Chapter Text
At the war’s conclusion, Lysithea plants daffodils in the monastery greenhouse.
Nothing seems more suitable than the soft, yellow-petal flower meant to symbolize new beginnings. With Edelgard’s new reign, Fódlan is due for a drastic change, including an overhaul of crest-related policies and caste systems. Lysithea can note with some measure of gladness that the value of crests should fall, but more so that the war is finished. No longer will she pay the toll of using two crests in battle.
Admittedly, she never frequented the greenhouse much in her academy days. Most of her free time was spent cooped up in the dusty library, or learning new spells. Nowadays, there is little need to return to her studies. She should learn how to garden instead, or cook and bake. Her family will have little to spare with restoration efforts anyway.
In the greenhouse, the keeper teaches her to pick apart the weeds and suckers from healthy sprouts. She learns how deep to plant the bulbs, and how to predict which ones will grow. She toils in the heat and digs into the dirt. Soil gathers at her fingernails, but it is no bother. They work away in silence, time ticking away unnoticed.
Before long, a knock resounds the room. She glances up to find the green-haired sleepy crest scholar standing at the doorway and stifling a yawn.
“Lysithea? When you have a chance to talk, I would like a moment of your time.”
He sounds tired, but she cannot recall a time when he’s not. Her eyes drop to the leather suitcase sitting at his feet before she tells the greenhouse keeper it’ll only be for a few minutes. She discards her gloves and gives her hands a wash. Linhardt waits patiently, and only pushes himself off the door when she beckons him to follow.
They make the short trek to her room. She leaves the door open because she knows this won’t take long.
He starts off with a sigh. “A while ago, I made a promise to show you the results of my research. It disappoints me so, but as of currently, I have yet to determine a conclusive way to remove your crests.”
Lysithea leans on her desk and looks at him earnestly, even though she expected as much. Wartime left them with little time to indulge in personal matters.
He shakes his head. “…While I am certain it is still possible, I require more time. For now, it remains a work in progress and for that, I am terribly sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says, but as far as admonishments go, it’s a gentle one. “You’ve done more than enough. The fact that you went out of your way to research in the first place…well, I’m grateful. I should be thanking you.”
Her words offer little ease to his dissatisfaction, because in truth, Linhardt has always had strong convictions of his own – it just lies dormant behind a façade of laziness and apathy. He tries to prove he doesn’t care, but failure is not an option for him, and he’d be damned if he had to settle for it. In this case, he might have to, and it shows.
She attempts another tack to ease his mind. “Considering the state of the church, there will be little need for crests anyway. I’m certain Edelgard will make it so.”
He gleans nothing from it. “But what of your life? The war has reached its end and your days are still numbered. It hardly seems fair.”
There’s a pregnant pause.
The two of them reach a standstill and she stares at him for a bit, wondering what he’s thinking.
Lysithea doesn’t know how to counter that so she doesn’t. Eventually she shifts her focus.
“I just remembered. I have something for you,” she pipes up, turning to her pack. After some rummaging, she fishes out a small bag of twine. “…I suppose you can consider it a gift, or maybe just something to remember me by.” She offers the bag to him, and he accepts it easier than she expects. “Just a few daffodil bulbs. I know it’s not much, but I had some to spare.”
“Hmm, daffodils. How fitting,” he acknowledges, inspecting it briefly before pocketing it in his coat.
“I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty, but I figure someone else could plant them for you.”
He gets a small laugh out of that one, not offended in the slightest bit. “You know me too well, but know that I appreciate the gesture. I’m afraid I didn’t prepare anything for you in return.”
She shakes her head and dismisses his concern. In retrospect, they’ve come a long way since their academy days. A time when she would, quite literally, run and hide if they passed through the halls. He’d corner her and ask uncomfortable questions. She would fire back rudely, and tell him not to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong. He even tricked her into revealing her secrets in the first place. Empathy wasn’t his strong suit then, but he’s changed for the better.
“Are you leaving?” She gestures to the suitcase at his feet.
His expression sours into a childish pout. “Indeed. As much as I don’t want to return, my father has been summoning me back to the manor since the war ended. It’s rather troublesome, seeing as I’d much prefer to stay here with Professor Hanneman and continue my research.”
She offers a smile. “Maybe you could – one day.”
“Perhaps. In the meantime, I want to request something of you.”
More probing and inquiries. She braces herself out of habit.
“Please write to me every now and then,” he requests, surprising her a bit. “Forgive my bluntness, but your situation is rather…precarious. It would give me great relief to know you’ve made it home safe and sound. If you’re busy, I understand. You could send an empty page and it would suffice.”
She cannot tell if he’s joking. “Will you write back?”
“Well, of course. If I have a breakthrough, how will I let you know otherwise?”
She eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. This could be the last she’ll see of him. Although she will never admit it out loud, she will miss him. As if coming to the same realization, he exhales deeply and then reaches for his bag.
“Goodbye, Lysithea.”
On his way out, he gently lifts her chin with a finger, tilts her face so she’s looking at him instead of the ground. He scours her features, as if committing them to memory, and then he lets go. Grievance lingers in his eyes even as he leaves.
To: Linhardt von Hevring
I write to inform you that I am home safe and sound, just as you asked.
Lysithea von Ordelia
To: Lysithea von Ordelia
Thank you. Do take care of yourself.
Linhardt von Hevring
She’s been home for nearly three months when Marianne pays her a visit. She stays for only four days, but Lysithea wishes it were longer. The nearest town is a three mile walk, which is a long way to go for social conversation. The house is also quiet, just the sounds of crackling fire and creaking floorboards. Even though she doesn’t consider her parents to be dull company, loneliness finds her fast.
Their yard hasn’t been tended to in years, so Lysithea takes it upon herself to remove the shrubs and greenery growing wild and unchecked. She trims them to proper size and weeds the grasses before they grow too large. It’s back-breaking work, she quickly learns, so Marianne’s offer to help is a welcome reprieve.
One day, they commit the long distance walk to town and return with flower and vegetable seeds in their baskets. Lysithea adds to her repertoire and plants more than just daffodils. Marianne teaches her what to do with the trimmed overgrowth – how to arrange bouquets with only shrubs and greens, or how to press petals and leaves onto sheets of parchment.
Once she leaves, Lysithea pens another letter to soothe her loneliness:
To: Linhardt von Hevring
I understand it’s been a while. Things are going well at home with the exception of one thing: I’m terrible at baking. Rations are difficult to measure. I burned my last attempt at pastries. My dough does not rise enough in the warmer. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. We’ve let go of our kitchen staff to keep afloat, but I miss the cakes and sweets they served at the monastery every Friday.
On a more positive note, I’ve started gardening. With Marianne’s help, I’ve planted honeysuckle shrubs and lilies in our yard. At least that was a success.
Hope all is well with you.
Lysithea von Ordelia
She slips her best pressed flower into the envelope and sends it off with the town courier.
A package addressed to her name arrives one month later:
To: Lysithea von Ordelia
I will be honest and tell you my situation is rather troublesome. I’ve been forced to help with restoration efforts. As you can guess, I have no willpower to sort out bland paperwork, nor do I have the muscle to assist with repairs. I have argued as much, but reason seems to evade my father.
I have asked a gardener to plant your daffodils. I’ve also been sleeping to catch up on lost time. I have no advice to offer on baking, so feel free to find the answers to your questions in the cookbook I have sent.
Oh, and Edelgard stopped by. She hopes you are well and healthy.
Linhardt von Hevring
To: Linhardt von Hevring
Sleeping, huh? Sounds like you. Don’t forget to eat as you sleep for two days straight. And please send Edelgard my regards when you see her next.
Lysithea von Ordelia
To: Lysithea
How inconvenient for both of you to make me your messenger. Why not write letters to each other instead? It’s really quite simple.
Linhardt
To: Linhardt
You can a stubborn pain sometimes, you know that?
Lysithea
To: Lysithea
Yes, I have been well-informed.
Linhardt
She crumples the paper in her hands and rolls her eyes at his lackadaisical response. Linhardt is an intellectual, but comes off petty when he wants to be. And yet, in spite of it all, she also misses that part of him. Even after a year’s time, he crosses her mind every week, just to wonder what he’s doing, where he is, and how he’s coping with family affairs.
She mails her response a month later, and deposits it quick before she regrets it:
To: Linhardt
I miss you dearly. Although it is unlikely, I hope we see each other again.
Lysithea
She waits one month. Two months, and then three.
She gets nothing back. Perhaps the last letter was a mistake.
The town mayor approaches her one day and she forgets it temporarily. Her neighbours know she used to attend Garreg Mach Academy, but what they don’t know is that she helped end the fight against an immaculate demon with origins older than Fódlan itself. She doubts anyone would believe her. Regardless, she’s asked to eliminate the giant wolf beast prowling in the town outskirts.
She accepts the mission mainly for compensation, but she doesn’t expect the struggle that comes with it. She knew eventually how her powers would wane, but she didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
Her miasma comes out in short sprouts and small doses, her swarm is sluggish and her seraphim is difficult to conjure. It might be her lack of practice. In the war, she overused these things until it became second nature. It also didn’t hurt as much. Now, only one day of use and her palms burn, her wrists hurt and her blood pulses unnaturally. Her crests fight for dominance, and she’s lost control of both of them.
She stumbles home that night coughing up blood and sputum. Her body weak and trembling, her mind ravaged with head pains. She’s bedridden for a few days and she’ll lose the battle to her crests if she continues to fight. For now, she wards off magic use indefinitely.
Lysithea is coming down the stairs and hefting a laundry basket higher on her hip when the front door rings. It’s the courier, she thinks, to bring in their daily mail and paper. Dropping her basket, she wipes her hands across her apron and opens the door to a halting shock. He’s definitely not the postman she was expecting.
“L-Linhardt?”
He smiles at her, too casual for her liking, and follows up with a lazy hand wave. “Morning, Lysithea.”
Her shock morphs into disbelief. She sneaks a quick glance into the living room, where her parents are sorting out paperwork, and she lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m here to resume my research, of course,” he says so nonchalantly, as if it’s obvious.
She makes a quiet, but exasperated noise. His aloofness is less than helpful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks at her strange. “Oh. Is this the first time you’re hearing this? I thought I informed you, or perhaps I forgot.”
“You forgot?” she repeats after him, raising her voice a little.
He puts a hand to his chin and thinks back several months prior. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t put it past myself, and it does sound like something I would do…I suppose it would also explain your lack of response.”
Lysithea drops her face into one hand and drags it all the way down. “Linhardt, I haven’t heard from you in months.”
He sighs and puts on his most sincere expression. “How callous of me. Please accept my apologies. I’ve spent the last few months at the monastery actually. It’s kept me awfully busy, but I needed to pick up a few supplies and research material from Professor Hanneman’s office.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”
“Oh, goodness no,” he says, repulsed by the thought of it. “I renounced my noble claim months ago. I’ve been released from duty, and figured I should try being a scholar instead. Clearly, I’m not fit to do much else, nor am I particularly interested.”
She bites her tongue and cools her rage. It occurs to her suddenly that he’s come to help her. She doesn’t even want to imagine what other sacrifices he’s made in order to be here.
“I will require your consent, of course,” he pipes up, sparking her curiosity. “As you know, my goal is to develop a safe process in which we can remove your crests, and for that I would also need your active participation.”
She figured as much. And while hesitation rings in her mind and heart – by now she’s already come to terms with her shortened lifespan – some part of her still clings on to hope, desperate and foolish as it might seem. Strange enough, it’s almost easier to be blissfully ignorant and think it impossible.
“Umm, I…” she starts, fingers worrying and fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. His gaze is patient and sincere, and the conviction written on his face makes her want to believe. She supposes she would be stupid to refuse. “…Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoes with uncertainty.
She nods once. “Okay. I consent.”
He smiles. “Wonderful. To be honest, if you had refused, I would find myself in a very awkward and unfortunate situation.”
She’s about to dig in and ask what exactly prompted him to come all this way – goddess knows Linhardt is rarely motivated by anything – when the sound of footsteps draw near.
“Lysithea, dear? Who are you speaking to?”
Her mother enters the room and Lysithea prepares for the inevitable. Linhardt shoots her a look, silently asking if she prefers to make the introduction. She would, of course, because knowing him, he would go about it in the most nonchalant way possible, as if liberating someone from a cruel fate is no big deal.
He’s invited for dinner that night.
As she helps with meal preparation, Lysithea quickly cuts and shoots down any suspicion that he’s seeking courtship. He is here for research and requires her help. They are nothing more than former classmates. They also don’t need to house him, seeing as he’s already made his own accommodations at the town inn.
Linhardt arrives at approximately sunset, dressed in warmer robes. As he parks his horse at the front, she observes him more carefully. His hair is tied half-up and half-down, but it’s wavy and loose now. On the other hand, his features are still as delicate and pretty as she remembers. He seems relatively optimistic, but she holds on to her doubts.
Unfortunately, the dinner doesn’t go as well as she hopes.
The two of them do their best to explain the nature of their relationship. He explains his desire to help her, and then proceeds tells them in the most humanizing way possible that she is his subject. Lysithea observes carefully, and finds a growing fear and apprehension hidden in her parents’ eyes; all of this is sounding an awful lot like the initial experimentations. She knows it’s not his fault, but the mere notion of crests and blood and transfusions can trigger the horrific experiences.
To spare them the atrocious memories, she puts a hand on Linhardt’s knee and stops him from explaining the process any further. It might not even help, because the damage is already done and the conversation has taken a turn. The atmosphere is tense and almost unbearable. For a split second, she wonders if she is foolish to hope.
She changes the topic then, going back to happier memories untouched by war. Their favourite professors, classes and days at the academy. None of it helps their cause, but she does it anyway.
When the sun sets, Linhardt thanks them for dinner and politely excuses himself, explaining he should return to the inn before the night turns pitch black. Lysithea throws on a coat and follows after him, if only to escape the stiff atmosphere lingering in their dining room.
“I’m sorry if I made a poor impression,” he says with sincerity.
She watches idly as he prepares his horse, her mind heavy and deep in thought. “It’s not your fault. I should have saw it coming. My parents…well, let’s just say the world hasn’t given them much reason to be hopeful.”
He raises a brow at her words. “That would explain their skepticism.”
She sighs and nods in agreement. “Don’t be discouraged by it.”
Linhardt just shakes his head. “Of course not. All the more reason to remove your crests, actually. That’s how I see it, at least.”
She focuses on the dirt ground, wondering if he’s oblivious to the confusion that clouds her mind when he says things like that. After a while, he pats the mare and deems her ready to go.
He must be tired, having travelled from Garreg Mach to Ordelia territory the past few days, so she doesn’t keep him for long. Knowing Linhardt, he needs as much sleep as he can get. Before he leaves, he plants a kiss on her cheek – his own way of telling her to keep faith.
Suddenly there’s a knot in her chest she can’t quite explain.
“For now, I only ask that you trust me,” he says softly.
Her expression softens and loses its edges. “Okay.”