A/N: I haven't written non-Tellius FE 'fic in a while... this was a nice change. I miss me some Magvel shipping. Enjoy and please review!

Words: 1574
Characters: Gerik, Tethys
Time: During Sacred Stones
Genre: Romance

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

Her dance is a window to her soul, he believes. Whenever she is on a stage, in the center, or even on her own, unaware of any onlooker, her movements are born from the stirrings of her heart. He can tell only because he knows her so well.

When she is stressed, her dance becomes ever so slightly tighter, more precise. She takes such careful, deliberate care with each step because she feels it is all she can control in a world of such chaos. Her strength still shines through, but the easy flow is less pronounced; instead, she seems a distant professional, not a familiar friend.

When she is calm and happy, her dance is like a smile. Not necessarily only on her face, though she glows when the corners of her lips do rise. She is radiant. But her dance itself, too, has that sparkling aura. The movements revel in ease and simplicity, so much so that someone will always stand up and sway themselves. Her good cheer becomes palpable. Smooth, graceful twirls; leisurely, loose spins; and steps that are light but sure, high on her toes, define her pure contentment.

Every emotion has its expression. Sadness emerges as a slower, more relaxed dance, her feet always flat and her arms always bent, always moving. Anger and annoyance are speed alone, sometimes so fast that even he can't discern the particulars. Those are the days when she won't speak to him.

There are too many tiny variations to count. Gerik doesn't bother. Rather, he just notes them as they come, taking each of her dances simply for what they are. It is easy for him to understand the intricacies now, after so many years with her.

Of course, there are also those dances she performs only for him. When they first met, like any man Gerik knew she was beautiful, recognized that power she contained, far from subtle, that she seemed to wield with such natural, unconscious grace and fluidity. With just a glance from beneath her painted lashes, a twist of her lithe body, a wave of her deft hand and slim, bejeweled fingers, even a battle-worn, cynical, tired Gerik would feel the thrill, the plain desire.

It was nothing more than instinct, at first. Gerik prides himself on his consistent clarity, his cool judgment, so every time she teased him, he quickly reclaimed himself. At the time, she was still so young, too, with a baby brother hiding behind her knees. Behind the makeup, the sultry glow, the woman's body, Gerik saw flashes of the child she once was.

Now, however, her dances for him hold no trace of her childhood. As she grew, she toned her natural charm all the further until she became, when she chose to be, utterly irresistible. And her choice, Gerik reminds himself, often in awe and bewilderment and ecstasy, is him.

Knowing her so well, for so long, would, for some, diminish her appeal, or at the very least he would become accustomed to her beauty, her spirit. But no. Every moment he falls for her all over again, charmed, bewitched, and he hopes he manages to hide such an infatuation behind his thin veil of suave and authority.

And she tells him that she's the lucky one sometimes. No longer a child, no longer poor on the streets… She could do anything, procure any man's affection and admiration and even coin, if not love as well – and yet, she says, so often in his ear with a brush of her lips – I'm so lucky to have you.

Me, Gerik thinks. Scarred, old, mercenary.

They are in their tent, alone. Tethys finishes her dance, and they are calm; the coals simmer but do not blaze. They simply warm each other. Between so much fighting, their stolen moments of peace are appreciated just as much as the heat and sex. As they did not have much space, this dance of Tethys's was mostly in her arms, flowing coolly like the sea. When she pauses, his gaze is her applause. She sits beside him, curls under his arm, and closes her eyes.

Sometimes, like now, he feels part of the dance, too. The ease, the familiarity with which his lifts his arm to make space for her, settles it again round her shoulders, barely brushing it against the softness at the nape of her neck, feels like it could have been choreographed; it is the pattern of their life, their love.

"Ask me a question," Tethys demands one night. "Something real. Something you need to know, but cannot otherwise ask."

Caught by surprise, Gerik blinks. Her eyes are narrower, brighter, more honest and piercing than usual. He opens his mouth – closes it again – takes her hand and traces the lines of her palm as he searches for the right words.

"Do you need this?"

"That's not your question, but the answer is yes."

"I…"

Gerik pauses. She sits so straight and tall and still that their eyes are level, hers perhaps a little higher. Gerik straightens too.

"I'm going to start with a story," he says. "I met you… years ago. You were dancing at the corner in Jehanna that's got the Swan Song Tavern on one side, market stalls all down the other. You didn't meet me until later that night, when you danced for the little army I was currently employed by. My contractor paid you well, I think.

"But he was not a good man, that one. He leered. If I ever tore my eyes away from you, it was to notice him, smirking and cat-calling. He wasn't at our camp that night, and as my contract had just ended, I took my leave and never saw him again.

"But you – I saw you and remembered you, on my way down that dreary alley road. You were alone – there were other passerby, but to me – it was just you. We glanced at each other. Nodded. It wasn't until a while later that we became comrades. But there, in the moonlight, you looked beautiful – but young. So young. Too young, too pretty, to be dancing on the filthy streets, in the noisy bars… in private rooms."

Here he pauses again; he has to swallow. Tethys's expression is frozen into impassivity, but there is just the barest hint of tears behind her eyes, like the fresh scent in the air before a rainstorm.

"Before you came here, Tethys… when you were that young, yet independent… did you – were you ever forced – to sell yourself? More than just your dances?"

Tethys's hand, which has been idly twining through Gerik's hair, tracing his jawline, tickling his skin, stills above his heart.

"You talked for so long," she says with a small smile. "I didn't know you remembered all that."

Gerik shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her carefully.

"Yes. Not to him, not that general. He offered… I got away. There were other times, though… Ewan was hungry, so hungry he couldn't even cry, and I… had no choice, did I? I knew people… Another street dancer helped me. It was lucky she was kind, for most see each other as just competition. Perhaps it was pity, but she helped me. She danced by day, slept little by nights… I learned to do the same, sometimes. She showed me to those who were gentlest."

Tethys's eyes are closed now, and she is curled into Gerik's side as if asleep, save for the bitter words echoing from her lips.

"When I joined you… I was freed. I had safe work, steady pay, though I never thought it would last so long. It was a miracle, and somehow, it has continued to be so… despite the battles, despite the war and blood and death, I am safe here. And happy. With you. I worried at first that if you knew who I had been, you wouldn't… but still. I should have told you sooner that I'm not… I should have said something, before. But you took me, Ewan and me, so kindly, and I…"

Gerik feels a single tear slide onto his shoulder, caught between her cheek and his skin. Instinctively he squeezes her tight, murmurs into her hair.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm sorry, Tethys."

"Don't be. Don't apologize, not when I should be thanking you, endlessly."

"But I don't know what else to say."

"You don't have to say anything." Tethys sighs, her fingers tight as they find his. "You just have to be here. With me."

Gerik kisses her forehead and closes his own eyes. "I always am, Tethys."

He gets chills down his spine sometimes. He walks through the camp, through a town, anywhere, and men stare at the dazzling woman by his side. Just because he can, just because he loves the feel of her, the sight of her smile, he'll slip his arm around her waist. His hand will caress her skin, just a little, just to prove to those men that she's his.

Tethys winks at him, and Gerik almost trips. For all that she belongs to him, him alone… he knows, without a doubt, that he is the one captured, enthralled, wrapped around her little finger.