Nooooot too happy with this piece, in all honestly. It's… Okay, I guess, but I find this prompt is a lot harder when writing for the challenges than it is when you're drawing. Not to mention that deciding the pairing I was doing for it was impossible; in all honesty, I considered doing Chrom/Maribelle or Innes/Eirika, but we've been seeing a lot of lordlings for these past few prompts, haven't we? So then I had to figure out what pairings I could do and… Long story short, I definitely like some of my other pieces better. I just.. Ugh. I wasn't really feeling the prompt I guess. But don't let me stop you from enjoying it!

Pairing(s): Lon'qu/Tharja

Words: 1,044

Rating: T

Warnings: Well, there's a lot of checking people out in this one? Ha ha I don't know I give up on these warnings.

She hates this.

She hates the cold, she hates this place, and she hates it all. If she had the ability, she would just curse it to the ground. She can feel the snow everywhere, and the carefree expressions on her comrades' faces leads her to believe that perhaps the bitter wind finds some pleasure in torturing her more than anyone else. She clicks her tongue against her teeth in annoyance; the sooner they can get out of this hellhole, the better.

She shouldn't even be here in the first place.

When Robin had first informed the army about two groups of Risen that had been harassing people near the Ferox-Ylisse border, Tharja hadn't planned on coming. Regna Ferox's frosty winters are practically common knowledge, and if Robin was only accepting volunteers, so be it. Perhaps while the others were out, she and the tactician would be able to have some... Alone time.

That's what she had thought would have happened, at least. What she did not predict was Lon'qu approaching Robin while he thought no one was watching. Robin had nodded gratefully, sighing slightly upon realizing that the stoic myrmidon was the only one who had volunteered thus far.

Tharja still has no idea what about the scene had prompted her to volunteer, but here she is.

And she is not enjoying it one bit.

She stands shivering, practically glaring at Lon'qu as he cuts down the Risen with ease. She rubs her arms in a vain attempt to warm herself as a Risen gurgles for the last time, cocking her head slightly as it fades into purple smoke as most Risen do. What are the Risen made of? she wonders. Oh, if only Robin hadn't forbid me from bringing any half-dead Risen into the camp... Just imagine the things I could do to with them...

"Hey." Tharja starts, blinking wide-eyed at the dark-haired man as he addresses her. He doesn't continue for a moment, simply letting the cold wind caress his cheek as they stare at one another. "... Are you actually here to fight or do you plan on just shivering there?" Tharja's eyes narrow as she wraps her arms tighter around herself.

"I have no idea how you can fight in this," Tharja spits coldly. "It's frigid."

"... Well, what do you expect?" Lon'qu groans, running his hand through his hair. "You're hardly wearing anything."

"I don't think my wardrobe is the problem here," Tharja hisses acidly. "And don't you have Risen to be cutting down? I can take care of myself."

Lon'qu says nothing, turning away from her. Tharja's brows rise in suspicion as his hands work on something out of her view. What in blazes is he doing? Do I even want to know? Tharja's eyes widen as a bundle of blue cloth is suddenly tossed back at her. She catches it messily, holding it out in front of her suspiciously.

"What is th -" she breaks off as she looks up, gaping slightly as she watches the myrmidon continue fighting the enemy... Without a shirt. "Did you not hear me?" Tharja hisses over the wind. "I said that I am perfectly capable of handling myself."

"I heard you," Lon'qu replies slowly as he turns to cut another Risen down. "You'll be even more capable if you put that on, though."

Grudgingly, Tharja slips her hands through the sleeves, but not without glowering at Lon'qu the entire time. "I don't understand how you can't touch me, but you can lend me your damn clothing." Lon'qu shrugs, piercing another Risen. "I also don't understand how you can be fighting like that in this weather."

Shockingly, the shirt seems to be made of thicker fabric than she first assumed. It most certainly isn't shielding her from the cold completely, but as loathe as she is to admit it, she is... Warmer. She'll drop dead before she tells Lon'qu this, though. Gripping her tome, Tharja steps forward. She stops, suddenly having caught whiff of something. Is it... Lemon? It takes her a moment to realize that it's the scent of Lon'qu's clothes, and she shifts somewhat uncomfortably. Does... He smell like that, too? Ignoring her thoughts, she bites her lip before slinging a spell over Lon'qu's head. The enemy is downed in one blow.

"They aren't particularly strong here," Lon'qu tells her, although it takes Tharja a moment to realize that she's the one being addressed. "There's just a lot of them."

"Yeah, yeah," Tharja mumbles before slinging another spell at a Risen that is foolishly trying to attack Lon'qu from behind. She spares Lon'qu a side-glance, finding herself accidentally gazing at his toned chest.

"Focus," Lon'qu grumbles before felling a Revenant that slinks a bit too close to the two soldiers. Reddening upon realizing that she was "checking him out", Tharja quickly turns away, hissing at a Risen before taking her embarrassment out on it. Lon'qu sighs, running a hand through his hair tiredly. As he mentioned earlier, the Risen here are not strong, but considering that he's nearly taken down an entire group of them while Tharja was busy pitying herself, he's understandably worn out.

"Take a break," Tharja mutters, pointing to the wall they battle against. "You can lean against that. I'll be able to handle the rest of them." Lon'qu blinks, turning to look at the dark mage. Tharja doesn't meet his gaze, as she is too busy fighting yet another enemy.

"... Alright," he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to the wall before sinking to the floor. He leans his head against it, watching Tharja as she fights. He doesn't dare mention it aloud, but something about watching her move in his robes is strangely enticing. Reddening furiously in a way that only Lon'qu can, the myrmidon looks down as his legs rather than at the dark mage. He finds his hand slipping into his pocket, brushing against a cool and round object. His fingers slide over it, memorizing every bizarre carving. Sparing Tharja another quick glance, a small smile that would only be noticeable if you were staring much too closely finds a place upon his lips.

Perhaps, he thinks as he slides his hand away from the ring. It will soon be time.