Summary: When the battle had passed through the village and left the bodies there, the gravedigger would be told to burn them all, heaving the sack through and dumping bloody corpse after bloody corpse in. One-Shot, based off Bern's villages and Ch. 23
Genre: Horror
Author's Notes: Most of you have probably never read my horror before, but let me warn you: It Is Weird. It's not the typical monster-rip-off-your-head-rawr horror that most moviegoers desire, but a more subtle and disturbing sort of horror. Thus, it is only rated PG-13/T, because while it may make you loose sleep, it won't make you scream with terror. In fact, I find it barely worthy of the title "horror" until the end, anyway.

Anyway, this is an odd thing I call "civilianfic", because it is based off of the war's impact on people in the villages, rather than Eliwood's Elite. But there is a canon character in here and quite a few canon concepts imbedded into this, so it is worthy of being called a Fire Emblem fanfic. I think.

Dedicated To- I WOULD dedicate this to Maya/Riykon for her belated 14th birthday(5/27), but seeing as to how she hates horror, I suppose you can say I wrote this in order to test my abilities to write OCs convincingly enough so that they weren't ... you know. So, it's sort of dedicated to every good fanfiction critic who may come upon this. Joy.

They call Bern the highest military might of Elibe, but all I can see from my village is that it is war torn. The Lycians came yesterday, and as we civilians huddled inside our houses in fright, we could vaguely hear the clashes and yells outside. And when the next morning arrives, we know we'll emerge to find the streets all but flooded with blood, corpses lying stacked on top of each other, the shrubbery and marketplace ruined, as battles have left it before.

No one could exit their house, no one could find peace while sitting next to a carcass, and that is why the village council established the job of the gravedigger.

This certain gravedigger would be different, they had decided. The others would bury the citizens, but this one would touch only the remains of battle. He would pile the corpses outside the village and engulf them in flames, until the ugly scars of war were but the ashes falling onto the grass.

And what better is there, they agreed, than one who is motivated – one who must do it to survive?

I loathe this village's policy, I really do. There is no orphanage here, and the church is bitter, controlling, and dominating. The poor and the weak lay starving in the streets, where I fear the gravedigger would confuse them with the corpses and burn them alive. But the council is of the same kind as King Desmond – nobles, tyrants. "It'll keep the gravedigger on his toes, so that he knows that he'll be burned alive if he doesn't comply," I imagine the head of the council proclaiming.

The day after they had agreed, I wandered to the edge of the village, where the stench of rotting flesh does not yet reach. Normally, I wouldn't dare leave my house, as wading through the remains was no pleasant task, but I was beyond curious of whom this gravedigger would be. He would be, I imagined, shy and conforming, with a secret hate for life. He'd probably have threadbare, brown-colored clothing, which draped loosely around a scrawny, emancipated form.

Which, of course, gave me all the more surprise when it was a haughty, egotistical girl who told me, loudly, that I should move out of her way because "I know magic and I can burn you alive with these corpses!" I did move, by no means due to her threat, but rather her personality, which gave off something of a "Fuck your mansion, you suck anyway." sort of aura.

I followed her – she didn't see to notice due to the immensity of the sack of dead bodies behind her – and observed her. She turned around and started chanting something, and I realized that she was about to incinerate the corpses. I backed away slowly, wondering where I would hide and if she'd really burn me for what she would probably call "stalking." But in any case, the sack burst into flames, and I muffled a scream as a burning eye fell to my feet, the color turned dark by the fire.

A thought dully registered in my horror-clouded mind.

I should run away before she gets annoyed with me for staying.

I fled back to the village, running through the now-clear streets and burying myself into the familiar scent of home, though tainted by the light smell of blood.

The next time the gravedigger was needed was an odd case. All of the council had been murdered, we learned, but after a great scuffle between the guards and the underlings of a guild of assassins. These assassins, we learned, were named the Black Fang, and they had brought their justice to our village. I rushed to the council's meeting building and saw the girl, dragging the bag behind her, attempting to wade through the crowd, all of which who seemed to want to make sure that the tyrannical rulers were truly dead. But a few sparks cast into the air got the gravedigger's point across, and the crowd parted for her, like I did in that encounter awhile ago. And again, impulsively, I followed her with little else to do.

But this time, she turned around, and as if in a dramatic performance, cried, "WHY are you STALKING ME!"

I blinked. "Becaaauuse... I'm bored?" I offered weakly.

"Well, then harass someone else!" she huffed, dragging the bag behind her. "In the NAME of Saint ELIMINE, this village... sometimes I just... argh!"

I half expected her to burst into tears and turn around to sob into my chest, but she didn't, and instead continued in her indignant rampage towards the edge of the town.

The rest of the afternoon was ... bizarre. That seems to be the only rational way to explain it. She never did sob into my chest, but she did confess many things that she would maim me for repeating. And when we parted ways to go home, she noted quietly that she hated the job, but had little belief that the new council would free her.

And then, as I learned she would do almost as a reflex, she perked up and offered to teach me anima magic. "Of course," she rambled, "I can't teach you how to read, I don't know how to do that myself, but I can teach you the words of the Fire spell by rote. I mean, yeah, it's kinda shabby in battle and all what with Elfire around, but you can burn things." She gave me a look that crossed between pleading and 'Say No And You Die'.

I agreed. It was barely possible to do anything else.

The new council grew over the next few months to be as tyrannical as the old one. First, it was equal and fair, but as the former peasants began to enjoy their power, it slowly corrupted to the point that I wished desperately for the Black Fang to come and avenge us all one more. But there was a sickening twist – the Black Fang itself had been corrupted. Rumors flew that pale-faced, golden-eyed, black-haired emotionless dolls overtook them, though I myself couldn't quite see how any of that tied in to the lack of justice.

But any way that it may have happened, it happened. And as the gravedigger dragged the sack after her morosely – the village had been attacked by bandits – I trailed after her again. She let the sack rest in the same spot in the meadow as always, on top of layers of ash, and asked me, almost delicately, "Would you... like to practice the fire spell?"

She had always been blunt, and I found this stunning contrast to almost add to the haunting atmosphere of the situation. I shrank from the pile, but thought of her briefly, having to do this every other time, and felt a twinge of sympathy. "Well, then, okay. But only this time."

She gave me the tome, and I raised it into the air, chanting it beautifully that time, without any of the typical mistakes I had made in practice. But the whoosh of fire and incineration was far from beautiful, and as we sat side-by-side watching the pile burn, she took the fire tome back and left. I sat there, still and chilled, as the horrifying, oddly guilty feeling crept into me.

I secretly swore to myself that I would never burn anyone again. But the city's militia was poor, and bandits loved to raid us, with the council begging indifference. And she looked at the pile so guiltily that I felt so inclined to help her in some way, and again and again... I burned the pile of bodies, cloaking myself in the guilt instead.

My "only this time" never really did count for anything.

Anyway, as I've said before, we were invaded again, yesterday. It was the first time we had seen the Black Fang in what seemed to be eternity, and we were somewhat horrified to find that the rumors really were true. The Lycian invaders – who didn't quite look inconspicuous to us despite attempting to appear so – were truthfully on our side, and even the wise seer of the village told us that he thought that they would aid Zephiel, the hope of our future. So we trusted this after the night of the battle and hoped that they would not overlook aiding us.

Unfortunately, they did. And then was told to report in front of the council the next morn.

That next morn would be now, as I'm staring up at the council building, wondering if I should step lightly and always use my right foot first when walking. I finally decide that it probably doesn't matter and walked as elegantly as I could up the marble steps.

"Stuart," I hear snapped quickly, and I turn to them, hoping that I appeared to be formal and attentive. "We've summoned you because she –" they nod to the gravedigger – "can't work. We've let her go on the condition that there would be an adequate replacement."

"Stu, I'm really sorry you have to be put through this," she says slowly, seeming to censor herself in front of the council, "but yesterday, misfortune" – she seems to glance suggestively at a council member – "happened upon me, and I broke my leg." She gives a weak smile. "You know how to do it, you've watched me enough, so I was thinking, could you..." she trails off in the last sentence.

I want so badly to say, "Marilyn, you are insane if you think I'd do that job," but the combined glares of the councilmen – and hers to boot – quickly stifle the idea. "Um... yes, I will."

"Good," the lead councilman says, apparently satisfied, and points to the doors. "The sack and fire tome are outside, and avoid bothering passerby."

I look outside, where the remains seemed to frighten everyone into seclusion within their private dwelling, and turn back to him, giving him a dirty look and wanting so badly to scream, "What passerby! You lynched them all! The only ones who are left are the ones who are scared shitless of you!"

But I curse my weak heart and simply left to fetch the bag. But before I left, I paused, faced her, and said softly, "But only this time." She smiled back sweetly, and the council glared.

"Get to work," they order before shooing her – broken leg and all – into a back room of some sort. I turn and left, hoping that they wouldn't notice my incompetitence while they were distracted.

I pocket the fire tome and lift the sack, which is apparently one that was previously used on a farm or something of the sort, as it is muddy and greasy, and appears to be strewn with manure. I drag it by the neck and stoop down, gagging at the stench, and pick up the first body, stuffing it into the sack, which proves to be more difficult than I first imagined. It seems ridiculously heavy until I release it into the sack, which appears to be enhanced lightly of a magic of some sort, as it instantly grows lighter and more spacious. Relieved that the task would not be as difficult as it seemed, I continued to plow through the streets, lifting the bodies and all but tossing them into the sack.

I have almost cleared two streets, and the day's sun seemed unbearably heavy, and I become aware of why the gravedigger is not an emancipated shy orphan. Anyone severely malnourished, I reason, would barely be able to make it through a street before collapsing. Not that the loss of life was important to the council, but it would certainly delay the cleanup. I eye a passing woman in envy as she walks to her house with a bucket of water, but I remind myself that I've yet a long way to go.

On the fourth street, I find the first body that's alive. He was what was left of a wyvern rider, his face with heavy scratches from what I presumed was his wyvern's panic as they descended due to its broken wing, and his bones seemed to be broken chaotically, probably from when the wyvern had crashed on top of him. I supposed that his wyvern's wing had been broken, and in hasty, panicked descent, he was thrown off near the ground, and his wyvern fell upon him shortly after.

I suppose and presume all this because despite being alive, he was barely so. I lift him with a certain tenderness, almost ashamed that I would have to kill him. But he tilts his limp head towards me and murmurs, hazily, as if he were unaware of his words, "The punishment for failure is death... is death... why am I not gone? Is this perpetual pain ... what they call ... death?"

I throw him in the sack, biting my lip and trying hard not to cry, reminding myself that this would be the only time I would talk to a dying man.

I meander down the meadow, finally done with purging the village of its corpses. I drag the sack on top of all the other ashes, and I'm almost ashamed to stare at it, my gruesome accomplishment. I turn away, deciding to take a drink before I die from thirst, though I'm aware that this was probably only a mental excuse for not burning them right here and now.

Fortunately, I can spot a little well a little ways from here, and I walk over, scraping the blood, rotten meat, and whatever other mysterious residue from my hands. It was then that I noticed that I had no bucket, and I scream in frustration, leaning against the side of the well and basking in the shade for a sweet moment, although I mournfully admit that a cup of water would be sweeter.

And then, I notice a corpse lying on the meadow.

I pick myself up and begin to walk there, wondering how a dead man would find himself outside of the area of conflict. As I near him, I find that something is very odd about this corpse, and then I realize that there is no blood, no fatal wound, no burn from magic. I study him, curious, when he suddenly opened his eyes, though they were still half-lidded, and mostly a crescent of white shone from beneath the lids.

Apparently, I'm what he's looking for, as he smiles ever-so-slightly and his hand twitches slightly towards his waist. "Take... take this sword," he rasps, "and... deliver it to... Lloyd."

"Who?" I ask hesitantly, eyeing the sword only partially drawn in his scabbard. It appears to be a very fine piece, made of silver and quite thick.

"Lloyd," he persists, sounding more like he was deflating with every word. "Deliver it..."

I look at him, confused, cautiously reaching out to touch the sword. It feels cool underneath my fingertips, a sharp contrast to earlier in the day, hot underneath the sun. But it felt haunted, out of place underneath my hand, and I withdraw my arm.

I linger at his sides for a few moments more before moving to lift him up, but he was heavier than the others – or perhaps it was my mind again, with the excuses. He had so of a presence in that meadow, as if... as if he had some great role in the path of destiny by being there. And the haunted sword still left a tingle through my fingers.

So I turn away from him and walk back to my sack, where I withdraw the fire tome and chant slowly, monotonously, until the sparks fly through the air and ignite the sack. And unlike the other times before, when I had burned the pile with little hesitation, I hear a long, piercing scream. I feel breathless, and as I breathe, I realize that the scream was mine. I stared down at my hands, soiled with smeared blood; smeared as it had departed to cling to the man on the meadow. The stains continued up my arms, down my torso, and everywhere that the corpses had touched, almost making me want to burn them away with the rest of the pile.

But I stay there until the last wisps of fire melt into the last body to form the last ashes that sprinkle onto the ground, and I know that if even it was the only time the words had meaning, I would truly hold true to the time I told Marilyn – only this morning, though its distance felt so far – that I would perform this task only this time.

Endnotes: Yay for weird civilianfic.

...Oh, and the first reviewer to notice the symbolism of the OC characters' names wins. (I don't know what you win. But you win.)