Hi. This is the only other genre I've seriously written in, thus far. Originally, this was a request from a friend, a Marth/Ike oneshot. It grew on me- literally- into a 20ish page monstrosity that is to date, my longest piece, I think (I far preferred writing this to my history coursework). Figured I might as well post it, and get the rest of the world's opinion on it as well.

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the game- anything you recognise has escaped from the Wii, and must be found and returned presently. Via subspace.

Italics are thoughts. From whichever character is the subject of the sentence. Just in case it got a bit confusing.

Onwards for ficcage. Enjoy- I did!

Chapter 1: First Impression

Marth prepared himself for another battle. Already a veteran, he found it strange to be facing someone unknown to most of the tournament fighters. But then, he mused, there have been a few new opponents this year.

"This is your five minute warning, Prince Marth!"

He began to stretch, working through his exercises with his falchion. He'd seen this Ike at the welcoming banquet, but truthfully, he hadn't taken much notice. He was too busy bemoaning the withdrawal of his best friend, Roy, from the competition.

Ike was supposedly another swordsman, but one who relied on physical strength as opposed to technique. As long as Marth could dodge the worst of his attacks, he should be fine.

"Time, Prince Marth!"

He followed the attendant from his room to the stadium. The light blinded him for a second, before his eyes adjusted. Across the stage, Marth saw his opponent standing with his back to him; spiky blue hair was all he could see above the collar. Oh, and the massive golden sword. He couldn't miss the shiny golden sword.

Then the man turned, and Marth was subjected to a similar scrutiny. He saw Ike size him up, and knew the exact moment he was dismissed as a weakling who could barely hold his weapon. It wasn't his fault he had a delicate bone structure! It didn't mean he was any less strong than... well Link for example. The guy wore a green dress and got more respect as a fighter than Marth did! It was time for that to change: Marth was determined this year. He would go far.

But first, he would defeat the newbie in front of him.

-*-

Ike heard the uproar behind him and guessed that his opponent had entered the arena. His first fight was beginning, and he had a point to prove. Nobody here really liked him, they considered him a usurper of Roy's rightful place, never mind that his cousin had left before he had signed up. What made it really ironic was that it had been Roy's prompting and recommendations that had finally pushed him into doing so.

Ike shook his head. He couldn't afford to get hung up on the past at this moment.

He turned and saw his opponent for the first time. Smaller than him both in height and across the shoulders. A sword that looked as delicate as its wielder. Ike sighed, would he have to hold back from using his full strength? He supposed it was early in the tournament. The weaker fighters had yet to be eliminated.

"Fighters, ready?" The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium. Ike saluted, and saw Marth do the same, raising his falchion to head height.

Both fighters were, for the first time, in complete agreement.

Game on.

-*-

Marth figured he could use his deceptive looks to his advantage, and waited for Ike to make the first attack. The taller man charged, swinging his sword down in a move that could take Marth's head off if he didn't counter, or dodge.

Marth ducked, and stuck his foot out as Ike's momentum carried him forwards. Sensing the trap, the other swordsman dove and rolled over the limb, standing again not two metres from Marth's position. Ike looked slightly unsettled; Marth fought the unholy urge to smirk, despite his counterattack failing.

He thought the better of repeating such a move, especially at closer quarters, and the two swordsmen circled, searching for flaws in the other's technique. Marth was obviously the superior in skill, and gave no indication of what he would do next. He noticed Ike's eyes focusing on various points of his body, but where would he strike?

Ike jumped forwards and stabbed at Marth's midsection. The swiftness of the move was a surprise, and Marth failed to counter properly. He hissed as his side was sliced open, and glared at the offending weapon, now stained with blood. His blood.

To hell with this.

Marth moved into a second block, more successful than his first. As Ike stumbled back, he reversed his grip and stabbed at Ike's torso. He missed, but was too focused on his advance to really care. Slashing again, he finally got to draw blood of his own. Ike fell backwards, clutching at his thigh from where blood was staining his trousers. To his credit, he kept a hold of his sword. He managed to fend off Marth's next attack as he regained his feet, favouring his wounded leg.

Marth continued to push forwards, noting that with every step he took, Ike retreated one step further to the edge of the stage. Surely he realised?

Whether Ike had noticed or not, Marth decided to use this to his advantage, and he pressed Ike back, forcing his opponent to limit his movements and defend without making his own attacks.

Ike only realised he was going over the edge when his heel slipped. His eyes widened as realised the danger his position put him in. His muffled curse was heard only by Marth.

At that crucial moment, Marth… hesitated. He sounds like Roy. Cursing and all.

Ike could barely believe his fortune, and struck out, with no grace or finesse, but with the strength that he was so renowned for. This time, Marth was stumbling back, berating himself for letting the larger man get the upper hand again. Ike regained his footing on surer ground and the fight continued.

Through it all, the spectators watched, entranced by the matching movements of a pair that had never fought previously, but seemed to know exactly what to do and how to throw each other off-guard.

-*-

Some time into the fight, Marth was beginning to tire. He resorted to dodging more and blocking less, letting Ike make all of the movements, waiting for the perfect opening to take. He had to end it soon or Ike would win by brute force and stamina.

Ike noticed his opponent's movements becoming more conservative, expending less energy, and correctly guessed why. Inwardly, he smirked: his first fight and he had almost won it! True, his opponent had been a tougher fight than expected, had even had him on the line at one point, but luck, or something like it, had prevailed yet again. Leave the skills to the rich and the nobles. Ike would rather be lucky than good any day.

Marth hated playing the weak card, but it was the only way he could see out of this. He sighed, loud enough for Ike to hear and interpret as a sound of muted pain. He saw Ike's last strike coming, and blocked it weakly, allowing his arm to tremble slightly and the block to falter. As Ike's reach became overextended, he dipped his sword down and locked hilt to hilt with Ike, before wrenching his arm back.

As planned, the other sword came back with him as Ike was forced to let go, or risk breaking his arm. To make his victory undeniable, Marth raised his falchion to Ike's neck. He looked shocked. When… how… had that happened?

"I think you'll find", Marth bit out, cold and aloof, "that skill does sometimes have something to do with swordplay." He laughed lowly. "Fancy that."

As the announcer confirmed Marth's win, he lowered his sword and strode from the arena, all smiles and graces for the crowd. Ike was left where he stood, stunned. After a few seconds, he mentally shook himself, reclaimed his sword and left via the back gate.

Okay, so it wasn't a necessary victory; the tournament was still in the group stages. He could defeat only the majority of his opponents and go through to the knockout battles. Though it would have been nice to win his first match.

Ike sighed, and thought but now I have another goal. Find out who that fighter was, and why he intrigues me so.

-*-

Marth looked at the points tables and saw with satisfaction that he was fourth overall. So long as he kept winning, he would have no problems getting through the group stages. He felt, rather than saw, someone come up behind him.

"Interesting fight today, Marth," she said. Inwardly, Marth was groaning. Talking to Zelda was a pain; you never knew which part of her would reply.

"It was enjoyable, yes," he agreed, taking the safe route. "Although perhaps not entirely fair, given how much my opponent was forced to rely on brute force."

Zelda laughed at something only she understood. "He has a name, Ike, I believe it is. Remember that you were a newbie once." How did she know exactly what words he had thought of the other swordsman? "Farewell Marth," she said, turning and walking away. "Oh, and a friendly warning: someone is asking questions about you. They evidently didn't know me for Shiek."

Someone asking questions? Who? Not knowing her special move- that had to be a mistake. Why is it that Zelda always creates more problems than she solves?

-*-

Ike was feeling frustrated: he had no one to talk to here, had just been informed he was seventeenth in the overall rankings and had had little to no luck finding out about Marth. Sorry, Prince Marth. Should've guessed he was high in society from his comment during the battle. Muttering under his breath, Ike left his quarters in search of an empty training room.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice anyone walking down the corridor towards him.

"Eek!"

Ike glanced down when something hit his chest and rebounded off again. He saw some pink thing in a bundle on the floor, and looked around for whoever had spoken. Then he saw the pink mass moving, and rectified his mistake.

"Sorry, Miss. I didn't see you." He was enough of a gentleman to know when he was in the wrong.

"Well, that much was obvious." She said. The woman offered her hand imperiously, and Ike belatedly realised she expected him to help her up. He took the hand nervously, unused to the traditions and airs of the class. "And it's Princess. Peach. May I know the name of my attacker?"

"I didn't mean to knock you over!" Ike whined. Loudly. "I apologised, and helped you up! That doesn't make it an attack." He ran her question through his mind again, feeling sheepish. "Oh, sorry. I'm Ike."

"No title?" Peach dropped her act; he was too new here to know she was teasing.

"None by birth, Princess." Ike just wanted to leave now. Preferably before she said something he'd really dislike. He was too blunt to dance with words like most of the fighters here appeared to. Or was it that most of the fighters here seemed to have some sort of position, which he lacked?

"Just Peach, please. Formality is a waste of time between friends. I'll see you around, Ike. If you need help with anything, just ask." She continued walking down the corridor.

Friends? I knock her over, yell at her, and that makes us friends? Ike decided that although he was certainly lacking in status compared to these people, he had one thing they didn't, and that was a dose of sanity. He shook his head and continued to the training rooms.

With a curse, Ike read that all but one of the rooms were full, and even that one was already occupied. Well, maybe he'd be able to spar instead of just beating the hell of out a dummy?

He opened the door and stepped inside, realising too late that he probably should have checked more closely as to who was using the room. Because across the dojo, standing and glaring in all his noble glory, stood the person that had clouded his thoughts for the last few hours.

Ike couldn't resist. The other man was flushed from exertion, cheeks a bright (adorable) red. "Hard time, Princess?" he asked in greeting.

-*-