By: Manna


It happened in a long, drawn-out moment.

The blast wasn't necessarily large, but it sent fragmented wood and supplies flying in every direction. Naturally, those nearby dove—quite literally—for cover, their hearts pounding in their chests at the sudden sound. For some, the splinters or the heat gave them reason to fall to the slick grass, their arms covering their heads.

The constant drizzling soon turned the inferno to nothing but smoldering ashes, but the smell of smoke remained heavy in the air. It wasn't long before awareness flooded the minds of those lying against Mother Earth, and they rose, eyes darting back and forth to reassure themselves that they were safe…for the time being.

Only two stayed where they were, bodies pressed into the muddied ground as the sounds of battle resumed around them.

Her hair was falling out of its clasp, and it hung in her face and down her back in long, wet waves, curling as it clung to her neck. For a fraction of a second, he thought that she had died, looking as stunning as he'd ever seen her, for only Lady Lyndis could look beautiful with mud streaked across her pale cheeks and the telltale signs of a burn marring the fingers of her left hand.

The trembling of her cracked lips gave him breath again, and when she opened her eyes, he was there, as he always was and—he hoped—always would be.

There wasn't anything particularly special about that day, or even the minutes that passed as they laid there, her green eyes blinking at him once from beneath dripping bangs as she inhaled shakily, giving his heart the opportunity to skip before it settled into a familiar rhythm. He hadn't saved her, nor she him. It would seem insignificant to everyone else; Eliwood had sheltered Ninian in his arms, and Pent had pushed his beloved Louise out of harm's way.

They were simply two people, Kent and Lyndis, a man and a woman, a knight and his liege. They weren't lovers, only close friends. But for one long, drawn-out moment, they couldn't seem to find the strength—or perhaps the will—to move from where they were.

Both of them noticed the water that slid down the curve of her lips, but neither of them moved to wipe it away. They both thought that maybe someday—someday soon—they would find the courage to close that six-inch gap between them.

But the conflict at hand had to take precedence over all else, and they had neglected it for far too long already; moments were precious in the heat of battle, so they stumbled to their feet, boots slipping against the wet grass, hands grasping the arm of the other for balance.

She withdrew her left hand with a hiss, and he forced himself to stay silent. He picked up his sword and turned away from her, seeing the fingers of her right hand moving to draw her favorite blade.

Both of them would survive this battle.

Maybe later, he thought as he felt the barely-noticeable brush of her back against his, she would need help bandaging her hand. It seemed like such an insignificant thing to do, but it would make him happy to help her in such a way.

She smiled slightly as she looked down at the reddening welts against her fingers. When the battle was won, she thought before she pushed her gaze upward to meet that of a tired, wet soldier who was unfortunate enough to be on the opposing side, she would ask him to help her wrap her hand.

It would be time spent together, and a moment together was not a moment lost.


Author Notes:

This came to me at four in the morning, so I wrote it. It doesn't need a point.