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Dearest Hubert,
I hope this is not too forward of me, but with the day of the Lovers’ Festival fast approaching, I have decided I must give you this letter before another suitor can beat me to it. I pray I am not already too late, as my greatest fear would be to have missed my window of opportunity to tell you all the ways I have fallen for you.
Long have I admired you from afar, your sharp wit and even sharper tongue piercing my heart better than any sniper's arrow ever could. Your hard work and dedication to the empire show such a remarkable strength of character, a strength I fear most fail to recognize as you stand silently in the shadows. Still, without you and your unwavering loyalty, I am certain the empire would fall apart within a month.
As you are one who works best behind the curtain of the political stage, I hope you will understand my current need for anonymity. While I gladly imagine myself on my knees before you as I loudly profess my love, I know such a gesture would only serve to make you uncomfortable. Still I hope this letter gives you some quiet comfort in knowing that I am thinking of you always, and that my foolish heart is your eternal captive.
Yours,
A man in love
---
The letter looks deceptively innocent. A rose-coloured, perfumed envelope of pricey cardstock embossed with a delicate golden filigree. No seal, no sender’s address, just Hubert’s own name written in an elegant, swooping script across the back. It sits all alone atop his otherwise immaculate desk, providing no clue as to how it has made its way there.
The official mail had been delivered first thing in the morning, as custom. It contained nothing but the usual mundane, boring messages regarding the day to day running of the Imperial Household: the hiring contract for two new chambermaids, an invoice for the last requested shipment of Vintage Ordelian wine, and a time off request from one of the cooks who wished to visit his ailing mother for a few days.
Her Majesty’s mail arrived at eleven o’clock sharp, exactly thirty minutes before Hubert was due to meet with her for their daily briefing. It had been equally uninteresting. Since the end of the War of Unification, Fódlan politics have taken a turn for the predictable and boring. One minor land dispute in old Leicester territory, three invitations for the Emperor to various festivals and feasts, two marriage proposals from a couple of power hungry idiots, and a report of new troop movement across the Almyran border; hardly a novelty, considering von Riegan seems to enjoy having his troops displayed on parade along Fódlan’s Throat every few months in a transparent attempt to dissuade the Emperor from expanding her dominions.
The unofficial mail , arrived at three in the afternoon, delivered by Hubert’s loyal and discreet secretary. Despite the rather abundant number of reports from his spy network, nothing particularly noteworthy stood out. With Those Who Slither in the Dark gone, there were not many left in Fódlan with any skills, or need, for subterfuge. Imperial Peace has permeated the whole continent, from the gilded palaces of Enbarr, to the busy canals of Derdriu. Even the darkest corners of Fodlan’s criminal underworld have been quiet; Hubert’s spies have not reported anything remotely threatening or interesting in months.
Hubert is… adjusting to peacetime. Without a war to prepare for, or fight, and with all of Her Majesty’s enemies dead or exiled, he finds himself with more time on his hands that he knows what to do with. And while he enjoys the afternoons willed away in indulgent tea dates with Adrestia’s unfairly charming Prime Minister, for the first time in a long time Hubert finds himself unsure of what to do next. He’s already started micromanaging the Imperial Household’s staff budget down to the last copper nickel, just to chase away the listless sense of ennui.
The letter, though, delivered directly to his desk independently of any other mail, offers him a glimpse of intrigue. A new and tantalizing mystery for Hubert to untangle.
He flattens the paper against the top of his desk, gloved fingers running along the edge as he takes note of the heavy weight of it. He opens the small drawer underneath his desk with a quick magical sigil and pulls out his old, trusty notebook; the one with frayed black leather covers and yellowed out pages, where Hubert’s most important schemes and findings had been written and scribbled down all throughout the War.
He flips through the book until he reaches a blank page, smooths out the spine, and sets to writing.
---
2nd Guardian Moon, Imperial Year 1187
Anomalous piece of mail found on desk, not using any of the official channels. Sender unknown. It seems to masquerade as a passionate love note, however several details point to it being a message in code.
- Sender didn’t use the designated channels, opting to show off their skill in infiltrating my personal quarters without my notice. A clear, direct threat against the security measures employed within the palace (Note: must speak with the Captain in charge of security of the afternoon shift)
- Code doesn’t seem to match any of the common Vestra keys. Will need to consult old Faerghus and Leicester codes to decipher it (maybe Almyran as well?)
- Significant clues so far:
- Lover’s Festival: a deadline of some sorts? Is this a warning or a threat? (Note: speak with the Guard to reinforce security measure for the festival, with all the lovelorn fools clogging the streets any kind of attack risks causing major casualties)
- “Window of opportunity” → This phrase seems to indicate the sender’s movements are restricted in some way. Future communication may be difficult or altogether impossible. A double agent risking their cover?
- “Sniper's arrow” → Are they revealing the method for assassination attempt? Who is the target? Her Majesty? Prime Minister? (Note: Make sure to personally inspect and secure all rooftops and high buildings ahead of the Lover’s Festival Parade)
- “I am certain the empire would fall apart within a month.” → Maybe I am the target? This seems a direct threat against my person. Is a month indicative to the timeline?
- “Eternal captive” may refer to War prisoners. All signs seem to point to a personal vendetta of some sorts.
Who would even address a love letter to me?
- Cardstock is of premium quality. Appears to be custom made, going by the elaborate design of the decorative pattern, will need to check to be sure.
- Perfume seems familiar, fruity and sweet, almost sickeningly so. A femenine touch, could prove a valuable clue in figuring out the identity of the sender. Will need to conduct a more in-depth research of the perfume preferences for all the Ladies of the Court.
- Ink used is black, but of excellent quality, no clots or thin spots in any lines. Clear, fluid and neat. Paired with the expensive stock, all points to a person with means and expensive tastes.
- Calligraphy style is impersonal, yet neat, someone properly trained, and with some skill, probably used to writing documents on their daily life.
----
The guards, as expected, saw and heard nothing unusual. It would have been all too lucky for the mysterious writer to have been spotted, considering the skill displayed in their message. Perhaps it was too much for Hubert to hope for a small measure of competence from the men and women in charge of Imperial Palace security. If nothing else than to at least justify their more than generous salaries and shiny, new armour.
Thankfully, Hubert is a resourceful man, with years of espionage experience under his belt, and he will not let such a minor inconvenience stand in the way of him uncovering this conspiracy.
He spends the next two days reviewing the security plans for the Lover’s Festival, making sure there are plenty of escape routes to direct the crowds to in case of attack, more than enough guards to cover all sensitive areas, and adds additional shifts to ensure all active men and women are in top condition when on the streets. He refuses to compromise the security of Her Majesty, or her subjects because of a sleepy guard.
All buildings along the planned Imperial Parade route are scouted and audited by Shamir and himself. Plans are made to have special squads of Falcon Knights fly over the Parade on the day to search for any suspicious activity.
Once he is confident the festival is as secure as it can be (and after Shamir threatens to ban him from security preparations altogether), Hubert turns his attention to the letter itself. His men have tirelessly spent the last few days scouring old Faerghus and Leicester records for any mention of their past spy keys and systems. Now it falls on him to see if what they’d found would shed any light on this new mystery.
He is sadly forced to cancel his afternoon tea appointment with Ferdinand in order to pore over intricate texts and codes, cross-checking each and every last one of them against the letter to try and figure out what the hidden message inside it is. A thankless task that ends up bearing no fruit, and only results in Ferdinand fretting about Hubert’s habit to overwork himself.
After a week with no visible results for his research, and fewer and fewer leads left to follow, Hubert resigns himself to reporting the threat to Edelgard. It is a blow to his professional pride but, as always, he places Her Majesty’s safety far above all else, including his own ego.
---
“And you’re sure about the seriousness of this threat?” Edelgard asks, arms crossed over her chest as she looks at Hubert from across the desk. Next to her, Ferdinand also looks over to him with a nervous, furrowed brow. His mouth half opens as if he is about to say something, yet he closes it at the last second.
“Absolutely sure, Your Majesty,” Hubert replies. He stands perfectly straight, arms crossed at his back, the perfect picture of deference. “I have yet to assess who is the primary target, whether the Prime Minister or yourself, but I’m certain something’s afoot.”
Edelgard nods, raising one hand to tap lightly on her lower lip, her brow furrowing in deep thought “May I ask how this came to your attention?” she asks.
“A letter, Your Majesty.”
Any response from Edelgard is interrupted by a startled coughing fit from Ferdinand.
“A letter?” he asks in between coughs.
Hubert pauses for a moment, waiting for Ferdinand’s coughing to subside and his reddened face to return to its usual tone before he answers. “Yes. It was written in code, but I was still able to glean the message between the lines.”
“A letter in code…” Ferdinand murmurs to himself in shocked astonishment. Hubert feels a soft smile tug at the end of his mouth, unable to help but find it endearing how Ferdinand has managed to remain so innocent and oblivious to the ugliness of the world of power after five long years of war.
“Well, vague letters or not, I hope you will get to the bottom of this Hubert,” Edelgards declares.
“Of course, Your Majesty. Whoever this person is, they now have my full and undivided attention. Once I find them and get my hand on their throat, I’ll have them on their knees begging me for mercy,” Hubert says, bowing deep at the waist.
Edelgard nods gravely in assent, while Ferdinand lets out a small, but high pitched squeak.
----
My Darling Hubert,
It is only upon further reflection that I realize perhaps my last letter was not worded properly. My intention in sending you these letters has only ever been to explain the depth of my affection for you.
Though I have been careful to conceal it, my heart has yearned for you for many years now. What was once only a small spark of attraction has now engulfed my entire being with such a blazing desire that I can barely stand it. Even the flames of the battlefield cannot hold a candle to the heat of my passion for you.
You are such a beacon of light to me that in my darkest moments of reflection, in times when I am lower than any dungeon in the palace and feel as though the weight of all my responsibilities might crush me, I need only think of your handsomely stern face and I am once again invigorated to rise up and face the world with all I have to give.
I only wish you would let yourself rest and relax a little more often. While I know it is not in your nature to laze about like certain other individuals, seeing you push yourself to your limits over the slightest threat worries me more than you could ever know. Is it too bold of me to admit that I have often fantasized of simply laying beside you in the early mornings, content in the knowledge that you could trust me enough to rest at my side? That perhaps you would allow me to be the one to protect you from all the potential dangers of the world for even one precious hour?
I doubt this will ever come to pass, but I am nothing if not a hopeful romantic at heart.
Sincerely,
Your Faithful Admirer
P.S. - I mean it; please get some sleep. The shadows under your eyes, while adding to your hauntingly handsome aesthetic, are worrying more than just myself. I doubt the Emperor or Prime Minister enjoy seeing you run yourself ragged.
--
The second letter is, if anything, more puzzling than the first.
Same paper, same elegant, yet impersonal calligraphy, same cloying perfume, and same delivery method and schedule. The lack of variation, the predictability of it all, speaks of lack of experience. No spy worth their salt would even think of sending two messages so close together in time without even a single change to throw potential infiltrators off their scent. Were this one of Hubert’s subordinates, they would soon find themselves severely disciplined for their incompetence and lack of professionalism. But as matters stand at the moment, with Hubert still none the wiser as to whom exactly is behind the correspondence, he is left to stew in his own frustration; torn between admiring and hating the spy’s ability to evade him.
He spends the entire night poring over the second letter. He compares it to the first for any signs or clues he may have missed, reviews all the code languages he had gathered plus a few new ones, and painstakingly breaks down and analyses every single word written on the small piece of overpriced cardstock.
By the time the first rays of sunlight peak in between the gaps of the heavy curtains of his study, Hubert is the closest to crying he has ever been in his life. His desk is an absolute mess, crowded with books, old war logs and reports, key code deciphering tools, and hastily scribbled notes. A glance in the mirror reveals his own person is not faring much better; His hair is mussed and slightly greasy, and the bags under his eyes are much darker than normal. The state of his rumpled, disheveled clothes would have Ferdinand throwing a fit if he saw him. A few stray rays of light reflect off the rims of the small collection of coffee cups Hubert has accumulated over the night, causing him to blink his eyes and avert his gaze.
The letter, that small, infinitely infuriating enigma, rests atop the mess. His notebook is open at the side, filled with garbled notes and scribbles on pages stained with coffee; a stark contrast to the careful, beautiful writing on the pristine, expensive letter paper. He rubs his eyes, as he takes another look at his notes.
---
9th Guardian Moon, Imperial Year 1187
Second anomalous piece of mail found. Same materials and style as the one from a week ago. Narrative choice on the camouflage message seems to track. Unusual choice for communication, maybe it could help hint at something?
- “Not worded properly” → didn’t properly decode the first message. OBVIOUS. It would help if I had a fucking key to work with
- “Spark”, “blazing”, “Flames of the battlefield” → attempted arson? Black Magic user?
- “Dungeon of the palace” → matches a reference on letter 1 to prisoners. Note: review files for all prisoners within the palace.
---
He is contemplating the hidden meaning of the pleas for him to relax in the third paragraph, when the door to his office slams open. Inside steps none other than opera songstress extraordinaire, Dorothea Arnault, wearing a beautiful dress (courtesy of Lady Edelgard’s none too secret infatuation), and a fierce scowl on her face. Behind her stumbles the inept sentry stationed outside Hubert’s office, whose only job consisted of preventing people from barging in without notice.
“Hubie! We need to talk!” Dorothea loudly announces as she crosses the room.
“Apologies, Lord Vestra, she wouldn’t listen when I told her you were busy, I’m sorry-”
Hubert raises a hand to cut off the guard’s frantic apologies and promptly waves him away, before turning his attention back to Dorothea. She stands in front of his desk, arms crossed under her chest. Her scowl slowly fades away as she takes in the chaotic state of the desk along with Hubert’s own sorry person. He can see the tense line of her shoulders loosen gradually as her face shifts from righteous indignation to concern.
“You wanted to talk?” Hubert prompts her, quickly checking the leftover cups on his desk in the hopes that one might still contain some last dregs of coffee. He does not trust himself to conduct proper human interaction without some caffeine. “As you can see, I’m incredibly busy, so I would appreciate it if you kept things brief.”
“You look like shit.”
Hubert pauses his scavenger hunt for caffeine to glare at her from beneath his greasy bangs.
“Thanks.”
Dorothea snorts, somehow managing to make such a rude gesture sound somewhat charming. “No, really, you look like you haven’t had a decent night's sleep in days. I’ve seen corpses on the battlefield look livelier,” she says in her usual blunt tone. “Ferdie is very concerned, he asked me to check on you,” she adds, switching to a sweeter, if slightly more patronising one.
“And insult me to my face?” Hubert bitterly replies, even if just to cover up his own anxiousness at making Ferdinand worry about him.
“That was all me. Creative license,” Dorothea says, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a dramatic swish. “Still, can’t say I don’t see what’s got dear Ferdie so worked up. Any sudden reason behind this manic need to work yourself to death?”
Secrets of state and potential security threats are not any of an opera singer’s business, no matter how close to the Emperor the singer in question may be, but after a week of chasing ghosts, and the entire night spent awake obsessing over the cryptic messages hidden in the letter, Hubert is reaching the end of his rope. Maybe it is time for a more unorthodox approach.
“It’s this damned coded letter,” he huffs, pushing the offending piece of paper in Dorothea’s direction. He reclines back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as Dorothea delicately picks the letter up and gives it a quick read through. “Someone is trying to warn us of a potential threat to Adrestia, yet I find myself unable to break the code and decipher the hidden message. This is the second letter they sent. It doesn’t seem to follow any of the traditional protocols, Adrestian or foreign, and it’s proving an incredibly frustrating challenge.”
Dorothea looks down at him, the lower half of her face hidden behind the paper “It reads like a love letter,” she says “Smells like one, too.”
Hubert sighs. “A basic spy messaging trick. The letter will talk about something mundane and boring; the season’s harvest, a popular festival, imagined family affairs, but that is just a cover for the true message hidden in between the lines. It is accessible only to those who know how to untangle the code.”
A few moments pass as Dorothea looks down at him, face still half hidden by the letter, before she sighs. Setting the letter back down on the desk, she leans in towards Hubert while he retreats into the back of his chair, slightly cowed by her forward and blunt approach.
“Let me get this straight. You received what appears, by all means and purposes, to be a love letter from an anonymous source, and concluded, using your great powers of deduction and espionage, that it must be a coded message warning you of an upcoming attack on Edie.”
“I haven’t been able to confirm the target yet. It could also be Ferdinand, or even myself, the letter does seem to refer to me quite often…”
Dorothea huffs in irritation- she has always hated it when someone interrupts her- before she continues. “An attack on the Empire, then.” Hubert nods in response, as Dorothea carries on “And after receiving another letter that most normal people would assume to be a declaration of love, you have spent the entire night obsessing over it in an attempt to crack the code. Correct?”
There is something in Dorothea’s speech, a trace of sarcasm and mockery, that Hubert feels is directed at him. Yet he is too exhausted to try and figure out what exactly she is mocking him for, let alone muster up the energy to feel offended by it.
“Yes, that’s correct,” he agrees. “So, any thoughts?” he asks, nodding his head towards the letter.
Dorothea cocks her head to the side and regards him for one long, judgemental moment. Then she smiles. “Wow, you really are desperate, aren’t you?”
Hubert does not even dignify that with a response.
Dorothea sighs. “Well, I can’t claim your ample expertise in code breaking and secrecy, but this line here-” she says, tracing a well manicured finger over the letter, “is taken from The von Zarovich Curse. ”
“A book?” Hubert asks, grabbing for his notebook to write the name down. This could be the clue he needed, many codes used reference books as part of their key, and with the novel in hand he should finally be able to figure out the pattern in the writing.
“An opera,” Dorothea corrects him. “One currently playing at the Mittlefrank Company. In fact, I’m the lead soprano.”
“Could you lend me the libretto?” Hubert asks, not even bothering to raise his eyes as he copies down the line Dorothea pointed out. Even the flames of the battlefield cannot hold a candle to the heat of my passion for you. He should have known, only an opera could be that over dramatic.
“I think you should see the actual play,” Dorothea says, causing Hubert to pause in his writing and stare at her in confusion.
“That is not how code breaking works. If I have the libretto, I can attempt to cross-check it with known keys by myself-”
“You said it yourself that this letter didn’t follow the traditional protocols” Dorothea interrupts him. “Doesn’t it strike you as a coincidence that the play the letter references is currently being held in a theatre not even twenty minutes away from the palace?”
Hubert wants to protest but Dorothea’s argument makes some bizarre sense. Maybe he is too tired, too wrung out from obsessing about the same letter for hours, but he cannot find any objection.
“You could go with Ferdinand. He was telling me earlier how much he was looking forward to watching it. It would allow you two to catch up a bit, not to mention give you some much needed time out of this dreary office. I’ll get you tickets!”
“I-” he sighs. “I... suppose that can be arranged. Very well. Thank you Dorothea,” Hubert mumbles. He has missed spending time with Ferdinand, too consumed with this terrible letter business. And after all, a night out at the opera does seem like a wonderful opportunity to both enjoy Ferdinand’s presence and further his investigation.
---
The opera is as melodramatic and exaggerated as Hubert expected. The menacing, scenery-chewing villain is dressed in leotards that are far too tight for him, the vapid heroine wears less and less clothing with each scene that passes, and the hero is blander than wartime rations. Ferdinand, of course, loves it all. Unironically.
Watching him lean over the rail of their private box, eyes shining and cheeks flushed with enthusiasm, is the absolute highlight of Hubert’s evening. He may not care much for the play but watching Ferdinand enjoy himself is a treat on its own. Hubert makes a mental note to invite him more to the opera in the future. Perhaps once this dreadful business with the coded letters is done and over with, he can spend the entirety of the function admiring the myriad of emotions that play across Ferdinand’s face. For now, he’s forced to take notes on rhymes, stanzas, and musical arrangements in the hopes that any of them will help him break the code.
“If you don’t stop taking notes you will miss the Count’s aria,” Ferdinand whispers, lips so close to Hubert’s ear that he can feel the ghost of his touch as they form the words.
“Ferdinand-”
“Just this one aria Hubert, please,” Ferdinand pleads with him, covering his writing hand with his own. Hubert can feel the warmth even through their gloves. He pauses, dropping his pen and closing his notebook as he turns to look at Ferdinand. His brow is slightly furrowed in worry, eyes wide as they look imploringly at him.
Ferdinand has been fussing and harrying over him since Hubert first stepped foot inside their shared carriage, berating him for overworking and worrying himself over the letters. Meanwhile, he has not spared a single thought for the potential threat to his own person hidden within the mysterious messages. Hubert would be lying if he said he did not enjoy the attention. Ferdinand is like the sun, warm and bright, and all-encompassing, and having his entire attention focused on him is a gift Hubert knows well not to scorn.
Ferdinand’s insistence on the letters being some kind of passionate love declaration from a secret admirer is endearing; if only because of the idea that Ferdinand likes him enough to believe someone would be foolish enough to truly fall for a man like Hubert. Love letters and secret admirers may well be within the realm of possibility in Ferdinand von Aegir’s bright and beautiful world, but they are as far removed and alien from Hubert’s as the idea of Ferdinand ever returning his true feelings for him.
“Just one aria,” Hubert agrees, pushing his notebook aside and smiling lightly as Ferdinand eagerly hurries to re-fill his wine goblet and hand it back to him.
He settles back against his seat, taking a small sip of wine. Ferdinand has ordered his favourite, an aged Ordelian Cabernet Sauvignon. While Hubert’s mouth sips at his wine, his eyes linger over the sight of Ferdinand, dimly lit by the theatre lights as he looks over the stage with a wistful look. Below, Count von Zarovich croons about his doomed, unrequited love for his dear Tatyana, lamenting how a life spent embroiled in the cruelty of war has made him unfit for love. Despite himself, Hubert cannot help but relate.
After the grand finale, a dramatic bloodbath which not even the prompter survives, Hubert collects his notes while Ferdinand watches on with a mix of exasperation and judgement.
“Always working,” Ferdinand murmurs, his tone almost fond.
“I cannot ignore any threat to Her Majesty.” Or yourself, Hubert thinks. “Considering how the opera ended, I’m more than a little concerned as to where all this may lead.”
“It’s just an opera,” Ferdinand says. “Don’t you think you are reading too much into things?”
“The writer quoted this specific opera, and used one of the villain’s lines. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Perhaps he merely felt that line reflected his own feelings best, as the Count also suffered from his own tragically unrequited love!”
“The Count was a murderous war criminal who was barely even deserving of Tatyana’s attention, let alone her love.” Not that her milquetoast fiancé was much better, but at least his hands were not soaked in blood.
For a moment, Ferdinand looks like he wants to argue with him, but ultimately he just lets out a weary sigh and shrugs on his coat.
“So, what do you think it all meant?” he asks. “Run your ideas by me, perhaps I can offer some insight to help.”
“I’m not sure,” Hubert murmurs as they begin to make their way out of the opera house. “Despite the writer’s apparent taste for cheap harlequin romance and unnecessary dramatics, the whole opera thing could still only be the cover to another, more elaborately hidden message…”
“ Unnecessary dramatics? ”
“Why, yes. What else would you call the needlessly flowery prose, the perfumed paper and the embossed cardstock? The only people who care about such antics are airheaded teenagers and fops with far too much time on their hands.”
“Just because he used embossed cardstock?” Ferdinand asks, sounding almost offended. “Lorenz always uses the most beautifully decorated cardstock on our correspondence!”
“Gloucester?” Hubert scoffs. “You’re making my point for me. I can’t think of a bigger fop.”
Ferdinand huffs in annoyance as they head toward their carriage and step inside. “Well, this fop, whoever he is, is giving you a run for your money, so perhaps you should not be so fast to disregard what you call unnecessary dramatics . Personally, I always thought a small dash of perfume added a personal touch to private, more heartfelt correspondence.”
Hubert smiles at Ferdinand’s rightful indignation, enjoying the way it brings a flush to his cheeks. Hubert always thought it amusing how Ferdinand would straighten himself up when he was mad: spine ramrod straight and his chest puffed out as though perfect posture would help add more weight to his arguments.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he admits. “I may be underestimating them. Do tell me more about the subtle art of perfume and embossed letter paper.”
After a wary, evaluating look to confirm that Hubert was truly asking him to elaborate on what he had just dismissed as antics for airheaded teenagers, Ferdinand launches into a lengthy explanation about the many variations of perfumes. He also goes in depth about their notes and possible meanings, as well as the well-respected artisan craft of embossing. Hubert nods along, a small smile playing on his lips, barely even listening as he basks in the simple joy that is Ferdinand.
--
Hubert,
Once again, I must apologize. It has occurred to me lately that I have been writing these letters in a manner that only appeals to myself and others with similar tastes. I have completely neglected to take into account how different you and I are in terms of what we might find romantic. In my foolish eagerness to wax poetically about how lovely the peridot colour of your eyes are, or how the sound of your voice whispering in my ear makes the breath stutter in my chest, I have forgotten how much you dislike such prose.
Therefore, I will be blunt with you;
Hubert von Vestra, I am in love with you. I have been irrevocably in love with you for quite some time now, and I imagine I will remain in love with you until the day I die.
I have faced near certain death on the battlefield. My bones have been broken. My skin has been sliced by blades and burned by magic. I have looked old friends in the eye and dared to think back on fond memories of them before taking their lives away with my own two bloody hands.
All this I have done, and more. And yet, I cannot seem to gather the courage to bring myself to tell you how I truly feel about you to your face.
I want to. I want to tell you so badly it almost hurts. Not just because of my selfish desire for you to love me back, but also because you deserve to know that you are the most important person in the world to someone. Because you deserve to know love as much as any other person, no matter what you think of yourself.
You deserve to be happy. And it may be selfish of me, but I want you to be happy with me at your side. If your smiles during tea with the Prime Minister are true, then I have to believe it is possible.
I love you, Hubert. Truly.
I only wish I could tell you in person.
Signed,
A Coward.
---
The humiliating, shameful, treacherous truth of the matter is this: Hubert wants the letters to be real.
He has never been the kind of man to concern himself with romance and matters of the heart. In fact, he has spent most of his life purposely avoiding any such entanglements, choosing instead to focus on his work and his duty to the Emperor. It was an active, conscious choice on his part. Feelings, especially the romantic kind, were a luxury for those who did not have to worry themselves with the intricacies of power or the brutality of war. Hubert spent his teenage years planning how to overthrow the Church, his early twenties fighting in the war to conquer Fódlan, and he intends to spend the rest of his life helping Edelgard rule it. There is no room in his life for romance.
And yet, that does not mean that from time to time, in fleeting moments of wistfulness, of weakness , that Hubert does not yearn for it. He is only human after all, and his heart, as blackened and cold as it may be, beats the same as everyone else’s. Hubert wants , oh , how he wants . The difference is that Hubert has never planned or intended to act on it. He has chosen his duty and shunted everything else to the side.
The letters though, offer a tempting dream. Hubert has always been a logical man, and yet he cannot help but be affected by the raw passion and selfless devotion that seem to bleed from every line written in the letter. He may not be the most romantic person in Enbarr, but he can hardly be faulted for briefly fantasizing about the letters being the real thing.
He knows there is no way it could be true. There is no one out there daydreaming about being kissed by the Emperor’s Shadow under the moonlight. If he appears in any dreams at all, it is more likely in the form of a nightmare. Still, it is a nice fantasy all the same.
Perhaps that is what angers him the most about this entire affair. The teasing, the mockery of it all. To choose love letters of all things as the cover for the message, as if to highlight just how unreal the possibility of him receiving a real one was. To add insult to injury, now the bastard has chosen to bring Ferdinand into this.
After skimming through the contents of the latest letter, Hubert has become utterly fixated on those last lines, alarm bells ringing in his head. His tea dates with Ferdinand are sacred, everyone in the Palace knows that. They are not to be interrupted for anything short of another war breaking out, or a risk on the Emperor’s life. The thought of someone encroaching on those precious moments, spying on Hubert when he is at his most vulnerable, makes him feel sick to his stomach.
Secret friend of the Empire or not, the mysterious writer has gone too far.
---
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?” Bernadetta frets as she nervously fidgets with the crochet needles resting in her lap, still half entangled in what one day will hopefully be a jumper.
“I’m fine,” Hubert replies, fully aware that he does not sound or look at all fine.
It has been three days since the last letter arrived. Three days and three nights of endless research into coded language keys, of casting every tracking and divination spell in his vast arsenal, and of in-depth interviews with all the Palace staff. All of it a vain attempt to flush out the spy.
Hubert is exhausted. Physically, mentally, even emotionally. He feels as powerless as he did all those years ago, when Edelgard was taken from his side and subjected to the most abominable tortures while Hubert was powerless to stop it.
Bernadetta gives him a quizzical look, her eyes taking in the sad sight of him; his unkempt hair, the purple, bruise-like bags under his eyes, his wrinkled robes, and his trembling hands. She does not say anything, but she does not need to. Her furrowed brows and slightly raised chin indicate quite clearly her disapproval of his disheveled state. For a brief second Hubert misses the days when she was too scared of him to even look him in the eye.
“I need your help with something,” He starts.
“The love letters?” Bernadetta interrupts a bit too eagerly, leaning forward in her seat, her jumper-in-progress crumpling in her hands.
“The- They’re not love letters!” He responds, a bit taken aback at her eagerness. Does Bernadetta know something or is she simply too over-invested in his love life?
“No?” Bernadetta’s shoulders drop in disappointment as she slumps in her seat “But Dorothea said…”
“They are coded messages trying to warn me about a threat to the Empire,” Hubert explains.
“That’s… That’s terrible! But- I don’t understand how I would be able to help. I’m no good at code breaking or espionage Hubert, you know that!”
“I know,” Hubert tries to calm her. “But you are very good at handicrafts, yes?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’m very good, but I certainly enjoy it as a hobby…”
“Ferdinand told me about the embossed cardstock you made for him for his birthday last year,” he says as he pulls the letters from within his jacket, “I was hoping you would be able to shed a bit more light on who may have done these.”
Bernadetta accepts the letters, gingerly placing them on her lap. Running a finger over the gold leaf embossing, her eyes dart from left to right as she quickly scans through the contents.
“Don’t bother with the text” Hubert says “I’m only interested in identifying the artisan who crafted the cardstock.”
“But Hubert,” Bernadetta interrupts him as she looks up from the letters, a blush high on her cheeks. “These letters are so beautiful! So romantic! The words, the passion,... Oh, this is better than any novel I’ve read-”
Hubert pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Bernadetta, focus.”
“I really think someone loves you very much, Hubert.”
“This is not one of your silly little novels Bernadetta, there are lives at stake.”
“Now you’re just being mean!”
“Bernadetta, please. ”
There must have been something in his voice, his desperation shining through perhaps, but his plea gives Bernadetta pause. She sits back, and returns her attention to the letters, turning the papers in her hands every which way and observing the elaborate designs with a keen eye.
Hubert waits with bated breath.
After a few minutes of studying the letters, Bernadetta carefully folds them and hands them back to Hubert.
“The designs are mine,” she declares after a moment of pause. “They probably belong to the set I gifted Ferdinand a year ago.”
---
“This is ridiculous!” Ferdinand exclaims in indignation. “I won’t be confined to my rooms like a helpless infant because of some vague threat!”
He is angrily pacing around the room in long strides, hair a blazing coppery halo strewn behind him. He truly is a magnificent sight to behold, and even when he finds himself the target of his anger, Hubert cannot help but be almost struck speechless by his beauty. Still, Ferdinand’s righteous anger is a small price to pay to ensure his protection, which Hubert will do even if he has to order Caspar to sit on top of him and Linhardt to magically lock all the doors and windows in Ferdinand’s quarters.
“It’s not a vague threat,” Hubert insists as he has been doing for the last hour. “All three letters reference you, directly or indirectly, and they have been written using a unique cardstock paper Bernadetta made especially for you, which means the spy has access to your quarters. I won’t take any risks.”
“ They are just love letters, you infuriating paranoid bastard! ” Ferdinand grits out between clenched teeth. “The Lover’s Festival is just but a week away! Clearly someone is trying to court you, although for the love of Sothis, at this precise moment I cannot fathom why!”
“Court Hubert?” Caspar exclaims with a bark of laughter. “Could you imagine that, Lin?”
“Sadly, yes.” Linhardt says, rolling his eyes and appearing completely unconcerned with the drama unfolding in the room.
Caspar just laughs in response. Hubert would feel offended if he did not find the notion of someone attempting to court him completely preposterous. Still, Caspar’s amusement at the mere concept has Hubert scowling.
“What’s wrong with someone wanting to court Hubert?” asks Ferdinand, suddenly changing the focus of his ire from Hubert to Caspar. “He is a loyal servant of Her Majesty and a War Hero, not to mention an accomplished mage and a brilliant strategist!”
Hubert feels his cheeks and the top of his ears heat in an embarrassed flush. As good as his current relationship with Ferdinand is, it is still rare for him to praise Hubert so openly, so passionately in front of other people, and he cannot control his body’s reaction. Perhaps he should follow Ferdinand’s own example and ask him to put all future compliments to paper, if only to keep Hubert from looking like a lovesick schoolboy before the Adrestian Court, should Ferdinand ever choose to lavish his praises there.
Caspar stops laughing to stare in confusion at Ferdinand. “But it’s Hubert!” he exclaims, as if that explains everything.
Ferdinand seems to be gearing himself up for another passionate tirade exalting Hubert’s supposed virtues, but Hubert interrupts him before he can open his mouth.
“Enough,” he says. “There is a threat to your person - don’t interrupt me- and I won’t risk your safety just because you don’t want to take it seriously. Caspar and Linhardt will stay with you as bodyguards, and you will remain in your quarters until we have apprehended the culprit.”
“I’m not staying under house arrest just because you are afraid of feelings!” Ferdinand declares, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his face in a familiar, mulish expression. Hubert would not be even the slightest bit surprised if he decided to start stomping his foot in indignation as well. “Linhardt, you cannot possibly agree with this?”
Linhardt sighs. “Well, while I cannot deny Hubert’s theories are partially influenced by his own intimacy issues, as well as the whole sexual frustration angle...”
Hubert sputters in indignation, too affronted (and far too tired) to be able to come up with a proper coherent response.
“Don’t look at me like that, Hubert, I’ve told you many times you need a good fu-”
“If we could stay on topic,” Hubert abruptly interrupts him, not keen on hearing Linhardt’s opinion on his lack of a sex life yet again .
“As I was saying, despite all that, I guess the letters could be read as indicating a potential threat to the Prime Minister.”
“I don’t understand how you can even get to that conclusion from a poor man’s love confession!” Ferdinand protests. “He was just trying to let Hubert know how much he loves and admires him!”
“Well, maybe he could man up, reveal his identity, give Hubert the shag he so clearly deserves, and put us all out of our misery,” Linhardt says.
“Maybe it’s not that easy-!” Ferdinand angrily replies, only to be interrupted again by Caspar.
“But why would anyone want to sleep with Hubert?”
“I don’t know,” says Linhardt “But they would certainly be doing Adrestia a favour, he needs to unwind-”
“I don’t need any unwinding!” Hubert snarls at Linhardt, feeling his entire face burn in embarrassment. Linhardt just stares back at him blankly, one eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. Hubert takes a deep breath, re-centering himself “And I won’t hear any more discussion on the subject. Ferdinand- you’ll stay here, with Caspar and Linhardt as bodyguards, until further notice. Please, I beg you, don’t make my life more difficult than it currently is.”
Ferdinand does not look even remotely convinced. He stares defiantly at Hubert, amber eyes alight with barely contained fury, but he does not protest any further. He merely gives a curt, tense nod.
***
To the Marquis Vestra,
This has gone on long enough.
We need to talk.
If you would like to know the truth of my identity once and for all, please meet me in the ruins of the old Chapel of Cichol. I will be waiting for you the night of the Lover’s Festival at sundown.
Come alone.
Signed,
A Fool (still) in Love
--
Hubert comes back from his audience with Edelgard to find the Professor in his study. Byleth is sitting in his chair with her dirty boots propped up on his desk, littering the surface with caked mud. To Hubert’s annoyance, she holds a familiar envelope in her hands.
“You have another letter,” she says with a bored, disinterested tone most normal people reserve for discussing the weather.
Crossing the room in two long strides, Hubert stalks up to her and snatches the letter from her hands. The Professor lets him of course. She doesn't even bother pretending to be surprised when the paper is unceremoniously taken from her, merely stares at Hubert in that apathetic, unsettling way that never fails to make him feel as if he were an insect being dissected.
“Where did you find it?” He asks as he hurriedly breaks the wax seal and pulls out the letter from the envelope.
Byleth turns her head slightly to the side, eyes still focused on Hubert, unblinking “On your desk.”
Her gaze does not waver as Hubert unfolds the letter and starts to read. Once he finishes, and raises his head from the text, he is met with her intense stare still fixed on him.
“What does it say?” she not so much asks, as orders.
Hubert bristles at her demand, but the years spent on the battlefield and the classroom heeding Byleth’s every command are hard to shake off, and he answers before he has a chance to question himself.
“They want to meet,” he says, voice tinged with disbelief. It seems almost too easy, after weeks of fruitless investigation and research, to be handed the answer to his troubles like this.
“When?” she asks, expression unchanged.
“In a week’s time. For the Lover’s Festival” Hubert says absentmindedly, returning his attention to the note in his hand and studying it intently for any additional clues or hints, anything that may help prepare him better for the fateful encounter. “They will be at the old Cichol chapel.”
“How romantic,” she says flatly.
“It’s not a date,” Hubert growls, growing increasingly tired of having to remind everyone around him that despite the lovelorn cover, they are dealing with a dangerously sly and mysterious agent.
“The views from the chapel are beautiful in the evening,” Byleth carries on as if she had not heard him. “You can see the sun set right behind the Royal palace.”
“I’m not going on a date, Professor,” Hubert insists. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about the views.”
“So you’re going to stand them up?” she asks, her eyes widening just enough to feign surprise “After all those beautiful letters they sent you…”
Hubert knows he is being baited. As smart and cunning as the Professor can be, he has had years to familiarise himself with her methods, but his sleepless nights are finally catching up to him, and he still feels wrung out and tense from his recent discussion with Ferdinand. He does not have the patience to indulge in her enigmatic games right now.
“Ferdinand’s life could be at risk!” he snarls, advancing on the Professor and forcefully knocking her feet off his desk. “I know you are all having a great laugh at this whole affair, and that you all find the concept of someone declaring their love for creepy, scary Hubert hilarious . Trust me, I am very much aware of how utterly ridiculous it sounds, but I still haven’t managed to completely decode the message and we are quickly running out of time!”
Byleth stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. After a few seconds pass, she closes her mouth with a snap and rises from her seat, her movements slow and wary. Hubert watches her, his chest heaving and his breath slightly ragged from his tirade. A small migraine is forming at the back of his head that makes him want to close his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, coming to stand in front of Hubert. “That was thoughtless of me. Let me know how I can be of assistance. You’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks now, you deserve a nap.”
“I- “ Hubert starts to protest, but his headache suddenly spikes, causing the room to sway and blur for a moment. “You’re probably right. I’ll have a nap, and scout the meeting location tomorrow. If you would be able to join me…”
“Two pairs of eyes are better than one.” Byleth declares with a nod “I’ll be there.”
“Good, good” Hubert says. He drops the letter back on his desk as she exits the room. Once he is alone, he collapses on his chair, legs seemingly giving out underneath him, and rests his head on the desk. Within seconds he is fast asleep.
***
“Are you sure you are not needing more sleep Hubert?” Petra asks as they make their way to the old chapel of St. Cichol.
It has been a week since the last letter arrived, and although Hubert has stolen some naps here and there, confident in the knowledge that his confrontation with the mysterious agent will come to pass, he is far from well rested. Knowing he will meet the mystery writer is all fine and dandy, but there is still too much uncertainty left in this whole affair for him to be at ease. He has spent the week reviewing security measures for the Lover’s Festival with Shamir, Edelgard and Byleth, studying more code keys in the hopes of deciphering the messages. Still, he makes sure to visit Ferdinand for tea every day to ease his time in domiciliary arrest.
At last, the day has finally come. In addition to Byleth, Hubert has recruited Petra and his faithful battalion of sorcery engineers to accompany him to the rendez-vous point. The agent asked for Hubert to come alone, but Hubert is not so stupid as to expose himself so blatantly to a potential trap or ambush.
“I’m fine Petra,” he says, hiding his hands in the folds of his cloak to disguise the slight tremor in them. He just needs to hold on a bit longer. In a few hours this will all be over. The pounding in his head, the burning in his eyes, and the seeping tiredness that has taken over his body for the past week will need to be endured until then.
“I can scout ahead,” Byleth says, walking up to Hubert and Petra. “Do a bit of reconnaissance of the area.”
“Petra is a better scout,” Hubert answers before turning to the woman in question. “But the Professor makes a good point, a bit of extra surveillance will play in our favour. I want you to scout the area. Do not go into the chapel, not yet, but keep an eye out for any potential ambushes in the area.”
“Understood,” Petra replies. “Caution is needed, I will be scouting ahead for troubles. Please, be waiting here.”
Hubert nods as she walks away, merging into the shadows and disappearing from sight, leaving him with the Professor and his battalion to await for news.
They do not have to wait long. Petra is as fast as she is stealthy, and not even ten minutes pass before she appears once again.
“I saw no traps or patrols,” she says once she is back at Hubert’s side. “But I saw no mystery man at the chapel.”
“It’s still early,” Hubert muses. “There’s still time, we will spread out and keep watch over the area-”
“Ferdinand is waiting there” Petra interrupts him. “In the chapel.”
Hubert’s headache increases tenfold.
“What do you mean Ferdinand is there?” he snaps. Ferdinand is supposed to be in his quarters under strict surveillance by Caspar and Linhardt, as well as some of Hubert’s own agents.
“Ferdinand is at the chapel,” Petra repeats. “He is looking nervous a lot.”
Of course he is, just like a naughty child sneaking out after curfew, and with the same lack of self-preservation and common sense. Hubert drags a hand across his face as he groans out loud. This night is key to making contact with the mysterious spy, the last thing they need is Ferdinand prancing around the chapel like a clueless buffoon.
“I’ll go get him,” he says, just as he turns to his battalion. “One of you go get Caspar and Linhardt, I want to know why they are not doing their jobs! The rest, follow me at a distance. Set up a perimeter, but keep eyes and ears to the chapel.”
“Maybe a wide perimeter would be better,” Byleth suggests. “You can signal if there’s any trouble.”
“And lose our quarry? Not a chance. I want everyone to be able to see and hear everything happening in that meeting. If something were to happen to me, you should be able to react quickly.”
At times like this, Hubert questions the Professor’s strategy skills. A wide perimeter, Cichol’s balls, it is a wonder they managed to win the war with tactical advice like that. Given the spy’s history of avoidance and stealth, Hubert is already hesitant to set up a perimeter at all. He’d rather just have the entire battalion hide within the chapel under an invisibility spell, but in the end decided that too much could go wrong.
Byleth looks like she wants to argue, but instead just shakes her head and follows Petra and the battalion into the dark. Their silhouettes soon merge with the long, dark shadows of the evening and they disappear from sight.
Steeling himself, Hubert starts to make his own way towards the chapel. He does not bother with hiding; his presence is expected, after all. He just needs to ensure Ferdinand returns to his goddamn quarters before the agent arrives, lest he ruin Hubert’s chance to make contact with the spy.
As he approaches the chapel, he quickly makes out Ferdinand’s silhouette standing at the entrance. He sticks out like a bright splash of paint against the silvery shadows of the building with his bright copper hair and finest coat decorated with golden trimmings and shiny brass buttons. He looks lovely of course, a vision in red and gold. Hubert takes a moment to enjoy the sight of him before coughing to make his presence known.
Ferdinand turns around with a start and immediately smiles when he spots Hubert. It is not his usual open and welcoming smile, the one that makes twin dimples appear on his cheeks. No, this one is hesitant, nervous, the edges of it trembling and unsure. As Hubert walks closer, he can appreciate the tenseness of Ferdinand’s entire demeanour, from his too-straight back, to his fidgety hands and shuffling feet. Like a small child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Good evening Hubert,” Ferdinand says, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes, his voice echoing the nervousness of his whole countenance.
Hubert sighs. “Ferdinand. What in the blazes of hell are you doing out here?”
Ferdinand pauses, his trembling smile growing even more tense and strained at the edges as he raises his head to look Hubert straight in the face. His eyes are wide open with a slightly panicked look to them, undoubtedly aware of his own recklessness.
“What do you mean?” Ferdinand responds, voice strained and brittle. “Were you hoping for someone else?” he asks, trying for playful and falling woefully short.
Hubert really does not have the time to spare in silly games “Yes, Ferdinand, I’m waiting for someone else,” he says, not noticing how Ferdinand’s face falls at his words. “You know this already, I told you I was meeting the agent who wrote the mysterious letters tonight!”
Ferdinand has the gall to look affronted. “The mysterious agent,” he says, voice flat and emotionless. “You are meeting the agent.”
“Yes,” Hubert repeats, exasperated. He does not know if Ferdinand is being difficult on purpose, but he is definitely not in the mood for mind games tonight. “We have the area surrounded, so if you could please make your way back to the Palace, one of my men will escort you safely-”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Ferdinand interrupts him, stepping closer until his chest is almost brushing Hubert’s, his chin raised in defiance as he stares Hubert down despite being a couple inches shorter. Reflexively, Hubert takes a clumsy step back, surprised by Ferdinand’s sudden advance.
“The agent-”
“It’s me! It’s always been me, you utterly deluded fool!” Ferdinand shouts to his face. His voice, while already loud on its own, booms across the chapel, the sound of it carrying clear into the night. Her Majesty can probably hear him all the way back at the Palace, nevermind the entire battalion of mages currently hiding in the bushes not twenty meters away from them.
Hubert finds himself completely, and utterly, at a loss for words. It is as if his entire world has tilted on its axis. His brain speeds through a lightning recap of the facts, realigning clues and hints, and slowly Hubert begins painting a radically different picture than the one he initially believed he was in. He stares at Ferdinand, mouth agape, as he struggles to process this new information in a way that makes sense to him.
“But- the clues…”
“ What clues?” Ferdinand asks. He sounds tired and frustrated but most of all, angry.
Hubert can count the number of times he has seen Ferdinand angry, truly angry , on one hand. In times where he was not just slightly upset because someone belittled his favourite tea or doubted his nobility, Ferdinand’s fury was a terrible and beautiful sight to behold; one Hubert would be able to appreciate much more if such righteous anger was not currently aimed at Hubert’s very confused person.
“There were no clues, Hubert!” Ferdinand continues, his voice still far above the volume of what would normally be considered adequate for a private conversation. “No tricks, no subterfuge and no scheme to uncover. Just my stupid feelings on a page! A hopeless, foolish attempt to tell you how I feel!”
Ferdinand’s feelings. That is indeed the most mind boggling thing about the entire affair. Not the fact that the letters were real love confessions and not a secret code for Hubert to decipher, but that it was Ferdinand, beautiful, bright Ferdinand , who wrote all those heartfelt declarations of everlasting love to him. Hubert’s brain is stuck on this revelation, stunned at the sheer implausibility of it.
“Why?” is the only thing he manages to ask, his voice but a mere shocked whisper.
It is the wrong thing to ask.
“ Why? ” Ferdinand whispers, only to shout again immediately after. “Because I love you , you irredeemably paranoid workaholic, and I thought that maybe, just maybe , there was the smallest chance that you might love me back!”
Hubert’s mind goes blank. His thoughts screech to a complete halt and then fall into an infinite void of emptiness, leaving him to stare at Ferdinand as if he were brain dead, mouth gaping open like a fish.
Ferdinand is apparently not done.
“But you had to make a grand conspiracy out of it!” he continues to rant on, oblivious to the fact that Hubert’s higher brain functions have left the building, the city, and are currently on their way out of the country. “And I had to watch you run yourself ragged chasing imaginary ghosts because you just could not accept the idea that someone could love you! And I do love you! I love you so much !”
There are tears gathering in the corner of Ferdinand’s eyes, while his cheeks flush from anger. “I wanted to tell you,” he says, voice dropping back to a quiet whisper as he steps even closer to Hubert, leaving barely a hair’s breadth of space between their bodies. “I thought about telling you so many times…”
Ferdinand trails off, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks up at Hubert from beneath wet, clumpy eyelashes.
Hubert blinks.
“I just…” Ferdinand hesitates for a moment, voice thick with emotion. Then he stands up on his tiptoes and smashes his lips against Hubert’s. The force of the sudden kiss causes Hubert to stumble backwards until his back hits a crumbling wall.
The contact ignites a spark in the empty void of Hubert’s mind, a concentrated thought bouncing around in the nothingness.
Yes.
Slowly, as if coming awake after a long night’s sleep, his mind starts switching back into gear, processing what is happening ( Ferdinand is kissing him ), how it feels ( very good ), and what he wants ( more ). He still does not quite understand how this exact reality is possible, and has not yet discarded the possibility of it all being just another of his dreams, but he resolves to sort out such questions later.
The kiss ends abruptly, before Hubert even has a chance to properly participate in it other than by leaving his mouth hanging open like an idiot, and Ferdinand draws back to look up at him. His lower lip trembles slightly as yet more tears make their way down his cheeks, his entire face scrunched up in a pained expression.
“Goddess, I’m such a fool,” he says, scrubbing roughly at his face with his sleeve. Before Hubert can react, he steps away, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped in defeat.
Hubert reaches out, but his hand grabs nothing but empty air. Ferdinand is already walking away, head bowed low and his steps clumsy and uncoordinated in his hurry to get away. It takes Hubert a moment too long to get his limbs to move and for his own feet to try and stumble after Ferdinand. By the time he does, Ferdinand is long gone and Hubert is left alone in the dark, empty chapel. His mind still reels from the all too brief kiss, that perfect instant in which everything had been, for once, absolutely perfect.
A badly suppressed cough brings him out of his recollection. He startles, turning his head in the direction of the sound, where a familiar, pointy hood can be seen peeking out from behind the bushes. Hubert feels his blood turn to ice. Any joy he had briefly experienced at Ferdinand’s declaration and following kiss quickly evaporates at the realisation that the Professor, Petra, and his entire battalion had borne testimony to the entire thing.
“Should we come out?” One of his mages whispers somewhere to his right, only to be quickly shushed by another one of his colleagues.
Hubert feels his ears burn in embarrassment.
“Petra? Professor?” he asks the empty air, his voice cracking in a way it has not since he finished puberty.
A few excruciating seconds pass before Byleth appears from behind the chapel, Petra following at her heels.
“Will you be chasing Ferdinand?” Petra asks as she walks up to him.
“Could you, uh, please disassemble the guards?” Hubert says as he stumbles toward a broken stone bench and slumps down on it. He does not think himself capable of facing his subordinates at the moment.
The Professor nods, silently, and immediately sets to the task, barking quick, concise orders to the mages and clearing the area out in an instant. Petra sits herself down next to him, a silent show of support.
“I messed everything up,” Hubert says, hanging his head in his hands. “How could I be so blind to the truth?”
“You were doing your job,” Byleth says, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “A bit too overzealously perhaps, but what good is a spymaster without a healthy bit of paranoia?”
“I am finding the letters confusing myself,” Petra pipes up. “In Brigid, potential lovers will be hunting big angry animals as a love present. A more direct message. Hubert should be hunting a great beast for Ferdinand.”
“I think a thoughtful letter may suffice,” the Professor interjects. “Or perhaps a date where you can discuss things without an audience.”
Hubert groans. He is terrible at writing letters. His correspondence has always been purely functional in nature: diplomatic envoys, bureaucratic requests, nothing that could compare to Ferdinand’s emotional, evocative and heartfelt prose. If his piss poor reaction to being kissed has not already killed Ferdinand’s feelings for him, a letter penned by his hand surely will.
“The beast killing is simpler,” Petra argues. “It will be showing Hubert can provide as a lover.”
Hubert knows what he should do, as much as he dreads actually doing it. He should write a letter offering his deepest apologies for his boorish behaviour and confess his own feelings. He should buy Ferdinand some flowers, take him on a night to the opera, a proper date, and explain things properly.
The beast thing is still very tempting.
***
There is no polite way of saying it: Ferdinand is a wreck .
Having to walk all the way back to the palace after being rejected by the person he was in love with had done no favours to his confidence. To add insult to injury, Ferdinand had spotted several of Hubert’s mages blatantly pretending not to have seen or heard anything once he left the chapel.
Not only was he rejected, he was completely and utterly humiliated. It would only be a matter of time before the entire palace knew about what happened. Hell, Ferdinand wouldn’t be surprised if come morning, all of Enbarr found out that he’d been turned down. He could see it already in one of those annoying ‘funny’ papers the commoners seemed to love; some stupid charicature of himself offering his bleeding heart on a platter to the damn Spider of Enbarr, only to be found wanting.
Even worse still was the fact that the Lover’s Festival had been a roaring success. The celebrations in the city had carried on well into the night, and deep into the early morning hours. Not only did Ferdinand return to his quarters alone, he was also forced to endure the sounds of people all across the city cheering and celebrating their own successful romances through his window.
Tossing and turning in his bed, Ferdinand could not help but dwell on the events of evening. To think, he’d actually imagined Hubert would have wanted him too. What an idiot he was! Of course Hubert did not want him. Ferdinand was everything Hubert was not: loud. Bright and garish. Overly dramatic. A dreamer rather than a realist. Why on earth had he thought spilling his heart out in several love letters would be the way to Hubert's heart?
After all, wasn’t Hubert always telling him how much work he could be getting done were it not for all of Ferdinand’s incessant distractions? Not only that but Ferdinand was always arguing with him in their council meetings and getting on Hubert’s nerves.
He’d thought perhaps he had changed since their school days. He had tried to change. And yet after all this time, he is apparently still the airheaded little fool he’d been back then, prancing around and thinking so highly of himself.
The more he thinks about it the more he cries into his pillow - he can’t help it. Maybe Hubert and Edelgard could keep their emotions under tight lock and key, but Ferdinand has never been able to hide his feelings well. When he was happy, he laughed, when he was angry, he shouted, and when he was sad, he cried.
At the moment he feels downright miserable, and so there is much crying to be had. The pillowcase is soaked with his tears by the time he finally manages to calm down enough to fall asleep.
Hours later, as the first rays of morning sunlight wake him, Ferdinand’s first instinct is to shove his head under the pillow and hide in the darkness again. His eyes feel itchy from all the crying he’d done. For a few brief, wonderful moments he doesn’t remember what he’d even been crying about.
Then he recalls Hubert’s blank stare and nearly starts all over again. Thankfully he manages to control himself.
Rolling over onto his back, Ferdinand stares up at the ceiling and tries to go over the day’s schedule to keep his mind focused on other things. He needs to feed and brush his horses soon, and he’ll need to make sure someone is seeing to the after-celebration clean up, and then there’s the meeting with Edelgard and Hu-
Ferdinand shudders. He’s going to have to sit there across the table and pretend he didn’t completely embarrass himself in front of the imperial spymaster last night.
Damn Hubert! Even after all this mess, Ferdinand still wants him! Just the thought of his cool green eyes, inky black hair, and faint little smile has Ferdinand’s traitorous heart thumping rapidly in his chest.
He’s so stupidly in love with him. It’s not fair. How could anyone ever compare to Hubert von Vestra? Ferdinand has been ruined for life!
Angrily, he forces himself to sit up and rise from his bed. Like it or not, there are duties he must attend to. Just because he had a bad night does not mean he can ignore being Prime Minister for the day.
Though perhaps he can still get out of the meeting later. Maybe if he feigned an illness?
He scolds himself immediately. What a cowardly thought! No, he will have to face Hubert at some point, it might as well be sooner than later.
He catches a glimpse of himself in his mirror and immediately hopes it’s later. He looks absolutely dreadful with his red, puffy eyes and blotchy skin. His hair is even worse, thick and tangled in knots from where he’d tossed and turned in bed. He’d also forgotten to brush it after arriving back in his chambers last night, which certainly did not help.
Cautiously he tries to run his fingers through it only to hiss as they catch on a particularly nasty knot. Groaning, he glances back toward his bed, wondering if it really would be so bad for him to just hide there for the rest of the day, Prime Minister or not.
He almost doesn’t catch the sound of something under his door at first. Luckily, he turns his head just in time to see a carefully folded envelope lying on the floor.
Curious. Who could possibly be sending him secret messages this early in the morning?
He picks up the envelope and glances over it. No name of the sender, only the words “Ferdinand von Aegir” written in a familiar cursive hand on the back. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was Hubert’s handwriting. But that’s ridiculous, Hubert wouldn’t want to talk to him unless…
Oh gods . Was this Hubert’s official letter of rejection to him? Was this his detailed list of reasons as to why a romance between the two of them was doomed to failure? Or perhaps it was instructions for how to deal with each other from now on without making things awkward for Edelgard and the rest of their friends?
With a looming sense of dread, Ferdinand slowly opens the wax seal and pulls out the letter, holding it close as he begins to read.
---
Dearest Ferdinand,
I’m an idiot
I am a fool. A blind one at that. I don’t even know how to begin asking for your forgiveness. I hope this letter, as poorly written and uninspiring as it is, serves at least as a start.
I am sorry. I’m not much of a poetic writer, so although this is not the beautiful, heartfelt apology you deserve, please know it is an honest one.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I should have listened to you when you told me the letters were real, I should have listened to our friends. I feel so stupid now in retrospect.
Please understand, yours was the first love letter I have ever received in my entire life. I know you must be bored of them by now, all the letters and passionate declarations from your many admirers and suitors, but to me it was a very exceptional thing. I overreacted, I can see that now. But the mere concept of anyone writing such beautiful things about me… well, it was bewildering, to say the least. To think you were the one who wrote them made it seem all the more improbable.
Please know that not even in my wildest fantasies did I dare imagine you could ever have feelings for me, which brings me to my next point: I’m sorry for my reaction last night. I was so obsessed with my imagined conspiracy I failed to see what was right before my eyes, and when I did, I was too shocked to react and let you know my true feelings properly.
I’ll do that now. You did ask, after all, for all future compliments to be addressed to you in writing, and I aim to please.
I love you. I don’t know how to express my feelings as beautifully and passionately as you did, but I do know I love you. I have loved you for a long time now, and up until now had resigned myself to keep on loving you forevermore without ever saying a word. Not once did I let myself believe there was a chance my feelings were returned, and I was happy with that. Having your friendship was already more than I ever expected, and I treasured it dearly. I still do.
Even now as I write this, with the memory of your lips still warm against my own, I have trouble believing I could be so lucky.
If you still love me, that is. I’m aware my behaviour as of late leaves much to be desired, and I would not blame you one bit if you re-evaluated your feelings in light of recent events.
Because I know you are probably obsessing over it this very moment, let me assure you that you don’t need to worry about my agents spreading gossip. They are good, loyal men and women who have kept many a secret for the good of the Empire. This will be no different (and just to be sure of this, I had the Professor put the fear of the Ashen Demon in them. That ought to keep their lips shut).
The choice is yours. If you wish to retract your words and remain friends, this will be the last we speak of it. We can have things go back to what they were before. If you no longer wish to associate with me, I will also understand and honour that. But if, by some goddamn miracle, you still want me, please know that I am yours. I will always be yours.
Your humble servant,
Hubert von Vestra
--
Ferdinand stares at the letter in his hands. Reads it a second time. A third, and then once more for good measure.
At last the words finally sink in.
In the blink of an eye, Ferdinand rushes to his vanity, eager to untangle his mess of hair and clean himself up. By his account, he has only a few hours before the council meeting, and he absolutely must look his best by then!
He has an admirer to impress, after all.
