Work Text:
It had been a long time since Linhardt had been shocked by one of his own spells
The first time, all the way back during the first mission that Edelgard’s class had gone on with the professor, had been awful. Linhardt had kept to the back, focused on healing his classmates as they put on brave faces and rushed towards the enemy. Most of them excited to get their first real taste of action. But Linhardt had not wanted anything to do with it, thinking of how much of a chore it would be to get himself injured. Sure, he’d be able to try healing himself, but it was always more difficult to cast spells on one’s own body, and he would have had to wait to get back to the monastery for Professor Manuela to properly look after him. It was mostly that horrible thought that kept him in the back, as he hadn’t fully grasped yet the feeling of injuring an opponent with the intent to kill, and thus was unafraid of it.
But then, when a rogue enemy swordsman somehow made it past the guard of the other students, who were distracted with their own fights, Linhardt was caught on his own. He had no one to fall back on, having been in the middle of healing another soldier, who was still down for the count. So, as the swordsman lunged at him, Linhardt threw up his arms and let loose the most powerful spell he could think of off the top of his head. It blasted the swordsman in the chest, sending him flying back into the woods behind him, and Linhardt heard the way his neck snapped as he collided with the thick trunk of a tree. He was mortified, and was barely able to look at the lifeless body, slumped and bleeding out at the base of the tree, before he felt his stomach heave violently and he doubled over, throwing up.
For the next few days, the image of that body refused to leave his mind, and he barely got any sleep. It only got better when The Professor finally noticed how little he’d been eating, and sat down with him to talk about it. Linhardt was asleep within the hour, comforted and resting his head in his arms as he listened to Byleth’s words.
After that, killing became easier. He watched as enemy after enemy threw themselves at him and his friends. He never wanted to kill, he wanted to stop them, yell at them even, that they were throwing their lives away for nothing, that there was no meaningful purpose to the fighting, but there was no one who would listen to his cries. They all believed what they were doing was right, but all he could see was ludicrous, pointless bloodshed. He tried to only kill when he had no other choice, but eventually he stopped being able to care. He resigned himself to watching them throw away their lives, powerless at stopping them. All he could really do was keep fighting, hoping that someday, if they just kept going, the war would eventually cease, along with the wastage of lives. But a bitter part of him also realized that the enemy must be rationalizing the fighting to themselves in the same way.
He found no escape, no solution, and so he chose to run away, like with all other things. He simply stopped thinking when he was on the battlefield. His mind empty and numb as his mouth recited spell after spell, to heal life, or take it away. Entire battles would flash by, and he’d only notice it was over when Edelgard, or Caspar, or Byleth, would come collect him. And outside of the battles, he threw himself into his research even more. He slept even more often, as it was a welcome respite from the world. But when wasn’t sleeping, he was reading, if only to fill his mind with words other than his own thoughts. Or to remind himself that there was still more to life than the war, things to enjoy and busy himself with. Although he at some point he even started to question if his crest research would actually still be useful outside of the war. He tried not to think about that, too.
So, when, on one occasion, Linhardt came across a particularly powerful spell while searching the library for something he hadn’t read yet, Linhardt didn’t think much of it. It was a little challenging to learn, but he got it down after some trial and error, and was prepared to use it like any other spell on their next battle.
He didn’t even notice who it was he’d hit. He’d stopped looking at the faces. All he could see in his mind was the convulsing body, 10 feet in the air, dark matter and electricity coursing through every vein. The way its eyes widened just before a spurt of blood that seemed to never end erupted from them, and from its mouth, was seared into his brain as it dropped to the ground with a dull thud. As it lay there, it’s limbs didn’t even seem connected by anything solid anymore, as if the only thing inside was a thin string to tie it all together, charred and still bleeding. Still bleeding. It wouldn’t stop.
The terror that flooded through Linhardt’s body was immeasurable. He looked down at his own hands, and staggered, cold all over and shivering as if the hands of death itself had erupted from the ground and grabbed hold of his soul. It all came falling down around him, he couldn’t stop it. Everything he’d been running from for the past five years struck him to his core, all the things he’d done, the lives he’d taken. All the lives his friends had taken. All the lives that would never again do anything in this world, their potential snuffed out in an instant. He weeped.
Luckily, soon thereafter, Edelgard alerted the troops that the enemy commander had been defeated, and cheers rang out amongst the soldiers that were still alive. But Linhardt didn’t hear them.
It was Byleth who found him, unable to move and cradling his head in his hands, not wanting to open his eyes. Linhardt didn’t notice the way Byleth had run over, panic in his eyes seeing his friend collapsed, nor the relief that flooded his features when he realized that Linhardt was unharmed. But when Byleth placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Linhardt refused to acknowledge it, worry clutched Byleth’s chest tight. Crouching down beside him, Byleth felt like crying when he saw Linhardt’s broken expression, and his eyes that seemed to be seeing something so far away from what was in front of them.
In the end, he had to carry Linhardt back to the infirmary tent, much to the concern of the others, but Byleth waved them off. Caspar in particular hounded then worriedly, firing off question after question at Linhardt, trying to make sure he was okay. But Linhardt ignored him, and as Byleth saw that Caspar was getting increasingly panicked, he had to gently reassure Caspar that Linhardt would be taken care of, and that he’d call him as soon as he was willing to talk. It hurt to see Caspar’s broken expression as he walked away.
Finally inside, Byleth let Linhardt down on one of the infirmary beds, and let the nurses check him over for injuries. They found nothing, aside from the usual cuts and bruises, which they quickly treated. But Linhardt said nothing. Finally, they left, their hands full with all the injured soldiers from the fight, and Byleth stood over Linhardt’s bed for a moment, watching him. Still, he stared off into some unknowable distance.
Eventually, Byleth sat down at the edge of his bed, silent, knowing full well that pushing things out of Linhardt never worked. He looked at Linhardt’s hands, slender and elegant, far too elegant for the harshness of war, Byleth thought. He was compelled to reach out and take Linhardt’s soft hands in his own, the only small gesture of comfort he could give him. Suddenly, Linhardt’s attention snapped to him, and he harshly pulled his hands away from Byleth’s grasp with a start. Byleth frowned, hurt. His face barely showed it, as usual, but Linhardt could see it, and he realized what he’d done.
“Professor! N-no I-“ Linhardt looked down at his hands again, that horrible image flashing in his mind again. His eyes filled with tears.
“I just, p-please don’t touch them, I’d never forgive myself if I hurt you-” he began, trying to explain himself, but suddenly, heaving sobs erupted from his chest, and he was unable to stop the tears that let themselves loose from his eyes. Byleth was shocked at first, but as Linhardt wrapped his own arms around himself, looking smaller than he’d ever seen him, Byleth instinctively inched closer and pulled him into his arms. Immediately, Linhardt latched on, burying his face in the crook of Byleth’s neck. He was shivering again, and clutching him so hard that it was as if he was afraid Byleth might slip away from him at any moment.
Byleth had seen his students, his cherished friends, in a similar state many times by that point. Sooner or later he’d caught one of them curled up in a corner, or staring off into space, or noticed their grades dropping, only to check on them and see them fall apart in front of him. Even the one who steeled herself the most, Edelgard, had let him see her in her lowest moments. But not Linhardt. Never Linhardt. Of course, he’d been down before, clearly upset, but he’d never allowed Byleth to truly grasp the depths of whatever he might have been feeling. When he was younger, he spoke to Byleth many times about the moral implications of the fighting, but it was always rather detached, sounding more like an observer than an active participant.
Now, Byleth thought maybe he understood why. It was clear now that Linhardt felt very deeply, truly deeply, so much so that he was afraid of it. It must have been so painful, that he would bury it so deep that perhaps even he couldn’t truly tell if it was still there anymore. But it was.
Byleth felt he could understand, not unfamiliar with covering up his own emotions in front of his students, or even in front of his own father, when he was still alive. Even after Jeralt’s death, no one saw the extent to which he cried in the nights following. He always put on whatever face the world needed from him.
Byleth’s heart, if he’d had one, would have grieved for Linhardt’s hidden pain. He realized suddenly that he’d started holding on to Linhardt almost as tightly as Linhardt held onto him.
They stayed that way for a long time. Linhardt cried and cried, as if finally letting out the years worth of tears he’d refused to shed in one single evening. And Byleth let him, absentmindedly stroking his hair in an attempt to comfort him. Eventually, Linhardt’s sobs began to grow softer. His chest still heaved, but he no longer made any noise, as if his body had been emptied of it. After a few moments, his breathing began to slow too. All the while, Byleth held on to him. They stayed silent, and as Linhardt grew quieter, save for a few hitched breaths every once in a while, Byleth assumed he had fallen asleep. Still, he held on to him. But finally, Byleth spoke.
“I will do everything in my power to make sure you never have to feel like this again.” His voice was soft, deep and low, not wanting to wake linhardt but still wanting him to hear it. Which is why it surprised Byleth when he felt Linhardt’s words against his neck, hoarse and quiet, but still there.
“I want this war to stop. I can’t do it anymore, taking so many lives. That body didn’t even look human anymore! We keep saying we’re fighting for the people of Fódlan, fighting for freedom, but if this continues, there won’t be anyone left to be free. After all we’ve done, how can we say we deserve freedom? What makes us better than them? We call the enemy monsters, senseless killers, but we tear through them without a second thought in the name of some weak definition of justice. If we can’t even feel the weight of a life lost anymore, aren’t we the ones turning into monsters? It’s disgusting, I’m disgusting-“
He stopped short, feeling Byleth’s hand softly lay over his own again, which had been clutched in a fist at Byleth’s chest. He wanted to pull away again, but Byleth held on.
“Linhardt, as long as there are people like you in this world, who feel the way and think the way you do, who consider the true weights of the war, there will be a future for Fódlan. I beg you, please don’t lose hope. When the senseless fighting is over, it will be those with hope that raise Fódlan from the ashes of war. So that all of this doesn’t amount to nothing, don’t lose hope. Remember the good you do. The people you save with those hands of yours. You help them live Lindhart, and the weight of a life lived is as valuable as one lost. The enemy won’t stop, but you continue to heal the soldiers. And as long as you do, we can heal Fódlan after the war is over too.”
Linhardt rarely got to hear his former professor speak so much, and with so much conviction, but when he did he believed him almost whole heartedly. Linhardt didn’t think he’d ever truly be able to forgive himself for all he’d done, but Byleth’s words comforted him so. Linhardt realized, that if he had the power to stop Byleth from ever dying, he had to use it. Despite his words, Linhardt thought to himself then that it was people like Byleth, the world needed. If it was Byleth, the future would be in good hands. And he had to see to it that it would be.
Linhardt let him keep holding his hand. He kept resting his head against Byleth’s neck, feeling like he could collapse entirely into him because Byleth would hold him up. Finally, finally, after such a long night, Linhardt fell asleep. But at some point, and Byleth wasn’t sure, he was just barely able to catch it, he could have sworn he heard Linhardt mutter:
“I’ll keep you safe.”
---
The next morning, the two were woken, gently but abruptly, by one of the nurses, telling them they had to move because the camp was setting out and they needed the bed to carry the wounded. Byleth tried to move, but Linhardt grumbled and refused to budge, not wanting to give up one of the comfiest and most relaxing sleeping spots he’d ever had. But eventually Byleth lugged him out of bed, and let him go for the first time in hours so he could stand on his own. Linhardt looked a mess, they both did, still dirty from the fight and thanks to the heavy sleep they’d both had. Looking at Linhardt’s face, you could still tell he’d been crying, his eyes puffy and irritated and he had streaks through the dust on his cheeks. Before he could stop himself, Byleth held up a hand to Linhardt’s cheek, and tried to rub some of the dirt away with his thumb. Linhardt’s eyes opened properly, surprised and looking straight into Byleth’s, but suddenly, he gave him a small, yet ever so soft, smile. Byleth’s chest warmed all over.
They stepped outside the tent, eager to get back as soon as possible so they could clean up, but were immediately crowded by the entire rest of the Black Eagles Strike Force. Hubert watched as Dorothea, Bernadetta, Ferdinand, Petra, and even Edelgard, but none more than Caspar, fussed over Linhardt, asking if he was all right and if he’d been hurt. Linhardt didn’t quite know what to say, but as he looked at all his friends, the people that knew him better than anyone in the world, he realized what he was fighting for. Who he was fighting for. If nothing else, he wanted to make sure every single one of them had the bright future ahead of them that they deserved. If he could make sure of that, he’d never stop practicing his magic. He could never let himself fall in battle, lest he stop being able to heal them.
He couldn’t help the lives that had been lost, but as long as he could continue to help minimize that, and keep the people he loved alive, he had a reason to fight in the war. Until it should finally come to an end.
So that all he’d seen, all he’d done, was worth something, he had to see it through to the end.