Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Somebody broke me once, love was a currency
a shimmering balance act; I think that I laughed at that
And I saw your face and hands coloured in sun and then
I think I understand

The Bleachers, “Don’t take the money”

Ferdinand von Aegir would have liked to believe that, should he ever have to stare death in the face, he'd remain calm, collected. His status as a noble demands nothing less. Still, he has not expected for it to happen so soon, nor did he think that the grim reaper would turn out to be quite so corporeal.

The air in the holy mausoleum is cold and stuffy, suffocating. The worried shouting of his classmates and professor echo along the naked walls, the high ceiling.

Reinforcements have arrived in the back, effectively trapping them. If they were not careful this tomb could become their tomb. Most of Ferdinand's classmates had already pushed far ahead, taking out foes left and right under the professor's calculated order. But Linhard has stayed behind, keeping away from the thick of the fight and healing them from afar, when healing was necessary. And now that very strategy which meant to protect him had isolated him and put him in grave danger.

Caspar runs to his aid, screaming a most ridiculous war cry, all but stumbling in his new brigand’s uniform. Ferdinand reaches for the reins of his horse, to turn it around-

And the death knight let out a low, hollow laugh that twists something in Ferdinand's gut. The horse shies, sensing his fear, and he struggles to get it back under control. Somewhere, arrows fly and clutter on the marble floor. Dorothea screams.

"I'm not afraid of you," Ferdinand mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow. And he is not , he cannot be . Edelgard certainly pushed past the black rider and his devil's mask, his red glowing eyes, without a second thought. She had told them not to engage. But there must have been a reason for the Death Knight's presence in this tomb. And if it was not to strike them down, then-

To scare them? Could it be? 

Ferdinand's mind is racing. What if the scary mask and the ridiculously large scythe were just for show? What if the whole purpose of the Death Knight was to spread a sense of horror - very successfully, one might add - and to crush their morale?

There is only one way to find out. And, Ferdinand realizes, if he is right, and if he bests the Death Knight, he will achieve something that even Edelgard has not dared to do.

His hand tightens around his lance. He takes a deep breath. No looking back, no wasting time on second thoughts. He must not falter.

"I am...", he says, low under his breath. Trying to focus, trying to ignore the way his hairs rise on the back of his neck.

He digs his heels in the flank of his mare and charges.

Something strange happens. 

One moment the tip of his lance iss aimed right at the Death Knight, and then he blinks and the black horse leaps to the side like a prancing show pony. Ferdinand rushes past his enemy; he pulls hard on the reigns-

And then a tinny sound, like something humming through the air. A force strikes him in the ribs, knocking Ferdinand clean off his horse. The room spins around him, the ceiling tips as he is weightless-

Until he is not.

Ferdinand crashes on the floor, hard, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, next the side of his head smacks against the mable. The impact rattles through his skull, chased by a radiating pain that drowns out all thought. The world turns blank.

When he comes to - when his body begins to regain shape as a number of warring sensations, so many different flavors of pain - he realizes that something is very, very wrong. Numbness spreads from under his right armpit. His shirt is soaking wet, warm, so at odds with the cold tingling in his right arm. As for his left arm, he does not feel it at all.

And there's screaming, and hooves hitting the floor in his field of vision, the sound of feet shuffling with cautious apprehension. Above all, a hoarse voice screams for Linhardt, for Dorothea. It takes Ferdinand one, two rasping breaths to make sense of the pandemonium and of how badly he fucked up.

His offensive action has set the Death Knight into action. With a manic laugh, the grim reaper swings his sense, charging right at Ferdinand’s friends.

And he is lying on the floor, motionless like a broken doll, bleeding out from a gash in his side that is Seiros knows how deep-

The world tilts again; Ferdinand is half aware of being moved as the ceiling comes into vision for only a moment until it is blocked out by a shadow with two wide, gold-green eyes.

"You fool," Hubert hisses, and he almost chokes on the words. "What in all the Saints’ names were you thinking? You doomed us all."

Pressure and pain in his side. Ferdinand thinks that it is quite unfair of Hubert to hurt him so when he is already down. He may have even said so out loud, but his mind grows fuzzy, and the sounds become distant, as if his ears had been stuffed with balls of cotton.

Hubert screams for Dorothea again-

And then everything is gone.

Hubert, wrapped in shadows. He stands so very still, his too upright back pressed flush against the hallway walls. Guarding the entrance of the infirmary like the world's most lifelike statue, glaring with murderous intent at any student that dared to come near.

Tension balls his hands to fist and winds the muscles of his arms, because if he lets go for even one minute, he would start to tremble and falter and that is something Hubert von Vestra can not afford.

He always knew that their path would be bloody, and he is prepared to end lives with a drip of poison, a shock of dark magic or a dagger striking unseen, twisting into soft and vulnerable flesh. Quick and precise. But he has to learn that not all deaths are equal.

Some are slow and stupid and cruel and, damnation, he was not meant to witness his clumsy, incompetent classmates bleed out under his very hands.

(If he closes his eyes, he can still smell the metallic tang of blood, can feel it soaking his gloves and sticking to his skin and he sees stupid Ferdinand von Aegir's eyes losing focus-)

The infirmary door swings open: Professor Byleth steps into the hallway, battle-weary and more bleak eyed than usual, even by her standards. 

Hubert stirs.

Byleth does not start, but her gaze sharpens. 

"She will be alright," the professor says, before Hubert has the chance to ask. "All she needs is rest. You too."

At any other time, he would have appreciated Byleth Eisner's habit of making as few words as possible, in fact he would have deemed it her most redeeming trait after her tactical skills. But he isn't feeling like himself tonight. And he needs answers, not advice. 

"I was not concerned about Lady Edelgard. It would take far more to shake her."

The professor's brow furrows slightly. Her lack of... expressiveness makes it hard to tell if worry or disbelief lies behind that face.  "It was a hard battle."

"It was a disaster ," Hubert spits. "And all because von Aegir had to provoke an enemy far stronger than any of us! Bernadetta started to run like a frightened mouse. This cannot happen again."

Byleth raises her hand. "Tomorrow. Not tonight. We all need rest. And Ferdinand will have a lot of time to think about his mistake in the infirmary."

So he lives . Hubert breathes out and rubs the jaw that he has clenched subconsciously for far too long. And with his breath, the tension in his shoulders and arms dissipates as well. By sheer luck, they have not lost anyone. But luck is not a thing to rely on; before their next battle they need to train and expand their skill set, they need to prepare for stronger, more cunning enemies. Because war is not going to wait until they are ready for it.

The professor had to see this. How could she bear to waste even one more night?

"I need to talk to you in private," Hubert says.

"Do you want to offer more threats?", Byleth asks. A smile settles on her lips, faint but unmistakable. "Come on, then. I'll make tea."

Hubert von Vestra has never been one to feel shy, although entering Professor Byleth's quarters does leave him with a quaint unease. The room holds very little personal belongings and from what he can tell, the laden desk is the only spot that is used too frequently to bother cleaning. Even the bed looks so prim and proper as if no one has slept in it for quite some time.

Hubert wonders if Seteth knows about the ledgers that the dear professor borrows from the library. Or the syphon that she keeps in her room. Byleth beckons Hubert to sit as she fills the device with tea leaves and sets it to boil with a magical flame. For lack of options, Hubert claims her desk chair and sits down.

He takes a peek at the notes spread out over her desk. Most of it is written in a near-illegible scrawl. There are some drawings that he recognizes as battalion formations, and sketches of crests and magical circles. Advanced spells. The speed with which she picks up these things was remarkable.

Slowly, the aroma of cinnamon spreads in the room.

Byleth moves back to her desk while the tea leaves steep and starts gathering documents to piles, making room on the small work surface of the desk. She sets down two cups, inquires Hubert to wait, and steps out for barely a minute until returning with a cargo crate. She drops the crate in front of the desk and fetches the syphon.

"What did you want to talk about?", Byleth asks, as she pours him a cup of tea. She fills her own cup next and seats herself on the crate.

Hubert stares into the amber tea. Gingerly, he takes a sip and finds it... passable. Enjoyable, even. He always fancied a pinch of cinnamon in his coffee, and he has to admit that it pairs nicely with tea. Has his teacher paid that close attention to his preferences then, or is this a mere coincidence? 

"I wish to learn white magic," he says, still glowering at his drink.

"Why?"

"Surely you have noticed how we found ourselves short of healing power today, the moment our little class was scattered over the battlefield. Right now, we can only rely on Dorothea and Linhardt - and you, Professor, although I would argue that you are most useful to us in the heat of the battle, pushing forward. And as it is of utmost importance that no harm comes to Lady Edelgard, I reckon it cannot hurt to expand our number of healers. It is my duty to stand by Lady Edelgard's side and guard her and I am already well versed in dark magic, so it stands to reason that I should try my hand at healing as well."

Byleth's eyes narrowed. "Your magic potential may be strong, but healing requires faith."

"One can have faith in many things. I, for example, have faith in my Lady and the future she will create for the empire."

The professor sips on her tea, still watching him over the rim of her cup. Considering. When she puts it down again, she says: "I was talking about spirituality. I will teach you as best as I can and you should be able to pick up the basics, but I don't see you making much progress beyond that."

Hubert would have liked to point out that the professor kept encouraging Dorothea to study the faithly magic despite her struggles with the subject. Still, it is not like he has any ambitions to become a member of the church anytime soon.

"One or two spells will suffice. So I can buy some time until a more skilled healer can arrive."

"Fine," Byleth says. She takes another long sip from her tea and closes her eyes to savor the taste. "You can start your lessons by practising some self-restraint."

"I am the model of self-restraint," Hubert croons.

"Good. Because while you are learning, you will keep your distance from Ferdinand. No arguing, no blaming, no trying to punish him. If you ignore these rules, you can turn to Professor Manuela for your studies."

Hubert chokes on his tea.

Life hits Ferdinand with all the force of a loaded carriage. He wakes sore, a dull pain pulsing through his limbs and side, his head feels twice its size and - like a rotten cherry on a foul dessert - his tongue feels dry and fuzzy in his mouth. If he had the strength, he would roll over and pull the blankets over his head. Block out the world and continue sleeping for another, say, five years. At least until the monastery has forgotten about the day when Ferdinand von Aegir nearly killed himself and-

Saints, how many lives did his mistake cost?

Ferdinand opens his eyes and beholds the wood-paneled ceiling and prim white bedding of the infirmary. He pulls his shoulders together and buries his hands in the covers, trying to pull himself up, when a sharp pain sears through his shoulder joint and he collapses again, groaning.

Heels click on the floor and in a flurry, Professor Manuela is at his side, pushing him down.

"Oh no no no, you are in no position to get up."

"Professor, I need to-"

"Do you have any idea how lucky you were!" Manuela's voice spirals higher, louder - it feels like a blade piercing his head. "I didn't even know where to start fixing you. Well, aside from stopping the bleeding." She lets out an aggravated sigh and starts listing up his injuries. A deep gash in his ribs from the Death Knight’s scythe. His left shoulder had been dislocated and he has likely suffered a concussion from when he hit his head.

"-And as soon as I got my hands on you, the whole class started talking at me at once as if that could make me work faster! And then that Vestra boy stormed in, all soaked in blood, with a mad glint in his eyes..."

Ferdinand tries to sit up again, but Manuela pushes him down once more; the movement makes her bosom shake and for one short, panic-filled moment, Ferdinand fears that her breasts will escape her dress and smack him in the face.

"Luckily, it was all yours, though. Well, not lucky for you. So you see why I cannot possibly let you leave."

"My friends - did anyone else get hurt? Please, Professor, I have to know." 

Her expressions softens from annoyance to concern. "Not as bad as you," Manuela says low under her breath. "Which reminds me. There's someone who asked to see you, as soon as you wake up. Wait a moment, I'll fetch her."

As if he has a choice. Ferdinand watches her disappear and lets his head fall back on the pillow, stifling a groan. That Edelgard would not waste a minute to reprimand him...

But the girl at Manuela's heel is not Edelgard. Ferdinand catches glimpses of auburn hair and dark green eyes and shimmering golden earrings.

"I'll give you a few minutes of privacy. Mind that he doesn't do something stupid, like trying to get up."

"Of course, Professor Manuela," Dorothea promises. And then she stands before his bed, turning her clever hat in her hands, looking more nervous that he had ever seen her. And he cannot take his eyes off her. He barely registers the infirmary door closing.

Ferdinand does not know what to say. Last time they were alone, she had told him to his face that she hated him. Had she come to repeat the sentiment? Correct it for the worse, perhaps, if a worse thing could be found?

"Well, Ferdie!", Dorothea exclaims with a wide, forced smile. She pulls up a chair and sits, crossing her legs. "I have to say, you gave us quite a scare."

"Dorothea, I-"

"You stupid, arrogant fool. What in the godess' name were you thinking?"

He says nothing. Because even if he could put down his reasoning in words - it seems all so petty and insignificant now. He could not even justify it to himself. "Are the others truly alright? How- how did we escape the Death Knight? And the tomb-"

"We defeated him. Thanks to the professor, and Edie- she took a bit of a hit, but you know her, she wasn't going to let that stop her."

Of course. It is not enough that she surpasses him with such ease, without even caring for the challenge. Now she is fixing his messes too?

"-and Petra! You should have seen her, dancing out of the reach of his scythe, how she parried- she landed the final blow, before he disappeared. Pray that we never see him again."

Ferdinand does not think they will be this lucky. "I'm sorry. I truly am."

"And you should. Don't you ever do something so dangerous again! When you were lying there on the ground, bleeding out... we all thought you were done for. Even Hubert, I don't think I have ever seen him so pale before. Like a marble statue."

Ferdinand thinks, but he always looks cut out of marble . Thinks, it's a miracle he has not poisoned me in my sleep, if Edelgard was hurt by my fault. But he remembers faintly that Hubert was the first to come to his aid.

"And you better get well soon. Bernie is so shaken, she didn't even show up for class today. You need to come back and be your obnoxious self. Show her that you're not afraid, despite what happened to you."

"I promise."

Ferdinand decides that it will take a lot of work to repent. He will have to ask for forgiveness from his classmates, his professor - and the goddess. He ought to give her his thanks as well, for not taking him from this life. And for showing him in his fall that more people care for him than he was aware of. Even Dorothea - despite insisting that she hated him, she is anxious about his recovery. Maybe there is hope for a friendship between them yet.

"I want to learn healing magic."

Byleth has barely taken a step into the infirmary when she hears the words that make her want to turn and walk away again. It is her second visit, three days after Ferdinand regained consciousness. He is recovering fast: he sits on the bed upright, back straight, in his eyes a spark as if he meant to leap out and slay some old and terrible beast of legends. Professor Manuela even promised that he might take a walk today.

So, his enthusiasm should have pleased Byleth, if not for the fact that she had come here from her first lesson with Hubert. Her first, disastrous lesson.

She asks Ferdinand the same question as she had Hubert: why ?

They are both headstrong young man, who seem to know exactly what they want from life, the path they will take to reach their goals. Ferdinand in particular has a firm grasp on how to apply himself to his studies in a way that employs his strengths - acquiring a rank in a magical class does not fit into the picture.

"I just feel like it is my duty as a noble and a knight to protect the weak - but even so, I cannot stop everyone from getting hurt. But if I aimed for a position as a Holy Knight-"

"You're feeling guilty," Byleth says, before Ferdinand can finish his ludicrous thought. Holy Knight? He has not yet finished his soldier’s training. "Which will pass. You should not derail your education based on one mistake that you made."

"Professor," Ferdinand tries again. His smile grows strained. "This really is important to me."

"Your magical talent is very faint. Even if I you master a few spells, you might not use them to their full potential. It may never be an asset in battle-"

"I will spend more hours in the library, dedicating myself to the theoretical aspect of magic. I already attend sunday service and I will further join every choir rehearsal - all I ask of you are some practical lessons. If you can spare a little bit of your time." 

Byleth considers. She does not doubt his eagerness - he will apply himself to the task as he will apply himself to everything else: with great enthusiasm and a need to strive for perfection. And therein lies the problem. Just how much exactly, can he put on his own shoulders? At some point he will crumble under the weight of his duties.

"Alright. As things are, you're not the only one with this request; you can join our additional training once you are fully recovered."

"Who is the other student?"

"Does it matter?", Byleth asks. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight a little, seizing him up.

"It does not. I was merely curious." Ferdinand nods, overly courteous. "Thank you for the opportunity, professor."

She wonders how grateful he will be once he shows up for his first lesson.

Byleth does not tell Hubert about Ferdinand’s intention to join them. To do so would be a tactical error. He is already displeased by her choice of location (the cathedral) and the new student that she convinced to join their class: Mercedes von Martritz. Her healing skills are exactly what Hubert insisted the Black Eagle house is lacking and in Byleth's eyes, her devotion to the goddess makes her a good advisor on how to learn white magic.

But in her presence, Hubert bristles up. During their first extracurricular lesson, he became tight-lipped and defensive the moment Mercedes stepped into the cathedral. And his face twisted in disgust when she described how she drew her strength from prayer, and the certainty that the goddess was watching over every soul in Fodlàn. He even chuckled at the notion that there lay a spark of divinity in every living being.

So, the first lesson turned out a minor failure, with Hubert stomping off to the library to research white magic sigils, which he considered a better use of his time, leaving Mercedes - not offended, but confused. Byleth apologized and thanked the girl on both of their behalf and decided that Mercedes was excused from assisting for the coming lessons. 

She can only assume to what sort of recalcitrant behaviour Hubert will turn once Ferdinand joins them. So, she needs a different approach. And a different location, too. 

Ferdinand is released from the infirmary three days before the second lesson, which would have been fortunate - except when Byleth arrives at the greenhouse one hour before dinner, only Hubert shows.

"I did not grow up believing in the goddess or any other divine force," Byleth says as she nicks the back of her hand with the tip of a dagger, just deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. Her attention skitters back to the greenhouse door every now and then. It does not reflect well on a noble to arrive late for a preset arrangement, so she wonders what could possibly be holding him up. Had Hubert found out about him joining and then ensured that Ferdinand would stay away? A drop of poison perhaps in his afternoon tea?

"I still have no spiritual guidance of any sort. But if I need to heal, I just. Do . It's nothing I can explain. Someone needs and I provide. All I can say is that the magic feels more like a pour or a stream, something steady, not like the conscious buildup that is needed for an attack. And the nosferatu spell is healing, too, but in reverse. I draw power from another person. The pain it causes them is a mere side effect, because they are unwilling. Because I am taking what is theirs by force."

She holds out her hand. "Now I'm the one who is in need. Go ahead."

"And you expect me to perform, just like that?", Hubert says, a mocking lilt to his voice.

"Manuela says the key to healing is humility and caring."

"If that were true neither she nor Linhardt should excel at this."

"For a start, we could try with less sarcasm and more empathy," Byleth suggests, unimpressed.

Gingerly, he takes her hand. His pale green eyes bear down on the cut and his face darkens in concentration until he looks as if he intends to murder the injury. Well. He cannot be blamed for defaulting to what he knows. Byleth grants her student a minute of homicidal staring, before she pulls back again.

"This isn't working." She sighs, and picks up her dagger. "I'm making a deeper cut."

"Why ever would you do that?", Hubert protests. "If I cannot even tend to a scratch, I will not be able to treat something deeper."

"Is that a hint of concern?", Byleth asks.

"Hardly."

"Because that might be just what we need-"

One of the greenhouse's doors swings wide open as Ferdinand von Aegir puts most of his weight against it. He uses his shoulder to leverage, as his arms are occupied with a large basket of... something. 

"I am so sorry for my late arrival!", he calls out, somewhat out of breath. "I had to make another unplanned stop at the infirmary because of a kitchen accident. But on the bright side, I brought-" Ferdinand takes three steps in before he spots Hubert, and freezes. 

Hubert's face freezes as well. "What is he doing here?"

"Studying, same as you," Byleth replies, before beckoning Ferdinand closer. "Come closer, you have not missed much. Are those... cookies?"

"I, ah, well, I tried my hand at baking. These are some of the better results," Ferdinand explains as he approaches, more sheepishly now. "They are called thumbprints. Mercedes helped me pick out the recipe."

Hubert's mood sours at the mentioning of Mercedes' name, but even he cranes his neck to get a better look at the treats. He picks one with a red jam core, not waiting for permission, and pops it into his mouth. 

"Horrible," he remarks, still chewing. "Dry as dust and barely baked through around the edges. Amateur's work."

Ferdinand huffs. "And how would you know? I do not recall you liking sweets, so what comparison would you have?"

"I’m merely saying, I could do better than that on any day."

Ferdinand throws back his head and laughs, loudly, dramatically, mocking. "Forgive me, but no one in their right mind would even let you near a kitchen-"

"Pastries are an excellent way to administer poison. Especially the glazed ones." Despite his complaints, Hubert goes for a second cookie.

"Ferdinand, may I see your hand?", Byleth interrupts before the conversation can turn to open threats. 

Ferdinand hesitates; he claims that it's not a lovely sight, nothing he would impose on his dear professor. Still, he puts his basket down and offers his hand. "A minor burn. Professor Manuela said it will heal on its own as long as I keep it clean and don't poke at the blisters - it's not the dominant hand, so as long as you give me a light sword, I can still fight."

Byleth makes a pensive noise. She tugs at the gauze and unravels the bandage with the utmost care. The skin is red, with pale, water-filled blisters rising from it. It radiates heat. Byleth places a careful fingertip against the tender skin.

Ferdinand breathes in sharply, but does not flinch. His shoulders tense.

"Looks painful," Byleth remarks.

"It still... stings . But that is nothing compared to what I had to endure in battle."

"Especially in light of recent injuries," Hubert adds. He eyes the basket, but his pride keeps him for claiming a third cookie.

"Hubert." Byleth looks at him, sternly. "How would you like to try the healing spell again?"

Ferdinand pales. More than ever, he insists that a magical invention is not necessary, that it will heal just fine on its own, but Byleth fixes him with the same hard stare she reserves for the battlefield. "He will not hurt you." Her tone leaves no room for declining.

Hubert chuckles. He takes off his gloves. "Our dear professor is right. If I wished to hurt you, I had more efficient means to do so." His smile is cruel and sharp, at odds with the gentle way his left hand slips unter Ferdinand's to support it. His right index finger hovers-

Hubert von Vestra has seen his classmate’s hands set to work many a times. He has witnessed them brushing over the glossy coat of a horse as they were biding their time on stable duty. He has seen them wrap around a lance, seize the hilt of an axe or raise a sword. He has seen them perform flourishes in the air whenever Ferdinand loses himself in one of his grand speeches about nobility and, whenever he was distraught, Ferdinand would press his fingertips against his left temple. Hubert knows how these hands ought to look and move.

He has also seen them tremble as Ferdinand lay on the marble floor of the mausoleum, struck down. It's this memory that Hubert draws on, remembering the shock that seized his chest, and the feeling of having someone's life run out of their body-

The magic feels more like a pour or a stream, something steady , the professor had said.

Hubert holds his breath as he draws the draws the sigil. He imagines, no, he wants Ferdinand von Aegir whole again. He doesn't ever want to feel as powerless ( helpless ) as he did in their last battle.

The air around them grows warmer.

The sigil completes itself and for a moment it glows brightly in the air - then the light settles into Ferdinand's skin, which takes up a healthier color. Blisters dry and shrink into mere callouses. 

"You did it," Ferdinand says low under his breath.

"No need to sound so surprised," Hubert retorts. But he can feel the eyes of the professor settling on him. Her smile, too, a thing so rare. He could almost trust her when she smiled like that, if he allowed himself to forget about the shadow that seemed to lurk behind her stoicity. For now she was only herself: proud and teasing.

"See? I told you it's a matter of caring."

Ferdinand lets out a noise of confusion and Hubert does not meet his eyes.

Magic lessons alternate with sparring and riding sessions when the professor suggests that Hubert could benefit from becoming a Dark Knight, if only for the increased mobility on the battlefield. He has to admit that it will be an asset once Lady Edelgard starts to set her plan - and her troops - in motion. Not that the professor needs to know about this particular detail.

But she is observant.

She keeps positioning him close to von Aegir on the battlefield, almost as if she noticed, that-

Well. It is almost too embarrassing to admit to himself, but while his magic is strong, his ability to heal proves fickle. Particular .  It comes easier to him when he works it on someone he is close with, or someone he has had to keep a close eye on. Lady Edelgard belongs in the first category, the professor and Ferdinand in the latter. He rather leaves the healing of his other classmates to Linhardt or Mercedes. Even Dorothea shows much promise as a healer - these days, her eyes are filled with purpose and she is less preoccupied with chasing after men.

It is just as well. Suppose he had the time to look after his classmates, get to know them better, he could become a better healer. But it is not the path he has chosen. Ferdinand is also first and foremost a fighter, a knight, always throwing himself into the fray. He learned how to cast wards - a pity that he cannot cast them on himself, because, saints , he is far too vulnerable to magic.

But when they are sent out on smaller missions like clearing the streets of thieves, Ferdinand is allowed to fall back and tend to the smaller injuries of his comrades and he does so enthusiastically. Why, sometimes Hubert even catches him smiling. He seems... a lot less uptight, carefree almost, when he allows himself to not excel for once.

Hubert has to admit, he likes this side of Ferdinand much better than the driven, self-important fop who constantly obsesses over how noble he presents himself. And he appreciates the patience with which Ferdinand teaches lancefaire - he moves slow, focusing on technique first and speed second. Soon, their lances meet in practised choreography and they thrust and parry as quick as banter.

Ferdinand puts little weight behind his thrusts, so as not to harm his sparring partner, but Hubert still bears his fair share of marks from the lessons; his pale skin bruises easily. But in the evening, he falls to bed tired, weary, and sleeps better than he has in years.

Just as Hubert grows comfortable with the steady rhythm of school life, the preparations he and Lady Edelgard had made come to their sweet conclusion and she strikes - 

And drags war to the front steps of the church.

Suddenly, order is replaced by chaos. Classmates and allies gather their belongings in haste and move from the monastery to the secret base that the Empire has prepared months ago. They lose... 'friends' along the way, but no one that Hubert has not expected to leave. Little Flayn and Rhea's overeager fanboy, Cyril, are no great loss, but Catherine is someone he loathes to meet on the battlefield. He has no illusion that she could cleave him in two. And-

He scans the groups of people that arrive, searching for a shimmer of bronze locks. Grows alert everytime he hears the sound of hooves. He does not know why he expects Ferdinand to join their ranks, to march against the church he values so much. Or why his absence irks so. Ferdinand is a golden boy, swaddled with privilege, drunk with romantic ideas about nobility. Naturally, he would reject the path that Lady Edelgard has chosen. How could he not?

The ground begins to tremble ever so slightly with the weight and sound of horses approaching. A guard calls out, they raise their weapons-

"Wait!-" Hubert cries out, peering into the dusk twilight.

A cloud of dust rises behind the four slender horses that draw near, in pairs of two. All but one have riders. Hubert can make out the tall form and questionable haircut of Lorentz Hellman Gloucester and, riding next to him in bright and portly contrast, Mercedes von Martritz. Her, of all people! The most devout and soft woman that has ever walked the cold earth-

And then a whistle cuts through the air and the rider in the rear waves enthusiastically. Relief takes Hubert by force, almost sweeps his feet out from under him like a well aimed lance strike.

"Stand down," he orders the guards; his voice hoarse. He moves forward as if in a dream.

The group brings their horses to a stop before the entrance. Lorentz starts some speech with a flourish of his hand, but Hubert pays him no mind. He walks past and snatches the reins of Ferdinand's horse before the cavalier can dismount.

"You're late," Hubert says, although the words do not come out quite as harsh as he planned.

To his dismay, Ferdinand grins. "On the contrary! I am just in time to supply friends and mounts."

Hubert wants to ask if Ferdinand really thinks that Lady Edelgard would not have considered supplying horses for her coup, but before he can voice the thought with the appropriate sarcasm, Ferdinand seizes him by the wrist and bows his head down, closer. Hubert's mind draws blank.

"Please," Ferdinand whispers. "Don't send them away. I will personally vouch for Lorentz and... Mercedes has nowhere else to go."

"What about Dimitri? Surely, her old friends from the Blue Lion house will gladly take her back-"

"Dimitri has gone mad," Mercedes says, looking over her shoulder to regard Hubert with a defiance that he had not expected from her. Ferdinand sits up straight again, and releases Hubert’s wrist.

"There was always something... sad about him," Mercedes continues. "Something that he could not let go of. Every now and then, he would lose control and become wild and cruel, crying for blood and revenge and he would revel in his fantasies of slaughter."

"And you would prefer my company over his?", Hubert challenges.

"With him, it's not just an act to scare others," she retorts. She might as well have slapped him in the face. "He's talks to people that are long dead, and he keeps on crying for Edelgard’s head."

"Not on my watch," Hubert growls. Although even he has to admit that Dimitri is a dangerous enemy and if he truly has gone mad... he'd be unpredictable.

"Before I left, Dedue was trying to convince him to flee."

"Claude is also preparing for his escape as we speak," Lorentz chimes in. He turns his horse around, better to stare haughtily down on Hubert. "As far as he is concerned, the conflict lies only between the church and the Empire. He will likely not interfere until we march against Alliance territory."

We. They are already speaking as if they have been accepted among Lady Edelgard's ranks - and to his side, Hubert can practically feel Ferdinand's buzzing impatience.

He has to make a decision, then, if he trusts Ferdinand's judgment. Throughout the last year, Hubert's regard for his classmate has grown. Ferdinand may still be irritating and naive, but he has learned from his past mistakes. He could be humble sometimes, he does not charge into action quite so rashly anymore - taking up the role of a shield rather than a battering ram. He listens and weighs options instead of enforcing his own ideas upon others. And he picks his friends carefully. These friends.

Ferdinand is... an asset, Hubert decides. It is the safest, most objective term he can settle on.

Because somewhere between the fighting lessons and the cookie taste testing, and the rushed, clumsy healing spells they exchanged on the battlefield, Hubert may have developed a... tolerance for the other man. A concern, perhaps. He would not go so far to call it a fondness.

"I'm sure Lady Edelgard is grateful for every soul that wants to join our cause. Now come on in. The longer you lurk, the bigger the risk that we will be discovered."

Ferdinand offers his unbearably enthusiastic smile again and dismounts; Lorentz follows his example and then turns to Mercedes, to aid her. She is clumsy and not used to riding, which almost - almost! - makes Hubert feel sympathetic.

He instructs one of the guards with caring for the horses and leads the newcomers inside, where they are greeted with shouts of surprise and delight.

Later, when the tumult has died down and the students in the camp struggle to find sleep, Ferdinand is still up, still quick on his feet, handing out blankets to those who might need it and stopping to exchange a few words. Hubert is in silent pursuit, watching, ambling across the grounds while still keeping to the shadows, on a path that never takes him too far from his classmate. His hands clutch around a staff, his fingertips run over all the ridges and edges, the finely carved details that are for decorum’s sake rather than functionality.

Hubert has never been one for fiddling, because fiddling is a sign of nervousness, a luxury he cannot afford. And what an unnecessary thing to fuss over: he has approached Ferdinand before, many times. This isn't any different.

Ferdinand rises from his crouch, and gives the hand that reaches for him a final, reassuring squeeze.

And then he turns and seems to look right at Hubert.

Hubert resist the urge to shrink deeper into the darkness.

Ferdinand steers right towards him. "I need to get some fresh air. Would you accompany me?"

"Incidentally, I was going to ask the same thing."

Ferdinand makes a hm -noise, as if he does not quite believe it, but he doesn't dwell. He strides ever forward, his steps speeding up until Hubert has difficulty keeping up without falling into a sprint. The guards let them pass once they see Hubert - he and the Emperor are the only ones to leave without objecting to questions.

"We cannot go too far," Hubert states as he steps out. "Saints, why are you racing so?"

Already, Ferdinand is a few paces ahead. He disappears behind the corner of the building, looks around once more to assess that they are alone - and allows himself to slump against the wall, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

"Are you... alright?" The words feel foreign on his tongue, because this is Ferdinand and if he were not alright, he would make his issues known in a tone that was impossible to ignore. Besides, their relationship has never been such that they would talk about things profound or matters of the heart, fears that were gnawing at the conscious - Ferdinand von Aegir had always appeared fine and Hubert never cared enough to check if it was a facade.

He feels obligated to ask now, because something is so obviously amiss.

Ferdinand smiles, but it is strained. And when he speaks, Hubert can hear real anger simmering underneath. "Tell me, Hubert, would it have killed you and Edelgard to let me know that you were planning to arrest my father?"

"And risk you warning him or openly stand in our way? I think not."

"Well, I would have prefered less drastic measures, I cannot lie. I've never seen eye to eye with him on his policies and I would gladly have advised you on how to manage his assets or where to find his most important documents before your people start raiding our estate-"

Hubert takes a step closer and Ferdinand falls quiet, but the angry spark in his eyes does not snuff out. Good . 

"And you can still do that. You may even step up to fill your father's position, if you can prove that you are best suited for the position. But the removal of your father was inevitable and if you do not like the means we chose, you can either leave, or keep your mouth shut and reserve your frustrations for the battlefield."

Ferdinand draws his mouth to a thin line. "Goddess, your blood really does run cold," he says and the barbs of his words sink deep under Hubert's skin. "How can you take all these cruel measures and not ever stop to wonder if it's right and moral ? How can you stay so calm when you have started a war ? Innocent people will die, Hubert, some of them who we used to call our friends. Have you even stopped to talk to the students that are gathered here? Most of them are terrified, because they do not know what tomorrow will bring, or because they have no idea what will happen to their families. Does this not weigh on your soul?"

"Have you ever considered that I have no soul," Hubert retorts, growing irritated.

"That's horseshit," Ferdinand says. "You care for Edelgard and you look after Bernadetta even though she is the least cut out for this. And you had my back so many times on the battlefield, taking out threats before I could even spot them. You are as human as any of us. I just wish you'd let it show more often."

"People suffer not only in times of war. The poor die every day, starving because the nobles hoard their riches, thinking themselves better on account of their crests and their titles. The world needs reforming, and no revolution was ever won without bloodshed. There will come a time when we can honor the sacrifice of those who have fallen for our cause, but what use is it to quiver over blood that has not been spilled yet? Why fear for the lives of your friends if you are still there to protect them?"

Ferdinand falls quiet. He crosses his arms and does not meet Hubert’s eyes. Sulking, for all that Hubert can tell. 

Ferdinand rubs his face. Taps his foot on the ground. The silence between them stretches uncomfortably as he grows more and more agitated. "And what if I fail to protect them?", he says at last.

He sits down on the cold ground and pulls his legs closer to his chest, making himself small. Hubert is at a loss for words. He has expected this lapse of confidence from other members of their class, but never from Ferdinand. Ferdinand, who will find compliments in mockery. When has he become so brittle?

"I cannot save all of them, at once. And the professor- she asked me to act as a dancer in the upcoming battle. A dancer ! If one of us is in trouble, I might not even reach them in time."

Hubert reaches out before he remembers that even if he were the type who could bring others comfort, Ferdinand might not want his.

"Someone else will," he says, balling his hand to a fist. He considers, then sits down next to Ferdinand. Not so close that their limbs would brush against one another, but close enough to- to read the vulnerable expression on his classmate’s face. "The professor has always made unusual choices. Remember when she made me take the archery exam although I reassured her that I was lacking the strength for this class? In the end the training improved my aim, not only for slinging arrows, but for slinging spells."

"I reckon a proper haircut would have done the trick as well", Ferdinand mutters.

Hubert does not dignify this with a response. Instead, he says: "She came back to us from eternal darkness. She cut a rift between worlds . I'm not sure what she is, but I know that for all her power, she has chosen to continue teaching and guiding us. If she has faith in you, it is because she knows you will live up to the task. That reminds me -", Hubert adds with haste, as if to brush over the compliment he allowed to let slip. "I found something in our arsenal. I feel like you would benefit from it the most."

He holds out the staff, just as Ferdinand raises his head again (curiously, if not proud).

"It is an artifact that boosts the power of healing spells. It will give you more potency as a healer - if you want it, that is."

"I do!"

Ferdinand swallows. He turns to Hubert, coming onto his knees, and reaches for the staff as if it is something sacred. His fingers brush against Hubert's by incident, but Ferdinand does not flinch away. Hubert feels his pulse quicken.

Ferdinand seizes the hilt with both hands, the edge of his palm touching the tip of Hubert's thumb. The staff begins to glow in a soft, warm light, the wood seems to hum against the skin.

"Oh! Is this... supposed to happen?", he asks. 

Hubert finds himself short of breath. Warmth tickles his face, like sunlight in early autumn, kind but not imposing. He clears his throat.

"It seems that you activated it." There is nothing to heal, no injury that plagues him, big or small. He wonders if the staff might respond to its wielders desire to protect.

Ferdinand smiles in a giddy, helpless, shy way that spills over his entire face. And something inside Hubert gives way; his chest feels too light and he is not sure if he should look away, not sure if he even can.

"Thank you, Hubert."

"There is no need for thanks. Just promise me you will use it wisely." 

Reluctantly, Hubert lets go off the staff, and its glow begins to fade. Ferdinand pulls it close to his chest. "I shall."

The days run through their hands like sand until the moment comes when they take their position on the battlefield. Ferdinand feels naked without his usual armor, without his trusty mare and without a spear in his hand. He has a throwing hatchet strapped to his thigh and his new staff is fastened to his hip, near the sheath of his sword.

His every step is accompanied by a chime, drawing the attention from every man and woman in their little army. Some stare, some snicker... and a few are positively leering. (Ferdinand thinks he can hear the words 'should've picked someone with bigger tits' and he hopes that his nerves are playing tricks on his ears.)

Lorentz rides past him, to share a knowing look, waving at one another one last time - they already shared their well-wishes earlier, when Ferdinand asked for assistance in putting on his ridiculously complicated garb.

"Remember to use your best asset!", Lorentz shouts, and then he turns his horse around to assume his position in the reinforcement squadron.

Ferdinand tries - and fails - to summon a smile.

"What was that about?" Dorothea takes her place next to him and playfully hooks her arm with his.

"Ah, well, it was just a joke. Earlier he said that if I find myself in a bind, I should grace our enemies with a glimpse of my thighs and strike them down once they are confused. Ridiculous, right?"

"Well, it's not the worst idea," she teases. "At least your legs would be distracting in a pleasant way."

Ferdinand blinks, because he is sure that Dorothea is flirting with him , and because Lorentz said almost the same thing. 

(Lorentz, who had kneeled before him, and fastened the axe strap around Ferdinand's thigh with nimble hands, either unaware or purposefully ignoring the way Ferdinand's body responded to his touches. Which is not a memory Ferdinand likes to dwell on. Not now, maybe not ever.)

He wonders if it is the impending threat of losing one's life that makes them so susceptible to the pleasures it has to offer. But-

Ferdinand thinks back to the speech that Edelgard has given them, during their first meeting as the Black Eagles Strike Force. Both she and Hubert were unwavering, her poise and confidence unmatched. And Ferdinand has responded in kind, all his doubts well reigned in. But he wonders how they could be so sure about the success of their army.

Even Hubert, calculated and pragmatic to a fault had promised them a win like it was a good luck charm.

Not only will we all survive this, but we will undoubtedly emerge victorious , were his words, and he better delivers, or else Ferdinand is going to, to-

He does not get to finish his fumbling thought, because a rumble goes through their ranks.

Up until now, their attention had been on the main gate, overseen by Seteth high on his wyvern and guarded by heavily armored forces. But two smaller squadrons have pushed forward, attempting to strike at the generals of the imperial army, which man the right and left flank.

Edelgard calls for action; she divides their Strike Force, sending Dorothea to the left to aid General Ladislava, while Ferdinand is ordered to General Randolph's side. He makes his way past the professor, who stands eerily still. Her attention is not on the soldiers, but on the walls of the monastery.

Hubert's voice calls out, but Ferdinand can't make out the words and he refuses to look back. Forward he must go, eyes on the enemy and on his allies besides him. He has to trust his friends that they are strong enough to hold their own, on the other side.

And then, just as he ducks behind a building, he spots Flayn.

Flayn . Who had been so happy to be taught under the professor, who takes pride in going to the market by her own - what kind of cruel commander would send a child like her to war? How could Seteth let this happen when her safety was all that mattered to him? Saints, he had not even allowed her to go near a boy, but had no qualms to let her risk her life in battle?

But before the flicker of anger in Ferdinand's chest can catch, it is consumed by the cold harsh reality that they are going to be Flayn's demise. She is in their way and there are only a few church guards separating her from the sharp edge of general Randolph's axe. 

He cannot let that happen. Maybe, if he gets to her first, he can talk to her-

A cold hand seizes Ferdinand by the left arm.

He draws his sword, and turns, swinging the blade in a wide arch- and stops just as the cold steel kisses Hubert's pale neck.

"Careful where you point your toys," he says and tilts his head, almost as if he offered himself.

"Saints, Hubert, must you scare me like that. I could have killed you."

"I doubt that." He has the nerve to scoff. "Listen. Do not, under any circumstances engage with Flayn, focus only on supporting our troops. I will deal with her."

Hubert lets go of his arm as Ferdinand lowers his sword. Dread settles low in his stomach. "You can't be serious."

"I am far better equipped to take her down."

"Hubert, you cannot hurt her, she is just a child."

"Is she?", Hubert hisses. "Or is she an accomplished mage who will do whatever necessary to protect her stronghold? Look at her, Ferdinand. Does she look frightened? Uncertain? And how much time do you suppose we should waste on debating morality when our allies need our help now?"

He grits his teeth and lets out a shaky breath. "Promise me that you will spare her life."

"If she lets me."

There are many stories of old about heroic knights riding out, lance and armor glinting in the sun, to slay some vile and terrible beast. As Hubert steps past General Randolph, who trades hard axe blows with a church soldier, he wonders which role will fall to him once the scribes and historians put down the events of this very day. Even if they emerge victorious and succeed at reshaping the world, he does not think their judgment of him will be a kind one.

He has always had the makings of a villain: a sharp face and joyless smile, a sickly complexion, a startling gift for the darkest arts of magic. And, as he approaches Flayn, the contrast between them could not be harsher: the maiden clad in white, her green eyes and hair so luminous as if she had been touched by her goddess. She is ethereal; he is a shadow trying to consume her splendor.

Flayn summons blinding light to her hands that makes Hubert's eyes water. The magic that ripples off her small form feels old and overwhelming, yet familiar. It washes over him like a tide, making it hard to breathe. He has underestimated her; no, she is no child. Perhaps she is not even human.

Is she taunting him, unveiling her power like this? Is it a threat? All that Hubert knows is that someone less sensitive to magic would have marched toward her and perished. (Someone trusting and loyal and annoying. He could not let that happen, anymore than he could let harm come to his Lady.)

"I will not show you mercy!", Flayn shouts.

Hubert laughs. 

Mercy? No one had ever spared him a morsel of that. And it serves him just well, doesn't it, because his magic feeds on bitterness and grief. It does not matter to him how brightly her light shines, his darkness will swallow it. 

She calls upon the power of seraphims; a wave of light emits from her, rushing forward. Hubert casts his Dark Spikes. They pierce through the light and bury deep in her limbs.

Flayn shrieks in pain. She stumbles backwards- then Hubert's vision is taken by cold light as her spell hits, searing his skin and filling his chest with a pain like glowing embers. It takes him to his knees.

He needs a moment to collect himself, to learn how to breathe again. His heart feels strange. (And he does have a heart, despite what others may insist. It beats fervently now, like a panicked bird.) The battlefield is nothing but white noise around him. Hubert reaches for his javelin and puts the shaft hard on the ground; he uses the weapon as a crutch to pull himself up again.

Flayn lies on the ground, her body curled up like a crescent, her limbs trembling as if she is in a delirium. Step by exuberating step Hubert approaches until he reaches the stronghold. He lifts his javelin a few inches and pokes Flayn's paralyzed form with the lower tip.

She flinches and looks up at him with terror in her pale eyes, but to her credit, she does not beg.

"I would tell you to run, but it appears that your legs are lacking the strength," he says. "So unless you wish to die, I advise you to crawl out of my sight."

"Y-you-"

"Save your breath." Hubert says gruffly. He stares to the east, where he suspects their first wave of reinforcements to be hiding. With the first of the enemy commanders fallen and General Randolph clearing out the area, it is time to signal them. He lets a small purple flame flare up in his hand.

Flayn drags herself up, her eyes never waving from him. "You're a monster," she coughs.

"If I am the monster then what about your dear archbishop? What kind of creature does it make her?"

"I have known a taste of your vile magic, Hubert von Vestra. I know the color of your rotten soul." She graces him with one last glare that holds all of her loathing and all of her distaste, before she hobbles back to the monastery gates. And then there is an flash of light and she is gone - rescued by some bishop within the monastery walls, no doubt.

Hubert allows himself a moment to catch his breath and look over his shoulders, to look for his allies.

There is Randolph, wearily standing his ground as he disarms the last of his opponents. There are soldiers and battalions taking down old structures, forcing a way forward. There is Mercedes von Martritz, creeping towards the formation of Fortress Knights which block the road to the main entrance. She throws her body forward, unleashing a Bolganone spell on the nearest enemy, who goes down in a ring of fiery explosions. And then Ferdinand joins her. They look at each other; he rubs his neck and starts to dance. His motions are shy at first, before he finds his rhythm and then...

Time seems to stand still for the rest of the world as Ferdinand spins, his white and red garb swirling around him. He captures Mercedes for a short waltz, and as he holds her, guides her, she uses the momentum to hurl yet another spell at the nearest church soldier.

Another scream, another body collapsing at her feet.

Ferdinand and Mercedes freeze - and burst into a fit of giggles over the silly little victory they claimed.

Hubert finds himself smiling despite himself and despite the fact that they are in the middle of a bloodshed. But the two of them are... sweet. And Ferdinand looks brighter than he has in days, with his cheeks flushed and his copper hair ruffled from the wind and the fighting.

He is beautiful.

For the first time, Hubert thinks this without resentment, without drawing a comparison between himself and the other man. Ferdinand von Aegir is beautiful in the most vibrant and natural way, like the sun setting the foliage of autumn trees alight. Like harvest fires, like cardinal birds darting through the sky, like a carnelian stone.

If he had been a different man, a man free of duties, he could have dedicated himself to capturing this beauty in poetry.

A gale picks up. 

Hubert detects a blur of movement to his right, obscured by the sweep of black hair that falls into his face. He turns his head-

A wyvern swoops in low and all that Hubert can focus on is Seteth's anguished face and the way he thrusts his arm forward and then pain . Pain that sears through his side and throws him back, knocks the air out of his lungs. 

He sinks to his knees. Even as Hubert collapses, he extends one arm and summons another spell, magic that howls and tears at Seteth like a Banshee. He uses his other hand to clutch at his side, where he was wounded. His shirt and glove stain red with blood.

Every breath sends a new white-hot flare of pain through his body, twisting his insides. Groaning, Hubert lies down on the cool grass and presses his eyes shut.

The earth shakes as Seteth' wyvern lands. 

"Traitor!", Seteth snarls, his voice so close. "You will pay for what you've done and you will pay for hurting my- my sister."

She lives, doesn't she? , Hubert wants to snap. His suffering is making him irritable and impatient, but he will not stoop so low to beg. Yet. He doesn't want to see the face of his killer, either. 

And then there is heat, and the stink of burning cloth. Hubert's eyes fly open, because Seteth is not a spellcaster - 

A lance falls into the grass, as Rhea's secretary pats out the flames on his armor in an awkward dance. Hubert spots Mercedes ducking into the shadow of a half-collapsed wall, but her dress is a pale stain in the darkness, still too visible. 

"Go ahead, chase her," Hubert taunts, "Turn your back on me, it will surely not cost you." 

He needs a last show of strength. He clenches his teeth, ignoring the metallic taste at the back of his throat and conjures a tight ball of miasma in his free hand. His vision starts to swim, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters beside keeping Seteth occupied a little longer.

An oblong orange glow in the distance might be the professor's sword, but if it is, she is too far to be of any help.

Somewhere, Bernadetta shouts an order. With a noise like a dozen of harp strings being plucked in synchronicity, a rain of arrows is released to the sky. They fly a high arch and bury into the wyvern's thick skin, bury into Seteth's hastily raised shield. One lucky arrow hits Seteth's leg and he howls. He grabs the shaft, breaks it off and hurries to pick up his lance.

Another soldier charges towards the Wyvern Lord in a flurry of white and red skirts. Seteth swings his weapon-

And Ferdinand leaps to the side and rolls over, grabbing for the hatchet that is strapped to his thigh. He assumes a half-crouched stance, lowering his center of gravity, better to put his body's weight.

A green aura starts to glow around him as his crest materializes in the air. Ferdinand swings his axe as if he meant to cleave his opponent in two and drives it into Seteth' back, right above his tailbone.

Seteth' legs give out; he falls forward, neither defeated nor dead, but incapacitated.

"He's all yours now, Bernadetta." Ferdinand pants. He stumbles a few steps back.

"Why me?", Bernadetta squeals from her hideout.

Ferdinand wipes his mouth, regarding the collapsed body before his with horror. And then his face turns, his eyes set on Hubert, and he sinks to his knees by Hubert's side, calling his name so loudly as if he meant to raise the dead.

He grasps the hand that is pressed tightly to Hubert's wound and Ferdinand's palm grows warm as he attempts to heal.

"Don't bother," Hubert coughs. "The wound is too deep. Save your strength for someone else."

"No. No, no, no, you gave me your word . You said we would all live to see our victory and a nobleman always stands by his word."

"Ferdinand," Hubert says softly. "Shut your mouth."

Ferdinand obliges, but he juts his chin forward as if he was preparing for one of his ridiculous challenges. His hand grows warmer still as he pours all of his stubbornness into a healing spell. The turmoil in Hubert's abdomen subsides just a little. It's not enough.

"I said leave it be . Why do you never listen? I am not worth the effort."

As a response, Ferdinand heals him again. And again, each pulse weaker than the last. He was neither made nor trained for this, but now that he set his mind to it, he will see it through, even if it is pointless. Even if he spends all his magical reserves on this fool's errand. It is just in his nature.

And Hubert is tired of arguing. Instead, he studies the set of Ferdinand's brows as they are furrowed in concentration, the angle of his jaw that looks like it has yet to grow a proper beard. He wants to run his thumb along the soft, sun-kissed skin just to make sure.

What a pointless and scandalous notion. And yet, what does he have to lose? It takes more and more effort to stay alert; not very long now and he will-

His arm feels leaden as he raises it. Hubert brushes his fingers against Ferdinand's temple with the same awe that a believer would dedicate to an icon, and then he runs them through soft orange locks.

Ferdinand tears his eyes away from the wound; his gaze meets Hubert's and his frustration is almost palpable.

"It's not your fault," Hubert says. And, after a pause: "I'm sorry that I was always so... difficult towards you."

Then a shock runs through Huberts body. His muscles tense; he can feel his insides move as tissue is being knit back together with hurried force. His wound spits out half congealed blood before it closes up and grows new, tender skin.

"Hubert?" Ferdinand grabs his shoulders with a twinge of panic.

His blood runs cold, his heart stutters as magic tests his every organ its wholeness. Next, it seizes his lungs, wraps around them like a giant's fist. Hubert gasps for air as if he has never breathed again. He rolls to his side, away from Ferdinand, and throws up the remains of his dinner.

"Apologies," Mercedes' airy voice cuts in. "It's always quite unpleasant to heal someone who is that far gone."

The professor's hand rests on her shoulder. "Well done."

Byleth steps over Seteth unconscious form without sparing him a glance. She heads for Ferdinand and Hubert, who still lies half-curled up in the grass. Her eyes have never seemed so terrifying as they are now, filled with this pale green glow. 

"We still need you. It is far from over."

The gates of Garrech Mach open and release a new terror: statues come to live, raining down bolts of light on their troops.

"I'm not sure I can stand, professor," Hubert says. To his surprise, Ferdinand squeezes his hand. 

"You can lean on me. We'll get through this together."

A stubbornly hopeful sentiment and if it had been uttered by anybody else, Hubert would have laughed. But Ferdinand is... well, Ferdinand. Undeterred. He takes Hubert’s arm and guides it around his neck.

Ferdinand’s nape is warm and sticky with sweat; his curls tickle Hubert’s cold skin. 

"I see that you have regained your annoying optimism," Hubert remarks dryly. He is overcome with the damnedest desire to rest his forehead against Ferdinand’s neck. They are closer than they have ever been, and likely never will be again, should they live to see the day.

"Come on, friend. Let’s go kill some statues."

Friend .

Hubert does not have the time to dwell on the sensation that blooms in his chest. Ferdinand pulls and he lets himself be dragged to his feet. Hubert sways, before he finds his balance again. A strong hand settles against his side, steadying him.

Clumsily, they march. 

To take down giants. To carve a path towards a brighter future.