A/N: Originally written for the prompt "Vision" at fe_contest on LJ. Enjoy :) It's kind of a test for myself, barely using any dialogue... so please tell me what you think!

Words: 1254
Characters: Matthew, Leila
Time: Before the events of Rekka no Ken
Genre: Drama/Romance

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Nintendo, not me.

Chill darkness crept through the streets, as silent as his own footsteps, as deadly as his blade. This midwinter eve in Ostia, the coldest that any could remember, drew all sane folk back to the comfort of their beds and fireplaces. One man, however, remained exposed. It almost made him smile, the sheer cold that stung his cheeks. It felt as if it would hurt to smile.

Oh, the lengths to which he would go for this woman.

He was only a few roads, a few turns, away from where he knew she must be. The difficulty was the depth of the surrounding darkness. It was a cloudy and therefore starless night; not even the moon lit his path. Even he, with all his experience, squinted and struggled to see. Not a single torch was lit in any window. And in this part of Ostia – known as the "second palace" for the strength and splendor that rivaled the marquess's castle itself – it was even more unusual to experience such a total lack of activity. There was always some rich noble with the luxury of sleeping until midday who enjoyed the odd inhospitality of nighttime.

It was here that Marquess Uther often placed his best spies. The scheming nobles of one's homeland, he said, were far more deadly than the madmen abroad. These wealthy Ostians were close enough to cause irreparable damage.

Matthew soon found the house where he knew she would be. He'd had it from Lord Uther himself that she was assigned to a certain rather unfriendly upper-class family. She was to live with them as a servant girl and report any suspicious activity. Matthew had restrained a snort at that – Leila, servile? But they both knew the requirements of their line of work – they would apply themselves to any role, no matter how degrading or foolish. A servant girl was not the worst of professions to imitate.

Touching smooth, marbled stone, Matthew trailed his fingers along the outside of the house until he hit a windowsill. He studied the wooden window-doors with his deft hands, the cold metal hinges, the simple single lock. He spread his left hand wide over the lock, weighing it, considering the easiest method of dispatching it. In one smooth motion, he pulled his best set of lockpicks from the pouch in his cloak, and with barely a scratch or a chink of metal against metal, he removed the lock and stashed it along with his picks. Silently he opened the wooden doors, grateful for the snow's silencing effect on the hinges.

His joints aching with the cold, Matthew leapt through the narrow pass and landed as quietly as a cat on the stone floor. Without the white of the snow around him, he could see absolutely nothing. It had been a long time since he had experienced such total blindness with eyes wide open, and it made his heart race.

But he knew she was here. In a noble's home, only a servant's quarters had wood over their windows instead of glass.

With deliberate negligence, Matthew brushed his boot sideways across the stone floor, a tiny scraping noise echoing through the silence.

At once – as he had expected – there was a rush of sheets flying off a bed, and then cold, sharp metal pressed against his throat. Only a spy in danger did such a thing – threats first, questions later. A small hand – a woman's hand – clenched his upper arm painfully.

"It's me, Leila," Matthew breathed.

She clasped a hand over his mouth. Their faces were so close that he could feel her breathing, but all he could see were her bright, narrowed eyes. One of them twitched open a little bit, as if she were raising an eyebrow. With a mysterious calm, she slid her hand from his mouth to his jawline, his cheek, his brow. She traced every line of his face, touched his hair, brushed against the day-old scruff on his neck. Never once did the hand holding the knife waver.

He knew, now, that they couldn't speak. Even his mere whisper had been too much of a risk. Perhaps another servant shared this room; perhaps the paranoid nobles set guards to walk their hallways every night; there was no way for Matthew to know for certain. In any case, they had only the silence and darkness as their shields, neither of which could be broken.

Then her hand moved to his collar. She fingered the buckles of his cloak, then slipped her hand beneath it to his heart, cold skin against cold skin. Matthew breathed in sharply. She pressed her fingers against his lips again.

With surprising strength and silent ease, Leila pushed him back toward the window from whence he came. It was still open. She pushed him so that his back pressed painfully against the windowsill, and his shoulders and head were exposed again into the bitter night. Fresh gales of sleet-like snow pelted his cheeks, daggers through the blackness, but Matthew didn't mind. He savored Leila's hot breath on his cheek, her body pressed firmly against him, her legs sliding between his. She picked him up by the knees, kissed him on the cheek, then pushed him bodily into the fresh snowdrift.

Matthew lay there for ages, until a second longer would have allowed the cold and snow to render him involuntarily and completely stilled. But a smile lingered on his face.

He had found her.

The next time he found her was three months later, in the fresh commencement of spring. In a crowded market square, he hurried towards his favorite bakery, relishing the rare freedom of wandering in sheer, glorious daylight, outside of the palace grounds.

In the distance, he caught sight of a flash of vibrant red, a slender woman slipping quietly through the crowd. At once he strained to see above the sea of babbling heads. There – she was there – talking to a rough-looking man at a fruit stand. She was leaning forward, subtly pressing her arms together to draw the man's eyes to her dipping cleavage. Only Matthew saw, however, her real intention – her fingers creeping onto the stand, she slipped two apples into her cloak, without once breaking the flow of her feigned conversation.

Matthew smirked. Stealing fruit. It was a game they had once played when they first met – whoever returned with the most stolen produce was the victor.

"Leila!" he shouted suddenly. "Leila!"

She didn't hear. A few minutes later, however, she happened to look around – apples securely in pocket and fruit vendor thoroughly disregarded – and saw him. Grinning like the lovestruck boy that he was, Matthew waved wildly, and watched as she threw her head back and laughed. She waved back, her face alight, and shouted something that Matthew couldn't hear over the bustle of the crowd.

He shrugged apologetically, hoping she would understand through the distance. She very much seemed to, for she touched her hand to her lips and blew him a coy kiss, her shining hair tangling in the wind.

Quickly Matthew threw his arm into the air and made a great show of catching her kiss. He pressed his own fingers to his lips and winked at her, and though in his mind he knew that he was touching nothing but his own skin, in his heart he felt that he could taste her lips, warm against his.