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Chapter Text

Anyone in Enbarr could tell you that the Cathedral of Seiros was an architectural marvel and a cultural and historical landmark of Enbarr. Stained glass windows depicting the Four Saints and Saint Seiros herself lined the walls, beautiful chandeliers and candelabras washing the glorious hall in a warm, welcoming light in contrast with the cold, dense stone that the building itself was constructed of. Vaulted ceilings lent themselves well to the room’s acoustics, the very air wishing to carry the sounds of devotion straight to the parishioners’ ears. Lit braziers placed throughout the cathedral burned incense, a smell akin to Seiros Tea wafting throughout. In the very back, a towering stained glass window depicted Saint Seiros with her arms outstretched and face in a serene and peaceful smile, as if to welcome all who entered into her loving embrace. Along the sides were pews for the choir, singing along as Bishop Herras, who presided over the cathedral, directed them all in glorious hymns to the Goddess. The cathedral itself was generally open to the public at all times for those wishing to leave prayers or attend lectures given by the clergy, but at this day and hour, the grand oaken doors had been shut tight to the outside, the cathedral becoming a bastion of prayer for the nobility. From a young age, the nobles of Adrestia had been taught that by demonstrating their own devotion to the Goddess and learning her laws, they could guide their people well and inspire them to live spiritually and morally fulfilling lives.

At six years old, Linhardt von Hevring hated everything about it.

The church pews were hard and uncomfortable, his father had informed him that if he were to fall asleep again he could expect no dinner this evening, the incense irritated his nose, and the only good thing about being forced to sit here quietly for three hours was that he wasn’t sitting close enough to any of the other noble children to be constantly and obnoxiously distracted. The von Hevring family was in the third row from the front on the left, a testament to their comfortable status as devout patrons of the church and humble servants of the Empire, with only the Prime Minister’s family and the Emperor’s family in front of them. From where he was sitting, Linhardt could see the shiny orange locks of Ferdinand von Aegir, the prime minister’s (legitimate) heir, as he pressed his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut with all of the fervor that a 7 year old could muster. Linhardt risked a quiet chuckle; with his face like that, he looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. The heavy hand that swiftly landed on his shoulder, however, was proof that he hadn’t been quiet enough as he looked up to meet his father’s disapproving glower. Nothing more needed to be said; the silent command of behave yourself was communicated loud and clear, and Linhardt slumped in his seat, completely tuning out everything the bishop was saying. As they tended to do when left to their own devices, his thoughts started to wander; while perhaps not quite free in body, at least his thoughts were less fettered, flitting about as they liked within the confines of his mind. Images of saints and histories and the story about Saint Cethleann’s love of fish began to surface, and within moments, he was gone, sinking beneath a sea of tranquility.

After some indeterminable amount of time had passed, Linhardt slowly returned to awareness thanks to his mother gently shaking his shoulder. “Come along, Linhardt,” she said quietly, taking his hand and leading him out into the aisle. It seemed the mass was already over, and as the nobility began to slowly file out, many of them taking the opportunity to make small talk, his father had stopped to talk to the bishop. Linhardt and his mother stood a respectful distance away, waiting for them to finish, when Count Hevring turned to the two of them.

“Linhardt. Come here.”

Linhardt swallowed the lump in his throat and walked over to the two. He stood next to his father, trying not to slouch, as Count Hevring’s large hand once again occupied his shoulder. “Father. Bishop Herras.”

Bishop Herras was tall, taller than even his father, and as Linhardt looked up to meet his gaze, he was sure that his neck was going to go stiff from looking up. He was dressed in typical church robes but wore a somewhat elaborate headpiece that signified his status as a bishop not of any church, but of this cathedral in particular. In Linhardt’s opinion, it made his forehead look like the size of a dinner plate. The bishop smiled down at him, in that overly saccharine way adults did when they really didn’t know how to (or want to) talk to children. Linhardt was well familiar with this expression, a mainstay on the faces of his father’s staff. “Ah, young Linhardt. Your father tells me that you are to begin your formal studies on Faith soon.”

Linhardt nodded; if he was polite and didn’t say much, this should be over with quickly. “Yes, Bishop.”

“And are you aware of whether you bear your family's crest?”

“Not yet, Bishop. I will undergo the test next year.”

“Wonderful. Remember, it is from the Goddess that both crests and Faith magic itself were bestowed, and Faith is a magic born of belief. Naturally, this means that to have strong Faith, one must believe in the Goddess. Do you believe in the Goddess, Linhardt?”

“I don’t know.”

All of the chatter echoing throughout the cathedral screeched to a halt, the three little words reverberating throughout the air as effective as any Silence. Linhardt’s father was giving him a look he’d never seen before, eyes wide and mouth agape. Oh. He had said the wrong thing again, hadn’t he.

Bishop Herras was the first to recover, clearing his throat and putting on that too-sweet smile again. This time, however, there was an edge to it, as if he were keeping anger at bay by the force of that smile alone, and the rest of the nobles were still quiet, although murmurs began to break out among the crowd. “Is that so. And why don’t you know?”

Linhardt shrugged, having decided that if things had progressed this far, he may as well state what he was really thinking. “Nobody alive has ever seen her, and even if she does live on the Blue Sea Star, why can’t she come here and walk among us if she’s so powerful? Why can’t she show modern people proof that she’s here? Why don’t we know what she really looks like? What can she do from all the way up there? And if she is real… and she is kind… why do bad things happen to good people? It’s not that I don’t want to believe, but--”

“That’s quite enough!” The grip on his shoulder tightened, and Linhardt’s gaze snapped away from the bishop and back to his father. His jaw was clenched, and from the look in his eye, he wasn’t just angry, he was embarrassed-- a far worse emotion to deal with when on the receiving end of his wrath. The tittering around them grew louder as he not-so-gently nudged Linhardt in the direction of Countess Hevring. “Go to your mother. We will discuss this at home.”

“B-”

“At home, Linhardt!”

“...Yes, father.”

He quietly walked over to his mother, who without another word locked his hand in an iron grasp and strode out of the cathedral, Linhardt almost running to keep up. As he gave a last, fleeting glance behind him, he could see his father apologizing to the apoplectic bishop, hear the nobles gossiping about “such a strange little boy that the Hevrings have,” and smell the lingering scent of incense as it started to waft away with the wind.

Of everything he had experienced that day, it was those sensations that had felt the most real.

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They returned to the Hevring estate in silence. Linhardt sat sandwiched between his mother and father, sitting still and trying his utmost not to fall asleep. His father disapproved of such behavior (although he mostly allowed it when nobody else was around) but in this case, it would be best not to make him any more angry. He dug his fingernails into his palm, staving off another wave of sleepiness, and if his parents noticed, they did not say a word.

The carriage finally pulled up to the house, and Linhardt was guided into his father’s spacious office. Bookshelves lined the east wall, papers stuffed into the spaces between the books and the tops of each space. A large map of Hevring was mounted on the west wall, beautifully detailed and meticulously updated each year, displaying all of the details of the territory including population, farmlands, typical weather patterns, and the like. There was also a large fireplace with comfortable chairs and a table in front, although today it was unlit, sitting as cold and ashy as the rest of the office. On the same wall as the doorway were portraits of previous heads of the house, the von Hevring family proudly displaying their lineage of similar expressions of stern, controlled faces. Across from the door was naught but a wall of windows, from which one had an unparalleled view of the estate’s gardens. Linhardt was led to one of the two chairs across from the imposingly large oaken desk in the center of the office, and was bid to take a seat as his father moved to sit behind it. “You may leave,” he said to his wife, who gave a small nod and closed the door behind her, leaving the room in silence.

Linhardt stared at his knees, fidgeting in the chair until Count Hevring cleared his throat. “Look at me.” Linhardt’s gaze slowly rose to meet the Count’s stern look. “Do you know why we need to have this talk?”

“...Because I messed up.”

Count Hevring sighed. “You did. I feel that while it was not an intentional slip on your part, it is a lesson that you are now old enough to be expected to learn. I had hoped to avoid something like this, but now that it has, I must take responsibility for it. I have smoothed over relations with the bishop thanks to a rather hefty donation, and the other nobles have been adequately placated, but in order to avoid such incidents in the future, I shall take it upon myself to instruct you in this matter.”

Linhardt just nodded. Count Hevring did not like being interrupted.

“You see Linhardt, being a noble is about playing a certain role, shall we say. Maintaining a particular image. Part of that image is maintaining our devotional duties to the church and the Goddess while still navigating all of the social expectations that come with being a noble. One of those duties is that personal feelings aside, a noble must always say or appear to believe in the Goddess.”

He saw the disbelieving look on Linhardt’s face and began to elaborate. “It is not for our own sake, my son. It is for the sake of the common people who place their trust in us and the church to guard and to guide them. If believing in the Goddess and the teachings of the church is what brings them fulfillment and allows them to be productive, healthy contributors to their families, their towns, and the Empire, then that is what we must do as well. A noble who goes against the will of his people is a noble who will soon be replaced, by one method or another.”

Count Hevring stood and walked over toward the windows, looking over the gardens. Linhardt knew better than to get up and join him.

“For the nobles, it is to show that they are all equal in the eyes of the Goddess, and that they too seek guidance on how to rule wisely and well, and be their best selves. However, it is also an opportunity to socialize, to inquire as to what one’s peers are doing; both of those also contribute to image. You will come to one day understand just how deep of a hold the church has in the hearts of the people, Linhardt, commoners and nobles alike. But a noble who fails to maintain their image runs the risk of harming not only their house, but their territory, and all of those who inhabit it.”

After a moment of silence, Linhardt spoke. “So… being a noble means that sometimes, you have to lie?”

A pause, followed by a sigh.

“Yes. But if one must lie, it is a lie made in the name of the greater good.”

Linhardt looked at his knees again, a strange sadness welling up within him. “I see…” He tucked that thought away for later, not wishing to appear morose in front of the Count.

Count Hevring took a breath; it was time to hammer this lesson into Linhardt’s memory. “This is why I expect you to act like a noble. It is not for our sake alone, but everyone’s: the people of Hevring, the other noble families, and the continued prosperity and order of the Empire itself. I expect that from now on, you will not do or say anything that might tarnish our name or image. Fulfill your role well, Linhardt, and you will lead a happy, healthy, and productive life; that is the way it has been and the way it will be.”

He looked down at Linhardt to find him nodding up at him solemnly, seemingly following along. Good. He seemed to understand. Count Hevring gave Linhardt a pat on the head. “Run along to the kitchens, now, and get something to eat. Remember what we have spoken about, and do not forget: your studies in Faith begin tomorrow.”

Linhardt nodded once again, and gave a little bow. “Yes, Father. Thank you for the insight.” With that, he headed over to the door, leaving quietly and closing it behind him. Count Hevring once again took a seat at his desk, letting out a sigh. His boy was too young to be asking such questions.

Chapter Text

Monday morning found the Hevring family sitting at the opulent table in the mansion’s dining room, enjoying breakfast. The dining room was all tasteful white columns and an elegant marble floor, with light blue walls and thin sheer curtains pulled back to reveal several large windows on the east wall, admitting plenty of natural light into the room. There were several pieces of art and decorative plates adorning the walls, as well as carefully dusted displays of fine porcelain pieces, and the Crest of Cethleann, and by extension the symbol of House Hevring, was prominently displayed on several large wall banners that hung down from the ceiling. Sturdy oak chairs complimented the antique oaken table, artistically etched with the Crest of Cethleann, fish, and mountains, that the Hevrings used for their daily affairs, and it could be expanded to accommodate more guests if there was a need for it. At each end of the table sat Count and Countess Hevring, with Linhardt between them, and the table was covered in a mouthwatering array of delectable smoked meats, delicately iced sweet buns, the freshest eggs prepared at least seven different ways, and several other delicious dishes served piping hot and cooked with the utmost care.

Count Hevring, for his part, was reading the morning reports. Every day, his staff brought him reports related to the Empire’s finances, judicial system, and other various departments under his purview, and each morning, he got up with the sun to read and respond to as many as he could before he took the remaining ones to breakfast. Even now, he was doing just that, the empty silence filled only by the scrape of cutlery and the willfully ignored discomfort.

Linhardt had already eaten his fill; he had never had much of an appetite, and the events of the day before still seemed to weigh on his soul. The very concept of image being more important than truth nagged at him; his parents had always encouraged him to tell them the truth as lying was “sinful,” to “be a good child,” and he’d taken that to heart, even to the point of offense in some cases. He’d lived his life according to the guidance and wishes of his parents, but now… now what was he supposed to believe? How was he expected to tell the truth and live a lie at the same time? He picked at his eggs with his fork, picking them up only to let the golden yolk run down like a stream onto the plate, but the disapproving “ahem” from his mother convinced him that setting down his fork and taking a sip of his freshly brewed angelica tea was a better idea. (He had known better than to attempt bringing a book to the table. Despite his effort, his mother had quite swiftly put a stop to that, although Linhardt couldn’t see how it was much different from his father ignoring them in favor of poring over reports. Still, the lack of dessert that evening had firmly dissuaded him from asking such a question again.)

Count Hevring had been reading them quietly throughout their meal, every so often absentmindedly bringing up a morsel of food to his mouth, and with his second cup of Almyran pine needle tea in hand and a clean plate, he set the last report down, signed it, and gestured for a clerk to take the whole pile of papers away. Once the area before him was clear of both papers and plates, the Count leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and interlinking his gloved fingers. “Linhardt.”

Linhardt swallowed his mouthful of tea and looked over at his father, meeting his gaze. Count Hevring did not like it when Linhardt failed to meet his gaze. “Yes, father?”

“As we discussed yesterday, your studies in Faith will begin today. I have made time for you in my schedule from the noonday bells until the second bell, and your mother has already made arrangements with the tutors. Do not be late.”

With that, Count Hevring stood, taking his tea with him, and left the dining room, presumably on his way back to his office. Linhardt’s mother stood as well, nodding at the servants to begin clearing the table. “Do not let this food go to waste.”

The maid in charge of the morning’s service gave a small smile and a bow. “We shall not, Countess Hevring.”

“Good. Come along, Linhardt. It is time for your history lessons, followed by your mathematics studies, and after that, it will be time for you to meet with your father. Afterward, we will have our daily luncheon, and then you will have your violin practice, followed by a short break and then your etiquette lessons.”

Linhardt nodded in response as he got up from the table, bringing his tea with him. How wonderful; even listening to that schedule was exhausting, and from the sound of it, a visit to the library was completely out of the question. He walked over to the Countess, carefully balancing his tea, and she placed a hand on his back, guiding him back to his chambers. With any luck, he thought, he could find an opportunity to convince a maid to distract one of his tutors so that he could at least get a chance at a nap.
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The morning’s lessons passed by uneventfully enough, and soon, it was time for Linhardt’s appointment with his father. This time, the head maid herself escorted him, and to his surprise, she led him out to the gardens, taking him through the rows of white roses and lovingly tended forget-me-nots out to a more tranquil and private area, past where casual visitors were invited. The head maid finally came to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate, and rang a small brass bell located to the side. After a moment, Count Hevring appeared at the gate, allowing Linhardt entry as the head maid bowed and walked away. Once she left, the Count locked the gate and began to walk, Linhardt following obediently behind him. Linhardt had never been this far into the Hevring gardens, and he looked around, wide-eyed, as the blooming flowers and pruned hedges gave way to small pools filled with water lilies and lotus plants. Underneath the broad leaves, Linhardt spied Teutates Herring, imported from Lake Teutates, in one of the pools, as well as a few Carassius swimming about in another. Unsurprisingly, they seemed to be in perfect health; both were known to be sacred to Saint Cethleann, and to use anything less than the most healthy, perfect fish when performing a ritual for the family’s patron saint would be nothing short of blasphemous.

They continued to walk until they reached a small grassy area with some comfortable-looking outdoor furniture and a lovely view of the sky, a sight rarely seen in Enbarr. As Linhardt looked around, he marveled at what a wonderful place for a nap this would be; peaceful, secluded, and safe. He would be sure to remember the path.

His father gestured for Linhardt to take a seat, and he did so, carefully folding his hands in front of him and waiting for further directions as his father took a seat opposite him. “Now, Linhardt,” his father began, “I have brought you here in order to help you try to manifest your Faith magic.”

Linhardt’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but his father held up a hand and his mouth closed. The Count stood, and paced toward a nearby tree, laden with small white flowers. “You see, Linhardt, faith is a magic based in the concept of belief. For most, it is the Goddess and the Saints who are the source of that belief. Belief, and by extension Faith, refers to what cannot necessarily be seen, something greater than oneself, and just because it is not something tangible--that is, able to be seen, touched, tasted, heard, or smelt with our physical senses--does not mean that it does not exist.” He turned to look at Linhardt, pacing back to where he still sat. “Do you follow?”

Linhardt blinked, then looked away, contemplating the question. “I… don’t know.”

His father nodded, as though expecting this. “Many do not, especially not when they are as young as you are. This is why many of those who teach Faith magic start with the Goddess, as she is, generally speaking, greater than ourselves yet still accessible to children. However... “ The Count paused his steps for a moment, and sighed. “You may have wondered why I did not bring you to our family chapel. If you were any other child of this family, I would, but in your case, I fear that this would not help you. You see, my son, I feel that you have already begun to doubt. You doubt the Goddess’s existence, and unless you find your way to Her as you grow older, She will not be a strong source of belief for you.”

The Count continued to walk, and Linhardt held his gaze dutifully. “However,” the Count continued, “I believe that I know what will.” He came to a stop in front of his son, crouching down before him. “Linhardt. Your mother and I have taken great pains to raise you wisely and well, and your progress has pleased both of us.” Linhardt’s eyes widened; his father almost never praised him, even when he did his very best at his studies, so to hear him say such a thing was a memory that Linhardt was sure he would cherish forever. “As such, I wish to know: do you believe in us, your parents? And not as in whether or not we exist, because we obviously do, but rather our teachings, our dreams, our hopes and wishes, our desire to see you grow into the capable minister that you will someday be...do you, can you, believe in that, Linhardt?”

Linhardt felt tears begin to come to his eyes, and he furiously blinked them back, not allowing himself to make a fool of himself in front of his father. Count Hevring always had his best interests at heart; everybody told him so, and they would know. Yes, there was no doubt that his father would show him what he needed to do, and even though his earlier doubts about lies were still there, he would surely understand in time. He nodded. “Yes, father. I believe in you and everything you can teach me. I promise I’ll make you proud!”

Count Hevring’s face broke into a small smile, and he stood up, reaching down to pat Linhardt’s head. He could scarcely believe it; praise, a smile, and a pat? He would never, ever forget this day. “Good. Now come along; I will begin teaching you the verses that you will need to know, and then we shall go for luncheon.”

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After they ate, the Hevrings retired to the terrace for Linhardt’s violin practice. Enbarr was experiencing a lovely breezy day, a blessing of the Great Tree Moon, and the Countess requested that they all sit outside and enjoy the weather as Linhardt was tutored. To the shock of everyone, the Countess included, the Count also attended the luncheon; usually he holed himself up in his room doing work, but it seemed that today, he was in a good enough mood to eat with his family. Even more shocking than that, however, was that he continued to remain outside, watching and listening to Linhardt’s performance with an unreadable expression on his face.

The Countess gave a polite cough, snapping open her fan. “Darling, I am so very grateful that you took time out of your day for this. Linhardt has been positively beaming ever since you returned from Faith training earlier.”

The Count nodded. “Yes. I was able to steer him back on the correct path; if he cannot believe in the Goddess, then he can believe in us, and that we are doing what is best for him as his parents.”

The Countess closed her eyes, giving a slight bow in her chair. “I bow to your wisdom, my husband. I have been giving my utmost effort in supervising his growth as a proper heir of Hevring, and with you taking charge of his Faith studies personally, I believe that we shall have nothing to worry about.”

The Count snorted, and the sound was so unexpected that the Countess blinked, scarcely believing such a sound had come from him. “Naturally. If he is performing as expected, then that is ideal. See to it that he continues to do so.” With that, the Count rose from his chair, and walked back inside, presumably to his office. The Countess sighed; the two of them held no love for each other, but he did not even pretend to keep up appearances of affection except when the situation called for it. Still, she held her tongue. She knew her place, and if all it took to continue enjoying this life of luxury and raising her own family's image was raising their son into a proper noble, then that was a duty she was more than willing to fulfill.

Chapter Text

The week passed by in a blur, and the next Sunday found the Hevrings in their personal carriage, once again headed for the Cathedral of Enbarr. Linhardt was seated between his parents, trying not to pick at his itchy woolen socks and stuffy dress shirt. He had already managed to put a singular wrinkle into his church-appropriate dress clothes, which had led to his mother making a fuss and adjusting his outfit, causing his father to become annoyed at the disturbance, and the whole ruckus had culminated in a stern talking-to and the chill of absolute and icy silence. The thought sent a shiver throughout Linhardt’s body, and he reflexively dug his nails into his palms. This time, however, his mother saw it out of the corner of her eye, and brought her fan down with a sharp whap upon his hand, a silent admonishment of his poor behavior. Linhardt forced his hands to relax, placing them on his knees, and with no other conversation forthcoming, retreated into the depths of his imagination, where there was nobody else to bother him and he could not bother anyone else. A scene from earlier in the week played out in his memory, repeating as it had been for the past several days in both his dreams and nightmares, the line indistinguishable when it came to this particular memory.

Linhardt had been practicing with his father in the gardens, a frustrated groan escaping him as light briefly flickered in his palm, then faded. Count Hevring sighed. “I cannot fault your memorization or pronunciation of the sacred verses; if nothing else, it is clear to me that your doubt in the goddess will prevent you from using this particular method of drawing out your faith. Very well; sit on the bench, and we shall go over the next lesson.”

Linhardt sat as instructed, doing his best not to slouch (his mother hated when he slouched, but he couldn't help it sometimes) as he waited for his father to begin. Count Hevring cleared his throat and wheeled over the chalkboard that had been present since that morning. “You see, Linhardt,” the Count began, “all magic requires two things: a source, and a component. The source, as you have already guessed, is what powers your magic. The component is what focuses and directs it, such that you can control it.” Linhardt watched as the Count took a small silver knife and brought over a fish from the pond, placing it on a table. Its scales gleamed, reflecting off of the knife in a dazzling display of color, when suddenly a bright splotch of crimson obscured the view and the fish went limp. The Count placed his hand over the fish’s body and murmured some words that Linhardt recognized as the Hevring family motto, ut in omnibus. A soft light emanated from Count Hevring’s palm, and Linhardt took a quick breath; the light seemed to dance along the Count’s fingertips, a sight that mesmerized him every time he saw it, and surrounded the fish until it began flopping around on the table once more with not even a scratch on it. The Count picked up the fish and tossed it back into the pond, where it landed with a loud splash and began swimming around, as carefree as ever.

“As you can see, my component was my choice of words, which translates to ‘order in all things’ in our modern tongue. That is because those words serve as the best means of focusing my intangible source of Faith into a tangible effect. Do you follow, Linhardt?”

Linhardt nodded, pausing from where he had been drawing little circles on the bench with his finger. For some reason, doing that helped him concentrate, especially when he was trying so hard to pay attention but the lovely weather was tempting him into sleeping. He was about to hold his tongue and resume his finger-shaping when he suddenly remembered something that the bishop had said, and as Count Hevring had not yet resumed speaking, it was as good of a time as any to ask about it. “Father, the bishop said that to have strong Faith, one must believe in the Goddess. Your Faith magic is really strong, but you didn’t use a church verse; do you believe in the Goddess too?” The unspoken question of Do you believe the Goddess is real hung in the air, as if waiting to be answered.

The Count turned to his heir and sighed. He fell silent, and Linhardt could only stare; his usually eloquent father rarely paused to consider his words to this extent, and Linhardt could only hope that this wasn’t a sign that the Count was angry. Bad things happened when the Count was angry. His worries were lessened, however, when the Count spoke again. “That is not so simple a question as you may believe, Linhardt. You see, Faith can come from many sources. While I do believe in the Goddess, my primary source of Faith can best be described as Hevring itself.”

Clasping his arms behind him, he looked beyond Linhardt, past the ponds and forget-me-nots surrounding the gardens, and back into his own mind, diving for a memory hidden under the waves of thought. “I inherited the mantle of Minister of Domestic Affairs from my father, who received the title from his own. I have not only governed this territory, but all of the clerks, the finances of the Empire, and the management of both are under my jurisdiction. I work tirelessly for the betterment of the Empire, a duty passed down through our line as assuredly as our Crest, and despite all of the trials and tribulations, the sacrifices required, I am proud of all that I have accomplished and what I will do in the future."

The Count tilted his head back, looking up toward the sky, and a small smile made its way to his face, the expression foreign on such a usually stern visage. "Thus, Linhardt, pride in myself, in the duties and responsibilities that I have been entrusted with from my forefathers, and in the Empire that I work so hard to sustain is the primary fuel of my faith. Faith is born from the spirit, the resonance of your own self with a concept or call, an idea or movement, a bond or being; even in times of hardship or trouble, when your mind screams in doubt and your heart worries for the future, your soul draws strength from what it knows to be true, a spark of light in the metaphorical darkness, and that is the basis of Faith.”

He trailed off, and Linhardt could not bring himself to speak, could not interrupt the strange atmosphere that had befallen them. After a full minute of nothing but the breeze’s voice drifting through the trees, the Count turned and approached Linhardt, finally speaking once more. “It is alright if you do not understand all of my words now. But you must remember them so that when you do need them, they will not fail you." He gave Linhardt’s head a pat before refolding his arms behind him. “That’s enough for today, Linhardt. Run along back to the manor, now.”

Linhardt nodded, his head spinning with the sheer amount of new information he’d learned, and he headed back to the gate, a servant waiting to escort him back. His father was right in that he didn’t really understand everything he’d been taught, but maybe he wasn’t supposed to? He wasn’t quite sure, but what he did know was that this lesson in particular was one to commit to memory. Carefully, he snuck a look behind him at the lonely, pale column of a man that was his father, who was now staring down into one of the ponds with a serene yet detached expression, and not for the first time, Linhardt wondered if he too would look just as worn and tired one day.

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After an indeterminable amount of time, the carriage came to a stop in front of the cathedral, and Linhardt was plucked from his reverie by the loud bustle of nobles and their servants filing into the church.

The footman opened the carriage door for them, and Count Hevring got out, followed by Linhardt and his mother. Linhardt winced as the sunlight assaulted his eyes, and he brought a hand up to shield himself before his father’s angry stop that forced his arm to retreat to his side. “Why am I here,” he muttered, but it seemed that the Goddess--if she WAS real--was not looking upon him very kindly today, as his father looked over with a scowl.

“Because you are part of this family, whether you like it or not.”

Linhardt stared up at him, a pout threatening to form on his lips. "But father, I had thought that I was no longer--"

"Alternative arrangements have been made for you, but we still must go in as a family. This too contributes to image. Understood?"

At that now too-familiar word, Linhardt held his tongue and nodded his head. Image. The more he heard it, the more he was coming to despise it. All an image was, according to his dictionary, was “the general impression that a person, organization, or product presents to the public.” In other words, it had to be neither real nor genuine, just convincing, and to Linhardt, that was a terribly labor-intensive lie to keep. Just thinking about it made him bored and restless, as though it were an itch he couldn’t scratch, but rather an idea tickling at his mind, and like it always wanted to do once he stopped caring about whatever or whoever it was he was listening to, his mind was ever so close to wandering off by itself to find something more interesting to ponder.

However, once they crossed the threshold of the cathedral, a servant of the house quickly escorted Linhardt out and around to the backyard of the building, which was apparently the "child care area." In other words, it was a temporary time out for the children who weren't allowed to go inside, but who also couldn't stay home for one reason or another. Linhardt quietly trudged along, utterly unimpressed. As if making him suffer the time and awkwardness to get here wasn’t enough, now he had to be outside and dealing with other children? Unbelievable.

His disinterest was soon quashed, however, by a panicked scream and a child’s laughter, bubbling across the backyard from high up in a tree. “Young master Bergliez! Please come down!” a servant called, her impeccably pressed blue and black livery greatly contrasting with her desperate demeanor as she wrung her hands frantically, head tilted back to watch her young charge. High up above, jovial peels of laughter tumbled down, the source of which seemed to be a blue-haired boy with at least two sticks poking out of his head, a scratch on his cheek that was only accentuated by the dirt on the rest of his face, and a madcap grin that reached all the way up to his sky-blue eyes, which were currently dead set on a cat that had gotten itself trapped in a tree.

Linhardt decided that this boy was by far the most interesting person out of everyone whose names and faces he could be bothered to remember.

The maid accompanying Linhardt gave a disapproving grimace, but made no move to help, instead releasing Linhardt and moving to stand over in the shadows of the building. On any other day, Linhardt would have joined her so that he could take a nap where it was cool, but today, something about the tree-climbing boy over there seemed to have caught his attention and held it fast.

“Can’t come down, Etta! Not while the kitty’s still here!” a vigor-filled voice echoed, and Linhardt thought that this boy ought to be quite grateful that the church’s walls were made of a thick, sturdy stone; if he had actually interrupted the mass going on, someone would be having to pay Bishop Herras a great sum of money.

The kitty in question, clearly deciding that the continuous assault on its eardrums was far worse of a fate than heights, leapt off the branch nimbly and landed on its feet in the yard, racing off into the streets nearby. The boy blinked at it, and Linhardt could see the gears turning in his head as he stared at where the cat had gone, then the branch, like he couldn’t quite believe the progression of events from Point A to Point B. Linhardt could pinpoint the moment reality caught up with him, however, once he yelled “no, kitty! Come back!” and promptly let go of the tree to make grabby hands at the cat, causing him to fall straight down, his back crashing into the rock-solid earth below. “Owwww…” he mumbled, rubbing at the sore spot, and his maid gave a gasp before running over to him, frantically looking him over. Before he was completely conscious of it, Linhardt’s feet began to move, bringing him over to the shaking boy almost before his brain had caught up. Linhardt bent down to one knee (ignoring his own maid’s screeching about the mud now staining his pants) and put a hand on the boy’s back, pressing gently and ignoring the loud “Ehhhhhhh?!” coming from the patient in question.

“Hold still,” he murmured, not quite sure where this sudden desire to help was coming from but grateful for it all the same. “I want to help.” Closing his eyes, Linhardt tried to speak the words of the Goddess, but unbidden memories of hours on end practicing and repeating those “words of power” and having little to show for it bubbled to his mind and the syllables tasted like ashes on his tongue. He paused for a moment, practically choking on his worry and unease.

“Uh, hey,” the boy he was healing said tentatively, shattering Linhardt’s concentration as easily as a dinner plate falling to the bricks. He craned his neck, trying to look back at Linhardt. “It’s ok if you can’t help. I’ll be fine!” Linhardt looked up, meeting his gaze and seeing only… acceptance there. Huh. Far from his father’s stern, judging gaze or his mother’s firm, sometimes desperate look, this one’s eyes were clear, like he just appreciated that someone was putting in the effort at all. That clarity must have done something to Linhardt’s own heart, because he remembered now, and he closed his eyes once more, focusing on the words that had floated up to the top of his memory. “Ut in omnibus,” he whispered, and a faint light flashed, illuminating the boy’s back before the light sank into him and after a moment, the dancing light faded from Linhardt’s fingertips. The boy didn’t move. Linhardt opened his eyes and pulled his hand away in frustration; the words seemed to work only marginally better than when he had used church verses, and something in him wondered if he really was cut out for Faith magic after all when suddenly, the incomprehensible boy before him sprang up, causing Linhardt to practically tumble backward in fright.

“YAHOO!” he cheered, and he turned toward Linhardt, a huge smile on his face. “That was AMAZING! Are you a magic user? That was super duper cool!”

Linhardt blinked, slightly overwhelmed by the enthusiasm. “Erm, yes. Or at least, I’m training to become one.”

“Training, huh? Yeah, I get that! I’m gonna become a super strong fighter, just like my dad! You don’t seem like much of a fighter, but I guess that’s why you’re a magic user. You’re cool though, unlike lots of other magic users I know! And you use Faith, right? So… wait, why aren’t you inside, then?”

Linhardt took a breath, trying to keep up with the rapid fire statements. Once he parsed the last question, however, a subtle look of hesitation flitted across his face. Should he tell this boy, whose name he didn’t even know, about his problem? Probably not, but… “I got in trouble for telling Bishop Herras that I don’t know if I believe in the Goddess.”

The words tumbled out seemingly of their own accord, and silence rang out across the backyard. The two maids’ eyes were wide, and they looked as though they were visibly restraining themselves from saying something. Linhardt wanted to duck his head in shame. He had said more than he should have again--

“Hey, that’s ok!” Once again, Linhardt was rescued from his suddenly swirling thoughts by that bright grin and clear gaze. “It’s hard to believe in some lady in the sky. I getcha! Here, if you need something to believe in… well, how about this?”

The boy crouched down in front of Linhardt, who still hadn’t stood up yet, and extended his pinky finger. “If you gotta have something to believe in to make your magic work, then I promise to be your friend, forever if you wanna!”

Linhardt looked from his finger to his face, mouth open in surprise. “I… you want to be my friend? But… why?”

The boy shrugged, not moving from what must have been a very uncomfortable position. “You helped me, so I wanna help you! Besides, there’s not many people who wanna talk to me, but when I was hurt, you came over to help right away! You seem like a nice guy, even if you are kinda gloomy-lookin’.”

“Y-young master!” the black-clad maid hissed from where she was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Linhardt’s, the two watching their conversation intently. “That’s quite rude!”

“Oh!” the boy grimaced, looking over his shoulder at her, then back to Linhardt with an expression reminiscent of that of a kicked puppy. “Real sorry about that! I didn’t mean--”

A slight chuckle filled the air, causing the boy, his maid, and Linhardt’s to stare at him like he’d lost his mind, and perhaps he had, considering the chuckling was coming from him. “You’re the type to speak bluntly about what’s on your mind, hm?”

“Well, yeah! I hate lying and liars!” the boy practically shouted, and despite the noise, something about how he said those seven words with such clarity and conviction caused Linhardt’s last doubt to crumble and fall away.

“Is that so… then in that case, I think we’ll get along just fine after all.” Linhardt laced his own pinky with the boy’s, curling their fingers together, and something inside of him loosened as a result, a knot that had been in place in his gut for what felt like an entire week now. “Now then, might I have the pleasure of learning my new friend’s name?”

“OH! Sorry I didn’t say so before,” the boy laughed, not letting go of Linhardt’s pinky. Somehow, this wasn’t as bothersome as Linhardt was sure it should have been. “My name’s Caspar! Caspar von Bergliez.”

Von Bergliez, huh…? Linhardt mused. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it in the moment, so he let it go. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Caspar. I am Linhardt von Hevring.”

Chapter Text

As soon as they returned home from the mass, Linhardt’s father dug his grip into his son’s shoulder and marched him upstairs. Neither his mother nor any of the servants dared to follow. Linhardt gulped—after the mass had concluded and his father had looked him over, he had not been too pleased about what he’d seen. Despite that, the Count hadn’t said a word during the entire carriage ride home, causing prickles of nervousness to tingle down Linhardt’s spine. As they ascended the staircase leading to the Count’s office, the bells housed within the family chapel began to ring, their sound sonorous and ominous as if heralding Linhardt’s impending hour of judgment.

With heavy steps, they arrived at the office. As they entered, Linhardt’s accompanying maid was already there, spine straight, hands back, and head bowed in a perfect display of submission. Count Hevring released Linhardt, who immediately took his seat in one of the chairs, and closed the door tightly. Taking a seat at his desk, the Count rested his elbows atop the polished wood and bridged his hands together, placing them in front of his nose. His body language betrayed nothing but his characteristic stern seriousness, and Linhardt tamped down the urge to squirm in his chair. “Speak. Why is my son covered in dirt.”

As if awaiting her cue, the maid recounted the afternoon’s events, somehow managing to keep her voice from shaking despite the Count’s sword-sharp stare. Once she had finished, the Count’s eye turned to Linhardt, and he offered his own recounting of events, trying not to give in to his fraying nerves.

Once they both had finished, the Count sighed and dismissed the maid with a wave of his hand. She gave a prompt curtsy and left without a word, closing the office door behind her. Linhardt didn’t dare fill the silence.

After a moment of thinking through his words, the Count finally spoke. “While I am pleased that you have succeeded in drawing out your Faith magic, Linhardt, I am less pleased about your choice in company. Somehow or another, you bonded with a Bergliez, of all people! I feel that finding you some better friends would be more ideal—”

“Wait, father! That—”

Linhardt suddenly fell silent, narrowly avoiding biting his tongue. Oh no. He had interrupted Count Hevring, and worse, had contradicted him. Linhardt gulped, his gaze escaping to the safe, unjudging carpet below.

“Look at me, Linhardt.” Linhardt tried to drag his eyes up and away from the carpet, but fear held them fast. “Look at me.” The Count’s tone was even, but Linhardt was well aware that he would not ask a third time.

With that thought in mind, Linhardt’s head rose, and he managed to meet his father’s eyes. The Count’s pupils bored into him like drills. “Do not interrupt me again.” A beat passed, then two. “Is that understood?”

Linhardt nodded, but a moment later, recalled that his father didn’t particularly approve of nonverbal answers. “Understood, father.”

“Good.” The Count stood and walked toward the hanging portraits of the Hevring ancestors, examining them with a careful eye. “Now then, I will pardon your mistake in order to hear just what it is that you treasure about your newfound friendship with Caspar von Bergliez, so much so that you would forget yourself and the rules of this house.”

Linhardt swallowed and turned toward his father, his nails digging sharply into the skin of his palm. “He was kind to me, father. And interesting to watch. It was fun to spend time with him, and because of him, I was able to successfully cast Heal for the first time.”

“Yes, you did mention that. And how did you do it? What method?”

“I recited our family’s motto, father.”

The Count turned away from the paintings to stare down at his son, his gaze inscrutable. “And that worked, did it… well, good. That being said, the second son is known for being somewhat rowdy. You are not usually disposed to enjoying time with such people. Not to mention that Count Bergliez and I often have… disputes. It is hardly an ideal match for a friendship.”

“I… I understand, father. Still, I enjoyed the time that I spent with him, even if it was only for a little while. Please, I promise that I will continue to work hard on my Faith magic if you allow me to keep seeing him!”

The force behind the request surprised even Linhardt himself; very rarely did he request much beyond new books to read or enough time for a nap, and never with this much seriousness. From the look on his father’s face, the Count himself had not expected such a thing either. He quickly regained his composure, however, and hummed in thought.

“Very well. I will allow it, but you must not let any of your studies falter as a result. If this Caspar turns out to be a good influence upon you, then I will allow your friendship to flourish as you see fit, but should it be detrimental…”

The rest of the warning went unsaid. Linhardt heard it perfectly well, however, and nodded his assent. “Of course, father. Thank you.”

Without another word, the Count jerked his head towards the door, signaling that the conversation was over. Linhardt hopped from his chair and bowed before quickly exiting the office and heading toward his room for a change of clothes. As soon as his son left, Count Hevring sighed and sat back down at his desk. Of all of the people Linhardt could have possibly bonded with, his son had to have made friends with a Bergliez. An ANIMAL would have been more welcome news; at least they could be trained!

Linhardt and Caspar’s friendship seemed to deepen with the seasons. Springtime saw them swimming in the ponds and lakes dotting their respective estates, napping in the breeze, and enjoying the weather, usually as Linhardt slept and Caspar leapt after whatever happened to catch his fancy in the moment.

On one particular day, the flowers bloomed as though they’d been blessed by the heavens. Pink peonies, red roses, and all manner of flowers had sprung to life, freed from their wintry sleep. The grass was green, vibrant and alive, and the buds on the trees blossomed with joy. Bees milled about, gathering pollen to spin into nectar, and birds flitted and fluttered to and fro, their eager warbles echoing across the estate. To most who saw this spectacular sight, it would have seemed like the Goddess herself had blessed the Hevring household that day.

For Linhardt von Hevring, however, it was much more of a nuisance than anything else. Buried beneath the embroidered blankets and hand-dyed goose-down bedding, the six year old was currently cooped up in his room in Hevring manor, blowing his way through several of his family’s spare handkerchiefs. “Ughhhh,” he moaned, lamenting his drippy nose, and his sore throat ached in protest. His allergies seemed to rear up at the worst times, and while it gave him an excuse to stay inside, he would’ve much rather preferred to be out there, reading and sleeping beneath the shade as the breeze blew by.

But no. All of his plans were stymied, his ornate cage glinting gold, his mind hazy, and—

A light, sharp knock on his bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. “Young master, your friend Master Caspar von Bergliez is here to see you,” came the gentle voice of one of the maids. Not two seconds after she’d finished did the door fly open, revealing a rather excited Caspar, the maid, and a somewhat apologetic-looking footman clad in House Bergliez livery. As Linhardt shot a look their way, the footman took the initiative to speak up first. “Please pardon our intrusion, young master Linhardt. I tried to tell young master Caspar that you were feeling under the weather, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and he refused to leave until he saw you.”

“Mmm… that’s fine,” Linhardt rasped, willing his body with all of the strength he could muster to drag itself into a sitting position. “You both may leave now.”

With a bow, the maid and footman took their leave, closing the door behind them. Caspar looked around Linhardt’s room with wonder. “WOAH! You have five whole bookshelves?! And this is a really nice desk! It’s so tall! Oh, and your closet’s so big…”

Linhardt simply chuckled as Caspar walked around, his curious gaze drinking up all of his friend’s finery, but after a moment, the chuckle turned into a cough, drawing Caspar’s attention. “Linhardt, are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”

Linhardt was touched by Caspar’s concern, but waved it off. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve simply been afflicted with springtime allergies.”

Caspar gave a little pout in response. “Allergies? Like mine? I can’t eat fish because it makes my skin all red and itchy. Is it like that?”

“No, not quite. It’s… well, there’s so much pollen in the air that it’s causing me to sneeze and cough more than usual. That’s all.”

“Hmmm… where’s the pollen coming from?”

Linhardt gestured to the expanse of nature existing smugly outside his window, all of the trees and flowers and even the shrubberies voicelessly tormenting him as they basked in the sunlight and gentle wind without him.

“Nature. All of it. It’s bullying me into staying indoors, far from the sunshine.”

Caspar seemed to consider this solemnly, falling quiet for long enough that Linhardt was almost compelled to ask if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. Suddenly, in an explosion of motion, he rose to his feet and ran over to Linhardt’s bedroom door. “Alright, Linhardt! No worries! I’ll just give that mean ol’ nature a beating until it leaves you alone!”

Linhardt blinked once, then twice as Caspar ran out of his room, calling for a maid to bring him a sword.

After a few moments, a loud echo of “HIYA! GET BACK, GRASS!” echoed from the courtyard just below Linhardt’s window. With great effort and no small amount of interest, Linhardt dragged himself from his bed despite the siren’s song of comfort calling from his bedsheets and propped himself up against the polished glass. Outside, Caspar was hacking away at the varied plant life with a wooden sword, the maids obviously not trusting a wild 6-year-old with a sharp implement. With each stroke of his sword, flowers were bent backward from his blows, while numerous blades of grass yielded to his own. From this particular angle, Linhardt could just barely see tremors of exertion running through Caspar’s arms, and he longed to call out to him, to tell him to stop. However, it was unlikely that Caspar would even hear him—despite his exhaustion, Caspar’s burning determination to single-handedly defeat Linhardt’s allergies was too great a force. As Linhardt watched, Caspar continued to mow down all of the nature in his path, but for the most part, his great battle went under-appreciated by the natural order… at least up until one critical moment.

Linhardt watched, wide-eyed, as Caspar’s sword missed a tree branch and instead dislodged a hanging beehive, and promptly winced as the insectoid soldiers formed into their battalions and stung their shrieking foe. Without further delay, Linhardt ran from the window and donned a pair of slippers, running from his room and down the ornate stairs toward the foyer, where Caspar would doubtless need treatment.

Just as he arrived, Caspar dragged his sting-riddled body through the front door, practically collapsing into one of the plush chairs placed off to the side of the foyer. “Oh Caspar,” Linhardt murmured, taking in the state of his injuries. Immediately, he called for a maid, instructing her to bring vulneraries as he began to cast Heal. Unlike his first time successfully casting the spell, Linhardt, at first, didn’t even think of his family motto or what it meant to him. Instead, Linhardt instinctually willed Caspar to be whole and healed. He envisioned Caspar’s smiling face, and the exuberance in his voice. At the end, however, as if suddenly coming to a realization, he quickly shoved thoughts of Caspar to the side and pulled up the proud faces of his parents, just barely remembering to tack on the family motto at the end. In a flash of light, the spell circle appeared before Linhardt’s hand, and Caspar watched, dazed, as the swelling on his arms and legs slowly receded. “Geez, Linhardt,” he murmured tiredly, “why couldn’t you have just used that on yourself or something?”

Linhardt sighed in relief, grateful that he’d caught himself in time. What if thinking about Caspar instead of his parents had caused the spell to fail? Then again, the magic had felt so easy to cast this time, almost effortless. Could his mental state have had something to do with this?

In pondering the question, Linhardt almost missed Caspar’s. He shook himself from his thoughts so that he could concentrate on finding the right words. “In general, Father says that healing magic cannot be cast on oneself. Sometimes, as a side effect of using healing magic, its users can gain skills that help them regain some health, but it’s rare and not necessarily guaranteed.”

At that moment, the maid returned with the vulnerary, with Caspar’s escort hot on her heels. “Young master Caspar!” the footman gasped. “Oh Goddess, what’s happened to you?!”

Caspar gave a long sigh. “I was trying to fight all the grass and the flowers and stuff so they would stop being mean to Linhardt, but I hit a bee’s nest and got stung.”

“Please don’t worry,” Linhardt drawled, unobtrusively wiping his nose on his sleeve. “With some healing magic and a vulnerary, he will be just fine.” He popped open the cork on the vulnerary and applied it to the stings, giving poor Caspar some measure of relief as some of the itchiness subsided.

“Hey, Linhardt? How come you have to use a vulnerary and the magic?”

“Magic and medicine do different things, Caspar. Magic grants your body more vitality and boosts its rate of healing. Medicine staves off lingering infection and disease. It’s often recommended that healers use both to account for all aspects of injuries.”

Caspar simply gave a small hum in response and let Linhardt finish his treatment. Soon enough, his wounds were bandaged and his smile back in full force, and Linhardt couldn’t help but smile despite his lingering tiredness. “Alright, well, that’s enough for one day. I’m going to go rest.”

Caspar just grinned in response and walked over to the footman. “Ok, Linhardt! Sleep well, ok? Next time, I’ll be strong enough to fight off anything bullying you! Don’t you worry!”

Despite his eyelids growing heavier by the second, a small smile found its way to Linhardt’s face. “I’ll look forward to it.”

The rest of spring slipped by without incident, and soon enough, the sweltering summers typical of Adrestia had rolled in to make everyone’s lives miserable. Linhardt himself was no exception; even as he stood on his balcony, overlooking the lands of Hevring, the endless sea of trees and piercingly clear skies overhead could do little to distract him from the oppressive heat. Along with the summer sunshine had come the ministers' annual recess, and so Linhardt and his parents had returned to their family estate in Hevring to enjoy a few months of rest and relaxation. The Count and Countess still busied themselves with running the territory and being far more social than Linhardt could ever be, but in his eyes, it was always exciting to come back to a new old place like this one.

There were still books here that he hadn't read and new napping spots to be discovered, after all.

Pushing himself away from the elegant railing, Linhardt decided that the latter would simply have to wait until it got cooler. But what was he to do now? He felt surprisingly awake, despite the heat, and oddly enough, he wasn't quite in the mood for more reading just yet.

"Hm…" he murmured to nobody in particular, walking back into his room and closing the door to the balcony with a click.

Just then, a knock resounded, and the bedroom door opened with a click to reveal Count Hevring himself. Linhardt’s eyes widened—it was exceedingly rare for his father to come speak to him personally. Usually he just summoned Linhardt to his office or to wherever else he wished to meet. Mind buzzing with curiosity, Linhardt simply gave his father a stiff bow. “Hello, father. What can I do for you?”

“Hm. Linhardt, are you aware that on the 12th day of the next moon, we will celebrate Saint Cethleann Day? Our family will formally host the festivities then, but today, I would like to prepare you for an important task.” The Count turned his gaze toward the hallway and made a “come here” gesture with his hand to someone that Linhardt couldn’t yet see. On cue, a footman stepped into view, bearing a bevy of items. As Linhardt’s gaze scampered over the equipment, he spotted a large woven net, two sturdy fishing rods, and several small, opaque boxes. What was all of this for?

Seeing his son’s confusion, the Count sighed and began to elaborate. “Due to the importance of this momentous day, one of the Hevring family’s direct descendants must procure the sacred fish for the Saint Glorification ritual held on Saint Cethleann Day. You are of the proper age to undertake this responsibility, and thus, I shall personally teach you to fish in preparation for next month. Come along.”

Linhardt blinked, completely caught off-guard. He wasn’t terribly sure that he had the energy to shoulder heavy family responsibilities today, and fishing was an activity that he vaguely knew about but had never mustered interest in. He snuck a look at his father. The Count looked rather serious about this, his stare unwavering as he regarded his son, and Linhardt’s complaints withered on his tongue. From the look on his father’s face, he was going fishing, whether he liked it or not.

Linhardt suppressed a tired yawn from escaping him as he sat beside his father on the banks of a small lake. A few major rivers wound their way into the territory before shooting off into smaller rivers and pooling into lakes, and this particular lake sat just outside of the Hevring estate. It was a popular place for the servants and staff to fish for the nobles’ supper, and thus it was here that Count Hevring had brought his son.

To Linhardt’s dismay, it was still hot. They’d found a nice, shady spot by which to practice, but that didn’t stop Linhardt from being acutely aware of how sweaty his feet felt, trapped by his linen socks, and how stifling his outfit was. He would surely need a bath once he got home.

“Focus, Linhardt,” his father instructed. “Fishing is an act of patience, of meditation even. Clear your mind and allow the fish to come to you. Do not get upset if you can’t manage it at first.”

Linhardt simply hummed in response and held onto the rod. The wood dug into his hands, and as he sat by the lakeside, the gentle breeze sweeping across his face, his thoughts began to wander once again. What was Caspar doing now? Could they write to each other? Perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad idea; Count Hevring had gifted him a new ink and quill set for his birthday last year, and he hadn’t had any occasion to use it yet. Yes, that sounded–

“Quickly, Linhardt! The rod!”

With sharp reflexes, Linhardt attempted to lift the rod, but his meager strength wasn’t nearly enough to pull the fish from the water. The Count quickly leaned in and grabbed the rod, swinging it deftly so as to pluck the fish from the waters. Its scales gleamed in the sunlight, and between the two of them, they managed to place it in their icebox, ready to be taken back to the manor.

“Well done, Linhardt,” his father praised, placing a hand upon his head. Linhardt gave a quiet smile in return. His heart warmed; Count Hevring rarely made time for activities such as these, so to do well and earn his praise made all of the heat and discomfort worth it.

Once the two had returned to the manor and Linhardt had bathed and donned fresh clothes, he took a seat at his desk, intent on writing to Caspar. But what should the subject be? Hmmmm… After a few moments of contemplation, Linhardt picked up his pen and began to write.

“Dear Caspar:

I hope you’re well. It’s really, really hot here; is it hot where you are? Father took me fishing today and it was fun. I got lost in thought because I was thinking about writing to you, but I still caught a fish. Father was even proud of me! Overall, a good day.

Are you running around out there? Don’t run around too much. Drink some water and stay in the shade, too. The tutor told me all about heatstroke and how we should protect ourselves from it, so I’m letting you know too. Be careful, ok?

If you want, write me back. Then we can still talk, even if I can’t see you yet. Maybe I’ll get to see you soon though. That would be nice.

Linhardt”

Chapter Text

The seasons changed once again, and red and orange leaves descended from their trees in graceful swirls. Autumn had come, and today, Linhardt was sitting serenely in his room in Enbarr. The nobles had all been called back from their recess, and so, the noble families had convened once again. In Linhardt’s opinion, it had always been incredibly bothersome to travel from house to house, what with all of the moving, the traveling, the packing, and the unpacking. This year, however, there was a sparkle of delight in his oceanic eyes, likely due to the letter that he held delicately in his grasp.

“Dear Linhardt:

Thanks for the letter!! I got help writing this one but I can’t wait to see you! We’ll be back in Enbarr in a couple days, so you and I can play together and stuff. See you soon!

Caspar”

The letter was short and sweet, with several scratched out words and penmanship that looked more like chicken scratch, but Linhardt still couldn’t help but smile. During the trip here, he had been unusually energetic, staring out the window and hoping that soon, they would get to see each other again. He wasn’t usually the type to look forward to much of anything, and even his parents were surprised at his exuberance.

“Yeah, Caspar,” Linhardt murmured into the wind, as if hoping it would carry his words all the way to Caspar’s ears. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Soon” ended up being approximately three days later, when an enthusiastic Caspar ran all the way from his family’s Enbarr estate to Linhardt’s own (fortunately, the two residences were only about 15 minutes away, making it easy for the two ministers to meet but far enough away that they couldn’t constantly shout to each other). With a grin and a whoop, he’d coaxed Linhardt from his room and grabbed his pale hand, dragging him out to the gardens, now filled with leaves.

“Wheeee!” Caspar yelled in delight, diving into a freshly gathered pile. Linhardt had expected the groundskeepers to be angry with such uncouth behavior, but they merely grinned and left the two to their playtime, which utterly baffled the young Hevring. Why were they so willing to overlook the mess? Father would certainly frown if he found out, but…

“C’mon, Linhardt! What are you waiting for?!” Caspar shouted expectantly, arms waving wildly in the air as he beckoned Linhardt over. “Just jump right in!” After a moment’s hesitation, Linhardt leapt forward, bellyflopping into the pile. It was strangely comfortable, actually; who would have thought that leaves could actually be this fun? He snuck a glance over at Caspar, who graced him with a wild smile. “See, Lin? Leaves are fun! It’s nice to make a mess every once in a while!”

Linhardt shook his head, a tiny smile evident on his face. “I’m not so sure that I agree with the mess part, but this was surprisingly fun.”

“Surprisingly?” The thought made Caspar’s lip jut out into a pout. “Aw, does that mean you didn’t believe me?”

Linhardt stood up from the pile, brushed off his clothes, and offered a hand to Caspar, who eagerly took it. “It’s not that, but rather that my father has never permitted me to jump into the leaves, and I only did so this time because the groundskeepers are willing to look the other way.”

Caspar huffed, as if he couldn’t quite believe that his best friend had missed out on such an occasion. “Well, now you know! Sometimes people tell you not to do stuff, and I guess they have reasons for it, but if you didn’t do it, you’d never know, y’know?”

Hm. Even more surprising than the joy of leaves was that Caspar had actually made an incredibly insightful point. “Hm, perhaps I’ll keep that in mind. For now, though… I believe that we still have some leaves to enjoy.”

Soon enough, the crisp fall air had bowed its head to winter’s chill, and Linhardt found himself staring out the windows of Fort Merceus, watching as snow started to slowly pile up into thick, fluffy hills of white. He could vaguely hear Caspar yelling his lungs out as he ran through the halls, clearly having energy to burn. At least the good news was that Linhardt could heal just about any injury that he had; practicing on Caspar had done wonders for his understanding of Faith magic and he didn’t even need to invoke his family’s motto anymore for the warm magic to spring to his fingertips.

Linhardt had also practiced his magic on some of the guards, and imagining them healing and being whole again often seemed to do the trick. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could faintly envision Caspar cheering him on, reminding him that he could do it, that he would succeed. He hadn’t told his father about this, though; there was little doubt that Count Hevring would consider mind-Caspar to be a distraction rather than a help, even if Linhardt himself felt differently.

“Liiiiiiin!” Caspar’s plaintive call echoed from down the hallway, effectively breaking his concentration. With a sigh, Linhardt pushed himself away from the windowsill and sprinted through the halls, following the echoes toward where Caspar had no doubt scraped his knee on the fort’s stone floors.

“Y’know, Lin, we should go outside.”

After scraping his knee just as Linhardt had predicted, Caspar had evidently given up on running around for the time being and had decided to join Linhardt at his favorite windowsill instead. Linhardt quirked an eyebrow at his best friend, obviously curious as to what had prompted that particular train of thought.

“I’m just saying! There’s so much snow out there. It would be fun!”

“But Caspar, it would be cold. And more importantly, the sun is setting. We likely won’t be allowed outside.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that!” Caspar grinned. “We can take a secret passage! It goes outside, so we’ll just use that, play for a while, and then go back in.”

Linhardt hummed. It wasn’t a terrible plan, all things considered, and the snow did look awfully inviting…

“Oh, alright,” the young Hevring sighed. “Why not.”

They donned their coats and other winter clothes, and with a grin, Caspar eagerly led the way. The secret passage was located behind a bookshelf in a vacant room near the servants’ quarters. Caspar had found it by accident one day when he was bored, and decided to keep it a secret “just in case.” Now that he had a reason to use it, he was unbelievably excited. “Alright, Linhardt! You just push this book back, and…”

Click! Once he’d done so, the bookshelf moved aside with a creak, revealing a dark passageway extending deep into the maw of the earth. Linhardt blinked and squinted into the gloom. He couldn’t make out anything in the abyss.

Part of him was about to suggest that they just not bother, but Caspar gave a whoop of “let’s go, Linhardt!” and pulled him through. The secret door slid shut behind them, squeezing out the last of the light. Linhardt sighed; this would never do. Concentrating on his magic, he imagined a mote of light condensing at the tip of his finger. A healing spell not yet completed, the energy gathered but not dispersed. Caspar stared slack-jawed at the display. “Wow, Lin! That’s incredible! I always believed you were good at magic, but this is perfect!”

Linhardt blinked, then gave a small, pleased smile. He didn’t know why, but hearing these sorts of things from Caspar made his chest feel warm. It was different from the hollow praise given by his parents, who constantly expected more, more, more from him. Caspar appreciated him for who he was and what he could do now, and the encouragement bounced around in his head as if fueling him.

They walked forward until finally, a sealed wall emerged. Caspar fumbled around before his questing fingers finally pressed into a specific brick, and with a groan, the wall slid aside to reveal the outdoors. As Linhardt stepped outside, he looked around, taking stock of the situation. The sun would set soon, so they didn’t have too much time to play, but even a little would be more than enough given how cold it was out here. Luckily for them, there were no guards to be seen, and by Linhardt’s estimation, they were just outside the outer wall of the castle. Most importantly, however, a short distance away, past a snow-leaden wood, was a pristine snowy field, perfect for playing in. Caspar must have thought the same thing, because before Linhardt could even suggest it, he was dragging Linhardt toward the field in earnest.

Neither of them noticed the wall sliding securely back into place behind them.

An hour had passed, and the sun had almost fully set below the horizon. Caspar and Linhardt had built snowmen, made snow saints, and thrown snowballs at each other, all in the name of good winter fun. Once Caspar had realized that Linhardt needed a break, they plopped down together in the snow, enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine.

“Say, Linhardt,” Caspar asked suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence. “What does it feel like to have a crest?”

“Mhm? I don’t think I understand the question.”

“Well… we all got tested when we were born for crests, right? Like my dad has a major crest of Cichol. And you have a minor crest of… Set… Ceth…”

“Cethleann, yes.”

“Yeah, her! But I don’t have a crest. So, I was kinda wondering what it felt like.”

Linhardt pondered the question for several moments before finally giving a defeated shrug. “I’m afraid that I don’t really know. I’ve never activated my crest before, and father hasn’t really been able to tell me how. He says that it’s different for each person, and giving me guidance might only harm my understanding.”

Caspar pouted in response, seemingly unsatisfied but willing to accept the answer all the same. “Well, that sucks. I just wanted to know ‘cause… well, what if the test is wrong and I really do have a crest? Wouldn’t that be cool? Father trains me, but he lets my big brother Walter off easy, and I’m pretty sure it’s ‘cause he has a crest too. It’s not fair! I want one!”

Linhardt frowned. “I do agree that you would make better use of a crest than your brother. If the goddess really does give out crests, who knows why she would skip over you, of all people. You’re the hardest working person I know, other than my father.”

Caspar blinked, wide-eyed, at Linhardt. “Really?”

“Yes, really! You work as hard at your training as you do when you’re playing. I couldn’t possibly have the energy for all that. Lacking a crest doesn’t mean you aren’t cool in other ways.”

Caspar grinned widely in response. “You really think I’m cool?!”

Linhardt nodded matter-of-factly, as if the answer was obvious. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t spend time with you if I didn’t think you were cool.”

The answering laugh was warm enough to keep the wintry chill away, if only for a second. “Well, I think you’re cool too, Linhardt! You’re my best friend, after all! And hey, if you do figure out the secret, you’ve gotta show me your crest in action someday!”

Linhardt nodded in agreement, a smile on his face as the last rays of sun fell below the horizon. So this was what having a best friend was like… it was a good feeling, to be sure. That said, with the sun having gone to sleep for the night, the temperature was rapidly starting to drop. “Well, let’s continue this conversation inside, Caspar. It’s getting colder out here.”

“Ah, yeah! Alright, we just need to get back to the secret passage.”

The two quickly headed for the secret entrance, stumbling through a barren wood on the way. They didn’t think too hard about being stealthy, seeing as the fort’s towering walls were in sight, but to their shock, they couldn't manage to find their secret exit. It was as if it had vanished. The two pressed their hands to the wall, trying to look for it, when suddenly—

“Who goes there?!” boomed the voice of a guard. Both nobles stopped in their tracks, fearful of making even the slightest sound. Shoot. They had taken too long, and now the evening watch had deployed. Tracks were everywhere, and if they were caught, there was no doubt that they’d be severely punished for leaving without permission! Caspar motioned with his head back toward the wood. Perhaps they could hide in there and wait the guards out before finding another way in.

The two trudged back into the wood as quietly as they could, concealing themselves as best they could among the withered trees. Torchlight soon illuminated the area, and they held their breaths as the guards called out, eyes trained on the bobbing lights. Just a little longer, and hopefully they would—

“Gotcha!” came a voice from close by. Two strong hands reached out, intending to grab the nobles by their coats, but in a split second, Caspar and Linhardt managed to duck out of the way, using their small size to escape the guard’s flailing grasp. “DAMNIT! Get back here, you damn bandits!”

Bandits?! In what world would they be mistaken for bandits?! Linhardt silently cursed his luck as he ran through the forest, heedless of the twigs snapping underfoot. Behind him, he heard Caspar’s weary pants as he too struggled to get away. With all pretense of stealth or secrecy abandoned, all they could do was run. Arrows whizzed by them, one narrowly missing Linhardt’s cheek as another struck a tree. Well, it was lucky that the archer wasn’t the best shot—

“AAAAAAAH!”

Linhardt’s thoughts halted as abruptly as his feet, and he spun in place to see Caspar, now lying on the ground. An arrow protruded from his leg, and the nearby snow had begun to run red. Eyes wide in horror, he ran to Caspar’s side. Oh goddess, why was there so much blood? It made Linhardt want to vomit, but he had to keep it together. He had to! Behind them, footsteps slowly advanced upon them as the rain of arrows stopped, but he couldn’t think about that now. Caspar was babbling, clearly disoriented, and desperately needed aid. Linhardt steeled himself and yanked out the arrow, ignoring Caspar’s second pained cry as he rapidly gathered his magic. Please, he begged, envisioning Caspar’s smile, his proclamation of friendship, his body whole and healthy in the back of his mind. Please, let this work. Let me save Caspar!!

Bright golden light flashed from his hands, and before his eyes, the now-familiar magic circle glowed—but this time, in the middle was the Crest of Cethleann, shining brightly as it outshone even the torches. Before Linhardt’s eyes, the bleeding stopped, and punctured skin began to slowly knit itself back together.

“Well I’ll be,” their pursuer’s voice spoke, too close for comfort. However, Linhardt’s adrenaline had worn off, and he was far too weary to put up a fight. He simply stared at Caspar, who was slowly coming to, as the stranger kept talking. “That’s the Hevring’s crest… you’re not bandits at all, are you!” With that, the guard grabbed Linhardt’s arm and turned him so he could have a better look. “Oh, fuck. We need to get you both inside. NOW!” He called for the other guards, quickly explaining the situation, and in a flash, the squad had mobilized and carried the two directly to Count Bergliez’s office.

What followed next was an explosive storm of anger and wrath. The Count had yelled at both of them, so much so that Caspar was quaking in his boots and Linhardt felt his ears ringing. There was so much yelling that it passed by in a blur, with Linhardt retaining little to none of what the Count had actually said. By the time they’d been ejected from the office and the maids had taken their coats and winterwear, Linhardt was more tired from the verbal tongue-lashing than from any of the day’s earlier activities, and Caspar had barely said a word since they’d entered the fort.

“...C’mon, Caspar. Let’s get you to the infirmary. I know your father said that you looked fine, but even so.”

The other simply nodded in assent, still too rattled to speak. Normally, Linhardt preferred silence, but this particular quiet was like an itch; it wasn’t comfortable in the slightest. Instead, he decided to take it upon himself to fill the air.

“If it makes you feel any better, that was the first time my crest had ever appeared. I still don’t quite know how I did it, but I was really desperate. I imagined your wound going away and that you’d be ok, and somehow, it not only worked, but my crest manifested too.”

After a moment, Caspar managed to reply with a quiet chuckle. “So that’s what that flash was, huh? I didn’t get to see it all that well, so you’ll need to show me again sometime.”

Linhardt nodded, glad that Caspar had finally managed to piece together a few words. “I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, and Linhardt?”

“Hm?”

“...Thanks.”

“Of course, Caspar. Anything for my best friend.”

Chapter Text

As days turned to nights, moons came and went, and Caspar had already turned seven while Linhardt was quietly awaiting his turn. It was the turn of the season, summer just starting to shy away in favor of fall, and the boys were back at Fort Merceus, with Caspar doing some sword training in a courtyard as Linhardt watched. The sun beat down on Caspar’s back and beads of sweat rolled down his face like small streams of gold, but he seemed almost unbothered by it, his focus instead locked on the weight of the wooden sword clutched in his palms. Strike after strike landed with heavy thunks against the wooden form of a training dummy, resistant to even Caspar’s strongest blows. Calluses had started to form on his fingers, a warrior’s own form of finery.

Linhardt’s hands, however, were still smooth and delicate, the hands of a healer rather than a fighter. From his preferred napping spot beneath the boughs of a sturdy tree, Linhardt examined his own hands, scowling when he noticed that some dirt had burrowed its way beneath his nails.

“Hey, Linhardt,” Caspar called in between swings, pulling Linhardt’s attention toward him. “Any idea why your dad dropped you off here so suddenly?”

Linhardt gave a half-hearted shrug at Caspar’s question before linking his fingers together, resting his pale palms behind his head, and laying back against the tree. “I’m afraid I don’t,” he replied, staring up through the leaves at the sky. It was still sunny, but clouds were gathering. “We’re all supposed to return to Enbarr soon since summer recess is ending, but things seem to have changed somehow.”

Caspar stopped swinging long enough to grab a towel and wipe away his sweat, a thoughtful look on his face. “My big brother was mad that Father was forcing him to stay behind, but it sounds like something big’s gonna happen in Enbarr.” Suddenly, he balled up his fists and stomped his feet, annoyance all over his face. “It’s not fair! I wanna know what’s going on!”

Linhardt sighed, shaking his head as his eyelids threatened to flutter closed again. “There’s no way they’re going to tell us, Caspar. All I could gather from the situation is that my father, your father, Duke Aegir, and four other nobles are planning something, and we can’t be there for it.”

His best friend blinked, seemingly surprised. “Wow! How did you figure all that out?”

Linhardt simply shrugged. “I was eavesdropping a little bit. There’s nothing more frustrating than having one’s questions go unanswered.”

Caspar’s expression morphed into one of awe, respect, and disbelief, as if he couldn’t even imagine taking the risk to eavesdrop over something like unanswered questions. He was about to say something on the subject when suddenly, he looked up. The skies above were quickly filling with clouds, the wispy white quickly giving way to a dull gray. “Hey, Lin. It looks like it’s gonna rain,” Caspar began. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

The nervousness in his voice gave Linhardt pause, and he leaned forward, away from the tree, taking in Caspar’s worried glances toward the clouds. “Alright, then,” he agreed, letting out a long yawn as he raised his arms and stretched, slowly getting to his feet. “That’s fine by me.”

The two hurried inside just as the first fat raindrops began to fall, and once they’d reached the safety of Caspar’s room, the trickle of rain had turned into a deluge, rain pattering hard against the glass windows. Linhardt quietly lit a few candles, then looked toward Caspar, expecting to be dragged into some kind of indoor game, but the blue-haired boy was unusually silent, his gaze fixed on the storm outside.

Linhardt reached out a hand, intending to place it on Caspar’s shoulder, when suddenly, a white streak of lightning illuminated the room, bursting with brilliance, before it disappeared just as quickly as it had come. Linhardt didn’t even have enough time to get a word out before a loud thunderclap reverberated throughout the fort. In the dim candlelight, Linhardt could barely make out Caspar’s hunched form, the other boy curling in on himself as though trying to survive some kind of attack.

“Caspar? Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Linhardt began, his eyes running across Caspar’s body as if to ascertain any sort of injury. He’d been studying anatomy and first aid recently, and the universal healers’ checklist began to recite itself in his mind. Sure, he’d had a fairly adverse reaction to blood before—Caspar’s injury last winter was proof of that—but reading medical books was, fortunately, a different story.

“I… I’m…” Caspar seemed to stumble over his words, but slowly uncurled himself, staring at Linhardt with shame in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I probably looked pathetic just now. But…”

“Not at all,” Linhardt blurted out, relief coursing through him once he realized that Caspar wasn’t injured. That said... “It’s fine. But… are you alright?”

Caspar looked away, staring into the middle distance for a long moment. “Lin, can I tell you a secret?”

Linhardt blinked, surprised by the topic change but not against it. His cat-like curiosity perked up in his chest, as if eager to learn even just a little more about his best friend. “Of course.”

Caspar gulped, but slowly began to speak. “I… I really don’t like thunder. It reminds me of my father when he’s really mad.” His body started to tremble, and Linhardt sidled up next to him, quietly providing comfort. “One time, Walter found out that I don’t like thunderstorms. He called me a big baby, and we got into a big fight about it. Of course, the day after, there was a big thunderstorm—I bet it was as big as this one! The two of us were training when suddenly, Walter ran inside ahead of me, and… and…” Caspar began to sniffle, but had a determined look on his face as though he would force himself not to cry. “He locked me out and laughed at me from the other side of the door.”

Linhardt stared at Caspar in horror, a million things rushing toward the tip of his tongue but all of them remaining unspoken. Fortunately, Caspar simply continued his story.

“I don’t know how long I was out there, but I was hiding under a tree, just trying to stay warm. Finally, after what felt like forever, one of Father’s men found me and brought me inside.” At this, Caspar began trembling even harder, his fingers digging into his biceps. “Father brought me n’ Walter to his study. He yelled at Walter, but… then he started yelling at me too. Telling me that I needed to be tougher. That something like the weather shouldn’t bother me. That he… was disappointed. And the thunder kept booming, and he kept yelling, and… and…”

Caspar trailed off, words failing him as the rush of emotions caught up with him. Outside, another thunderclap sounded, and he curled up on himself once again, quietly sobbing, although it was evident that he was attempting to muffle the sounds.

Linhardt was equally at a loss for words. Healing magic was powerful, but it was only for bodily injuries. Unfortunately, there was no healing magic for the heart, and he hated that despite all of his training, he was completely powerless to help. All he could think to do was slip a hand into his pocket, drawing out a handkerchief, and slowly passed it to Caspar, who accepted it with red eyes.

“Don’t worry, Caspar. Your secret’s safe with me.”

After a few hours, the rain subsided, with the stormy afternoon giving way to the calm of the starry night. Caspar had ended up falling asleep, his worry-filled face smoothing out as he clutched Linhardt’s handkerchief close. The young Hevring stared at his sleeping friend, somewhat surprised to still be so awake, when suddenly, he had an idea. Yes, that would be a good use of his time.

Quietly, he left Caspar’s room and headed for the storeroom, trying to remember a specific passage from a book he’d read on charms and accessories. In the back of his mind, he thought about how he’d design such a thing. It wasn’t much, but his medical books had told him that many soldiers were superstitious in some ways. Perhaps having some kind of small charm or trinket would help Caspar feel better whenever a storm happened, just like how he’d clearly found some comfort from Linhardt’s handkerchief. It was no wonder, really; from what Caspar had described, thunder made him think of his father’s ire, and if he had something that reminded him of Linhardt, it would help ease his worries.

For some reason, the idea of making such a charm reminded Linhardt of faith. After all, that’s what superstitions and such were, right? They were expressions of faith, hope that some power would protect them. Linhardt obviously couldn’t call himself a higher power, but… maybe if Caspar had something that could give him faith in the fact that he wasn’t alone, that he would make it through the storm, that he would be okay, it would give him some comfort, and providing comfort was also one of the goals of faith.

“A charm of grounding… yes, that sounds quite doable,” Linhardt murmured to himself, his shoes clicking against the stone floor of the fort as the silent night yawned outside.

A few days later, a carriage came to retrieve Linhardt from the fort. Caspar stood solemnly next to the fort’s supervisor, a stern-looking man that Linhardt didn’t bother remembering the name of, trying to give his goodbyes with as much energy as he could muster. “Alright, Caspar,” Linhardt said once all of the luggage had been loaded. “We’ll see each other soon; the recess will be over in a few weeks, and it seems like our fathers’ business has concluded. You have what I gave you, right?”

Caspar nodded, patting his chest. “Yeah. I’ll keep it safe, and hopefully, it’ll keep me safe too.”

Linhardt frowned. “Caspar, it’s not that powerful.”

The blue-haired boy just laughed, although Linhardt had no idea what the joke was. “It is to me.”

Caspar’s unwavering confidence (or perhaps, faith) gave him pause, but he decided not to pursue the matter. Instead, he held out his hand. “Well, until later, Caspar.”

Contrary to all of his expectations, however, Caspar ignored his outstretched hand and rushed forward, wrapping Linhardt in a hug. The young Hevring’s eyes went wide; he had never been much for hugs, generally disliking much physical contact. However, although Caspar’s hug was surprising, it wasn’t bad the way other contact felt. Slowly, Linhardt’s arms came up, returning the hug. After a moment, Caspar pulled away, and Linhardt was startled by the warmth that flooded through him at the sensation.

“See you soon, Lin!” Caspar beamed, stepping back so that Linhardt could board the carriage.

With a nod, Linhardt climbed into the carriage, waving to Caspar as the other waved back. “I hope that charm serves you well,” Linhardt murmured, casting a glance down at the pretty pale hands that had now been marked with fading remnants of wayward blades, overexcited needles, and wooden splinters.

Chapter Text

Time passed by faster and faster, years fluttering away on the wind, and before long, Linhardt found himself walking through the front doors of the Garreg Mach Monastery Officers’ Academy. Young nobles and commoners from all over the continent chatted with each other as excitement over their upcoming school life pervaded the air. Linhardt couldn’t exactly relate with most of their reasons for wanting to be here, seeing as most of the other students were here to find spouses or social mobility, and he was much more interested in the monastery’s history. However, one excited voice beside him did manage to make him smile.

“Woohoo! We’re finally here, Linhardt!” Caspar cheered, shooting his arms up in the air as the gates came into sight. The motion was all the more impressive considering how his arms were laden down with bags, both his and Linhardt’s, as while their luggage had been directly delivered to their quarters, the students were still required to pick up their own uniforms and personal supplies from the shops around town. It was for this reason that Linhardt was keenly grateful that he and Caspar had arrived at nearly the same time, although being best friends and missing each other’s company was a close second.

“We are indeed,” the young scholar mused, slowly sweeping his eyes across the campus to locate suitable napping spots. “I must admit that I am somewhat looking forward to our academy life. According to Father, it sounds like it will be a rather peaceful experience, and any time that I can be away from my parents is time worth treasuring.”

Caspar laughed, a boisterous, loud sound that drew the attention of some of the other students walking by. “That’s just like you, Lin. I’m ready to prove myself! I’m gonna be the best soldier there is and show my father that I’ll be a good fit for leading people. Heck, maybe if I work hard enough, even Walter won’t have a choice but to acknowledge me!”

The burning desire in his voice caused Linhardt to look away with a sigh. Having ambition was good and all—at least for other people—but Linhardt found it tiring. His own father’s ambition was evident in the way that he dictated almost every aspect of Linhardt’s life for him, no doubt in preparation to mold him into the next Minister of Domestic Affairs, despite Linhardt’s personal feelings on the matter. This was one aspect of Caspar that Linhardt simply couldn’t wrap his mind around. How did he get so much out of the idea of being used by someone else for their own glory and gains?

Well, it didn’t really matter. The promise of a quiet, academically-enriching school life was whispering in his ears, and he was more than eager to heed its call.

As it happened, those whispered promises turned out to be nothing more than sirens’ songs, luring the unsuspecting into the depths. At least, that was one of the many fleeting thoughts flashing through Linhardt’s mind as they stared down at blood-drenched hands, eyes unseeing but skin prickling at the warm, sticky sensation of another man’s lifeblood dying their skin. They had managed to cast a spell, but in doing so, they had stolen the life from another person. The warm radiance of their healing magic suddenly felt like it was far, far away, leaving them empty. Their lips tried to vainly form words, but to no avail; Linhardt was most certainly in shock, and while his mind could distantly register that it was so, his body seemed to have petrified, its own form of defense mechanism against the grotesque sensation. He was only barely aware of voices around him, of another student carefully lifting him up (when had he fallen on the ground…?). It was so hard to tell which way was up. All of nature seemed to conspire against him as the world turned and distorted, making him dizzy. It took all that he had to keep his lunch where it was. The scenery around him changed, and after a few moments, he vaguely registered that he was in a tent. He was being laid down in a bed, and…

That was all there was.

When Linhardt next awoke, it was with a pounding headache and chapped, dry lips. Blearily, he tilted his head to see if there was any water around, only to lay eyes on Caspar, who appeared to be sitting on a chair by his bed, leaning on the mattress, fast asleep. Linhardt tsk’d; that would wreak havoc on his spine.

With great effort, Linhardt extended a hand from their cozy blanket and lightly bopped Caspar on the head. The other boy came to with a start, looking at Linhardt with wide eyes. “Huh?! What was that for… Oh! Lin! You’re awake!” The rapid transition from anger to elation left Linhardt speechless for a moment, blinking owlishly at Caspar. Caspar, never one to let silence linger, quickly continued. “We were all worried about you! You passed out during the mission. Hubert and I had to cover Petra while she dragged you away from the battlefield. Are you feeling ok?”

Linhardt’s face scrunched up at Caspar’s question. Physically, he seemed to be fine, but mentally, it was hard to say. That feeling of emptiness was still there, though. “I would not say that I am feeling ‘ok,’ but all of my limbs are intact, so I suppose there’s that.”

Caspar laughed. “Hey, you’re alive, and that’s what’s important!”

Linhardt simply murmured non-comitically, looking toward the front of the tent. Sunlight was streaming through, and it was clear that everyone else was packing up to head back to the monastery. The tent was empty except for the two of them. The thought made Linhardt feel warm, somehow.

“Caspar?”

“Yeah, Lin? You need something?”

“No, I… I just…” He trailed off as his words struggled to form, and Caspar simply waited with an air of breathy impatience. Finally, the healer sighed. “I don’t know if I can do this, Caspar.”

Caspar looked at him, confused. “Do what?”

Linhardt grimaced and fought the urge to retreat back under the covers. “This. Fighting. Combat. More missions. I don’t know.”

“I almost passed out from seeing blood. Petra had to drag me back. I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I couldn’t even cast any healing magic out there; once I k… k… killed that man, I felt like I was moments away from falling ill. I have no faith that I can contribute meaningfully to any of this.”

“Aw, Lin, no! You’re thinking about it all wrong!” Caspar protested, capturing Linhardt’s hand in his own. “Your healing magic is super helpful!”

Linhardt gave a humorless laugh. “Is it?”

He tried to cast a spell, but it snuffed out immediately. The healer wasn’t surprised; he had felt a strange “disconnectedness” from his magic ever since he’d woken up.

Caspar’s eyes widened, looking at him in dismay. “Lin! Your magic! It’s not working!”

Linhardt sighed in response. “No, it’s not. And like I said, I have an inkling that my faith has somehow wavered, and that’s what’s causing it. All of my training, all of my belief in my family and the Goddess… none of it mattered when it counted.”

Linhardt hadn’t intended for that last sentence to sound quite as bitter as it did, but since it was only him and Caspar in the tent, he decided not to bother recanting it. Caspar frowned, as if in thought. He squeezed Linhardt’s fingers lightly, clearly disincentivized to let go. “Hey, Lin… You’ve been thinking about faith and stuff all this time for your magic, right?”

“Yes…”

“Well, faith is for more than magic. You told me that after everything that happened to us when we were kids, maybe Faith magic could come from more than the Goddess, or from your family. Maybe it comes from believing in other people, but you really have to. No faking it.”

Linhardt fixed Caspar with a confused look. He made no move to pull his hand away. “Yes, that is what I said…”

“So have faith in me, Linhardt.”

Linhardt blinked at the serious note that had entered Caspar’s voice, unused to this side of his best friend. “I promise. I’ll try to make it so you don’t have to fight or kill if you don’t want to. We’ll talk with Edelgard about it! And maybe then we can figure something out. Just… don’t lose your faith just yet, ok? Have faith in me! And in Manuela, and Hanneman, and in the new professor too, I guess. We’ve got a whole class behind us, now! I bet your Faith’s gonna be stronger than ever! And…”

There was a brief pause before Caspar continued as he fixed Linhardt with a grin overflowing with fondness, pulling his hand away as he used it to lightly poke at Linhardt’s chest.

“Have faith in yourself too, ok? You’re the one I put my faith in the most, so you’ve gotta believe in yourself and believe in me and then believe in the rest of our classmates. Think you can do it, Linhardt?”

Linhardt stared at his best friend for a long moment before the corners of their lips curled upward into a smile. “You do realize, Caspar, that all of the theories that I’ve posited about Faith are completely unproven. Perhaps no amount of faith in others except the Goddess works and I’ve been deluding myself the entire time. What then?”

Caspar laughed, long and loud, as if Linhardt had told a particularly excellent joke. “As if! You’re the smartest person I know, Lin! If you think that’s how Faith works, it’s gotta be true!”

Once again, Caspar’s trust warmed Linhardt’s core. Just as he was about to retort, however, the flap of the tent was pushed back to reveal their leader, Edelgard.

“Ah, Linhardt,” the Adrestian heir began, scanning him from head to toe. “It seems that you’ve recovered well.”

“Yes, I have,” Linhardt murmured uncertainly, not entirely pleased by the interruption. From what he knew of Edelgard, she would have him back to work as soon as possible, and from the look on her face, he was sure that his suspicions were about to be proven correct.

However, much to his surprise, Edelgard simply nodded. “Very well. We will leave here soon to go back to the monastery. Next time, Hubert and I shall review our battle plans to ensure that your future experiences in battle are less… unpleasant.”

Caspar blinked. “Uhhh… what exactly does that mean?”

Linhardt was grateful for the assistance, seeing as he was equally confused but didn’t particularly feel like contributing to the conversation. Thankfully, Edelgard simply sighed and explained herself.

“What I mean is that everyone has their own roles and strengths, and our class is still learning how to come together as a team. We shall strive to be dependable allies to one another, on and off the battlefield, and achieve our goals. You both are part of that, so you will do your parts and everyone else will do theirs.”

With that, Edelgard turned on her heel and went to walk out of the tent. “Hurry and pack up,” she called behind her. “It’s a long way back.”

Once she left, Linhardt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Finally… she’s so loud.”

Caspar hummed. “You think so? Well, I dunno. It was nice that she came to check on you, though!”

Linhardt shook his head, not quite willing to debate the issue. “I suppose.”

Suddenly, Caspar stood from his chair, looking around. “Well, you heard her. We’d better pack. C’mon, I’ll help you!”

Linhardt watched as Caspar approached a small stack of belongings in one corner, making no move to help. The more he thought about it, the more he had to realize that perhaps Caspar was right. All of his revelations about Faith magic, and faith itself, had led to the idea that it was belief in something more than oneself that allowed for the use of Faith magic. Although Caspar was the only one he really had faith in now, Hubert and Petra had come to his aid. Edelgard had plans to account for his phobia in her tactics. If what Edelgard said about becoming dependable allies was true, then perhaps…

Linhardt flexed his hand, and familiar motes of light began to coalesce as the familiar feeling of healing magic danced upon his fingertips, glowing brightly in the tent.

Perhaps his faith in not just Caspar, but in the people that he would continue to fight alongside, would be rewarded.