Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was late. What time precisely, Linhardt couldn’t say for sure, but certainly late enough that the candles were the only source of light left, and most of the monastery was fast asleep. Late enough that Professor Hanneman would have several choice words for him if he found Linhardt working in his lab at such an hour.

Better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, he figured. And better to keep working rather than to trudge all the way back to the dormitory in the pouring rain.

Oh yes, it was raining too. Another thing Linhardt had barely noticed until now, as deep in his work as he was.

He stifled a yawn as he carefully carved the intricate lines of the sigil into the polished wood surface in front of him. Birch shavings littered the ground at his feet, ink stained his fingers, and it seemed his hair had come untied at some point. He blew a stray strand out of his eyes as he leaned forward to finish the last point…

There – perfect. Well, nearly so. To really ensure the flow of magic through the sigil went uninterrupted, the lines on the outer edge would need to be deeper. And then he could get around to testing it…

Somehow. He hadn’t quite figured out the best way to do that yet.

“This may be the most dangerous piece of magic I’ve seen in a good long time,” Hanneman used as he poured over the book in his hand. “A spell with the power to remove a crest from a living subject…I shudder to think what might happen if this power fell into the wrong hands.”

“It can’t possibly be as simple as one sigil,” Linhardt said, trying and failing to peer over the book before Hanneman snapped it shut. “Professor Hanneman, surely you don’t think I intend to use this for some dastardly agenda of my own.”

“Certainly not, but this isn’t the kind of stuff students should be mucking around with. Not unsupervised, at least.”

“You’re here,” Linhardt offered. “I can understand Seteth removing these dark magic books from the monastery library, but to shy away from research into even the most taboo subjects does a grave disservice to the ideals of progress.”

Hanneman huffed, eying Linhardt over his monocle. “Don’t lecture me about progress, mister von Hevring. I’ve been studying crests since before you were born.”

“All the more reason for you to be a sort of…faculty adviser to me in my research. It would be mutually beneficial for us to study this together, don’t you agree? Who else could you find who has my level of expertise in the field of crest research? Besides you, of course.”

Fingers tapping on the front of the book, Hanneman sighed. “You may have a point. As long as you don’t attempt anything out of this book without my direct supervision.” As if to make a point, he turned and placed the book inside the lockbox under his desk, locking it away and pocketing the key for good measure. “Manuela would have my head of any students died in the course of this research. And of course, I couldn’t live with the idea either.”

All things considered, getting into the lockbox had been almost disappointingly easy. He’d had enough experience getting into his father’s safe back home as a child whenever he decided to lock his books away to try and urge him outside. After a few times, the old man seemed to just give up.

But those skills had served him well now. He’d never thought he’d have the opportunity to use them again.

He glanced at the book, open on the desk, eyes following the curves and points of the sigil stretching across the pages. Every piece had to be perfect. Otherwise the results could be disastrous. Anything from the magic simply fizzling out to blowing up half the monastery.

And that would be a massive pain.

Linhardt got up to light a few more candles for better light, and to close the shutters on the window to keep out the rain. Couldn’t have the book getting water damaged now.

Hanneman frowned as he looked at the drawing of the sigil on the chalkboard. “I thought this reminded me of something,” he said. “Look here – these inscriptions along the edge. That’s very old magic. Almost as old as the Ten Elites themselves.”

“So the power to remove crests may have existed for almost as long as crests have,” Linhardt mused. “Fascinating. I wonder…what would motivate a person to want to rid themselves of a crest they were born with?”

“There are those who aren’t born with their crests at all,” Hanneman said, his tone solemn. “It is possible to stitch a crest onto a person’s soul artificially, though the practice is…to put it gently, monstrous. Perhaps this was created in response to just one such event. To excise a crest foisted onto a person without their consent.”

“Something like that would take a massive amount of power.”

“Precisely.” Hanneman nodded. “And that is exactly what this sigil seems to call for. It’s blood magic. To work at all, it would require an…offering of sorts. If I’m right, it would need the blood of the very person whose crest is to be removed.”

Linhardt pressed his carving knife against the wood, digging it into the groove he had already left there on the surface. Carefully, he deepened it, blowing away the shavings as they curled up by his fingers.

Just how would he test something like this, he wondered? Even he wasn’t so desperate for results that he would force an unwilling test subject into this spell. Hanneman would have his head, not to mention that if done wrong, something like this could kill.

And Linhardt didn’t particularly want blood on his hands.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder – who was it who developed this spell in the first place? The book had been written by an anonymous author, and there was no telling whether they were the ones who created the sigil at all. It was likely that they weren’t, if this magic was truly as old as Hanneman seemed to think. So who had been the first person to carve this sigil into existence? Had they used it at all? Had their subject been willing? Had they lived to tell about it?

Outside, a massive roll of thunder cracked the sky, and pain shot up Linhardt’s finger.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The carving knife clattered to the floor, a bead of red trickled sluggishly over his pale skin, dropping and spreading into the grooves in the wood.

The world flashed white, all the air forcing its way from his lungs as he toppled backward. His back hit the floor, and suddenly he felt as if a clawed hand was tearing into his chest, ripping something inside of him.

Tearing him apart.

“What would happen, do you think,” Linhardt asked as his fingers trailed along the edges of the sigil on the chalkboard, “If this spell were used on someone who was born with a crest? Rather than someone who received one after birth?”

“Hard to say when we’re not even sure what the result would be either way,” Hanneman said, frowning. “The entries in this book don’t mention any successful cases of this being performed on anyone at all. Though, in the realm of scientific discovery, it’s safe to assume there were many failed attempts before success. If there was success at all.”

“But isn’t it…intriguing, at the very least? A person’s crest is as integral to them as any other part.”

Hanneman looked worn, yet thoughtful. Like he didn’t want to think of such things but couldn’t stop himself. “Forcing a crest onto a person who was not born with one is a violent, and often deadly ordeal. Few survive the process, and those that do are left with scars that may never heal. I shudder to think of what would happen if someone were to rip away a crest that was inherited from birth.”

“So you don’t think a person could survive such a thing?”

He shook his head. “Survive? No. But perhaps death would be preferable to something as horrific as that.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, Caspar had managed to get to sleep despite the rain, but the damn thunder woke him up before dawn, so there went the rest of his sleep for the night. He shot up in bed, resisting the urge dive under it and instead shoving a pillow over his ears to block out the sound of howling wind and driving rain. But even that pillow and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears couldn't quite block out the other sounds that started to compete for his attention: the scuffle of shoes out in the hall and voices murmuring about something he couldn't make out. As the minutes ticked by, it seemed like more and more of the monastery was waking up and gathering outside his room.

For a damn storm?

Sure there was that one time that lightning struck the spire of the cathedral, but apparently that wasn't even that uncommon.

Curiosity won out over his desire to stay wrapped up in his blankets until the rain stopped, and he forced himself out of bed – still wrapped up in his blanket for good measure – and opened the door.

"I'm telling you," Sylvain frantically insisted, "It's not lightning. It's some kind of crazy magic."

Ingrid sighed. "Sylvain, I swear if you've been sleepwalking again..." 

"I wasn't sleepwalking! I was coming back from-" He stopped himself, scratching his neck. "Uh…some late-night studying."

"Right."

"Just come look, will you?"

"Will you both shut up?" Felix spat. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Felix! You gotta come see this-"

"What, some trophy from your latest conquest? No thanks."

From the other end of the hall, Hilda came trudging up the steps, stifling a massive yawn. "Do you guys have any idea what time it is?"

"That's what I said," Felix muttered. 

Sylvain groaned, tangling his fingers in his own hair. "I'm telling you – something happened. Something bad. Just come look already!"

"Out in the rain?" Hilda groaned, turning on her heel and heading back toward her room. "Not in a million years."

The door at the end of the hall slammed open so loudly that Caspar almost thought it was another clap of thunder, and Leonie sprinted down the hallway toward them, panting and wide-eyed and dripping wet. "Outside-" she breathed. "There's – it's – ah, just come look!"

"See?" Sylvain said with a grin. "What did I say- Hey!"  Felix and Ingrid were already shoving past him, following Leonie to the end of the hall and down the stairs.

Why did he suddenly have a bad feeling about this? A very, very bad feeling. And not just because it was still pouring outside. Maybe it was the look on Leonie's face, or maybe it was just the storm still making him antsy. Still, he couldn't help but feel like this was more than just a lightning strike.

Groaning, he tossed his blanket back onto his bed, grabbed the charm from his desk and shoved it into his pocket before making his way down the stairs. Over the roof of the Officer's Academy classrooms and dining hall, he could barely make out something…glowing. Crackling and pulsing almost like lightning, but hazy and lingering like a fog.

"Holy shit," Felix breathed. "Sylvain was right." His nose wrinkled. "Ugh, I hate saying that."

"Never seen a storm do that before," Hilda mused.

Leonie was already braving the rain and sprinting toward the north courtyard. "You can see it better from here!"

"I don't have a good feeling about this…" Ingrid said with a frown. "Something doesn't seem right. It's like I keep getting this chill up my spine…"

"It's coming from the second floor!" Leonie called. "Oh man, it's…I think it's coming from the faculty offices!"

Forget the rain – Caspar was rushing out to meet her a moment later, bounding up the steps two at a time, and the second he rounded the corner he froze. That fog was pouring out of a gaping hole in one of the windows like white smoke, swirling around it and flashing with electricity. Like someone had confined the lightning from the storm into a bottle and now it was seeping out.

Caspar's heart was suddenly pounding. "What the hell?"

"I've definitely never seen a storm do that!" Hilda breathed.

That was when they heard it – a long, broken, keening sound that broke through the pouring rain. It made Caspar's blood run cold, sending all the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up despite being sopping wet. "Is there someone up there?" he heard Ingrid breathe, but he was already sprinting forward, flinging open the heavy wooden doors.

That sound echoed through the stone halls from upstairs, and there was no mistaking it now. That was a scream, but it wasn't like any scream Caspar had ever heard in his life.

But it was…oddly familiar. Almost like…

No.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the voices of everyone following behind him, ignoring how his chest and legs were burning as he ran, ignoring how his sopping wet clothes clung to him and chafed with every movement.

No, no, no, no, no-

He had to be wrong. There was no way he wasn't. He'd been wrong about plenty of things before. Crest history, the names of the minor saints, the best javelin throwing techniques. Being wrong was easy. 

But he wasn't wrong.

The feeling hit him the second he reached the top step – like static zapping across his skin and making it harder to breathe. It reminded him of one winter when he'd been no older than ten, falling into an icy river and almost drowning before his father had pulled him out and lectured him the entire way home. It made his lungs seize up and his muscles tense.

And then there was the sound. That scream. So loud it almost drowned out the rain outside. He stumbled down the hall, freezing in the doorway-

“Linhardt?”

He was lying on the floor, arching, writhing, screaming, face twisted in a mask of agony. His robes were singed, his hands smeared with blood, his hair loose and tangled and soaked with sweat.

Professor Manuela’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “Catherine, get him out of here!”

He was so fixated on the scene in front of him that he didn’t even see the hand that closed around his arm. He barely even felt it. His mind was buzzing even more than the rest of him from that horrible scream. It sounded nothing like Linhardt. It was barely even human.

Catherine was tugging him backwards. “Easy, kiddo-“

His head was swimming. “Let go of me!”

“I’ll drag you out if I have to.” She was already pulling him back from the door. Dammit, she was too strong for him. He may as well have been struggling against a brick wall. Dammit. “Shamir, keep those students back! Get them out!”

“Already working on it,” Shamir called back.

Caspar tried uselessly to get his arm free, but Catherine held fast. “Now’s not the time to fight, Caspar.”

“I have to help!” he insisted, even as she all but dragged him down the stairs. “I have to – dammit, what happened? There’s gotta be something I can do.”

“There isn’t. Not now. Caspar, listen to me.” She had him by the shoulders, holding tight and forcing him to look her in the eye, but her face was blurred and swirling – when had he started crying? He didn’t remember crying, but there were the tears, plain as day, slipping down his cheeks. “The best thing you can do for your friend right now is stay out of the way. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Linhardt’s screams echoed down the stairwell, and Caspar swore he saw Catherine flinch.

“Just go,” she said, her tone softening, if only a little. “Now.”

He was Caspar von Bergliez. The king of taking action, one way or another. And yet all he could do was stand here trying not to lose his dinner and crying like a damn child.

“Caspar…”

Another hand rested on his arm. Not Catherine’s – she was already halfway up the stairs again. Caspar wiped his eyes with a shaking hand and met Byleth’s eye. “Professor…” he croaked. “I-I need get back up there. Please…I..." He swayed on his feet, knowing that arguing was pointless, but unable to keep from trying anyway.

“You won’t help anyone if you go passing out on the stairs,” she told him, and she turned to lead him down the hall. His legs felt like someone else’s, numb and moving without him even telling them to. Even if he felt like they were going to give out with every step, somehow he kept going, one foot in front of the other, over and over and over, all the way to the dining hall.

The second Caspar made it across the threshold, a pair of arms wrapped around him and held him tight. “Oh, goddess,” Dorothea breathed. “Caspar, is it true? Did something happen to Lin?”

“Hilda filled us up on everything that has been happening,” Petra said, head hanging low. “I have great sadness imagining such a thing.”

“Apparently the knights are already blocking off the stairwell up to the second floor offices. Alois didn’t even crack a single joke. What on earth could have possibly-“ Dorothea shook her head. “Ugh…no, what am I saying? Look at you – you’re sopping wet! And – goddess, you look like you saw a ghost. You’re shaking like a leaf! Someone’s got to have a towel or something…”

Caspar tugged himself away from her, groaning and trying to drown out the sound of that scream. He swore he could still hear it, echoing in his head. “I don’t need a towel!” he insisted. “I need to – to do something. I need to help! You didn’t see it, Dorothea! You didn’t see him! Something is wrong. Really, really wrong! And I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

“Maybe the knights should handle it,” Bernadetta offered. “I mean, that big swirling glowing cloud looked pretty dangerous…”

Across from her, Hubert huffed. “Likely just residual magic that hadn’t yet dissipated,” he said. “For that much power to still be lingering for so long, Linhardt must have gotten into something quite nefarious. Especially considering that the knights are reacting with such haste. I’m almost impressed.”

“Hubert…” Ferdinand sighed. “Have some compassion…”

“A bit of a waste at a time like this, don’t you think?” Hubert countered coolly. “Regardless, Bernadetta does have a decent point. As much as I would love to see just what kind of sinister dark magic Linhardt stumbled across, there would be little point in charging up to the infirmary now." He huffed. "There's not even any way to know whether he's still alive at all."

"Hubert."

Caspar couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as the cold started to seep back into his body. The towel that Petra draped around his shoulders didn’t do much to help. “So what? I’m just supposed to sit around here doing nothing while Linhardt is-“

No, he didn’t want to think about that. He couldn’t afford to think about Linhardt’s body contorted in agony, his hands bloody, his face twisted and covered in sweat while that horrible scream forced its way out of him.

Caspar swallowed. He sank down into the nearest chair, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t just do nothing…I can’t…I have to…”

He could already tell it was Dorothea rubbing his back without even looking up. She’d always been good at that, being soothing when she wanted to be. “Let’s just…try and get you dried off before you catch something, okay?”

He didn’t even have the strength to argue.

The dining hall slowly started to fill as the rain petered out. Caspar forced down a few sips of tea before letting the rest of the cup cool in his hands. He watched as Hilda fruitlessly tried to wring out her hair until Marianne offered her a towel; Sylvain and Felix got themselves wrapped up in a game of cards that soon grew to include Ingrid, Annette, and Ashe; and off in the corner, Edelgard and Byleth sat hunched together, talking in hushed tones until the sun rose.

Linhardt had always had an uncanny ability to read lips – something that Caspar had never been able to figure out himself. But right about now, he thought that was probably for the best.

Manuela had a headache brewing. A bad one, which was hardly surprising. Between the rude awakening, the frantic damage control, the residual magic hanging in the air, and not to mention all the screaming, Sothis herself probably would have had a headache too. And Sothis probably would have treated it with a stiff drink, no matter how early an hour it was.

Manuela, unfortunately, had duties to attend to, so she resisted that urge.

She let out a sigh as she finished washing the blood from Linhardt’s hands. All this from such a small cut on his finger…it would have been almost comical if the circumstances were different. At first she’d thought she was sure to find more blood, with how much he was screaming and writhing in agony, but there wasn’t a single wound on the boy besides a that little nick that needed little more than a bandage. Certainly not enough to warrant such a reaction.

She could already feel the wrinkles deepening on her brow. All of this was doing nothing for her complexion.

“Whatever it is you’re going to tell me,” she sighed when Hanneman stopped in the doorway, “I already know it’s not going to be good.”

“I won’t mince words then.” He sank down into the chair closest to the door, slouched and looking at least ten years older. That didn’t bode well for Manuela’s wrinkles… “I’ve analyzed the sample of blood you took.”

“And?”

“And it’s as I feared. His crest is truly gone.”

Manuela brought a hand to her lips. She couldn’t say she was surprised. From the moment Hanneman had voiced his suspicions, somehow she had just known, even without his expertise in crest research. Perhaps it was her woman’s intuition.

But she felt as though her chest was filling with ice water nonetheless.

“Gone…” she breathed. “How in the world could his crest just be gone?”

“I’d like to know that as well,” Seteth added as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. “The knights have closed off the entirety of this floor. Apparently most of the students have gathered in the dining hall.” He cast a glance at Linhardt, still out cold in the bed, covered in a sheen of sweat and even paler than usual. Seteth’s voice was strained when he asked, “Are you certain about his crest?”

“Yes,” Hanneman said.

“Absolutely certain?”

“Yes.” He groaned, dropping an old tome and a block of wood on the table and rubbing his temples. The wood was stained with blood, singed at the edges and carved with some kind of sigil that Manuela had never seen in all her years. “I analyzed his blood myself, which tells us what has happened. But these-“ He gestured listlessly at the two strange items. “-these tell us the grim story of how.”

Seteth’s eyes went wide. “Where…” he hissed, striding across the room and snatching the book. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s from my personal collection. Part of my research materials and kept strictly separated from the monastery’s books, I assure you.” His brows were drawn together, making him look almost petulant. “None of the students ever had access to them. I kept them under lock and key. Strictly guarded-“

“Not strictly enough,” Seteth insisted. “Clearly.”

“I never in a thousand years thought that a student would ever be able to break into my personal vault. And even if they did, it would take a huge amount of magical prowess and crest knowledge to carve the sigil properly.”

Seteth had his nose buried in the book, flipping through its pages and studying the sigil carved in the block of wood, fingers running along the singed grooves. “This is unprecedented,” he breathed. “There has never been a case of someone removing a crest they’ve had since birth. The fact that this magic exists at all is nothing short of chilling.”

“And yet it never should have worked at all,” Hanneman mused. “Even if the sigil were carved properly, and even if it were exposed to the user’s blood, there shouldn’t have been enough power to remove a crest entirely. It’s said that powerful storms can boost the flow of certain magic, and the Minor Crest of Cethleann is known to increase magical power as well, but even so…it doesn’t seem possible.”

“Clearly it was possible,” Manuela said, busying herself wringing out a damp towel and running it across Linhardt’s forehead. As pale and sweaty as he was, she was almost certain he was feverish. And now that she was closer she could hear him whimpering softly in his sleep. Her heart ached, and she let her shoulders slump. “Hanneman…is it even possible for a person to…to survive something like this?”

Hanneman was quiet for a few moment’s too long before he relented, “I don’t know. I doubt anyone does. With no documented cases of such a thing happening, it's impossible to know for sure.”

“What do we tell the students?” she asked, and both her and Hanneman’s gazes wandered to Seteth. “Seteth, we can’t keep them in the dark forever. The knights cannot simply barricade the infirmary. We must tell them something.”

Seteth pinched the bridge of his nose. “The residual magic has dissipated, at least,” he sighed. “So any immediate danger to the students should be gone. I must bring Lady Rhea up to speed on the situation, but in the meantime…I suggest keeping the true nature of Linhardt’s condition to ourselves.”

Manuela frowned. “He has friends here at the academy. They will ask.” Her chest ached. "Not to mention his family."

“Tell the students whatever you think is appropriate, but do not let the truth of his condition spread outside of this room. If this news were to make it outside the monastery walls, I shudder to think of the consequences.” He took the wooden carving from the table, tucking it under his arm with the book. “I shall take it upon myself to dispose of both of these. Professor Hanneman, you would do well to re-evaluate the security of whatever other research materials you may have at your disposal.”

Hanneman didn’t bother arguing. Poor man seemed too tired for that. Manuela certainly was.

The door closed once again, and a silence far too long to be comfortable stretched between. Manuela dabbed at Lindhart’s temple with the cloth once more, biting her lip. “Hanneman,” she softly said, “This boy is dying.”

Woman’s intuition.

Sometimes she truly despised it.

Chapter Text

"No."

Shamir said it like there was no room for argument. He'd barely even gotten two words out.

"I haven't even asked yet-"

"You're going to ask me to let you inside so you can see your friend. And the answer is no."

"Why not?" he groaned. "It's like you're guarding a prisoner or something. Even when that stomach flu hit the monastery a few months back and half the students were quarantined in the infirmary, it wasn't locked down this tight."

"This situation is different. I'm not letting you in, and none of the other knights will either."

He sighed. "Please, Shamir, I-"

"If you're going to beg, you should use your time for something else," she told him. For just a moment, her tone softened, as much as Shamir's tone could. "I know you're worried about your friend. But you're not getting in, so save your breath."

He wanted to fight, more than anything in the world. But staring down Shamir was like staring down the damn stone walls surrounding the monastery, and fighting one of those would probably get him just as far.

"Fine," he relented, hating how small and weak his voice sounded.

It was the farthest thing in the world from fine, but what choice did he have?

There were knights posted all around the building – at the doors, by the stairs, in the hall. Without anything else to calm down the whirlwind in his head, Caspar tried them all.

"Sorry, kiddo," Alois said, without his usual laugh. "Nobody allowed through this way. I'll bet Shamir already told you the same, eh?"

"I can't let you up there," Catherine told him. She had pity written all over her face, but Caspar thought he preferred Shamir's stoic expression to that. "Orders came straight from Lady Rhea. But trust me, Manuela is taking good care of Linhardt. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Sure, he was being taken care of. That wasn't the point.

With nowhere else to go, he went to training grounds. If he couldn't do anything useful, knocking down some training dummies was better than climbing the damn walls and probably getting an arrow in the shoulder from Shamir's bow. And when all else failed, it usually helped clear his head to just hit something.

So he did.

He hit plenty of things. Targets, training dummies, the straw bales stacked in the corner – he made it his personal mission to wear out his training gauntlets so much that they'd shatter. If he focused on that, he couldn't think about Linhardt writhing on the ground, hands covered in blood, screaming so loudly that it echoed over the thunder and rain-

He turned, fist connecting with the wall instead of the straw, and he cursed as he dropped his gauntlets to the ground, wrist throbbing and knuckles raw.

"Are you having pain?"

He turned on his heel, sweat pouring down his brow as he did. "Petra!" He massaged his wrist, staring down at it instead of looking at her. "How uh…how long have you been there?"

She shook her head. "Not a long time. I heard your voice and thought you sounded like you were having…like you were in pain." She glanced down at his hand. "Your wrist – does it have an injury?"

"N-no. No, It'll be fine." He forced out a laugh. "Shouldn't go punching walls, huh? They always win."

"I am not understanding the point of fighting walls, but…I have much understanding of worry for close friends." She reached for his sore hand, turning it over and frowning when she saw the scrapes and bruises on his knuckles. "It is not good to have injury from training. You…push yourself too hard. I believe that is the correct phrase."

"Yeah…yeah, it is." He sighed, pulling his hand out of her loose grasp and sitting down on one of those poor abused hay bales. "I just feel so useless, you know? I hate feeling this way. None of the knights will let anyone in – they've got the place locked down like a damn dungeon! I just wish I knew what the heck was going on. I can't stand not knowing…"

"Uncertainty can be…painful," Petra offered. "I too have much worry about Linhardt. But you and he are close, yes? I have understanding that you were friends since childhood."

Damn, even just thinking about it made his chest ache. For years, nothing could keep them apart – not even their fathers disdain for each other. They'd snuck into each other's bedroom windows more times than they could count. Once Linhardt had shown up in the middle of a damn storm and crawled, dripping wet and shivering, under Caspar's bed with him and stayed there until the rain died down.

Now he couldn't even make it up one flight of stairs to see him.

Petra's hand rested on top of his again. "It is okay to have…to be frightened. But I have certainty that Linhardt will be alright."

"Everyone keeps telling me that," he sighed. "I wanna believe it, but…I…I just have a bad feeling. Something in my gut keeps telling me that something really bad is gonna happen. Do you remember when we went to get that weapon back from Miklan?"

She frowned. "I remember. He transformed into that awful beast…"

"Yeah, but even before that happened…I just had this bad feeling. The second we made it there, it was like…my whole body was tensed up and I couldn't breathe right. And seeing what happened to him was horrifying, but…after that, the feeling made sense. And right now I feel the same way, and everyone keeps telling me it's gonna be alright, but…but if that's true then this feeling doesn't make any sense, you know?"

He couldn't stand the way his voice cracked when he said it, just like he couldn't stand how scared it made him. But the more he sat here doing nothing, the more that feeling twisted inside of him, and that terrified him more than anything else.

Petra had a deep furrow in her brow, like she was lost in thought. Finally, she said, "I think I have understanding. It is one thing to worry, but another to…to have…" She sighed. "I cannot recall the word. Manuela has used it before, many times. Calls it a woman's…"

"Intuition?"

"Yes, intuition. I believe I know the meaning. We have a word that is very similar in Brigid. A feeling that something…bad is going to happen."

Caspar swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Uh-huh…"

"Still…it would not be good if you had an injury from training." She glanced down a this hands, folded in his lap. "If you must continue…perhaps I could give you…show you a Brigid technique for binding the hands. It will keep your bones from having injury."

He managed a smile. "I…I'd like that."

"And it would help too if you did not give the walls any more punches."

That made him laugh, which surprised him even more than it seemed to surprise Petra. "Yeah, I bet you're right."

By the time he left the training hall, every muscle in his body was aching, but at least his hands were still intact. It took him longer than he thought possible to remove the cloth strips from around his wrists and knuckles, and it left him with deep, woven-patterned indents on his skin – seemed like Brigid hand wrapping techniques were no joke. But it got the job done. He'd have to learn it himself one of these days.

Now that he'd slowed down again, he couldn't help letting his mind wander as he washed off all the sweat and dust. Intuition…the sense that something bad was coming…it still hung over him like a cloud. Sure, maybe his worry was all for nothing. Maybe Linhardt would come back to class in a few days' time and admonish him for worrying so much and he would feel like a fool.

But he didn't like the idea of taking that chance. Not if he could help it.

He dressed, pulled on his boots, and headed toward the eastern entrance of the building once again.

"Shamir," he called, stopping in front of her and holding her gaze. "I'm going upstairs to the infirmary."

She sighed. "No, you're not. What did I tell you about begging?"

"I'm not begging. I'm telling you. I'm going up there to see him, and if you want to stop me, you'll have to drag me out."

Shamir stared at him, and he couldn't quite tell if she was more surprised, annoyed, or impressed. They all looked very similar on her. "You're telling me that you'd fight me to get up there?"

Caspar swallowed. "Yes?"

"You – a student half my size-"

"Hey."

"-would fight me, a knight of Seiros who killed for the first time when you were probably an infant." She huffed. "Alright then. Fight me."

"W-what?"

"You said you would fight me to get through this door. So fight me. Kill me if you have to."

"I don't wanna kill you!"

"You don't want to fight me either," she told him, plainly. "Look, I can admire your devotion to your friend. I know you two are close. But you're not getting inside right now. That's just the way it is, and the sooner you accept that and deal with it, the better."

Caspar stared at the ground under his feet, hands clenched so tight it felt like he still had those Brigid bindings wrapped around his knuckles. If he had a reply at all, it died in his throat, and instead of trying to find his voice again, he stepped away, toward the academy classrooms.

He got just a few feet before he stopped, turned, and lunged. He rushed at Shamir without a second thought, fist clenched, arm cocked back, letting out a cry as he threw one good punch-

And landed square on his back in the dirt.

He coughed as Shamir loomed over him. "Huh," she said, and she definitely looked impressed now. At least that seemed to bode well for his odds of survival. She'd moved so quick he'd barely even seen her counter. "You really did it, didn't you?"

"I said I would."

"You know you could be expelled for attacking a knight, right?"

She offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. And then a moment later, opened the door.

She nodded inside. "Come on."

Caspar couldn't do much more than stare at her, wavering on his feet. "What?"

Shamir sighed. "You'll get five minutes. That's it. And if you don't hurry up, it'll be nothing. Just come on."

He didn't waste another second before following her.

The knight by the stairwell let them pass after just a glance from Shamir, and Caspar didn't bother questioning it. His heart pounded as they made their way up the stairs, down the hall, turning into the infirmary.

"Five minutes," she said again, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the frame to let him pass. "Manuela will be back before too long, and I'd rather not get myself in hot water with Seteth or Rhea, so do what you need to do and do it quickly."

Like he had any idea what he needed to do at all.

He didn't know what he was expecting. After seeing the state Linhardt had been in the last time he'd seen him, maybe it was the worst. But there was no screaming or blood now – thank Seiros. Linhardt was lying in the bed closest to the window, eyes lightly closed.

Caspar swallowed and approached him, and the closer he got, the worse Linhardt looked. Sure, he wasn't sobbing in pain anymore, but his skin was paler than Caspar had ever seen it, his hair tangled and matted with sweat, his breathing ragged and uneven. "Aw Lin…" he sighed. "What the hell did you do?"

He lowered himself into a chair by the bed, struggling to figure out what he was supposed to say or what to do with his damn hands. He'd thought that seeing him would at least alleviate some of this uncertainty. But now that he was sitting here, that feeling twisting around in his insides only got worse.

"Don't look at me," Shamir said from the doorway when he glanced her way. "I don't know nearly as much as you might think."

"But you're a knight of Seiros. They must have told you something when they got you to stand guard out there."

"Like I said, not as much as you think."

"But they must have-"

"When we woke up in the middle of the night, we had as much information you did. It was some kind of magic – that's all we could tell. Next thing we know we find him-" She nodded toward Linhardt. "-screaming and singed while Manuela tries to figure out how to help him. Whatever happened could have been a danger to the students, so we were told to get everyone out, and that's what we did."

A danger to the students. Sure, it made sense on paper, but that strange magic had already disappeared. Nothing was left of it now except whatever it had done to Linhardt. "You let me up here," he said. "Can't be that dangerous."

"You would have kept throwing punches until I either let you in or knocked you out."

Maybe he should have been thankful that she hadn't chosen the latter.

Hesitantly, he reached out to nudge Linhardt's hand where it was resting on top of the blankets. It was cold and clammy, and the feeling of it made Caspar shudder. "Linhardt…never got sick," he found himself saying. "Even as a kid…he was quiet and kinda weak-looking and spent most of his time inside reading, so everyone figured he was sickly. But he never got so much as a cold. I don't think I ever saw him sick. Always figured maybe his crest protected him or something…" He managed a tired little smile. "I kinda thought that would be nice."

Shamir said nothing, but he could practically feel her eyes on him. Watching him. Maybe keeping time. No doubt she would drag him back out as soon as she had to. But Caspar kept talking anyway: "Maybe it's kinda selfish, but it was always sort of…comforting, not having to worry about him. I always just knew that he'd be okay, because he was always okay. Even when we go on missions now, he's always right there after everything's over to heal up anyone who needs it."

Shamir made a quiet noise, almost like a muted laugh, and when Caspar glanced back at her again, there was a tiny smile tugging at her lips. It just flashed across her face for a moment before it disappeared again. "Kinda reminds me of someone," she said when she caught him looking.

"Who?"

"Just someone I knew back in Dagda." She turned to look out into the hall. "Finish up. I'd rather not get chewed out for letting you up here."

Caspar looked back at Linhardt again, fingers curling around his clammy hand. Linhardt didn't even seem to know he was here. He had no idea if he could feel his hand or hear him at all, but Caspar clutched his hand tight anyway. "You have to be alright, okay Linhardt? Whatever happens, just…just get yourself through this. Promise me, okay?"

Linhardt didn't answer, of course, but he chose to believe he made the promise anyway.

He stood up, heading for the door, but a moment  later, he paused. "Caspar, time's up," Shamir insisted.

"I know – I just need to…" He reached under his collar, pulling off the length of twine that was draped around his neck. The charm that dangled from it was so worn down that the carving Linhardt had done years before was almost indistinguishable and the paint had nearly faded entirely. He carefully coiled the twine around the charm and set it on the table by the bed. "Not exactly a fancy flower arrangement, but it'll work…"

Linhardt had to be okay.

Because Linhardt was always okay.

Caspar couldn't imagine a world where he wasn't.

Linhardt felt like he was floating.

No, like he was sinking.

No matter how much he tried, he couldn't manage to open his eyes, but he could feel his body being pulled down, and down, and down, like he was being tugged deep into the sea by a heavy weight someone had dropped on his stomach. There was pain, but it was far away, muted, left above the waves where it couldn't reach him.

That was good, at least.

His limbs were impossibly heavy, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and his throat was scratched raw. He remembered screaming, or at least he thought he did. He remembered other people screaming too, calling for him. He could still hear them, barely, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He couldn't even tell who they were.

Something inside of him was icy cold, as if someone had left a window open late on a winter night and let a draft into his body. Deep in his chest, he could feel something missing. A hole left behind after a part of him had been excised, filling up again with frigid water and making it harder to breathe.

Trying to make out those voices was so very exhausting. It was so much easier, so much more comfortable, to just let the water take him.

Chapter Text

This was a mess of catastrophic proportions.

Seteth had never found it difficult to write letters of a sensitive nature when the situation called for it. It was a part of his duties, corresponding with the families of noble and commoner students alike. Serious injuries were thankfully few and far between, expulsions even more so, and thank the Goddess that he had not yet had to report any deaths.

He feared that would change soon. Somehow, though, drafting this letter when the consequences of what had happened were still so uncertain was somehow even worse.

How was he meant to write to Minister von Hevring that his only son had not only lost his crest, but was also likely mere days away from dying because of it? The potential consequences for Garreg Mach and its faculty loomed great and terrifying, not to mention the emotional toll such a thing would take on the Hevring family and the student body alike.

He laid down his quill, pinching his brow. Now of all times, he simply couldn't find the words.

He didn't bother looking up when there was a knock on his office door, instead hoping that he didn't look as exhausted as he felt and calling out, "Come in."

The footsteps that made their way inside were soft and familiar, and when he finally looked up and saw Flayn's face as she closed the door behind her, Seteth's heart sank. Her eyes were downcast, her brows knit together in a way that reminded him too much of her mother when concern was weighing heavy on her. "Flayn…is something the matter?"

She glanced at the parchment in front of him, folding her hands in a prayer-like gesture. "Are you…writing to Linhardt von Hevring’s family?"

Hardly. There were no more than a sentence or two on the parchment after almost half an hour of work, and he wasn't certain that the words were anywhere close to decent. "Yes," he sighed. "But it's nothing that need worry you. Classes should be resuming as usual today, and you shouldn't miss your lessons."

"I cannot focus on any lessons at a time like this," she insisted. "If you are writing to his family, then what happened to Linhardt must be quite serious..."

"Do not worry yourself over it." He stood from his desk, leaving the blasted quill and parchment behind and hoping that putting them from his mind for a few moments would help the words flow more freely. "Flayn…what happened is-"

"He is dying, is he not?"

The words seemed to burst out of her before she could stop him, and from the look in her eyes they had been festering for quite some time. Seteth let out a heavy breath, letting his shoulders slump. "Professor Manuela is doing everything she can to keep him…" Again, the right word just couldn't come. He turned his gaze to the window and finally settled on, "…comfortable."

"If something so terrible has has truly happened to him…” Flayn breathed, voice wavering in a way that made Seteth's heart ache. "…I cannot imagine how terrified he must have been…and I cannot help but…but feel responsible…"

His eyes snapped up to look at her again. "Responsible? Flayn, surely you cannot blame yourself for this."

"We share the same crest," she said, eyes shining.

He reached for her hand, frowning when he felt it quiver. "That alone is no reason to think you could have done anything to prevent what happened, Flayn. You weren't even there-"

"But I was," she suddenly told him. She pulled her hand away to wipe her eyes.

"Flayn…"

"I could not sleep that night…" she breathed. "The storm kept me awake, so I went to the library. I thought it would be better than lying awake in bed, and stories always helped to calm my head."

He remembered well. He had spent more nights than he could count reading to her when she had been young, writing stories to help her drift off during the violent summer storms.

She shook her head, hands clasped tightly in front of her. "I could sense something…some dark magic…something powerful and terrifying, and then I heard a scream and-"

He knelt before her, hands pressing against her shoulders. "You are not to blame," he insisted again. "You must understand that, Flayn. Whatever you felt, whatever you did, you are not the cause of this."

"But we share the same crest," she said again, like it pained her. "Brother…surely, you know what that means. A magic that powerful…it should not have been possible, unless-"

She went silent, eyes wide and terrified, staring at him as if it hurt too much for her to say anything more. It made something twist in Seteth's chest, something that made him want more than anything to tell her she was wrong. That what she was describing wasn't possible. And yet somewhere deep within him, he knew that the horror written across her face was not misplaced.

"You could never have known," he softly told her. "There is no way you could have known such a thing could ever happen."

Flayn shivered, gaze fixed on the stone floor. "I felt it," she said. "For a moment…although I did not understand it at the time…I felt his crest reaching out for mine…before it was ripped away…" Tears tracked down her face, her voice cracking and wavering.

For a few moments, Seteth well and truly put the letter from his mind and wrapped his arms around her instead.

"You attacked Shamir?" Dorothea gasped, staring wide-eyed at Caspar from her desk in the classroom. "What were you trying to do, knock her out?"

"I don't know," Caspar groaned. "I kinda figured I wouldn't win-"

"You're lucky she didn't kill you."

"-but I had to try something. And it worked out, didn't it? I'm not dead, and she let me up to see him."

Dorothea's expression softened. "How was he?" she asked quietly. "I keep hearing all these rumors flying around and every one is different. That he's covered in magic burns, that he turned himself into a demonic beast…" She shivered. "They're all horrible…"

"He's not a beast," Caspar huffed, frowning down at his books. He hadn't even touched the reading for the lesson, but he doubted he was the only one. "He didn't look all that good. Apparently Professor Manuela is trying to keep him…ya know…stable."

"Every time I hear people whispering about it like it's some kind of juicy gossip, I just want to scream," Dorothea said, voice tinged with disgust. "I wish I could have gone up there with you. I can't stop worrying about him. I just don't understand why they won't let him have any visitors. I'm starting to wonder how much our professor even knows."

Professor Byleth had to know something, Caspar figured. Even if she couldn't tell them. But then again… "Shamir said even the knights didn't know much of anything…"  

"Even the knights?" Dorothea blinked. "I mean, sure they're not high up in the church or anything, but I figured with them guarding the place the way they were they'd know something. Maybe she just couldn't tell you. People can be so secretive about stuff sometimes…"

He shook his head. "No, I think she was telling the truth. She said something about it not being safe for students because of residual magic, but there's gotta be more to it than that. Magic is my weakest subject and even I know that effects like that don't linger longer than an hour or two."

Dorothea dropped her voice low, leaning closer. "And Lin…did he…you said he looked bad. Caspar, how bad…"

She bit her lip, like she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. But he knew what she meant, and it made the all-too-familiar pit open up in his stomach for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "I don't know," he finally admitted, staring down at his hands. "I'm…trying not to think about it, honestly." He forced a smile to his face, but even he could tell it looked empty. "It's not working all that well."

Dorothea didn't answer, but gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

She wasn't supposed to be in the infirmary. Flayn knew that even without Seteth saying a word about it to her. She could read him well enough to know that she should keep her distance – or rather, that he would want her to keep her distance – but there was no way she could stay away. Not after what she had felt that night.

She knew too much to stay away. That knowledge was weighing on her, and no matter how used to that feeling she was by now, she couldn't ignore it.

She forced a smile to come to her face as she made her way to the doors. "Hello Catherine," she said sweetly. "I see you are still standing guard."

"Until Lady Rhea says otherwise," Catherine sighed. "No students allowed up to the second floor until further notice. And that includes you. Seteth told me that specifically, as a matter of fact."

Not surprising. Still, Flayn kept her tone light. "I'm sure he did. But I was hoping to slip into the library for a few books if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, no. You're not gonna pull one over on me that easy," Catherine said with a good-natured laugh. "I know what you're really asking."

"I certainly don't know what you mean."

"Uh-huh." Catherine's expression softened as she sighed.  "You and Linhardt share a crest. I know you probably feel a sort of…connection to him. And you're a caring person, Flayn. I'll admit, I'm worried about him too." She cast a glance at her feet. "That boy…always ready to throw himself into his research, damn the consequences…it was only a matter of time before it got him into trouble."

"So he was attempting some kind of experiment?" Flayn asked.

Catherine groaned. "I've already said too much. Listen, I'm sorry. But I can't disobey orders from Lady Rhea. Not even for you. Especially considering that Seteth-"

"My brother has my best interests at heart, I know. But…surely you must realize that keeping everyone away like this may do more harm than good."

"That's not for me to decide, Flayn."

The door creaked open behind her, a hand reaching out to rest on Catherine's shoulder. "It's alright, Catherine," Hanneman said. "Let her up. I have something I'd like to discuss with her, as it turns out." He opened the door a bit wider. "I'll gladly take the blame from Seteth and Lady Rhea, if it comes to that."

"Hanneman-" Catherine let out a sigh. "Alright…but if Seteth comes down on me-"

"He won't, I assure you." He glanced in Flayn's direction, nodding for her to come inside.

Flayn was quick to follow him up the stairs, her heart racing as they made their way down the hall. The door to the infirmary was closed, but staring at it, Flayn could feel her hands begin to shake. "Professor Hanneman," she said, quietly. "I…have the feeling that we may be wanting to speak about the same thing."

Hanneman paused for a moment before he pushed the door open, beckoning her inside. "Let's find out then, shall we?"

The infirmary was quiet, but far from empty. Manuela was sitting by the bed, obscuring its occupant from view, but Flayn could already make out the frown on her face. A pale, limp wrist in her palm, her fingers pressed against the pulse point. And beside her-

"Brother?"

Seteth sighed. "I knew you would try to make your way here, likely sooner rather than alter."

Flayn bit the inside of her cheek. "I could not merely stay away."

"I know," he said, sounding oddly…defeated. "Not to worry, Flayn. I'm not planning to admonish you for this. In fact, I…believe it is time I allowed you to speak your mind on this matter. As much as I wish it didn't concern, there is no arguing that it does."

She stared at him, eyes wide. Surely she must have misheard. But Hanneman cleared his throat behind her, and when Seteth nodded in his direction, he finally said, "As you know, Linhardt possesses a crest very similar to yours…the Minor Crest of Cethleann."

She swallowed. "Yes…yes, I know."

"Well, I suppose I should say he used to possess it. The…incident last night had a rather terrifying effect. The magic he activated was a spell designed to remove one's crest entirely. And against all reason, he succeeded."

Flayn felt like she'd been plunged into a cold river.

She had felt it, the thrum of his crest reaching out to hers. It was a feeling she was familiar with, to a certain degree. Twin crests could recognize each other, connect to one another on a level that most people barely even noticed. It could feel like little more than a passing chill or an odd sense of déjà vu that was easy to shrug off, to forget.

That night had been different. She had felt the brush of his crest against hers, alight with energy, then sparking with terror. When she had felt it so suddenly ripped away, she had known that something was wrong. Maybe a part of her had even suspected it was true, but this…

Never in her life would she ever have imagined this.

"Linhardt's crest would have channeled the spell well enough," Hanneman continued. "It's possible that the storm could have amplified that effect. But even then there would not have been enough power to-"

"It was me," Flayn said, voice shaking.

Seteth's hand was already pressing against her shoulder. "No…Flayn, you are not to blame." His voice was gentle, but firm. "Nobody is to blame for this, least of all you."

"I may not be to blame, but I am still the cause." She looked past Manuela, eyes lingering on the frown tugging on her lips as she let go of Linhardt's wrist. For the first time she saw his face, saw pain etched into his pale features. "To think that my crest could bring such pain…"

Seteth's expression was heavy with exhaustion, guilt. "Perhaps it was wrong of me to tell you…"

"No," she insisted, grasping his hand. "No, I'm glad you told me. I couldn't bear being kept in the dark, wondering about the truth while a part of me already knew…"

It was like when Mother had died. A part of her had already known. She had mourned without realizing she was doing so even before she'd learned the truth.

Hanneman let out a breath. "So it is true…" His fingers stroked absently at his beard, his brow pinched in thought. "Many theories about crest resonance have been proposed, but seldom studied. But it would explain why the spell activated at all. Perhaps this warrants more study-"

"That's enough for today, I think," Seteth insisted. "Flayn, I've already put you through too much."

"If there is something I can do to help-"

"That's enough." He sighed. "We will determine the best course of action in due time. For now, Flayn…please…let me bear the burden of tending to this."

She cast another glance at Linhardt, at Manuela noting something in her notebook, at Hanneman lost in his own racing thoughts. Flayn met Seteth's eye again. "It is hardly fair for me to know the truth when the other students continue to have it kept from them. He has friends here at the Academy. Friends who will want to visit him and give him their well-wishes."

"She has a good point, Seteth," Manuela offered. "Even you have to admit that."

Seteth set his jaw – she could almost hear his teeth grinding as he mulled it over. An awful habit. "I think you may be right. Ultimately, though…it is not my decision to make. But I will discuss it with Lady Rhea. You have my word."

Flayn looked at Linhardt one final time. "I'd like to bring some flowers from the garden," she said, meeting Seteth's eye. "Even if it is a small gesture, my mother always said that even the smallest thing can make a difference."

Her brother nodded. “Very well…I think…I think that would be a kind gesture.”

Deep under the freezing waves, Linhardt drew a ragged breath, and for a moment before it was lost in the churning darkness, he swore he smelled lavender.

Chapter Text

Caspar barely slept that night. The moment he climbed into bed he knew he wouldn't, but it was still verging on torture, lying in bed and watching a passing shower drop a few hours of rain on the monastery. He kept waiting for a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder, more of Linhardt's screams echoing down the hall. By midnight, the rain had stopped, but it didn't make it any easier for Caspar to manage to sleep.

He shuffled out into the hall and leaned out of one of the windows instead, staring out at the dark horizon and letting his mind wander. He thought about telling Linhardt that he'd thrown a punch at Shamir, only to get tossed into the mud like he was nothing. Linhardt would probably tell him it was because he didn't go for the knees.

Caspar managed a quiet laugh.

"Are you up worrying about Linhardt?"

He glanced to his left, meeting eyes with- "Hilda? What are you doing up?"

"Relax, you didn't wake me or anything. I'm a pretty heavy sleeper most of the time." She sighed. "I keep having these weird dreams about all that stuff that happened last night. Marianne said that powerful magic can seep into peoples' dreams and make them extra crazy, but I don't know if I believe all that." She muffled a yawn, resting her chin on her arms on the window sill. "Either way, I can't sleep right. You?"

"Yeah," he relented. "Me neither. Not cause of any dreams though. Just…" He curled his fingers against the stone.

Hilda glanced down at them, then back up at his face. "You and Linhardt go way back, right?" she said instead of waiting for him to force out the rest of the sentence. "I heard that your fathers hated each other or something."

"Yeah, they never got along," Caspar said with a tiny smile. "My father never had a problem with Linhardt, really. And honestly, he never really cared much what I did as long as I wasn't getting in the way. So Linhardt and I spent a lot of time together growing up."

"Kinda like a pair of star-crossed lovers or something."

Caspar choked. "We're not lovers."

"I never said you were. But if you were, it would be like something out of one of those sappy romance stories. You even followed each other all the way here to the academy."

"I…kinda followed him, honestly." He shrugged. "He mentioned his family was sending him here to study, and I figured it would be the best chance I could get to make something of myself since I won't inherit anything from my father. And even though I’m a second son without a crest, it wasn't hard for my father to find me a spot too, being the Imperial Minister of Military Affairs and all."

"You could have gotten away with doing a whole lot of nothing your whole life, and you chose to come here and study instead?" Hilda sighed. "I don't get it. But it is pretty admirable I guess." She rested her cheek on her palm, staring lazily over at him. "Linhardt is kind of an odd duck, I'll admit. I could never read him like I could read all the other guys around here, but he is a pretty easy guy to talk to sometimes. You know, until he gets bored and wanders off."

Caspar snorted. "Yeah, you just gotta find something that'll hold his attention."

"Hey, does he like sweets? Annette and Mercedes wanted to bake him something for when he's on his feet again, but they couldn't figure out what to make. If I can give them a good tip, maybe they'll let me help out with one of the easy jobs. Like taste testing the batter."

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, he likes sweets. Not chocolate, though. He prefers vanilla. And cinnamon is his favorite."

She rubbed her chin. "Cinnamon, huh? I'm gonna remember that." She shot him a wide smile. "Thanks for the tip!"

Caspar managed to match her smile, albeit with a smaller one. "Ya know you don't have to butter me up if I already told you want you wanted to know."

"I'm not buttering you up! I'm serious!" She bit her lip a moment, glancing down the hall and seeming to flutter between leaving to go back to bed and staying to say something else. "He'll…he'll be alright, you know. I'm sure he will."

"Th-thanks Hilda."

"I'm really not good at the whole consoling thing."

"It's okay. I should probably go back to bed anyway."

"Right." She turned, and as she made her way back down the hall again, he could hear her quietly muttering, "Vanilla and cinnamon…"

He must have fallen asleep at some point, even if he didn't remember it, because Caspar woke up to someone knocking on his door. It was so faint that he almost thought he'd dreamed it, but when it came again, he finally groaned and hauled himself out of bed. When he opened the door, rubbing his eyes, he blinked. "Flayn?"

"Caspar," she said, her expression pinched and unreadable. "May I speak with you?"

"Uh…sure." He stepped back and she let herself in, closing the door behind her. "Does Seteth know you're here?"

"My brother is hardly my keeper."

"I know! I just meant…well, it's still kinda early, and…"

She giggled. "Are you concerned about what my brother will think if he hears about me leaving male student's room at some early hour?"

Caspar's face blazed hot. "Th-that's not-"

"I won't stay long. And my brother does not need to know. I just wished to…" She folded her hands in front of her, glancing down at them as her smile melted away. For the first time, as Caspar's grogginess started to clear, he realized the faint bags under her eyes too. Like she hadn't slept much the previous night either. "I was hoping to speak to you about your friend."

He swallowed. "Linhardt?"

"There are things you should know, and I worry that my brother will not…" She cut herself off. "I understand why he must keep certain secrets, but…" Flayn shook her head, still searching for the right words. It was odd, almost unsettling, seeing her struggle so much to find them. She was usually so well-spoken that she almost seemed like she could be a person's mother rather than their younger sister.

Finally, she sighed. "Linhardt and I," she said. "We share the same crest. You knew that, yes?"

"The Crest of Cethleann," Caspar answered, nodding slowly. "He has a minor one and you have a major one, but…"

"The differences between a major and minor crest are actually rather small in the grand scheme," she told him with a smile. "Many people think that one is simply more powerful than the other, and to a certain extent that is true, but it may be more accurate to say that one is…younger than the other. Not in age the way that we usually think of it, but…” Her brows furrowed in concentration for a moment before she looked up at him again, inspiration sparking there. “You have an older brother, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And you may be weaker than your brother in some respects. He may be bigger or stronger simply because he is older. But that does not mean that you are the weaker sibling."

Caspar tangled his fingers in his hair. It was too early for all this crest talk. "Cyrus is taller than me by a bit," he admitted. "But I don't even have a crest at all. Why are you telling me this? Crests can be older or younger than each other…what's it got to do with Linhardt?"

Her smile faded again, and her eyes looked overwhelmingly…sad. "It's…difficult to explain. When two people have the same crest, they can…sense each other. Resonate with one another. Feed off each other's power. The effect is particularly strong between a major and minor crest. Like a mother able to detect the sound of her own child crying in a crowd."

"You're saying your crest is like…Linhardt's crest's mom?"

"N-no, not that at all! I simply meant that…well…that night, when all of this began, I don't think even he realized how much power he wielded thanks to the close proximity of our shared crests."

Caspar's mouth was dry, his heart pounding for some reason that he couldn't place. He stared at her, waiting for her to say something else like he was waiting for someone to throw the first punch in a brawl. "What happened to him?" he finally choked out before he'd even realized he was speaking at all. "Flayn, nobody's told me a thing, and I know everyone thinks I’m oblivious a lot of the time, but I’m not an idiot. I know something bad must have happened. And you know what it is, don't you? Please…please tell me."

She pressed her hands tightly together, her lips a hard, thin line as she stared at her feet. "I do not know everything. My brother and Lady Rhea have the best of intentions keeping secrets where they must. But…but I cannot in good conscience go on keeping this inside of me."

"What happened to Linhardt?" Caspar asked again, trying and failing to resist the urge to be. “Please tell me what happened to him Flayn.”

She drew a shaky breath. "Something…something terrible."

Linhardt's pulse was weak and thready. Nothing new. Manuela wondered whether it was better to be disappointed he wasn't recovering or merely relieved that he wasn't getting any worse. In either case, she'd barely slept. She was used to the schedule by now, and sometimes the demands of caring for the students outweighed her own needs regardless.

Still, she could feel new lines etching themselves into her brow. At least the sun was rising now – the light would surely make it easier to stay on her feet.

A sudden rush of banging and yelling from out in the hall did nothing for her burgeoning headache, and she glanced up just as the door swung open and crashed against the wall. Caspar stumbled through the doorway, red in the face and panting, followed closely by Catherine.

"Caspar get out of here-" Catherine insisted, but Caspar ignored her, rushing up to Manuela with wide and desperate eyes.

"Linhardt-" he gasped. "Professor Manuela, is it true – is his crest gone?"

Manuela's throat tightened as she met Catherine's eye. The knight had gone pale, her jaw hanging open. "Catherine," Manuela said, doing her damnedest to keep her voice steady. "Close the door please."

"Is…is that true?" Catherine asked.

"Catherine, please just…" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Give me a moment. Close the door."

Looking halfway numb, Catherine did, backing out into the hallway and pulling the door shut in front of her.

Now, Manuela supposed, she had yet another student to care for. "Flayn told you, didn't she?" she sighed. "I figured this would get out before the church wanted it to. That always seems to happen when you try to cover up a scandal."

She led Caspar to the nearest chair, her heart aching for him when he sank down into it so listlessly. It wasn't like him to have so much weight on his shoulders. Even when she'd once had to set his broken arm, the boy had had a grin on his face while she'd applied her healing magic. Now, he simply looked…drained. Desperate and weighed down by fear and uncertainty.

That was what keeping secrets like this always seemed to do, sooner or later.

"Hanneman would be able to explain it all better than I could," she sighed. "But the long and short of it is, well…yes. The spell he performed – accidentally, it seems, as outrageous as that might sound – removed his crest."

Caspar was pale. Too pale. Manuela scurried to her desk and plucked a bit of roqsiper root from the closest jar. "Here," she said as she held it out to him. "Chew on this."

"What is it?" he asked as he took it with a shaking hand.

"Roqsiper. It helps prevent vomiting and fainting, since you looked like you were just about ready to do one or both. And that won't do anyone any good." She sighed, watching him dutifully put it between his teeth. "It may numb your mouth a bit, but it'll help. I used so much of that we almost wiped out our stores back when Claude accidentally mixed up one of his vile stomach poisons with the pepper the last time he was on cooking duty."

Accidentally…She’d had her doubts about that ever since she’d seen just how happy he'd seemed to be relieved of kitchen duty for the rest of the year.

Caspar chewed in silence for a few moments, his eyes wandering over to Linhardt's sleeping form. The poor boy's breathing had gotten worse over the night, and the vapor gel she'd applied to his neck and chest were only helping so much.

"Is he dying?" Caspar asked, voice heart-breakingly quiet.

That was a question she could live with side-stepping for the moment. If only because she selfishly couldn't stand the thought of answering it out loud. "He's stable for now," she said instead. "It's been relatively simple to manage to pain, at least."

She heard a crunch as Caspar bit through the tough root. "Pain?" he choked. "How much pain is he in?"

"Right now, my hope is none." She swallowed another sigh. "I could…give you a moment. If you wanted to visit. Alone.”

Like it was the first time he'd been here. She'd seen that charm sitting by Linhardt's bed and figured out in a heartbeat who it belonged to. If any of the knights knew about it, none of them had said a word, but then again Manuela hadn't gone around asking who'd let a student up against orders. As if she'd ever do anything with the information if she did find out.

But Caspar shook his head, already back on his feet. "I don't want to just sit around wallowing. If he lost his crest…if he's in pain, I want to do something! There's got to be something you can do for him, right? Sure, his crest is gone, but he's not dead. Lots of people don’t have crests. I don’t! And there are plenty of healers in the monastery. Sure, I never managed to learn healing magic, but I could pick herbs from the greenhouse, or get supplies from the market, or-"

Goddess help her, she didn't have the heart to tell him that his effort was likely going to go to waste.

She'd been up every hour to check his pulse and temperature, wiping sweat off his brow and making sure she had enough herbal extracts on hand to keep him comfortably sedated. Hanneman had been locked in his office for going on twelve hours now, pouring over every record he could find trying to dig up something – anything – that might be of some use. And yet it felt like she was watching Linhardt's life simply erode away, one breath at a time.

She had seen death coming before, though never in someone so young.

“Please, Professor Manuela,” Caspar insisted, the spicy scent of roqsiper still lingering on his breath. “Let me do something. Let me help.”

Sometimes all a person needed was to keep their hands busy. An idle mind was a breeding ground for panic and pain, so maybe for now…

Manuela handed him an empty jar. “If you want to help,” she said, “Fill this with Almyran mint. It’s growing in the greenhouse just inside the doors, to the left. Only the darkest leaves will do. As many as you can.”

Gathering herbs was just a way to keep him busy and Caspar knew it. He didn't have to know as much as Ashe about medicinal herbs to know that mint wouldn't do a thing to help Linhardt, but he gathered as much as he could anyway. If only to have something to do to keep his mind off of everything else.

"I'm actually quite impressed that Almyran mint grows so well here," Ashe mentioned as he dropped a handful of dark leaves into the jar with a thoughtful little smile. "It usually needs a much warmer client and specific soil nutrients. It's a picky little plant, but it seems rather happy here."

He plucked a smaller, lighter leaf off of the underside of the nearest stalk, holding it out to Caspar. When Caspar didn't do much other than blink at it, he chuckled. "Chew on it," he said.

"Chew on it?"

"It's supposed to help clear your mind. Help you think." He shrugged as he turned back toward the plant. "It would explain why Claude is always sneaking it into his pocket on his way to class."

Caspar stared down at the leave in his palm. "It tastes better than that nasty roqsiper stuff, right?"

Ashe rose a brow. "Why were you chewing on roqsiper?"

"Professor Manuela gave it to me. Said something about it keeping me from fainting…"

He could still see that concerned pinch in her brow as she'd pushed the jar into his arms and given him something useful to do. He could still taste that bitter, spicy root as it crunched between his teeth, calling up the image of Linhardt unconscious and paler than usual, breathing labored-

He shoved the mint leaf into his mouth and chewed with vigor. Better than roqsiper. Much better. Still not great.

"So you went to see Linhardt," Ashe said softly, not looking at him. Trying to seem casual when Caspar could tell he was dying to ask what he knew. He wasn't usually the type to pry. For the moment, Caspar actually appreciated that. It gave him a moment to breathe and focus on the taste of mint bursting across his tongue and flooding out that nasty roqsiper.

Ashe was quiet for a long moment, and when Caspar didn't do anything but nod, he added, "I've been meaning to go visit myself. Dedue asked me to help him decide what flowers would be good ones to add to a bouquet for him, but he knows much more about flowers than I do. I don't think I would be much help. Not unless he wanted to add a bundle of herbs in the middle of all the blossoms." He dropped another handful of leaves into the jar. "Annette tells me he already has quite the collection of well-wishing gifts by his bedside…"

"Yeah…"

"It'll be a nice thing to wake up to."

If he wakes up, Caspar caught himself thinking, and he almost ripped off a whole stem from the mint plant as he pushed that thought away again.

Of course he would wake up. He had to. He always did. And Caspar refused to let himself think any different. "Yeah," he insisted, forcing a smile instead. "And he better wake up soon before those pastries that Annette and Mercedes made him go stale."

Ashe laughed. "That would be a tragedy."

Chapter Text

This darkness was getting to be awfully boring.

Linhardt had no idea how long he'd been here, sinking through nothingness. It wasn't unpleasant. There was no pain, at least. He could vaguely remember pain shooting through his limbs and coiling in his chest, like someone was ripping him to shreds.This was certainly better than that. Or it had been for a while. But the deeper he sank, the more something in the back of his mind kept screaming at him to claw his way back. As if he wanted to go back to all that white-hot pain and that feeling of emptiness deep in his chest.

No, boring as it was, he was content to stay here. Floating. Sinking deeper…

Then something hit his nose, like the lavender had made it through the haze of nothingness before. Cinnamon… He tried to turn his head toward the smell, but it felt like a cotton-stuffed dummy on a thick iron rod.

"Oh my…he does look awfully sick…"

He recognized that voice – soft and gentle and almost sickly sweet. Mercedes always sounded like she was praying, no matter what she happened to say. She could list off a grocery list and make it sound reverent. 

"I figured he was probably pretty messed up, but man…I'm not gonna catch something am I?"

"Professor Manuela said it's nothing contagious, Hilda. They wouldn't have let us up here if it was. Annie, why don't you put the scones over by those flowers? I'll see if I can find a candle for a prayer."

"Do you think he can hear us, Mercie?"

"I'm not sure, but I know the Goddess will."

"Do you two think he'd mind if we took a couple of those scones with us?"

"Hands off, Hilda! We made those for Linhardt!"

"Hey, relax Annette. I'm not trying to take them to snack on. They're for Caspar."

"For Caspar?"

When Hilda spoke again, she sounded almost uncharacteristically…worried. Linhardt wasn’t used to hearing her so tense. "You saw him, didn't you? He's usually so peppy and cheerful, but he practically looked like a zombie last time I ran into him. You'd think he was the one who got himself bedridden from a spell gone wrong." She sighed. "Maybe he could use some cheering up."

Linhardt’s stomach twisted.

"Wow, you're…really kind of thoughtful when you want to be."

"Hey, I'm plenty thoughtful, thank you very much."

"I'll include Caspar in my prayer as well,” Mercedes said. “Annie, take my hands, would you? We can pray together…"

He'd always thought prayer was a bit of a waste of time. If the goddess or any other all-powerful deity had a plan in mind, he doubted a few candles and some nice words would change much of anything. 

Silence dragged on for a while after that. A few minutes maybe, or it could have been closer to days. The smell of cinnamon lasted longer than the sound of those voices did, and it was almost enough to make him feel hungry despite the numbness in his body. But before he could start to wonder just how long it had been since he’d eaten anything, more voices broke the silence:

"You're…you're sure it's okay for us to be up here, right?" This one sounded far away, like its owner was lingering in the doorway rather than standing by his bedside. Well, at least he could trust Bernadetta to understand the importance of personal space. 

The other voice was closer, more confident, tinged with a familiar accent. "I have been speaking to Professor Manuela already. She gave us permission to be visiting. And it may help to offer kind words."

"K-kind words? Like what? I don't know what I'm supposed to say. Can he even hear us?"

"Growing up in Brigid, I always learned that it was important to speak to people having unsconsciousness. It gives…it helps them heal."

"I still don't know what to say…"

"Perhaps you could read the letter we wrote for him?"

"Ferdinand wrote most of this stuff. I just signed it on the bottom like everyone else."

He swore he heard a giggle. "Then you could read it pretending to be Ferdinand."

"Oh Petra, come on. I can't do that." A chair scooted across the wooden floor as she sighed. "Fine…I'll try reading this…Um…hi Linhardt. It's…it's Bernie. I mean, that's not part of the letter. I just…ugh, Petra I'm no good at this."

"No, you're doing well. Just have persistence."

"Nnh…okay…" She took a breath. "Dear Linhardt…your friends and compatriots in the Black Eagles house wish you a speedy recovery and renewed strength. We are keeping you in our thoughts and offering devout prayers to the…Goddess…and…um…"

"…Are you having a problem?"

"I can't read Ferdinand's stupid handwriting. Forget it, I'll just put it here next to the flowers." A long pause later, she added in a smaller, quieter voice, "He knows we're all thinking of him anyway…"

"Oh dear…Hilda really was right when she mentioned that he looked like he was on death's doorstep. Well, maybe these flowers will help brighten up the room at least. Marianne, are you sure you don't want to sign the card here? Why are you hanging around out in the hall like that?"

"I shouldn't get any closer…I could make things even worse…"

Lorenz scoffed. "I fail to see how."

"You go ahead and put the flowers in the window. I'll just stay here…"

"Alright, if you insist."

A long pause.

"Marianne, honestly. Just come in. I'm sure your presence would do far more good than harm."

"More…good?"

"If nothing else it would be a good show of support. Perhaps you could offer a prayer to the goddess for him, as devout as you are. It may help."

"…No…no I shouldn't…"

An even longer silence. Longer than it had any right to be. “Marianne.”

“Huh! Uh…yes?”

“Are you afraid?”

“I…I’m afraid that…something bad will happen if I…” She sighed, the sound of it shaking on its way out. “I never should have let him take those vegetables…”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Last week! He helped me pick the vegetables in the greenhouse, and he asked me to hand him one, and I did…Oh, if this happened because of that, I could never forgive myself…If this is my fault…”

“Marianne, don’t be ridiculous. This-“ Lorenz took a long, slow breath – the kind that made him sound like he had a headache coming on. “This isn’t your fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault. Well, perhaps it’s a bit Linhardt’s fault-“

“You shouldn’t say that!”

Well, he did have a point.

“-but the point is, you cannot possibly be blamed for what happened. And nothing bad will come of you merely lending your support now. I think…I’m sure he would appreciate it, if he were awake.”

A long few moments later, Marianne sounds much closer. “Do you think he can hear us?”

“Not particularly, but it’s the thought that counts, is it not?”

When the door creaked open again, it was followed by a quiet gasp. Or maybe a sigh. It was a voice he didn’t recognize right away, but after it came one that was very familiar:

“It’s okay, Lysithea. Honest, you don’t have to be scared or anything.”

She huffed. “I’m not scared, Caspar.” A long pause later, she added, “I guess I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“What do you mean?”

When she spoke again, her voice sounded much closer: “I thought…I don’t know…I thought he would look different. If what you told me is really true...Why did you tell me at all?”

“I…I don’t know. I guess I just needed to tell someone.”

“Come on, Caspar. I’m not stupid.”

“Alright, alright. Maybe…maybe Linhardt told me some stuff. About things you two had talked about. You know, about your crest...s.“

She groaned, and Linhardt wondered if he was going to be in trouble with her when he eventually woke up. It certainly sounded like it.

“B-but it’s not like I told anyone else! You know, about…all that. He was just so excited and babbling and I think he hadn’t slept in a while and it just kind of slipped out-“

“Fine.” She let out a long sigh, followed by a silence so long that Linhardt wondered if he’d drifted off again. But when she finally spoke up, her voice was so small it made her sound even younger than her years: “Did he also tell you…he was working with Professor Hanneman to study how to remove crests?”

Caspar didn’t answer.

Removing crests? Why did that sound so…familiar? Every time he tried to recall what had landed him in this swirling dark pit, the memories were foggy and distorted, like he was trying to read from a book that had been submerged in boiling water. It kept slipping away.

He remembered blood, enough to make his stomach turn. He remembered rain and thunder and pain. There had definitely been pain. It had felt like he was being ripped into pieces. And that sigil…he could still recall the shape of it – the bends and points of the grooves in the wood where he’d carved it into the smooth-sanded surface.

The sigil.

The blood.

His blood.

Lysithea spoke again, her voice sounding distant: “He really removed his own crest…I didn’t think that sort of thing was even possible. I’d never dared to hope…Now I can’t help but feel like I’m the reason all this happened to begin with…”

No, no, surely she couldn’t be that short-sighted. Lysithea had to be more intelligent than that. She was too smart to blame herself.

His crest. He’d removed his crest. The emptiness in his chest, cold and gaping…Was that really the cause?

Someone sniffled.

“Lysithea…don’t cry. You know Linhardt wouldn’t blame you for this. The guy doesn’t have a grudge-bearing bone in his body. You know that.”

“I can still blame myself for this.”

“Y-yeah, you could, but you shouldn’t.”

Caspar, always trying to comfort other people and so quick to shrug off any comfort given to him.

“Don’t tell anyone I started bawling in here, okay?” she implored him. “Especially don’t tell Claude. He babies me enough as it is.”

“I won’t. Do you…do you wanna be alone for a second?”

“No. I’m fine. Just feel like I should have brought something though. Looking at all those flowers, it makes me feel like I was the only person who came here empty-handed.”  

“He’s just in here.”

After spending so long tuning out Hanneman’s muttering and Manuela occasionally cursing under her breath (he wondered if she had any idea he could hear her), Seteth’s voice caught Linhardt’s attention. But there was something else about it too – something about how…concerned it was. Linhardt didn’t think he could remember hearing Seteth sound so sympathetic.

Someone let out a breath, and there was something familiar about that voice too. Something he couldn’t place. It made his stomach clench.

“He’s stable,” Seteth said, and he cleared his throat. “For the moment.”

“Is…is he in pain?”

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

“No pain. Manuela – she’s an excellent healer. She’s made sure he’s comfortable.”

Another shaky breath. “You make it sound like he’s dying.”

The silence that followed before Seteth answered felt longer than it had any right to be: “What’s happened to him…it’s unlike anything that we’ve ever seen.”

“His crest…you said it was…gone.”

“That’s how it seems, yes.”

“Blasted magic. I always feared this boy’s wandering fascinations would lead him down a dangerous path one day, but this…” He sighed, his voice closer now. “Seteth…do you have children yourself?”

“No.” His words sounded almost choked. “But I do have a family. A…a younger sister. One who I consider to be almost like a daughter to me in some ways. She is…she is very nearly all I have.”

“Then perhaps you understand the feeling. Loving another person so much that there’s no way you can ever show it.” A sharp laugh, pushed through his nostrils, whistling slightly from the long-healed remnants of a cracked nose. “The moment I read your letter, I couldn’t stop thinking that perhaps I should have tried harder anyway.”

Linhardt wanted nothing more than to float away. It would be better than listening to his own father talk like that.

“Would you like some time alone?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I’ll see that you have it.”

“Thank you.”

A door closed, almost silently.

Linhardt could almost see him now – the tall, lean frame of Wolfgang von Hevring, slumped at his bedside like he’d spent so many nights curled over his desk, pouring over paperwork and letters and trade agreements. Dark hair spilling from his braid where it rested against his spine, glasses slipping down his crooked nose, lips pursed and brow knit.

When Linhardt pictured him, he always looked so tired. Now was no exception.

Goddess, he couldn’t stand it.

“Quite the arrangement you have there. Gifts from your friends, I assume…seems you’re cared for here, Lin. I wonder if you have any idea.”

Really, it couldn’t be that many gifts sitting by his bedside. Though he sometimes got a whiff of flowers or cinnamon. Whether that was his mind playing tricks, he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Your hands are so cold…”

Was he touching his hand? Linhardt couldn’t tell. He felt nothing but the cool embrace of the water around him, cutting off everything else.

“Lin, what in Sothis’ name did you get yourself into? Sigils, spells, blood magic…they say your crest is-“ He choked. “…I never imagined that you would ever do something like this. They claim it was an accident, but…”

Of course it was an accident. Why would he ever put himself into this state on purpose? He wasn’t his mother. He wasn’t eager enough to die that he would take matters into his own hands.

Oh, the water was starting to feel colder, icy, like sharp spines pricking him along every inch of his skin. He didn't like it.

His damn crest. He should have known his father would be livid when he found out it was gone. Nothing to pass on to any of the suitors who came to offer to court him, nothing to solidify their grasp on the ministry, nothing to leverage for power and territory. Titles could be stripped away and money could disappear as easily as a passing breeze. A crest was unshakable, powerful in more ways than one. Maybe a person simply couldn’t recover from losing the one thing they were never meant to be able to lose at all. It would certainly make sense, considering this feeling of emptiness he’d felt swelling inside of him with each passing breath.

Maybe he was dying. What a pain. 

And his father – was crying?

“Damn that crest.” His voice, usually as unflappable as the rest of him, wavered and caught in his throat. “Damn the crest. I cannot lose you, Lin. I cannot lose my own son.”

Linhardt couldn’t stand the crack in his voice. It made his entire body ache.

“When we lost your mother…”

No, just let him float away again. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to think about it. It was all just so exhausting.

“I remember fearing that you wouldn’t understand. You were so young, Linhardt. Too young to have to wrap your mind around something so terrible. I was terrified…mourning and angry at her for-“ He sighed. “You were so young, and yet you understood what it meant. And I was relieved. Goddess help me, it was such a selfish thing to feel, but more than anything I was relieved to know that I wouldn’t have to worry about you-“

The chair clattered backwards, slamming against the floor.

“Wake up, Lin. Please – the plot next to your mother’s is meant for me, not you. Do not make me-“ He choked, and for the first time Linhardt could feel something against his hand. A vague feeling of warmth wrapping around his knuckles. Maybe as much of a trick of his mind as the cinnamon and lavender wafting in his nose. “Look at me…being so selfish even now…I’ve failed you so many times, my boy.”

Exhausting. This was so very exhausting. Linhardt’s entire body was heavy, like lead, the weight of it pulling him down…down and away. His father’s voice started to fade.

For the best, he thought.

Maybe that made him selfish too.

Chapter Text

The kinds of books that Linhardt usually read were thick, heavy tomes with worn leather covers that had odd symbols carefully carved into their covers and metal studs hammered into their spines. They smelled like dust and were crammed full of so much dense information and so many odd illustrations that Caspar felt dizzy just flipping through the pages. He didn't know how the hell Linhardt managed this, day in and day out, on top of classes (even if he napped through half of them) without going crazy.

He still hadn't completely wrapped his head around what Flayn had told him, and here he was, trying to turn himself into an amateur crest scholar in the span of one afternoon. He felt ridiculous. Not to mention hopeless. But he had spent more time gathering this pile of heavy books than he wanted to admit, and he refused to call it wasted.

Vision blurring, he stared down at the words on the page in front of him.

A Brief History of the Blessed Crest of Cethleann

by Helmut Friedrich von Hevring

The Crest of Cethleann, also known as the Light Dragon Crest, traces its origins back over one thousand years. Born of the Holy Saint Cethleann, this crest is unique in that it is believed to have been bestowed upon the matriarch of the Hevring family line by Saint Cethleann herself through a gift of her blood. Although records of this period are lacking and the name of this matriarch has been lost to time, songs of this divine gift have been passed down through the Hevring family line just as the crest itself has been passed from parent to child, from generation to generation.

Cethleann in her radiant glory,
Draped in a light, unmarred by selfish whims,
Laid her hands upon unworthy mortal flesh
And bestowed the most precious gift.

-Song of the Light Dragon (author unknown)

The Crest of Cethleann has long been associated, like the saint herself, with healing and longevity. Indeed, old legends state that the matriarch who first received her crest was saved from the brink of death, her heart revived even after it had ceased to beat. It is said that the power of a Major Crest of Cethleann even now is capable of healing mortal wounds, curing any disease, and even raising the dead, although this latter claim has never been proven beyond legend-

"Caspar von Bergliez, as I live and breathe."

Caspar slammed the book closed, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. The voice was familiar, but not one that he recognized right away, and he turned wondering if it was one of the knights come to chide him for being in the library past curfew.

But it wasn't a knight. It wasn't anyone who he'd seen around the church or academy. Locking eyes with Wolfgang von Hevring – Linhardt's father – made Caspar's breath catch in his throat. "M…Minister von Hevring," he rasped. "Is that you?"

He sure looked like the Minister of Domestic Affairs. The same long dark hair, the same wire-rimmed glasses, the same crooked nose that Caspar's own father had broken before he'd been born. Or so he'd heard. But Caspar didn't think he'd ever seen the man look so…exhausted. He looked like his robes were trying to swallow him.

"It is indeed," he said with a tired little smile. And…were those puffy bags under his eyes from lack of sleep? Or something else?

He couldn't picture the stoic, unflappable Minister Wolfgang von Hevring shedding enough tears to leave marks like that.

"Don't get up," he said. "I'm not here on any official business. In fact I would hardly mind if you forgot you'd seen me at all." He let out a sigh, body sagging even further as he removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. "Tell me, do I look as bad as I think I do?"

"Uh…"

"I'll take that as a yes." He carefully replaced his glasses, balancing them precariously on the bridge of his nose. "I'm curious, are you and Lin still as close as you were back home?"

Caspar swallowed, turning that question over in his head as his fingers tapped against the cover of the book in his lap. It was odd enough, sitting opposite the Adrestian Minister of Domestic Affairs in the academy library, but to have him asking after Linhardt…

It made the bad feeling that had been simmering in the pit of his stomach even worse. "We're good friends, same as ever," he finally said. "He's…my best friend actually."

"Good…That's good…" He let out a heavy sigh that shuddered a bit on its way out. Made him sway on his feet. "I always worried about that boy. Smart as he is, making friends has never been one of his strengths. But I saw those flowers by his bedside…letters and sweets from students of the academy…It put my mind at ease, if just a bit."

"You went to see him?" Caspar blurted before he thought better of it. It was a ridiculous question. Of course he went to see his son. If he wasn't here on official business, there could be no other reason. But just the thought made Caspar's stomach twist. He couldn't remember a time when a student's family had showed up unannounced, on such short notice – let alone a high-ranking official like Minister von Hevring.

Instead of answering, the minister straightened his shoulders and furrowed his brow. "He is lucky to have friends like you, Caspar. No matter what disagreements flare up between your father and myself, never doubt that he is lucky to have you."

“Uh…yeah. Thanks, I guess…”

Without another word, he turned and headed out into the hall, slumping as he let out a groan that Caspar wondered if he knew he could hear. It sounded so much like something Linhardt would do when his research hit a snag or when Bernadetta didn’t re-shelve her books correctly. Almost uncannily similar, actually.

Caspar frowned and went back to the book in front of him.

It is said that the power of a Major Crest of Cethleann even now is capable of healing mortal wounds, curing any disease, and even raising the dead, although this latter claim has never been proven beyond legend. Although there is little doubt that Saint Cethleann herself may have wielded such great power, the power to breathe new life into the departed is, as perhaps it should be, reserved only for the divine.

Her brother had not been himself in some time, and Flayn suspected it had everything to do with Linhardt’s condition and Minister von Hevring’s visit. She had met the Adrestian Minister of Domestic Affairs only once before, in passing, and he had been just as gaunt and tired-looking then as he did now. But there was an added heaviness that he carried with him as Seteth led him up to the infirmary, dragging him down like his robes were lined with lead.

Oddly, the visit seemed to have the same effect on her brother too. His quill scratched across the paper so loudly and erratically that it seemed more like he was trying to carve marks into the table rather than put ink on paper.

“Flayn,” he said without looking up, “Now is…not a good time.”

“I saw Minister von Hevring visited,” she told him, and he sighed. “Though without any fanfare or announcement to the other students. Did he ask you to keep his visit a secret?”

“He asked me to keep it discreet.” He laid down his quill.

Flayn frowned, closing the office door behind her. “You would not have called him here if it was not…serious, yes?” She clasped her hands before her, staring down at them and trying to find the will to send a prayer to the goddess, but the words just wouldn’t come to her. Her stomach was tied in such tight knots that she could barely think. “I know you must be cross with me for telling Caspar about the nature of his condition, but-“

“I am cross. There was no need for him to know.”

“There was a need and you can be as cross as you like with me, but I will not apologize for what I did.”

Seteth groaned, resting his face against his palms, the paperwork in front of him seemingly forgotten. “He is dying,” he finally said, quietly. “You know that as well as I do. He is dying and there is nothing…there is nothing to be done for it.”

She did know. She knew it so well that it made her feel sick. The wounds left on his body and soul from his crest being so violently ripped away would take their toll, as time marched on. Sooner rather than later, it would become too much. She new that. She had known from the moment she'd learned about what had happened. And yet to hear it spoken aloud…

She bit her lip. “There is not…nothing…”

A second later, Seteth was on his feet, chair scraping against the stone as he strode over to her and pressed his hands against her shoulders. “Do not speak of such things. Do not even think it. There is nothing to be done, Flayn. Do you understand me?”

“But I-“

“I have been too lenient with you, too careless in what I put on your shoulders. That is my failing, not yours. But I will not budge on this, Flayn.” He leaned down, coming to eye level with her, his gaze boring into hers as he rested his palm against her cheek. “You have a selfless heart. You're so...so very much like your mother that way. I’ve known that about you from the moment I first saw your face when you were born. But it’s for that reason that I cannot allow you to take on this burden.”

Flayn stared down at the stone floor, chest aching. “It is already a burden I bear…”

“I’ve told you, this was not your fault-“

“But if there is something I could do to help and I do nothing, is that not just as abhorrent?” Her eyes burned, no matter how much she tried to stop them. “If I could save him and I do not, do I not have just as much of his blood on my hands? If Minister von Hevring must bury his son-“

“There is nothing to be done,” Seteth repeated again, like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was her. “I’m sorry, Flayn. I’m sorry for putting this on you from the beginning. But I cannot…” His hand fell to her shoulder again, heavy. “I cannot bear to put you at risk. As selfish as it may be, I cannot bear the thought of something happening to you. So please, for my sake, let me handle it and put it from your mind.”

He said that as if it was easy. As if she could simply forget about Linhardt clinging to life in the infirmary, his body crumbling around the hole left by his absent crest. She could almost feel that emptiness herself, like a gnawing hunger making her stomach ache and her limbs feel sluggish and useless. The feeling hovered over her, miasma clinging to her skin as she made her way up to the library, eyes darting over toward the closed infirmary door on the way there.

She passed it by, clutching her robes.

“Flayn?” She froze in the doorway of the library when she almost ran straight into a figure stepping out of it. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Caspar looked so tired, much like Minister von Hevring had when she’d seen him early that morning. There was a book tucked under his arm, emblazoned with a familiar crest. “Are you reading about the Crest of Cethleann?” she asked before she could think of anything else to say, and Caspar managed a smile.

“Yeah…I’m not much of a crest scholar, but…I don’t know, I figured maybe I could find some way to help?” The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Maybe it’s stupid to think that way. It’s not like I can find some magical way to fix all this in one day when someone like Professor Hanneman can’t find anything. He’s been researching this stuff since before I was born, and it took me an hour just to get through the first chapter of this thing.”

“It is a complicated topic,” she offered.

“You’re telling me…” That smile was back, but it wasn’t the same. It was sad, weighed down, muted. “Linhardt could get this stuff like it was nothing. It just clicked for him. Even when we were little, he would always go on and on about crests and magic and the history behind it all. I didn’t understand any of it, but it sure was fun to listen to when he really got going.” He glanced down at the book in his hands. “Kinda wishing he could explain all this to me now. But I guess if he could, there wouldn’t be much point in me trying to wrap my head around it anyway. It was always better to leave that stuff to him – he’s the smart one.”

“I do not think that’s true,” Flayn said, and Caspar glanced up at her.

“What?”

“Linhardt certainly is intelligent, but…I do not think it’s right for you to say it like that. Like you are not.”

“Well I’m not really. Not when it comes to stuff like this. I can punch stuff and swing axes like there’s no tomorrow, but I’m not…I’m just…” His fingers traced the book’s spine, over and over, dragging over the binding. “My dad always liked to say I had a head full of rocks. But that just makes it a hell of a lot easier to throw a good headbutt in a pinch, right?”

Honestly, she would have preferred him frowning to that pained smile.

She rested her hands over his, fingers brushing against the worn leather of the book’s face. “I think there may be something I could do to help,” she said. “I cannot make any promises, and my brother will surely throw a fit if he finds out, but…but I cannot stand idly by while Linhardt-“

The sound of boots thumping against the floor preceded Catherine only by a few seconds, and she was wide-eyed and breathless when she reached them. “Caspar-“ she said. “There you are! I was hoping you were here. It’s Linhardt.“

The book thudded on the floor at his feet. “Linhardt? What happened? What’s-“

“Just come here.” She turned again, ushering him to follow. “He’s awake.”

Chapter Text

Awake.

Holy shit, Linhardt was awake!

Forget all those heavy books and their long-winded history lessons. Forget Cethleann and her crest and the old, dusty story of how it made its way into the Hevring bloodline. None of it mattered anymore because Linhardt was awake, and crest or no crest, if he was awake that had to mean that he was going to be okay. And that was all that mattered.

Hell, Caspar had lived his whole life without a crest, and he was doing just fine. He was a damn expert by now. He could help Linhardt adjust. 

"Lin!" He tore his way into the infirmary, nearly tripping at least three times over and almost knocking straight into Professor Manuela before he finally made it to the bed. And there he was, looking much the same as he had for the past several days – pale, clammy, tired – but his eyelids were fluttering like they always did when he was struggling to wake up from a long nap. "Lin – holy shit, are you awake? Say something! Anything!"

Linhardt's nose wrinkled. "Ngh…loud…"

"Linhardt-"

"You're loud…" His eyes finally opened, just barely, and Linhardt looked blearily up at him, voice raspy and weak. "Do try and quiet down…"

How the hell was he supposed to be quiet at a time like this? How was anyone supposed to give a second thought to something like that? Caspar didn't care. He couldn't. All he cared about was getting his arms around Linhardt and holding him tight, no matter how awkward the angle was with him still lying prone on the bed. "Lin…"

Damn, he hated how his voice cracked.

"Goddess, Lin, you scared the shit out of me."

Beside him, Manuela huffed. "Normally I'd say something about using all that language in the infirmary, but I think I'm willing to let it go for the moment." She laid a hand on Caspar's shoulder. "You really should let him rest."

"He's been doing nothing but resting for the past three days." Caspar looked back at Linhardt, at the deep dark circles under his eyes and the almost ghostly pallor on his face. The more he looked, the sicker Linhardt seemed, but Caspar didn't want to dwell on that. He forced a smile instead. "This is lazy even for you."

"Nn…being on death's doorstep takes a lot out of you."

"Don't joke about that!" He tugged a chair over, dragging it across the already scuffed floor and finally letting his smile drop. "Ya know…your father was here. I saw him earlier. He looked…he looked worried sick, Lin. It really freaked me out."

Linhardt turned toward the window, sighing as if the tiny movement took more effort than he wanted. "I figured."

"You knew?"

"I had a feeling…I thought I remembered hearing him, but I wasn't quite sure. It was all a little foggy. I figured I was just dreaming, but…" His eyes rested on the spread of flowers and letters and sweets on the window sill, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out for them, but his hand seemed too heavy.

Caspar nudged him. "We wrote you a letter. Our class did. Well, Ferdinand wrote it. We all signed it. Look-" He reached over Linhardt's bed, grabbing the parchment closest to his pillow and tucking it into Linhardt's hands. "Bernadetta said she couldn't even read his handwriting."

"I don't think I'm going to fare much better," Linhardt groaned, squinting. "I'll just go ahead and assume that whatever Ferdinand wrote is quite touching and overly sentimental." He let out a heavy sigh, eyelids drooping. "I'm exhausted…"

"You can't go back to sleep now! You just woke up!"

"Mhmm…"

He already sounded like he was drifting off, hand resting limp over the parchment on his chest. "Lin, c'mon-"

"Caspar, let him rest," Manuela insisted. She was already plucking the parchment out from under Linhardt's hand, placing it neatly on the window sill. She let out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping, and damn – she looked almost as tired as Linhardt did. Something about her expression made Caspar's breath catch in his throat as she turned and busied herself organizing one of her cabinets that was already plenty neat to begin with.

Caspar swallowed. "Professor Manuela?"

She paused. Not a good pause. Not a good pause at all.

"Something's wrong," he said. He could already tell. That same feeling that he could remember twisting in the pit of his stomach when they'd gone to confront Miklan Gautier. He hated this feeling – hated it. "Professor Manuela, what's going on? He woke up, didn't he? That's got to be a good thing-"

"He woke up because the medicine I gave him for the pain wore off. Seems he's not in much discomfort at this point, but that's not always a good thing, I'm afraid."

She looked so tired, just like Minister von Hevring had. Caspar swallowed and forced himself to ask, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I suppose you know quite a bit more than Seteth would like, so I'll be blunt. What happened to him is…according to Hanneman, nothing like it has ever happened before. Removing crests is a nasty business in the best of cases, but this…" She was holding her hands in front of her, fingers clasped like she was praying, and the heavy bags under her eyes were caked with foundation that wasn't doing its job of covering them. And this feeling in Caspar's stomach…he could barely concentrate on anything else.

He only snapped back to listening to what Manuela was saying when her hands closed around his, nails tapping against his bruised knuckles. "I've been doing this sort of thing for longer than I'd care to admit, but goddess forgive me, it never gets any easier. Wounds and poisons are easy enough to take care of, but this goes beyond what faith magic and medicine can touch. It would take a healer much more powerful than I am to fix this…"

Her eyes gleamed, sunlight glinting off a sheen of tears under her lashes. And oh, he hated this. He hated that tired, pitying look in her eye, like she'd already given up. "He's dying," he choked as he tugged his hand away. "That's what you're saying, right?"

Manuela nodded, wordlessly, her lip caught between her teeth.

"But he woke up! He was talking to me a second ago! He was – I've been – I was looking for something in the library that might help, and-" His body felt cold and heavy, like he'd been standing out in the rain for hours. "You can't just give up! You can't just-"

"Caspar-"

"No! No, you can't – you have to-"

"Caspar, breathe."

He tried. Couldn't. The air was too thick. "No. No, no, no…I…he…I can't…"

"Caspar, darling, you need to-"

He couldn't breathe, but he could run. Somehow, it was all he could do. So he did – he stumbled backwards, rushed down the hallway, the stone blurring together into nothing but a mass of gray and white. He needed space. He needed air. Suddenly there was cold stone under his hands and a strong breeze on his face as he fell to his knees halfway across the bridge to the cathedral.

It hit him all at once – circling around him and closing in, squeezing his chest, twisting inside of him. He couldn't stop turning it over and over in his head, couldn't get the image of Linhardt so frail and exhausted out of his mind, couldn't breathe-

Goddess, he couldn't-

A hand pressed firmly down on his back, a familiar voice cutting through the fog in his brain. Blearily, he looked over to find her – Shamir, kneeling next to him on the stone. She was talking. Caspar could tell that much. But whatever she was saying was getting lost in the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

Dying.

Lin was dying.

After so many years of always being okay, after months of sealing wounds and curing poison on the battlefield, suddenly he was dying and there was nothing Caspar could do-

"M'gonna be sick…" he muttered, barely realizing he was doing it, and a second later Shamir was picking him up by the collar like he weighed less than a spear, holding him up against the railing of the bridge.

"Just not on my shoes," she said, the first thing he could make out.

Well, at least Caspar managed that much.

This certainly wasn't what Shamir had pictured herself doing when she had joined the Knights of Seiros.

Oh, sure – parts of it were familiar enough. Patrolling church territory, guarding the monastery, killing when the situation called for it. Old skills translated well from being a mercenary to being a knight, even if she doubted she'd ever settle comfortably into answering to Lady Rhea or Seteth or any other figurehead of the church.

Babysitting students was certainly not part of the job description she'd signed up for. Listening to noble-born brats complain about the demands of their families and their classes got old quickly, and she'd long since decided to ignore it for the most part. It was the only way she avoided having a constant headache, which was the last thing she needed distracting her from her work.

Still, she found herself rubbing Caspar's back while he unceremoniously emptied his stomach over the bridge railing, guiding him down to sit on the cold stone when he was done, even perching next to him with her back against the barrier, their shoulders pressed together. She did it without saying a word, and watched him press his face against his palms and shudder.

"Lin…" he croaked. "Lin…Linhardt is…"

"I know," she answered. "I heard."

"This is all wrong…he has to be okay…he can't…I can't…"

This wasn't the same Caspar she'd seen before, coming at her with his arm cocked back to throw a punch that would have hit hard if she'd let it connect. It wasn't the same Caspar who was always loudly proclaiming his desire to take on anyone and everyone with a pulse – the taller and more heavily armored the better – or eating half his weight in sweet buns and charred pheasant. This Caspar was shaking like a leaf, as gray as the stone underneath them, with the kind of fear in his eyes that made him look closer to his actual age than Officer's Academy students tended to seem.

Kids. These were all just kids, all of them, laboring under the expectations of their families, or the lack thereof. Sometimes Shamir forgot that.

She sighed, and said, "You can."

Caspar turned to look at her, looking unsteady even just sitting on the stone. "What?"

"It feels like you can't lose your friend and go on living," she told him. "Like if you lose him you won't be strong enough to take it. But you can, and you will. Things like this have a way of making you realize you can take a lot more than you think."

He just stared at her, wide-eyed. Confused and scared. Young. So damn young. Shamir pinched her brow.

"I…lost someone once. Someone very dear to me. And when I did, it felt like I was dying." She stared at the cracks between the stone instead of looking at those eyes of his. She hated how much he reminded her of how it had felt. How lost she had been. Listless and angry and terrified. "It was hard." As if that was anything but a horrifying understatement. "But I'm still alive. I still have my own purpose. I cut my own path."

Caspar curled his arms around his knees, huddling into a tight ball that made him look even smaller than he was. "I'm such a failure," he breathed, shuddering. "I'm not strong enough or…or smart enough, or brave enough to help. I just ran away. Like a coward. And an idiot. Just a worthless, weak, stupid failure-"

His voice broke, fingers twisting in his hair until his knuckles went white. "You're in pain," Shamir said instead of arguing. "Even an animal will run from pain. It's simple fight or flight. And you're no more a failure than I was for doing the same thing."

Not sure what else to do, Shamir pressed her hand against his arm, giving it a squeeze.

"At least you have something I didn't. The chance to say goodbye."

Caspar let out a quiet sob. "I can't…"

"You can. It'll hurt like hell, but you can."

"I'm not as strong as you are, Shamir."

"Isn't taking on people and things stronger than you are your specialty?"

That sounded like a laugh, heavy and humorless as it was. He didn't agree, but he didn't argue either, and Shamir figured that had to count for something.

They'd finally received news, and it wasn't good. By the time the sun started to set over Garreg Mach, Byleth was already on her way to the infirmary, wondering what she was going to find there. Certainly nothing particularly good, considering what Manuela had told her just a few minutes before.

"A few days maybe, but more likely a matter of hours. To be honest, I'd expect he probably won't last the night."

After so long protecting her students on the battlefield, she wasn't sure how to face this. Or how to face the others when it inevitably fell to her to break the news.

She wasn't good at this sort of thing. Never had been. But she steeled herself and pushed open the door.

The infirmary was quiet, almost eerily so, and lit by a few half-burned candles as the sunlight quickly faded. It cast the entire room in a deep golden hue that was at the same time both soothing and gut-wrenching, given the circumstances. And over by the window, with his back to her as he hunched over Linhardt's bedside, was Caspar, who barely even seemed to notice that the light was fading at all.

Byleth closed the door behind her and took a steadying breath. "Professor Manuela filled me in."

Caspar hummed, the bare minimum acknowledging her presence. She hardly minded. As stifling as the silence felt, she wasn't here to make lighthearted conversation over tea.

"I need to talk to the rest of the house," she offered. "But I wanted to come see you first. She said you'd been here some time…"

Another hum. Caspar leaned forward to rest his chin on his forearms, hand draped over Linhardt's chest, rising and falling with each slow, labored breath.

"Caspar, I…" Byleth swallowed. "I'm not very good at saying the right thing at times like this, but, I'm…" Sighing, she pressed a hand against his shoulder and drew a carefully wrapped parcel from her pocket. "I brought you some food from the dining hall. Dorothea insisted you should try and eat something, if you can. I think she's right."

She laid it on the bed next to Caspar's elbow, but he didn't even glance at it. Not surprising. She barely felt like eating herself. For the first time since coming to the monastery, she'd let her dinner go cold. Jeralt had studied her, looking worried, but he hadn't said a word.

No use lingering when there was nothing more to say or do, she thought, and she made her way back toward the door. But as she reached for the doorknob, Caspar's voice broke the silence:

"I've been afraid of lightning since I was a kid, ya know."

Byleth paused with her fingers brushing the door, letting her hand fall back to her side. "You weren't too keen on my lecture on Thoron spells a few weeks ago."

"Yeah…" Caspar shifted, just enough to glance at the charm resting against the window. It was hand-carved wood, worn down from years of handling. It looked like it had been painted once. "When I was little…really little…there was this storm that hit Enbarr and the surrounding territories. It flooded the rivers, knocked down trees. Felt like the end of the world." He let out a shuddering breath. "And my brother…I remember him looking out the window and telling me he thought he saw one of the old dogs that liked to wander around, under the bushes outside."

"Poor thing," Byleth commented, and Caspar let out a humorless laugh.

"Yeah, except there wasn't a dog. He was messing with me, that's all. But I didn't know that, so I put on my coat and my boots and went out the check, and before I knew it he'd closed the door behind me." He huffed. "Like an ass."

"He left you out there?"

"I tried to get back in, but he'd already locked it." Caspar had his eyes closed tight, his fingers curling over Linhardt's chest. "I just remember the rain…so much rain…pouring down onto me, and I was cold and shaking and the next thing I knew this bolt of lightning just, just – bam! Struck the big willow tree in front of the house. Thirty feet away. I thought that was it. It was so loud, and so bright, and I thought I was dead, and then-"

His shoulders shuddered as he drew in another breath, unsteady and catching in his throat.

"My father finally unlocked the door," he said, quietly. "Told me not to drip on the carpet." 

Byleth's chest ached. "That's callous."

"Yeah, well…" Caspar merely shrugged instead of finishing that thought, his thumb stroking along the edge of the blanket tucked up against Linhardt's neck. Caspar's teeth pressed down against his lip. "That's how I feel right now," he said. "Like I'm out there in the rain again…like it's all pouring down around me and any second I could get struck by lightning and that'll be it. Except it feels like nobody is coming to open the door this time…" With a shaking hand, he wiped his eyes. It didn't seem to help. "I think I'd rather get a bolt of lighting to a chest than this, you know?"

"Caspar…"

"I'm sorry, professor," he choked, sniffling as he rested his chin against Linhardt's shoulder. "I just…I really wanna be alone right now. Is that okay?"

Hand finding the doorknob again, Byleth nodded. "Of course it is."

As she made her way to the academy classrooms, she could already see candlelight filtering out from the Black Eagles' doorway. Her students – most of them, at least – were lingering inside, and now she had to go and be the bearer of bad news.

Letting out a quiet breath as she leaned against the stone wall, Byleth thought to herself that she really would have preferred fighting bandits to something like this.  

Chapter Text

"Poor Lin…" Dorothea's voice was barely a whisper, breaking over a muffled sob as she stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. "Oh, poor Lin. And poor Caspar. He's been worrying himself sick over Linhardt for days, and now…" Her shoulders slumped, fresh tears pouring from her eyes. "I can only imagine what he has to be feeling now."

"There's…there's really nothing anyone can do?" Bernadetta pleaded. "Nothing at all?"

Stomach tying itself in knots, Byleth shook her head.

Bernadetta's gaze was fixed down on her shoes. "I didn't even read him the letter." Her hands balled up into tight fists. "After all the trouble we went through to write it, I couldn't even read it to him and now – ugh, stupid Bernie…"

"You delivered it, and that's what matters most," Edelgard told her. "The last thing any of us need to start blaming ourselves for what's happened."

There was something in her eyes – such a quick flash that Byleth almost missed it. A shadow of something heavy weighing on her expression for just a moment. It was gone again before she had a chance to blink.

She swallowed, then continued: "As…uncomfortable as it is to consider, the academy does have certain…traditions in place for when a student-" Just a moment's hesitation. "-well, when something like this happens."

"When a student dies, you mean," Ferdinand offered, voice uncharacteristically solemn. 

Edelgard sighed. "Yes. Allowances for mourning and rest, for those who need it. Though I suppose…I suppose the details of that can wait until…"

Bernadetta grimaced, hands pressed over her ears. "I don't want to talk about this! Mourning and death…it's not right! Linhardt doesn't deserve this…I mean, sure, he's kind of lazy sometimes and he can be sort of rude, but he…he doesn't deserve any of this…"

"I doubt there is a single one of us who would claim he deserves what happened," Ferdinand sighed. "I wonder…perhaps we could hold a vigil for him. And Caspar too. To be perfectly honest, I doubt that any of us will get much sleep, all things considered."

Hubert made a noise, nearly inaudible – a soft, almost disapproving huff. Unsurprising, Byleth thought. Truth be told, she didn't put much faith in things like vigils herself. "Maybe it would be better than lying awake wondering all night," she relented.

Wondering if Linhardt was still alive. Not the most pleasant of thoughts.

Edelgard's fingers tapped against the desk for a moment before she straightened up and said, "It's probably best for everyone if you do what you feel you must. If you believe that prayer will help you get through the night, then…"

"If that's the case," Hubert said, "I have other tasks that need seeing to elsewhere. So I'll be taking my leave."

He turned to go, made it all of two steps toward the door, and suddenly Dorothea was on her feet, eyes blazing and knuckles white as she cute a path straight toward him. "What is wrong with you?" she hissed, and Hubert turned to glance at her. "Being so callous at a time like this – when one of our friends is lying on his deathbed up in the infirmary? I knew you could be cold, Hubert, but this is heartless even for you!"

Raising a brow, Hubert smirked. "You think me heartless, do you?"

"I know you could care less about prayer or vigils, but the least you could do is show an ounce of sympathy!"

"I fail to see how sympathy will help Linhardt or anyone else at a time like this," Hubert huffed. "Though if that's what you're looking for, you can find it from plenty of other people besides me. Still, if it would make you feel better to slap me across the face, I certainly won't stop you."

Dorothea simply glared at him, hands shaking at her sides.

"I thought not. If that's all…"

He turned on his heel and left, and Dorothea sank into the nearest seat, looking exhausted, defeated. The silence that hung over the room was thick and uncomfortable, like a humid fog, broken only by the sound of Dorothea quietly sniffling as Petra wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against her shoulder again. For a moment, Ferdinand's hand lingered halfway to her other arm, pausing there in the space between them before he finally pulled it back into his lap.

Bernadetta drew a shaky breath. "I…have some extra prayer candles in my room," she said in a quiet voice. "I could get them."

Byleth nodded, not particularly keen on saying much else, and the moment Bernadetta had scurried out of the room again, she turned her gaze toward Edelgard. The leader of the Black Eagles house looked even smaller than her actual size, shoulders hunched and brows pinched as she stared at the chalk board with her arms crossed over her chest. It was unlike her to look so shaken. Byleth wondered if that was why she'd turned her back to the rest of the classroom. To hide the concern etching itself into the lines between her eyebrows.

When Byleth stepped a bit closer, Edelgard didn't turn to look at her, but she did speak: "Dorothea must think Hubert awfully cold." She let out a sigh. "I certainly don't blame her. Not when she's in pain. Though to be honest, I have to admit I agree with him. I've always found prayer and vigils to be a waste of time and effort. It's not as if it will make any difference to Linhardt or anyone else."

"Maybe," Byleth relented after a moment's pause. "But sometimes it can be a comfort to the living."

"The living…you say that as if Linhardt has already passed. Though I suppose at a time like this, it doesn't matter much either way."

They made their way together toward the window, standing on the other side of the lecturer's desk with their backs to the room. Byleth watched as Edelgard fixed her gaze on the stars outside, her lips pressed together in a hard line that made her look older than her real age. "I've been called heartless a handful of times myself," she said. "Much like Hubert, I've managed not to let that sort of thing get to me. No matter how selfish or callous it may seem, I simply cannot allow myself to take part in a ritual that I hold no belief in."

"You don't want to join in the vigil?" Byleth asked.

"It would be hypocritical of me, don't you think? I don't have faith in the goddess or the power of prayer. All it does is make people feel helpless."

"Sometimes people really are helpless."

Edelgard frowned. "I suppose at times like that…times like these…if people want to find comfort in it, I cannot stop them. But still, I cannot pretend to believe in something I don't." She glanced at Byleth, curiosity written in her features. "What about you, Professor? Do you plan on praying for our classmate's soul?"

"I…don't particularly pray much either."

"Well, I hope that nobody thinks you heartless for something like that." She turned her gaze toward the window again, leaning against the stone. "I must admit, I can't help but feel something worse than helplessness," she sighed. "Self-centered as it might seem, I feel partially responsible for all of this."

"Responsible?"

"I knew just how brilliant Linhardt truly was – is-" She pinched the bridge of her nose with a choked back groan. "Brilliant minds like his are dangerous when they idle. I thought I was doing my part, pushing him to attend classes and pursue his interests in that research of his, but…" Edelgard stared down at her hands, pressed against the cold stone by the windows, some emotion that Byleth couldn't quite place twisting her face. "I cannot afford to question my ability to lead, whether it's a class like this or an entire country. It's not a luxury that I have, I'm afraid. And yet…"

Before she had the chance to finish that thought, the sound of voices drew their attention back toward the classroom again. Bernadetta had just finished laying out an armful of candles on the nearest desk, but she seemed to have frozen in place, staring at the doorway along with the rest of their classmates.

All eyes turned toward Hubert, who placed a tray next to the pile of candles without a word. On it were a kettle and a ring ceramic cups.

"Hubie…" Dorothea breathed. "What…"

"You've made it perfectly clear that none of you plan on getting any sleep tonight," he said as he carefully and neatly filled each cup with steaming dark coffee. The scent of it was almost enough to knock Byleth right off her feet. Strong stuff. He held a cup out to Dorothea, and she blinked at it. "Do try and drink it while it's hot. I'd rather none of it went to waste."

She took it without a word, and the next cup went to Ferdinand.

"Don't you dare complain about the bitterness," Hubert warned.

Ferdinand took it and frowned. "I had no plans to-"

"Sugar, Bernadetta?"

"Oh!" Bernadetta squeaked. "Um…I…yes please."

Dorothea swallowed a sip, grimacing – no doubt from the bitterness Hubert had warned about – and staring down into the cup, her face flushing pink. "Hubie…I…"

Whatever she was trying to say, she seemed to think better of it.

The evening was a quiet affair, but even so the classroom was far from empty. As the night wore on, more and more students found their way in. Lysithea was the first, not saying a word as she perched in the far corner of the room, staring into the flickering flame she held in her hands. Mercedes and Annette shared a candle, sitting on a makeshift nest of pillows and blankets that they'd piled against the lecturer's desk. Ashe looked deep in thought as he forewent the candles altogether, staying silent and listening to Marianne's quiet, reverent prayers.

At some point while the moon was still high Dorothea fell asleep against Petra's shoulder, Petra's cheek resting on her hair, and Ferdinand plucked the still flickering candle from Dorothea's limp hand and extinguished the flame between his fingers.

The infirmary bed was nowhere near large enough for two, but Caspar did the best he could with what they had. A few extra pillows and a spare blanket wrapped around their shoulders, he tucked himself up as close to Linhardt's side as he could manage, letting Linhardt's head rest against his collarbone and pressing his own hand against Linhardt's ribs. Feeling every breath, stomach lurching whenever the next one came slower than usual.

The room was quiet except for that breathing. So quiet it almost made Caspar's head spin. At some point Professor Manuela had told him she'd leave them be for a bit, but he had no idea how long ago that had been.

He swallowed, sparing a glance down at Linhardt's sleeping – unconscious? Was that a better word for it? – form. Hair a mess, face paler than usual, lips lightly parted and so chapped that Caspar bit his own in sympathy.

Caspar let out a breath. "Manuela said I should…say whatever I need to say to you now." His chest ached, but he swallowed down another round of tears. Didn't want to waste time with that now. Not when there was so much he needed to get out and Goddess knew how much time he had to do it. "I don't think I can though…there's so damn much I want to say to you, you know? So many things I still wanted to do…"

It was a clear night, but he swore he could hear thunder. He reached out for the charm on the window sill, fitting it against his palm just like he had countless times before, running his thumb along the ridges.

"I heard a rumor…there are plans for a ball in the works. You'd probably hate that sort of thing. You always told me you couldn't stand dancing and fancy dress clothes." He managed a quiet little laugh, picturing Linhardt's face screwed into a mask of disgust when they'd gotten fitted for their academy formal wear. "Still…I was kinda looking forward to it. Not the dancing, really. I can't dance to save my life. But…"

He paused, tripping over his words. He'd wanted to get them out for so long. Longer than he wanted to admit. But they'd always felt too big, too complicated. And he could never figure out the right way to get them out.

Never been clever enough to string them together in a way that didn't feel ridiculous.

Arm around Linhardt's shoulders, Caspar pulled him closer, swallowing back a lump in his throat and whispering it, because it was the best he could manage: "I was gonna ask you to go with me."

A part of him expected Linhardt to open his eyes right then and there, to stare at him incredulously and ask him why the hell he would ask him something like that when both of them would inevitably make fools of themselves. But Linhardt's face didn't so much as twitch. Goddess help him, Caspar thought that would make it easier somehow, but it didn't. It made it harder. So much harder.

But he kept going anyway.

"I was gonna ask you to the ball. I wanted to go with you. And not just as friends either. I was gonna ask you, because I was gonna finally tell you…I…Linhardt, I…" He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his nose against Linhardt's head and trying to force back the onslaught of pain rising up in his chest, because if he started crying again now he wouldn't stop until the sun came up. He might never stop.

Linhardt's chest rose and fell against his palm. Ragged breaths in and out…in and out…

"I don't want you to be in pain, Lin…" Caspar sighed. "I don't want you to be hurting. So I'm…I'm right here, okay? If you need to…to let go…I'm…"

His fingers curled against Linhardt's shirt, nails digging into the fabric. He left it at that, eyes closed so tight that bursts of light bloomed across his vision.

Somehow, between the regular push and pull of Linhardt's breathing and his own bone-deep exhaustion, he fell asleep sometime before sunrise.

A breath in…

People said things like "as easy as breathing" so often that Linhardt had started to take it for granted. It was for things that were simple. Things that came naturally. But about now, he was questioning that turn of phrase.

A breath out…

Breathing…it was supposed to be so simple. Effortless. And yet it seemed to take every ounce of effort he could muster just to keep it going.

In…

It hurt like hell.

Out…

He was so damn tired.

In…

As a child he'd been fascinated with how long he could hold his breath. He would lie in bed and let all the air in his lungs out in one rushing go, lie there still and see how long it would take for the burning his chest to force another breath in.

Out…

He was curious now. He waited. Waited for that burning, aching need to spread through his chest and thump in his ears. But it never came. Like his body cared as little as he did.

He waited. Another second more. Another five. Another ten.

What would happen if he kept waiting, he wondered? The answer was obvious. And yet it hurt less then pulling in another breath. It didn't hurt at all.

Death, it turned out, was effortless.

"Don't be afraid."

Afraid? What an odd thing to say. As if Linhardt was afraid at all. Yet a second later, he felt it – a white-hot flames spreading through his chest, raging all the way from his throat down to his fingertips. Like breaking the surface of the water, his body sucked in a long, greedy, painful breath.

He opened his eyes, vision blurry, like he was looking through a haze. But he saw it – saw her. A figure framed by the familiar, pulsing glow of faith magic. She smiled, hair swept back over her pointed ears, bright green eyes meeting his.

Her fingers were soft and careful as she pressed them against his eyelids, drawing them closed again. Probably for the best, considering all the legends he'd heard of mere mortals' eyes bursting into flames when they beheld the Goddess.

Considering that he was still in one piece – and not on fire – he figured those legends were exaggerated.

Or, more likely, it wasn't Sothis herself with her hand against his forehead. But he couldn't get that face out of his mind – that sea-green hair and those shining eyes, neatly pointed ears and soft, soothing smile.

"Rest easy," she told him, and he felt himself fading again, but not falling into the cold, numb nothing from before. It felt like sinking into a warm bed. "Wake in the morning. And things will be better."

The morning felt awfully far away, but he didn't mind. Her voice was so easy to listen to. So soothing he let himself drift off.

As easy as breathing.

Caspar woke up groggy, groaning as a sliver of sunlight made it through the window and cast across his eyes. Still half asleep, he thrust an arm up over his eyes, turning away from the source of it and nuzzling against the warm body tucked up against his side. It was quiet in the early morning, and Caspar almost drifted off again-

Morning.

Caspar's eyes shot open, his breath catching in his chest, heart pounding. When had he fallen asleep? He had never meant to. He'd been determined not to. And yet here he was, with the night already gone and the morning sun staring him right in the face.

And Linhardt…

Linhardt…

He swallowed, gathering all his courage, slowly looking down. He was so quiet. So still. Linhardt was…

"Lin?" he asked, voice barely there. Hand shaking, he reached out to press a hand against his shoulder. "Linhardt?"

Goddess, Linhardt was-

…burrowing further down into the blankets and muttering, "No."

Caspar stared, mouth hanging open. "L-Lin?" He was hallucinating. He had to be. Because Linhardt was-

"Too early," he insisted, snuggling closer to Caspar's body, arms slung lazily over his chest. "Wake me up in another five minutes."

Linhardt was…alive?

"Lin!" Caspar's arms flew around Linhardt's body, practically hauling him up against his chest and holding him so tightly Caspar could feel the air rush out of him. "You're – Lin, you're awake! How are you – why are you – you're supposed to be-"

Linhardt stared up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, and that was when Caspar saw it – the glint of light seafoam green in his right iris where there had been blue before. He blinked, pouting in the way that only Linhardt could and saying, "So I take it you're not going to let me sleep in?"

Laughing, sobbing, Caspar held him, and slowly, Linhardt's arms wrapped around Caspar in return.

"Caspar," he said after a moment, "Are you…alright?"

Yes. No. Caspar didn't even know himself. But somehow he didn't care. It didn't matter.

Because Linhardt was.

And that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

His recovery, Professor Hanneman had told him multiple times, was nothing short of miraculous. And as little as Linhardt believed in miracles, once he'd been filled in on the details of it all, he had to admit it was hard not to agree. His memory of the incident itself was hazy at best and felt more like a half-remembered nightmare at worst. He probably should count himself lucky for that. But to think that he'd removed his own crest and lived…it was fascinating, he had to admit.

Even more fascinating was the fact that it was back. It should have been impossible. And yet there it was. The Minor Crest of Cethleann. Right where he'd left it. It was almost like all of this had been a bad dream, and if not for the striking evidence to the contrary in his right eye, he would have suspected it was.

His left was still the same blue he'd had his whole life, but his right…the color of early morning light through an emerald. All in all, not a bad price to pay for not being dead.

He was back on his feet again within days of waking up to Caspar sobbing while holding him in his arms like he was going to float away otherwise. In a week he was beginning to feel like himself again. That week felt like a blur – full of his classmates crying all over him and bringing him even more sweets and flowers to join the ones that were already piled by his bed. It was almost surreal. But he wasn't going to complain about getting more of Mercedes' baked goods than he knew what to do with.

Stranger than anything else was seeing his father again, when he was still too weak to really manage much more than a few monosyllabic responses. But tired as he looked – nothing new – it was also the happiest he'd seen his father in ages.

And that was just far too much for him to mull over for now.

Luckily, he had enough visitors to keep his mind occupied. Petra brought him a pile of notes from the lectures he'd missed, and Bernadetta snuck in books from the library to keep his mind busy with something more interesting. By the time he was out of bed again, Ferdinand was constantly offering to carry anything as light as a quill for him (not an offer he was ever going to pass up, no matter how ridiculous it seemed). Dorothea was so insistent that he eat regularly that she would track him down three times a day without fail and all but drag him to the dining hall.

And Caspar was…well, Caspar was Caspar. Always popping into the infirmary when he was still sweaty and smelly from training, bringing him sweet buns from the dining hall or telling about how handily he'd won the house vs. house brawling competition that the professor had entered him in. Keeping Linhardt's routine…routine. Even after he was out of bed again, Caspar was stuck to his side so firmly that he may as well have covered himself in tree sap and tied them both together with twine.

It was…comforting.

Linhardt was thoroughly sick of the infirmary by the time he finally managed to leave it. So much so that even spending time in the library was a bit too close for his liking. He spent more time than he thought he ever would sitting by the lake, enjoying the fresh air. After so long confined to a bed, napping out in the sun was practically a taste of heaven.

But he did wander back up to the second floor about a week after he'd managed to leave it, wandering down the corridor until he found Seteth's office. The door was open, so he didn't bother knocking, instead stepping inside and closing it behind him.

"Linhardt," Seteth said, glancing up at him with his quill still in hand.

"I assume that you've been meaning to punish me somehow for performing dangerous experiments on monastery grounds," he sighed. "And I'm tired of waiting for your summons."

Seteth set the quill down, folding his hands over his desk. "It was certainly reckless, but I believe that you may already have been punished enough."

"I did figure that nearly dying was probably worse than expulsion. Though that depends on who you ask."

"I have no plans to expel you. Don't misunderstand though, if I catch wind of you doing anything like this again-"

"I don't have any plans to. I still intend to continue my research, but I think I've had my fill of dark sigils for the time being…"

He did have to admit the subject was intriguing. The danger inherent in it made it even more so. Still, he could focus his efforts elsewhere for now…

He took the liberty of sitting himself down in the chair opposite Seteth. "There was one other thing I wanted to talk about, though. I'm sure you've noticed my right eye is a bit…well, suffice to say it's the first thing that everyone seems to notice about me nowadays."

"Professor Hanneman has assured me that there doesn't appear to be any damage."

"He said the same to me. Still, neither he nor Professor Manuela seem to have any idea what caused it in the first place."

Seteth rose a brow. "And you think I would?"

"Perhaps. And only based on a…well, let's call it a hunch." When Seteth didn't say anything more, Linhardt continued instead: "My hunch is this…It's hard to remember the specifics of much of what happened to me, considering that I was unconscious for the majority of it, but there's one thing I remember as clear as you sitting there in front of me. Everyone assumed that I was going to die, and instead I woke up one morning with my crest intact. There's no way to explain it, as far as Professor Hanneman has told me, but I believe I can."

"Can you?" Seteth asked, a strange edge to his voice that Linhardt didn't think he'd ever heard before.

"For a moment," he said, "When I was dying – and I was dying, I'm sure – I saw a…a girl." Seteth's fingers twitched, almost imperceptibly. "I thought she was the goddess, as out of it as I was, but now that I think about it, I don't think that was true at all."

"A dream, perhaps?" Seteth offered. "It's not uncommon for the goddess to appear to people in dreams."

"Yes, but I don't think it was a dream. Nor do I think it was the goddess at all. She was a person. She touched me, and she felt real enough." He could still remember her fingers against his forehead, so soft and gentle, crackling with faith magic. It almost made him shiver. "A young woman, with hair the color of sea foam and bright, sparkling eyes…and pointed ears-" Linhardt's gaze wandered to Seteth's hair where it fell against his jaw. Seteth was so statue-still that he seemed more like a painting than a person. "A figure like that appearing to someone on their deathbed and pulling them back from the brink of demise…It bears a striking resemblance to a legend that was passed down the Hevring family for several generations. I believe my ancestor by the name of Helmut Friedrich von Hevring wrote a book about that very legend-"

"I've read it."

"So you know what I'm talking about."

"I do," Seteth sighed. "And as fascinating as it may be, I'm afraid that I'm all but convinced that what you experienced was a dream."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"That reminds me, how is Flayn doing?"

Seteth blinked. "What?"

"I heard she was bedridden with some kind of illness. Not life-threatening, thank goodness, but enough to knock her off her feet for some time. I've been meaning to ask after her. Doesn't seem quite fair that as I'm recovering, she seems to be fighting off something so unpleasant."

Swallowing, Seteth picked up his quill again and went back to scratching marks into his parchment, eyes fixed on the ink. "She's doing perfectly fine," he said. "She'll need a fair bit more rest, but she'll recover."

"I hope so. I owe her a 'thank you' at the very least."

Seteth's quill paused.

Linhardt figured he may as well take a leap of faith. That was what any good researcher would do. "I do wonder," he said with a slight smile, excitement bursting in his chest, "How best do you think I would give thanks to a saint? Hypothetically speaking of course."

That finally urged Seteth to look at him again, his gaze so intense that Linhardt wondered if there was a risk of him bursting into flames or melting into the chair. It was fiery, like an unspoken warning.

Ah, so he was right then. Fascinating.

"For what it's worth," Linhardt added, "I don't intend on getting anyone else's opinions on the subject. I figured that as a man of church, you might be able to offer a…unique perspective."

He disliked holding eye contact for very long, but Linhardt did hold Seteth's gaze for a few moments more. It was as interesting as it was uncomfortable, watching about a hundred different emotions flashing across his eyes in the span of a few seconds, none of them ones that Linhardt could place. But finally, Seteth looked down at his parchment again, quill resuming its scratching even thought Linhardt noticed it had already run dry of ink.

"Flayn is fond of sweets," he finally said. "If you were curious about how best to lift her spirits."

"I'll keep that in mind." He stood to leave, lingering behind the chair for a moment before adding, "I've always been intrigued by how a brother and sister could bear two different major crests, you know. In all my studies of crest heredity it doesn't seem like it should be possible. Her a Crest of Cethleann and you a Crest of Cichol..."

"You have a lecture to attend, do you not?" Seteth insisted.  

"I suppose you're right…well, if any sweets go missing from the dining hall, I trust you'll know that I had nothing to do with it."

Seteth didn't answer, but Linhardt supposed that was close enough to a "yes" for him.

It was a little strange, going back to their normal routine again. Classes, training, weekly duties...it seemed too normal. Like things should have been different after everything that had happened. But it was comforting in a way, having a little normality. After all, if things were different, Caspar figured they would be different for the worse.

And he didn't want to think about that now.

But there was one thing that was different, and he couldn't decide if it was better or worse than before. And that was the feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he looked at Linhardt. Oh, it had been there before, just under the surface. But he'd been able to ignore it or pretend it wasn't there. Not that it was bad, but it was big and complicated and hard to put into words, and Caspar had never done well with things like that.

Being in love with his best friend wasn't bad, and it wasn't new, but the growing desire to tell him that much was. And that was the scariest part of it all.

Because one thing he'd learned better than he'd ever wanted to these past few weeks, was that he could never be sure if he would get another chance to do it.

He didn't like thinking that way when he was just trying to enjoy the sunset, watching the light fade as Linhardt lay sprawled across his legs, his head in Caspar's lap and a book held up over his face. It was comfortable, like it had always been – comfortable enough that Caspar barely realized his hand combing absently through Linhardt's hair until Linhardt spoke up: "If you keep doing that you're going to put me to sleep."

Caspar managed a smile, chest feeling tight. "When have you ever complained about that?"

"Far be it from me to turn my nose up at a good nap, but I-" He yawned, resting his book pages-down on his chest. "-this book is fascinating and if I fall asleep before I finish this chapter, I'll be kicking myself later."

"What's it about?"

"Saint Cichol," Linhardt said, letting his eyes flutter closed, apparently so comfortable on Caspar's lap that he didn't care about the book as much as he claimed. "His life, his family…did you know that it's said he was fond of fishing?"

"Maybe you two would have gotten along."

"Mm…I doubt that…" Caspar's heart thudded in his ears as Linhardt turned his head, letting out a long sigh as that Caspar could feel tickling his forearm. "You're thinking about something. It's awfully distracting."

"I'm always thinking about something," Caspar insisted, happy that Linhardt's eyes were closed so he couldn't see his blush.

"Maybe, but you're thinking about something important, aren't you?"

With his free hand, Caspar picked at the grass. "Maybe…"

Linhardt was sitting up a moment later, carefully slipping a bookmark between the pages of the volume in his hands and setting it in his lap. He sat facing Caspar, legs crossed and a pinch in his brow, and for the first time in a long time Caspar got a good long look at the way the sunlight bounced off the iris of his right eye. "Caspar," he said, "If you're still working yourself up over what happened and worrying about a bad outcome that's already been avoided, you're going to make yourself sick."

"I'm not!"

He was.

How could he not? Just a little over a week ago, he'd been holding Linhardt in his arms thinking that he would slip away any moment, and now Linhardt was staring at him with a characteristic furrow in his brow, very much alive. And Caspar was so painfully, overwhelmingly in love with him that he could hardly take it anymore.

He swallowed.

"I guess…" he said, voice raspy. "I guess I just…I keep thinking about all the regrets I would have had if you…"

"Died?"

"Yeah."

Linhardt rose a brow. "Just what regrets would you have had? I'm the one who would have been dead. You could have gone right on living without me."

"No I couldn't!"

Blinking, lips slightly parted, Linhardt stared at him, and Caspar groaned.

"I mean-" He fixed his gaze on the pink horizon, feeling more and more certain with each passing second that the color matched his cheeks. "I could have. But it's not – it wouldn't be the same. Because you're my best friend, and I've known you longer than anyone, and it makes me feel like I'm going crazy when I think about how you could have died before I got the chance to tell you I'm in lo-"

He sucked his lips between his teeth, face blazing hot as Linhardt just kept staring, and the longer he stared, the more a splash of pink crept across his face too. Caspar didn't say another word. He couldn't. His chest was locked in a vise and he could barely breathe let alone get the words out.

"Caspar."

"Yeah?"

"Are you…"

Don't say it…don't ask…if he did, Caspar wouldn't be able to lie to his face and then what the hell would he do?

"Are you in love with me?"

Ah, there it was. Caspar's shoulders slumped, drawing his knees in to his chest and pressing his face against them. "I…I mean…" He let out a sigh. "I was gonna tell you…when I asked you to the ball."

"Ball?"

"There's supposed to be one sometime soon and I was gonna ask you to go with me and tell you…you know…that I'm…"

"I can't stand fancy things like that." A beat later, he added, "And you can't dance."

"Hey, I can dance fine!"

"It would be a disaster," Linhardt insisted with a laugh. "If you really wanted to confess your feelings to me I think a simple kiss would do the job just fine."

"A k-kiss?" Caspar squeaked.

With an easy little smile and half-lidded eyes, Linhardt leaned in closer, hair falling over his lighter-colored iris until Caspar could barely make it out. "Mm," he hummed. "Like this…" He leaned in, closer. Closer. Until Caspar could feel him breathing against his lips. "Caspar…"

"Uh…uhuh?"

"I love you too."

The second Linhardt's lips touched his, Caspar all but forgot about those screams echoing down the stone corridor, Linhardt's pale face as he struggled for those weak, ragged breaths, the tears streaking down his face as he'd held him. It was all replaced by the warm, soft pressure of Linhardt's mouth, Linhardt's hands brushing against his ribs, fingers wandering through his hair. Caspar let out a breath, arms wrapping around him as happiness surged through his chest, and the next thing he knew he was tipping backwards into the grass.

Linhardt let out a yelp that dissolved into a laugh as he stared down at Caspar from arm's length. "Why on earth did it take you this long to say something?"

"Hey, I wanted to say the right thing," Caspar muttered.

"Well, I think you got close enough."

The bedroom was quiet and dim, the curtains drawn, candle flickering gentle on the bedside table. Seteth set down a cup of tea next to it, carefully sitting down on the mattress beside the figure curled under the blankets. He rested his hand against her shoulder.

Flayn stirred, just a bit, glancing up at him from behind a curtain of messy hair. "Is it morning?" she asked, still half asleep.

Seteth offered her a placating smile. "Yes, but you don't need to worry about that. Just rest. I brought you some tea."

Her eyes fluttered closed again. "I suppose that once I'm sufficiently rested, there will be some sort of punishment awaiting me." One eye opened again to look at him. "Surely you're angry."

"No."

Oh, he had been, for a fleeting moment when he'd heard what she'd done. It had been reckless and dangerous and impulsive and…selfless. So painfully selfless. Just like she'd always been.

Just like her mother.

"I shouldn't have expected anything else from you," he sighed. "It was a risky decision, one that put your own life in danger, and yet…I can't help but feel unbelievably proud of you." He brushed the hair away from her temple so that he could see her soft smile. "You saved another life. Perhaps more than one."

"I only did…what I thought was right…"

Halfway asleep already. Seteth leaned in close, pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. "Sleep now, my dear Cethleann," he whispered. "Your friends will be waiting for you when you wake again."

No matter how much she wore on his nerves when it came to her well-being, he supposed he couldn't ask for anything different. After all, he could never wish for a more kind-hearted, strong-willed daughter. Nor would he want to.

She was, after all, the stuff of legends.