I apologize for the long update as I've been under a lot of stress. My humor is shot, so there are no witty comments forthcoming right now.

I am sorry, but I am no longer including the pairing Tactician x Fiora. I think I'll go back to Mark x Lyn. It's supported by my prior chapters, and is much easier. I had a good first chapter for Mark x Fiora, and a good last chapter, but nothing in between.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem. Or Star Wars. Or anything else. I'm just a kid, why would you sue me anyway?

Chapter 14: Soothingly Painful

Mark woke with dew on his face, but he kept his eyes closed, lying in the slightly-swinging hammock. He'd just had a very bad dream.

He lay for a few more minutes, then opened his eyes. His hammock (a new one that he had bought, the old one had ripped) was strung up between two trees, standing in the dead center of camp. Marcus and Lowen's horses had had tents in their saddlebags, so the rest of the group was sleeping within them. Mark had opted for his hammock so the tents wouldn't be as cramped.

He carefully sat up. No one else was up yet, it seemed, except for Dorcas, who was on guard duty. He sighed and swung his feet out of the hammock, both boots hitting the ground, and rested his head in his hands. It was official. He was on an adventure.

It had been two days since the battle at Rebecca's village, and Mark had been entertaining the false hope that Eliwood would find a reason to no longer require his services. Of course, no reason presented itself. If anything, Mark found more reasons to stay as Eliwood fully explained what had happened while they marched. The other members of the Lycian League were becoming restless, Bern was preparing for war, and all of the strongest fighters in the land were disappearing… something big was going on. When he wasn't talking with Eliwood, Mark had been marching alongside Dorcas and trying to diagnose his wife's illness. From what Mark had heard, it seemed as though the muscles in the woman's leg had atrophied.

Then there was the matter of Gabriel. The scene in the auditorium hadn't spooked the man; Mark had known Gabriel for a year now, and was used to his odd behaviors. However, in all the time that Mark had known him, the being had only been motivated by chess. The thought that there were things within the mortal realms that the creature wanted was slightly disturbing. Mark had to remind himself that Gabriel wasn't human, and didn't think as such. The individual was unpredictable.

He stood and stretched, joints popping, then walked away in a slouch towards the east, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He'd dreamt that he had been in an old, gutted building, overlooking a rubble-filled playground. On the other side of the playground was another building, of similar height and quality. In his hands had been an old-fashioned, bolt-action sniper rifle, probably from the World War II era. It had been unnaturally heavy, and it had kept slipping out of his hands. Across, standing in the other building, was another man, holding another sniper rifle. Mark hadn't been able to make out his face, but he had known, through dream logic, that he was to fight. He and the shadow had crept through the buildings, hiding behind walls and quickly popping out to aim before darting back to safety. Mark lost: the sniper had shot him through a wall, and it had hurt.

Mark walked until he reached the stream, where he sat and pulled off his boots and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into the river. Ice cold water surrounded his legs, but Mark pushed onward. It was shallow water, and when Mark reached the center of the stream the liquid was only up to the bottom of his knees.

A cloud in the sky moved, and the sun peeked out, casting rays of light upon Mark's face. The tactician squinted as a chill wind picked up, brushing sideways across his face, and he dug his toes into the sand, wiggling them from time to time to create underwater clouds of dust. He stared at the clouds, his mind blank, watching them expand and settle back into the ground. A few minnows came over to investigate, then flitted away, vanishing in the ripples of the shoreline. Mark took a deep breath and looked up, letting his head fall back over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth slightly and let out all the air in his lungs.

There wasn't any particular reason for it. It was a release of energy, an acknowledgment of the hardships he was about to face, and a show that he had the will and drive to keep going. With that one exhalation, a heaviness lifted from his heart, and Mark, for the first time in a while, felt nothing but goodwill towards nature and the common man. It was a great feeling, and one that could not last, but Mark enjoyed it for all its worth.

"Five pinches of salt… no… three…"

Mark snapped out of his reverie and looked to the side. Lowen was walking from the stream to his left, clumsily hefting a huge bucket of water and muttering instructions under his breath.

"But how long do I roast it? Can't exactly burn it, can I? I mean, this is the first time I'm cooking for them…"

"What are you doing up, Lowen?"

Lowen jumped and fumbled with the pail, which fell and tipped over, spilling water everywhere. He stood still, sadly staring at the puddle, until he remembered that Mark had called him. He turned hastily on his heel.

"Lord Mark! I… I got up to cook!"

"How early?" asked Mark, rubbing his knee, which was sore.

"About three hours ago… milord!" said Lowen, wringing his hands as if he had done something terribly wrong. Then, noticing what he was doing, he quickly trapped them underneath his armpits.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Three hours ago? Why? Don't you feel tired?"

"No, milord!" said Lowen, standing up straighter. "I am a knight of Pherae! Well… not really… not yet, anyway…" He slouched a tad, as though he had been slightly deflated.

Mark walked from the stream and carefully jumped over the bank onto the clean grass. "You need sleep, Lowen. We could be attacked at any given time, and we will only be hampered by a tired ally. Plus, sleep is good for you…"

"I will force myself to stay awake, milord!" said Lowen, looking eager to prove himself. "I will get off of my steed and do sword thrusts if I must!"

"That will only make you more tired, Lowen," said Mark, pulling on his boots and yawning. "You don't have a death wish, do you?"

"Er… no, milord. I do not."

"I'm no lord, so do not call me as such, please."

Mark stood up and sighed, then looked back at Lowen. "You're a cook? A good one, I hope, 'cause I am starving."

"I would think I am, sir," said Lowen, "although my opinion doesn't really matter…" Mark walked over to him and picked up the fallen bucket.

"Stop knocking yourself. I'll get the water," said Mark, giving the bucket a few practice lifts, like one would lift a dumbbell. Even by itself, without water, the bucket was very heavy.

"No, mi—sir! I must carry it myself!" Lowen snatched the pail out of a bemused Mark's hands and rushed back to the stream. He refilled the container and, with some difficulty, picked it up out of the water.

"Look…" said Mark, stepping to the side of the struggling horseman, "At least let me— whup! Careful!"

Lowen slipped in the dew, but Mark quickly steadied him by grabbing his shoulders.

"Scoot over. I'll carry this side…"

Together they took the bucket back to the camp, with Lowen deliberately trying to carry the most weight. The social knight tried to start a fire, but Mark waved him aside and used his lighter. Lowen built a stand out of sticks and hung a cauldron from it. He then pulled out a brace of rabbits from his pack, and in no time at all a cauldron full of stew was bubbling.

"How do you carry all of this, Lowen?" asked Mark as he watched the knight pull various kitchen implements from his pack.

"With… much difficulty, sir," said Lowen. He looked up and bit his lip. "Ulp. Sir Marcus wouldn't like me complaining…"

"Sir Marcus should help you carry all that stuff," said Mark, sniffing the air. The stew smelled great.

"Sir Marcus is the greatest knight in Lycia! I am only half a knight, and the fact that I struggle only shows that I am—"

"The fact that you struggle shows that you're human," said Mark, lying on the ground and staring at the clouds, his arms spread-eagled. "I'll ask Marcus to help you toda—oh look, your liege is awake."

Eliwood walked from his tent and put his hand over his eyes like a visor, looking towards at the sun.

"Good morning, Sir Lowen. Good morning, Sir Mark."

Lowen sprang to his feet (Mark twisted and placed a boot on the cauldron to prevent it from tipping over) and gave a slight bow. The tactician simply nodded. For some strange reason, the respect that Eliwood gave him made him feel as though Eliwood weren't a true noble, but simply another soldier. It was a trait that could be both a blessing and a curse when ruling a country, and Mark decided to advise him about it later.

"So," said Eliwood, sitting down on a tree stump, "We'll be in Santaruz by the end of the day. We will request his assistance in searching for my father, and be on our way."

"We won't stay at the castle?" asked Mark. Eliwood shook his head.

"I apologize, Sir Mark, but speed is essential."

"It's fine," said Mark, and he really felt as though it was. No need to sleep indoors. He stared at the sky again, just in time to see a cloud in the shape of a bird go by. He was reminded of the wood sculpture he had been whittling on. Oh well. He would finish it. Someday…

He kept watching the heavens as Eliwood walked off to talk to Marcus, who was ready to relieve Dorcas of guard duty. There was one shaped like a fish, that one was in the shape of a battleship, and that one…

BE ON YOUR GUARD.

Mark blinked and shook his head, thinking that he was seeing the clouds wrongly. But no… there it was: Be on your guard was written in the clouds. Mark waited for Gabriel to come flying by on a broom, cackling in a Wicked-Witch of the West style, but he didn't. Perhaps Koheleth had put it there… Mark closed his eyes. They would see fighting today… He opened his eyes to see that the clouds had disappeared.

Nature rocked.

Mark ate the stew greedily, pushing spoon after steaming spoon into his mouth. The foodstuff scalded his mouth, but he didn't care. Even the cooking he had eaten in the inn (Rebecca's) couldn't compare to this. In fact, Rebecca was asking a shy Lowen for the recipe at the very moment.

Most of the drowsiness was gone, and Mark was ready for another day of uneventful marching. Until the fight, that was, and Mark had already subtly hinted to Eliwood that an attack was eminent. The bags were packed and Mark transferred some of Lowen's possessions to Dorcas, Bartre, and Marcus. Lowen had tried to stop Marcus from carrying some equipment, but the paladin had simply snatched the cauldron out of his hands and shouted at him for not asking for help when he was so overloaded.

"A knight must know his limitations, Lowen! Walk with pride, but never hesitate to ask for help!"

Some of the more useless equipment was handed over to a nearby village: a large cutlery set, a bunch of embroidered handkerchiefs, a few packets of food that Lowen called his "emergency rations", and a winter overcoat. There was also a chessboard and several decks of cards, all of which was placed in Mark's duffel bag, which was a little torn, but still in working condition. A man on the street also gave the medic a free book on "secret" fighting techniques. Mark resolved to read it later.

"You know, Lowen," said Mark as they walked from the village, " You remind me of a character I once saw in a mov—play. It was called Saving Private Ryan, and—wait, who's that?"

A man was standing in the road, flanked by two other men. Mark felt a little wary as Eliwood approached, guarded closely by Marcus. But then again, the he was always wary. Mark forced himself to believe that the strangers were nothing more than a bunch of good Samaritans guarding the roads from attack. Either that or toll-takers. Mark walked past Lowen to sneak forward and hid behind Marcus's horse.

"Hail, good adventurers!" cried Eliwood, waving an arm in greeting. The three men stared at him, and one stepped up. He was a little on the pudgy side, and an axe was strapped to his back. He bowed low, grinning oddly.

"Heh heh heh. Nobles sires, alms for a poor villager."

The men behind him struggled to stifle their laughter, and Eliwood's lips grew thin. Mark felt a sinking feeling as Marcus moved his horse closer and spoke.

"You look nothing like an honest man. Kindly clear the road, or—"

The man stood straight up and sneered. "Clear the road? We shall. Clear it of you, rather."

Quicker than Mark's eyes could see, Marcus swept his steel sword from his sheath and threw in forward in one smooth motion. It flew straight like a spear into one of the men's' chest, who choked and fell to his knees, grabbing the hilt with weakening arms.

The group stared at the dying man for a few moments. It was Mark who broke the silence.

"Care to tell us your name? We'll need something to put on your tombstone."

The bandit took a step back as Marcus pulled a steel lance from his back and brandished it threateningly, herding the two remaining men away from Eliwood. The leader bit his lip stubbornly.

Eliwood raised his rapier to his head in a salute, then sprang forward like a striking snake. The point stabbed into the second man's chest, and the bandit leader took two more steps back, then turned and ran, yelling.

"C'mon boys! Earn your keep!"

Mark looked left and right as men appeared out of ruins, from behind trees, and in some cases, right out of the ground were they had lain, hidden. Mark smiled. Eliwood's Elite was situated in a gorge surrounded by mountains. Easy to defend.

Nature rocked.

The rest of the group ran up to Eliwood, Marcus, and Mark, Lowen spilling supplies everywhere. Mark looked around, found a tree stump, and stood on it.

"Attention, please!" yelled Mark, pausing to throw his hat at Bartre to make him stop talking. "We are threatened, as you see, and they are waiting for us to attack, but we will not. We will stay here and wait for them to come to us, and we will wear down their forces as they come. When they have been sufficiently weakened," Mark turned to Marcus, "you will give the order to charge. I shall trust in your judgment on when you think the time is right."

"I shall command with honor and precision, Sir Mark," said Marcus, dismounting his horse in order to retrieve his sword. Mark raised an eyebrow. Nobody talked like that anymore…

"What will you be doing, Sir Mark, if you will not be giving the order to advance?" asked Eliwood, wiping blood from the rapier on the grass.

"Lurking," said Mark. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out the Flux tome.

Eliwood's group clustered around the only opening to the gorge, with the two horsemen taking point. Mark hid himself among the other members of the group, keeping his head down. They waited and waited, watched by the many eyes of a hungry enemy.

They waited. The sun traveled high in the sky, and the clouds disappeared, letting punishing heat come down in waves. A trickle of sweat ran down Lowen's cheek, but Mark, with his typical resilience, didn't mind. Nothing compared to Iraq, anyway.

Finally, the bandits grew impatient. The first few men charged forward, followed by a few more, advancing cautiously.

Mark slipped away as Marcus raised his sword to deflect a handaxe. He headed north, shimmying past four more enemy soldiers, then ran out into the open. He faced the backs of the soldiers he had passed and quickly consulted the Flux tome, brushing over the spell. Tucking the book under his arm, he put his hands in front of him, pointed at the enemy.

Mark began waggling his fingers, tracing symbols in the air and chanting in that strange language, his voice sounding like the voices of many. As he traced, thin lines of light began trailing from his fingers, creating spindly, crooked symbols in the air. Some of the symbols shuddered and fell apart, causing the air to shimmer with an unseen force. Mark stopped chanting for a split second in order to curse, then hastily remade the lines of symbols. Before those could unravel, Mark went into a fury, tracing symbols all over the place, the lines of text forming a ball. He quickly twitched his hands, locking the orb into place before the whole thing could fall apart. It disappeared.

The darkness processed many spells per day, but was built to multitask; it was not a single entity, it was made up of many. A particular patch of darkness received another spell and quickly turned its attention to it. It stopped in shock. This spell was atrocious! Terrible! It's very existence was an affront to the dark!

The inky blackness quickly checked to see who was the creature behind the horrid spell. But of course… it was Mark Bristow. Normally when an Elder magic user created an unstable spell, the power of the dark was reversed and forced back on the magician, obliterating him. However, no reversals on this one…

The darkness would have sighed, if it could. It compensated by shuddering and showing the spell off to its other parts, its coworkers. They shuddered as well. The darkness turned back to its work and began translating the lines of symbols into a functioning spell, reading them like strands of DNA. A weak, watery Flux was created, wobbling dangerously. The darkness shuddered again, then stabilized the spell. The man should be killed for his mistake, but he would not be.

After all, he was Lord Gabriel's favorite. It wouldn't do for him to be killed.

The bandit yelled and swung his sword. Rapiers weren't meant for blocking, so Eliwood took a step back, out of the swing of the sword, then leapt forward as the man overbalanced from the wild attack. He stabbed his weapon into the man's chest at an upward angle, then quickly leapt back, pulling the blade out. The man stared at the hole for a moment, then collapsed. Eliwood sighed in lament before turning his attention to the next enemy, who was squaring off against Lowen.

He didn't like killing, but his father had warned him that all aspiring rulers would eventually find themselves with blood on their hands. It was the curse of leadership, this loss of innocence. Eliwood raised the rapier, but he needn't have bothered: Lowen felled his foe with a right sweep of his sword. Another bandit flew past the knight: Bartre had picked him up and thrown him. The hapless man impacted with a tree and fell to the ground, dazed. Marcus thundered past the man, directly into the fray, and trampled two more men.

If only his father had not left. Eliwood would be back home learning etiquette and… No. He couldn't think like that. If his father would leave with the best knights of Pherae, he would have a good reason.

He had to believe that.

"Skilled, aren't you?"

Eliwood turned to see the bandit leader, backed by another man. Both hefted axes, and Eliwood tightened his grip on the rapier.

"Who hired you to kill me, bandit?"

The bandit leader snorted. "Perceptive, too… I'm not telling you, fool. Suffice to say that someone wants you dead, they're paying us well, and that we intend to follow through with their wishes. Now… will you give up or—"

Sluork.

The man's head flopped to the ground as Marcus passed, swinging his sword as he did. He reached back and swung again, but the second bandit ducked under the sweep. Marcus galloped away in order to circle back around for another pass.

The remaining bandit cautiously stood up from his crouch and watched Marcus's retreating form. He turned to Eliwood. "Right… It's just you and me, boyo…"

An arrow whizzed over Eliwood's shoulder and hit another bandit in the arm. He pulled the shaft out and growled.

"Okay, now you're going to get it!"

He looked once again to be sure that the paladin wasn't returning, took a step forward. Eliwood raised his rapier in another salute, preparing to turn the gesture into a strike as the bandit raised an axe.

The bandit flinched back as a viscous substance leapt from the ground. The man disappeared under the waves, flailing his arms and yelling, then suddenly reappeared, completely unharmed and very confused.

"I—what?"

"DAMN IT!"

The bandit and the lord turned as one to see Mark throw down his Flux tome and begin jumping on it.

"Stupid piece of fecal matter!"

The tactician kicked the book one last time, then slouched away to the north, leaving the tattered tome on the ground. The lord and the bandit watched him go. A man flew past, and Bartre roared happily.

"You know what?" asked the bandit.

"What?" asked Eliwood.

"I'm out of here, alright? I've had enough of this."

The bandit slunk away. Eliwood watched him leave, then turned his attention back to the battle.

If Mark's old friend Derek had seen that, he would have said one thing.

EXTREME!

That was what he had always said when someone had failed spectacularly, accompanied by the man air-guitaring his sniper rifle. Poor, poor Derek…

And poor, poor Mark. It seemed as though the powers of the starless night were purposely eluding him, laughing and pointing as he ran, grabbing at air. The medic thrust his hands into his pant pockets and kept walking north. Eliwood could find him later, for most of the enemy was dead…

Reinforcements.

A mercenary and what looked like a Santaruz Regular were walking towards him. In the distance behind them, Mark could see even more soldiers amassing.

He cursed himself, for he had only himself to blame. He had thought that they had been fighting a simple bandit group, but no…

Be on your freaking guard!

Mark felt his back, and noticed a distinct lack of shotgun. He cursed himself again. He had left it back in the camp! He went instead for his saber, clumsily drawing it out and taking a defensive fencing stance. He just needed to hold them off until Marcus arrived…

The mercenary broke out into a run, raising the sword over his head, and the soldier began jogging forth, sliding a javelin from his back. Mark shifted his center of gravity, and, for some odd reason, he imagined that a vicious breakdance music had begun to play in his mind. He tried to block the music out, but it persisted. He gave up and decided to go with the flow.

The mercenary swung his blade sideways at Mark's torso. Mark, caught up in the throes of the music, flipped back onto a handstand, and scrunched his knees up to his belly. The sword passed over him. The mercenary reversed his strike, aiming lower, but Mark threw out his legs. His heels hit the mercenary's chin, and the man's head snapped back with a sickening crack.

Mark fell sideways, and executed a flare: his arms supported his body as he swung his legs to the left. He lifted his left arm, then his right, in order to let his legs pass behind and underneath him, before putting his knees together and kicking the mercenary's legs out from underneath him. The man fell like a sack of wet bricks, and did not get back up.

The soldier threw his javelin.

The music rose to a pulsing crescendo as Mark, on impulse, sprang up in a move known as a pike: feet in the air, his right hand grabbing his left knee, and the other hand holding him up, upside down. The javelin narrowly missed his left ear and burrowed into the earth. Mark held his pose as a series of glyphs and wards lit up along the shaft of the lance, shining white, unfiltered light into his eyes. The javelin winked out of existence, only to reappear in the soldier's hands. The man spun the weapon back into position and aimed again.

" Crap crap crap!"

Mark gave a quick hop and hit the dirt, laying flat. The soldier readjusted his aim and threw the spear at Mark's head. The medic slid downward and the javelin skewered his boonie, pinning it. The symbols on the shaft lit up once more, then disappeared with a comical-sounding pfft.

Mark looked up.

The soldier didn't look angry. He only looked resigned and sad as the armored, blue-haired axeman cleaved him at the waist. The upper half of his body seemed to jump up before collapsing, while his lower half simply sank to the ground.

"Ewww… that's gross…"

Fecal matter on a shining stick!

Mark groaned and looked closer. Nope, he wasn't wrong. There was Serra, looking as perky as ever, standing next to another heavily-armored man with a disapproving expression.

"So, you're a gymnast as well?"

Mark craned his head back. Standing over him was Matthew, a huge grin on his face. Mark returned the smile, ever so slightly.

"Not really."

Matthew shrugged. "Could have fooled me… would you prefer to converse with the worms, or would you like me to help you up?"

"Please."

Mark held up a hand, which Matthew grabbed, and the thief pulled the medic to his feet. Mark stole a quick glance at the mercenary. The man was out cold.

"MARK!"

Mark and Matthew winced as Serra ran up, her whitish-pink skirts flapping. "YOU CUT YOUR HAIR!"

"Hello, Serra," said Mark, rubbing his ear.

"AND YOU'VE STOPPED SLOUCHING!" Serra bounced on her heels, then calmed down a bit. "Nice to know that you've been listening to me!"

"Right," said Mark, even though it had been Gabriel that had administered most of the changes. "Nice to see that you're still…"

He bit his lip.

"…well, it's good to see you, Serra," Mark turned back to Matthew. "What bring you two out here?"

Matthew shrugged. "We have been brought out by the good graces of a willful lordling."

"That blue-haired guy?" Mark looked around. "Where'd he go?"

Matthew shrugged again. "He's probably causing pain and suffering somewhere. And enjoying it…" He grinned. "Say, can you do that demon impression of yours?"

Serra shrunk away, and looked for the armored-man. He, too, had vanished.

"Not the time, Matthew," said Mark.

The thief shrugged a third time. "Thought I'd ask… And here comes Oswin."

The armored knight clanked forward, carrying a large lance. He had a weather-beaten face and odd hair: it was a strange mixture of brown and green. Mark extended a hand.

"Hello, I'm—"

"Lord Misery," said Oswin, briefly grasping the hand offered. "You've made quite a name for yourself in the past year."

"Oh?"

"Ostia's spy network is the greatest in all the land," said Matthew with a hint of pride. "I am, and have always been, an Ostian spy. It was kind of obvious, actually… I thought you were smart."

It was Mark's turn to shrug. "And who's the blue-haired man?"

"He is Lord Hector, the younger brother of Marquess Ostia," said Oswin, switching to a resigned, long-suffering expression. "And he has ditched me."

"I would ditch you too," said Matthew. "You're boring."

"Someone's talking about me! I don't like it when people talk about me!"

Lord Hector walked towards them, armor clanking and a large axe held in his left hand. Mark could see the label Wolf Beil inscribed along the sharp edge. The lord was incredibly tall and muscular and had deep blue eyes that shone with an inner fire. He sized Mark up, eyes resting on his military clothes, and pointed a finger.

"I think I've heard of you… Lord Misery, isn't it? The guy who revamped the Araphen military?"

"Yes, that would be me," said Mark. He offered a hand to Hector.

"Don't let them get too strong, Misery," said Hector, grinning like a wolf and all but turning Mark's hand into a mangled pulp. "Ostia might take exception. And then we'd have to—"

"Hector!"

Marcus galloped up, with Eliwood sitting behind him. Mark could see the rest of the group walking to his position at a very slow pace.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, stupid!" cried Hector. "You just up and left… if you're going on a mad adventure, you could at least have the courtesy to invite me along!"

"Like you know anything of courtesy," scoffed Eliwood, jumping down from the horse and walking forward. The two lords embraced like brothers, with Hector giving Eliwood a few pats on the back.

Mark looked north, where the unexpected reinforcements had come from. Hector had left a string of mutilated bodies in his wake, so it was now safe to say that the bandits were gone… But of course, he had nearly been skewered.

"Matthew, go scouting."

Matthew disappeared into the woods as Mark searched the ground for his fallen boonie. And there it was… with a giant hole in it. Mark picked up the ruined hat and stuffed it into his pocket. The poor boonie, it had seen so much. Perhaps he should give it a burial…

Lowen trotted up on his horse, bleeding from a gash on his leg. Dorcas came forth as well, supporting Bartre. Rebecca was unharmed.

"Apparently," said Dorcas as he sat Bartre on the ground, "throwing people is bad for your shoulders." Mark knelt next to Bartre as Eliwood and Hector continued to chat.

"Look's like you've got a sprain, Bartre," said Mark, tenderly poking the black and blue flesh. "Get Serra to fix it. Same with you, Lowen."

"Yes mi—sir."

"Men can fly!" roared Bartre as Serra raised her staff. He broke into laughter as he was bathed in healing light.

Eliwood turned away from Hector, who went back to talk to Oswin, and tapped Mark on the back.

"I believe you dropped something, Sir Mark," said the lord, waving the battered Flux tome next his head. Mark sighed and took the tome back.

"I didn't know you were a practitioner of the dark arts," said Eliwood, looking grave.

"Elder magic," said Mark, glum. Eliwood shrugged.

"Just keep practicing." Behind him, Hector raised his voice.

"Are you insane? Of course we're going to help!"

Oswin murmured something back, but Mark couldn't hear him. Hector looked a tad angry, and punched a gauntleted fist into his palm.

"Well, he'll just have to wait for me to return! Like he needs me in the court anyway!"

"Oswin does not think we should help you," said Matthew, who reappeared behind Mark, "Thinks we should go back and support Lord Uther… No enemies discovered, you are most welcome."

"What about you?" asked Mark, sliding his saber back into its sheath. "Do you want to help us? I heard rumors of Uther being swamped with work."

"Got any money?"

"No."

"Can you do the demon impression?"

"It's been three months since I my last demon impression. I used it to scare a girl's cat out of a tree, but I'm a little more collected nowadays."

"And a bit better looking… You found a good barber?"

"The best in the multiverse," smirked Mark. "I'll do the expression later, and you'll join us. How's that?"

Matthew nodded his approval and grinned. Mark looked around and spotted a boulder. He leapt upon it.

"Attention, please!"

Everyone turned and looked up at him (or on level with him, as Hector was so tall) and waited.

"I know that Lord Eliwood is anxious to continue on, but I suggest that we rest here and nurse our wounds—"

"Wounds are gone," interrupted Hector, pointing at Serra, who struck a pose.

"Yes… but we still need to rest," he pointed at himself. "I need to rest. I nearly died, people."

Eliwood shrugged. "If you deem it necessary, Sir Mark."

Lowen sighed and began the arduous task of unpacking the tents. Marcus helped, whacking the knight across the head as Lowen tried to do all the work himself.

Another stew was bubbling, tended to by Lowen, but Mark excused himself. For some reason, the quartz knife was pulsing like a beating heart, throwing out waves of heat. The medic crept out into the woods, away from the fires of the camp, and sat against a log, wondering what Gabriel had in store for him. He concentrated, and the world began to spin.

Mark landed flat on his back, and he looked over his stomach. He was in the field that he had met Gabriel in, except that it was a bit more normal: there were winds blowing and clouds in the blue sky. He could even see flocks of birds. However, what he saw on the ground drove all thoughts of normalcy away.

He was surrounded by creatures. Some were big, some were small, some were thin, some were fat. Some were green, some were blue, and some were flesh colored. There were hands, suckers, tentacles, slime, large wings, clouds of flies, and slobber. Some had eyes, some didn't. Some looked like humans, others were as far from human as possible. Mark stared at them all, and, in perfect unison, they all opened their mouths and let out a cry.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

The creatures threw up their hands, suckers, tentacles, and wings. Confetti filled the air and turned into droplets of rain, which came sprinkling down. A few pillars of slime gripped instruments with oozing tentacles and began playing a rendition of the Star Wars Cantina Theme. A few monsters with exoskeletons began tooting horns and pulling the strings of party crackers, creating gouts of fire and ash. A few fireworks rose in the air, forming a colossal red medical cross. Other fireworks formed dragons, boats, and New York City skyscrapers.

"The hell?"

"Happy birthday, little mortal!"

Mark twisted around. A very tall, blond-haired man with red eyes was walking towards him. He wore a white hoodie with the word "WORD" written across in bold, stocky black letters. He wore black pants and had a golden dollar sign slung from his neck by a gold chain. The smell of funeral flowers was present, but not very pronounced.

"Gabriel?"

"The one and only… I'd thought I'd try the gangster look today," Gabriel's eyes went cloudy. "They're such silly people, with their gang rules and their wars. They never grasp that fact that their territory struggles are as insignificant as a grain of pollen sunk in the bottom of the sea. The ramifications of those struggles, however… ach. An entirely different matter. I mean, word."

The being came back into reality.

"Silly mortal! It's been nearly a whole year! You forgot your birthday!"

"I'm sorry," said Mark, getting to his feet. He had been falling down a lot today… "I haven't had much time for… timekeeping."

Gabriel smiled.

"You're twenty-four! It's a rather inauspicious age, nothing special, but a birthday is a birthday!" Gabriel gave a wide grin and spread his arms, indicating the creatures around him. "Most of these fine fellows are my subordinates. Thought I'd give them a break from their work. I also have a few coworkers present… In fact, there is one creature here on level with my vast power! Well, almost… almost."

Gabriel looked at his crowd. "Raphael? Raphael? Where are you?"

The crowd shifted and looked around. A few beings called out, all yelling that Raphael wasn't in a particular corner of the crowd.

"Raphael's not here? Ach! I will fetch him."

Gabriel leaned down to Mark's ear. "I wanted him to meet you. Mingle with the partygoers for a while, if you would please. I'll be back soonest."

Gabriel vanished with a strange digital fadeout. Mark stood alone, surrounded by the group of otherworldly creatures. The music faded away as the slimes put their instruments down. Everything was silent.

"Um… hi!" Mark said, sweat beginning to run down his back. The menagerie of… things said nothing "Well… do you want a speech?"

"Do you want a speech?" came a voice from the back. A few creatures tittered, and a giant ant-like creature snapped its jaws together.

"No," replied Mark, adjusting his collar. "So, since you all know each other, why don't we just have a party? You know... eat some food, talk…"

The crowd stared at him for a while, then began shuffling about, awkwardly striking up conversations. The field filled with the hum of talking, gurgling, chirping, and clicking. The pillars of slime took up their instruments and played a song. This one was much quieter and slower.

"Right…"

Mark saw a set of tables in the distance, and began to walk to it, navigating the crowd. He managed to avoid most of the slimier creatures, but he did get a few quills stuck in his sleeves. It took him ten minutes to get to the tables, as the crowd was so large. When he got there, he realized that the tables were piled with food. In the center off the group was one giant table with a giant, multi-layer cake that was as tall as a two story building. At the top, Mark could see a little replica of himself, leaning on a miniature Apologetic Irony. He focused on the food tables. There were pigs-in-blankets, pieces of sushi, nachos, fries, an assortment of fruit (with a lot of mango), and many, many more. There were a few otherworldly items that Mark could not identify, but he ignored those, grabbing a few pigs-in-blankets, a piece of pecan pie, three mango slices, and a few sticks of celery, smeared with peanut butter. Mark looked left and right, wondering where the drinks were.

"Would the mortal care for a drink?" asked a cunning voice.

Mark turned around and looked down. The creature looked like a little goblin, with skin of purest black, a swarthy face, and beady eyes. He was only as tall as Mark's knees, and wore a red-and-white servant's uniform. Furthermore, he was holding an empty tray, the kind used for carrying wine glasses.

"The wine is very good," the creature grinned impishly. "Aged since the dawn of time. And the champagne! Very good, yes?"

"I… I wouldn't know…"

The creature cackled a high-pitched cackle.

"Of course not… mortal is only used to mortal drink! Would you prefer some of your artificially-aged American beer?" the creature made a face. "Or a good German lager?"

"I'm sorry," said Mark, "but I don't drink."

The creature cackled again. "A teetotaler! Would the mortal prefer grape juice?"

"That would be appreciated," said Mark, moving to let a large creature with furry arms and too many eyes serve himself what looked like marshmallows covered in green, toxic ooze.

A tall glass of purple liquid appeared on the waiter's tray. The impish being offered it to Mark, putting the tray over his head while sinking into a low bow. Mark gently plucked the glass from the tray and took a sip.

"I… wow. This is good!"

"No cancer-causing preservatives for the mortal in there!" the creature cackled again and straightened up, putting the tray under his arm.. "Only the finest green and red grapes!"

"Thank you."

The creature bowed once more, then asked a question. "What are you, mortal?"

"Eh?" Mark thought for a moment, very confused.

"What type of human are you?"

"Well, I guess that I'm a Caucasian," murmured Mark, a little confused.

The creature picked at its teeth, which were long and pointy. "Caucasian? My name, it is also what I am. I am Night Terror Type 437."

"Night Terror?" Mark's eyes went wide. Night terrors, phenomena that occurred during the early years of childhood. Children would enter the fourth, deepest stage of sleep and dream of a dark, shadowy figure sitting on their chests and suffocating them. They would not be able to push it off, paralyzed, but would wake up. The body, not accustomed to being woken from fourth-stage sleep, would be very disoriented.

And so, the young child would be extremely disoriented, practically blind, and thinking that there was a monster in the room that was trying to kill them. They would go ballistic. Luckily, children would forget night terrors when the day broke, so no trauma occurred.

They usually forgot.

"Wow, just wow," Mark ran hand through his hair and stared closer at the black creature. "I though that night terrors were a psychological problem! You guys are real?"

He shivered. All those years…

"So, whenever I had a night terror, it was actually one of you guys? Actually suffocating me?"

The creature giggled throatily and stuffed its fingers into its mouth. Mark jumped as a slimy tentacle touched him on the shoulder.

"Would the birthday-mortal like to request a song?" It was one of the musical pillars of slime.

"I-I don't know—"

"Would the birthday mortal like techno?"

"Techno?" Mark was surprised. "You can play techno on your horns?" That was what the instruments looked like, anyway…

"We also play nu metal," gurgled the creature. "Would the mortal like nu metal? Rap? Country?"

"Whatever you like," answered Mark, shakily taking a bite out of one of the pigs-in-blankets.

The creature gave a gurgle that might have been a sign of disapproval before moving off. Jazz began to play.

"Mortal!"

Gabriel appeared out of nowhere, clutching a harassed-looking man in a red robe. He had red hair and pure white eyes, with no pupils.

"Raphael, meet Mark. Mark, do the same."

"Hello, Raphael," said Mark. Raphael nodded a greeting, his eyes briefly flashing silver.

"So, I'll leave you two alone," Gabriel looked at Raphael. "I have to go talk to Ishmael… excuse me."

Gabriel vanished. Raphael sighed, staring at the spot where the being had vanished, and opened his mouth.

"I do not understand my kin."

Mark felt elated. The being's voice was so… pure. It was the voice of the angels…

"Well, I don't understand him either," Mark grinned. "I just go along with what he says."

Raphael turned his blank gaze to Mark, towering over him. "You are Mark Bristow."

"Yes…" said Mark.

"You are Lord Misery."

"Right."

"You…" the corner's of Raphael's eyes turned a sick yellow, "… are a murderer."

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it. The elation was gone.

The north wind doth blow…

The corners of Raphael's mouth twitched. "Yet, you repent. You do not forgive, but repent… that's good. And you're a medic. Which gives you points, in my eyes."

Raphael grabbed one of the pigs-in-blankets from Mark's plate and shoved it into his mouth.

"Healers," said the being. "I love the company of healers, even ones that tend to be a little… jerkish, if I may be allowed to make up a word."

Mark shrugged.

"Furthermore… the circumstances involving the murders," Raphael grabbed a mango slice from Mark's hands. "With your mother—"

"I would prefer if we didn't talk about my mother," said Mark.

"If you refuse to talk about am issue, the issue will not go away. That was one thing Freud got right."

The two stared at each other. Mark was disliking him by the second. Arrogant, to come out and bring up the worst part of his life like that…

Raphael sighed. "I'm ruining your birthday, aren't I? Well, I do have a gift for you. Gabriel has one as well… He and I are the only ones allowed to give presents… Regulations, regulations…"

Raphael sniffed.

"I was considering giving you my greatest gift," said Raphael, "but, due to your track record, I will not." The being plunged a hand into a pocket in his robe and pulled out a small, white box. He opened it and showed its contents to the medic.

"Morphine?"

"Three syringes," said Raphael. "Although it is alien to the continent of Elibe, the bodies of your comrades will accept the substance without much complaint. Some nausea might occur… but that's the price to pay for instant pain relief."

Mark took the box and stared at it. "Well, thank you… Though I want to know what your 'greatest gift' is."

"Healing Hands," answered Raphael. "The ability to take pain away from someone and accept it into one's own body."

"Hey… that's better than morphine," Mark said. "Come on… you want to see… whatever… to succeed, right?"

"No," said Raphael. "I only give that gift to those most worthy of it. And besides, do you really want more pain in your life?"

Mark struggled to think of a reply as Raphael stole a piece of sushi. "Although… you are in for rocky times. Your group will grow quite large. There will be a few conflicting personalities, clashing egos, and hurt feelings. It will be up to you to hold it together. Do a good job, and the Healing Hands are yours. For better or for worse."

"Fine," said Mark. "You're making it a contest? I'll win."

"I hope you do," said Raphael. "Truly. I hope I'm wrong about you. And I hope you don't disappoint Gabriel. He is quite fond of you, do you know that?"

The creature grabbed another sushi and floated away without waiting for an answer. The crowds parted for him, then surged back together to resume talking.

At least Gabriel had an engaging personality, and was always apologetic when he couldn't do something for Mark. Stupid creature… his group could really use something like Healing Hands!

"Damn it!"

"Damn Raphael? Good luck with that, young mortal!"

Gabriel blinked into existence and held out a box, lovingly wrapped with blue and gold paper. Mark carefully ripped the paper off and opened the box. Inside…

"What is that?"

Gabriel wrung his hands together. "It's not much of a gift, mortal, but my hands are tied… It's an incendiary round for your shotgun. It fires a two-hundred foot flame for about five seconds. I'm sure you can find a use for it."

Mark nodded and put the shell in one of his belt pockets.

Mark spent the remainder of the party playing chess with Gabriel. The being won twenty-two times in one hour. Cake was served (after a very odd chorus of Happy Birthday) and the party lasted for another hour. Gabriel stood up.

"All right!" he yelled, his voice reverberating throughout the landscape. "Pack up and get back to work!"

The creatures vanished in billows of smoke, and plates clattered to the ground. Gabriel clapped and the trash disappeared.

"Some party, mortal," said Gabriel, rubbing his hands together. "But you need to go back."

"Thank you Gabriel. I had fun…"

"Yes, but Raphael nearly ruined it. Ach!" Gabriel's eyes turned a deeper red, and Mark caught a brief glimpse of hate. It vanished quickly. "But what to do, eh?"

Gabriel clapped his hands, and the world began to spin.

"Oof!"

Mark fell on his stomach, the incendiary shell and the box of morphine bouncing next to him, syringes spilling out. Mark quickly leapt up, but it was too late: one of the syringes had bent and broke. Precious morphine spilled out into the soil. Mark watched the ground soak it up, then lamenting under his breath, picked up the remaining two syringes and placed them back in the box. He sat up and sighed, then heard shouting coming from the camp. It seemed as though Serra and Hector were arguing about something.

Healing Hands…

Mark scoffed and picked himself up. He trudged towards camp, wondering how to diffuse the confrontation. However the argument was over by the time he got there, and Oswin had already taken watch.

Perhaps it would be harder then he thought. Mark set up his hammock as everyone said their goodnights. He reached for his boonie to put over his eyes, but remembered that it was now no more than a few fragments of cloth. He put it back into the bag as it started to rain.

Nature sucked.

That's it. I hope it was worth the wait. Once again I apologize.

Poor Mark. Not being able to do dark magic. He's like the Trix Rabbit.

Gabriel: "Silly mortal, Elder magic is for druids!"

Another OC. Wee dee-dee.

OC's to remember for later chapters:

1. Gabriel

2. Raphael

3. Fausty

4. Fiche

5. Derek

6. Koheleth

Pfeh. Read and review, please. They're my motivation to write.