Fan Fiction / Fire Emblem Fan Fiction / Fire Emblem Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction ❯ Empty Hand Loser ❯ under a grey sky: roy and marth ( Chapter 6 )

Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories and their associates. The author has received NO monetary benefit from this piece of shit.

Warning: homosexuality.

Chapter 6

Beneath a grey sky, the air hung heavy. Marth made his way up the barren hillside, wrapping his cape around himself against the cold. Wind pushed his hair into his eyes, and he had to brush it aside to look on ahead. There was the ruined shrine, as promised, on the hillside, overlooking the landfill.

The old structure presented itself in neglected glory, a lonely temple to a forgotten god, with a hole in its roof, a pile of rumble by the collapsing door. Between this and the wasteland below, it was hard to tell who had abandoned who first. Pitfall was a place between worlds, without structure or form. It collected the things that the world had tossed away. Criminals, outcasts, sadists and lunatics all found refuge here, to consolidate the collective filth. And Marth had come here to find something he had lost.

Tired from a day of wandering dirty streets, he came to a stop. On a large boulder in front of the shrine, there sat figure in a brown cloak, legs folded beneath him in a meditating position. His head was covered by a hood, concealing his face. Marth caught a glimpse of the hilt of a sword between the folds of the brown cloak. His breath hitched because he knew that elaborate design. He edged closer.

"You must be lost," said the cloaked man. The voice was low and unrefined. He didn't lift his head; he didn't move at all.

Marth swallowed the lump in his throat. His heart had suddenly started to beat a little faster, but he spoke with a steady voice. "How would you know that, sir?"

"There's nothing up here."

"Really." Marth watched him carefully. But the figure was like a statue. "I was told there was something of interest to be found by the abandoned shrine on the hillside."

"As you can see. There is nothing here."

"But I do see something."

A dry laugh. "What do you see?"

"I'm looking for a man-"

"You'll not find him here."

Marth smiled. "He is a dangerous man. They say he is one of the best fighters in the area. They say he kills indiscriminately and without remorse. They even say he has spilled more blood than whole armies." There was a hint of a smile on that partially revealed face. It did not escape Marth's notice. He took a breath and went on, "I was told he has no home except for this old temple on the hillside. They say he is a bad man, hard to approach, friendless. And they say he has no name."

"There are many men," said the cloaked figure, "like that in this area. What is so special about this one?"

"This one is the worst of them all."

"And what would you want with him?"

"That should be obvious." Marth's hand fell down, resting at his sword. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. "I came to challenge him."

A short pause. Something moved beneath the cloak. Fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword. "If what they say is true, that is a stupid thing to do."

Without warning, he jumped down from the rock. Marth had a second to rush forward and stop the hand that was drawing the sword before the blade fully revealed itself. For a moment they were locked together, and with his spare hand, Marth brazenly pushed back the hood of the cloak.

How did I know? he wondered.

Roy shoved his shoulder into Marth's chest, pushing him back. Marth fell, rolled, and landed in a crouch. He looked up as he heard the sound of the blade being drawn.

"And here I was hoping to spend a day in quiet meditation."

"My apologies for the disturbance," Marth said breathlessly, hopelessly.

Roy calmly regarded his opponent. His eyes fell on Marth's sword, still sheathed. In Pitfall, all challenges, no matter what form, were taken seriously. "Do you plan to fight me empty-handed?"

"I don't need this to defeat you." Then he threw himself to the ground, rolling to the side again, as Roy's blade cut down from directly overhead. He got to his feet, backed up, and finally drew his sword.

"So you do need it after all," Roy said. His face was grim.

Marth didn't answer. He settled into stance, his view of his opponent bisected by the length of his blade. We will never move beyond this, he thought. The next strike came fast, a horizontal cut from the side. He blocked it, but it came with stronger force than he expected, knocking him to the side. He skidded, boots digging into the dry soil. Then almost immediately, the follow up came from overhead. Marth met it with his blade. The sound clashed in his ears; the strength behind it rooted him in place. He wouldn't be able to hold; Roy's sword was heavier than his. He aimed a kick at Roy's stomach. It didn't knock him down, but it staggered him enough for Marth to break away.

They circled each other. "Stay back," Marth warned, his voice cold. At this, Roy smirked. "You're the one that challenged me," he pointed out.

Marth attacked. He feinted from overhead then went to the side. But Roy deflected it as if he had expected it. Marth pulled back and aimed a thrust for the center of Roy's breastplate. Roy managed a parry, and his blade cut a deep gash into Marth's wrist and hand.

Marth broke away. He glanced at the bleeding cut along his wrist, then back at Roy, and calmly exchanged his sword from right to left hand. He didn't have time to think about it, as Roy was already rushing forward, sword swinging. Marth dodged to the side, and the attack went wild. Roy was open just then, and Marth lashed out, quickly, efficiently. Roy had to stop himself in mid-stride, dancing just out of reach, but not enough. The first cut grazed his armor, but the second one, coming just as fast, nipped into the exposed area of his torso before drawing a thin, glancing line across his abdomen. It burned. Roy jumped back, sword raised in guard.

But Marth had stopped just then. "I'm sorry," he whispered, suddenly, inexplicably. Roy heard it. He nodded just once then charged him. Marth blocked high, but Roy went low. Marth gasped in pain and surprise when the edge of a blade slashed his left leg, knocking it out from under him. He fell back against the ground.

"Apology accepted."

Marth rolled over and tried to get to his feet. He nearly buckled at first, but managed to stand, leaning heavily on his right leg. Roy, however, had lowered his sword. He considered Marth in silence for a moment. Then he shrugged and sheathed his sword. Marth blinked, confused.

"You win, princess. I'm out."

"What?"

"You win," Roy repeated.

"Why?" He felt cold everywhere except for his right hand, a source of warmth as it collected blood. One drop at a time, he fed the hungry earth. His world had become fluid. He blinked again, tried to clear his head. Was it the apology, he thought, that made him back down?

"Because I say so. Go home and practice. You're obviously not good at this." Roy turned away as Marth, in sudden frustration, flung a handful of blood in his face. The warm droplets splattered on his cheek, against his lip. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, grinning. "Hey, your technique is good, and you're pretty fast, but you're a little predictable."

"To none but you," Marth said lowly. "We've done this before."

"I don't think so. I don't know you."

"No, you don't. Not anymore, though you did know me once. And now, you don't remember much of anything, do you?"

Roy's eyes narrowed.

"You don't remember anything before waking up here. You don't remember where you came from, or why you carry a sword. You don't even remember your name. It's only your body that remembers how to fight!" And it's only your body that still remembers me, he thought, that remembers how to fight me.

"Who told you that?" Roy barked.

Marth smiled slowly. Sadly. His head was swimming. "A mutual friend."

Roy stared at him, hard. "Who are you?" he asked finally.

"Someone you knew."

"We…were friends?"

Marth shook his head. His sword slipped from his fingers, and he collapsed to his knees. "No," he choked out. "We weren't." He couldn't bring anything to focus. Everything had blurred. "In fact…I'm pretty sure you hated me."

He would have said more, but the world dissolved away, leaving him alone in the dark.

* * *

"Please stop crying," he said. "Just…stop."

"I'm fine." That composed voice stood in contrast to the tears clouding his eyes.

Roy cursed, leaning back, hands against the floor. He tilted his head to stare at the cracks that covered the ceiling. "Tell me again," he said, exhausted. Gradually, he redirected his eyes to the current company, who was seated on the floor across from him. "What else do you know about me?"

"It is hard for me to say. Our understanding went beyond words."

"You keep saying that, but I don't remember you."

"Roy…" Like a plea.

"That's a name?" he sighed.

"It's yours."

He forced out a bitter laugh. "I guess. If I take you at your word…Marth."

Marth rested his elbow on his knee. His bandaged hand covered his face. "There's too much to say." The hand fell away.

"Hmph." Roy turned his eyes back to the ceiling. "I guess it doesn't matter now," he said after a while. "I'm here now. It doesn't matter what I used to be."

Marth's smile quivered a bit. "Of course." He commanded his voice to be stronger. "I realize it was foolish of me to approach you at all. I'm sorry to have bothered you." He rose to his feet. It was a simple motion, but it grabbed Roy's attention.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

Before he had made the conscious choice to rise, Roy already found himself on his feet, moving to block Marth's way to the door. "Wait." It escaped his lips in a rush. Marth simply stared back at him, mouth set to a firm line. Roy didn't know when he had learned to detect pain in those eyes. He just could. Now he fumbled for words.

"Don't say that you came here to start something you can't finish."

But Marth was turning away. "I've said all I intend to say. Your life is your own." His tone grew soft. "I can't tell you why you made this choice. I don't know why you did it. All I can say is that you obviously decided that your old life was meant to be forgotten. And I suppose I was one of those things you wanted to leave behind you."

Roy caught him by the upper arms. In the semi-darkness of the room, he could follow the path of a tear on Marth's face, sneaking like a secret over a cheekbone, down to the jaw. Without thinking, Roy leaned in and kissed it away. Marth jerked back, stunned.

"He-" Roy managed, refusing to loosen his grip, "the other me-he made a mistake…I think."

Two fingers of Marth's hand reached up to stroke the side of Roy's face. "Tell me," he whispered. "Without your memories, who are you? Are you still--" Roy pulled him in and kissed him again.

Surprised, he let the kiss happen. So much was the same, Marth realized. His hands were folded against Roy's chest, unable to pull the other closer or push him away. A tremor had started up inside of him and he couldn't stop it. Their motions were the same as before, chests locked together, quickened pulses millimeters apart. Marth didn't-couldn't-breathe. Urgency struck him in the pit of his stomach; the room seemed to spin. He would wake up soon, he thought, and this would all fade.

As they drew apart, Marth gasped for air. He knew well the eyes that were now regarding him with heated determination. But did they know him?

"Forget him," Roy said. He pressed his lips to Marth's throat, felt his pulse (cursing in the back of his head the other's slight advantage in height). "Forget the other me."

But Marth couldn't forget. As they stumbled together in the dark, he could do nothing but remember. His arms instinctively wrapped around Roy's neck. Roy's hands slipped down to his waist. A simple touch could be a reclaiming. He wondered if he was the only one captured by the old comfort and intimacy. (And underlying grief and hostility.) Was his heart the only one that writhed in agony, danced with joy?

When he fell back against the sleeping mat, bringing Roy down with him, Marth's eyes were stinging with tears again. He looked up, and he meant to say, "Stop." But instead….

"I missed you," he confessed.

Roy smiled down at him. "We just met," he said.

Marth closed his eyes to conceal the breaking of his heart. It drew Roy by invisible strings. Down, down. He kissed Marth's face and soft throat, his hands working their way over folds of clothing, seeking the warmth of skin. Arms clung around his neck again. Lips kissed him back. The deadly fighter beneath him stretched out, back arching, throat exposed. Roy tried to ignore the desperation in the way Marth's hands held on to his shoulder and the back of his neck. He only recognized the mutual need, the quick flicker of a wet tongue against his lower lip, the painful pounding of his heart, the rush of blood as a sound in his ears, and that soothing hum in the back of his head telling him that he was home. But how could that be, when he couldn't remember home?

His hands pulled impatiently at the fabric between them, somehow working the folds and ties with ease, like retracing steps in the snow. In the weak light, his fingertips found the scars before his eyes did. Roy paused, suddenly hesitant. Thin lines, both raised and indented, cut across Marth's lower torso. Roy ran his fingers over them, curious. Then Marth's hand came down on top of his, guiding it to a thicker, rougher scar along the stomach.

"This one," Marth whispered, "was given to me by you."

Roy traced it. It had been a deep wound. The story behind it was lost to him. The other Roy had seen to that. Whether his life was better this way or not, he didn't know. He pressed his mouth to Marth's scarred stomach and worked his way up, along smooth skin that tensed beneath his lips. His hands, however, would not leave the scar. His fingers retraced, re-traveled the trail carved into skin and muscle. He paused again. What kind of a man, he thought, had taken a blade to this body? And why am I--why are we--

But then Marth's mouth was by his ear, softly moaning his (supposed) name with such urgency that Roy heard nothing else. He closed his eyes, accepted the name (if that's what he wants to call me…), and together they fell to a place where scars didn't matter, beyond recollection and pain.

Once again, he kissed the memory the other Roy had inflicted.

"If I keep doing that, do you think it'll disappear?"