Chapter Text
If Hubert kept showing her up like this, Monica was going to have to take serious measures. This was the fifth time this week he’d asked her if she ‘had any spare paperwork that needed completing’ because he had ‘exhausted his own pile’. There was such smugness in the eye uncovered by his dark, unkempt hair that Monica imagined his concealed eye must’ve been perfectly neutral, that all expression had been sapped from it by the other eye like some kind of parasite. She began to dread that look in his eye whenever he approached her, for it never boded well for her pride; who was he to diminish her workload? She was perfectly capable of filing through the documents she’d been given by Her Majesty, but she couldn’t prove that when Hubert was sauntering around the place with time to spare, practically begging for more work to do, implying that she was slow and him taking some of her papers would be unburdening her!
Of course, she did agree every time. The thought of what Hubert would do if she refused was unnerving enough to keep her away from that course of action. She couldn't risk a complaint being filed to Her Majesty ('Monica insists on keeping her stack of papers,' she thought he would say, 'when it would be far more efficient for me to take some of her work, seeing as I'm already done with my own. She is limiting the output of not only our tactician's branch, but our army as a whole. Therefore, I suggest that you-') No. Monica wouldn't let that happen. However, she also couldn't let Hubert's insults to her ego continue. She racked her brain for ways to put an end to his taking on her work, calling up the memories of each time he'd asked, but all she could replay in her mind's eye was the self-satisfied look on Hubert's face - and the embarrassing way she handed over her papers, the stack still so high on her desk. It was all just so impossible. How was Hubert so swift with his work? They were evenly matched in their analytical abilities (as Hubert himself had conceded!), so it wasn't a matter of skill. There must have been another way he was achieving this inhuman workflow.
To crack this mystery, Monica needed another source of information. She needed someone who knew Hubert well.
“Ferdinand,” she said, approaching the man at the stables. He was tending to a horse with a brush whilst it snacked on an apple. “do you have a moment?"
He turned and said brightly, "Hello, Monica! I'm almost done with Rosemary here, then you may have my full attention. Feel free to take a seat! You have my word I won't be too long."
The seat in question was a hay bale, and a rather itchy-looking one at that, but Monica had come to know that Ferdinand truly was a man of his word, so she sat without complaint.
“Alright, there we go.” He said a few moments later, and patted the ivory horse’s flank, a contented expression on his face that Monica had come to expect when seeing him around the stables. “So, what has brought you here? Forgive me for thinking it’s not to talk about horses - though I would love that to be the case.”
Monica recalled their previous conversation a few days ago, when Ferdinand had tried to inspire some enthusiasm in her for equine matters. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m still ambivalent to them.” She shook her head apologetically. “I came to ask you about Hubert.”
“Hubert? Is something the matter with him?”
Other than his infuriating nature, no. “Not him, so much as me. He’s been asking to take on extra work from my pile lately, meanwhile I’m struggling to keep up, and I just want to know how exactly he’s managing all of this! I cannot think of a single thing that would give him such an immense advantage over me, so I wanted to ask you if you knew of any.”
“Hm.” Ferdinand raised a thoughtful hand, then realised he was still in possession of the horse brush and went to put it away. “Well I presume you’ve taken into account his coffee habits? That may be providing him a boost to work pace.”
“Yes, I have considered that. But as far as I can tell, that isn’t what’s causing such a difference. I even-”
When she didn’t continue, Ferdinand turned from the box of tack he’d crouched at to give her an inquisitive look.
Monica sighed, embarrassed. “I even kept track of his coffee intake so that I might try it myself. I copied it exactly, and yet by the end of the day I still hadn’t caught up to Hubert!”
“You are admirably thorough, Monica.” Only Ferdinand could be so generous as to compliment Monica’s making a fool of herself!
“You’re too kind.”
“Nonsense! There is no such thing as being too kind.” He finished with the equipment box, which he’d taken to briefly re-organising after he’d put the brush away, and faced her once again, this time looking thoughtful. “Perhaps… hm, yes. Perhaps it is his schedule?”
“Schedule? But he and I both schedule our days, I’m sure of it!”
Ferdinand pointed a finger playfully upwards. “Ah, but his schedule extends far into the night. In fact, I believe that’s when he does most of his paperwork - when he doesn’t have some underhanded task to complete, that is. I have often seen him burning the midnight oil, ploughing through his paperwork like horses through a field…” His gaze drifted away.
“So… you’re suggesting he’s overtaking me in work at night.”
“Precisely. Because you do not work such late hours, correct?”
“Yes, I try to get a good rest every night.”
“Ah! As we all should!”
Monica noted that the gentle darkness under his eyes did not support his sentiment.
“So, does that sound like a viable reason for his swiftness?”
“Yes.” She stood and gave him a nod. “Thank you for your help, Ferdinand.”
“It was my pleasure! And Rosemary’s pleasure, too.” He smiled and patted the horse, prompting a whinny. “Will you be taking to working at night as well, then?”
“Not if I can help it.” The final pieces slotted together in her mind. “I believe I have another way to get us even…”
*
Monica knocked on the wooden post outside Hubert’s tent. She heard a muffled sigh.
“Who is it.”
“Monica. I-”
“Wait.”
Two sounds followed, first the clinking of ceramic on wood, and second a sound Monica knew well, the dispelling of magic.
“You may enter.”
Hubert was sat at his makeshift desk, an assembly of open crates turned on their sides that doubled as storage space - Monica’s own desk, a similar affair but smaller due to the size of her tent, was where she stored ink and papers, but Hubert had switched out stationery for substances: the crates were stocked with vials of what she could only assume was poison. It was unsettling, but not unexpected. Atop the desk was a mug of coffee, a pen and ink jar, a pile of documents off to one side… all usual suspects for a workspace owned by Hubert. But there was an outlier, one which almost passed as another document but was, she suspected, a more private matter. Within moments of Monica’s entrance, and without looking up at her, Hubert swiftly turned over the piece of paper, with all of the composure Monica wished she had when trying to hide her journal, panicked, from prying eyes. The spike of envy this caused didn’t distract, however, from the confirmation this act provided her: it was surely something personal. Monica filed this information away for safe keeping.
“Out with it, then.” Hubert growled. “I’m very busy with work.”
Monica smiled, being able to see through Hubert’s words for once. He still refused to look at her, instead busying himself with leafing through the papers - the work he was supposedly doing when she came in.
“I have a proposal for you. And I want you to hear me out fully, without cutting in.”
“Will it be short?” He turned in his chair, finally, and crossed his arms.
“Yes, of course. Since you’re so…” She glanced at his desk, hoping to irritate him just a little. “...‘busy’.”
Hubert sighed. “Alright.”
“Excellent. It is about the work you keep siphoning from my pile.”
“With your consent, Monica. You make it sound a far more malevolent act than it actually is.”
“I thought I said not to interrupt me.” The phrase was familiar, an echo of how she’d chided her brother growing up.
“I didn’t agree to any such terms.” Hubert retorted, eyes wicked. He was even more exasperating than her brother.
Three breaths in, three breaths out. That’s how long it took Monica to recenter herself and remember that she was talking to Her Majesty’s most trusted advisor and friend - far too long for her liking, because Hubert had taken the opportunity to turn back to his desk and make idle work of shuffling things about.
“My proposal,” She began again, her voice level. “is that we have a kind of competition, to see who can complete the most paperwork.”
“Why ever would we have a competition?” The way he repeated the word made Monica feel like a child asking to play a game. But she had intended this to be serious!
“Because I want to prove to you that I’m not slow.”
“I have never called you slow.”
“You’ve implied it, every time you’ve come up to me and asked to take my work from me!”
Hubert laughed at her outburst, short and cruel. Monica wanted to slap him.
“My sincerest apologies for implying such a thing.” He said, neither sincere nor apologetic. “But you shouldn’t take the truth as an insult.”
Monica gasped. “It is not the truth! I-” She had to stop herself from trying to make an emotional defence against his words. “It’s not the truth, and I shall prove it with this competition. For the next week, we will compare our quantities of work completed, and see who is the quickest worker by sheer numbers. Do you accept?”
“Hm.” He paused, and Monica was glad to see him taking the offer seriously. “If it’s a simple contest that doesn’t interfere with the war effort at large… then yes. I accept. Perhaps this will inspire in us both a greater sense of motivation, too. That could only be beneficial.”
“Wonderful.” Monica smirked. “We shall record and compare our efforts from sunrise to sunset each day.”
Hubert’s face fell; Monica captured the delightful image in her mind. She would relish in this small downfall crafted by her hand for many days to come.
“Sunrise… to sunset.”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
After some internal battle that played almost imperceptibly across his face, Hubert stood. Monica was glad he hadn’t done so much earlier, as he had a certain intimidating air about him that was dulled when he couldn’t tower over people. But he could intimidate all he liked now; she had already won.
“Not at all.” He began to herd her out the tent door. “We shall begin tomorrow. Goodnight.”
Monica considered pointing out to him that it was only afternoon, but decided that she’d tested his patience enough already.
Hubert had a plan ready at a moment's notice to kill Monica. As well as a backup plan, in the event that his favoured poison was unavailable. This was, of course, his standard practice, but it was even more important in this case due to Monica’s proximity to Her Majesty. It was the same treatment for Ferdinand - though he’d felt his mind loosening on that front lately, forgetting the exact details of how he’d bring about his demise. But no matter. Monica was the person of interest currently.
Regret was not a feeling Hubert welcomed in his life. If left to linger, it would consume his soul. Unfortunately, he immediately regretted taking up this competition with Monica, and as such his plans to kill her were at the forefront of his mind from the moment she left his tent.
To stamp out this regret, he could stamp out Monica.
Though that would be a slight overreaction.
Instead, Hubert went back to his desk and picked up the letter he had been reviewing when Monica so rudely interrupted him. Seeing Ferdinand's name in his handwriting made his skin crawl. He'd been looking over this letter for something close to an hour already, and he was not keen on adding to that time, especially with the terms of Monica's contest: he could not afford to waste daylight hours on such… frivolities for the next week. Better to kick the habit now. He folded the letter and tucked it into the innermost pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. A pitiful metaphor.
He drank the last dregs of coffee from his mug and sighed. If he were to win this competition with Monica - because losing was out of the question when it would make the regret surrounding his agreement even stronger - he would have to prioritise paperwork during the day. This was easier said than done, when he was so used to getting the bulk of his most menial tasks done post-sunset, after he had spent the day at Lady Edelgard's side, and in meetings, and delivering their most vital messages around the camp in person… none of these tasks could be sacrificed for a trivial contest. But there was also the time spent overseeing the machinations of the army - or, this was how he would phrase it when asked what he was doing, as it would sound stupid to say he was simply… people-watching. There was something tranquil about observing others as they went about their day. What was once an offshoot of Hubert's work as spymaster had devolved into an activity for recreation. He shuddered at what he had become.
So, this was the time he would give up in order to beat Monica at this little competition. But would that be enough for a decisive victory? He couldn't underestimate Monica's capability for foul tactics, not when she'd already investigated his work hours in order to take advantage of them. She was no longer just the plucky, starstruck girl who was desperate for Her Majesty's attention. War had wizened her, so much that it was no longer a surprise to hear her suggesting battle tactics during war council that went against the majority's opinion. Her development was admirable… not that Hubert would ever admit that. Perhaps he could stand to gain a few hours of sleep each night, if only for the next seven days. That may aid his workflow, level the playing field with Monica.
The documents on his desk glared at Hubert. He glared back. This was going to be a long week.