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Blue as cornflower and bellflowers. Blue as the hydrangeas that appear after the last fall of snow and the morning glories that bloom as soon as daylight ever peeks. Bright as the sapphires on a noblewoman’s hands and the morpho butterflies that fluttered in the gardens of the empire.
Caspar’s eyes were the bluest of blues.
It reminded Linhardt of the soft blues of summer. The clear sky littered with birds that fluttered about. The cool breeze mixed with the scent of fresh grass and summer blossoms as it lulled the clouds by. Caspar was as warm as the rays of sun that managed to seep through between the gaps of the tree, his energy rivaled the roaring waves of the ocean, and he was as sweet as the blueberries he plucked and placed giddily on Linhardt’s awaiting hand.
Blue was a hereditary trait of the Bergliez family. Count Bergliez had it. Caspar’s brother had it. And yet, Caspar’s blue was somehow different. It was the most vibrant of them all. They neither held the ice cold glare of the count nor the indifferent stare his brother had akin to the street cats of Enbarr. Instead, they were always bright, may it be from glee or curiosity. His eyes always looked forward to tomorrow. They were as hopeful as the brightest star in the cobalt blue night.
Blue was Caspar’s color. His footsteps were like the pitter-patters of rain as it soaked the ground. His voice as loud as the bluejays perched atop the trees and yet, sometimes, it managed to be as gentle as the soft ripples on the pond caused by a fallen dew. Caspar’s presence was Linhardt’s solace. Like the ocean beyond Linhardt’s windows, he was at home by his side.
Caspar would have fit in perfectly with the Blue Lions. He was loyal to his friends, confident in his own abilities, and dangerously courageous for Linhardt to even detest. Mercedes would have adored Caspar and treated him like a younger sibling. Annette and Ashe would have easily gotten along with him due to their age. He could have been a perfect sparring partner for Felix. Another headache for Ingrid who already had Sylvain to deal with. Dedue could have been his mentor in axe-wielding. Dimitri would have inspired him to become a better man for the future.
But like a river that splits in two, it was inevitable for their paths to differ eventually. Caspar had his own goal. Linhardt had his. But split rivers still had the same water running, and Linhardt knew that though they nay have chosen different paths, they would still remain friends until the bitter end. Even as they headed to Fort Merceus, Linhardt held to that belief strongly.
It was the first time Linhardt saw Caspar wear red. He used to almost always wear white to compliment his hair and eyes, to give off a softer appearance. His coat was reminiscent of scorched flames, the tail ends specked with dried mud. His footprints dyed in red as he fought among the corpses, careful not to step on the bodies as he spilled more blood onto the ground of what Caspar used to call home.
Red was the color of death and Caspar reeked of it. But when he smiled upon seeing Linhardt, it was like clear waters had stilled. The ocean after the thundering storm.
Seeing him again after five years felt like returning to those days, under the soft blue skies of summer as they laid side by side by the oak tree.
But as he cradled Caspar’s head on his knees, Linhardt knew that he was only feigning ignorance for five years. Holding on to that naive hope like a child that refuses to let go of their parent's hand. Deep inside, he knew. As soon as he stepped onto the familiar bricked grounds of the fort, he knew that he had to give up one for the other.
His coat changed into a deeper red, the ground resembling the auburn leaves as soon as the red wolf moon began. The charm he gave to him peeked slightly out from his neck. Caspar took with him all of Linhardt’s hope of ever returning back to those days of being together with him and all that’s left of his warmth was the crimson on Linhardt’s hands, permanently stained as it served as a reminder of his loss.