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Empress Edelgard’s declaration of war immediately put him in a tough spot.
For one, Linhardt bore the Hevring name as the eldest son, with his father being a staunch supporter of her regime. The reunification of Fódlan would prove most beneficial to the Adrestian Empire, which, in turn, would be beneficial for the Hevring business. Wealthy people, Linhardt realized, specialized primarily in one thing: making even more money. Father was no exception. He always sought opportunities to expand their mining industry, because for some reason the Oghma Mountains just weren’t enough for him. If Linhardt were to make a decision based on family blood alone, he too would support the Empress.
On the other hand, with a slight twist of fate, Linhardt ditched the Black Eagle’s rigidity in favor of the Golden Deer’s fledgling teacher and his stronger magic prowess. Doing so allowed him to grow closer with students from the Leicester Alliance - such as Marianne and Lysithea - and exposed him to more ideals outside of the Empire. Unification would bring continental solidarity, for sure - but at what cost? The lives of his friends he struggled to keep safe all this time? What would have been the point if he decided to turn on his heel and try to kill them, if Empress Edelgard so desired?
Such thoughts soured his dinner. He forced himself to swallow the last bite before rising from his chair. Father made no comment; his conversation with a business partner took priority. Wartime demanded as much affluence as possible, after all. Linhardt slipped away from the dining room and wandered through the estate’s overbearing halls. Servants lowered their heads in greeting as he walked by, and he tried not to think from where they originally hailed from, or whether or not their families were safe.
This was wrong, wasn’t it?
He paused before the large bay window overlooking the rocky shores. Waves crashed into the jagged spires, unrelenting, wearing them away bit by tiny bit. For a foolish moment, he thought he could relate. The expectations of the eldest son, the expectations of the Empire, the expectations of all the possible futures for the fractured Fódlan - it weighed down his shoulders and made staying awake all the more burdensome. Yet as exhausted as he felt he couldn’t quite get to sleep as easily as his younger self could. The stress of such a critical decision kept him up almost every night, and grew worse over the years.
What would Byleth do?
Since Garreg Mach’s fall, both archbishop Lady Rhea and the professor Byleth all but vanished into thin air. He heard through the grapevine that the Knights of Seiros dispatched many of their remaining men to search for Lady Rhea, but with no access to the Empire, their scope was limited. The possibility of her survival remained strong, however; since the Empire didn’t declare her death and no one could find a body, she could still be out there.
The professor, however, apparently fell from the high cliffs, ground giving way beneath his feet, and no one able to reach for his hand in time. The chances for his survival, regardless of whether or not he received blessings from the Goddess, were much slimmer. No mortal could live through a fall of that caliber. All medical research pointed to a most certain death.
“Sir?”
One of the servants - a small woman with a wiry frame that reminded him of tree branches - interrupted his depressing train of thought. In her hands, she held a stack of worn tomes, bookmarks shoved haphazardly between the pages.
“You left these behind in your study.”
“Oh.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave her a half-hearted smile. “Thank you. Sorry for making you lug those all the way here.”
She bowed her head as she offered them to him. Linhardt tried not to notice the recent hollowed expression she wore while she worked, nor how sunken her eyes became. He took them off her hands, rereading the spines. Some of them came from Garreg Mach before it fell into ruin, swiped from the Golden Deer classroom as evacuation became imminent.
“Please get some rest, sir,” the servant said, brow furrowed in worry. “You look too pale at too young an age.”
That was a first: someone telling him to sleep instead of waking up. He managed a wry smile. “I will try.”
She curtsied, then shuffled down the hallway, disappearing around the corner. He thumbed the spines once more, feeling the familiar dents, before taking them to his room. During his time in school, his room remained relatively intact: too large a bed, an artisan desk, heavy velvet drapes. Several new additions found homes - owl feathers adorning the desk’s upper shelf, an armored teddy bear hidden beneath the blankets, unused bait tucked away safely in a decorative box - to remind him of days from almost five years ago. He set the books down and plucked up one of the feathers.
(“Use it as a placeholder or a pen if you’d like,” Byleth said. “I just found it on the ground and thought of you.”
“Why, because it was napping in a less than ideal place?” Linhardt squinted at it and ran a finger across the fuzzy ends. Soft.
At that, Byleth cracked a rare smile. “Who knows. Maybe.”)
He put the feather down and shook his head. Lately, he had taken to thinking about the fools he called friends in the past and wondered about them. Was Claude faring well? Marianne? What of Lysithea? Dorothea? He saw Caspar all the time compared to the rest of them, given how close their fathers were in assisting the Empire. And Caspar, much like himself, still didn’t know how to feel about the whole ordeal.
Well. He crawled onto his bed, bringing one of his old school books with him. Enough thinking, he would just keep getting depressed. He’d read until he fell asleep - a foolproof tactic, given if the book was dull enough. He cracked open the cover, the smell of old pages greeting him warmly, only for something to fall out.
A small paper splashed with color. He picked it up and frowned, flipping it over.
(“Well,” Ignatz said, averting his eyes and scratching his reddening cheek, “I wanted to paint all of us in a group shot, but it’s impossible to get us all together at once. So I’m doing each subject one at a time. Could I ask you to model for me for a little bit?”
“Why are you including me?”
“Why?” Ignatz’s eyebrows raised. “Well… you’re a member of the Golden Deer, aren’t you? Why wouldn’t I?”)
The painting, in aesthetic terms, was mediocre at best. Anxious brush strokes and second-guessing reduced it to what one may call “abstract.” He could make out who was what by the colors used, but the watercolors bled together into a borderline unrecognizable mesh. It didn’t help how many members Ignatz had to paint, either; he tried to cram the whole class onto a paper the size of a standard tome. And yet, when Ignatz defeatedly shook his head and was ready to discard it, Linhardt asked to have it. Why, he didn’t know, but he kept it all this time.
His fingertips traced the shapes. Orange for Leonie, dark blue for Felix. The scared-looking sky one for Marianne. Byleth stood in the center in blacks, little dots for eyes stern and staring back at him. If Byleth really were dead, then Linhardt never had a chance of unraveling those intoxicating mysteries surrounding him. The Crest of Flames, the true nature of his personhood, the random change in hair and eye color.
War took those chances away.
He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. If only he took more initiative in his research, then he might have been able to tap into Byleth’s unknown potential. And that potential could have saved his life.
(“As long as I am here, I will never let you die.”)
Linhardt slammed the painting shut in the old book and forced himself off the bed. No. No, he refused to believe it. Research demanded witnesses to experiments of any given hypothesis, and all he did for five years is simply accept his former professor being deceased. But what if he wasn’t? For Goddess’s sake, he escaped the void somehow, something only a god could supposedly do. Surely a fall wouldn’t be enough to kill the man.
But then again, if he was alive, why had none of them heard from him? And Fódlan's massive berth held too many miles to search for just one man to undertake. He paced, feet scuffing against the soft carpeting, brow furrowing in thought. Perhaps Byleth was biding his time to reappear at the right moment? But what moment would be right? What could he possibly be waiting f--?
(“Let’s meet up here again in five years,” a jubilant Claude said, wrapping his arm around Byleth’s neck. “Just in time for the Millennial Festival and all. A big ol’ class reunion. What do you say? You’ll come, won’t you Teach?”)
Linhardt stopped. His eyes narrowed in on the calendar, sloppy X’s notching the days away in carelessness. Garreg Mach was but a husk of its former glory, but could it be possible the Golden Deer would meet up again there? Would it even be safe to do so? But the possibility of seeing Byleth again was too good to pass up.
Heavy footfalls approaching at a rapid pace caught his attention. His bedroom door slammed open, a wheezing Caspar standing under the door frame. His bangs clung to his forehead from sweat.
“Linhardt!”
“Slow down, Caspar. Breathe.” Linhardt wrinkled his nose. “Did you stop by a farmhouse on your way here? You smell terrible.”
“I was training. Listen!” He took a few more deep breaths. “Listen, okay, I can’t take it anymore. We’ve gotta go to the reunion, even if we’re late.”
Despite being complete opposites, they always somehow seemed to fall in line with their next course of action. Linhardt gave a small smile. “Funnily enough, I was just thinking the same thing. We can make it in time if we leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Caspar gawked. “Linhardt, not for nothing, but walking from here to Garreg Mach takes at least a month. The reunion is in two weeks! And you walk slower than a pike out of water. We’ll never make it in time. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
To that, Linhardt felt his lips twitch into a wider grin, eyes narrowing. “Oh, dear me, Caspar. I forgot that you only focused on punching your enemies into a pulp. How noble of you. It’s a terrible shame one of us didn’t study horsemanship for eight months in a row with Marianne, Leonie, and Lorenz, as well as taking stable duty every Saturday I could have slept in.”
Caspar blinked. A pause. “Oh,” he said. “Right. But, wait, I don’t know how to ride one of those things real good like you can.”
“Horses can fit two persons, you know.” Of course, that meant limiting what supplies they took with them, but maybe Caspar could carry stuff on his back to lighten their steed’s load. That made perfect sense if he didn’t think on it too long.
“And you’re just okay with ditching the Empire? For good? Like, abandoning our inheritances and everything?”
“Caspar, we’ve talked about this.” Linhardt sighed and pushed a stray hair back over his ear. “The mining industry, while profitable, has no use for my Crest research. I never wanted anything to do with it. I’ll be fine. But what about you?”
He lowered his head, leg twitching in thought. Finally, he nodded. “We’re in it together, us Golden Deer. Alright! So, what’s the plan? Sneak out of town at dawn?”
“Ugh, at dawn?”
“There’s less people around, and your father would never expect you to be awake at that time.” Caspar winked and wiggled his forefinger. “C’mon. This is for the future of Fódlan! To stop all the injustices plaguing it! You can get up at dawn just once in your life, right? I’ll even throw rocks at your window.”
“Fine, fine.” Just thinking about waking up that early made him sleepy. He yawned. “At dawn, then. But never ask me to do this again, got it? Now go home and pack as much as you think you need - it’s going to be a long two weeks.”
***
He named the mare Gulliver. She dwarfed the other horses in Father’s stables, having come from Garreg Mach’s nutritious pastures. Her dark coat shone in the sunlight, and her eyes, black like Adrestian Eagles, sparkled whenever Linhardt gave her food. Sylvain once gawked at Linhardt’s naming choice - Seriously? Why not give her a prettier name? - but he didn’t care. Gulliver looked like a Gulliver, and he needn’t give an explanation. She turned ten this year, smack-dab in the middle of her adult life, but still acted like a playful child at times.
He would never admit it aloud, but he doted on her. During the Empire’s attack, he - with assistance from Marianne - got her out of the stables and took her back to Father’s place.
Now, for the first time in five years, they were going to be heading home.
“Wow,” Caspar said, glancing her over, “I never thought you would ever take an interest in horses, Lin. Usually you’d be all, ‘What use would riding horses have for Crest research?’ or blah blah blah.”
“I did it to extend my healing range and keep you idiots safe,” Linhardt replied, miffed. “Remember the port infested with pirates? Remember the fool who ran ahead and decided punching a wyvern in the snout was a good idea? Because I sure do.”
“You’re really never gonna let that one go, huh.”
“You punched a dragonic descendant in the face. Multiple times. Four times, in fact. I counted. You’re lucky you still have hands.” He finished saddling Gulliver before getting on. From this high, he could see farther into the distance. “Well? Are you coming or what? The sun will be up soon.”
“Okay, okay! Geez. When you’re tired, you’re even crankier than usual.”
They followed the coastal route north to avoid taking Gulliver through the mountain belt. The steepness of the Oghma Mountains was no laughing matter; many soldiers crossing its threshold during the siege of Garreg Mach perished by slipping off its sharp-faced cliffs. The large port town turned to sprawling grasslands and scattered villages all preparing for the impending cold snap. Linhardt couldn’t imagine what being in Faerghus would be like; he never really enjoyed extreme cold. Winter meant napping indoors instead of under trees.
Not like he could nap now, anyhow. Caspar’s unease with horses meant Linhardt had to steer Gulliver in the right direction. He resisted the urge to nod off multiple times by encouraging Caspar to prattle along about arbitrary nothings: school days, weight training, a dog named Milky, wondering if the main hall gatekeeper survived, dining hall food, old class assignments.
“Too bad I didn’t get any fancy gloves,” he whined as Gulliver traversed over a rickety river bridge. “Lorenz gets a cool spear, Professor gets a cool sword - heck, even you get a cool staff! What gives?”
“Thyrsus only aids in my healing. Going by your standards, that makes it less ‘cool’ than a pair of silver gauntlets.”
“Boring silver weapons don’t go cool glowy red, Lin.”
“They can if you hit your enemies enough and in the right places.”
“Yeesh!” Caspar loosened his grip around Linhardt’s waist in surprise. “I’d never expect you to say something like that! Who are you, and what have you done to the real Linny?”
By the Goddess above, he was going to strangle Claude for creating such an atrocious nickname. No Crest scholar worth their salt could have such a degrading name like Linny, of all things.
They set up camp once night fell, tucked away in the forest to avoid bandits. Gulliver chomped on some apples procured from a village they passed, splattering juice all over Linhardt’s hands. If it were anyone else, he would be annoyed, but Gulliver always got a pass. Caspar grinned, calling the interaction cute, and Linhardt scoffed, turning away to clean his sticky palms.
Dinner was portioned into small amounts to get as much use of it as possible.
“Do you think anyone else will show up?” Caspar asked, gazing at the fire.
“Claude might be a pain, but I don’t think he would make such a careless promise, so you can at least count on him being there. And if he’s there, I have little doubt that Gloucester noble will be around to keep an eye on him.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Maybe Claude matured over the years into not being as much of a tease, but Linhardt had his doubts. “The others depend on whether or not they’re alive.”
Caspar set aside his empty bowl, fingers laced together. “Like Professor?”
A beat passed. Linhardt wiped his palms against his pants as he bit his bottom lip, a cold dread spreading across his skin. Right. Like Byleth, and his astronomical chances of not showing up, no matter how hard he hoped. “Indeed.”
The fire popped, embers scattering skyward.
***
The further they traveled, the more Linhardt began wondering whether or not this was a good idea after all. Like with many of his projects, he was half-tempted to just give up, turn around, and go do something else that yearned for his attention. The others could surely handle it by themselves. Lysithea excelled in both faith and reason studies, so she could keep everyone safe if something went awry. There was no need for him to get his dreams crushed by reality that Byleth wouldn’t be there.
“Oh!” Caspar jabbed a forefinger straight ahead. “There it is! The gates!”
Linhardt pulled on the reigns, slowing Gulliver to a stop. The stoney gates, heavily damaged from the onslaught five years prior, still stood to welcome them back with open arms. The worn path winding toward the monastery bore too fresh footprints for Linhardt’s liking; there were too many to just be his classmates. In fact, there might be too many for the whole class to handle if he and Caspar turned back.
His grip tightened on the reigns.
“Why’d you stop? We can make it before sundown, don’t you think?” Several joints popped. “And I dunno about you, but I could use a break from continuous horseback riding.”
After an extended moment, Linhardt gently prodded Gulliver to move along. The clouds following them slowly broke apart, mid-afternoon sun adorning the relic known as Garreg Mach in golden hues. It was so picturesque, he almost half-expected Ignatz to be at the gates, painting.
But he wasn’t. In fact, nobody resided by the gates. An eerie silence, deprived of winds and all bird calls, rose goosebumps along Linhardt’s back. Given the amount of fallen from five years ago, he just had to wonder if there were any ghosts lurking about, ready to prey upon them. Of course, such thinking was childish, and he shook his head to rid such thoughts to little avail.
“Doesn’t it kinda feel like we’re being watched?” Caspar whispered unhelpfully.
Linhardt lowered his voice. “A place the size of the monastery, especially if unattended, is bound to be a haven for thieves. We’re going to have to be cautious. Which means,” he added sharply, “no reckless stunts, Caspar. Magic is exhausting, and keeping you healed will be doubly hard if you run too far ahead.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, a surprising amount of seriousness in his voice. “I’ve got your back, Linny. I’m not about to die when we haven’t even reunited with everybody yet. Same goes for you - I’m not gonna let you die, either. We’ve got this.”
(“As long as I am here, I will never let you die.”
“Awfully confident, aren’t you, Professor?” But there are some things not even you can control. Aren’t there?)
“Right,” he managed to reply, ignoring the tight squeeze of nostalgia in his chest. “We’ve got this.”
Rubble and broken weapons began appearing more frequently as they drew closer. Gulliver gave an anxious whinny as she slowed a considerable distance from the crumbled main arch, trotting in place. She was quite sensitive, Marianne once said. Something must have set off her alarm bells. Linhardt gave her another prod, and Gulliver’s head bucked in refusal, making a loud cry of distress.
“I can’t leave you here for someone else to get their hands on you,” Linhardt replied, petting her neck. “Please, just a little more for us, won’t you?”
If he could get her to the old stables, that would be for the best - that is, if they were still intact. At the very least, he needed to get her somewhere not out in the open where brigands could steal her. But Gulliver was too nervous; her ears flicked about in a frenzy, catching sounds he couldn’t hear. Caspar released Linhardt’s waist and dismounted, walked a few paces ahead, then offered his hand.
“I’ll guide her. Gimme the reigns, and you try to soothe her.”
“Thank you, Caspar.”
Albeit at a slower pace, Gulliver took peace in seeing Caspar in front of her and finally started to move again. He unsheathed his sword, and Linhardt double-checked to make sure Thyrsus was still safe against his back. The hollowed belly of the monastery, its guts stripped of any semblance from its beauty, ached in desperate need of repair. The once-bustling marketplace was now ransacked, and the stairs leading up to the main gate bore a myriad of cracks and missing chunks.
Linhardt dismounted, deciding that if even here looked wretched, then the rest of the monastery would be just as bad. He fastened Gulliver close to where a patch of grass began jutting up from the busted stonework.
“I’ll be back for you,” he whispered. “Don’t worry.”
Gulliver stared back at him, then pressed her nose against his forehead, as if to wish him good luck. He’d certainly be needing it. Two against the Goddess only knew how many were not the best of odds.
After adequately hiding their supplies among the rubble, they walked together in slow, deliberate footsteps. Fortune had at least one foot on their side; most of the doors were destroyed during the onslaught, leaving the insides of buildings exposed and visible from a decent distance away. Still, Caspar always entered first, as his heavy armor could sustain more damage than Linhardt’s less-than-spectacular leatherwork.
“I don’t like this,” Caspar whispered as they finished checking the ramshackled dining hall. “It’s too quiet.”
“They must be further inside. There doesn’t seem to be much left to take.”
“Bastards.” He shook his head. “This monastery was - is - still important to so many people. They can’t just take what they please! That’s not right. We’ve gotta get them out of here before Professor arrives. Can’t have them interrupting our party.”
Linhardt paused. “You have so much faith that he’s going to show up, don’t you?”
“What, and you don’t?” Caspar turned, blinked, and frowned. “Wait. Are you doubting him? Did you hit your head or something these past few years? This is Professor we’re talking about. A little fall like that couldn’t kill a guy like that.”
“That ‘little fall’ was several hundreds of feet. It could certainly kill even you.”
“Yeah, but. Well. I mean.” Caspar scratched the back of his head and scrunched up his nose. “Just you see, Linny. He’ll be here. Believe, won’t you?”
A sharp whistle interrupted his response, followed by a sharp clang of steel. Caspar yelped as an arrow protruded between a softer junction of his armor. Of all the times to have a conversation--! Linhardt stepped forward, hands splayed, and magic he hadn’t cast in much too long flew from fingertips. Flames burned their assailant’s bowstring, rendering the weapon useless, but did little to deter him. The hooded figure cast aside his weapon and charged wildly, gloved fists rearing to strike.
Caspar moved faster. He shoved Linhardt aside and grappled the attacker, foreheads pressed together. A heartbeat later, and the hooded man’s knees buckled beneath Caspar’s pressure, allowing an opening. One punch to the sternum, and the man gagged, choked, sputtered for mercy, only to have his teeth kicked in.
“Ow.” Caspar winced as he tried to reach for the arrow. Linhardt promptly got up and shook his head, batting Caspar’s hands away.
“Don’t even. Hold still. This will hurt for a second.”
“Linny, wait. Wait.” Caspar’s gaze shifted rapidly from corner to corner of the alleyway, breathing still labored. After a moment, he yanked Linhardt by the wrist and ran, a flurry of heavy footsteps charging behind them.
An ambush. More arrows whistled by, pelting the stone walls and overlooks. Linhardt’s attention kept fixating on the sounds instead of his magic, which he desperately needed to stop the profuse bleeding seeping out of Caspar. They rounded a corner - the main hall - and Caspar grabbed one of the few remaining oak desks and hurled it - hurled it! - at the entrance, knocking several thieves off their feet.
It bought Linhardt enough time. He grabbed the arrow, pulled, ignored the sharp shout and squirt of blood splashing onto his face, then slapped his palm against the wound, inciting the words blessed from Saint Cethleann herself. The wound closed up, leaving a sickly pink gash in its wake, but he had no time to admire his own handiwork. They picked up the pace to evade the shouts and angry curses close behind them.
“I don’t think the others are here yet,” Caspar panted as they headed toward what used to be the gardens. The shrubs became lopsided from their lack of trimming, and weeds overran the flowerbanks.
“Really,” Linhardt gasped, legs on fire, “and what was your first clue?”
“We’re being chased by living people and not zombies?”
“Stop talking and move it!”
This was such a bad idea. Such a bad idea. Even if Byleth were still alive, it wasn’t going to matter because Linhardt would not be pretty soon. They ducked into an emptied, unrecognizable building, and the thieves ran right by them, unaware which way they went. Several tense beats passed; Linhardt covered his mouth with both hands to muffle his own labored breathing. The angry shouts slowly quieted.
Alone, for now.
“Wow.” Caspar let out a sheepish laugh. “Talk about bad luck. You were really cool back there though, you know that? I can’t remember the last time I saw you use your fire magic. Thanks for saving my hide.”
“Professor had me specialize in healing, like I requested, remember?” Like he pleaded. The memory of his first kill - the smell of burnt flesh, the singed armor, splotches of charcoal comprising the dead man’s vacant face - still lingered in the background of his mind, a small haunting of his own. Unlike Edelgard (Empress Edelgard), who offered no sympathy, Byleth nodded in silence before handing him a new curriculum to study, no questions asked. “But it’s not like I never use it.”
“I’m sure it won’t be the last time today.” He rolled his shoulder, testing its limits, before nodding. “What do you say? Wanna catch them by surprise this time? If we’re quick, we can wrap this up before nightfall.”
“Aren’t you confident. It’s almost like you completely forgot we’re at a complete disadvantage.”
“How many did you count?”
“That party was about ten, mostly armed with axes, two with swords.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, staining it with Caspar’s blood. He stared at it for a moment before letting out a small sigh. “If that’s a small ambush, then we’re looking at a stronghold of thirty, give or take. But any more than that, and dividing their spoils would lead to internal strife, so they have to keep their numbers within moderation.”
“Fifteen each, then? Maximum?” He clicked his tongue. “Well, it might be a little longer than we hoped, but if we stall, the others should show up eventually. I bet they’ll want to make it before sundown.”
“That could be in an hour. Do you honestly think we can last that long on just the hopes that the others will show up?”
“Those bandits are gonna find us eventually. Might as well make the first move while they’re confused.”
As hard-pressed as he was to admit it, Caspar, for once, was right. The longer they waited around, the more likely they would be caught in confined quarters and lose any semblance of having the upper hand. Linhardt groaned, headache forming, before rising to his feet.
“Fine,” he said. “This reunion better be worth it.”
“It will, it will!” He smacked Linhardt’s shoulder and smiled. “Trust me. The moment you see our Professor? You’re gonna hate yourself for ever regretting it. We got this!”
***
Caspar was a filthy liar, and Linhardt hoped to live long enough to procure an epithet to declare as such for all of Fódlan to see.
They did not, in fact, “got this.” The bandits relocated to an obscure part of the monastery in hopes of more treasure. The corridors of the bamboozling grounds, one they’d never been in before, were narrow and offered little in terms of assessing their opponents. Every corner they dared to approach revealed more disadvantages, be it crumbling terrain or enemies with range advantage.
Linhardt pressed his back to the wall, eyeing Caspar on the other side of an open gap. His fingers twitched in anticipation, what remained of his magic reserves welling up inside him. The plan was simple, but hardly foolproof; Linhardt would lead the offensive with a spell, tumble to the other side, and Caspar would follow up with his brawling to clear the path. It could go wrong in too many ways.
Ready? Caspar mouthed, and Linhardt gave a short nod.
But it was all they really had. They stalled as long as they could; any longer, and they might as well have been sitting ducks for the foxes to gobble up. With any luck, somebody, literally anybody - hell, he’d even take Lorenz at this point - would show up in time.
They wouldn’t have forgotten. They couldn’t have. If even Linhardt remembered their promise, then it was impossible for just he and Caspar to show up.
The wind stirred, picked up, churned, and Linhardt stepped into the gaping maw of the corridor, hair tie tearing free as he unleashed a storm’s surge at a brigand expecting him. The spell connected, the brigand teetering back, and Linhardt hurried to get out of the way.
Unfortunately, he never was really fast. Not back then, and not now as a hand axe lodged itself into its new home called his right shoulder.
Caspar lunged a mere moment after as Linhardt toppled over, gasp escaping his lips, eyes widening at the pinkening sky. He fell with a whump, stray rubble and Thyrsus digging into his back, the walls closing in and leering down at him, oh, Goddess, it burned, it burned like insects writhing under his skin and trying to get out, spilling onto the ground in crimson stretching to the cracks and filling them into miniature moats where no fish could be caught, his breathing stuttering to catch up with the sudden push of adrenaline as he bit hard on his bottom lip to not utter a sound of pain, lest the other thieves would come to finish him off and turn their attentions to the singled-out Caspar, Professor Manuela’s teachings of Faith magic being ineffective on its wielder floating to the forefront of his mind as his shaking hand tried to reach for the handle of the axe, the steel wedged so deeply that if he did succeed in removing it, he’d bleed out in minutes -
The heavy beat of wings and a shadow passed overhead. A wyvern’s claws dug into the wall as it perched and trilled, a familiar swath of unkempt hair and a golden sash catching Linhardt’s hazy attention. Horses. He heard neighing in the distance, hooves clomping against stone mingling with Caspar’s ragged breathing and shouts as metals clashed together. More yelling. Linhardt’s mind tried to keep track of each new sound, but everything was distorted, offkey. Voices, startled and surprised. The turn of the tide.
They remembered, after all. Thank the Goddess.
His head lolled to the side. Mint-colored hair, sharp green eyes. A “cool glowy” red sword, armor blacker than starless nights. The phantom impersonating his beloved professor stood tall, completely unchanged in his five-year absence. An ethereal specter, one so stunning it almost stole the remainder of Linhardt’s breaths away.
Byleth’s gaze shifted from ahead of him to Linhardt, the cold expression of handling mercenary work changing to startled concern.
“Oh,” Linhardt said weakly, “Professor,” and allowed his eyes to fall shut. He must have died, after all. His research would go incomplete. All the naps he hoped peace would bring, gone. Who would take care of Gulliver? What a terrible, terrible shame, but in that moment, a heavy exhaustion relieved him of the sadness from those losses. If he asked nicely, perhaps Byleth would allow him to research his Crest in the afterlife.
Darkness came, and all the noise, all the pain, all everything, vanished.
***
(“As long as I’m here, I will never let you die.”
The words were raw, fresh off Captain Jeralt’s death. A certain sheen watered in Byleth’s eyes, but all Linhardt could do was rely on his subpar social skills and replied with a cruel,
“Awfully confident, aren’t you, Professor?”
What a horrible thing to say, in retrospect. But Byleth didn’t chastise him, or get mad, or anything any other person in Fódlan would have reasonably done. Instead, he smiled, faint and barely noticeable. He held the reputation of “Ashen Demon,” or so Leonie recounted from rumors, for his emotionlessness. Linhardt now knew that while Byleth definitely struggled with expressing himself, it wasn’t entirely on him. Others simply did not know what to look for: the change in eyes, the exposed dimples, the slight quirk of lips.
“It’s a promise,” he said slowly, “and it’s not one I intend to break.”)
***
“My oh my.”
The soft cadence of a familiar voice roused him from the clutches of sleep. His eyes fluttered open, brow furrowing as pain throbbed in his shoulder. A soft grunt escaped him, and a face entered his field of vision: Professor Manuela.
Shock ran through his system and he jerked awake, immediately regretting it when the pain worsened. He clutched at his shoulder, hissing. Manuela tutted.
“Bad,” she said. “Lay down. You boys are so reckless, you know that? Thinking you’re invincible! Well, now look at you. Just because you’re in your twenties doesn’t mean you gain immunity to axes.”
Memories rushed back to him in a crash - Garreg Mach, the thieves, Caspar’s gauntlets, a handaxe, a wyvern’s screech, Byleth--
“Professor,” he said suddenly, not listening to her, “is Professor back?”
She made a disgusted sound and set a mixing bowl onto a rickety table. He’d been in this room before - the Infirmary. It looked relatively untouched compared to the other scenes within the monastery. How did he get here?
“If you want an infection, you can keep ignoring me.”
He fell silent and glanced down at the damaged shoulder. Bandages were fastened tight and bled through in spots already, although it looked dry. He lay back on the bed, stare focused on the ceiling. He survived somehow. Manuela finished mixing ingredients together before undressing the soiled bandages. The wound was large, but mostly closed; judging by its lack of finesse, it could not have been Lysithea’s magic that stitched him together. Manuela dipped her fingers in the foul-smelling salve and rubbed it on the gouge, eliciting a sharp gasp from Linhardt.
“And what have we learned today?” she asked with an unpleasant smile.
He sighed. “To not be stupid?” he humored.
“Very good! Now hold still.” She unwound some fresh bandages and began rewrapping his shoulder. “You’re lucky I helped teach Byleth some Faith magic back in the day, or else you would have been long dead before reaching my table.”
His heart leapt into his throat. “Professor is here?” he croaked out. That wasn’t just some fever dream, then. “Where is he?”
“On a very important mission.” Manuela crossed her legs and frowned. “Also known as ‘having breakfast.’ He was just beside himself over your condition, seeing as you had the worst of it out of all his students.”
Breakfast? “How long have I been here?”
“Over two days now.”
Linhardt choked. That long? “And Caspar?” he asked. “Is he okay?”
“Yes, yes. Everyone else is fine and dandy. Don’t think you can change the subject so you can avoid me scolding you.” She tightened the bandages, nodded, and then stood up, heels clacking against the wooden floor. She sighed, almost dismayed. “But I can’t in good conscience do that when you need to eat. Be a good boy and stay. You need at least one more day of bedrest, so I’ll get you something.”
She left the infirmary, the storm passing. Linhardt let out a slow, uneven breath. Everyone was okay then, from his understanding. Everyone made it, despite the five-year long war. He never realized just how important that news would be to him. He rubbed his face, blinking a few times to stave away oncoming tears, before swallowing hard. Caspar wasn’t a liar, after all - he didn’t regret any of this.
Thank the Goddess.
Hurried footsteps down the hall approached rapidly, and a pair of gloved hands braced against the infirmary’s door frame. Linhardt stared back at Byleth, who’s usual careful expression betrayed worry, and then immediate relief. A slight sweat broke out on his forehead - just where did he run from? He approached Linhardt’s bedside in silence, gaze fixated on the fresh bandages, before recomposing into a stern look.
“Never,” he said at last, tone tiptoeing into dread, “do something like that again.”
“I could say the same to you,” Linhardt replied without batting an eyelash, “Professor Falls From a Cliff-leth.”
Silence. Neither of them moved nor spoke for too long. This was not how he thought their reunion would go. Linhardt shifted uncomfortably under Byleth’s pressing stare.
“You look well,” he added weakly, looking away.
More silence. The anticipation would kill Linhardt long before any infection from an axe wound would. He wished he could just go back to sleep and avoid getting chewed out for almost dying.
“Professor Falls From a Cliff-leth,” Byleth repeated, incredulous. His reprimanding expression evaporated into one of sheer amusement, ducking his head and hiding his laughter behind the back of his hand. His shoulders shook as his laughter grew louder, almost howling with it, and wiping tears from his eyes. Linhardt gawked, flummoxed by Byleth’s sudden fit. “How,” he managed between gulps of air, “how long have you waited to say that?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh before,” Linhardt answered.
“I feel as if I haven’t in ages.” Byleth snickered for a little while longer before trying (and failing multiple times) to regain composure. He cleared his throat, but a twitch of a smile kept flickering across his face. “I’m glad you are recovering well.”
“Thanks to you. Professor Manuela told me.”
“Ah. So she did.” He shook his head. “Lysithea was on the other side of the battle, so she would not have reached you in time. My magic compared to hers is sloppy. I’m sorry if it scars.”
“The fault belongs to me alone. It wasn’t you who threw me into the path of an axe.” He twirled a loose strand of hair. “I’m sorry. That was careless of me. The situation was not looking good, and Caspar and I made a poor decision.”
“He blamed himself for the whole thing.”
“That idiot. I was the one who came up with the idea. Please talk some sense into him for me, won’t you?”
“He’s currently training with Felix.” Of course he would be - wait, even Felix returned? That was a surprise. Maybe Sylvain talked him into it. “But I’ll let him know.”
The conversation fell into a lull. Byleth approached Manuela’s work station and glanced over the scattered medical components with mild interest.
“Where were you all this time?” Linhardt finally breached.
“...I don’t know.” Byleth gave a small shrug. “Asleep for five years. I’m guessing that after my fall, my body was beyond repair, so it needed to be remade from scratch.”
So he did - potentially - die. The realization almost winded him. He clutched the thin bed sheets, mind scrambling to steer the conversation to literally anything else. “Sleeping for five years sounds lovely, though,” he tried. “I wouldn’t have minded joining you.”
He didn’t realize his implications until after the words tumbled out of his mouth like a toddler still learning to walk. A flush burned across his cheeks and spread to his ears, head turning toward the door. How embarrassing. A fleeting image of him joining Byleth for a nap crossed his mind, and the flush worsened, eyes widening. Why did he think that? Before he could dismiss any misunderstandings, Byleth replied,
“I don’t know. I don’t think it was a very good use of my time, and it wasn’t very comfortable waking up on a riverbank.”
Count his lucky stars, it blessedly went right over Byleth’s head. Linhardt let out a sigh of relief, heart hammering against his ribcage. But the butterflies lingered in his stomach, fluttering at some foreign feeling settling down. Was it relief that Byleth survived? The prospect of being able to get a crack at all his mysteries? Or…?
(“Let’s meet again here someday,” his younger self said, staring up at the moon through the glass. Cursed or blessed, meeting the Professor in the Goddess Tower was in itself fortunate. He hoped his wish would come true. “I’m looking forward to it. I really am.”)
Oh no.
His lips parted, and his hand drifted to his chest, squeezing at the bandages.
Oh, no.
Manuela slammed down a tray onto her desk, interrupting Linhardt’s sudden realization crisis. Her vein bulged as she turned her attention to Byleth, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him several times.
“You could’ve asked to help me, you know! Walking in heels in a war zone is hard enough as is!”
“Sorry.” Byleth held up his hands in acquiescence. “I’ll help you next time.”
The banter between them grew lively as Linhardt ate in silence. He couldn’t be thinking like that in the middle of a war. Besides which, how could he even be certain these feelings were what he assumed? He never experienced anything like that before. Crest research took up all his time that he rarely spared any thought to what he once considered foolishness. Furthermore - he glanced at him and Manuela, who tittered at something Byleth said - even if it was something that stupid, he wasn’t the only one to harbor such feelings. Compared to anyone else in their company, Linhardt wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice, and frankly, he couldn’t blame them.
He set his spoon down and grimaced. He would get them sorted out later. For now, he closed the feelings up in a box and stored them on a shelf to be examined at another time - a more convenient time. A time where Fódlan wasn’t in the middle of breaking into teeny, tiny pieces. A time where they all survived in one piece.
Maybe then he could be brave enough to face himself, and how much Byleth meant to him.
“Linhardt?”
He lifted his head, and tried not to pay attention to how pretty those green eyes staring at him were. “Mm? Sorry, I almost dozed off. Did you say something?”
“I said Marianne wanted to let you know she is taking care of your horse. She told me to tell you when you woke up.” Byleth took the empty bowl and set it on the tray as Manuela started picking up her mess. “And Caspar said all your belongings are safe, too. We’ve put everything in your old dormitory room.”
“Oh! Thank you.” So Gulliver was all right. More little blessings.
“And I wanted to ask you something important. I’ve already discussed this with everyone else, and I know you’re still recovering, but I need to know sooner rather than later.” He sat down on a vacant stool and laced his fingers together, expression serious. “Claude and I want to engage the Adrestian Empire and fight back against their regime.”
“Mm. And you are wondering if I’d join you.”
“You’d be a wonderful asset to us,” Byleth confided. “Having multiple healers - multiple good healers - never hurts. But I know you’re from the Empire, and turning your back on your home country might not be an option for you. So I have to ask.”
“If I said no, then you saving my life was a dumb idea.”
He frowned. “No. It wasn’t. I’d let you go and do as you wished.”
“That sounds like the dream.” Linhardt closed his eyes. “But I worked with the Empress long enough to know I’d eventually get wrapped up into this anyhow. No matter what I do, I’m not going to get my naptime - and it’s because of her war.” He yawned, and looked tiredly at Byleth. “I just want peace and quiet. You and Claude seem to want to make that happen.”
A nod. “We do.”
“Then consider me on your side. I only feel a little bad leaving the Empire, anyways. And I wouldn’t have come back to see you on such a weak conviction. You should know that by now.”
“Right.” Byleth’s smile returned, faint. “It’s hard enough to get you to wake up for anything outside of your research.”
“Hey now, don’t call me out like this. I’m injured. Don’t you have any manners?” He grinned, then turned his head toward the window. Outside, the morning skies were blue, the birds were chirping, and the slight breeze through the cracked window smelled fresh. A new dawn seemed to be coming to Fódlan, with both Claude and Byleth at the helm. He turned back to him. “And besides.”
Byleth tilted his head, confused. “Besides?”
He sat up straight, hands folded together in his lap. His grin softened, and for a moment, he knew what he ultimately wanted to fight for: their peace and quiet. He cared too much for Byleth to waste his entire life over one war and to never know how to indulge in laziness from time to time. He deserved more than just a sword and a tiring destiny. To fall too soon, and to never experience peace?
Linhardt wouldn’t allow it.
“As long as I’m here, I will never let you die again.”
Ever.