#Dont mind me...... just an unhappily realistic fe3/12 drabble u__u

[arcstral]

Drabble:   𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆-𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑

               The first observation that alights upon him is the stench. The medley of old dried blood, unwashed hair, and ammonia-piss staled beneath the desert sun. A rank fetor that he could not have imagined belonging to any civilized man, much less a properly knighted one who once served under a kingdom’s banner. Beneath the formerly noble Hardin, least of all. 

               “..If it isn’t the ever illustrious Marth. Your light is blinding as always, lord. A sure model of perfection in everything you have wrought and attained!” Wolf greets unkindly, a mocking semblance of the proud warrior he once was as he leans over his rusted bow. Marth had seen that bow dearly loved and oiled in the previous war. Now he sees it plucked from grace just as its master.

               A knight without purpose, without a lord’s greater cause to purify the honorable designs of his body and soul, is no better than any lawless barbarian that dots Anri’s Way. If not him, this opinion surfaces by the wrinkled noses of Kris and Cain, disgusted by what they behold and holding in their tongues. Breathing thinly from their mouths. Marth himself steels; he does not dilute his reception of these perversions. His judgement must ring true.

               “My apologies for not noticing it sooner, Wolf. Roshea has filled me in on the details. I see now that you are a harm to yourself and to the morale of your fellow knights. I will deal with you. Before then, I would hear what you have to say.”

               “..You? Deal with me?” Wolf spits, eye-whites glaring and his pupils quivering with rage like a stuck, doped bull. Marth had meant his words compassionately but somehow it is the wrong thing to say. “If you have given me leave to voice my sickening thoughts, then I will say them, Marth. You are the reason I am driven to these infernal pits! Hardin’s killer; King-slayer!!”

               ‘Hero-King’ was not his only title. He has known this, speculated it to be the truth long before Wolf uttered his fears aloud, yet it does not strike him as any less painful. Marth jolts as if he were slapped, then shoves Kris back with his elbow, unthinking but rightfully expectant that the knight will charge forward to dash the Aurelian’s head from his shoulders. At least Cain and Jagen had the wise benefit of a few more years to temper their emotions. He is lucky Merric keeps Elice company in the palace, lest his Excalibur show the man to an untimely end spattered across the sands of his forefather’s pilgrimage.

              “..Forgive me,” he says, and is only able to say, his fists clenched. Jiol, Medeus, Hardin. He has performed regicide thrice over the course of two wars but in Hardin’s case alone he has not found cause to savor it in the slightest.

               A mere three weeks have passed since the war, a simple one since he has ascended the Archanean throne. Marth learns that it will be months and years before he earns the love of all the people and knights who he proclaims to rule.