I personally love the Kent/ Fiora pairing. It's not like there is anything wrong with Kent/ Lyn, but Kent and Fiora are just so... Perfect. But of course, no one else appreciates their AWESOMENESS as a couple.

The first few paragraphs are a little angsty, but it gets better, I promise.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Fire Emblem or its characters.

Sometimes their gazes clung to her, like the cold mist would streak down her skin after flying through a cloud.

If she confided in anyone, they'd think her mad. How, then, would she tell them she saw the dead? For there was no way to explain the way their eyes were so wide, so pale. There was no way to describe how terribly full of nothingness the eyes were, yet how full of accusation they were as well. The way the ragged, and of late, decomposing bodies stood erect and at the soldier's attention she used to call them into. How their long, shiny hair had became limp, patchy and clotted with clumps of rust colored tangles.

They would follow her around the cluttered and noisy camp. Everything would blur around them and all sounds faded into a white noise someone always seemed to have to shake her out of.

They never tapped on her shoulder, or whispered in her ear. An involuntary shudder ran down her tensed spine whenever she thought of what their voices would have sounded like if they had spoken. The spirits were silent, but the silence seemed to pour out of them. It became a black haze she couldn't see through, and it choked her throat and tasted of blood and dirt. Sometimes, she'd have to walk as fast as she could, her pristine white boots thumping on the dirt to her tiny tent, where she'd double over. She'd clutch with shaking fingers at her throat and scrabble at her chest silently to try and make the guilty slamming stop. Then, it would seem as if the spirits came closer, and watched. She supposed they had every right to watch what had come of their deaths, the only retribution from her they would get.

The only time they disappeared was when she fought. They'd slowly drift out of sight as she thrust and lunged from her mount's wings. The screaming and rushing bright crimson of her enemy's blood would replace the dried and blackish red of the long bled out wounds. The accusing eyes would be replaced by horrified ones and the silence was replaced by screaming, shrieking, and god knows what other kinds of terrible-

Stop. Stop.

She took in shuddering breaths, her small chest heaving against the invisible force pressing down on it. Her ice water blue eyes flashed open as she looked around her. The faces greeted her, their dead eyes watching with condemning emptiness.

She shook, clutching at the ratty blanket, and finally burying her face in the scratchy, frayed, and musty smelling material. The sight of them burnt behind her eyelids like a glowing painting and she bit down, making blood spurt forth from her lip.

The rusty and cloying taste filled her mouth and she shoved the blanket away from her onto the hard packed dirt. She scrambled on slow legs to her feet, whirling around the half circle.

Why?! Why?! I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry…

Her shaking hands found her pale face and covered it, hiding it from the horrific sight. The hands jerked back in surprise and she looked at them. She was crying.

Tentatively, she touched her wet cheek and marveled at how when she blinked, excess warm liquid spilled over her eyelids. She never could remember crying very much. A blurred, gray memory when her parents died, the dark cloaking night after her first kill. Those were the only instances she could remember when she allowed herself the privilege.

Even when her muscles ached, her wounds bled, and her bones broke, she would bit her lips till red gushed out, and continue through the battle or training. Even when Florina and Farina had cried, clutching at the hem of her uniform, begging her not to go, she had sucked back the tears, knowing it would scare them half to death to see their invincible sister cry. She'd never allowed herself much, she thought she had an iron willpower.

She focused her eyes again, scrubbing the tears off of her face. She turned away from the figures in the dark shadows of her tent and forced herself to pretend that they were gone. She couldn't go on like this. She couldn't go on with lethargic movements and lifeless eyes. She was a part of something; an army fighting to save the continent, and the world from evil threatening to engulf it. She was a part of history, a part of something powerful. It was time she acted like it.

She still felt the eyes on her back, but she ignored them. How, could they be so selfish as to want the world to fall in ruin with them? She drew herself into her pole straight posture and strode out of the burlap tent flap.

A crackling fire was lit in the center of camp. Sparks flew off of it, and it cast a warm glow along the empty logs. The camp fire should be out, she thought with a creased brow. It wasn't safe…

Yet she was grateful for the option, not knowing where she would have gone with this newfound conviction at this time of night. All she knew was that she needed to get out of the tent.

She walked forward across the grassy ground and lowered herself onto one of the scratchy and low logs. She smoothed her uniform, and fixed the creases before settling down to gaze into the golden depths of the flame.

The eyes were still on her, she knew, yet she found it easier to ignore the feeling with the warmth of the fire. She watched the flickers and the writhing with a rapt attention, enjoying the way her face and hands became suffused with warmth. She never had realized when she had begun to feel so cold.

Her head snapped up at the sound of footsteps. Merely soft thuds against the added earth, but her warrior senses had no problem picking up on them. She watched, as a figure emerged into the yellow ring of light.

Kent's eyes widened when he saw her. His hair was ruffled by the breeze and he still wore his dulled barn red armor that seemed like such a pretty color compared to the crimson of blood. The lighting cast shadows across his face, but it only seemed to make him look kinder rather than sinister. Kinder wasn't the word… Perhaps wise? Understanding?

The silence stretched on a bit till her seemed to gather himself.

"Fior- Dame Fiora."

Fiora allowed herself a soft smile before replying.

"Sir Kent."

He was surprised at her light tone. He was so used to the quiet, withdrawn one. Come to think of it, even her presence seemed different tonight. Her posture was straighter, her head held taller, and her bright blue eyes seemed to have lit up from the dulled guilt that had laid there.

He found himself drawn to her, and took a few steps forward to the log adjacent to her, seating himself comfortably. The silence was calm and relaxed. He stole a few glances at her, seeing her blue eyes focused on the flame. They really were quite blue. The color was astonishing, and he found himself trying to compare it to something. The sky? No, they were clearer that the opaque of the sky. A river? Perhaps a very clear one-

What was he doing?! He sounded like Sain, the callous lout! Though his thoughts were far from inappropriate, it was still very unseemly and unwise to think of a comrade in such a way. He did admire Fiora, very much in fact. The way she fought so easily and gracefully. How she always forced composure when he could see that she must want nothing more to show a weakness. He especially admired her duty, her morals. She had such strong convictions and character. Sometimes he found himself comparing her to his own personality, and marveling at the similarities. He'd be quick to rebuke the errant train of thought.

Yet, while she was so strong and composed, there was an underlying air about her. It spoke of immeasurable grief, shown in her eyes and the way she looked around her in such sad confusion. She'd told him when he asked, of how her fleet had been lost. He hadn't known what to say. What could he say? I'm sure you did the best to your ability? I'm sure it couldn't have turned out any other way? If it was him, who had lost a fleet of knights, he wouldn't want anyone to make excuses for him. He'd always be dragged down by what he'd done, and the memory of the lost comrades would haunt him. He'd hate himself, and spiral downward. He knew that was what was happening behind the expressionless façade. She was falling, and drifting to somewhere no one could reach.

Though tonight, she seemed different. She seemed to be fighting to come back and be who she was before the battle. He knew it was wrong and entirely unorthodox… but he wanted to be the one helping her fight this new battle…

Perhaps that was why when on guard duty with Sain, he'd make sure the fire outside her tent was lit, or why he'd leave small hunks of precious bread on her bed roll. He wanted to help her, and there was nothing wrong with wanting to assist a comrade. Right?

"Sir Kent?"

His eyes flashed up to meet the blue ones that looked at him inquisitively.

"I must sound pretentious, but I was wondering what you were thinking about."

He felt a smile unfold on his face as he stared at her pretty face lit by the golden firelight.

"Someone rather important to me."

Silence stretched on as they watched each other, both with small smiles.

"Could you tell me what it is like to grow up in Lycia?"

The question caught him off guard, and he felt confusion flicker across his face.

"Growing up in Lycia? May I ask why?"

She glanced at the fire before retuning her gaze to him.

"I merely wondered what it would be like to grow up in a place with seasons… Without endless snow and famine. And perhaps to smell a parent's cooking, and see green and flowers…"

She shook her head suddenly, causing the turquoise strands to flutter around her face.

"Ah… I'm being childish. Pardon my words."

"No, no," he responded quickly. His steady brown eyes carefully searched her face.

"It's a valid question, to want to know of a past you were denied. I'd be happy to describe it to you."

He reached back to the recesses of his childhood, surprised by the flood of memories and sensations that came over him. The tart taste of the pinkish-red berries that grew on the scraggly bushes around the small house. The meaty smell of his mother's stew and the scuffs on the sturdy wooden table they ate at. The rough, and riddled bark of the gnarled tree he used to climb. The sharp spices of the bustling market and the way it felt to peer down from his father's broad shoulders.

He tried his hardest to detail it all; it felt like painting a picture or sketching a scene. It felt rather nice, to reminisce with Fiora's watchful eyes and her serene smile. Very nice… Ah… but it was wrong to think this way, wrong to feel this way. And yet... He couldn't bring himself to walk away from the fire and her soft presence. He couldn't, but to his surprise there was no guilt. Just acceptance.

It seemed as if only minutes had passed by when purple hues and rose pinks painted the sky. Rustling came from the slouchy tents and sleepy voices began to emerge and fill the air.

"Where the hell is my axe?"

Where ever you put it lunkhead!"

"Serra! Stop reading that scroll!

"But Erky, your diary is so adorable!"

"Where's my dough, pirate?!"

"What do you mean, goat flier?!"

The two knights at the now smoldering fire shared small smiles, as if in on a secret joke. They both reluctantly stood from the logs and ignored their creaking bones while staring at their feet and stealing glances at each other.

Finally Kent spoke, in a carefully controlled voice. "Ah… Dame Fiora… Might it be too much to ask that you march with me today? I'd like to hear of Ilia and her white snows…"

Immediately, the blue eyes lit up as they met the brown.

"Yes… yes, I'd like that very much, Sir Kent. Very much indeed."

He felt a large smile grow on his face, and quickly controlled it, with a stiff nod.

"I'll see you at the front lines?"

"You certainly shall."