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spiritgriffon · 7 years ago

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Happy Halloween! Here’s a spooky Fire Emblem fic!

Title: 31 Days of Hell on Archanea

Author: Rachael D.J AKA LeopardGal6

Pairing: Ogma/Navarre, Marth/Caeda

Genre: Horror, (Dark) Humor, Romance, Hurt/Comfort

Chapters: 3 of ???

Warnings: Zombie guts everywhere, dark humor

Words: 3824 for chapters 1-3

Summary: Five years after the costly war between worlds ended, peace has returned to Archanea. But when a blood moon rises over the land for 31 days, ancient terrors begin to roam the lands and those once considered dead rise again! Along the way lies dark temptations, a second chance at lost love, unethical experiments, one gloomy ghost that simply will -not- pass on, and Entirely Too Many Zombies! Enter... if you dare!

Rating: M

Read it on FFN and Ao3

“You have a lot of nerve.”

Ogma gave the unwelcome man standing at the foot of the bed his best I’ve-killed-a-lot-of-people-and-you-know-it glare, sorely tempted to revisit his old ways. Waking up at an ungodly hour of the morning with a man standing in his room would have been unpleasant no matter the person. A stranger would have likely meant an assassin or robber- messy, but easily dealt with. An old friend like the little prince- no, king now- would have meant extra work at best and reopening old wounds at worst. There may have been one person he’d have been glad to see, once, who had strolled into his bedchamber with the first morning light, left hand full of flowers, fresh bandages in her right and smile more radiant than the sun, but that little girl had become a woman and then that woman had died, many long years ago.

And yet, there was likely not one person in this world or any other he’d have wanted to break into his house and watch him sleep less than Navarre.

Ogma felt his brow crease as his scowl deepened. The tall man’s dark hair hid enough of his pale face that he seemed to melt into the shadowed doorway, the other edge of his frame blurred in the low light- yet his expensive crimson tunic seemed to glow against the blackness, making him unmistakable. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Navarre didn’t immediately respond, yet he turned the white shadow of his face directly towards the other man’s. Ogma felt a shiver go down his spine despite himself- Navarre gave off an eerie presence at the best of times, and his hidden eyes gave the illusion of being faceless.

But the man’s next words were far more chilling than anything his imagination could have cooked up.

“You know me?”

Navarre’s voice was quiet, barely a whisper, yet his low baritone seemed to brush across Ogma’s bare skin like a draft. Ogma pulled his blanket close and stood, floor creaking heavily under his weight, yet his legs were unwilling to bring his body a single step closer to the mass of utter Wrongness that stood at the foot of his bed.

A sudden gust of autumn wind chose that moment to slam into the side of his cabin- his bedroom shudders thudding against the side of the building with such force that the entire wall groaned. Ogma started, wincing at the sudden blast of cold. He took a step to shut the window but when he turned, the younger man stood bare inches from his face.

Ogma did not jump back as his reflexes were tempted to do, but sucked in a sudden breath, pure ice filling his lungs. His first thought was that he did not know this man. Despite the oddly persisting blurriness that seemed to greaten with the closeness rather than falter, he could tell that these were not his old rival’s eyes.

Navarre’s eyes always shone cold and hard, every bit as threatening as his blade. On the incredibly rare occasion the man’s guard lowered as far as he would ever allow it, when you could see the ghost of pain in his expression and hear the involuntary shudder in his breath, the threat in his face changed to a perhaps even more dangerous “Don’t you dare pity me.” But who or what stood before him was an entirely different creature, all vulnerability and want and more fearful than he’d ever have guessed possible for that man’s stern face to display.

The man spoke again, rivulets of electric ice running across Ogma’s skin as he did so.

“Who am I?”

Ogma opened his mouth to reply, but the room spun violently for an instant and a blinding flash filled his vision-

Ogma blinked blearily at the morning sun. He groaned and pulled his blanket closer against the morning chill- just a dream. Nightmares were hardly unheard of for him, but rarely of such an eerie nature. He threw his cover off and sat up with a hearty thwack! as his head hit the underside of his bedside table. Ogma let out a guttural curse as he rubbed his forehead.

“Please, don’t incapacitate yourself again.”

Ogma felt his blood freeze at the low, scornful whisper. He leapt to his feet and looked around furiously for the source of the voice- the telltale shadow shifting in the corner allowing him to notice the red blur concealed within. Ogma stared at the corner as his mind attempted to make logical sense of what he saw, as the illusory figure seemed to look not back at, but through him, judgmentally.

“Tell me now, who am I?”

It was a bloodbath.

Medeus was a ferocious threat, all on his own- but none could have predicted Gharnef using the last of his power to rip open the barrier between dimensions as his final bid for victory. The then prince Marth had reacted far better than any man could be expected to, filling in his commanders (what Gharnef had destroyed was known as a Outrealm Gate, the same kind that once allowed access to Zenith,) and redirecting his troops without pause, but there was nothing anyone could have done to stop the thousands, perhaps millions of beasts flooding into Archanea without sacrifices.

The prince was not someone capable of making such a call- anyone who knew the prince for a day could tell that much. However, there were those among his most trusted who were unafraid to lay down their lives for their prince’s cause.

Tiki’s ancient ceremony to temporarily gather the power of the Outrealms in a physical form- it was enough, in the end, to quell the fighting. To save the world.

And the prince was just naive enough not to ask if it would cost the lives of his companions to complete.

Ogma was a simple man. He was not unintelligent in any way- his life had taught him tactics, mathematics, and everything necessary for survival and then after the war, living comfortably. It would not be inaccurate to say he was more knowledgeable than most, despite his illiteracy. But he detested complexities- things such as politics, adventure, romance and religion had brought him nothing but stress. If the world outside his workshop was unpleasant, then he had no desire to bring it into his life.

And that was why, even if Navarre had no ill intentions and was truly in need of help, Ogma found the most complex, stressful, unpleasant and utterly irritating person he’d ever had the misfortune to meet walking back into his life again after disappearing for five whole years… grating.

“Tell me now, who am I?” Navarre demanded.

As if he had the right to demand anything! Ogma stood, unashamed of his unclothed state. Ogma would not be talked down to by anyone, especially this man, even literally. Navarre had always been the more modest of the two- if it flustered him, even better.

Ogma crossed his arms. “Did you loose your memory?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Same here.”

“Who am I, to you?”

“The man I’m about to throw out of my house.”

Navarre let out a low, frustrated growl. Ogma forced back a smirk- everything between the two was a contest, always. Ogma wouldn’t give any more than he was given- they’d lost the delicate balance, the last year before everything went to hell, but it was there once and Ogma had always had confidence they could find it again.

Navarre had told him he’d given up on doing so some time ago, but he didn’t remember that at the moment, did he?

“You’re a guest in my house- either get your attitude in order and step out of the shows so I can see you or get out,” Ogma challenged. In the few seconds of charged silence, he could feel the hairs on his arms stand on end.

The crimson blur shifted. “You will tell me who I am.”

“Wrong answer.” In a move swifter that his bulky form looked appeared to be able to move, Ogma vaulted over the corner of the bed and thrust his hand into the shadow. His fist connected with the wooden wall loudly and painfully, and Ogma swore colorfully. Navarre was far faster than him, he knew that much, yet the element of surprise was on his side. By all logical reason, he should have been able to grab Navarre’s coat and throw him into the street.

Ogma’s brain felt the equivalent of a clock with a broken gear, pressure building as he strained to understand what he saw. Navarre had simply… gone through the wall, as if he had no substance at all. Ogma looked, slack-jawed, out the nearby window, and sure enough, Navarre lay sprawled on the dirt outside. Navarre stood and walked up to the window-

And through the window.

Ogma scrambled backwards and fell heavily onto the bed as the corner connected with the backs on his knees. “Gods! Gods above! What manner of beast are you?”

In the sunlight, Ogma could see the figure for what he truly was- completely translucent, the dust motes in the air phasing through Navarre without disturbance. He left not even a shadow on the room. Navarre raised his hand and looked down at it with an irritated scowl.

“I can remember neither who nor what I am- but from what I can gather, I was assumed dead?” Navarre raised his glowing silver gaze to meet Ogma’s own startled one. “I come to find that assumption… increasingly likely.”

“My name is Navarre, family name unknown. I am a mercenary and a former general in the army led by the man that now is the undisputed king of these lands. I had an apprentice but neither wife nor children. Before joining the military, I was known as ‘The God of Death…’ ”

Ogma poked at his cooking bacon sullenly. He had work to do today, and that didn’t include babysitting an amnesiac monster. “You’re an ass too, don’t forget that bit,” he muttered quietly.

“You there. You! None of this sounds familiar in the least.”

“I have a name. It’s not ‘You.’ ”

“Are you lying to me?”

Ogma flipped his meat and grit his teeth. “Everything I told you about Navarre is true. I have no clue if you’re him or a terror wearing his skin, though.”

“That is entirely possible. Do you consider it likely?”

Ogma felt his throat clench as he turned his head. Navarre- or whatever was taking his form- sat not in a chair but on thin air, legs crossed and one shin halfway inside the table. Ogma swallowed. “Can’t you sit on a chair like a decent person?”

“No, I cannot touch it. Answer my question.”

“You act just like him,” he answered morosely.

“Hmm.”

Ogma felt… heavy. He’d never told anyone, of course, but there was more than one night he’d bent his knee to a higher power and begged Naga to let him see his old friends again. The group that had gone to the dragon’s altar with Tiki- Navarre, Caeda, Cain, Abel, and Draug- had never truly been found, dead or alive. There had been blood and bits of armor and clothing left at the scene, sure, but they’d never found anything that completely proved that the entire group had died beyond Ogma’s deepest doubts. He’d never reasonably thought he’d see them again, not after nearly six years had passed, but a small part of him had still hoped.

But not like this- not as an incorporeal creature that he could not touch and hold, not as a fractured man that held so little ties to his old self that he balked as his own name. Ogma felt heavy with guilt that he’d ever asked for Navarre to come back.

And though he’d never admit it, even more so for being disappointed that the one to return to him wasn’t his beloved princess.

Navarre turned his head towards the window, a thoughtful expression on his face, his long hair trailing out around him weightlessly. He really was beautiful- the sun catching on his cheekbones and long lashes illuminating the gentle curves of his long face. He’d always looked like he didn’t quite fit into the mortal world- like he was a marble statue that had come to life and was disappointed in every bit of the filthy humanity he saw. He’d laughed one drunken night, when he’d told Ogma how it had hurt when the people of the town he’d grown up in had feared he was a god of death taking the form of a child, how he’d reclaimed the name years later to help his career as a mercenary, how doing so had made him feel powerful. He’d asked Ogma that night how anyone could have seen him as a creature of the underworld when he was only a plain man, and Ogma had looked into his eyes and replied “Ridiculous,” even though he saw the same thing those scared peasants had seen, he could barely picture the man slumped against his shoulder as human himself. Ogma couldn’t tell him the truth was that Navarre could be as otherworldly and eerie as he’d like and it would make Ogma see him as no less than he did now, that he’d still be beautiful in his eyes, because that was the wrong answer and it would hurt Navarre more than a sword through the gut ever would. Navarre lay his head against his shoulder and Ogma had thought that Navarre was intoxicated enough that he’d gotten away with the lie, but then Navarre had disappeared into the night after Medeus was slain without a word, and when next they’d met Navarre with more than half-mad with anger, voice breaking as he’d hissed how they were the same.

Ogma couldn’t bear to look at the man’s face any longer. He gazed down at his nearly charred breakfast with a solemn frown. The day was showing no signs of getting better.

Marth, holy king of the continent of Archenea, heir to the divine blade Falchion and last living son of the bloodline of Anri the Great, was scared of few things. He’d seen too much, felt too much, bled for king and country and precious companions far too many times. He’d lost all he could not bare to lose and more- there was very little left in this world for him to fear.

That said, he held very little love for the basement of Archanea Palace. Marth pulled his cape tightly around his torso as he made his way through the dreary halls- perhaps he’d get the thing lined with fur one of these days. It was very important that such a powerful man look that part in all but his bedchamber- he had to set an example for all his people at all times.

“I don’t care. I want a coat! A fuzzy one!”

Feena, damn her, had said “No. That’s not in fashion,” and turned on her heal to leave.

For the supposedly most powerful man on the continent, Marth felt he had very little control over his subjects. Or maybe just Feena. Probably just Feena.

Not that he would ever want to have a meek, spineless sycophant for a consort- but some more respect would be nice! It wasn’t as if her position was so utterly solidified that she was forever beyond replacement. She liked pretty princess dresses and shiny jewels and fancy dinner parties with stuffy royals and being able to dance for the people of Palace City without threats of rape from every depraved nobleman with two coins to rub together. Marth liked the fact the she openly admitted that she did not love him and swore to ask for no more than she gave (and promised to get him out of as many obnoxious state dinners as he asked. That was a good bonus.) Feena had no interest in leading the people in any more that fashion trends, and Marth liked being able to rule his people without an inexperienced noble's daughter he barely knew as his right hand. It was a good deal for both of them, but if Marth wanted to, he could kick her out in a second. He wouldn’t actually do it in reality, and Feena knew that, the sly girl, but Marth allowed himself his dark thoughts as slimy, smelly ceiling water dripped on his exposed head. Marth wrinkled his nose. “Next time she wants something out of the vault she can get it herself,” Marth said aloud.

“Don’t kid yourself,” said a voice from far, far too close to the king’s face.

Marth let out a noise that he assured himself was a very manly shout.

Much to the girl's credit, she didn’t laugh.“You’re too much of a gentleman for that and you know it,” Kris said, stepping into the candlelight. “Did I startle you, my liege?”

Marth crossed his arms. “What do you think? And I told you to call me-”

She bowed her head. “I apologize,” she interrupted, as she always did when he tried to get his friend to call him by his given name. She raised her head, a sly smile on her lips. “This is what my lady requested, is it not?” she asked. She held out the jewel-encrusted golden bangle.

“Yes. Kris, you’ve saved my life again.”

“Nonsense! I did no such thing, my liege.”

“Are you saying that I lie?” he growled quietly.

“Wha- I... No, I- I mean-”

Marth ruffled the sputtering girl’s hair. “I’m teasing you, Kris. I’m the one with the weight of the world on my shoulders, you should lighten up!”

“I think it is inappropriate for my liege to torment his servants,” Kris grumbled.

Marth swung his arm around Kris’ shoulders. “And I think my lady would do well to grow a sense of humor.”

“Right away, my liege.”

As the two walked back, Marth’s arm slid off Kris’ shoulder and he intertwined his fingers with hers. He smiled- there were few left among the living he could count as true a friend as Kris. He did not love her any more than he loved Feena, but there were not infrequent times when he wished he’d successfully convinced his general to join him beyond the court as well.

She’d told him that he should wait until he found love again to take a consort, not to settle for a friend. Marth dearly wished he could have taken that advice, but it was impossible to do. He was a king before he was a man, and though the love of his life was dead, he’d eventually need an heir. Such was his fate.

“How is your research progressing, Kris?”

“Quite well. Lord Merric is making decent headway into translating the ancient tome.”

“The one Queen Celica brought back from Thabes?”

“Yes, the one than cost us half of Altea’s wheat crop,” Kris said sourly.

Marth sighed. “The Valentinians were in the midst of a drought, we were not. I am aware the cost was higher than its worth, but it was more an excuse to send aid that the counsel would allow than an actual trade. We've been over this,” he said pointedly.

“She found it on Archanean soil. There��s a reason some call her the Thief Queen.”

“Kris, I’m quite sure you’re the only one that- hold. The torches have all gone out twenty feet ahead.”

Marth released Kris’ hand to reach for his hidden blade- one couldn’t be too cautious, even in one’s own castle. “Is someone there?”

Footsteps- not steady at all, drunken and dragging roughly across the stone. The torchlight behind them flickered on something ahead, then-

“My liege! My lady!”

Marth released his blade’s hilt with a sigh of relief. “Wrys, old friend. Why did you put out the lights?”

The old man’s head glinted. “I was down here looking for some mana herbs- quite potent medicine they make, you know. And impossible to grow on a farm, yes, quite tricky. Where was I? Ah, yes, I was down here looking for herbs when the lights went out and I became terribly lost. It is quite drafty down here and-”

Marth was only half listening when the old man let loose an ungodly scream and fell fully into the light, bleeding from his arm.

“Wrys! Kris, take care of him!” he shouted, grabbing his dagger.

“Aye!”

Marth saw it again, the golden glint of metal. Marth stepped forward, and quickly stabbed above Wrys’ prone from, his blade easily meeting its mark. He twisted and pulled, a horrid wet sound echoing as he eviscerated the attacker. Marth kicked the body back into the darkness, the feeling of the attacker's ruptured intestines rubbing along his hand as they fell making Marth really wish he’d brought something a bit longer. Marth flicked his blade. “Hang on, Wrys. I’ll get you to the in-”

Marth’s breath was knocked out of his lungs as he fell, painfully. The attacker had an iron grip on his sword hand, and Marth felt an incredible pressure around his neck. In less than ten seconds, a blinding flash of light and heat blasted the assailant off of him with an unpleasant squelch.

“On your guard, Kris! There’s likely more of them.”

“No, that…”

Kris looked as if she’d seen a ghost, and did not raise her tome.

“What is it?”

“That was the same… woman…”

Marth picked a bloody tooth out of his damaged pauldron. It was a good thing Feena had convinced him to march around the castle in full battle armor. For once. Even a broken clock was right twice a day, he supposed. “What do you mean, the same woman?”

Kris had no time to warn him- her eyes grew wide as Wrys whispered “Oh dear,” and Marth whirled on the threat.

The thing that was once human was back on its (her?) feet somehow, shambling towards them. She was still on fire and missing an arm (and logically a few teeth, though Marth wasn’t close enough to see which ones, not that he particularly wanted to know,) and the hole Marth had made in her gut continued dripping foulness. The only part of her that looked as if it should still be functioning was a mask- polished stone, or perhaps metal, with a repeated eyeball pattern yet no actual eye holes- only a joint for the grinning mouth.

For a horrible moment, the three were frozen in fear.

Wrys’ shouted “Oh dear!” broke the spell and the young king grabbed each of his companions by the arm and dragged them through the darkness as quickly as his panicked feet would allow. Marth later heard that the screams could be heard throughout the castle- and that he’d accidentally grabbed Wrys by the bad arm.

#fire emblem #fe shadow dragon #Navarre #Nabarl #Ogma #Marth #My writing #wip #Halloween #Spooky

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