"There hasn't been a new challenger in a while. I think it'll be someone new, don't you?"

They met in the gardens, a usual afternoon rendezvous with no rhyme or reason other than to stay entertained. Everything there remained a testament to Peach, even after so long. Ten, maybe more years? It seemed time never moved in this place – and as such remained meticulous. Perfectly manicured garden hedges (pink roses embedded in the bushes), delicate tea tables (set with pink, flowered cups and saucers), a shining fountain (pink petals floating on the surface); all that was missing was a view of her stained glass portrait gracing the castle entrance to remind you that this place belong to Peach and solely Peach. She was, of course, not opposed to sharing.

Marth was certain Link wished she should not have shared. Though now it was used as a meeting place for the challengers, he looked incredibly uncomfortably around so much glass wear in a place that was an arena in the early years of the tournament. And while used to such formalities like not shattering pottery, Marth would agree. He did not want to be here, in the back of the castle surrounded by soft music, the hum of water, and fine finger foods. He wanted to be standing diligently at the drawbridge for the newcomer's arrival. Sometime today or tomorrow was all they were told.

Sometime today or tomorrow. With the uncertainty came a guarantee that this attendee would be arriving from somewhere far away. That in itself was vague, as Marth couldn't tell what constituted far or close to here. Wherever here was. Much like the flow of time in this place, the location was bizarre. The concept was bizarre. You received your letter, and would pack regardless of your intentions to attend. You would be a challenger whether you wished it or not. You would fight day after day, pushed by some unknown motivation to win, awarded no prize or fame, and continue until suddenly you were ripped away from this world and back to that world, or that world back to this world, the people changing, the monsters changing, the threat of death or consequences changing… it all smeared together.

The adjustment was hard. Leaving was harder.

Times like this were to be treasured in the tournament; unofficially dubbed The Tournament of Champions by Captain Falcon in the first round years before Marth attended. The tournament itself marked a beginning of training and fighting and strategizing, finding the weaknesses and strengths of your opponents, working to obtain some grand title as the best even though no one was ever recognized in the last tournament or the tournament before, nor would they be in the coming tournament. But somewhere along the way, you managed to discover tidbits of information about your allies, and about your foes, and for most people, even about yourself.

Before the fighting was a time of waiting. You could not train and you could not analyze your opponents beyond more than socializing, but you could come to know the challengers as individuals rather than opponents. There was time to do that during the tournament, but only limited time and time spent being wary of the intentions of others. Some have clear intentions: Kirby or Bowser with their straightforwardness, but others are much harder to read. Samus, the brooding beauty from a dimension Marth could not understand and an expression he could not read; the newcomer only called the Villager with the ability to change appearance from male to female in the blink of an eye. Why, even now Villager donned very pink hair, perhaps to match the castle décor—

"Marth?"

He tore his eyes away from the girl. Trainer, the new woman attending with Villager, gave him a curious look midway through offering Link another finger sandwich.

"Do the rumours that a newcomer will be from your world hold any merit?"

The look she was giving him was innocent enough. A question asked out of mere curiosity and nothing more, but it made him hesitate nonetheless. They mistook the pause for him searching for the proper English words.

"Roy left in the second tournament to care for his father and become marquee. Ike returned to his world for war. My, ah, world? My world happens before their world, I do not know if they live."

The somber words leave the table quiet. All the others come from a dimension in which death does not seem to exist, or where war has fewer consequences. But death and war run rampant in his dimension, so the concept doesn't sway him. Regardless, the weight of his words run deep.

Ike. Roy. He must remind himself that adjusting is hard.

Marth smiles, but even he can feel it is a distant look when he picks up his tea. "It has been long since a newcomer. It may be one of mine."

He wishes it isn't. He becomes fast friends with the newcomers of his own dimension, and later competitive rivals. Newcomers from his dimension speak his language and understand his ways, as they too are considered revered swordsmen of high rank. And yet, he still wishes the newcomer is not of his dimension. Spare his old friends, let him be selfish and wish they are brought back for this new Tournament of Champions, and let him see they are alive and doing well.

Marth wants to have the same moment Peach does when Rosalina and Luma arrive. A reunion between the two women, and a fast friendship formed between Luma and Kirby. He is glad there is no new swordsman from his realm, but as the newcomers arrive and veterans continue to fill up the rooms, Marth feels pangs of dread.

There is no news from his world. He is the only representative so far.

The tournament will begin soon. Meeting the challengers at the gates has become an event of high anticipation. Rather than excitement, Marth is becoming more and more anxious. There is still no word from Roy or Ike, and there are no newcomers from his world. Those who return or are new to the tournament are carefree, motivated to give it their all. Marth can't bring himself to share their enthusiasm, as his energies are spent wondering if his friends are dead or alive.

Everyone welcomes Meta Knight back with joyous, though calm open arms. Kirby is the only exception. He topples his rival over and they roll in the dirt comically a few bounces away from the group before Meta Knight manages to fly a safe distance away. It's endearing, really, and their squishy appearances do nothing to convince the new Champions that they're worthy foes. Another competitor added to the rank, another warrior striving for greatness and victory. Another body to fill the roster.

Marth wondered how much time was left before the tournament started. There were unfilled rooms, and Champion Announcements were dribbling in slowly according to the other members. But, when he thought about it, Marth couldn't seem to recall if he had arrived days ago or weeks ago, or even months ago.

Years ago, during the Melee Championship, Roy described his own rendition of being pulled into the tournament. He ignored the letter. An unknown sender, presenting him with the "opportunity" to leave his ill father in search of a championship title he did not need and did not want was not on his list of priorities. One day, the time for him in his world had run out. Merely fifteen years old… stumbling through his castle near-blind and near-lame, describing his experience as a psychedelic blur of the wall tapestries and torches lining the halls, calling out helplessly for his father to help him until he had all at once awoken on a dirt path with nothing in sight but the sky, a stadium, and a blue-haired swordsman trying to kill him. A blue-haired swordsman who did kill him, so he thought, until he had woken up again for the second time in what seemed like five minutes surrounded by strangers.

That was what happened when you refused the invitation. You left your world without notice and returned as if you never left but you did. There was no sign of your absence to everyone else, but though it felt surreal and dream-like, you knew. It happened, the fights you fought were real, the injuries you felt were real, and the time was real. But none of it was.

Ike had left for an impending war. Inevitable, he called it. He said no more than that and Marth never pushed it. The fear of losing a friend and a comrade in arms and… well. That was undeniable. That was real.

A new challenger will be arriving this morning is all the bulletin said. It never said more than that, but never has such a simple statement seen so many kinds of people – animals? Creatures? – in such a flurry.

Who will it be? How strong will they be? Are they new? Will they be friendly or mean? Are they from my world, or from yours? Pointless questions until they saw someone come down the path leading to Peach's Castle.

Pit is always the first to know. Those wings mixed with that level of inquisitiveness make for a very good informant, if not a slightly obnoxious one. Any small detail would be yelled down from his resting place atop the highest flag of the castle pillars. Pikachu and Charizard waited there as well, so attached to their trainer that they probably felt more alone than even Marth did. The newcomer Greninja also shared an interest in seeing the challenger, whether it be for sheer curiosity or some ulterior motives. Perhaps he also had a trainer. No matter, Marth stopped trying to understand Pokémon behaviour two tournaments ago.

"It's a human! Probably!" yelled Pit from the flagpole. No one on the ground could even see a figure outline yet, let alone make statistical calls. "A guy! …Probably!"

"Is he carrying a weapon?" the Villager asked. By now, no one was unsettled by the mischievous, if not deviant tone of question.

"Uh, hard to tell, actually." Pit raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, squinting. "Yeah, definitely a man. He's huge! Maybe as big as Cap'pa!"

"Well then maybe it is Falcon."

"No, I don't think so. He normally drives, doesn't he?"

There was silence for a few moments as Pit mulled it over. The stretch of land was so long and flat, just walking down the path could take up to an hour and half. Anyone seen from the castle gates might not arrive for a half hour.

A man. A large, humanoid man, as big as Captain Falcon but not Captain Falcon.

"Ganondorf?" Marth called up the castle wall.

"Could be, actually!" Behind him, Marth could almost hear Link and Toon Link break into a cold sweat.

And then they waited. Marth closed his eyes and thought. He thought up any images of Roy and Ike he could grab onto in his mind. Roy, narrow-built and baby-faced Roy, not at all at a disposition to become a man as tall or as wide as Ganondorf. He could not conjure an image of Roy looking like anything but a boy named Master Lord in place of his father. A boy who could take up all female attention without realizing it yet still enjoy it regardless. A boy with an equally boyish smile that would call him brother. Surely he could not have grown into a man even after all these years.

Ike came next. In the few conversations they'd had about Ike's father, Marth was told he was a magnificent man. An infamous knight, built to last but unlucky enough to not. Most likely… a large man? That specific topic never came up. But Ike's father had wielded an axe with ease, just as he had wielded Ike's own sword, Ragnell. And Ike, yes, he was sturdy when he left. He had arrived a younger man than Marth in the previous tournament, but bigger and became bigger over time. He could be even bigger now, if he was brought back older. He could be brought back to the tournament older than Marth, after the war. Maybe. Time in this place… he dwelled on it too much.

No one wanted to be the one to run up to a stranger whose temperament they did not know. Pit remained silent. He'd given as many details as he could for now. But the others were eager to know who their new friend, ally, and opponent would be; they remained on the ready. Marth remained on the ready.

Please… please, just let them be okay. Let it be one of them. Let it be—

"Ike!" screamed Pit. "It's Ike, it's definitely Ike!"

Marth wants to sink to his knees. But his legs automatically start walking, then jogging, and running, and sprinting down the path fueled by Pit's announcement. It's the better alternative because once he clears the crest of the hill, he sees the figure of a man. A tall man, lugging a ludicrous golden sword over his shoulder that doesn't match the tattered clothes or ruffled hair Marth is imagining in his mind.

Soon the details become clearer. It is Ike. And just as Marth considers stopping sometime soon, maybe digging his heels into the ground and walking the rest of the way, he's bowled right into Ike and toppled him over.

Or he would have, if Ike wasn't a walking pile of bricks.

Ike manages to sidestep Marth and catch him around the waist with his free arm. He follows through with it, swinging Marth back around and up onto his feet properly in a way that leaves Marth only a little winded.

"So graceful." Ike teases in a familiar tone. In a familiar language. Everything about him is so familiar.

And yet, Ike is entirely different. His voice is deeper. His jaw is sharper, and his hair is shorter though still unruly. He's taller, significantly so, and older than Marth. Stronger than Marth. He looks as if he's tripled in size, as if his body finally filled out to match that monster of a sword, Ragnell. Marth can feel the muscles of his forearm against his stomach, which feels ridiculous because his arms alone just might be the thickness of Marth's waist.

Ike is alive. Marth can't speak. He can barely stand when Ike puts him upright.

"Prince Marth?"

"Lord Ike," is all he can manage.

"Actually, I'm a vanguard now."

The war, Marth realizes. There was a war, and Ike survived it.

"You won." The words come out breathless. But Ike knows what he means and nods. "What happened to you? You've changed so much!"

Ike laughs at this and throws a heavy arm around Marth's shoulders. "You just said it yourself: we won. A mercenary troop leader can't stay keep a slender figure like a figurehead prince can, you know."

And everything falls into place. Ike speaks like they haven't been separated for years, though they have. And Ike pushes him around like he always did, shaking his shoulders a bit when Marth loses focus checking him over for scars, wounds, and other harms until before he knows it, they're kissing like they have a thousand times before. And it is all so familiar.

It's hard to say who started it when Ike's arm is back down around Marth's waist and Marth is leaning up with his own arms around Ike's neck, but it doesn't matter because they're both alive, together, and more importantly no one is around to see the most embarrassingly sweet reunion yet.

"Tell me everything," Marth says when they finally separate. Pit is probably watching, and the last thing either of them needed would be for that blabbermouth to tell everyone what he may or may not be seeing. "Tell me about Roy."

They had made a promise that, when they returned to their own worlds, Ike would look for any information he could find about Roy to ease Marth's fears. Roy's generation ended long before Ike's, yet in Marth's world his history hadn't been written yet. For years, Marth had gone not knowing whatever had become of his friend, his first friend in the tournaments. The years of anxiety never left, not when they parted ways, not when Marth rejoined for the Brawl Championship, and not even now, on the verge of learning a potentially terrible truth.

"He's fine," Ike says.

Marth exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding. With the anxiety lifted from his shoulders, Marth nearly stumbles but instead he finds his forehead rested on Ike's breastplate. He repeats the words in his head. He's fine. Roy is fine.

"My friend, Soren, you remember me telling you about him? He visits the capital library often and found a page written about him in the archives. He said his life was entirely unremarkable after the war in Lycia. He died old."

"Thank god…" Marth says quietly, closing his eyes. All this time, he imagined the worst. That war would break out once again, and Roy, with his crushing sense of responsibility, fought and had met a bleak fate. That he had not returned to the tournament because he had died. That Roy, so young but not much younger than himself or Ike had—

"You were fine too, you know."

The words take Marth off guard. He can't quite think of an appropriate response, and Ike looks a combination of amused and frustrated when the only thing he can think to say is, "Oh. Is that so?"

"What do you mean 'Is that so'? I thought you might want to know, so we looked that up as well."

Marth pulls himself away from Ike to stare at him, and gauge the honesty of the statement, but instead he just begins to laugh. Ike begins to laugh too, and Marth can't help but laugh even more at how different it sounds will his deeper voice. And then soon enough, the two of them dissolve into a helpless fit until they're leaning over, each with an arm around the other's shoulder like old friends just reunited. Maybe because that's exactly what they were, almost.

"It's about time you arrived, Ike," Marth manages once he's caught his breath. "I don't think I could have waited any longer."

"Oh yeah? How long did you wait?"

Marth had enough time to think about time. Overthinking things out of his control, fighting with himself, being anxious while everyone else was celebrating, he was done with it. It all paled in comparison to this moment of knowing his friends were alive and well, and being able to see it in the flesh. For the first time since arriving, Marth found himself able to breathe properly. A deep, filling breath with an elated sensation and a sense of hope for the future. In the end, everything worked out and the time he spent worrying was in the past, wherever that might be.

"It doesn't matter," he said.