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(“I would like you to join our class.”)
Clouds, tumultuous and darkening, blanketed the skies before unleashing heavy rain. Raphael and Lorenz assisted the rescued students, still limping and bleeding, away from destroyed chapel. How they managed to survive unarmed in the first place from the hellish flames spitting out of those monsters’ mouths was nothing short of a miracle. Linhardt doubted his own survival several times in the throes of battle; if not for the gifted Thyrsus now safe in its sheath behind his back, he may not have.
(“Your class? I can see the appeal, but… Why?”)
He turned to his next patient. Rubble and quenched fires dotted the once-quiet chapel grounds. He remembered glancing at the very same plot of land in his first days skipping lectures and wandering about the monastery’s sprawling maze. A nice place for a nap, he thought.
Not anymore.
Hands raised, Cethleann’s blessings sealed one laceration after another for his classmates and saved companions. The atmosphere still felt too tense. Hard to believe that just yesterday everyone was giddy with excitement over the ball. Not that he would know; he had other places to be that night.
“Thanks a million,” Claude said, rolling his shoulder. His seriousness in the heat of battle vanished into that cheeky expression Linhardt found to be nothing short of exasperating. His gaze shifted toward the battleground, brow furrowing. “Where’s Teach? He got hit pretty bad toward the end there. He could be using some TLC right about now, too.”
“Still with Captain Jeralt and investigating the chapel,” Leonie answered. “They should be heading back soon. But, how on earth did those beasts get into the monastery in the first place?”
“Guess we’ll find out when they get back.” Claude blinked and tilted his head. “Linny? Where are you off to?”
“To provide ‘TLC,’ as you called it, and then I’m going to snooze for the next week or so. I’m beat from trying to keep all of you alive.” Compared to Edelgard’s careful planning, the Golden Deer’s deceptively lackadaisical approach to strategy stressed him out. He couldn’t count the number of times Hilda accidentally provoked the enemy or how often Lorenz bit off more than he could chew.
Linhardt wrinkled his nose as he trudged through forming puddles and mud. It still reeked of sweat, burnt flesh, and scorched grass. Fights never smelled pleasant, and its aftermath only helped remind him of how much he hated participating in them. Every muscle in his body ached, but he pushed through thickets and snapped charcoaled branches beneath his boots to find his professor.
Another branch snapped as he spotted and approached the professor, a complaint about to fly from the tip of his tongue.
Instead, he stilled.
Blood.
It pooled around the captain’s body - a body in the professor’s arms. A not-moving, very clearly not-breathing body of Captain Jeralt in Professor’s arms. Professor, who’s bottom lip quivered and gloved fingers squeezed the last warmth of life from the body of his now late-father. Professor, who’s sword lay in the ground abandoned and who’s knees sank deep in the mud. Professor, who cocked his head back toward the uncaring skies and let out a keen, fragile cry almost drowned out by the storm.
(“From what I have heard, no one is as proficient at healing magic as you are. And we need that for more peace of mind. What do you say? If you join us, I promise you would not have to spill more blood yourself - so long as you keep us mended.”)
Linhardt experienced death too many times for his liking already: the first - and last - time he killed someone, the bodies of brigands and thieves scattered around his feet, and being roped into helping out at the Infirmary from time to time. Foolishly, he hoped after today he’d seen the last of it for a little while.
Instead -
He ran. (“You’re so slow, Linhardt!” Caspar jeered from their childhood days. “Come on, faster!”) He stumbled, hands flailing to find purchase, before falling face-first into the ground. Any other time, he would have taken it as a sign from the Goddess or whoever to give up and sleep it off, but not now. Now, he pushed himself up, wheezing, fingers gripping Thyrsus’s shaft and begging to the saint’s blood in his veins that he could fix this.
The spell intended for Captain Jeralt washed over Professor instead.
Healing magic - as all doctrines he gobbled up proved time and time again - couldn’t and wouldn’t work on the dead.
“Oh no,” he whispered, shaking his head as Professor turned towards him. “No, no.”
Lysithea once claimed Linhardt hadn’t a shred of empathy in him during their talks over her Crests. For awhile, he almost wagered he believed her - before Rumire, he truly believed experiments of all sorts for the sake of progress was justifiable. Research before people. But while researching people and their Crests - Lysithea, Marianne, and especially Professor - he learned he had to disagree with her argument and, to his dismay, himself.
He cared about people. Rather, very specific people. They wormed their way into his heart, and now it shattered into teeny tiny bits as he stared back at Professor’s miserable, reddened eyes.
Someone once said idiots try the same thing twice and expect a different result. He knew better. He knew better, yet he exhausted his magic again, and again, and again to heal Captain Jeralt. Instead, Professor’s bloodied arm and scraped face and bruised hands became but a memory.
“Linhardt,” Professor said softly, his voice small, “that’s enough. Please rest now.”
Professor’s abundance of care and concern no matter what never failed to amaze Linhardt. For once, he found himself at a complete loss for words. He had an abundance of clever wit and other intellectual prowess, but little in ways of comfort. Even Edelgard - despite her calculating demeanor - knew what to say in such situations.
The icy rain grew steadier and stung as droplets struck his cheeks.
“I’m,” he managed between clenched teeth, “sorry, Professor.”
If only I stayed behind a little longer. If only I offered to help instead of complain about being sleepy. If only I--
“It’s all right.” Professor offered a weak smile. How he managed to remain strong enough to do so - to provide Linhardt comfort instead - baffled the heavens themselves. “Please go get Claude for me. I… need help carrying Father.”
(“I don’t see the point of physical training so much.” Linhardt yawned as Caspar gave him an offended look. “What? I don’t. It doesn’t help with Crest research, so for what purpose would I ever need to get physically stronger?”)
He swallowed thickly, nodded, and turned back to get aid.
(“You never know,” Caspar spat back. “Maybe someday you will.”)
***
Captain Jeralt was buried beside his wife three days after Professor Manuela’s autopsy.
Linhardt buried himself in research and investigating. With Tomas gone for good and the whole monastery crowding the cathedral, the library was blessedly empty, leaving him to his own devices without interruption. He “borrowed” material from unattended facilities to see if he could understand more about what they were up against. It was the least he could do. Everyone else in the Golden Deer handled the more important thing: helping Professor cope.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, only that it was fitful and with a bad dream’s vestiges fogging up his subconscious. A hand shook his shoulder, rousing him from his impromptu slumber. Another soul in the library stood beside him.
“Hey, Linny.” Claude pulled out a vacant chair across from him and helped himself to one of the piled books. “Got a sec?”
“It’s Linhardt,” he replied, albeit with less bite than he hoped. “What do you want.”
“Haven’t seen you in the dining hall in, well, at all since the fight, so I brought ya a little something.” Claude winked and pushed forward a strange-looking pastry drizzled in chocolate on a plate. Linhardt’s mouth reluctantly watered. “Teach told me you’ve gotta sweet-tooth.”
“What are you trying to bribe me for.”
“Sheesh! Can’t a friend just be concerned about you?” He shrugged and shook his head. “But you’re right, I didn’t come here just to get you this. I’m more or less here to ask you a question.”
“If it’s not Crest-related, I probably won’t know the answer.” He munched on the treat and immediately regretted it - it tasted too good. That gave Claude the upperhand in their little “chat.” He took another bite while making a sound of approval. “But you can try.”
Claude watched him for a moment - Linhardt couldn’t tell what exactly went on behind those piercing green eyes of his - before leaning back in his seat. “So you went to the Goddess Tower during the ball, huh?”
Linhardt nearly choked on his food. “What,” he sputtered, “does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything.” He grinned. “Can I place a wager that you met someone at the tower?”
A pause. Linhardt’s back straightened as he set his treat down. “Again, I fail to see how this has any relevance, regardless of whether or not the Professor and I met at the tower.”
“Aha. I never said who you met, did I?” Claude’s eyebrow quirked, grin turning sly. “Now with that confirmed, I have a follow-up question. Why haven’t you stopped by to at least say hello to Teach? He kinda needs all the support he can get right now. And you two seem close.”
“Stop making baseless assumptions.” Linhardt pushed back the empty plate, lips downturned. Yes, they made a promise to meet again, but only in the interest of researching that mysterious Crest the professor bore. Or so he told himself. “We’ve got a mutual interest in solving the mystery around him. That’s all. Besides.” He squinted. “From what I heard, you and Professor shared each other’s first dance. Why aren’t you with him right now instead of blathering at me?”
“Now you’re the one making assumptions. I danced with Teach. So what? What’s got you so aggravated about it? Unless,” his tone turned playful, “you’re jealous.”
“Are we done here?” Linhardt rose to his feet. “Just listening to you talk is exhausting. I’m going to take a nap somewhere else.”
“Fine, fine.” Claude waved. “Teach should be heading back to the dorms right about now. Just in case you needed to know.”
He didn’t need to know, and Claude knew that. “Thanks for the food,” he said between gritted teeth.
Books in tow, he escaped the library with his filched research material. He meandered through the winding courtyards and trimmed hedges, head tilted downward to prevent himself from seeing the distraught faces of fellow classmates. He knew little about Captain Jeralt. His death to Linhardt seemed rather insignificant, being just another set of dates on a gravestone and the horrible traumatic event he stumbled upon. He felt like an outsider peering in on a personal event he didn’t deserve to see. Why would Claude think he could help in any way? Keeping his distance would be for the best in such situations.
He wished he stayed in his room instead of going with them that day after all.
The local owl hooted before landing on the dormitory perch, pruning its feathers. Oh no. Linhardt hesitated, fingers gripping the books’ spines a little tighter. That owl took a liking to and followed none other than--
Professor - wearing that dumb hat and a school provided uniform he seemed to love - walked up the stairs with heavy foot steps, dark circles surrounding his eyes. Before Captain Jeralt’s passing, most students (Linhardt included) came to the conclusion that Professor was some sort of emotionless statue. These past few days changed everything. Instead of an adult, Professor looked like the late teenager he actually was. Vulnerable. Unsure.
“Professor?”
The utterance escaped him before he could stop himself. Professor halted mid-step, palm pushed against his room’s door, gaze shifting from an unseen void to Linhardt. Time ceased for a spell; anxiety surged through Linhardt’s veins the longer the silence stretched. Something changed since their meeting at the Goddess Tower, though he couldn’t pinpoint what. The atmosphere they shared teetered a thin line of comforting and unfamiliar. If he was being honest with himself, such change was thrilling; he loathed stagnation. But this - how could he handle this? Why were there no good books on the matter of interpersonal relationships?
“Linhardt. Good afternoon.”
His words were but a poor imitation of the lectures Linhardt grew accustomed to. They lacked the certainty and authority he possessed. Instead, he sounded meek. Linhardt sucked in a sharp breath.
“I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you have a minute?”
Why. Why did he say that. It was obvious Professor had no patience for anyone’s problems at the moment. His father just died, for Goddess’s sake. He awaited the impending scolding -
“Of course. What is it?”
- but it never came. And now he needed to come up with a topic of conversation. His tongue grew dry, gaping like a stunned fish, before his brain churned out a pathetic, “Horses.”
Professor blinked, mouth hanging open in surprise and confusion. Linhardt himself did a double-take. Horses? Of all the--he scrambled to recover from his blunder. “I was thinking since the fight,” he rambled, “that maybe I should learn how to work with and ride horses. It’s no secret that I’m somewhat slow. If I had a horse…”
He trailed off before allowing his tired brain to say something he would later regret. However, the gaping silence probably spoke louder than anything he could have followed-up with: If I had a horse, I could get to you sooner. And maybe I would have been able to do something three days ago other than just standing there. And maybe you wouldn’t have to see your own father die because I know I could have healed him. I know I could, I’ve treated worse stab wounds--
Wallowing in failure was never his style because he never really cared. But this was different. Professor made Linhardt a promise to never let him die. It was only fair Linhardt made a promise of his own - one aside from returning to that tower far off in the future from now. He dug his nails into the loose fabric of his pants, head lowered.
“Please instruct me in calvary, Professor.”
“Linhardt.”
The sternness in his voice forced Linhardt to look up. The moroseness in his eyes was gone, receding into a more familiar friendliness he didn’t quite know how to handle.
“You did everything you could.” He gave a reassuring smile and squeezed Linhardt’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
He didn’t feel assured nor deserving of thanks, but it was hard to argue against Professor’s kindness. Instead, he looked away and swallowed hard. “I don’t want any of us to go through that again. I feel I can be more versatile in my healing on a horse. That’s all.”
The owl hooted, feathers bristling, before taking off. The winds quieted down, but the clouds overhead threatened even more rain. It rained everyday since Captain Jeralt’s passing, as if the gods themselves mourned the loss of one of the church’s greatest knights. Professor stared upward for a moment before bowing his head.
“I have to prepare for next week’s lessons anyhow. I’ll take your wishes into consideration, but please don’t think what you’re doing right now isn’t enough. However, if you’re feeling doubly motivated, I could pair you up with Marianne for Saturday’s stable duty.”
“Wait just a moment. You’re working?” Linhardt frowned, his own hang-ups pushed aside. “Didn’t Professor Hanneman and Professor Manuela offer to take over for you for the next couple of weeks?”
“They did, yes, but--”
“No.” Linhardt set down his books, stood in front of Professor’s door, and folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t allow that. If the others heard about you working when you should be recovering, they would barricade the classroom door with all the tables and chairs. And frankly, I can’t be bothered to help clean up that mess. Let the other professors help you and learn to take a break.”
“I can’t.” He left it at that, but Linhardt heard the unspoken, If I don’t work, then that just means I’ll keep thinking about it.
“Have you ever heard of this newfound invention called ‘hobbies’? I’m sure you must have some. Everyone does, even Edelgard.”
Professor shook his head.
“Nonsense.” Linhardt waved dismissively. “I know you have some. Fishing. Gardening. Drinking tea. Playing babysitter with everyone’s lost and found belongings. Choir, even though you are terrible at singing. Cooking, even if you’re a disaster at it.” He paused. “Have you eaten?”
No response. Linhardt let out a tired sigh.
“See, if I were Claude, I’d drag you all the way to the dining hall out of the goodness of my heart. But I’m not Claude, so I’m just going to make a very strong suggestion that you come with me to get something to eat after I put away my books. I’ll be back in a few minutes. And don’t even think about opening your lecture materials.”
If Professor were anyone else, Linhardt wouldn’t have bothered to offer. But Claude, annoyingly enough, was right; Professor clearly needed as much assistance as he could get. He tucked away his books in his room - it desperately needed to be cleaned soon - before returning to where he left Professor. He hadn’t budged from his spot. His cape wafted in the slight wind that began to pick up.
“Ready?”
“Not really.” Professor fiddled with his hat and gazed towards the dining hall. “But my stomach is.”
“Excellent. We can be miserable at the prospect of social interaction together. And don’t worry. If anyone comes up to bug us, I’ll pester them with annoying questions until they leave us alone. Do we have an agreement?”
Professor’s lips quirked into a fleeting smile, a soft and tired laugh escaping him. “Thank you, Linhardt. I appreciate it.”
Time might be able to mend all wounds, but a small meal with a friend could be a temporary bandage in the meantime.
It wasn’t much, but after everything Professor did for them? It was the least he could do.