Author's note: Trying my hand at a Shadow Dragon fic. A couple of things worth mentioning are that I used the names from the North American release, since that's the one I'm playing, and that at the time I wrote this, I had only played up to Chapter 12. Minor recruitable character spoiler, though he's in the manual so I don't feel like it's really worth a warning.

Fireside Chat

Night had fallen, and the camp was peaceful. That didn't make it quiet, however. Amid the crackling of the many fires were voices, tales both true and half-true, stories of home, bits of swapped strategy, and most of all, laughter.

Prince Marth nodded to himself at the sound; it pleased him to know that there was at least one small instant where his men could forget about the war.

He didn't join them, not tonight. For tonight, he wished to relax by the light of a fire, one with few around it so as to not disturb any of his men.

And so he found himself at a smaller fire near the edge of camp, one that, for one reason or another, was unguarded. He sat down beside it, looking around for those it belonged to, and made himself comfortable.

"Heh. I told you someone would steal our fire."

"I don't remember you saying that."

Marth turned around as two men walked into the ring of firelight. "I did not mean to take your fire."

"It's all right, Prince Marth," Ogma said with a small smile, easing himself to the ground. "I'm willing to share."

Navarre merely made a low "hmph" and sat down, quickly busying himself with cleaning his sword.

This wasn't the first time Marth had seen Navarre clean his blade; it was the myrmidon's habit. He cleaned it after every battle and again at night. This was the first time Marth had paid attention to the way he did so. Navarre's every move was quick and graceful, showing the same precision he used on the battlefield. And there was something else, something barely visible in the fire's flickering light: what looked like a scar between the index finger and thumb of his right hand, running partway up the length of both digits.

It was merely a scar - something the gods knew the League had plenty of - but the position was what truly caught Marth's attention. He had seen Navarre's skill firsthand, and it didn't quite make sense somehow for a man so skilled to have a scar on his sword-hand.

Navarre glanced up at him, then, steel-gray eyes flashing first in annoyance and then in bitter amusement.

"It is nothing - nothing at all," Marth said as he caught that glance, turning his attention back to the fire.

"Heh." Navarre held his hand out, almost as if putting his scar on display. "Can't call yourself a swordsman if you haven't felt the bite of your blade." He smirked, but it was faint and quickly faded back into his usual stoic expression as he went back to his work, leaving Marth to wonder if he'd even seen it at all.

"Don't mind him, Prince," Ogma said, holding a mug towards him; Marth took it with a nod and a small smile. "We've got far more skill with blades than with words."

Marth laughed at that; very true! "I would certainly hope so. I'm afraid being able to speak well isn't much protection against lances and arrows."

"The only protection I need is a sharp sword and a steady hand," Navarre said softly, as if to himself.

"And perhaps another to watch your back," Marth replied.

"Heh. There are few I'd trust for that."

"Oh?"

Navarre shook his head and chuckled flatly.

Ogma shook his head. "And here I thought I was just your last resort."

"You aren't afraid of your sword," the myrmidon said coolly. "More than I can say about some of these 'soldiers'."

"Where do I fall?" Marth asked, leaning back and looking up at the cloudy sky.

Navarre sheathed his sword and turned towards the prince. "Where do you think?"

"I already know what I think, Navarre. That is why I'm asking you."

Ogma chuckled.

Navarre merely gave Marth another barely-there smirk. "Then you have your answer."

Yes, Marth thought, remembering a flash of steel and a fallen enemy soldier, he had his answer. "It seems I do."