For those maniacs who have converted me to their ship.

Damn you all.

Orange

It had started, she remembered, in a small town named Bulgar.

She had been sixteen. An age of tears and whirlwinds and broken hopes, an age of curses and anger and roaring thunder, an age of silence and desolation in the endless plains. An age where she had sworn to cleanse the stains of her tribesmen's blood from their soil, an age where she had sworn to avenge. Yet she had walked away, walked away from the horrors of family lost and murderous desires, walked away to lands unknown and words unspoken.

He had been twenty. An age of stables and armour and the clashing of swords against lances, an age of jousts and spars and service to his liege, an age of following orders and the nod of his head. An age where he had pledged endless loyalty to his home Caelin, an age where he had pledged to serve. Thus he had done so, followed the orders he had been barked and ridden on horseback, ridden on horseback in search for a girl whose existence was legend and whose beauty was unforeseen.

And when knight met princess, their eyes met for the first time, green orbs first met brown among the hustle and bustle of townspeople and markets and the smell of fresh straw, she knew that it was something special- that there was something special about this young man with hair that almost flamed orange in the sunlight. Hair that wasn't red, like the blood-stained mire of her lands, but orange like the beads her father had woven into her hair one day, speaking her name in the same tone the flame-haired knight used when he addressed her,

"Lady Lyndis."

Lady Lyndis she had once been, her father and mother's little lady of the Lorca, not a lady in any sense except of the mocking playfulness of parental love. But in a whisk of battles and bloodshed and nights with the orange-haired knight under the stars, she had become a lady again, a true lady caught up in the royal dramas of poison and blood and familial ties that had been all but severed. A lady that battled and screamed and cut bandits down with her blade in a most uncouth manner, a lady that had fought her way to her grandfather's side, accompanied by her companions, but most of all the knight with the armour radiant as his hair.

A lady that had fallen down the stairs by tripping over the pink fluffy dress she had been stuffed into on the morning of her coronation ceremony, a lady that had been helped back onto her feet by her loyal retainer who had waved any possibility of emotion away with a shaking of his head and a curt,

"It is my duty."

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He had initially refused their first dance.

Among the rich food and dolled-up nobles and clothes with more ruffles than she had fingers and toes, he stood out with his dress armour and orange hair, steel sword at his side more for formalities than for protection. For much as paranoia could speak, banquets, Lyn, not Lyndis, had learned, were traditionally a time when enmities were set apart and friendships were forced, were a time when you were supposed to meet even your most hated nemesis with a polite smile and a, "How do you do?" Fleeing the urging of a blonde-haired youth whose name she had no desire to recall, she made her way to the man standing guard at the door and asked him to come onto the dance floor,

"Sain has agreed to take over," she had said, referring to his sandy-haired companion that was bidding a curly-haired pegasus rider farewell for the night, kissing her fingers in an increasingly successful campaign to win her heart. "He has agreed to stand guard for you until the next dance is over. Caelin's worst enemies are weaponless and at our doorstep. There is no need for you to worry so for our safety."

Among a muffled conglomeration of protests and speeches of duty and declaring that it was not right, she had taken his hand and led him into the middle of the dancers, swaying with him to the sound of a hautboy's wail. And when the song was over, she had not needed to ask him to stay for another dance, and yet another when the next dance was over. He led her now, in a waltz that she had yet to learn, showing her where to put her two left feet. "Milady, this dance does not require you to tread on your partner's shoes," he had said, words that would have come across as joking for anyone else except him.

For among his hastily pronounced apologies of rudeness and lack of self-control on the balcony under the stars, and her grandfather's smirking the next morning at breakfast that it was never right for a lady to ask a man to dance, she had learned two things: that Kent of Caelin was, first and foremost, a knight who would never bring dishonour to his lady liege, much less by suggesting that she could not dance to save her life or anyone else's. And secondly, he was an excellent kisser.

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War had hollered her name again when she was seventeen.

This time, she had not been commander, however; she had retired from that position in place of Eliwood, a pleasant youth of her age with bright red hair. But it was not orange, she noted, not orange like that of her knight's, and did not shine the same way in the sunlight no matter how hard she looked. And while he too fought with a sword, his sword arm was different- he thrust instead of slashed, stabbed instead of cut, or, as his friend, Hector put it, "You poke like a wretched child playing at arms!" Yet, these were techniques that worked, and Eliwood was nice enough: he was always polite, sparred with her occasionally, and through him she had gotten to know Hector and Lowen and Rebecca and a multitude of people that she laughed with at camp late into the evenings.

But as she retired every night, he had walked her to her tent; her orange-haired knight had offered to stand guard and ensure her safety at the expense of his rest. She had dismissed him every time, telling him to get some sleep, for they might have to fight again the next morning. Her heart ached every time she watched him walk away into the distance, and she wished that she was not yet crowned a lady so it would not be improper for her to ask him to come into her tent and hold her like he once had, for her to fall asleep once again in his arms while he gazed out into the stars.

As she lay awake thinking of fire and beads and eyes the colour of the earth, he lay awake in his tent thinking of duty and grass and the girl that was supposed to be learning how to dance as well as she fought, the girl that was dancing away in his mind to the land of nobles where her heritage dictated she belonged. Rearranging the blankets on the floor of his tent while his sandy-haired friend mumbled "Florina..." in his sleep, he heard the pattering of lightweight feet and the familiar whispering of his name.

Taking a tentative step out of his tent, he was met by the smiling face of his lady liege, who assured him with a jumping into his arms that perhaps nobility was not where she truly belonged, that perhaps, it was another lighter-haired girl that Eliwood was courting, a lighter-haired real dancer that would never trample over his feet like Lady Lyndis always would. And as she pulled away from him, she glanced up with a laugh before scuttling back to her bed, knowing that she would probably leave him feeling bewildered and stunned and even more confused than before.

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They had fought on the battlefield together many a time, him and his horse shielding her body as she danced with her sword: the nimble swordswomen of the Lorca, as she knew, were swift, but just one blow could strike her down and leave her defenceless. Whereas, she had learned, the knights of Caelin were sturdy and quick but were easier targets for brigands. Eliwood had instructed them to stay near each other on the battlefield, somewhat knowingly, she had noted, though it was worth the humiliation of Hector's teasing to be by his side as he slashed, not poked, through hordes of enemies that threatened to harm him.

War was not pretty, and she knew it was only due to Eliwood's genius that none of their company had yet to fall. But every time he dashed, lashed out against anyone that threatened to do her harm, she wished silently that he would not exert himself so much, for what if he was hurt? What if their next battle was his last? What if she never got to speak those words unspoken? What if she never got to see that orange hair shine in the sunlight? What if she lost the sight of his eyes, the last part of anything that reminded her of the soil of home?

A cry of pain, and she turned around, ready to face whatever it was that beckoned. He was locked in combat with an axeman, and a jarring wound had just pierced its way into his arm. And as she charged towards the enemy with her sword held high, she knew that worry was futile, for he was a knight of Caelin, and he would never allow his emotion to allow him to slip from duty. Cutting the enemy down with the swift movement of her blade, she let out a scream; a scream of anger and hurt, for sometimes it was as though that his wounds were her own.

Late on at camp, as she applied some burning salve to the injury he had faced, she told him her worries for the umpteenth time. As per always, he shrugged them off, but as he insisted that it was an order and he was meant to do what was best for her, she sighed. In a fit of annoyance and rage, she asked,

"Why do you always stay with me, by my side? Is it only because I am granddaughter to the lord of Caelin Castle?"

" ...Lady Lyndis?"

" You are... I am... I'm sorry. Please, forget what I said."

Before he had had a chance to reply, she had run out of his tent, her face the colour of his hair, her heart pounding against her chest and eyes filled with tears that refused to spill.

---------------

"Lady Lyndis," a familiar voice sounded, and she turned her head around to see her orange-haired knight sitting next to her, gazing out into the sky. The night air was cool and a breeze brushed against her face, but it did little to ease the sudden creeping of redness onto her cheeks.

"K-Kent?" she yelped, unsure whether to edge herself towards him or to edge herself away. But something- something in his eyes dictated that it was best that she stayed; best to listen to whatever he was about to speak of. They had not spoken since the incident in his tent-

"There is something about which I must speak to you. If I may..." In a swift movement, he had grabbed hold of her hand like he had that night on the balcony. Astonished, she glanced down at her hand, then back at him, at his brown eyes and orange hair. Shaking her head, she mumbled,

"I really should be going..."

"Please, listen!" His voice, sounding more like a plea than an order, tugged at her; tugged at the heartstrings that were tying her to the ground.

"K-Kent! Unhand me!" she said, yet making no attempt to pull her hand away from his. He sighed.

"I am sorry, but I cannot. If I let go of your hand now, I would regret it for the rest of my life..." Now it was his turn to edge closer to her, she noticed as he ran his other hand through her hair, untangling the knots that days of fighting and spars had tied. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the feeling of his skin brushing against hers.

"Lady Lyndis. I would like to answer your question of the other day," he mumbled into her ear. She tore herself away from him, withdrawing her hand,

Oh Father Sky...

"What...?" she asked, the blush returning to her face. She glanced away, not wishing to meet his eyes, not wishing to have to face yet another disappointment in the string of broken hopes that had been her life. There was an awkward pause between the two of them before he said,

"I am here for you. Even were I not a knight, even were you not my lady. My heart would not change... So, I hope that you will forgive me, should I continue to stay by your side..."

And as her lips met his in a kiss, she knew that he knew he didn't have to say anything more. Smiling broadly, she pulled away from him, but this time, she knew it was not going to be the last. For the two of them were together, fire entangling with grass as they embraced, together not as knight and lady but as man and woman, an emotion unmatched by even the threading of orange beads into her hair.

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She had been called back to the plains again once the turmoil was over, called back by nagging homesickness and the realization that the soil was where she truly belonged. And she had been accompanied by her knight, no longer her knight in the sense that he was at her beck and call but her knight, her husband, her orange-haired knight that could hold her under the stars of the skies of the endless plains.

Fin

A/N: This story was inspired by Love Story by Taylor Swift; am I the only person who keeps calling her Taylor Hicks by mistake?

On another note, I have an obsession with the colour orange. Yeah.

Criticism is appreciated- I want to improve. Thank you for taking the time to read through this- how do I put it?

Ah, pure, unadulterated crap. :]