missed from it, promised nothing more than tribulations from hence forth. The grass was truly greener on the other side. What he would of given to be out of this situation and back with family and friends, even situations which seemed like the most undesired, to be delivered from this hellish scenario. Hoping against all reason for any form of deliverment, the tactician silently prayed for divine intervention to any god or daemon that deigned to listen to his pleas, alas, no saving grave came for the him. Being resigned to his current fate, the tactician steeled himself for the things to come.
"Alright slags! Get the hell up that beach head and be quiet about it!"
That was the cue for the prisoners to resume marching toward the fortress. The arduous journey was coming to a close, but what awaited them was far worse by degrees. Passing the beach line and heading toward a stone road direct toward Fort Severe, Mark heard the collective moans and whispers of the weak-hearted as they neared the fort itself. The crowing of ravens as they sored the sky above was akin to any executioner's bell, perhaps one would of been appropriate for this time. As they came closer, the prison stood out of the ground like the head of a mythological beast waiting to swallow up any who ventured too close. Its old and dark masonry contrasting against the bright sky behind it as though someone had thrown a bucket of black paint on a canvas illustrating a beautiful landscape. No one in their right mind would of ever approached the monolith, but fear of death forced those under Etrurian yoke to enter its grim halls.
The lead escort, as the convoy travailed the ante-chamber of the fort, gesticulated a sign to the sentinel guarding the entrance who immediately step aside to allow the group passage. The wooden and iron-wrought door opened to allow the group further incursion. An enternity of winding and dreadful corridors were passed before the captive group began to diminish, each one going to a predetermined cell block within the vast dungeon. All that could be seen from Mark's perspective was how confined he was from the prison's grated windows, to its reinforced doors, from the barred walls. Finally, Mark and few other of the more despisedoffenders were forced into the deepest bowels of the prison for their respective crimes against the state of Etruria. The tactician saw that they were standing infront of an iron-framed door where which the head guardsman tapped it four times with the butt of his spear to indicate new arrivals. The door opened and Mark was roughly forced through the threshold by his captors. The door they just entered closed behind them with a sibilant scream of its hinges. He was in a hell on earth - the air he breathed was now longer free but pestilential and diluted, all the only sound that could be heard was the clanking of metallic boots as they patrolled the halls.
--
At the highest floor in the keep housed the administrative portion of the fort. In a dim chamber with the only source of illumination being a cathedral-shaped window a meter off the floor, sat the fort's captain and warden at the commissary's desk, though he was in informal apparel having left his military attire on the wall's rack, he commanded an atmosphere of authority that dared any to approach him idlely. Reviewing the envoys straight from the capital and attending responsibilities within his realm of jurisdiction, the captain could feel indignant disgust rising in his sternum, all he could do to try and pacify this sentiment was study the documents before him and distract from the current emotion. He had been been passed over for the more prestigious roles within the military more than once - and it angered him irrevocably. To think someone of his military mettle had been relegated to the less than glamorous job of guarding Etrurian's prisoners of war. The idea of being stationed at this backer water post was enough to make his blood boil, but by hell - the thought of those less competent than himself getting all the glory in the field was absolutely infuriating.
To say he lacked empathy would be not only be an understatement but a platitude. At the end of the day all, he cared about were his own standing on the latter of power and any means to reach the top were not beneath him.
An underling entered the chamber, opposite the commissary's desk, to present the daily report he had sp done ceremoniously every other day. Saluting his superior he informed the captain of the fort's status before finishing with a final report.
"The new prisoners have arrived, sir."
With the same apathy is always wore, the captain raised his eyes from the document to the man before him.
"Is that all?"
"It is, sir."
"Then you're dismissed, corporal," the captain said as he waved off his subordinate.
The corporal turned on his heel and exited his master's post. After his departure the captain rose out his seat and walked over to gaze out of a nearby window overlooking the fort's courtyard. Arms folded behind his back, the man resumed his train-of-thought of how he would garner the recognition of his own superiors. Truly Etrurian nobles were a fickle bunch to please and in particular his lord, Count Roartz, oh the rumors flying around did not help the captain's expectations one bit. Still, he would have to persist and with patience good things would come to meet him, even if he had to crack a few skulls...
--
Mark was led to his cell by a female gendarmes. The escort was followed by her captive, who led him to a cell far beneath sea level, whose oldened masonry and naked walls seemed stained with the anguish of those who previously inhabited it(not to mention the blood); a candle fixed on a table luminated the place scarcely, and divulged the features of his jailer, a girl no older than seventeen with plain looks and a defeated visage, as thought he very fort itself siphoned the hopes and dreams of those within its interior. Perhaps this lass was prettier in her earlier days, but now was not the case. What the tactician could discern was that she had sunken eyeballs with sags of black underneath her eyes indicating many sleepless nights, as well as an absent expression on her face. What attractiveness the girl might have possessed had long died the moment she discovered where she would be stationed.
"This is your chamber for the now. There is water and bread for you to eat as well as sackcloth to sleep on," she recited in monotone. Before Mark could inquire anything the girl blew out the candle and exited the chamber. Mark was left all alone with only his mind to ponder his current state of affairs with nothing but the sound of the walls dripping with water.
He was alone - utterly alone and way from those he cared about and any who might have given a damn about him. All he could feel was lie on his make-shift bed as the cold air bared down upon his chest as though it were the Spectre of Death squeezing the very life from his bosom. All through the night and early morning he could not sleep occasionally getting up to pace his cell like a caged animal, gnashing his teeth, shuffling his head with his hands, and panting as though he were in cardiac arrest. The only reason he was here was because he did the right thing! Helping those in need, and yet he was not rewarded for it but punished! Oh why couldn't he of just left those peasants to their fate!? What was he thinking? He had been trained to rationally think things through - did he honestly believe Etruria would allow his deeds to go unpunished? And what of his friends? What would they do once it became common knowledge that the Superb Mind had disappeared without a trace? Would any care enough to try and find him or inquire of his fate? These questions were enough to send him furiously throwing himself down on his sackcloth bed.
The next morning the door to his chamber was opened. In his cell walked four soldiers who enclosed Mark within a square formations.
"That him?" One of the soldiers calling to the man opposite him.
"Aye, indeed it is. Killed three of our boys, that one," responded the man
"Perfect! We haven't had any fun since the last up and died. Seize him and bring him to the 'pleasure room.''
As soon as those words left the guard's mouth Mark found himself beset by the arms of the soldiers. Thrashing against his captors and elbowing one in the face, Mark resisted with any ounce of strength he could muster. The tactician became like a maddened beast riled by mistreatment at the hand of its captors and acting accordingly by striking any assailable body part that presented itself. Responding to his companion's pained grunt, one of the soldiers struck Mark in his stomach still sore from his previous wound. Knocked to the floor gasping for breath; the tactician found the soldier's spearhead touching his temple.
"If you'd like to have your brains schwered then by all means resist us,' sadistically said the man not at all hiding the satisfaction he'd get from executing this prisoner.
Mark complied and peacefully followed his tormentors to whatever fate awaited him. Following his jailers down a corridor a few moments the tactician could smell fresh blood in air as though he were walking through a slaughterhouse. It was enough to make a common man gag, but he was determined not give such pleasure to his jailer. Walking through a maze of halls and no end in sight, the party stopped in front of a large, blackened iron door roughly three-by-one meters in dimensions. A pair of the soldiers pulled on two ringed knobs beneath one another with all their might, after a few moments the pair were successful in prompting the door to begin opening.
What sight greeted Mark as he entered that spacious chamber made him visibly pale. All manner of torture devices such as the judas chair, the brazen bull, the iron maiden, knee splitters and many more were present in that place. The floor, the walls, and the various instruments hanging from the wall were splattered with blood indicating recent fatalities. It didn't take Mark's keen intellect to know what coming and he began to plea to his captors for a more merciful end.
"Sirs, as a living, breathing creature of flesh and blood, I entreat you and appeal to your humanities not to undergo such horrendous acts! Surely any beings created of God(3) would not be capable of such an act of cruelty!
Mark might as well have been asking the walls to start weeping. Acting as though they didn't hear him, the soldiers moved to apprehend Mark who attempted to flea that place but was only knocked half-unconscious by the butt of one of the man's spears. Having his body dragged, the tactician found himself forced inside a tube just large enough for him to fit. The tube was lined with crocodile teeth-like spikes and compressed in such an agonizing way that it rendered any inside immobile. The tube itself was shaped in such a way so only the victim's face and feet were visible. Beneath the tube was a fire, in which the torturer could either choose to stoke or not to add to the pain factor accompanied with the initial compression.
The tormenting and harrowing sensation that Mark felt exceeded any pain he had ever experienced previously. The tube's spikes digging into every portion of his body and the heat of the metal were enough to sent him into a howling frenzy of pure pain. Occasionally the torturer would come by to slash Mark across his exposed face leaving disfiguring scars. The tactician could feel his rib cage and chest cavity begin to collapse. His organs felt like they were being stir fried while still alive. Every sharp spike prodding his body felt like thousands of knives being forced into him. Why were they doing this to him? What had he done to warrant such treatment. Was there any practical reason to force him to endure this torment?
The torturer continued his methods and stopped briefly to try and force a confession out of Mark as being a Caledonia insurgent. Such attempts availed him nothing due to Mark's own innocence, but that didn't matter to him. Reaching for the wall, the torturer extracted a pair of incisors used for plucking various body parts. With an all-mighty tub, he ripped off the tactician's small toe off his foot.
Mark had reached his limit, between the stabbing, the fire, and mutilation he couldn't take it anymore and thus passed out due to his pain threshold being exceeded. A miracle in itself that the ordeal didn't kill him, but a curse in disguise since he'd have to endure many other forms of torture in the days to come. The guards dragged his limp body and tossed his seemingly lifeless corpse back into his cell and tossed it in like a disregarded piece of trash.
--
Lute: "And that concludes chapter three! Not so bad to write, was it?"
AdCon: "Hehe, I guess not, but still the something is irking me about writing this."
Lute: "Which is...?"
AdCon: "This site seems to be doing everything within its power to piss me off. I would of posted this much earlier had not my word processor decided to be evil. Untop of that, whenever I put the finishing touches on this chapter and hit "Save Changes" the thing would say I need to log in, which would delete any changes I made, even after doing so earlier in that day.
Lute: "You managed to finish it now. So why still bitter? Whenever I get stressed out I just read my books."
AdCon: "Not all of us are as emotionally resilliant as yourself. Some of us are hardasses who hold grudges. Anyways about the turn this story is taking...
Lute: "Within a few chapters hopefully the whole motif will take a turn for a more light-hearted atmosphere. AdCon isn't enjoying having to write such depressing scenes but realizes it's an imperative component in telling of Mark's eventual morality decline.
AdCon: "Anyways I guess I should explain the footnotes."
(1) Eh, Mark has latent abilities for Seid magic? Could this mean he might have some Heron ancestry? Just to tell you guys, I'll use cameos from other Fire Emblem games throughout this story. Another example would be the Formiitis comment I made in chapter 2, but don't worry. Although I intend to have intersecting themes from other games they won't be significant enough to change this story out of the realm of Blazing Sword and Sword of Seals.
(2) For this portion I'm trying to be as true as possible to Eliwood's character, but I'm making some minor tweaks, namely that Eliwood doesn't have such a stick up his ass and can actually laugh at some of the tactician's more crude jokes. For all you Eliwood fangirls who feel I tarnished the personality of your beloved bishie - I don't want to hear it.
I'll also attempt further flashbacks in order to lighten the mood between the harsh present for Mark.
(3) And for those of of you wondering if they believe in God in Elibe - yes. In fact, in the support conversations among characters in The Sword of Seals they directly mention God. This is the case in the support conversations between Oujay and Lilinia, in addition to Ingrene and Saul.
Why they don't mention God in the English release of the Blazing Sword? Who can say - I guess Elmine was less of an offensive figure to have Lucius pray to, though I have my hypothesis that Nintendo in North America didn't want to offend the sensibilities of ACLU parents.
I did bother to update my profiles for those of you interested enough to check it out. Thanks for reading.