Be the rarepair content you want to see in the world!

Well, actually, I would prefer if somebody else was the rarepair content I want to see in the world. Reading my own writing isn't as much fun. But the writing itself is good practice, and hopefully will maybe get other people into the ship?

... Probably not.

The story uses elements from the FE1 manga, but only lightly. Even if you haven't read the manga, it shouldn't be a problem. Also, I proofread this late at night, so there's probably a lot of errors I missed! Oh well!

The crack of lightning split the sky in twain. A deafening thunderclap followed. Rain poured fiercely and unceasingly from the seemingly endless sea of black clouds. The wind howled. Mudslides and fallen trees made what little solid ground there was in the marshes below all but impassable.

No human being ought to be out in this kind of weather. It would like as not be a death sentence. Anyone who lived out here in northern Altea would know that fact well from experience. Such storms came around about at least once a year and wrought devastation. Any sane man would take shelter in his home, and remain there until the skies cleared once more.

The lone rider passing by on reptilian wings was not a man, and right now she wondered if she was truly sane. She was Minerva the Red Dragoon, Crown Princess of Macedon, and she had her reasons for taking flight on such a dismal day.

She and her sister Maria had arrived in Anri, capital of Altea, early that morning for a diplomatic visit. The trip had luckily been an uneventful one, and indeed had gone so smoothly that they had arrived a day early. As a result of that, Crown Prince Marth had not been present to greet them. He had been visiting a small town to the north for a celebration of some important historical event, and wasn't expected back until that evening. It hadn't been long afterwards that news had arrived of a terrible and sudden storm that, among other things, had separated Marth from his entourage. Now the prince was missing, and potentially endangered. Minerva had volunteered her aid in finding him and getting him safely home immediately and without hesitation, and was on wing within the hour.

"I'm certain you'll find the prince unhurt," Sir Arran had told her, "Marth knows the area and its dangers well. He will have taken shelter somewhere safe, perhaps with a local family. Still, it would give us all great peace of mind if you could find him and bring him back to us."

And Minerva was the only one who could. Going on foot would be suicide, horseback even more so. Pegasi would be unable to navigate the storm. Only a wyvern rider could defy the tempest, and Altea had none of her own.

Astride the back of her faithful mount, she flew low to the ground. Though she had dispensed of most of her usual metal accoutrements, she was still wary of the possibility of a lightning strike. She had no desire to die here today. And in any case, she was more likely to spot her quarry from closer to the ground.

So far, however, she had had no luck. Hours spent searching in this miserable mire, torrential rain, and deathly cold, and she had nothing to show for it save several tears in her raincoat, a thick coating of mud on both herself and her mount, and a strong desire for a warm meal and a comfortable bed. She imagined that the sun was likely setting by this point, but underneath the impenetrable cloud cover, it was impossible to tell and made little difference. No sunlight could ever hope to pierce the stormclouds; the only illumination came from the lantern hanging from Minerva's belt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of bright blue. She bade her mount to land, then quickly dismounted, so as to take a closer look. Her boots sank deep into the heavy mud, and each step closer was labored. The rain came down so thick that it was difficult to see, and her lantern could only do so much against the darkness. The wind threatened to sweep her off her feet, and the only thing keeping her hood in place was her steady grip.

"Prince Marth! Are you there?" Had she found him at last? Was it finally over? Minerva had hoped the same things the last ten times she had put her feet to the ground, and had little hope left for this time. Perhaps she should turn around, come back when the storm had passed. Perhaps there was nothing more she could do out here. But no. What if Marth was hurt, or even dying out here? Minerva would never forgive herself if that were to happen when she could have done something to save him.

There! She'd once more caught sight of the blue something, which she now recognized as a piece of torn cloth caught on a tree branch. It was a miracle the wind hadn't blown it away.

A few more steps, and she was close enough to take it in her gloved hands. She turned it over. The other side of the cloth was red, the same as Marth's cape. This, then, was likely a piece of that cape. But where was its owner? He had to be somewhere nearby. There was no way anyone could have gotten far in this morass.

Minerva took her lantern into her hands and raised it into the air.

"Prince Marth!" She called out, "Prince Marth! Are you there?" But, alas, she received no response. The only sounds were the wind and deafening rain. Even if he had been nearby, it wasn't very likely that she'd have heard him over that cacophony – or that he'd have heard her.

With a sigh, she hooked the lantern back onto her belt, then turned to climb back on her wyvern and take to the air once more. If she simply circled the area, she was sure that she would find Marth in short order. Assuming, of course, that he wasn't already dead and buried beneath the mud. No. No. She had to believe that he was still out there somewhere. She could not countenance the idea that Prince Marth of Altea, the Star and Saviour, the legendary hero who had freed the continent from Dolhr's vile clutches, was dead. She simply could not. She refused to accept the possibility that the man she-

Minerva shook her head. No, no more thinking about that. It was pointless and only served to distract.

Her wyvern beat its massive wings and lifted into the air. It was most fortunate that unlike pegasi, wyverns weren't bothered overmuch by the rain. On the other hand, it was most unfortunate that the cold was making her reptilian companion tired and sluggish.

It wouldn't be much longer. She'd soon find Marth, and then they could be home, warm and dry.

Another bolt of lightning struck. Somewhere nearby, judging by how closely the thunderclap followed. It took a moment for Minerva's ears to stop ringing.

The fire in her lantern sputtered, but stayed lit. It seemed even enchanted fire cast by Sir Merric had its limits, and now the fire in her lantern was approaching them. She had no idea how long she'd been flying, exactly, and no way of knowing how close it was to the end of the flame's lifespan as promised to her by its maker. Minerva could only hope it would be long enough to find Marth.

It was then that she noticed something that she hadn't before. A tiny, weak light in the distance. She could not make out what it was, but it seemed wise to investigate.

As she flew closer, the source of the light gradually became clearer. A building of some sort, atop a hill. A house - no, an inn. It was an old building, but weathering the storm remarkably well. It had clearly been built by someone who was used to northern Altea's storms and knew well how to withstand them. Perhaps Marth had taken shelter there. If nothing else, it was possible that someone there had seen him and could direct her towards him.

Minerva landed her wyvern before the inn's front door with as much delicateness as could be wrung out of a massive reptilian beast and dismounted. She took a moment to rub the top of the creature's head and thank it for its service. Just because it was an animal did not mean that it was any less miserable than she was, especially after having been flying through the storm for hour after hour.

Just as she was reaching out to open the door, a sharp pain shot through her side, and she doubled over, cursing under her breath. An old wound from the War of Shadows that had never quite healed properly. Most of the time, however, it posed no problem and was simple to ignore. Why did it have to act up here and now? Her only consolation was that the mad mage who had given her the wound was long dead. Damn Klaus. She only regretted that she had not been the one to kill him.

Minerva grit her teeth, and forced herself to stand despite the pain. She would not allow herself the luxury of collapsing in pain until she could be sure that Marth was safe.

She reached out with one unsteady hand, and twisted the doorknob. Locked. Steadying her arm, she reached out again and knocked.

Then she waited.

After a few moments of nothing, she knocked again, more insistently. A moment later, the click of a lock heralded the opening of the door.

She locked eyes with a pot-bellied, aging man, whose eyes widened at the sight of Minerva. It was understandable, really. She was quite a mess. She imagined that she probably looked more like some kind of mud-wrought monster than a human being.

Before Minerva even had a chance to explain her intentions, she was ushered into the inn, seated at a table, and promised food. She tried to interject that she had come here looking for someone, but was simply shushed and told to wait until after she was warm and dry. All attempts to object went unheard.

Sighing, Minerva doffed her coat and reclined slightly in her seat. The man – the innkeeper, apparently - had already disappeared, gone into the kitchen to acquire food for the weary traveller. Would he expect payment? Probably. Altea had a generally generous culture, but she had never known a businessman to pass up a chance to make some coin. Well, that was no trouble at all, for she had plenty of money.

She took a moment to survey the area. The dining room was full of men and women trapped there by the storm. Most were quietly biding their time, while some were grumbling into mugs of beer, and others offered prayers to the Twelve Gods that they would safely see the end of the storm. Most looked to be from other parts of Altea, or perhaps Gra, likely in town for the same celebration that Marth had been attending. Others wore the faces and clothes of other cultures – a few Archaneans in their ostentatious clothes, some rough-dressed Talysians, a noble-looking Aurelian, and even two fur-clad frontiersmen. Minerva could not begin to guess at the reasons for their presences. Travellers of some kind, certainly, but their reasons and their destinations were enigmatic, and she would just as soon leave it that way. She was content to remain ignorant, feeling that just as she would prefer to be left to her own devices, so too would they.

Unconsciously, she laid a hand on her side, where her wound still pained her, and grit her teeth. It hurt a little less now than it had outside, though. Perhaps the blessed warmth had done some good.

Minerva closed her eyes. God, but she was exhausted. If she could've, she would've rented a room and crawled into bed right that very second, but finding Marth had to be her first priority. She still felt sorely tempted to do it anyway. At the very least, she could make the concession of getting a hot meal in her belly before she set out again. That would be fine, would it not?

Perhaps afterwards she ought to go calling in the local villages. If Marth could not be found in the wilderness, he might be-

"Princess Minerva!?" Gasped a familiar voice, cutting across her thoughts like a knife, "What are you doing here? … Wait, are you hurt!?"

Minerva's bleary eyes blinked open and turned to see the one speaking to her.

And there he was. Prince Marth of Altea, entering the room from the adjoining kitchen. He wore an apron, and carried with him a large bowl of some kind of stew. He rushed toward her, nearly spilled the stew all over the floor, and walked mindfully for the remaining half of the distance.

"No… no, I'm alright. Old wounds, that's all," Minerva assured Marth. He set the bowl down in front of her and gave her a concerned glance, but said nothing.

"As for why I'm here… Well, I came to find you. When we received word that you had been separated from your guards in a rainstorm, I worried that you might be hurt, so I set out to rescue you. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you're safe. But… if I may ask… how did you come to be here? And working the kitchen, no less!"

"For me? I'm grateful, but you really needn't've gone to so much effort for my sake. It can't have be worth all the toil and trouble you must've been through. I mean, look at you! I don't mean to be rude, but you look… well, awful. What happened to you out there? Are you sure you're alright?"

Minerva laughed a throaty, slightly wheezing laugh.

"I've just been tumbling about in the muck and rain for far too long, really. I'm not hurt at all. And don't sell yourself short like that, Marth. Your safety is worth more than I could ever give. Now, I don't believe you answered my question, did you?"

"Ah, yes," Marth said, looking suitably bashful, "well, after I got separated from Cain and the others, I was stumbling around lost for some time, but luckily I came across this inn, and the owner was kind enough to take me in. He said that I needn't pay him back, but I insisted, and while he still refuses to accept any money, he has accepted my service. So… here I am. I'm sorry that you went to so much effort for my sake, when I was safe and dry the entire time." The apologetic look on Marth's face annoyed Minerva. The damn fool was always like this.

"Oh, don't apologise. What if something had happened to you? I never would have been able to live with myself if I thought I could've saved you. And if I hadn't come looking, I'd have been sick to death with worry until you returned. It matters not one bit if you really were hurt or not. Besides, just being able to see you safe and sound with my own eyes does my heart no end of good. You're…" Minerva trailed off. She had never been good with emotions and was even worse with talk of them. Saying this was difficult for her. "… precious to me. To many people. Don't you ever forget that."

Marth smiled at that, and all the annoyance Minerva had built up vanished. That damn smile…

"Well, I, um, I'm flattered! Thank you for your kind words, Minerva. Now, you'd best eat up before that stew gets cold. I'm sure you'll appreciate a nice warm meal after being out in the storm so long!" Marth said, gesturing towards the bowl, "You rode your wyvern here, didn't you? I'll make go and make sure he gets safely into the stables for the night."

"Hold on. For the night?" Minerva raised an eyebrow. She had no intention of staying that long. Marth, however, was already at the door.

"Yes, of course! Do you really expect me to let you go back out there in that condition? You're getting a good night's rest before we leave… And no protesting!" And with that, Marth donned a coat and stepped out the door, leaving Minerva no opportunity to argue.

Did she really look that bad? Well, there was no way to argue with someone who wasn't there, so Minerva turned to the stew he had given her and began to eat. As she spooned the beef, potatoes, and broth into her mouth, she began to notice that she was feeling far more tired than she had realized. Now that she had stopped for a moment, all the exertion was catching up with her.

Minerva yawned loudly, and was mortified. A few people turned to look, briefly, before turning back to whatever they were doing. No one, it seemed, particularly cared.

Perhaps Marth had a point about staying the night. This suddenly all-consuming lethargic feeling… Minerva hoped that she hadn't come down with some kind of sickness. That would be quite an unfortunate end to this whole mess.

Still, Marth was safe. That knowledge alone was worth all the effort it had taken to get it. Knowing it gladdened her heart beyond all words and put her at ease. Though exhaustion made her shoulders heavy, it still felt as though a great weight had been lifted from them.

… And this stew was delicious. Had Marth made it himself? She didn't know whether he knew how to cook or not. In any case, she would have to thank him for it. She hadn't eaten anything since early in the day.

Minerva yawned again, more quietly. Her head felt so, so heavy all of a sudden…

When Marth returned, he found Minerva almost nodding off into her empty bowl. Smiling gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you want me to show you to a room? You look like you're asleep on your feet." He asked, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.

"… Yes, thank you." Sighed Minerva, relenting to the idea of staying the night, as she accepted Marth's proffered hand with one of hers and rubbing her eyes with the other.

They walked slowly and in silence around a corner, down a hallway, and up a flight of stairs to the inn's second floor. Minerva, peering down the two hallways that stretched out from the landing, noted that there were fewer rooms than she would have expected. The rooms were in fact fewer in number than the people she had seen on the ground floor. Was there even space for her? Accounting for people who would room together and the possibility of people already abed, she doubted there was a room free.

Before she could voice her concerns, Marth began to speak.

"You know, I've always admired you, Minerva. Would that I could be more like you are!"

Minerva's entire train of thought was completely derailed by this bolt-from-the-blue statement.

"Me? But why? Surely, a hero like you…" Through the fog of her exhaustion-addled mind, she was most puzzled. She could not think of a single way in which she outshone Marth. None that mattered, at least.

"You're so much stronger than I am, Minerva. In fact, you're the strongest person I know. But me, I'm not strong at all. I have always relied on the strength of others, rather than standing on my own. Look at today, for instance – were it not for the kindness of the innkeeper, I might well have died out there in the tempest. And you! … You were out there in the mud and wind and rain and cold for hours on end… all for my sake. All because I was imperiled."

"I… you aren't…" Minerva knew that Marth was wrong, that he was as strong as she was. Stronger, even. She wanted nothing more than to tell him so, but her somnolent brain could not string together the words to explain why, no matter how hard she tried. Instead, fractured sentences punctuated by yawns stumbled out of her mouth.

Marth seemed to understand what she was trying to say, but aside of a sad smile, he did not acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry. You don't want to listen to me ramble about my weakness," was all he said.

He walked ahead, and pushed open the door at the furthest end of one hallway, before beckoning Minerva to enter.

The room seemed cozy enough. A well-kept bed stood beneath a window on the far side, with a little table beside it. There was an oil lamp on the bedside table, but it was unlit, leaving the room mostly in darkness. In one corner stood an open closet, inside of which hung… Marth's cape?

"I'm sorry, there aren't any free rooms, so we'll have to share."

"How… unchivalrous," Minerva smiled wryly. The effect was slightly ruined by the yawn that came immediately after.

"Oh, no, no, don't worry. I'll sleep on the floor. There are some spare blankets I can borrow. You know me well enough to know that I would never do anything untoward to you, surely?"

Minerva mulled that over for a minute and despite, or perhaps because of, her somnolence, came to a decision.

"No," She said.

"What?" Marth's eyes widened.

"The bed is large enough for the both of us. There's…" Minerva interrupted herself to yawn, "There's no reason that you should have to sleep on the floor."

"Oh, you meant…!" Marth looked relieved, "No, no, I will be fine on the floor. A man like me climbing into bed with a woman might be a little untoward, don't you think?"

"Not if you don't make it so," said Minerva in a tone that, despite the drowsy slur, brooked no disagreement.

Marth disagreed anyway.

"No, no, I couldn't…"

"Hmph," huffed Minerva. Marth was bashful to a fault, and she found it irksome. Minerva had lived as a soldier in a harsh and mountainous land, and had little care for modesty compared to practicality – though she might have thought twice about it had she been more wakeful. Rather than continue to argue, however, she began to strip off her clothes in preparation for bed. Her movements were sluggish, but the process was still quick enough. First her coat was hung somewhat haphazardly in the closet, and it was followed shortly by her shirt and trousers, which left her in only her underclothes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marth flush fiercely and look away.

Now that she was prepared for sleep, she walked over to Marth, wrapped an arm firmly around his waist, and forcibly hauled him into bed with her. He protested the whole way, but did not struggle, for he knew that he had no chance of breaking Minerva's grip. He had said it himself only a scant few minutes ago, that he could never hope to match Minerva's strength.

"There is no reason you should have to sleep on the cold hard floor when there is a perfectly good bed right here," She flatly declared.

Her hold on Marth did not loosen at all as she dragged him into bed and pulled the blankets over top of them. By this point, Marth had quite given up resisting and had resolved to simply maintain his dignity as best as he could and fall into slumber as soon as possible.

Minerva smiled. This was quite a petty example in the grand scheme of things, but sometimes, Marth's self-sacrificing nature was troubling. Always so determined to place others first that he sometimes forgot to place himself at all. It was a good thing he was surrounded by friends who would be sure to see to it that he took care of himself. A role Minerva was more than happy to fill.

Her last conscious thought as she almost instantly drifted into the sleep of the just was that Marth's face, already beautiful, was made all the more so when graced by the serene expression it wore in repose.

Marth, however, had not yet reached the sandman's arms - though with his eyes tightly shut and his breathing carefully forced to be even, he was certainly trying. Minerva's grip had not slackened in the least, despite her slumber, and so he was trapped uncomfortably close to her.

He was painfully aware that if Minerva pulled him any closer, his face would end up right between her breasts, and he tried very hard not to think about that. Unfortunately, other unwelcome thoughts invaded his mind instead. For instance, "what, really, are my feelings toward Minerva?" He had called it admiration, but the way his heart fluttered when she was near spoke of other, deeper feelings. This was the first time he had seen her since the War of Shadows, and emotions that had been buried in wartime fountained forth in peacetime.

It was no surprise that he felt something towards Minerva; she was a heroic figure. A woman of strength and steel, of conviction and purpose, and she let nothing stand in her way. Her heart sometimes seemed hardened and bitter, for she carried such sadness in that heart, but beneath the surface she was one of the most loving people Marth knew. And she was… so beautiful, Marth thought. Not in the classical way, but a way of her own. She was tall and muscular, far moreso than he was, and she was covered in scars. To some, that might have been a blemish, but to Marth it was the most beautiful thing about her. Her scars were the physical proof of everything she had given and all the pain she had taken for the sake of her ideals and for the sake of her country and for the sake of those she loved.

He could not help but wonder what it might be like, to sleep like this every night. Held safe in Minerva's strong arms, kept warm by the heat of her body. Wouldn't it be so wonderful?

It felt like it must be love. But was it true love, or a passing infatuation? Was it simply intense admiration that he had mistaken for something else?

And, even if it was love he felt, could it ever be reciprocated? Minerva had long been a friend and trusted ally to Marth. Had she ever desired to be something else? Would she? And even if she were to become his lover, could he be sure it wasn't merely political? Much of the continent revered him as a hero, and Macedon's precarious place in the world meant it was always happy to have strong or influential allies. Did he actually think Minerva was capable of such duplicity? No, of course not. But anxiety was rarely a logical thing…

In spite of his worries, Marth's consciousness eventually faded into the peaceful black.

Downstairs, the innkeeper smiled slyly to himself. After the prince and his lady friend had disappeared upstairs and failed to come back down, he had reached a logical – albeit completely incorrect – conclusion about just what was happening up there, in the privacy of their shared room.