Chapter Text
The first time Hubert had taken a life, he hadn't felt anything.
He couldn't remember exactly how old he was. Old enough to have already pledged himself to Lady Edelgard, to have held her through sobs after her hair had whitened and to hatch plans of revolt in the dead of night. Young enough for his voice to crack on those very plans.
They couldn't be hasty, this early. But there were still a handful of lower-ranked nobles spreading corruption in their own territories, whose absences wouldn't be missed. That was where he had decided to start.
The first wasn't that far from Enbarr. Hubert crept through the darkened halls of the count's manor, his rigorous Vestra training allowing him to stay undetected. He crept into the study, where the count whirled around upon hearing a sudden entry.
A blast of miasma to the chest, a knife in his throat. Gone before he could call out for help.
Staring down at the corpse beneath him, Hubert had thought that there would be some kind of intense emotional response upon taking a life. Horror, at the blood coating his hands, most likely. A grim satisfaction, at snuffing out a threat and taking them one minuscule step closer to the future his Lady imagined, perhaps. But he simply stared blankly down at the body for some time, before beginning to work on disposing of it.
This same emptiness—settling into the hollow of his chest, a bleak numbness in his lungs—accompanied him from the most banal of tasks in his Lady's service, to the most gruesome, with no distinction between the two. He felt nothing as he ordered employees in his growing spy network to execute a prisoner. Couldn't even muster an emotion as he stared into the lifeless eyes of his father, the red dripping from the knife onto his hands, where the tips of his fingers were beginning to blacken.
It was at some point, during one of these brief entanglements with death, when Hubert had come to the conclusion that he did not have a soul.
Or, he had once, but the emptiness had lodged itself in the center of his chest, then spread to every crevice of his body, like some sort of mold or plague. It had rotted out every piece holding Hubert together until he was nothing but a corpse piloted by this hideous, infectious rot, killing his soul. This was fine by him. Weapons, extensions of their master's wills, didn't need souls.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hubert's warp landed him in the base camp's watchtower, feet unsteady from his sudden warp.
To say that encounter with Ferdinand was a disaster was an understatement.
His hands were still shaking as he pulled his gloves back on, leaning against one of the stone walls. The noises of the camp—soldiers bidding each other goodnight, the muffled screech of metal-on-metal carrying over from the training grounds—seemed removed from the tower, like Hubert had been separated from reality. He slid down along the wall, slumping into a seated position as he struggled to breathe, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
His hands—they were still shaking—weren't anything new; the burns had been gathering over the entirety of the war so far and even beyond, to the point that he really couldn't say when they had become this way. And he really didn't care. His goal, his purpose in life, was to serve Her Majesty as her servant and spymaster; a weapon, hers to wield. If these scars were the only price, so be it. To still have mostly functional limbs was more than many other soldiers could say this late into a war. He had long since accepted his role, was even proud of the path he'd carved for his Lady.
If it were anyone else who had seen his hands, Hubert would have made some threat involving using those very hands to cast Miasma in their direction, and moved on with his day. But, well. The problem boiled down to Ferdinand.
Ferdinand was Hubert's one point of selfishness.
Hubert had total confidence that anyone who merely looked at him could tell there was something wrong with him—half the soldiers at the base camp confirmed that practically every day. Yet Ferdinand, with his honeyed worldview and his boundless exuberance, had simultaneously broken through more of his walls than anyone had before, and still came back with an incorrect take on his character. Leave it to Ferdinand to see a gallant hero where a monster stood; his naivete knew no bounds.
And Hubert, rather than correcting him, allowed him to continue showering him with praise and directing smiles his way. He should not have any wants or will of his own; and yet he recognized that this was a matter of want on his end. He liked the light that Ferdinand poured onto him, like a dying man finding an oasis in a desert. Shadows shouldn't want the light.
But he did, he well and truly craved every honeyed glance that the other man gave him, and so despite every logical voice in his head telling him to brush him off, hold him at an arm's length just like everyone else, he kept coming back for more.
And now Ferdinand had finally seen the way the blight upon his heart manifested itself in his flesh, had seen the all-consuming rot that had replaced his soul. This should have been the end; he should have shot back in disgust, proclaiming that he wished he had never gotten close to a monster like Hubert.
And instead he had tried to get closer.
This, Hubert did not understand.
He willed his breathing to calm, the ragged gasps becoming slower intakes. Saints, he needed to get a grip on himself. All of this because a pretty man saw his hands.
As the moments ticked by, Hubert breathed deeply, feeling his senses come back to himself. Time felt slowed here in the watchtower, and he didn't know how long he sat there until he got this strange spell to dispel. Long enough for the noises outside the tower to quell, most of the camp asleep. This was a boon; as he shakily rose to his feet and stalked the camp, quickly making his way to his tent while maintaining the conscious effort to keep his face neutral, there was no one around to disturb him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Apparently this peace would not last.
Hubert opened the flap to his tent to reveal one Ferdinand von Aegir sitting on the edge of his camp bed, waiting for him.
Flames, this man was infuriating.
The two of them stared at each other, unblinking, until Hubert sighed and stepped inside the tent, closing the flap. There was no avoiding it; better go into it willingly. "Why have you decided to commandeer my personal quarters? Is your own bed not fluffy enough?"
Ferdinand, to his credit, did not rise to match with a retort, nor did he say anything untoward. He merely shifted down the side of the bed, and patted the open spot beside him.
Hubert scowled. "Use your words, von Aegir."
"Sit with me," Ferdinand said serenely.
Rolling his eyes, Hubert drew up the rickety desk chair on the other side of the tent instead, wincing at the creak as he sat down. "How kind of you to invite me to my own bed. I shall decline, though."
This time, at least, Ferdinand had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths before speaking. "Why were you so shaken earlier?"
Straight to the point, then. And here Hubert thought Ferdinand had been getting better at handling situations delicately.
Hubert had few options. Pretending that their encounter by the river had never happened wouldn't work, Ferdinand would just keep asking him until he finally caved. He also couldn't warp away again—well, he could, but he and Ferdinand were two top generals of the Adrestian army, he couldn't avoid him forever. He couldn't tell the truth; if he explained all the ways Ferdinand should hate him, ripped open his chest to expose the rotting flesh of his heart, Ferdinand would realize the errors of his ways and never speak to him again, which, while the most logical solution, also left an acrid taste in his mouth.
He opted for redirection instead. "Why were you so persistent?"
"Because you are my dearest friend, and I care for you," Ferdinand said calmly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. At Hubert's mirthless laugh in response, Ferdinand's brow furrowed. "Why do you doubt this?"
Hubert felt a sneer settling back on his face. "Forgive me for finding General Aegir, so popular among the troops, picking me as his 'dearest friend' as you say, to be completely and utterly unbelievable."
Ferdinand didn't respond for a moment. Hubert had been trying to poke him, trying to stoke a blaze of righteous annoyance that would culminate in Ferdinand leaving. Instead he seemed to just bring a wash of melancholy, the other's face softening with a sad sort of understanding. After a couple seconds ticked by, Ferdinand rose—Hubert shrank back into his chair; anxiety coiling in his stomach—and strode over, then knelt by Hubert's side, leaning his head against Hubert's thigh on the chair, raising his hand and brushing it against Hubert's limp one. Hubert couldn't move, couldn't breathe, from this contact; he feared if he did anything, if he opened his hand and allowed them to hold each other, that his rot would spread and taint the light. There was silence—painful, painful silence—until Ferdinand spoke, softer and more unsure than he had ever heard him. "Why do you say these things about yourself?"
"It is the truth," Hubert said with a sigh. Better to get it over with. "I am rotted, inside and out. You would be better off finding nicer friends."
Ferdinand said nothing in response, merely wrapping his hand around Hubert's. "May I see?"
He did not know why he acquiesced so easily, but with those three words Hubert had gotten up, moved to Ferdinand's other side, and sat down beside him, pulling off one glove. Ferdinand took his claw-tipped hand in his own, and cast another Heal on it; Hubert chuckled, staring straight ahead at the tent wall. "It is not hurting at the moment, your handiwork from earlier was enough."
Waiting for Ferdinand to drop his hand, he nearly jumped when he instead felt something soft to the touch; whipping his head around, he saw Ferdinand pressing his hand to his cheek, staring at him with something unreadable in his eyes. "Ferdinand."
"You are not a monster," Ferdinand began, facing Hubert the way he stared down enemies on a battlefield, "you are not some horrible creature out to trick me, and you are not void of humanity; you are a wonderful friend, and I would rather cut out my own tongue than discard you as a friend." He took Hubert's other hand now, still in its pristine glove, and brought that one to his other cheek. In one hand, the glove of a nobleman, the white bringing out the amber of his hair so lovely in the dancing candlelight. In the other, a burnt claw, the hair drifting around his fingers appearing red like fresh blood. It was a sickening sight to look at and Hubert felt his chest start to constrict again.
"Ferdinand-" he started. "I am nothing to go through such lengths for."
"You are everything," Ferdinand replied without hesitation, eyes boring into his own while he held both his hands cupping his face.
Hubert didn't know what to do; he felt his thoughts spiral again, torn between the twin instincts to push him away and bolt out of the tent, or to lean in and press his lips to his.
Instead, he moved his hands to grasp at Ferdinand's shoulders, burying his face in the other's neck to hide from his scorching gaze. Ferdinand's hands came up automatically, wrapping around his back. The angle was awkward, the two of them still sitting side by side on the tarp laid out over the ground beside the chair; Hubert didn't notice, only aware of his gasping breaths with his face against his counterpart's neck.
The two of them were silent for a while.
"Promise me," Ferdinand whispered into his hair after an eternity, "that you'll come to me whenever you're in pain, so I can heal you?"
Through the addling presence of Ferdinand, the haywire of his nerves, the raw feeling in his eyes and throat that could have been from tears, Hubert could do naught but nod.
A stray beam of light, burning away a wisp of the rot.