She did not love.

Not in the way that most people love at least.

Whereas her younger sister's love was sweet and nurturing, and her now-brother-in-law's love was steadfast and unshakeable, her love was nothing of the sort.

Her love was all edges and blades—swift and dangerous. Thrilling some might think.

Like flame, she consumed what she strove to protect. As she wrapped it in her embrace it would disappear, devoured by her touch.

She had seen it then—with her sister.

All she had wanted was to protect her—protect her from the dangers and cruelty of the world, keep her safe, happy and innocent, almost ignorant of what really lay beyond the walls of their small home. With their parents gone, she was her sister's only shield—or so she had thought until her sister had found another.

To tell the truth, she had thought him more an obstacle than a danger—something that they needed to be rid of in order to return to their formerly peaceful life. But it was so much more than that; she had failed to see it until it was far too late.

When she realized what had happened to her sister—that she had indeed become a Pulse L'cie—she realized that she had failed. If you loved someone, you kept them safe, protected them, shielded them from danger rather than let them wander headlong into it, only to race in when it was too late.

She hadn't understood then how Snow could claim to love her sister. She hadn't understood when she had found him in the Vestige. She hadn't understood when he stayed with Serah's crystal at Lake Bresha. She hadn't understood even when he tried to explain it to her one night around the campfire on Gran Pulse.

No matter how she tried, she just couldn't see it.

He knew that she loved.

He had seen it, a hundred times over in the course of their travels.

Even though he never would have considered it on that day at the Vile Peaks when she had left him behind, he had grown close enough to her to be warmed by her flame.

She was like fire: fierce and exciting—thrilling even. Though she did not show it in a conventional manner, she was indeed passionate and devoted—never hesitating to throw herself in harm's way to protect those she loved. It was a quality for which she was often known but never praised.

She never would have stood for praise though, even had it been offered. She was, after all, proud in the best of ways and humble in the worst.

He wondered how anyone who knew her could doubt that she loved. She may have been quiet to the point of aloofness and blunt to the point of cruelty but she burned with a stoic determination that could not have been driven by anything save love.

She was not completing her focus to save herself, but to save others: her sister, Cocoon, the rest of their group. He had thought once, probably rightly, that had she alone become a L'cie she would have sooner killed herself or become C'eith in order to prevent harm from coming to anyone else.

She was just that kind of person after all. So like fire which consumed itself in order to give light and warmth to others.

There were times she thought that she was just too cold: frigid, like ice—devoid of all warmth and feeling. That was the only explanation for why she could not understand; it had to be.

There were times, she knew, that she came across too harsh. She would bite back with a harsh glare when someone got in her way or wasted her time and times when she seemed so coldly indifferent to the suffering of others.

She remembers, with no small amount of regret, that day in the Vile Peaks when she had left him behind. An innocent child! And she, the intrepid soldier had left him to fend for himself! She had left him, broken and bleeding, because she was in a hurry.

She had spent months afterward, trying to justify to herself why she had done it. Even longer trying to convince herself that she wasn't a hypocrite. After all, wasn't she the one who believed more in protecting others than in rushing in to save them?

Thankfully, he proved himself to be more capable than she had thought and had saved her the anguish of leaving him behind only to find out that he had been hurt or killed. In retrospect, she truly regretted her coldness back then and wouldn't have been surprised if he had secretly hated her for it.

There was something calming about travelling with her. She was cool and confident no matter what the situation. When he was frightened an unsure about facing the enemies before him, she would cut gracefully through the enemies in the blink of an eye, movements smooth and elegant as though she did this sort of thing every day.

Looking back, he realized that she probably had: she was in the Guardian Corps after all. But though being a soldier was such a major part of her life (and though, at that point in time he had thought that was her entire life), there was so much more to her than there seemed—like the living water under the ice of a frozen pond.

She wasn't the type for flashy displays of concern. Often her words and actions carried deeper meanings if one cared to look for them.

He remembers the day in Garpa Whitewood when she had given him her knife. He hadn't known the significance of the blade at that point— that it had been the last gift her sister had given her before turning to crystal. If he had known, he most likely would have returned it to her, not tried to use such a precious gift as a weapon in his terrible quest for vengeance.

He regrets that he hadn't bothered to look deeper to try and see the truth that lay beyond her calm, quiet words that day.

There are times that she thinks that he's a little like wind: lively and capricious. She knows he sees his energy as childish because he tries too hard to be more like her.

She wishes he wouldn't.

Though the death of his mother and the weight of his Focus lay heavily on his young shoulders, she thinks that he shouldn't be so serious all the time. She tries to tell him, in her own clumsy way, that it's okay to relax every once in a while—provided that once in a while isn't in the middle of a battle with a behemoth. She watches, with no small amount of regret, as even the bubbly Vanille fails to draw a smile out of him and he skulks away to some other side of their small campsite in search, no doubt of a quieter place to contemplate their journey.

In some ways, she regrets teaching him to fight and wishes someone else had been there to help him—someone who understood more clearly what it was to be a human being. At some points, she almost thinks that Snow would have been a better role model for him than she was—provided, of course, that he hadn't hated the self-proclaimed "hero" at the time—but quickly dismisses the thought.

She couldn't imagine having to deal with two Snow's in the group.

But thankfully, Snow seems better at drawing him out than the others. He has just the right amount of enthusiasm tempered with regret, that he can still connect with the kid. In time, she thinks, Snow may be able to undo some of the damage she had inadvertently done to that child.

Maybe someday, he would once again be able to smile openly and freely like he probably could before she interfered.

She hopes for nothing more than to see that.

He hates to fight—hates the feeling of ripping, tearing flesh, hates the howls of pain as a spell connects, and hates, above all, watching the life drain from the enemy's eyes.

It's something he'll never get used to seeing, no matter how many times he sees it.

But it is as though she senses his moment of weakness and is beside him in an instant, cutting swiftly across the battlefield, dodging enemy blows with the grace he never gets tired of watching.

An enemy lunges for her as she makes her way back to where he stands, readying another spell, but the C'ieth is too slow. By the time it swings, she's gone and its gnarled fist meets nothing but air. She vaults over its outstretched arm and strikes back, her blade moving so fast that it cuts the air with a sharp crack!

After all, where Lightning goes, thunder follows.

Out of a wicked sense of humor, he wraps things up with a couple well timed Thundaga spells that leave the air filled with the metallic tang of ions.

There are times he wishes he could be more like her, with the same swiftness and grace that leave the enemies helpless in her wake. He knows however, that he is of more use to her right where he is: ready to blast the enemies into submission when she needs a second, or to patch her back up when she takes an inadvertent blow.

But, as he watches her from his place on the rear lines of the battlefield, he can't help thinking how like a storm she is. She throws herself into the middle of the fray and, with a few well-timed blows, the enemies begin to fall. And once the dust settles, there she stands, a center of calm in so much chaos—like the eye of an almighty hurricane.

She knows she needs to be strong no matter how she hurts. The enemy is rushing at them now and there is nowhere else for the front-line to fall back to. If she fails, the casters in the rear line will pay the price. But her vision is swimming, and it is so difficult to move. Still, she pushes herself to her feet and braces for impact.

He hates seeing her hurt but loves healing her. He is glad that, for once, he can be of some use to the woman who has done so much for him without really asking anything in return. He sends several healing spells her way, hoping they will help her. She is pushing herself so far, and he will do everything in his power to make sure she comes out of this alive.

She feels the comforting warmth of a healing spell around her. She knows he's helped her yet again, and the gesture is not lost on her. She repays his kindness by dealing out a flurry of vicious blows to the enemy that sends them reeling and staggering backwards, giving Fang and Snow time to move in and finish them off.

In the aftermath of the battle, he tends to the remainder of her wounds, pressing warm, healing hands to her wounds when she permits it. They both know the contact isn't necessary but neither sees any reason to say so.

Instead, she watches mutely as Fang and Snow engage in some kind of "macho" contest to see who can bear their injuries longer while they wait for Vanille to finish healing Sazh.

They both know that he should be helping the others as well, but no one in the group seems to mind. They all know that he is attached to her, and she knows that, in her own way, she is attached to him.

"You were really amazing out there today," he says suddenly, breaking her train of thought.

He presses his hands to a particularly vicious wound on her shoulder and calls another healing spell. The warmth of his hand on her shoulder is only eclipsed by that of the spell. For a moment, she forgets what she was going to say.

He looks up at her, meeting her gaze easily. There is something warm about him that she cannot place. It's nurturing, almost motherly, in a way like the feeling that one gets from laying on the sun-drenched earth, and she has the strange thought that he'd probably be a good parent when he grew up.

Her mind never hesitates to place an "if" in that statement as though she could so easily forget the brands that had been burned into their skin. But, for the moment, such thoughts slip far away, and she contents herself with the knowledge that she is still around and will do everything in her power to make sure he gets that chance.

"You were like a rock," he says after a long moment.

She tries to quantify this statement. Had her injuries affected her speed that much?

"I was trying not to favor my injured leg," she says at last, still not certain what he had meant by his comment. The comment comes out a little bitter, and she regrets it immediately when he looks up at her again, his hands unconsciously slipping from her shoulder.

To her surprise, however, he smiles and even laughs a little before starting to heal her again. "No, no, that's not what I meant," he said with a shake of his head. His hand trembles a little against her skin, but he doesn't seem to realize it.

"Even when I thought you'd fall back to the rear lines you held your ground. You were so hurt and still you fought. It was—it was terrifying."

"We shouldn't have let the enemies get that close," she replied. "We were caught off guard."

"You should have fallen back." He mumbles the words under his breath with a timidity that she hadn't seen from him in a long time. It unnerves her, but she forges ahead.

"I couldn't," she admitted at last. "There was something I had to protect."

When she looks at him, she sees confusion written across his face as though he's thinking something but doesn't dare say it. She decides that is alright for now.

She pushes herself to her feet, and he moves to stand as well, but she pushes him back down onto the rock where he had been sitting while healing her.

She fixes him firmly with her gaze. "Get some rest. I'll go help the others." When he opens his mouth to protest, she adds, "That's an order" over her shoulder before striding away.

There was no need to rush things. There would be plenty of time later. They would both make sure of that, after all.

For now, he was safe and for her, that was more than enough.

Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy. If I did…well, let's not even go there.

Author's Note: Written in one very long evening. Please let me know if there are any glaring errors. This is for haikomori's Crystal Hearts contest.