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Of all the bad decisions Marth has made—and there are plenty to choose from—this is definitely one of the worst.
He ducks a wild swing from a Grustian cavalier before slashing out with Falchion to force him off his course. He tries to track his movement, but there's a whisper of steel behind him and Marth spins in time to block the deadly swing of a myrmidon's sword, gritting his teeth as he fights to keep the blade off his neck.
A flash of white streaks by and the myrmidon's eyes suddenly go wide—the shine of Caeda's lance is dulled with blood as she swings it around, expertly executing the swordsman with a grim look of determination on her face. She and Marth make brief eye-contact—he'll never get over the quiet ferocity she possesses in battle—before she's gone again, her steed giving a shrill whinny as she takes off.
With no one actively in range to kill him for one shining moment, Marth whirls around, cape flaring out behind him as he shouts across the battlefield.
"General Camus!" His voice is nearly swallowed up by the clamor and chaos of the fight, but he knows the man is near. "Can you hear me? It is I, Marth of Altea! I must speak with you! Please, show yourself!"
" Nyna, we'll soon be launching the attack. If you have something to tell me…now is the time to do it."
He truly hadn't meant anything by it. He had no idea what was bothering the princess, but he knew it had something to do with Grust's Sable General. She had been so quiet in the days leading up to their inevitable clash—with Grust allying with Doluna, they placed themselves in direct conflict with the Altean Leauge—and Marth had no earthly idea why this battle weighed any more heavily than the others.
So he had asked. And, naturally, almost immediately regretted doing so.
"When the Doluna-Grust allied forces seized control of Archanea, the entire royal family was killed, save for me." Nyna's voice was always so soft and soothing, Marth found himself especially unsettled by the grim cadence of her speech. "I was given into Grust's custody—the custody of the Sable Order, to be more specific. I am told Doluna wished for my execution—and with it the end of the holy lineage of House Archanea—and Grust was willing to comply."
Rage and pain and panic had all bubbled up in his chest—how dare Doluna even think of such a cowardly, evil act—but all Marth could manage to say was: "But you are not dead."
Nyna had eyes him sideways, no doubted enchanted by his silver tongue. "That is right," she had agreed. "I was not put to the sword. The Sable Order's captain came to my defense. His name…was Camus."
Marth had swallowed down a good half-dozen curses. Damn it all. That explained everything.
"Camus protected me," Nyna had gone on, watching Marth's expression carefully as he struggled to keep his emotions off his face. "Even knowing he risked incurring the wrath of the Shadow Dragon by doing so. He was the one who eventually arranged for my escape to Aurelis."
Even as she'd said it, it all fell into place in Marth's mind—of course General Camus had saved her. How else could she have survived the capture of her country? How else could she have escaped to Aurelis? How could she have maintained protection of the Fire Emblem? Why would the country he had served so proudly be so furious with him?
Nyna and Camus. Camus and Nyna. Marth had swallowed hard.
Gods, this was only going to end in tears.
"…I had no idea." Marth replied stiffly. "That certainly explains Doluna's displeasure with him."
Nyna looked away then, ducking Marth's gaze. "I hated him, too, at first. But in the time, I found my hatred tempered by the compassion he showed me, my feelings…changed." She had picked at the gemstone fastened to the collar of her dress, lost in thought. "And now, all I wish is to see him again…but not if it means you and he must fight."
Marth had just sighed—heavy and long—fingers tight around Falchion's hilt. "Nyna… Do you…?" She'd looked towards him quickly, the brilliant blue eyes wide.
Don't ask me that, her eyes had seemed to plead. I beg of you.
Marth had simply blown out another breath, turning to look out at the field that lay before them.
"I don't know what will happen. But I promise I will do what I can." He'd glanced down at her, lifting an eyebrow. "I hope you can accept that."
Nyna had nodded—resolute and firm. "Thank you, Marth. I could not ask for more."
The cavalier is galloping back toward him with renewed vigor, and Marth grits his teeth, spinning Falchion in a tight circle to adjust his grip as he prepares to meet him head-on—
A great white horse adorned with golden armor steps between the two, and Marth backs away as the Grustian solider yanks his own mount to a halt so sharp the horse rears, threatening to throw him—
The newcomer watches as the Grustian wrestles for control with a neutral expression. Dull gold hair falls in curls across his brow, and his black armor shines like fresh onyx. And—of course—Marth's eyes drop to the lance he holds loose at his side.
Gradivus. One of the continent's three legendary regalia.
The Sable Knight, in all his glory.
The cavalier swallows hard as he finally settles his steed, and with a silent look from Grust's finest warrior, he turns around, riding off to another part of the battle.
Alone at the outskirts of the fray, Camus finally turns to regard the prince.
"Prince Marth. I am Camus of Grust."
Marth swallows hard—partly out of nerves, partly to keep from saying something stupid, like I know—and nods somewhat stiffly, sheathing Falchion despite every self-preservation instinct in him howling in protest.
"General," he begins, forcing his eyes to stay on the man before him and not stray to where his comrades continue to fight just a few yards away. At the edge of his vision, he can just catch the dazzling flash of Navarre's blade and the emerald sheen of Abel's armor. "I have no wish to fight you. You know this battle is pointless; surely you must."
The Sable Knight arches a brow, staring down at Marth from atop his horse. His fingers flex where he holds Gradivus, and Marth's gaze is drawn to the movement. One swing from that lance and everything ends.
Marth tries not to dwell on that.
"So long as Grust continues to support Doluna's ambitions, it does not matter what I know or think," Camus replies. His voice is calm—measured. Marth can't remember the last time he himself spoke with so much composure, especially on a battlefield. "I am a knight. I have a duty to fight for my motherland's glory till the very end."
Marth's expression darkens despite his efforts to match the other man's poise. So that's what this is all about? Some ridiculous fixation on chivalry and loyalty? Grust had broken its alliance with Altea—where was his devotion then?
He grits his teeth against the accusations that spring to his tongue, struggling to remain diplomatic. "But surely—"
Camus cuts across him, his own voice losing some of its cold aloofness—warming with the beginnings of a temper. "Prince Marth, there is nothing you can do or say. I am party to your father's murder." Marth sucks it a sharp breath at this, his hand reflexively falling to seize Falchion's hilt. Camus eyes the action, and Gradivus shines in the sunlight as he adjusts his grip. "Are you a warrior or not? Draw your sword."
Marth fights the urge to remove the legendary blade of his ancestors—he owes Nyna, gods damn him, he promised her, he swore on his sword he would try to make the General see sense, for her sake—
"Stop! Camus!"
Both men go absolutely still. Surely, that's not—
Princess Nyna—heiress to all of Archanea and guardian of the Fire Emblem—appears between them. She's a windblown mess from her race across the battlefield—Marth's vision snags on a ruby splash across her cheek—but she stands as tall as she can, eyes only for the Sable General.
Camus stares back at her, all of his dignity and self-possession shattering into nothing at the sight of the princess.
"Princess Nyna…" His voice is ruinous—four syllables wracked with regret.
Marth refuses to linger on the haunted look on the General's face, instead rounding the princess. "Nyna, what are you doing here?" he demands, looking around in a panic, stepping forward to push her protectively behind him. "This is the middle of the battlefield!"
Nyna steps right past him, and Marth wonders if she even heard him at all. He wonders if she even sees him.
"I know, I know…" she murmurs, and Marth throws a look over his shoulder to see her eyes downcast, anxiously wringing her hands. "But please, Camus, listen to me…" she lifts her gaze then, and Marth grits his teeth at the way her eyes shine with unshed tears. "Camus, you gave me back my life. And Marth, he gave me back my kingdom. I do not wish to see the two of you fight. It is…" she looks away again, as though ashamed, or afraid. Marth has never seen the graceful, elegant ruler in such states. It unsettles him.
"…it is unbearable," she finishes quietly, forcing her eyes up to meet the Knight's, who looks just as troubled as she does. Two of the continent's most powerful people, shrinking in the presence of one another.
"Please, Camus, fight with us. Please. We need your strength. I—" she catches herself—a sharp gasp escaping her as Camus' eyes go wide. Marth can only stare.
For a moment, silence reigns, and Marth's hand closes over Falchion's hilt. Nyna seems to struggle with herself, looking desperate to speak but unable to get the words out—
"…I need it."
If Camus' voice had been ruinous, Nyna's is thoroughly ruined. She chokes the words out like she's drowning—like she's down to her last breath, dying of some kind of woundless pain.
Marth's eyes flicker over to Camus', his sword hand still tense. The General stares down at her, and for one, wild moment, Marth thinks—this is it. What a story it will be: how Archanea was saved by the love of these two people, how the Sable General took up their cause, donned the sigil of the Altean League, and helped lead them all to peace and victory. It will go down as their land's greatest legend—a song of love and redemption and—
"I am sorry, Princess."
Nyna backs away like she's been struck—like his words are a physical attack. Marth tries to move toward her, but he is rooted to the spot—frozen in shock.
No.
"What?" The tears Nyna had been holding back fall freely now, and she makes no move to wipe them away. "But, Camus!"
Gods, Marth wants to die at the ache in her voice—
Camus, to his credit, does not duck her gaze, but rather stares evenly at the princess as she unravels before him.
"Were my heart my master, I would do exactly as you say." Camus' voice has softened considerably—his tone so low and tender and intimate that Marth has the sudden urge to leave. To quit the scene immediately. He feels like some trespasser—an interloper bearing witness to the execution of a great love.
"But what sort of knight abandons his kingdom—his king!—now, when they need him the most?" Despair has leaked in to Camus' voice, and Marth wonders if he's trying to convince Nyna or himself. "Would you have me toss away the life I have built as if it meant nothing at all?"
"No." Nyna denies his accusation fiercely, but then wavers—caught between so many directions—what is true, what is right, what she wants, what must never be. A sob wracks her body, and she wraps her arms around herself as though she is in danger of falling to pieces. "Camus, I…. I don't know…"
Camus looks down at her sadly. His horse nickers softly, straining against his master's reigns to try and reach Nyna, whose entire form threatens to collapse at a moment's notice.
"I have lived as a knight, and I intend to die as one," Camus tells her—with great gentleness and great pain. "There are no other roads left for me to walk." He pauses, and for the first time, the Sable Knight cannot hold the princess' gaze, and he looks away. "Farewell, my princess," he says—so quietly Marth knows it was meant only for her. "I shall never forget our days together at the palace, few though they were. I pray…" he trails off, hand tightening where he holds Gradivus, and he seems to marshal his resolve as he casts one last look at Nyna.
"I pray you meet someone who can bring joy back into your life."
Nyna's hands are cupped around her mouth—trying to contain the sorrow spilling out of her. She trembles where she stands, and Marth longs to comfort her, but he knows there is only one person capable of that.
The person in question holds Nyna's gaze for a moment longer, before—with a sharp look to Marth that leaves the prince bewildered—rallies his steed and charges off into the heart of the battle.
For moment, nothing is said—which does not surprise Marth in the slightest. He has absolutely nothing to contribute, and doubts very seriously Nyna will be speaking any time in the near future. The only acceptable course of action is to let the princess cope and mourn, but he cannot allow her to stay this close to danger any longer.
"Forgive me, Nyna," he begins, stepping closer—into the space previously occupied by the man she loved above all reason and in the face of all odds. He doesn't even know what exactly he's apologizing for—not because he feels he's done nothing wrong, but rather, he feels he's done everything wrong.
Nyna does not turn to look at him, but she lowers her hands enough to speak. "No, Marth," she whispers, her voice thick with tears. "I…I should not have made such a selfish request. I am sorry, so terribly sorry…"
She cannot bring herself to look away from the place where Camus once stood.
"The worst part, Marth…" she says—words choked and tight. "The worst part is, I knew it would come to this. Ever since I gave you the Emblem, I just knew…" She trails off, giving him a tearful sideways look. "Have you heard the story of Artemis' Curse?"
Marth has not, and while he finds himself genuinely interested, he is also painfully aware of the battle raging not ten yards from them. He places a hand of Nyna's arm, carefully—oh so carefully—beginning to lead her father away.
"I have not," he tells her, prompting her to talk in hopes it will distract her enough to allow him to pull her to safety. He takes a few more backwards steps, leading her back towards their encampment. Over Nyna's shoulder, the fight continues—the battlefield explodes with the brilliance of Linde's light magic and several arrows loosed by Jeorge whistle through the air. Marth searches for Caeda but cannot find her.
"The last time the Fire Emblem changed hands to save House Archanea, it was not without cost." Nyna's eyes are clouded and unfocused—Marth fears she's falling into shock, but still she speaks. "There was a princess named Artemis who loved your ancestor, Anri, with all her heart."
Her words tickle Marth's memory—he knows Anri, certainty, Falchion's first master, and hearing him paired with the name Artemis feels…familiar.
"He loved her as well," Nyna continues. "But when Medeus appeared, the two were parted forever because of his duty. She cursed the Fire Emblem—called it the end of war, but also the end of love. Now the Emblem has changed hands again, and I am the one who is cursed…" She trails off—her words practically dripping misery and pain.
Marth abandons his search for Taly's princess to grip Nyna's arm tighter, frowning hard at her words.
"You are not cursed, Princess. There is still hope we can—"
" Caeda!"
Marth's words die on his tongue as he hears Ogma bellow the name of his charge—who is, of course, none other than Princess Caeda—and feels his whole world tilt dangerously as he watches the Pegasus Knight swoop down in a risky dive, lance out, pointed toward Camus—
Mind blank with panic, Marth lurches forward, scrabbling to draw Falchion as he watches the scene unfold with horror—Camus lifts Gradivus to block her strike, and her lance screams as it's dragged down the shaft of the legendary weapon.
Marth rushes forward—nearly losing his footing in his absolute haste—as Camus brings up the lance to strike Caeda down, the princess caught awkwardly in the momentum of her failed attack, teeth bared in a challenge as she faces him down—
Falchion meets Gradivus in a shower of sparks as Marth throws himself between the two, wincing with effort as for one moment, all the might of Grust seems to be bearing down on him—
Suddenly, the pressure vanishes, and Marth blinks in surprise as Camus abruptly pulls back his weapon. He readies Falchion, unnerved by the Knight's sudden retreat, but then he sees Camus' eyes drift between Caeda and Marth, and some kind of understanding seems to light his eyes.
Without a word, Camus pulls his horse around and drives his heels into its sides, spurring his steed on and away from the pair. Marth watches him go, chest heaving as adrenaline and fear swirl through his bloodstream.
"Marth?" Caeda has dismounted, one hand on his shoulder. "Marth, are you all right? I know that was risky but he was trying to get to Merric and I simply couldn't stand by—"
Marth's only response is to place his own hand on her shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze he knows she feels despite her armor. Caeda nods her understanding—that look of gentle ferocity returning—and they both drop their hands as she swings back astride her Pegasus and Marth spins Falchion in a quick circle, trying to center himself.
Across the field, Nyna watches—hand over her heart.