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Linhardt usually avoids the battlefield.
He dislikes the noise, the smoke, the smells. The sight of blood still never fails to turn his stomach, though they’re months into the war now and he knows he should have gotten over it after the first few times he had the misfortune to watch a man die. And yet, every time is somehow almost as bad as the first. It’s a horrible distraction, when he’s out there in the fray, and wasting precious moments trying not to vomit when he could be casting an all-important Physic across the war-torn land that hosts their fight.
Thus, he remains at camp when he can. But sometimes, he can’t. Sometimes, the other side is too great in number, and the Black Eagle Strike Force needs all the help it can get. That’s where he comes in, fingertips glowing with hot white magic, trying his best not to look at the crimson streams that mar the ground at his feet. Running, with Caspar always wielding an axe not too far away. Caspar, being Caspar, relying on Linhardt to pick off enemies at a distance with a well-aimed fire or wind spell as he engages one-on-one with those who get too close.
The first thing Linhardt learned about fighting with axes is just how far blood can splatter when a heavy blade crushes a skull.
It never fails to make him flinch, even now, when that hot blood gets just a little too close. It soaks into his robes and even sprays on his face , and the shock makes him trip on the uneven ground, all just a little too quickly to right himself. Before he’s able to get a grip, Lin, come ON, he’s on his hands and knees, palms scraped just enough by the rocks beneath to well up tiny beads of red when he takes a look. He swallows back the bile in his throat, brushes his hands on his sides, and looks up just in time to see Caspar charging between him and a lance-bearing soldier on horseback.
Time falls into slow motion.
“Cas, no! ”
Caspar swings the axe back, and the horse rears up with a whinny, kicking out. The blue-haired knight ducks aside, out of the way of the hooves, with a grin in Linhardt’s direction. “It’s alright! Get up!”
Linhardt does, scrambling to his feet in a cloud of dust, and summons up a blast of unspecified dark magic to knock the soldier off his horse. He grabs Caspar by the arm, drags him out of the way, and kills the assailant as the animal bolts.
They’ve lost too much time, and in the confusion, their battalions have scattered. It’s just the two of them, and Linhardt keeps Caspar at his back. He isn’t sure what’s burning, but the resulting smoke is thick enough to make the battlefield dark. It burns his eyes and he can hear Caspar coughing.
“We have to move!” Caspar sounds as though it’s hard to get the words out, breathless.
“I know. Go! I’ll be behind you!” If they can get back to the rest of the Eagles, he’ll be able to assess the extent of the injuries Caspar has surely sustained fighting hand-to-hand for however long it’s been since the battle began. It’s hard to keep track of time, but things seem to be getting quieter. Perhaps it means they’re winning, or perhaps they’ve lost, but either way they won’t know until they’re safe and the smoke clears.
Linhardt feels Caspar move, hears metal scraping metal as he runs, and runs right after him.
It could be minutes, or it could be hours. It certainly feels like they've been fighting for hours, by the time Linhardt spots the gentle glow of the Sword of the Creator through the mist, and grabs hold of Caspar's hand. "Come on. We're almost there." Caspar's grip is tight, even though he's hurt, blood steadily tracking down his face and his jaw set as he winces at every step. Linhardt's body protests the movement too, but he pulls Caspar towards the others, ignoring the telltale signs of exhaustion, of having used his magic too much already. There will still be work to do, after all.
The smoke finally clears as they approach their allies, their teacher at the head of them, fingers still curled around their sword. Byleth never relaxes on the battlefield, and rarely settles even back at the monastery. "Caspar. Linhardt." Their voice is quiet in acknowledging the two, never really betraying their emotions. It could carry I'm glad you survived or it's good to see you again. But the words will never come to light.
Fires have been lit for visibility and warmth, and soldiers close by make space for them, so Linhardt guides Caspar close, sits him down, and doesn't ask permission before beginning to undo the heavy straps of his armor. They've been through this too many times to waste energy on the same words. Beneath Linhardt's touch, some of the leather and steel is slippery with blood, but he simply grits his teeth and works away at the fastenings until the plates can be lifted away and set aside.
"You should have let me fix this," Linhardt scolds softly, discovering torn sleeve and beneath it, torn skin staining the cloth red. White magic streams from his fingertips, knitting the wound back together, and with his free hand, he steadies Caspar when he flinches away - from the words or from the sting of the healing, he isn't sure. "Easy, Cas. I'm sorry. It's alright."
"We didn't have time to stop," Caspar points out stubbornly. "If we stopped for you to heal me, you could have gotten hurt. I'm supposed to keep you safe."
A ghost of a smile flutters across Linhardt's concentrating face. "On the contrary, I believe I am the one who is supposed to ensure your safety out here."
Caspar pouts, as he's so prone to do, and if Linhardt weren't so intent on healing him, he'd ruffle his hair until the smile returned. "Can't we just protect each other equally?"
"You mean like we always do?" The wound is closed enough to heal the rest of the way on its own, and Linhardt draws his hand back for a moment. "I wouldn't change the way we are for a moment. I wish to fight beside you, just like this, until we win this war." He shifts positions so Caspar is facing him, so he can work on the head injury, but before he can start again, Caspar buries his face in the folds of his robes and clings to the fabric.
"If I can't fight beside you, I'm not fighting any more," comes the muffled reply. "You make me want to win. So we can have that future we talked about."
Linhardt holds him for a moment. It isn't like he's bleeding out, after all. And if Caspar wants to be in his arms, well, who is he to complain? "You should want to win for more than me, Cas."
"Well, I don't. I don't fight for them. I fight to come back to this!" Caspar gestures to the fire, to Linhardt and himself, curled up beside it.
Linhardt smiles. "Well, then. Keep fighting, my soldier. Sit up, I promise, I'm almost done with you."
When Caspar sits, Linhardt cups his cheek, tilts his head up a little more, and kisses him as he heals the last cuts and scrapes, stitches his skin back together with magic as soothing as he can muster up.
Then, as the others around them begin to retire to their tents and tend to their horses, Caspar gathers a vulnerary and bandages. He lays Linhardt's head in his lap, unties and strokes his tangled hair, and cleans and wraps his bloodied palms. And when Linhardt's exhaustion finally takes over him, when he falls asleep right there under Caspar's watchful eye, he dreams of Caspar, and a world without blood and war, and a little house on the hillside where there can finally be peace.