So this is my first fanfic I've ever posted on here.
It's a rather . . . slow burn. But hang in there with me.

Lon'qu's eyes watch her from afar. This mystery woman that followed the prince was an oddity he had never met. Like all the women, he avoided her, but she was always by the prince's side, whispering counsel into his ear of some type or another. Their closeness had also been noted by others in the camp and rumors of trysts and lovers, and engagements were rampant among the troops, even the civilians. But he cared nothing for such idle things, even if he in fact did agree that their closeness warranted something deeper than friendship.

The reason this woman caught his eye was because of how . . . misplaced she felt. She was awkward with the all but a few of those that made up their company. She always stood at a distance, as if not entirely sure herself if she belonged where she stood. He did note that this uncomfortable air and overall hesitancy disappeared on the battlefield. There, she was fierce and granted no quarter. She was ruthless and moved with such a fluid grace it was almost . . . unnatural. And this disturbed him somewhat. He had fought with the best, hell, he was one of the best and yet never had he seen someone move in such a flawless way. He had decided since the first battle that he needed to keep his eye on this one.

But even that wasn't what continuously drew his eye—because he had, like all the others, learned that she was loyal and only ever did what was best for the prince and Ylisse. No, it was because she was so . . . bright. Not literally, though her lightning magic did sometimes crackle around her. She was cheerful, doing odd around camp and for comrades to cheer them up. She was an optimist and had poor timing for jokes meant to lighten the mood. She talked about destiny, as if it was not already written, when Lon'qu knew different. She walked so quietly, not without sound but as though her body weighed nothing.

Never had he been so enraptured by a woman and the whole ordeal was disturbing to him.

Lon'qu looked up when someone plopped themselves beside him, grabbing his own wet stone and proceeded to sharpen his blade. Basilio.

"Keep staring like that, boy, and people might start getting the wrong idea." Basilio raised an eyebrow at his heir apparent.

Lon'qu hid his blush easily—something he had trained himself to do. His mother used to say she could read him like a book and he had taken it to heart. Now, no one could read him. Except when he was around women. Which could be frustrating at times.

"She is . . . an odd woman."

Basilio grunted. "That she is. Stuck to that princeling's side. That, or glued to the war table, going over strategies and what not. Scary clever."

"I do not understand why they trust her. They do not know her. She does not even know herself—her past is a mystery."

Basilio sighed and tossed the wet stone aside. "I thought you trusted her?"

"I do . . . to an extent. I trust her not to thrust a blade in my back in battle."

"Then that's all that matters, boy. If we only ever worried about people's past, we would not trust anyone. You should know that, boy." Basilio stood up, slipping his sword in its sheath. "Go and grab something to eat. We have a long march ahead of us tomorrow. And with the way the Risen are popping up, you never know when our next battle is." He patted Lon'qu's shoulder and left.

"Lon'qu?"

Startled, he turned to look at who had called his name. He felt a fierce blush slide onto his cheeks and he couldn't fight it down. He never could when he was around woman, particularly this one—she unsettled him. In his flustered state, he snapped, "What do you want, woman?"

He blushed even harder. That's not what he meant to say. Not at all, but he couldn't take back his words now and look a right fool. So he clamped his mouth shut, frowning at his ineptitude.

The corners of her mouth slid into a slight frown and he want to smack himself. He just was not good with women. Of course he had interacted with khan Flavia without issue, but she . . . she wasn't a woman. She was a warrior, a khan . . . not a potential bedmate. Gods above, he had admitted it, admitted in a roundabout way to the fact that he found Alexandra attractive. But then he almost laughed. Of course he would pick the one he could not have, the one who slept with the prince. Trying to steal away a royal's lover would more than likely result in execution or something. He wasn't very familiar with how these Ylissean nobility or politics worked. In Ferox, he could have just called out the offender and finished the argument in a duel—strongest man wins. Simple.

"Lon'qu!"

He was jerked out of his thoughts to find a rather irritated looking Alexandra, a hand propped on her hip and the frown on her face much bigger. And, he realized, it had been because he had been stuck in his thoughts rather than listening to her. Which flustered him further.

"What?" He snapped. Again, not what he wanted to say. This time, he bit his tongue and said, "I did not mean to disregard what you were saying. What did you want of me?"

An apology, of sorts. He just hoped she was as clever as Basilio testified she was and saw through his words to the intent and meaning. And, apparently, she did. She eased up and so did he in response. Thank the Gods.

"I was wondering if you would like to spar with me? I'm afraid my swordsmanship is lacking—the sword on my hip is more for show than for use. Magic is only good for so much, I'm afraid. Not much good when defending."

Spar? With her? Alone with her? Gods, no! "That sounds reasonable."

Wait, what had his mouth just said?!

She brightened up and that caused yet another wave of blushed to stain his skin. "Perfect! Does early morning work for you? I have to meet with Chrom afterwards."

And at the mention of the prince, his stomach soured. That's right. Why was he getting all excited? She was the prince's. "Early morning it is, then." He ground out. "Do not expect me to be lenient. I am a hard taskmaster."

Her grin turned into a smirk. "Is that a challenge? Because I accept!" She rubbed her hands together, suddenly very excited. "This will be fun!"

It wasn't fun.

"You're holding it wrong, woman! Grip it like so or risk losing your sword and then your head next!" Lon'qu barked, once again demonstrating with his own hands.

"That's what I'm doing!" Alexandra barked back.

To show her how wrong she was, he lunged forward and easily knocked her sword away, swinging his blade around to lay against her skin. She was huffing and puffing and he hadn't broken a sweat.

She stared wide-eyed at where her blade had just flown and then back up at Lon'qu's face. "What the hell is wrong with you! I wasn't even ready!"

He narrowed his eyes at her, disturbed by exactly how easy it had been and angered that she had made it so easy. And a little flustered considering he had noticed that her shirt had shifted enough that he could see some of her cleavage. "Your opponent will not ask if you are ready to die!" He huffed, frustrated with the whole ordeal, frustrated that he had said yes to spar with her. It had had bad idea written all over and yet he had still come. And he couldn't teach her the way he could one of the male gender. He had taught many boys and he had grabbed their arms or hands and been behind them to show them how to grip, hold, block, jab, and swing. He had had his feet next to theirs to prompt them how to dodge, evade, lunge, trip their opponent up. But he couldn't do that with her, couldn't touch her because then he'd turn into a sharp-tongued, flustered idiot. "This is useless." He swung his blade into its sheath and turned to walk away.

However, he did not expect the sharp, little pain that blossomed from the back of his head. Stunned, he whirled around to find Alexandra just as surprised. Lon'qu looked at his feet to find an acorn. "Did you just . . . throw an acorn at me?" He demanded.

Suddenly, her face turned determined and defensive. "And if I did?"

He was speechless. Before he could figure out what to do or say, she grabbed another acorn and threw it. This one popped him in the forehead. He was further rendered speechless as she continued to grab acorns and hurl them at him. His mind and feet finally caught up to what was happening and he began evading them.

"What the hell, woman!" He spat, not really sure what else to say. He had to admit, she had incredible aim.

He was further stunned to hear her start laughing. This was not funny! This was . . . this was insane! Finally, she either ran out of acorns or was shaking too bad from laughing which ruined her aim, but either way, she stopped chucking those damnable shells. He watched in confusion as her beaming face was turned to him. She was . . . happy now?

"Haaa . . . that was fun."

Again, he was rendered speechless as he eyed her. Was she mad? He would never understand women.

"Alexandra!"

Both of their gazes were turned to the prince not too far off, beckoning her over. Again, that sour feeling made his gut turn, especially as she got up, dusting herself off, obeying the boy's command without question. She paused as she was about to pass him, tilting her head to look at him, a small smile still gracing her face. She . . . looked a lot prettier when she smiled. At that thought and the realization of how close she was, a blush creeped onto his cheeks

"When next we make camp, could we do this again?"

Obviously his body and mind were not connected. If it were, his mind would have told his mouth to say no, when instead it said, "As you wish."

She patted him on the arm and then joined the prince's side.

Frozen, Lon'qu touched where she had touched him—it was warm.

He saw it before she did. His body just moved. There was no thought, no hesitancy as he lunged for her, grabbed her arm and thrust her back. He hissed as the arrow hit his shoulder, jerking him to the side with the impact. Damn longbows.

"Lon'qu!" She dropped to his side as he clutched his shoulder, breathing hard through his nose, trying to lessen the pain. Belatedly, he realized the arrow had hit his sword arm. Admittedly, he could use the other, but he had never been able to wield a blade as well in that hand as he had the other. This was going to make this battle a little tougher.

But first, he needed to remove the thing restricting his movement. "Is the tip through?" He gritted out.

Without hesitating, she checked. "Yes."

Well, at least there was that. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he broke the shaft. Even that slight movement had him on all fours, breathing even harder through his nose, seeing spots around his eyes. That was one thing Basilio had never been able to fix him off—his sensitivity to pain. "I . . . need you to . . . pull the arrow . . . out."

"Okay." Again, no hesitation or questions. He didn't even have to say anymore. He wished he had said to warn him beforehand so he could brace for the pain, but there was no time as she grabbed the protruding arrow and yanked it from his back.

He didn't know how long he had blacked out as he came to, but either way, he was ashamed he had done it at all. He really needed to work on his pain tolerance.

"Are you okay?" Alexandra's worried voice cut through his fog. He quickly took stock of what was happening. The battle was still raging—he could see Stahl in the distance, spearing enemies while his horse kicked and reared and bit. A bit deliriously, he wished he could ride a horse like that. He cleared his head and struggled to all fours, his shoulder hurting like crazy.

"I'm fine." He gritted out. "Where's my sword?"

She looked around and spotted it, running to grab it and bring it to him. He was surprised she wasn't protesting his still wanting to fight or anything. He grabbed the blade from her and got to his feet, aching but willing to fighting.

"I spelled your wound closed. It'll hold for a while, but not long. Make sure you go to Lissa or Maribelle after to get it fixed." Something in her voice made him turn to look and he was a bit startled to see something . . . warm in her expression. After all his blunders, she worried for him. It was . . . a nice feeling. Rotating his arm a little to get used to the feel of the blade in his other hand, he grunted in assent.

"Hm. Let's finish these bastards off."

As much as he wanted to go to the medic tent and have himself fixed, he wasn't sure if he could handle either the girl Lissa or that irritating woman named Maribelle anywhere near him. But he was used to it. He had patched himself up too many times to count. True, he could stand to learn more in regards to healing—his body bore scars in testament to that—but he figured that if he could still stand on his feet and fight, he was doing a fine job.

In his own tent now, he gingerly stripped off his overcoat, wincing slightly as the dried blood had stuck the cloth to his skin, and then proceeded to divest himself of the rest of his upper garments. He sighed as he sat down on his cot, the remedies he needed laid out before him. Dipping the linen into the bowl with warm water, he went to cleaning the dried blood off himself, all the while berating himself. It had been stupid, wildly lunging in and pushing her out of harm's way. He gritted his teeth as he looked back now, realizing she had been prepared to evade the arrow, to counterattack even, but he had assumed otherwise and messed everything up. But he remembered the panic, the clenching of his gut and the ice as it washed down his spine. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt fear on the battlefield but he felt it then. Not for himself, but for the woman who had captured his attention.

He was getting sloppy and frustration at himself and her rose in his gut. This was insane!

"Here you are."

Startled, Lon'qu leapt to his feet and whirled, making the bowl tip and spill most of its contents while the tray with the needle and thread flew from his flailing arm. There she was, standing there at his tent flap, a rather annoyed look on her face. And then, in horror, he realized he was half naked and right in front of her. A fierce blush turned his neck, ears, and face red.

"Get out!" He barked, wincing as a muscle flexed in his injured shoulder.

"Not on your life." She snapped back. "Why aren't you at the medic tent?" She demanded.

"This is my tent! You will—"

"Is your fear of women so great that you would rather die?"

And now he was mortified. He had hoped—but he should have known better. Her eyes were sharp and cut to what was hidden. Even Basilio didn't know that he feared women—the old man just thought he hated them. Talking to them, interacting with them . . . it all sent his stomach roiling. He hated feeling weak and insecure and that's exactly what women did to him, and, he noted, it was even more pronounced in this woman's presence. "I—It's not . . ." He didn't know what to say.

She eyed him for a moment, then sighed, her body losing all of its tension. "Sit down. My healing magic isn't as grand as Maribelle or Lissa, but I'll help you." Her tone was firm and told she was not going to take no as an answer.

Hesitantly, Lon'qu did as told as she came up to him, grabbing the things that had fallen. When her hands touched his back, the other gently prodding the wound, he hissed and flinched. Not so much because it hurt, but more because . . . he was startled. This was unfamiliar territory and it unsettled him. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had touched him.

"So . . . care to talk about why you're so afraid of us?" she inquired quietly as she set to work. He felt the magic flow into him as her other hand grabbed the needle and thread.

"I'm not afraid of you." She stilled. As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. He was more than willing to bite his own tongue off just to keep it from spouting such nonsense. His blush darkened at the confession and he waited anxiously for how she would respond—or maybe he wanted her not to respond at all. Yes, maybe that would be better.

"Really? I thought you disliked me the most." She proceeded with the healing.

"No . . . I do not . . . dislike you." He said hesitantly. "You . . . confuse me. And it unsettles me."

Without warning, he felt the needle bite into his flesh and he gulped back a yelp, reverting to his breathing exercises from his nose.

"Well then. What are you confused about?"

"It's hard to explain."

She snorted. "Try me."

"You are different from the others. From other women. You do not belong among us."

She felt him stiffen and suddenly her movements were not so kind. He winced as she tugged a little harder to tighten the string. "Is that so? How, pray tell, do I not belong, swordmaster?"

He apparently missed the warning in her voice. "You just feel different. You walk different, hold yourself as though you do not know what it is you do. But . . . but on the battlefield, you are fierce. So sure of yourself and your actions. You leap to protect your allies without much regard to your safety," That last bit had him clenching his teeth for a moment. "I do not understand why you can be so sure on the battle field and so meek without."

She eased up, he could feel it—could feel a lot of things because of his heightened awareness due to her closeness—and finished stitching together the gash on his back. She began washing up and his eyes followed her. "You are right about one thing. I . . . do not belong here. I can feel it, so can you. That is what makes me so meek. These are not my people, though I love them all the same. The only time I feel right is when I am protecting those that have tried to make this my home, when I feel my magic leave my fingers and fell an enemy before me." She had her back to him. Her arms moved to wrap themselves around herself, her head tipping down. "The battlefield is where I belong. It feels good, there, almost euphoric. And . . . it scares me, how good it feels. Killing people shouldn't feel so good." The last bit was choked out and she seemed horrified that she let it slip

Terror raced through him as he realized she was crying. He had no clue what to do with crying women and knew he would make it worse should he try to make things better. So he watched helplessly.

She finally calmed herself enough to say. "Your wound should be fine now—just don't use that arm for a while longer. I bid you a good night." And then she was gone and all he wanted to do was kill himself for being so insensitive.

For someone so sensitive to pain, he sure couldn't sense when to shut the hell up.