Title: A Future Undone - Part 1

Description: A month has passed since the Shepherds' adventures in the alternate timeline Naga had sent them to and the revelations of Morgan's own future-past and the existence of her twin brother, Marc. Having returned with them, Marc has attempted to try his best to grow accustomed to his new life and recover from the horrors he experienced as one of Grima's servants. But when his Falchion, the same Falchion corrupted by the Fell Dragon's magic, begins to behave erratically Marc must set off on a new quest to purify the blade and face the ghosts of his past.

Note: Takes place one month following the events of A Future Disowned. Spoiler Warning, if you have not read A Future Disowned and wish to avoid spoilers for that story, turn back now.

"Gah!"

Marc staggered back as step, his shoulder aching where the first projectile at struck him. Before he he could right himself another slammed into chest, winding him. Flitching away, he shielded himself with his arms as barrage of thrown missiles continued. Thigh. Forearm. Other arm, yeah, that one was going to bruise. Wincing with each hit, he could do little as the final ball slipped between his arms, striking him in the forehead dead center. Stars flashed before his vision, then, well, the next thing he remembered was staring up at the sky as he lay in the dirt.

"Oooouch… Yeah, that one probably hurt…. My bad," his sister's voice cut through the cloud of aching pain. If he didn't know better, he'd have suspected she was actually proud of herself. But, in this case he did know better… she was totally proud of herself.

"You okay?" His father's face entered his vision, looking down at him with obvious concern. Suddenly the scene before him changed, so that for but an instant it seemed as though a second figure had been superimposed over his father. Eyes like embers glinted from the depths of a shadowed hood, lips curled back in a sneer. Marc flinched, eyes wide. Then as quickly as the the vision had appeared the world snapped back into focus. Where had been a sneer was once again a gentle smile, his father extending a hand to him in a gesture Grima had never given him.

"I'm… I'm fine, just need to walk if off." Taking the offered hand to support himself, Marc sat upright, rubbing his stinging forehead with his free hand. All around him lay a dozen or more small leather bags that served as projectiles during this sort of training. Each was filled to the brim with sand, lending them enough weight to be easily thrown while still posing little risk of inflicting more than some minor bruises.

"Are we sure this is exactly the best way to help train his reflexes?" his mother asked. Turning his head as she spoke, Marc spied his mother standing at the edge of the courtyard, regarding the scene with an almost dubius expression. Today his mother wore her customary battle attire, though she'd removed her armor at some point following their light sparring at the beginning of the training session. This of course, had been a precaution she'd taken during practice ever since he'd returned with them to this timeline. Afterall, she was three months pregnant with his and Morgan's younger selves

A smile tugged at Marc's lips. After everything he'd been through, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of joy knowing that the him of this time would grow up in a world more peaceful than his own.

"Don't look at me, Morgan was the one who came up with this idea back when I was teaching her defensive magic. While getting hit by these can be a bit unpleasant, especially when someone keeps aiming for the head," his father shot Morgan a glare. who merely whistled cheerfully in a thinly veiled attempt to appear as though she hadn't heard his remark. Rolling his eyes, the tactician knelt down to pick up the practice projectiles. "Besides, pain can be excellent motivator."

"You mean the same Morgan who spent an afternoon hitting her head against a wall in an attempt to regain her memories?" His mother countered. "I'm not entirely convinced Morgan even feels pain half of the time."

His father opened his mouth as if to argue, then promptly shut it again. "That… is a very good point." He turned his gaze to Marc, concern renewed on his face. "Are you sure you want to continue? We can stop if you'd like."

"No. No, I can manage," Marc added quickly, forcing a smile. He couldn't back down now, besides, what was a little pain anyways?

Helping his his father retrieve the last few sand filled pouches, Marc stood, retrieving Falchion from the dirt. The blade gleamed in the morning sun, bronze guard and hilt catching the light. As promised his mother had had the blade restored to its original form.

Taking up position across from his father and sister, Marc squared his shoulders, resting his weight on the balls of his feet. Pointing Falchion at the ground her closed his eyes, taking slow, purposeful breaths to calm himself.

"You ready?!" Morgan shouted, her voice splitting the still morning.

"Ready," Marc replied. Opening his eyes Marc raised Falchion into a neutral guard before him. He brow knit together he focused every sense on the two across from him, watching for even the smallest muscle twitch that could potentially reveal their next attack.

"Never move preemptively, knowing the moment to act can shift the entire balance of a fight," his mother's advice echoed in his head, recalled from one of their earlier training session. Acting too soon could prove just as disastrous as reacting too slow.

"Ha!" Morgan exclaimed, chucking the first ball at him

Twisting his shoulders, Marc narrowly avoided the projectile, the leather missing his arm by no more than an inch. Digging in his back foot, he dropped low, the next sailing over his head. Shoving a hand against the ground, he scrambled to right himself. Even before he completed the motion he knew he wouldn't have time to regain his footing and dodge, his father and sister loosing a more rapid barrage. So he changed tactics, bringing Falchion up in the a lighting quick slice.

Thwith.

Falchion's edge split the leather as easily as were it made of paper, sand fanning out behind it. Sidestepping the next ball, he shifted his weight, pausing half a beat. The he reversed direction, bringing his blade back around.

Thwith. Thwith.

He intercepted the remaining two projectiles with a chain of circular cuts, Falchion flowing around him. Sand rained down onto his head, none of the projectiles finding their mark.

Breathing heavily, Marc let his shoulder slump, Flachion's tip sinking towards the ground. For a moment no one moved, the only sound his own racing heart and panting breaths.

" . Awesome!"Morgan exclaimed, throwing her arms into the air. "You were all like swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, and the sand was all like spwish, spwish, spwish." Morgan flailed her arms around as she set about recreating exactly what had happened. "That last bit was supposed to be a spraying sound, by the way. Those are hard to do."

"I think what Morgan is trying to say, is that you did good," Robin interjected, rolling his eyes at Morgan's continued attempts to vocalize the proper sound effect for spraying sand. Moving over to him, he put a hand on Marc's shoulder squeezing it gently.

"Thanks. Though I think I got a bit of sand in my eyes. It kinda stings," Marc said. He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes with his sleeves.

"Your reaction time and precision has improved immensely over the past couple days. Your mother might need to watch herself, or soon she won't be the best swordsman in the family," Marc's father continued. Pride swelled in Marc's chest as his father smiled down at him, his expression conveying just how impressed by the fruits of Marc's training.

"I'm not sure I'm to one who should be concerned about holding onto that particular title. You are leaving out both my father and uncle Lon'qu. I'm not convinced I am superior to either." Lucina interjected, Marc watching out of the corner of his eyes as his mother moved to join them.

"Well, if only someone didn't keep throwing their sparring matches against him so we could get an actual answer to that," Robin teased, elbowing her in the arm to punctuate his chest. "Besides, didn't you beat your uncle way back when at Arena Ferox?"

"I honestly still am not quite sure what happened there," Marc's mother admitted, frowning. "One minute he was moving to attack and the next his guard suddenly dropped." She shrugged, trailing off.

At any rate, I think we can all say we're proud of how quickly you've improved," his father continued, turning back to him. Looking away, the tactician's eyes fell on the ruined remains of the projectiles Marc had hit. Not to mention that sand that now littered the stonework that cut through the courtyard's center. "Though it does look like we've made a bit of a mess. Probably should clean this up."

"Yeah, I supposed we did. Sorry about that." Marc chuckled. "I'll go get a broom"

. . . . .

After helping to clean up the remains of the balls he'd destroyed, Marc excused himself to an empty section of the courtyard, giving his father and sister space to being their daily spellcasting practice.

Setting Falchion's sheath aside, Marc stepped into the center of the space, holding Falchion parallel to his body. Stepping forward he slashed at an imaginary foes, working his blade in circular motions around him. Continuing step by step he worked through the blade from his mother had taught him, which she'd developed as a way to hone speed and precision. The steps required one to change direction, aiming for shifting opening at an instant's notice, which even she still often failed to perform flawlessly on every attempt.

Despite the challenges, Marc found the form relaxing, the flowing strikes allowing him to fall into an almost hypnotic rhythm. The minutes slipped by, the world seeming to have faded away but for the movement of his blade and his own steady breathing.

Coming to the conclusion of the form, Marc stepped forward, swinging his blade in two blinding arcs. Shifting his weight onto his back foot he leapt forward, bring his blade down with a shout and-

Pain, searing, burning, agonizing pain shot through Marc's skull. Darkness filled his vision, broken only by throbs as the molten knife shot deeper and deeper into his head. Red orbs swirling in blackest night, morphing into three sets of slitted eyes. Black teeth glinted like obsidian, maw open wide to swallow him whole.

Marc yelped, falling off balance as reality snapped back into focus. Pale sparks flew from Falchion's surface, a jolt shooting up his arm as if shocked. Gasping, he staggered back, the blade falling from his numb fingers. The sword's tip sunk into the earth, wobbling slightly before stilling.

Marc swayed on his feet, his stomach churning. He managed a single step before his legs buckled, falling to his hands and knees. He gasped for breath, fighting to keep his breakfast down.

I don't understand… what… He squeezed his eyes shut, another wave of pain rolling through him. Whatever he'd felt, it had come from Falchion. He hadn't felt anything like since… not since he'd come to this world.

"Marc! Are you okay?" His mother rushed over to his side, her eyes wide. Concern was plastered openly on her face as she knelt down next to him, helping him to his feet.

"I-I don't… I don't k-know," Marc stammered, his heart still racing. "There were sparks and…" He gazed down at his numb hand. His palm and fingers were flushed red, as if he'd been holding ice. Frowning he tried to close his hand, his fingers twitching slightly but otherwise failing to obey his body's commands. "W-What could have happened."

"I'm not sure," his mother answered, frowning. Reaching down, his mother cautiously reached out for Falchion hilt. The blade seemed to shimmer at her touch, but otherwise showed no sign of violent reaction it had displayed but moments before.

"I don't feel anything strange," she said, her brow furrowing as examined the weapon more closely. "Whatever happened it seems to have subsided for now," she said at length, offering the sword to him.

By now the feeling had begun to return to hand. Flexing his fingers, Marc paused, summoning his courage, then slowly reached out for the hilt. He managed to make it as far as brush his fingertips against the metal, jerking his hand back a sparks lanced between his skin and the spot he'd touched.

"N-No, I can't." Stumbling back, Marc dropped to the ground, wrapping himself in his arms as he shivered. He couldn't, not again. Whatever had caused it, it surely was because of him. Of course it had to be, it didn't shock his mother when she picked it up. Had the blade finally rejected him? Decided he wasn't worthy?

So wrapped up in these thoughts, Marc did not notice as his mother knelt down next to him, only stirring when he felt the touch of her hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Marc, you don't have to attempt again today."

He nodded slowly, but otherwise said nothing.

Standing, his mother went to retrieve Falchion's sheath from where he'd place it at the edge of the courtyard. Returning a minute later she offered the weapon to him, which he accepted gingerly, careful to only touch the leather sheath encasing it. This time the blade didn't react to his touch, as if was merely any other sword.

"Once your father's done practicing with Morgan I'll see if he and I can figure out what happened," his mother assured him, returning her hand to his shoulder.

Silence hung over them, try as he might Marc found the strength to form a reply failing him.

"Marc?" She asked, worry edging her voice. "If you're upset, you can always tell me, you know that?"

"I…" He bit his lip, fighting to keep his voice from breaking. "I-I just want to be alone right now… I need to think."

His mother nodded slowly, her hand lingering on his shoulder for a minute before falling away. "Alright. Don't worry too much, we'll figure out why your Falchion is acting so strangely, Marc. It's not your fault."

. . . . .

Marc stared at the floor of his room. Shadows of memory seemed to dance just outside the edge of his view, only a conscious effort keeping him from slipping back into the ghosts of his own future past.

Falchion lay on the opposite side of his bed, the blade seeming to stare back of him. Judging him.

Of course it'd judge me… after everything I did, who wouldn't?

Marc sighed, hanging his head in his hands. He knew no one actually blamed him for what had happened in his timeline, and on some level he knew he logically shouldn't blame himself either. He'd been only six when his mother had died and his father had fallen to Grima's control. What had he been supposed to do? He'd been too young to really know better… too desperate to pretend he still had a family. By the time he'd gotten older he'd already been conditioned to serve as one of the fell dragon's agents, and too afraid to obey the lingering pangs of his conscience.

It wasn't your fault… it wasn't your fault. He would have killed Morgan if you hadn't done everything he said. He would have killed your sister. Tears fell down Marc's cheeks, staining the bedsheets. No matter how many times he repeated this and other similar arguments, he could not ignore one simple fact: the countless people he'd killed under Grima's commands. Even now he could still see their faces, staring back at him, judging him. Forced too or not, their blood had left a mark on him, on his very soul. One not even time could easily wash away.

A mark on his soul.

Reaching down, Marc tugged at his left sleeve, pulling it up. Just under his wrist a faded mark could be seen, barely noticeable except by close examination. The Mark of Grima.

It had faded to it's current state after Fell Dragon's defeat in his own timeline. Perhaps that should have been enough, knowing Grima's connect to him had grown weaker. But I still have it… still have fell blood in my veins. As far as he was aware, Morgan had never manifested Grima's mark, and the fact he did where she did not perhaps said all that was needed. Perhaps that was why Falchion had rejected him… maybe it has sensed the darkness deep within him. That was why he hadn't shown it to anyone, not even his family. He didn't want them know, didn't want them to think he was some sort of… some sort of-

"Boo!"

Morgan jumped, heart hammering in his ears. Hastily pulling his sleeve back down, he whirled around, finding Morgan crouched on his bed next to him. He hadn't even heard her enter.

"M-Morgan?! Where did you come from, I-" Marc spluttered, still in a state of shock. "D-Don't startle me like that."

"Sorry," Morgan smiled, flashing a very 'not sorry' grin. "I heard mother explain to father what happened, so I figured I'd come cheer you up."

Marc frowned. So that's what this was about. "Thanks… I appreciate the thought, but I'd rather be left alone right now." Tucking his chin against his chest, Marc wrapped himself in his arms, returning to his hunched position at the center of his bed.

"Nonsense! Being alone is boring! I'm sure you'd rather have some company," Morgan countered, still grinning as so scooched over next to him. About a second passed in silence before his sister let out an annoyed huff, rolling her eyes. "Come on, this is the part where you tell me what's bothering you and I get to be your awesome, supportive big sister.

"Ten minutes older," Marc muttered, frowning

"Nuh uh, almost three years now. Time travel seniority, go!" Morgan said, laughing. "See, I have you there. No you have to tell me what's eating you!"

"Do you ever think about what we… did… in the that other world? What Grima made us into?" Marc asked, lifting his head.

Morgan's expression sombered a bit, her smile fading. "Sometimes. Even though I can't remember it, I know I still did those things. Sometimes I think that makes it better, like it's almost not real since I don't know any of it. She shrugged. "...but other times I think it makes it worse, for all I know I could have been a crazy mass murderer who enjoyed killing people."

"What? No! You weren't anything like that," Marc said quickly, surprised by this admission. "You were just afraid, like I was. You never enjoyed it, not for a minute."

"Thanks, that makes me feel better and… Hey! I'm supposed to be the one supporting you right now, not the other way around!" Morgan exclaimed, scrunching up her nose, as if horrified that the conversation had begun to go a completely different direction than she'd envisioned. "The point is, you said it yourself. We didn't have a choice back then, but now we do. We can make things better. Also, living in this world is pretty great. I have a boyfriend and everything."

"How do you explain what happened today? Why Falchion reacted the way it did?" Marc asked, frowning.

"Because Grima did something to it, duh? You said he corrupted it with his evil, dragon god evil magic, so maybe it was reacting to you because you're such a good person or something," Morgan offered.

"Morgan… you said evil twice"

"Yeah, that's because Grima was really really really evil. Like, double evil!" Morgan clarified, grinning from ear to ear now. "So, what do you think?"

"I… I just don't know. Maybe. I just can't help but think it was because Falchion don't consider worthy anymore," Marc replied, sighing deeply.

"What? Why would you even have to wonder that?" Morgan asked, her expression incredulous. "You're totally one of the best, super awesome swordsmen I know of. I mean, you are better than me, and that's saying something. Because I'm me. I'm awesome!" She pointed her thumb to her chest, grinning wildly. "Besides, even if Falchion decided you can't use it anymore, what would it know. It's a sword: swords don't know things. It's be a stupid sword, that's what."

For a brief moment Marc felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. Then, as quickly as it had come, it faltered, brushed aside in the overwhelming sea of doubt. "Thanks, Morgan… I appreciate it a lot… I…" He sighed. "I wish I could be as upbeat as you."

"What do you mean? Being upbeat is easy. See." Reaching over, Morgan put her hands on either side of Marc's mouth, manipulating his lips into a smile. "No focus on fluffy cute things. Like bunnies. And puppies. Or if that doesn't work, imagine what puppy-bunnies would look like. I like to think they'd look like a puppy but fluffier and with bunny ears."

"Mrrghhn, pleashh ltsh gsh ush mhh facsh," Marc slurred, his words muffled by Morgan's hands.

"Never! Not until you smile for real!" Morgan countered, refusing to let go.

This got a genuine laugh out of him, or at least, the closest he could get to one with his sister's fingers hooked around the corners of his mouth.

"Ha ha, victory is mine! The tactician wins!" Morgan shouted, releasing him and throwing her hands up in victory. "So, you better now?" She asked, turning to look at him

"A bit," Marc admitted. "You are really good at cheering people up."

"The best there is," Morgan agreed, grinning. "I take it you're still kinda worried about Falchion shocking you, huh."

"Yeah." Marc shrugged. He sighed, his smile faltering

Morgan put her arm around his shoulder, pulling him into a half hug. "Don't worry, little brother, I'm sure Mother and Father will figure this out. I mean, they did say they would and they can do anything! Just give it time."

Marc forced a smile back to his face. That was all he could do now, just wait and hope…

Hope that Morgan was right.

Author's Note: Well guys, here is is, the first part of a new mini-arc to focus on Marc's development following the events of A Future Disowned. If you've gotten this far without reading Disowned… what the heck are you doing? Go read that story! Nothing here is going to make sense otherwise! Are you crazy?!

Uh, erm, anyways… there will likely be three, maybe four more chapters of this arc, at which point I will get back to one-shots and fluff. I hope you guys enjoy, and as always, if you liked (or maybe you hated) the story please leave a review to let me know what you think! Until next time, cheers!