Disclaimer: I do not own Lara Croft, Kurtis Trent or Tomb Raider.

Amazon Rainforests, Guyana
1992

It smelled of death—the dank, muddy, ruthless kind.

But none of them seemed to notice that little detail. The sheer thought of dying never crossed their minds for a second. There was no time for cowardice when they were stuck in this god-forsaken hellhole. No lagging, no crying, no whining. Hell, they didn't even think. All they cared about now was to simply survive through the night, and the one after that, and the next one… no matter how impossible and ridiculous that may be. Those were orders, and they were trained to follow them. No questions asked.

March or die.

Over the days, he had felt more powerful than the underdog he was. Food and water were scarce; walking on sludge was a pain; they hadn't slept a wink in thirty-six hours; but this was, by far, better than the life he had left a little over a year ago. Whatever he was facing here, he knew he could kill it whatever it would be. No demons, no angels, no war of shadows. This was his world now.

The French Legion. He was under command by a psycho military sector which referred to them as nothing less than expendables, but it was a price he was willing to pay for a sick kind of freedom from another world he never wanted to be part of. The one he was born into. The one he vowed never to return to, but would inevitably continue to haunt him.

Lux Veritatis mecum.

Eckhardt and the Cabal had already destroyed so many lives, including theirs—His father's, his mother's and his. Bodies of both innocent and guilty, of mortal and immortal laid strewn across the world, over centuries' worth of supernatural warfare. Sure, being a Lux Veritatis initiate wasn't a sunny stroll in a park, but someone had to deal with defending a supposed good cause and eliminating an evil occult bent on apocalyptic destruction.

Running for your life everyday was never an easy job either, but there wasn't much of a choice, just like all the others things that made up his life.

He knew his destiny, or whatever it was they called it, would catch up to him sooner or later. His lineage, his blood and flesh—it was a curse. He couldn't run away from it forever, not from impending shadows no bullet could ever pierce.

Light of truth, be with me.

Like an answer from God, lightning flashed, and rain fell from the sky.

Training was an understatement, but the instructions were simple enough: They get thrown out of a helicopter, into a river in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest, and were expected to survive within the next days or so. Limited supplies and ammo where part of this supposed routine and, under normal circumstances, everything would've gone by smoothly.

Except for the fact that this was one of those days when something was bound to go wrong.

He didn't know what the animal was, or if it was an animal to begin with, but it had taken down three of them before it slithered back into the mossy waters, eventually separating him from the rest of the troop. He tried to convince himself it was alligator or something else, but he knew better. Reptiles he'd encountered before didn't have red, glowing slits for eyes to begin with. Or lethal claws the size of his head for that matter.

Tch. He knew that particular stink of a demon anywhere.

No wonder people gave each other weird looks whenever they were assigned to team up with him. He was a magnet for paranormal stirs since day one.

These bastards just don't give up, do they.

Cautious not to make a sound, he drew out his gun—his precious Boran X—and hid behind an age-old, towering trunk. Being absolutely silent was a feat itself, the forest floor being littered with leaves, branches and the bones of unlucky prey. The looming possibility of death shook him to his core. There was no way—not here, not now—that he was going to end up as its dinner tonight.

They didn't call him le démon chasseur for nothing.

Fighting off supernatural beings was a piece of cheesecake. Surviving in the middle of a death-forest was nothing despite his rookie status. Doing both was something he could manage, too, but he would have to kill the fucker first, and if that went according to plan, he'd have to think of a really efficient way to find the rest of his troops. If ever they were still alive that is.

A few more agonizing seconds passed, and other than the ring of nighttime wildlife, it was quiet. Too quiet for his taste.

"Don't move a muscle."

His blood froze when he felt the ice-cold barrel at the back of his head.

But what surprised him most was the voice who spoke in barely a whisper.

"Talk and you die."

It was at that unlikely instance that he'd forgotten all about his little demon hunt.

Perfect. His untimely demise would be a girl. And not just any girl though: She had a gun, which was aimed dead-center at his cranium. He didn't know whether to laugh at the irony or not. His prototype 9mm pistol fell with a dull thud on the ground after deciding that it was his best option to just keep his mouth shut.

But hey, that was just downright boring.

In a swift motion, he whirled around and ducked, planting his elbow in her stomach, effectively making his assailant lose balance. She lost her grip on her gun, just as he had expected, so he didn't think twice and lunged at her, pinning her to the grimy forest floor with a knife held millimeters above her jugular. He tightened his grip on her wrists above her head, leaving no room to escape.

"Do that again, and you'll die," he spat. "Who are you?"

Another flash of lightning illuminated her features: He could only make out dark hair and a pair of equally dark eyes which reflected complete and utter defiance. Oh, how he hated girls who played hard to get.

"I should ask you the same thing, Légionnaire." She was English. Her accent told him as much.

He got to his feet and removed the blade from her throat. Sure, he wasn't really about to kill some random girl he came across in the Amazon, but something tells him she was more than just some rich-born British girl. He watched her as she carefully stood up, never taking her eyes of his. Amazing. This chick didn't even look like she was scared despite being in the middle of a jungle in the middle of nowhere. That, and never mind the fact that he could have slit her neck open if he wanted to.

"Look, miss or lady, or whatever. This isn't exactly a place for your little field trips or photography—"

"This place isn't for your guns and camps either," she interjected, her face as hard as stone.

A small smirk tugged at the end of his mouth. Damn, what the hell was she doing here of all places? "Yeah, says the girl who wanted to shoot me with a 22-caliber a minute ago. If you wanted help, you could've asked a little nicely—"

"I don't need your help. What I need is for your troops to leave." A closer inspection told him she had long, brown hair and eyes of the same shade. And, in his opinion, she wasn't too shabby for a damsel-in-distress who was lost in a forest. "You've scared off the Amanyé along with my research, did you know that?"

His eyebrows arched. "Ama-what?"

"The Amanyé are an indigenous people of Guyana. They often relocate their homes once the land they use for their agriculture wears out, which also implies that they're extremely hard to track given their nomadic culture. They have artifacts I wanted to keep tabs on." She inhaled in a very frustrated manner. "There are only very few of them left and I was very close to finding them until you people showed up."

"Hey, I only follow orders. No need to take it out on me, miss." So she was an archaeologist of sorts. Leave it to him to end up with the girls with dirty jobs. He paused. Now where did that thought come from? "I don't know what you're looking for, but I can help you get back to your explorer friends."

She narrowed her eyes, dubious.

He removed the knife from her neck and picked up their fallen guns before throwing hers back to its owner. She caught it easily, which surprised him more. "Look, if I wanted to hit on you, I wouldn't be doing it here."

It was dark, but he could've sworn she blushed. "What makes you think I—"

"Kurtis Trent," he said, holding out his hand to her.

She looked at it hesitantly before taking it in hers. "Lara Croft."

After a half a mile north, or what felt like it, into a trail that seemingly led to nowhere, they decided to set up camp within a small clearing they had stumbled upon. That was, of course, after much debate between him and his lady friend on whether to stop or not. He preferred the former, much to her surprise. Come on. He'd been awake the past two days, undergoing a course which would've been properly entitled as Jungle Warfare 101.

He was still a rookie. So, what. Big deal. This wasn't coming along easy for him. Demon-hunting plus a couple of casualties and Legion training wasn't exactly what you'd call a vacation. And to top it all off, a dark occult past that never left him peace and freaking quiet.

He was thankful the rain had stopped, but starting a fire was the problem when the firewood resources were soaked. They needed heat for the night, something which would hopefully ward away unwanted predators and a signal light to give away their location just in case someone dispatched a search team to look for him and his troops.

As if they would waste time and men in search of a missing person.

Half an hour passed when the flame finally sparked to life. He had also painstakingly setup a small bivouac—a pathetic excuse for a shelter—to keep them dry just in case another storm came. As much as he wanted to use telekinesis to build it, the inquisitive, ever-wandering eyes of his lady companion made it more problematic that he had hoped. They now sat in silence, one across the other, cross-legged over a bunch of dead tree trunks which served as makeshift chairs. Hanging beside the fire were his muddy army-green jacket and black undershirt—his vain attempt on getting dry clothes for the morning.

Despite the way Lara had snarled at him earlier, Kurtis could tell she was uneasy, even nervous—the way she shifted in her seat and her frequent agitated huffs, how she touched and pulled at the end of her muddy ponytail…

"Try to relax." He poked the glowing embers of wood with a branch, trying to think of something to say to ease off her tension. "To be honest, I didn't expect you'd last this long out here."

Yeah, real smooth, Trent.

Lara shot him a death glare, which faded into very vague uncertainty. And it was that small fraction of a second that he realized a few of the wonders that firelight can do to the male perspective. She looked to be barely in her twenties, maybe even in her late teens—her cheeks were still full and there was something youthful in the way her eyes danced against the warm glow of the flames. Her grey tank top was faded and smudged with dirt and something which looked like dried blood. She didn't even bother bringing a jacket or something? To top off the look, she had on a pair of cargo jeans and combat boots.

For Christ's sake, how many women out there actually looked good wearing combat boots?

Well… she's not completely unattractive.

"How'd you end up here anyway?" he asked in another attempt to calm her down.

"I was following the trail of the Amanyé, and, well, it started getting dark so I headed back to camp. I fell off a cliff not too far from the river. I was with two others, but I lost them when I had to make my way around the crag. Everything was slippery when it started raining and I couldn't climb back up," she explained. "That was how I found the trail you were in." A pause followed. "Sorry about that, Mr. Trent."

He raised an eyebrow. "Call me Kurtis. Sorry for what?"

"When I pointed a gun at you. Frankly, my pistol wasn't even loaded back then."

He managed a chuckle. "Yeah, I could tell."

She smiled apologetically. "And I should've known that you of all people would know."

Damn, she looked adorable when she did that. Or maybe it was just the fire. Or the five or so months he'd spent without the company of women. He was about to curse his masculine urges aloud when he bit his lip to stop himself from doing so. No, it wasn't like that, but there was just something about her. As if she emitted this glow that drew him in like a helpless moth. He figured it was a good kind of light though, not the sort that the reminded him of the Lux Veritatis.

"That's okay. I'm kinda used to being shot at. Punched at. Kicked at. All that jazz." He grinned cockily. "Sorry for almost cutting you. I just hate it when girls threaten me with brute force."

Lara's hand shot up to her neck, but she quickly let out a laugh. "That's alright. Just don't do it again."

Kurtis couldn't help but grin. "Sure, Miss Croft."

"Call me Lara."

It took her a good two hours before she finally, finally fell asleep, curling up into a quiet little ball beside the fire. Kurtis, on the other hand, knew better than to doze off while in the middle of a jungle, but hey. She was a girl. He'd let her have her beauty sleep. His eyes had been open the past forty-eight hours. Another twenty-four hours awake wouldn't hurt. Someone had to keep watch anyway.

He ran his fingers through his hair, lost in thought. Secretly, he sort of liked how she said his name in that English accent of hers. KUHR-tis. KUHR-tis. KUHR-tis. It sounded so refined, so eloquent, so damn sexy.

He shook his head a little too hard to rid himself of the thoughts to follow.

It also took him by surprise how interested she was in everything. Literally, everything. He never would've thought that a female archaeologist of all people would know about guns, surviving in the wild, or other stuff for the taking. Like how she knew the approximate time by the ring of insects in the air. Hell, they didn't even teach them that in Legion school.

And then there was his tattoo, the one on his left arm. A remnant of his more rebellious teenaged years. It was a fact that he never liked to be part of this supernatural frat, but he had it etched on his skin anyway. To the untrained and unknowing eye, it looked like a simplified anchor of sorts. Or a fish hook. Very few knew about what this ancient symbol was and the meaning it bore, and she, apparently, was one of those people who liked to stick her nose in dark, mystic business out of sheer curiosity.

...

He was in the middle of throwing more firewood into the flame when she tilted her head to the side in a very inquisitive manner. It was a gesture he found rather, well, cute. As much as he hated using the term, there was just no other word for it. At first, he thought she was admiring his impressive biceps—thanks to killer, early-morning training—but quickly dismissed that idea when she spoke.

"Lovely tattoo," Lara told him in a very formal tone, which he assumed was how English people normally talked. "I was never a fan of body art, but I find historical insignias very alluring. Even if they are on skin."

This made Kurtis swallow a lump in his throat. He was hoping she wouldn't see that, but well, it was obvious nothing passed by this chick unnoticed. "You don't say." He thought of his usual lie whenever someone asked about his tattoo. "I got this when I was sixteen, just some random symbol in the tattoo parlor."

"Really? I'm surprised the mark made its way to an art book." She continued to stare at it in mesmerized concentration. "It's the symbol of the Lux Veritatis, an ancient military order in the fourteen-hundreds."

The mention of the name made him uncomfortable. A blur of images flashed in his mind at the sound. Corpses and red, glowing eyes. Eckhardt. His parents. Hearing someone say the name out loud after so long sent shivers down his spine. Kurtis shifted in his seat and stared off into the darkness of the Amazon, looking for an invisible source of relief.

So it was true. No matter how far away he ran, his past will catch up on him one way or another. This time, it was in the form of a beautiful, English treasure-hunter.

"I've only read a few things about them," Lara continued, staring at the fire, lost in thought. Her voice was like faraway church bells to his ears. "…Warrior monks who branched off from the Knights Templar, endowed with telekinetic powers of some sort. Peculiar, I know. Their cause was ridding the world of evil occults, particularly practitioners of black alchemy; and they were purged and executed not too long after."

'Warrior monks' and 'evil occult' are kinda loose, but they'll do just fine, he thought.

Kurtis weighed his options about telling her the truth, but later decided to just drop it and keep quiet. He pretended not to hear and busied himself with kicking the little rocks around his boot-clad feet. There was no way in hell he was going to tell her that the 'greater good' theyhad been fighting for these past five-hundred years had left so many fucked up lives in its wake.

"This is boring you, isn't it?" she asked him as she smiled. Her brown hair, now untied, fell down her shoulders. It was mucked up from the rain, but it still glistened against the firelight. "I'm sorry, I just can't help myself when I want to talk. History, no matter how strange it is, is so fascinating."

Another one of his smug smirks tugged at his lips. It was something he did when he felt awkward but didn't want to show it. "S'okay, Miss Croft. I'm just a little tired."

"Hmm. I've heard that they don't take it easy from where you come from, especially on the new recruits." She changed the topic to something she knew he could relate to. And that helped him a bit. "I have a cousin who joined the Foreign Legion. He came home a changed man."
It was at that moment when he wished that it would have the same effect on him.

...

Kurtis took his now-dry camouflage-green jacket from its place by the fire and wrapped it around her small body. It wasn't even cold tonight, but he felt the need to do it. A gentlemanly gesture, maybe. He then laid beside her, on a mat of thick, dried leaves, and watched her sleep until morning came.

"We're almost there."

"How do you know? Got a map or something?"

"Not really. I just remember this path from yesterday."

Lara poked a walking stick on an incoming shrub in a casual fashion. Her face, despite making their way through the Amazonian forests, was bright and cheerful, as though they were taking a walk through a lakeside park. Nothing phased this girl, and Kurtis found that very… stunning to say the least. There weren't many women out there who could hold her their own while trekking across a predator-infested jungle and it was a refreshing sight.

The fact that she didn't even cry for insect-repellent the night before was another thing.

That, and the way she slept on his arm like she owned it.

Kurtis had woken up in a very awkward position just a few minutes after sunrise. But Lara didn't seem to mind at all. Her face was buried in his chest where her breathing tickled his bare skin. Hell, he wasn't one for too much physical contact, but he just couldn't find it in himself to push her off.

Besides, it wasn't everyday he opened his eyes to a more-than-eligible young woman sleeping in his arms.

He tried to ignore the familiar pang of masculine admiration swelling in his guts, to avoid any unwanted manifestation between his... But she was just so soft and warm.

Kurtis hesitantly ran a calloused hand down her arm and shook her in the gentlest way he could. The day had already begun, much to his dismay, and they needed to get moving to make up for the lost time. Her ship back to England would be leaving by noon she had said, and he had to get back to camp before his commanding officers renounced him as a runaway. According to rumors, men who attempted to escape before finishing the five-year contract had met their very painful fates in the hands of the French.

Perfect. A good beating's the last thing I need.

Lara had opened her eyes. And he thought he was looking at a perfect Christmas morning. As lame as that sounded.

"…too bad I won't be able to continue my research on them for some time. Father was looking forward to what I would've written," she told him when they found the cliff she had fallen down from the day before.

He could only smile. But he wouldn't let her see that.

A quarter of an hour later, he could make out the angry rays of the noontime sun. They headed east like she said, which was the only assuring way to find her camp, which was near a small river leading into the ocean. And sure enough, they made it. The forest eventually gave way into a small clearing where a bunch of tents, crates, and other equipment were being packed away. Lara slowed down her pace, her eyes lighting up.

"Lady Croft?" a small boy in worn-out trousers yelled across the shore. "Oi, mates, it's Lady Croft! She's alive! Lord Richard—!"

...Lady? Lord? Oh, he was so screwed.

Lara ran across the sand, towards a tall, stocky man who was standing dumbstruck against the morning light. His hair was the same shade of brown as hers and had the same pair of dark eyes. She jumped into his arms like a little girl. "Lara! Oh, my child! We thought you were—We searched for you all night! A few men and I were going to stay behind to look for you. I was so worried. I thought I'd—"

"I'm okay, Father. Really, I am." She hopped down and smiled proudly.

The man named Richard cupped her face. "They told me you fell off a cliff west of here! I marked the trail you were supposed to follow, remember? I told you never to leave the trail no matter what happens! You can be so stubborn at times, child!"

"It's a long story, Father. But it was thanks to this wonderful Légionnaire right here that I got back safe and sound."

Richard Croft looked around, confused, an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Dear... I see no man anywhere."

"What?" was all Lara could say as she ran back into the forest outskirts. In place of the man who had helped her was a small, damp piece of paper, with hastily scribbled writing, sitting on the sand.

Farewell, Miss Croft. Our little adventure was kinda fun. Maybe we'll see each other again, sometime in the future, and hopefully it doesn't involve me meeting your dad. Try not to get lost next time.

-KT

FIN