A/N: Originally written for fe_contest over on LJ, prompt: Crack Pairing. So this is a really sweet pairing I've written on before, and so I thought I'd go a little more in-depth. Not my favorite piece of work, but hey. It's Rhys and Mist.

Words: 4017
Characters: Rhys, Mist
Time: During Path of Radiance
Genre: Friendship/Romance

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

Mist peered through the door of Titania's room. She'd overhead her talking to Ike, saying they had a new guest, no, a new member of their family. He'd been hurt, she'd said, but he was trustworthy.

So Mist wanted to meet this new family member. Inside the tent, she saw a man lying under many sheets, so only his pale face and bright red hair were visible, and his arms, resting above the blankets. When Mist pulled a chair beside his bed, his eyes opened at the noise.

"Hi," she said brightly. "My name's Mist. Who are you?"

"I – I'm Rhys," the man said, shifting a little and seeming taken aback at her good cheer. Perhaps he was still a little sleepy. "It's, ah… good to meet you. I haven't gotten many visitors yet."

His face still looked drawn and bloodless, like he wasn't quite recovered yet. Mist reached out and found his hand. She would have liked for someone to hold her hand if she were ill and amongst strangers.

"Well, you will now. Cause you're part of our family now, you know."

The man – Rhys – smiled. The sight made Mist smile, too. His eyes flicked to their joined hands, and then his gaze met hers again, and she couldn't help but trust him.

"Rhys!"

Mist was dashing towards him, her short legs and little feet kicking up giant dust clouds as she ran. She gave him a big hug, and her grip seemed unusually strong for such a small girl. Rhys laughed.

"Hello, Mist," he said. "You would be the first person I see now that I'm better at last."

"Of course!" said Mist. She wrapped her fingers around his, pulling him along. "Come on. I get to show you around! Everyone else is out training, or keeping watch, or cleaning or cooking. Usually that's what I do. It gets boring, you know? I wish I could do more for everyone. But today I get to be with you!"

"I'm glad this makes you so happy," he said, light at heart to see her smile so broadly. Her kindness was genuine, he knew; he had felt it before. He wanted to learn more about her, to see if his suspicions could be true. He had felt the balance, the peace, the power within her.

"Follow me!"

Rhys listened with interest as she showed him the kitchen, sleeping quarters, training grounds. The hideout wasn't large, but it was very clean and comfortable, and everyone was working hard but still found the time to greet Rhys politely. It was remarkable, really; such a family, and with Mist's hand tight around his, he began to feel as if he belonged there, too. It was curious… but warm, welcome, and familiar.

She was cleaning pots for Oscar when Rhys stuck his head through the door. "Mist? Do you have a moment?"

Glancing around to check that Oscar was out of sight, Mist nodded.

"Come with me for a second, then."

At once Mist hastened to obey. Quietly setting down the pot, she crept toward Rhys and only spoke once she was outside.

"What is it?"

"Follow me."

He didn't say anything else to her until they were outside the fort in the familiar patch of woods that was their backyard. Through the trees, sunlight shone in mottled patches, and a whisper of wind rustled leaves and branches. Rhys sat down on the forest floor.

"You said once that you wished you could help your brother and father and everyone by doing more than just cooking and cleaning."

"I do," she insisted. "But they say I'm not strong enough. Or that it's too dangerous, and it's only because they love me that they are scared for me."

"That is all true. But… there are different kinds of strength."

Rhys lifted the staff he had been carrying across his back. Mist frowned when he held it out to her.

"I know you're a healer, Rhys. I get so jealous of you when you get to go with them. But I mean, I feel fine, I don't need any healing."

Rhys smiled. "You misunderstand me," he said. "I want you to try it."

Her eyes grew very wide. "Me?"

"Yes. You. I think – I know – you have the temperament of a healer. Ever since I met you, I've wondered, and the more I came to know you, the more sure I became. Please?"

With wide eyes and a pounding heart, Mist reached for the smooth hardwood of the staff. Immediately when she closed her fingers around it, a tingling warmth spread up through her arm and onwards into her entire body, like soaking in a warm bath.

"Wh-what do I do now?" she breathed, lost but hesitant to break the spell.

"Close your eyes," Rhys said, and he touched his fingertips to her eyelids, her temples. "When you're first learning, blocking out as many extraneous senses helps to focus the energy. You use your spirit to heal, and only those with the proper disposition can do so. Just let your will flow through your palms. Your will to help, to heal, to comfort, to renew."

Slowly her racing heart began to still. Somehow, she understood what Rhys meant, when he talked about will, spirit, energy. It just made sense, to her body more than her conscious mind. She did just as he said – let her will flow into the staff, transform into magic, into life. His hands closed over hers, but the touch was distant.

"There! Mist, open your eyes."

She did so, though she didn't need to – she could feel that it had worked. But there was something immensely beautiful about seeing that glowing staff, illuminating the forest floor with suffuse bluish light. She looked up, smiling, into Rhys's warm face.

"I knew it, he said happily. "Ever since the first time you held my hand, I could feel – from one healer to another – that familiarity and warmth."

"I can help now," Mist said. "If I can learn how to do this… I can help them in their battles. Things are getting serious now. You all need me."

Suddenly Rhys looked anxious. "Mist, I want you to promise me something."

"Sure. I mean, wait – what is it?"

He gripped her shoulder and stared into her eyes, looking more serious than she had ever seen him. "I want you to promise me that you will keep yourself safe. I will teach you more of the particulars of healing, help you refine your natural abilities… It's not right to leave such a skill unnoticed, uncultured. Because yes, in this brewing war… we will need you, Mist, we will need every hand. But I… if you get hurt… I will never forgive myself. You must – must – stay safe. Give me your word…"

His voice as calm and controlled as ever, but his posture spoke of a quiet sort of intensity. His blue eyes implored her. Lost for words, Mist nodded. "I will, Rhys. I'll be okay. I'm glad you decided to teach me. And so to repay you… I promise I'll stay safe."

Finally Rhys smiled. He rubbed her shoulder briefly, then pulled her into an embrace, which returned as tightly as she could.

"Thank you, Rhys," she said into his shoulder. "Thank you."

"It is my pleasure, Mist."

Late at night, nightmares lingering behind her blinking eyes, Mist crept from her shared tent one evening and found a quiet corner of camp. The night was cloudless and clear, haunted by just the barest sliver of moon, littered with stars. Sitting down on the cool grass, Mist raised her eyes to the sky, wondering if counting them would lull her to sleep, if counting them was even possible.

Something rustled behind her. Mist whipped around, thinking of sentries, or Titania coming to scold her for leaving, or worse, enemy soldiers, monsters from the dark –

But it was Rhys. In the darkness, his white robes seemed to flow; he wasn't wearing his full cloak and his sashes, but he still looked somehow regal.

"I heard you pass my tent," he explained in a whisper as he sat beside her.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I wasn't certain, but I guessed from the sound of your footsteps." He sounded proud. "You can't sleep?"

She shook her head. "You neither, apparently."

"No, I will admit, it is getting more and more difficult to cave in to the exhaustion even as its severity mounts. It's unfortunate, isn't it?"

Consciously Mist knew he was trying to cheer her up, and she appreciated the effort, but she was too tired even for that. She attempted a smile that she knew he couldn't see anyway.

"I don't really know why I came out here," she sighed. "Just something to do rather than dream."

"What do you dream about?"

"Terrible things," she whispered. "I hate it. I dream of death and blood everywhere, losing Ike… my father, always him… and then more death. And sometimes nothing, except not a peaceful nothing like normal nights. I'm aware of the nothingness. It's suffocating, dark, frozen, and I'm alone, completely alone, and I…"

She couldn't continue. She didn't need to. Rhys seemed to understand, for he placed an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and Mist clung to him, biting her lip so she wouldn't cry.

"You're not alone, Mist," Rhys said in that soft, soothing voice of a healer. "I'm here, I'm with you. Dreams are just that… dreams, not reality. We all suffer such dreams, but when we are awake…"

Rhys touched her cheek, tilting her face upwards toward the stars. "Look how beautiful they are," Rhys said. "Do… do you know any of the legends that lie in the stars?"

Mist did, but she shook her head anyway. She wanted to hear him tell her the tales.

"Well, that long string of bright stars there, with the triangle at the top? That's the Goddess's Feather. Do you see?"

"Mhm."

"The story goes that long ago, the goddess had a pet, a little bird, that ran errands to the land far below for her. Small as it was, it could fly miles and miles without rest. It was the only one of its kind in the whole world. One day, the bird realized it was lonely. The goddess, busy with her work, needed the little bird for work, but had no time to keep it company. So one day, the bird finished her errands at top speed. The sun was just beginning to set, and the bird had some time. So it began to fly. Farther, faster, than ever before… It flew into the depths of the night, into the darkest part of the sky, looking for a friend. It flew so long and hard that a feather from its tiny wing fell out and got stuck in the sky. That's the feather we see today."

Mist's eyelids were fluttering. His voice calmed her, chased her fears into a distant corner. "What happened to the bird?" she mumbled.

A hand was gently stroking her hair. "They say that the goddess's bird is still flying. Still searching for a friend."

Her eyes were comically wide as she stared at the many colorful fabrics that hung from the foreigner's tented roof. Even her mouth was open in a perfect "O" shape, her head turning every which way, her neck craning to see every sheet of silk.

"Look, Rhys, aren't they so beautiful?"

"I think this is perhaps the fifth time I've told you so – but we are supposed to be looking for herbs and fruit for Oscar…"

"But just look!"

Rhys sighed wearily as she grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the weaver's stall. The merchant gave them a toothy smile. "Just a few lengths of such fine cloth makes for a lovely dress for a lovely lady, no?"

"This one is stunning," said Mist, fingering the edge of white silk thickly patterned with blue flowers and leaves. "Oh, I wish I hadn't bought that little bowl before. This is so much nicer. Rhys, why did you let me buy that bowl?"

"Me?" said Rhys indignantly, but Mist was grinning,

"How much… how much for just a corner?" Mist held up her hands, her thumb and pointer finger of each hand touching. "About this much?"

The man looked disappointed, but amused. "It's fine silk, so that's still going to be some gold. 10 pieces."

Mist ruffled anxiously through the pouch at her belt, but all that emerged were bronze and silver pennies. Her shoulders drooped.

"Here," said Rhys, handing the man a handful of coins.

"Rhys! You don't have to do that!"

As the merchant was cutting the fabric, Rhys serenely ignored Mist's protestations, remaining dutifully silent until he handed her the bit of cloth. "A gift from me," he said. "Refusing it would be rude, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, fine," said Mist, but she was grinning so broadly. She folded the fabric very neatly and tucked it safely into her pouch, beaming up at him. "Thank you!"

"Don't thank me," Rhys said, glancing down the road. "We've still got shopping to do… and I'm going to make you carry all the fruit…"

Rhys wiped his blood-stained hands on the sleeves of his robes. The formerly white fabric would never be clean again; it happened, occasionally, after a particularly gruesome battle. What made Rhys shiver was knowing that most of the blood was not even his own.

Glancing down at himself, he realized he made a gruesome sight; he decided, therefore, to change before going to see her. All he had left that was clean were a largely unused set of trousers and a linen tunic, but it was at least much better than bloody robes.

"Mist?"

The light of a single candle shimmered through the diaphanous walls of her tent. He saw her silhouette there, stark black against the fabric, seated, head bowed.

"Do you… do you want to talk for a bit, Mist?"

He watched a black arm rise, her hand disappearing into the shadow where her face must be. She responded in a tight voice. "Rhys? Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Can you… can you come in, please? I don't want… I don't think I can move right now."

For a moment, Rhys hesitated; there were people around, they could see, they could misunderstand. But her voice implored him. Ducking into the tent, Rhys sat across from her, the candle on a small metal tray between them. He noticed the quilt on which he sat; it looked as if Mist had sewn it herself.

"You're wearing trousers," she said. "I've never seen you wear trousers before."

"Been a bit busy for laundry lately," Rhys said, attempting a smile. Mist only nodded.

A long silence filled the tent, all the more stifling because of the small space. Rhys could see candlelight sparkling off a dampness on her cheeks. From what he could see of her clothing, she, too, was stained with another's blood.

"I keep seeing his face," Mist said. She drew her knees to her chest and buried her face there. "I didn't even know his name… butI keep seeing his eyes! I saw it, Rhys, I saw the moment when his soul left them. I'd seen dead bodies before… but this… this was different. I had my staff in one hand and the other holding his lifeblood into his stomach. My hands still feel sticky. It was so hot. I was trying to call my magic, but I was so exhausted, there were so many injured… it didn't come fast enough. He died, looking right at me, his last hope… I let him die… I…"

She was gasping now, her words unintelligible. In his haste to reach her, to comfort her, Rhys nearly tipped the candle; carefully he set it aside and gripped Mist's shoulders. She was shaking violently and would not raise her head; anxiously he stroked her hair, tried to calm her.

"Take a deep breath, Mist. In. Out. Calmly. With me, now, follow my breathing, like when we meditate. In. Out."

Perhaps a half-inch of the candle had melted away before Mist raised her head, her tears temporarily contained. She smiled gratefully at Rhys, but it was tremulous.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know… this must happen to every healer. It had to happen to me sometime. It's just… different, than burying someone who's already died or hearing of their death second-hand or… or even killing an enemy in battle…"

"It is no fault of yours, Mist. When the Goddess finally calls, we can but follow. Sometimes the right path is not to try and delay Her will. What if living for longer would have only given him pain? Some wounds cannot be healed. Mist, you have saved so many… Sometimes there is nothing that can be done. Please, don't blame yourself…"

Her hand found his, resting near her cheek. Tightly she gripped his fingers, squeezing her eyes shut too, forcing out the last few lingering tears. Rhys wiped them away with a gentle thumb.

For a second, they both grew as still as the silence around them. Mist opened her eyes, which flickered up to meet his; their faces were so close that he could count her damp eyelashes. She was blinking suddenly; she squeezed his hand again.

All of a sudden, Rhys's palms felt hot, as if the candle were there between his skin and hers. He withdrew his hands as Mist glanced away briefly. But when she met his eyes again, she was calm, and he couldn't look away.

"Thank you, Rhys," she said. "I just… You always know the right thing to say, and you're always here to listen to me, to answer my questions… so thank you. I just wish I could… repay the favor."

"Seeing you safe and well is repayment plenty, Mist."

Idly, wearily, Mist's head fell towards him, her forehead resting on his shoulder, her face turned so that he could feel the heat of her breath on his neck. Without thinking, Rhys wrapped his arms around her small shoulders, rubbing her back, tilting his face into her soft hair. She murmured something against his skin, but he couldn't understand it over the unidentifiable pounding in his ears and chest.

"I… I should go, Mist, if you're… if you're well?"

She nodded against him. When she lifted her head, Rhys allowed his arms to drop from around her, wondering why he felt both relieved and saddened at the same time. He stood up as much as he could, forced to crouch in the small tent, and returned the candle to where it had been before he had taken its place near her.

"Goodnight, Rhys," she said.

"Goodnight, Mist."

Only once he was outside again, buffeted by cool breezes, did he realize how rapidly his heart was pounding, how flushed felt his face, how weak felt his knees.

She stared at the sunset fiercely, as if its flaming light would burn through her eyes and into her heart, giving her strength for the following day. She studied it meticulously, savoring every detail, for if it were the last one she would ever see, she wanted to remember every last ray, every delicate color.

"It is beautiful, is it not?"

Without seeing him, she knew who it was. A smile touched her lips. "It is."

The camp bustled behind them, but for now, they were alone, them and the sunset, life's distant star disappearing into their cold earth.

"Are you frightened for tomorrow?"

"Terrified," Mist asserted. "But not for me." Finally she tore her eyes away from the orange sun to look at him; she had to blink before the imprint faded enough for her to make out his face, his gentle smile, his kind eyes. "I'm scared of losing everyone else."

"As am I." Now he glanced at the sun. Mist studied his profile. The sweep of his hair, the lines of his cheekbone, the curve of his lips were suddenly more vital to her than the sunset. What if tonight were to be the last night she would ever see them? Her heart jumped in her chest.

"Rhys, I…" she began, and then bit her lip. Her mouth had moved before her mind knew what she going to say; her heart had spurred her voice. "I think there is something I need to ask you," she said in a rush. "Before… tomorrow. So I have to ask now, because I've never known the answer, and I…"

His face turned back to her. "Of course, Mist."

"How… how do you know if you're in love with someone?"

It was hard to tell with the glare from the sun, but she thought his cheeks might have flushed; he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away from her. "I… don't know much of love. I don't know if I am the right person to ask."

"I just felt… like I had to ask you," Mist said hesitantly. She wished he would look at her again. "I don't know why… If you don't know either… just tell me what you think?"

"I suppose… I think… that you would always be thinking of the person in question," he said, still staring at the sun. "You would always, always want them to be safe. The thought of an injury to them makes your blood run cold. The thought of… no. You would smile when they are happy, or want to hold them when they are sad… You would want to help them, always. Your heart would tell you…"

Mist felt a drop fall from her cheek onto her collarbone. She hadn't noticed the tears. But perhaps Rhys had, for his head turned around and he stepped closer to her at once, his hands, by instinct, by habit, perhaps, wiping away her tears. But Mist smiled. She caught his hand before he drew it away.

"I think you're right," she said. His eyes were wide, open to her; it was not the sun that flushed his cheeks.

"Mist…"

"So if I… if I feel all those things for you…"

It was hard to keep her voice calm. Her heart was filled with the possibility of all that he said, the discovery, the terror. She could not stop its trembling, and yet, nor could she stop trying to smile, for she did not want him to worry any longer over her tears.

"…I love you?"

It was even less than a whisper, just barely more than a thought given breath. Rhys's his hand traced the side of her face, and then he pulled her into a tight embrace. She buried her damp face into his soft robes, holding him more tightly than she had ever held anyone before.

"Tomorrow," Rhys said. His voice was determined, but not quite as steady and tranquil as was his usual. "We will… When we are both here again tomorrow, watching tomorrow's sunset, because we will, you will… I won't let anything happen to you."

Mist clung to him; she took solace in his fiercely beating, savoring every beat, burning it into her soul as if each one were its own glowing sun.