A/N: You know, Isadora is actually a really cool character. Most people overlook her as the most boring and useless person in FE7. But her supports are awesome. Isadora/Sain = hilarious, Isadora/Harken = emotional and sweet, Isadora/Geitz = so awesomely cute and funny and random, and Isadora/Legault = a really interesting, unexpected relationship. Their ending left a lot of unanswered questions, though. So, like many other pieces on this site - here is my version of the Legault/Isadora reunion scene. Please tell me what you think!

Words: 1527
Characters: Legault, Isadora
Time: Ten years after Rekka no Ken
Genre: Angst/Romance

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

The cool cloak of darkness was not enough to protect him from the heated rush of impending battle. He clenched his fist around his dagger, his only form of protection, the sole friend of a renegade assassin. Legault heard cries of horses – Lycian knights, it had to be – and the roars of wyverns – Bern's soldiers. He'd never wanted to get close to them. Even as a member of the army, he still preferred to work alone. Tracing his way through a thick wood, toward the right flank of the Lycian army, Legault peered around tree after tree until finally he reached the edge of the battlefield. Here he could dart into the fray, attack silently, steal supplies, and flee with little risk to his safety.

On the edge fought a fully armored knight, mounted on a white steed, holding off three foot soldiers. From this distance, all Legault could see of him was his faint silhouette, illuminated by the torches in the battle ahead. When the foot soldiers had fallen, and the knight was catching his breath, Legault crept towards him and prepared to strike. He tightened his grip on his dagger.

But somehow, just as he was about to leap and strike, the knight heard him. It was impossible – Legault never blundered, never – and yet the enemy spun his horse around, and the eyes of thief and knight met in a flash of instant, mutual recognition.

He would have dropped his dagger in shock if not for his years, so many years, of experience and training.

Isadora's face expressed the same astonishment that was frozen firmly in his mind. She looked equally the same as he remembered, bright blue eyes and determined posture, and different too, older and warier, as if the world had finally shattered her noble ideals and naive hope into mistrustful reality and practicality.

He had always been older than her - he wondered suddenly how much older he looked, now.

"You," she breathed, barely audible over the clash of the fight. "Legault!"

"Dame Knight," Legault managed with a nod. "Why, you look well."

She only stared at him, unmoving. Her sword – for a mere second – relaxed in her grip.

Then her gaze suddenly hardened. She swung at him, and as Legault ducked just in time, he felt the blade skim right over his head, missing him by a hair. She lashed out again and again while Legault danced around her strikes. Wildly he wondered what he should do, what he could do – he could never kill her, it was out of the question, and yet here they were, on the same battlefield once more, only this time on opposing sides, each out for blood.

As he dodged both her sword and her horse's hooves, Legault did what he was trained to do. Sabotage, deception, and speed were his greatest allies. In moments, he had tugged on each of the right bindings and cinches, fixing her saddle so that it slipped off to the side. Isadora let out a yelp as she crashed to the ground. Her horse, spooked and riderless, ripped the reins from her hand and dashed away. Without wasting a second to even let her catch her breath, Legault pinned her to the ground with his own body, and held his dagger to her throat.

"Believe me, Dame Knight," he said, staring at her shadowed face. "I do not want to fight any more than you do."

She spat and scrambled vainly for her sword; it was lying mere inches away from her hand. "We have to. This is what happens in a battle. We're enemies. Kill me and be done with it! You've defeated me! You've defeated a knight!"

"But it's like I told you. We assassins can't win honorably. I resorted to my familiar, devious means to overpower you. Now, that doesn't really count as a victory, does it?"

"It doesn't matter! Defeat is defeat, no matter how it comes about. And defeat means nothing but death to a knight. I will accept nothing less than my fate."

Her eyes burned with fervor. He had never seen such passion in anyone's gaze before – it seemed as if the fierce pride that burned within her was the only fire she had, the only light in a world of dark threat, the only warmth in a frigid night of constant winter. What had happened to the knight he knew before, the woman of ten years ago? The humble learner who longed to better herself by listening even to one such as him? The heartbroken woman who was nevertheless bravely piecing herself back together, hopeful for love? Back then, she had been so cheery and vivacious, if still firmly determined. Their friendly banter, laced with undertones of deeper emotions, had brightened all of Legault's days with the old crew.

Something behind him burst into flames. In the fresh, flickering light, Legault caught a glimpse of his own narrow reflection in the blade of his dagger. He could see only his eyes, small and distorted, but as he stared, he began to wonder again.

What had happened to the man of ten years ago? What happened to his easygoing, witty demeanor, always quick with his tongue and quicker with his blade, when he knew exactly what he was fighting for? Here, in his reflection in the blade, he saw a stranger. He saw a cold, hardened man, nearly willing to kill an old friend, and old flame, and a brave, beautiful woman, all for an army and cause that he didn't even care about.

He looked again at her face. He could see feather-traces of lines around her eyes and lips. He knew that the past ten years had given him more grey hairs than he cared to count. But even the differences wrought by time were not enough to drive his blade. Nothing would be enough. She was still so hauntingly beautiful.

In a single movement, he sheathed his dagger and pulled her to her feet. She made no move to grab her sword, but her eyes were wary as Legault retained a tight grip on her arm.

"Go," he said. "Get out of here. Don't come back to this battlefield. Your knights are losing, and you – a woman – you don't want to know what they'd do to you."

"Why are you fighting with them, then?" she hissed, ripping her arm from his grasp. "If you know what they do – rapists and murders, slave traders, brutes, why are you with them?"

"I don't have a choice anymore!" he roared. "I'm too old for direct combat, too stained for anything other than war – where else can someone like me find work but in a loose army?"

"Someone like you? So what are you? Are you like them?"

"No!"

Isadora whipped around and picked up her sword, but she sheathed it, glaring at the ground. "I never stopped thinking about you, Legault. Never. I even got married and couldn't stop thinking about you! And you, this whole time, you're with them. I thought – I thought - "

"I am not like them, Isadora," Legault said fiercely. "I am not like them!"

"How can I believe you? How can I trust you? You told me you loved me, and then you left, and I never heard from you again – until now, when you're trying to kill me! Why should I take your word?"

Her words cut into him as painfully as if she had used her sword after all. Legault couldn't stand the fury and the conflict in her voice. "You always did talk too much," he said, and before she could respond, he pulled her face to his and kissed her with as much fervor as he had the last time they had seen each other. Ten years vanished at the touch. Nothing had changed in the passion between them. But he let it last only seconds.

"I've missed that for ten long years," he said at last. Then he shoved her away and drew his blade again, backing into the shadows. "Go! Go back to your husband. Leave this battle and live to fight again!"

"I'm a knight! There is no honor in retreat!"

"Is there honor in being slaughtered? Is there honor in being raped? Leave, Isadora!"

Her eyes flashed. He could see fear in her face of the sort he had seen in every other girl or woman that Bern's soldiers had kidnapped and taken into their tents, or bound and sold into slavery. Her voice lowered to barely above a whisper. "I live in the outskirts of Pherae. Next to the Oneia mountains. Anyone in Pherae could point you to the area. Please, Legault…"

"Go, Isadora," said Legault.

His heart was torn between relief and disappointment when she finally turned away. She rushed back to her mount and disappeared into the distance, back to her home, her husband, her life. Her parting words echoed in his ears.

But he could no longer see her. He could only see a distant battle and a distant defeat.