Archive of Our Own

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

- Sonnet 116

Imperial Year 1180

Hubert has always been more imperial lapdog than noble (and unashamedly so), but squatting in the fields, hunched over rows of tilled soil, feels almost demeaning. Professor Manuela had assigned him to weeding duties for the week, and, as if to add insult to injury, elected a certain flagrant noble to accompany him in his work. 

It’s not as though he dislikes working with Ferdinand. It’s more so that Hubert would have found more use in a mule for a partner. The field is quiet when they’re at work. Every so often, Ferdinand turns to look at Hubert, opening his mouth to speak before getting intercepted by a glare. 

Finally, but with great hesitation, the noble’s voice dispels the silence, “Say, Hubert.”

“What is it?” He replies, with restraint.

“Your hair,” Ferdinand starts without pause, gesturing to it with a gloved hand. Hubert’s shoulders tense beneath his uniform, the scowl etched onto the gaunt lines of his face deepening. “Was it not black when we were children?”

However sparse in number they were, Hubert remembers those days, when he had just been pronounced a vassal to the Imperial princess. Ferdinand and Hubert were introduced to each other as future minister and retainer respectively, shook hands, the whole nine. It was an encounter that had occurred long ago; Ferdinand was five at the time, and Hubert was seven. He might’ve forgotten it, if not for the fact that the young Aegir threw up on his shoes as soon they met—“out of sheer nervousness,” as the very embarrassed Duke Aegir had explained it back then. 

As children, Hubert would have never thought that they would both next meet at Officer’s Academy, but he was wholly unsurprised that the other would grow up to be such an indolent bother of a classmate. What was shocking to Hubert, however, was not that the other had remembered their meeting, but that he had the gall to mention it with such confidence.

“Are you daft?” Hubert finally musters, tossing a glare at the ginger over his shoulder. With a wave of his arm, he pushes the hand away from his hair, the jagged lines of his face frozen in place. “Perhaps if you paid as much attention to the weeds as you did to such trifles, we would still have more crops than weeds.”

“We can always grow more crops.” Ferdinand pulls his hand away, slightly offended. Once more, he presses, “Well? Was it always white? My memory seems to fail me.”

“It was,” Hubert replies without missing a beat. The tremor of his hands is brief when he clasps onto the nearest stray leaf distractedly. He pulls. “It may have lightened a few shades, but I was born with it.”

“Oh, Hubert.”

He turns, a brow quirked inquisitively.

“You are the daft one,” Ferdinand elaborates with a chuckle, unable to contain his amusement. He points to the large radish Hubert had just mindlessly uprooted. “It appears that we are both guilty of absentmindedness.”

The smug laughter is short-lived, abbreviated by howling shrieks as Ferdinand finds himself with a faceful of flung radish and clumps of soil stuck to his uniform. Hubert finds a laundry bill tacked to his door the following day, along with an extensive explanation of proper, noble etiquette. Both of these things find their way straight to the waste bin.

Imperial Year 1171

In his childhood, the heavy burden of failure remained solid in Hubert’s chest throughout those miserable years he spent in Lady Edelgard’s absence. Once he was older, he learned that this was directly caused by the Insurrection of the Seven, that none of it was within his control. However, back then, all he registered was that she was gone—whisked away to Faerghus by Lord Arundel. Young and foolish as he was at the time, Hubert could only wish he were brought along, and that persistent feeling compelled him to escape from Enbarr northwards to Fhirdiad. 

It wasn’t long before his father sent troops for him, where he battled against them in futile protest for a full three days.

Marquis Vestra cannot stand your absence , the soldiers explained with stone apathy as Hubert kicked, shouted, and squirmed in rope binds, he anguishes in it .

The image had been seared into memory, from when he first filed into the throne room alongside his father. Robed, masked figures surrounding a futile throne. A king whose power had long ceased to be, his crown offset on his head when he buries in his hands. 

“Marquis Vestra,” one of them speaks, muffled through the plague doctor mask, “I see your son is back from his excursion to Faerghus.”

“So he is.” His father chuckles, “Lady Edelgard’s departure has left him lonesome, I suppose.”

“We, too, wish to have her back.” The mage cranes their head, studying Hubert carefully. Their next words are careful and deliberate. “We cannot start the experiments without all the Hresvelg siblings, after all.”

Hubert breaks into the conversation. His father grasps onto his wrist firmly when the child takes his first step towards the ring of mages— Agarthans , as he would later know them as. “Experiments?”

“Hubert,” His father warns, suddenly on edge.

“Crest experiments,” and Hubert can sense the cruelty beneath the pointed mask, the shift from clinical detachment to high-pitched glee. “Highly dangerous, too. Are you curious?”

Hubert nods, suddenly scowling. 

And then they tell him of the countless dead, of the blood that had been so abundant that it’d stained their cobblestone floors a deep carmine, and of the failures that lived with broken minds and fractured souls. Of the few successes, who were no better off than their failed surviving counterparts. Their tales are horrific, yet prevailing over the terror is a sense of righteous duty when Hubert pictures Edelgard going through such atrocities. There’s a naivety to his courage, baseless and immature. 

“All you need is one success, correct? Allow me to take her place.” 

“No such thing will happen,” his father barks, pulling Hubert in close to himself. “You have no voice in this, Hubert.”

“Now, Marquis Vestra. There’s no shame in letting the boy fulfill his duty to the Hresvelgs, is there not? At least one of you remains loyal to the House’s obligations.”

The arms around him tighten. Hubert doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation anymore, his eyes growing wide and fearful.

“Relinquish the boy.”

Even nine years down the line, Hubert is unsure if the tears that fell upon the top of his head when his father handed him over were genuine, or if the dozens of whispered apologies upon his last day at the castle before his descent underground truly came from his father’s lips. 

There were eleven of them that entered those cursed Agarthan grounds, and yet only Hubert emerged sound of mind and intact, with two Crests more than he had been born with. Perhaps he should have been proud, to have been granted more strength to serve with, but with each Hresvelg’s last breath, he felt as though he had individually failed them. 

Lady Edelgard’s return comes two years after the fact. When she steps out of the carriage, Hubert rushes to her side, and she takes a moment to scrutinize him. He wonders, then, if her look was one of sympathy or one of pain when she says: “You’re different now.”

Hubert bows, a taciturn smile plastered over pallid features. “Welcome back, Lady Edelgard. Much has occurred in your absence.” 

Imperial Year 1180

At night, they haunt Hubert; remnants of distant memory brought to life in the form of night terrors. Brown-haired children, wide-eyed children, Edelgard’s own blood and very well his own, perishing one by one. Their last moments replay endlessly, languishing cries piercing through the pale darkness at the forefront of his unconsciousness. Each iteration is identical and uniform, taking place in the miserable recesses of those eerily familiar dungeons. They reek of mildew and rotting flesh, silent with the skittering of blighted rats. 

Hubert jolts upright in bed, his mouth stretched open in a silent scream. He’s soaked to the bone, his pulse beating out of his skin as the sickly tones of his complexion lose the last of their color. His hands ball up into a fist, scrunching up his sheets within them. The air in his dormitory had never felt so thin, so stale. He curses under his breath as he throws off the sheets and storms out of the door, letting it slam shut behind him. He paces up and down the hallway a few times, then heads to the outdoor staircase leading to the bottom floor of the monastery.

The push of his weight on the stair railing feels ceremonious at this time of night beneath clear, cloudless skies. He despises self-pity but allows it only in these dismal moments where he anguishes alone, looking to the horizon until dawn breaks and the sun casts its golden light over the monastery grounds once more. 

“Is that you, Hubert?”

The voice grates at his ears, but with familiarity. He turns his head in the direction of it, unsurprised to see Ferdinand standing in the doorway to the dormitory building. “Good evening, Ferdinand.”

“It is far past midnight now.” Ferdinand takes a step towards him, and Hubert, a step away. “What is keeping you awake?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he manages stiffly. Wherever he lacks in wit at the moment, Hubert compensates for with a forced wry smile.

“My quarters are only two rooms down from yours. The sound of your door slamming could have stirred even the dead.” Another step and Ferdinand is right beside him. Hubert wonders if the dolt has any sense of personal space when the night breeze starts to feel a little cooler on his cheeks. “So I ask again: what brings you up at this hour?”

“It’s none of your concern.” Hubert’s usual dry tone comes out rounded by emotion. He had initially thought Ferdinand to be a single-minded fool who only cared for surpassing Lady Edelgard, and it was unfortunate that this had to be the instance where he found out such isn’t the case; that Ferdinand’s more attentive than he lets on. 

“ Au contraire ,” Ferdinand says, holier-than-thou as always. Hubert makes a point of scowling. “If my rival’s retainer is not working at his best, then I will not be able to beat Lady Edelgard at her best.”

And Hubert mumbles to himself, “You would not even hold a candle to her at her worst.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Idly, his fingers drum over the stone edge. He pauses thoughtfully, then confides, “A recurrent dream; it plagues my nights.”

Ferdinand looks to Hubert, eyebrows raised in surprise before he shakes it off, a small smile on his face. “So even you have fears.” His gaze presses. “What is in these dreams?”

Hubert averts his gaze to the stairwell as though considering it, attention focused on the pile of crates below. If his problems were so simple as to be resolved by simply telling someone , he would have been cured the moment Lady Edelgard found out. Telling would be unproductive; the damage had been done, and now a fast-draining hourglass hangs over his head—a swinging ax above him, the executed. He leans his weight back on his heels and turns on them, heading back towards the dormitory entrance. 

Ferdinand grasps his wrist as he passes by. “Hey.”

“I am returning to my chambers to turn in for the night. Goodbye, Ferdinand.” Hubert shakes the flimsy grip off without hesitation.

Imperial Year 1180

Hubert misses those nights sometimes; the calm ambience of the monastery, the cold solitude of it as he listens to the quiet cries of owls in the dim moonlight. A shame, that he had repaid its kindness to him by crushing it beneath his heel in the name of the Empire. The nights back at home, at Enbarr, are haunting. The Imperial Palace reminds him of what he cannot forget, of pins and needles and rent flesh. 

The throne room, where the false king had once been. Looking to the empty seat, Hubert can only hope her Majesty does not meet the same fate, he reassures himself that he will make sure of it with his own hands.

And then, down the length of the room, the very man who had caused it all.

“You’ve grown stronger,” Marquis Vestra says to the ground, his head tipped towards the ground with his hands bound behind his back. He speaks with a cloying fondness. “My son.”

“I wonder who I have to thank for that,” Hubert replies dully, turning in place to face his father. The tome in his arms gives into his grip, the flexible leather binds folding inwards.

“And, of all things, you chose to end my life in the throne room.”

“It was where you had ruined mine,” Hubert smiles gravely, apparently finding his own choice to be laughably appropriate, “So I chose it. You ought to be proud, to have raised such a fine poet.”

“I am glad that, of all things, the Agarthans have at least left your sense of humor intact.” He gives a hollow laugh and glances up with chartreuse eyes that mirror Hubert’s. Then, mournfully, “You were so young, Hubert.”

Perhaps, in another life, Marquis Vestra, with his similarly gaunt features and lanky build, could have been a mirror of what was to be for Hubert. At a young age, Hubert had always been told that he was a spitting image. A carbon copy. As a child, Hubert had always thought that he would grow up to look like Marquis Vestra, too, down to every wrinkle and blemish. Eyeing the Marquis’ black locks, the young dark bishop can see that such is no longer, and never will be, the case. Old age had not been a concern for Hubert in years.

“Nothing left to say?” The voice is grating on his ears now. “You had never been one for words, Hubert.”

“The time has come; I am done humoring you. I only have so much to say to traitors, you see.” Hubert steps closer, eyes narrowed to slits. “So, tell me, while you still draw breath: why did you do it?”

“For you.” 

He freezes in place, gaze flickering to the ceiling. His hands push into his scalp, through fair strands of stark white, and then stay in place. “... And to think that, even at death’s door, you would lie to my face so zealously.”

“It was all to protect you .”

“You threw me to the wolves.” A foreign voice snaps; it’s a fire in his throat, searing him from the inside. Hubert reels back at the volume of his own words, the back of his eyes straining as he stops to collect himself. The face that looks back at him is softened and rounded; creased and old; something frail. 

“Do you truly think I wished for them to take you away?”

“Perhaps not, but,” Hubert regains his bearings, tightening his resolve. “I must purge the corruption plaguing this empire with my own hands, starting with you.”

“Corruption?” The laugh that escapes his father is wicked in its intonation, and momentarily reminds Hubert of whose blood it is that runs through its veins. If the younger man had a way to drain it all out of himself, he would. “My only regret is that I had not acted sooner before you had developed such a foolish sense of devotion to the Imperial princess.”

“You had a duty to fulfill.” Hubert steps closer, and the execution inches forth. “Now you must pay the price for your negligence.”

Marquis Vestra dips his head like it had already been fixed to a guillotine. In the face of death, his voice grows gentle. “In due time, Hubert, you will find that there are things more precious to you than your duties.”

Wild hair coursing through the breeze, bright and fiery, like the sunset. Warm bronze eyes, wide with naivety and youth, like the sun’s rays—light that had never embraced the shadows it cast.

Hubert conjures the image away from his mind as he throws the former noble back down onto the ground, flipping open his tome. Ancient, sepia pages flip in the air as the text comes to life, a glowing symbol appearing beneath him. He exhales a deep breath, pressing rising guilt deep into the back of his head. “Marquis Vestra. For your crime of treason, I punish you.”

His father’s last moments are unexpectedly silent. Hubert makes it as swift as he can, but places no focus on cleanliness.

He ignores the twisting dread in his chest that persists even after the fact. His empty gaze fixes on the tapestries hanging from the wall, the lined-up marble statues—anywhere but the center of the room—before he orders his men in to clean up after the execution. His footsteps leave behind them a trail of viscous blood; the bloody tracks diminish with each step, but Hubert senses that they will only deepen from here. 

Ferdinand is there when Hubert leaves the throne room, back leaned back against the wall as though he were just done eavesdropping, and oh, he probably was . Hubert walks past him wordlessly. 

Quick footsteps take him straight back to his own quarters, where Hubert intends on throwing himself back into work. 

Ferdinand comes at night. He invites himself in and hovers in the doorway. “Hubert.”

“Ferdinand,” he greets tiredly, letting the ginger in before he shut the door. His unwelcome guest makes himself right at home on the edge of Hubert’s bed as Hubert sits right back down on his desk. 

“Your own father, too?” Ferdinand asks without preamble, looking at him with his lips pressed to a frown. It baffles Hubert that this is the one time Ferdinand goes straight to the point, without his usual disjointed prologue.

“It is what he deserves.” Hubert avoids Ferdinand’s eyes, that which searches his soul. His body still as the corpse he had just left behind. Then, correcting himself, “ Deserved, rather.”

Duke Aegir had only been placed under house arrest, but it was Hubert himself who had ordered capital punishment for the previous Marquis Vestra. 

“I must do it for her Majesty’s sake.”

“You did not have to resort to such extremes—” The apprehension recedes from Ferdinand’s voice, and Hubert can hear the pity that replaces it (or is it sympathy? Hubert had never been good at differentiating the two). Ferdinand sighs, crossed arms falling to his sides. “... I am sorry. That was your father, after all. It must have been hard.”

“No. No, it was not.” Hubert protests distantly, his eyes boring holes into his desk, through the stacks of paper on it. The memories of pins and needles resurface—glowing light foreign to his eyes, an old mildewy room that reeked of rotting flesh, that which he had come to humorously call his second home. Without thinking, he says, “That was no father of mine.”

Ferdinand stands up abruptly, “How could you say that? Corrupt or not, he treated you properly.”

Hubert turns around in his chair to face him with haunted pale eyes. The control over his demeanor, the calculation in every word and motion, falls apart. Another slip of the tongue, “Do not speak of things you know nothing of.”

“Then tell me,” Ferdinand says from across the room. He looks at Hubert with his face flushed, eyebrows knit together and perhaps the most frustrated Hubert’s ever seen him. “How can you expect me to know if you are always keeping secrets?”

Hubert stares back intently, starting to feel cornered. “I would like to think we all have a skeleton or two in our closets, Ferdinand.”

“If I have one, I would imagine that your closet is overflowing.”

“There’s more than enough space to accommodate them.” 

Ferdinand goes quiet. He looks at Hubert with wide-eyed disbelief, breathing out an empty huff of a laugh. Hubert can see it—a crammed door ready to burst, pressed with nameless skeletons and intermingling bones that have all become jumbled up. Of those lost faces, he can discern ten. Ten brown-haired, purple-eyed children of Hresvelg.

Ferdinand starts towards the door with a sigh. “I will not press, but do not shoulder too many burdens on your own. Some things are not meant to be weathered alone.”

Hubert stares longingly at the back of Ferdinand’s head, finding himself struggling to formulate the words when an odd sense of longing drags at him, eating him slowly. It’s a moment after the door shuts, but in his mind, a millennium. Concise and bitter, “Farewell, Duke Aegir.”

Imperial Year 1182

War is brutal, even off the battlefield. The busyness of it keeps Hubert focused, and its unforgiving and erratic nature keeps his wits sharp. His time is often spent at Enbarr, where he organizes troops with a constant stream of messengers cycling in and out of the castle. 

“There is a message from the Duke Aegir...” 

 The quill in his hand goes still as Hubert looks up from his papers.

Rarely leaving the castle, Hubert hadn’t seen Ferdinand since their tense conversation years before. Their interactions were kept to written letters or brief messages between middlemen.

Ferdinand’s camp is miles into former Kingdom territory, marked on a map with a neat ‘X’ on his map. Hubert gets there within a week on horseback with a small group of troops. Ferdinand comes out to the entrance, waving at the Imperial troops as they descend upon his camp. “Hubert! You have arrived.” 

Hubert dismounts and approaches Ferdinand. Only a few years had elapsed, but he could barely recognize the other. He sees it in him with crystal clarity—the growth from student to military commander, the battle-worn edge to those bright eyes. It had been a while, but Hubert can sense that Ferdinand’s height measures an inch or so taller now. Bright orange, grown-out hair sweeps over his shoulder plates, groomed and well-kept in spite of the circumstances. 

“Ferdinand. Long time no see.” Hubert manages, enamored and speechless. 

“You look like you have seen a ghost,” Ferdinand muses, a friendly smile coming to his face. “Did you come across a mirror on your journey here?”

“It seems that I have fallen ill at the sight of you. I ought to make my return to Enbarr, immediately.” Hubert retorts with a frown. “Or, I will be, when we dispatch those rogues you are supposedly having trouble with.”

“No mere rogue would boast the symbol of House Blaiddyd.” Ferdinand glances off to the side, lips downturned into a frown. “They have been intercepting Imperial troops and causing trouble around here. Normally, I would have been able to take care of things on my own, but I lost a lot of men in the previous battle.”

“And leaving them alone gives them an opportunity to rally and strengthen their forces,” Hubert finishes for him. 

He smiles. “I see we are on the same page.”

“So we are.”

The ruckus of clanging armor in the distance begins to near. An iron-clad knight on horseback speeds over to the pair, a bloody lance gripped tightly in his hand. Hubert feels unsteady at the sight of him. The horse’s head rears back as the knight yanks back at the reins, then says to Ferdinand, “Duke Aegir! One of our scouts has spotted the bandits assembling some kilometers up North. They are descending upon the camp.”

“Understood. Today, we will go to intercept them.” Ferdinand turns to the knight with a nod. He’s different now, Hubert notices. It had been only a year since they were students at the Academy, but he supposes that war has forced both of them to mature quicker. Ferdinand looks back to Hubert, a competitive edge to his smile. “I do hope your skills have not dulled, cooped up in Enbarr day and night all those months.”

Most of Hubert’s fighting is done in the shadows, against those that prowl in the night. Assassins, whose daggers gleam in the moonlight. Hubert learns to fight as they do, discreetly and quietly. To kill swiftly, with cleanliness. The battlefield, crowded and ringing with war cries, is unfamiliar to Hubert, but Ferdinand seems to thrive within it. On his horse, he instantly surges to the frontlines, whereas Hubert stays within the middle of their forces to dole out commands and organize as he did in their Academy days. It takes a moment, but he gets back into the rhythm of it, his mind adapting to the pace of the field.

In a spare moment, Hubert’s attention wanders to Ferdinand. Overgrown spindles of blazing orange, matted with blood as the man presses onwards on horseback. Hubert idly wonders what it would feel like beneath his fingers as his gaze passes over, lingering for a second too long.

Further down, a sniper rests in the trees, an arrow notched into the bow and aimed towards the very front. Hubert spots him as the archer pulls his arm back, and his vision follows the iron tip, slowly, to Ferdinand’s head as he fights a Kingdom myrmidon. Instantly breaking formation, Hubert breaks into a sprint to the frontline, his lips mouthing the beginnings of a spell. Blood, cursed blood, tainted blood, surges through his body, pounding in his temples. Power builds up in the tips of his fingers, straining the back of his eyes and tugging at his mind. 

He casts Banshee upon the first arrow, knocking it off its course. A second one follows on the same path as the previous, and the arrows fired too rapidly in succession for Hubert to prepare another spell. 

Without thinking, Hubert throws himself in front of the arrow.

It buries itself into his chest, pushing him back several paces just as another one buries itself in his stomach. Pale symbols float around Hubert: two Crests borne from blood and sacrifice, amidst the turmoil of war. Rushed, uttered syllables spill out of his lips in a flurry, magic building up around him. The spell leaves him, and it knocks the Kingdom sniper out of the tree. Hubert clutches at the arrow lodged in his chest, teeth grit tight as the pain brings his knees to sodden, gory dirt. 

The dark bishop pushes his hands into the ground, trying to force himself up. There is still work to be done in the Empire, he thinks, coughing up blood as his head goes light, I was a fool. The agony burns in his chest and out of the corner of his eye, to his left, a blur of silver arcs through the air—an ax, poised to sever his head from his shoulders. 

A dreadful feeling fills his chest, but of all things he could label it as, Hubert knows that it is not regret. 

He had been told that in his final moments, his entire life will flash by his vision. But what he first sees isn’t of the beginnings of his existence, but a disjointed series of experiences that he had obtained well into adulthood. Hubert first sees his father’s final moments, that distant time in the throne room at the start of the war. And then Ferdinand, standing beneath a blanket of constellations and shining the brightest among them with that stupid effervescent optimism of his. Lastly, he sees once more the glint of an arrowhead in the hot sun, splitting through the air into his chest. His face meets the earth, coffee-ground bitter with traces of iron. And to think that the person I would sacrifice it all for would be you. 

Metal clashes overhead, a deep shadow eclipsing Hubert’s collapsed form. He looks up to see Ferdinand slash down the enemy brigand. The Aegir turns back, face wracked with concern. “Hubert! Are you alright?”

The white-haired noble rises to his feet, feeling the ground sway beneath him as he shakes his head weakly. 

Ferdinand’s horse turns in place as the knight reaches down and pulls Hubert up by the arm, hoisting him onto the back end of the saddle. His words tumble out fast and panicked, “Hold on, Hubert, don’t die on me. I will find the nearest healer.”

“Do not.” Hubert corrects as he slings his arms around Ferdinand for stability. Dizzily, he leans his head forwards, allowing himself a rare moment of reprieve.

Ferdinand’s horse does not slow, only accelerating, “I—I am sorry?”

“Don’t is a contraction, Ferdinand,” Hubert says weakly, coughing out a few strained laughs, “Such language is unbecoming… Of a noble…”

“Hubert, you do not have the breath to spare for such jests!” Ferdinand replies sharply, rising panic in his voice, “Stay quiet and still. Do not disrupt the wound.”

He purses his lips in reluctant compliance, beginning to feel the warmth seep from his skin. The blood from his wound stains the front of his robes, dyeing the dark folds red.

“Hubert?”

“To think that…” Hubert rasps, his eyelids growing heavier, “That in the end, it would be you… Who saved me instead...”

The rest of his weight slumps forth as he plummets down into an endless freefall.

Hubert awakens dressed in bandages with the weight of several carriages pressing down on his chest. Instead of a medical tent, he’d been put in a cot inside an isolated tent of his own. The only light is a lantern placed in the middle, and the brightness of its flames fails to reach the comforts of his cot. 

Ferdinand’s sitting in a chair pushed against an adjacent wall by Hubert, a book laid over his lap. He’s writing something, eyebrows knit together in pinpoint focus. Hearing Hubert stir, he looks up, “You are awake now.”

“So I am,” Hubert replies dryly, mulling over the events of the day. He had thrown himself into the line of fire, but what was even more strange was the counterattack. Dispatching the enemy is second nature to Hubert, but the zealous fervor that ignited in his chest at that moment was out of place, substituting in for his usual cold calculation. 

He sits up and winces. The healing magic had done its share of closing his wounds, but just that. Hubert had taken enough injuries to know these wounds will not heal flawlessly. Two more scars, piled upon countless more. He wishes he had taken Linhardt with him, now. Ferdinand’s brows crease with worry at the sight of this, but his energy is unwavering. “You were out cold for the whole day, but do not fret! Your efforts bore fruit. The Imperial Army still saw victory.” 

The Crests that had manifested themselves beside him resurface in his memory. Without a second thought, they had appeared before he could think to restrain himself. He asks in turn, suddenly, a quiet murmur in the dim light, “But what did you see?”

Ferdinand looks to him upon hearing the question, bewildered and curious. “What did you want me to see?”

They sit still quietly, breathing, as the knight searches his face for the answer.

“Me.” Hubert finally answers, hush with realization. He can hear the beat of his heart in his ears, the rush of blood accelerating, pulsing and pounding through his chest hard and heavy as he swallows thickly. The tent suddenly feels smaller when his grief-laced voice cuts through the silence. “I wanted you to see me.”

The words spill from his lips faster than he can think to seal them.

“I am a Crestbearer of two, of Flame and Gloucester.” Hubert’s eyes no longer wander, his attention fixed numbly on the space in front of him. There’s a sudden monotony to his cadence. Drained of all the raw and untapped pain, it is emotional detachment at its finest. “Yet, the Empire is only known to house the Crests of Saints. Strange, is it not?”

He glances back to Ferdinand, who stares back with a complex look on his face. It’s strange, to see someone who has always worn his heart so confidently on his sleeve, suddenly so inscrutable. Sorrow flickers over somber eyes of amber. “Hubert, I am not entirely sure what you are insinuating here, but I… I am at a loss for words.”

“I do not need your pity.” He leans back in the cot, arms crossed over his aching chest. “They are simply Crests, after all. It is not as though they have caused me grief, either.”

“Yet you seem pained.” Ferdinand places a finger on his chin, taking a moment to think. The exuberance the man boasted in his youth seems to return as he offers hopefully, “Allow me to lend an ear! Though you and I often clashed during our days at the Academy, we were trusted allies nonetheless.”

“There is nothing that can be done.” Hubert shakes his head. “Forget that I had said anything.”

Ferdinand’s quiet for a moment, lips drawn to a frown. He then sighs, stirring in his seat. “I will go let the clerics know that you have awakened. Thank you, by the way. I am indebted to you.” 

Hubert cocks an eyebrow.

“You tried to save me, or so I was told.”

“By whom?”

“Your soldiers,” Ferdinand says, a smile edging around his features, “You may not see it, for all your coldheartedness, but they do keep an eye out for you. I must say, I am surprised. I hadn’t expected you to be so...” 

“Reckless?” Hubert interjects, glancing down at his hands. The gloves had been pulled off, revealing scars upon scars; rough, dark lines coating skin that had once been flawless. It’s the result of years of backfiring spells—the price of practicing dark magic. He laughs, “It appears we both have changed over the years.”

“We have,” Ferdinand nods, starting to get up from his seat. “I will go let one of the medics know that you are awake now.”

“Ferdinand.” 

“Yes?”

“I will be departing for Enbarr at my earliest convenience, so…” Hubert struggles to find the proper words. He sucks in a breath. “I will say my goodbyes now, while I can, but not for the last time.”

Something changes in the way Ferdinand looks at him. 

Hubert can’t identify it, but when Ferdinand leans in closer he doesn’t react, going still as calloused hands cup his face. There’s hesitation in the other man’s fingers when Ferdinand kisses him. It’s innocent and chaste, just a brief press of Aegir’s lips on his before he draws away quickly with his face flushed. His hand absently tucks a stray lock of orange hair behind his ears as his voice trails off,  his demeanor flattening, “I…”

He stares at the ginger, wide-eyed and anticipating. Hubert hardly thinks himself an impatient person, but he only waits a heartbeat before he pulls Ferdinand in by his bloodsoaked collar and presses their lips together. His healing wounds burn in his chest with the movement, but he endures it without a thought. One moment, then another, and then Hubert draws breath. He has far too much on his plate already, as does Ferdinand. Neither of them can take this encounter and run with it. Before he can say anything, the uncertainty lingers on his face just long enough for Ferdinand to read it.

“That was a mistake.” Ferdinand laughs nervously, scrambling up and away. Far from Hubert. “We should both forget about that, just as I have promised to forget about your Crests. Actually, I said I was going to go get the nurse, wasn’t I? I will be on my way, then.”

Hubert wonders if that’s what it was—a mistake—as Ferdinand rushes out like he’s being chased. 

Imperial Year 1185

Day by day, more of Fódlan’s territory falls into Empire hands. Hubert estimates that the continent will be theirs in the matter of a few years, and then, Edelgard’s victory will be theirs. The abolition of the Crest system, a meritocracy. The end of a dream once distant.

Five years into the war, hushed whispers of a long-dead name begin to proliferate in the battlefield—Byleth Eisner, the Ashen Demon—but Hubert knows of her renewed presence long before the others.

It’s the Ethereal Moon, now, the night of the millennium festival. For whatever reason, Lady Edelgard had elected to celebrate privately at the ruins of the Monastery. 

Hubert waits there at the entrance, where Lady Edelgard had instructed him to accompany her to. They split from there, Edelgard with a mission that had evidently been quite personal, and Hubert with little else to do than twiddle his thumbs. Standing above the rubble, Hubert remembers, for a moment, what Garreg Mach Monastery used to be. Tall spires and church buildings that stood tall. Proud. Impregnable, until proven otherwise. In the distance, he hears the snap of a twig and swiftly pivots on his heel in its direction. 

“It is me.” 

Hubert exhales a breath, brows raised at the sound of Edelgard’s voice as she walks out from the shadows. He bows his head, “Welcome back, Your Majesty.”

Edelgard’s face hangs facing the ground in defeat. It’s an expression Hubert is unfamiliar with seeing on the emperor, and his face immediately drops with concern. Her hair, which was usually fastened into neat buns at the side, was ruffled out of place, with sprigs of brown sticking out here and there. 

“What is the matter?” 

She asks without answering, the grieving tones of her voice subdued, “Can I confide in you, for a moment?”

Hubert has known her far too long for her to be able to conceal anything from him, but he still finds himself surprised by the sudden transparency. “Of course you can.” 

She makes her way other to the remnants of a broken-down wall, perching upon it with a long, drawn-out sigh. Hubert quietly follows and sits beside her with a brow cocked inquisitively. She mutters into the night breeze, so softly that Hubert strains to hear it, “The Professor. She is back.”

“So she draws breath at last.” 

Hubert can recall, though only vaguely, their days at the Academy. It had crushed Edelgard when Byleth turned up missing after their attack on the Monastery, last seen falling over the edge of a deep ravine. He remembers everything that followed vividly. Her Majesty spent days in her chambers in solitude before coming out, taking her food through a slot in the door. Hubert did most of the administration for that brief time, but Her Majesty would occasionally slip written messages out the door to remotely manage the Empire. There was a rigidness to her back then when she finally reemerged—the front of a ruler who had no choice but to be strong for their people. Even then, there was a sense of something crumbling behind those mourning eyes, and that feeling had not faded away until months afterward. 

“Five years ago, today, I told her that I loved her. She reciprocated, and then we promised to meet again today. I thought I was a fool for going back in hopes of a reunion, but there she stood in the ruins of the Monastery.” Edelgard says, a reminiscent but melancholic smile on her face.

“How sentimental.” He lifts a gloved hand to his chin in thought, “Though, it may have been better if she had waited another year to return, so that the war will have already been over. On the other hand, however, she is a competent fighter, and will undoubtedly be a vital part of our forces if she so chooses.”

Edelgard remains silent. She leans forwards, elbows propped onto her knees as she pushes her face into her hands.

“Lady Edelgard?”

“She did not choose us.” Edelgard’s voice comes out bitter, straining where she tries to keep herself steady. “I asked her to join our cause, and she declined.”

Hubert frowns, struggling to find the words to reassure her. “I see. My condolences, Lady Edelgard. If need be, I will find a way to take her out of the picture.”

“I wouldn’t wish that upon her,” Edelgard says with a heavy sigh. Her gaze levels with his. “Come to think of it, you share a Crest with her, don’t you?”

Hubert fails to conceal the discomfort in his answer. “Yes. We both bear the Crest of Flames.”

“Then I wonder, if it were to ever come down to it, whether you would be able to fight her on equal footing.” Edelgard muses for a moment. Hubert frowns, and Edelgard adds, “Not that I am afraid it would come down to that, of course.”

“I do not think our situation will ever turn so drastically, but I would not hesitate if the moment were to come.” Hubert continues sternly, without pause. “You must already know this, but you have already decided on your path, Lady Edelgard. You cannot let emotions cloud it.”

“You’re…” She hesitates and then sighs. “You’re right. It is strange for me to have expected anything when she had chosen the Blue Lions from the start.” Lifting her head, she tenses, as if manifesting her resolve. Hubert sees it again—that expression of feigned strength from years past. “No matter. I chose this war, to build a better future for Fódlan from its shambles.”

They sit in stillness comfortably, having not had the time to do so for a while. 

“I miss our days at school here.” Edelgard murmurs wistfully after a while. “But I don’t think I would have done anything differently. Everything important here came back to the capital with us, after all.”

Except for one thing , Hubert reads when he looks at her. Neither of them says it, but both of them are thinking it.

Edelgard speaks up, again. “Hubert, there are times where I envy you because Ferdinand had elected to stay with us.”

“All of our classmates chose to stay with us. I do not follow why you are specifying Ferdinand.” Hubert replies with great discomfort, feeling the tips of his ears begin to redden. Though he had promised to forget, his mind cannot help but race back to that private moment, three years before. At that, Edelgard’s eyebrows raise.

“If you don’t follow, then I guess you don’t.” She laughs. The emperor glances up at him with a smile on her face as she gets up, and Hubert cannot understand for the life of him what he had said that the brunette had found so humorous. “Apologies, then, I suppose I was just imagining things. Come, let’s go home. Back to Enbarr.”

Hubert stands up to follow her, but his knees buckle as his legs give out from beneath him. Falling to the ground, he can feel his heart seize in his chest. The vassal barely manages to catch himself on the palms of his trembling hands, his chest heaving. 

Edelgard looks back at him with concern and sorrow. He averts his gaze down, avoiding eye contact, and cursing his own weakness. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. My body is…”

He cannot find the words, nor the heart, to finish his sentence.

“Time has not been kind to either of us, has it, Hubert?”

“I am afraid not, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert responds as Edelgard pulls him up to his feet. He can already see it, the last of the sand falling to the bottom of his hourglass. 

Imperial Year 1186

With the presence of their former professor, the tide of the war quickly changes against the Empire, like a rope slowly tightening around their necks. The Blue Sea Moon brings ill tidings when Fort Merceus is struck down, and Hubert anticipates that it only will be another month before Kingdom forces finally descend upon Enbarr.

The last days of the Verdant Rain Moon begin to tick down as Hubert paces around his room. The noose feels as though it is closing around his neck now, the last granules of sand sliding down the hourglass as Kingdom forces draw near. Tactic books, splayed open, litter his desk. On top of the books is a souvenir of sorts, from years ago. It gives off a dull gleam in the candlelight, coated in a thin veneer of dust, and marked with ornate detail. It had been a souvenir of sorts from Hubert’s past, untouched until the war’s turn. 

“Hubert. You look as dreadful as ever.”

“So I have been told,” Hubert accepts dryly. He looks towards Ferdinand, who stands in the doorway. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes.” Ferdinand slides into the seat across from Hubert at his desk. There’s a caution Hubert senses in his approach—how unusual. “As we know, what could be the final days of this war could be coming any day now.”

We . Hubert echoes to himself emptily. A crooked look comes to his face, bitter with hints of frustration. “And I do wish you would get to the point.”

“My point is—” The knight purses his lips, evidently deeply troubled. “I will get to it. First, I must ask, Hubert, have you ever envisioned anything outside of this war?”

“Not for a long time.” 

“Me neither. It was not until recently, when the end of the war began to come within view, that I could picture anything else.” Ferdinand confides. “Admittedly, when we are at such a disadvantage now, it is somewhat difficult to picture a perfect ending to this.”

“Indeed.” Hubert crosses his arms over his chest, retorting, “Though I cannot say I have the luxury of wasting precious time on such trivial fantasies.”

“But it is a hopeful thought in these trying times, no?” The fiery-haired noble offers with a smile. His attention moves to the gleaming stone atop the table before Hubert can take the liberty of moving it out of sight, and the pleasant look drops from his face. Dread pulls at his syllables, slow and accusing. “Hubert—What is that?”

Hubert’s momentarily caught off guard and he leans back to maintain his calm. Of course, Ferdinand’s keen observational skills only shine through at the worst of times. 

Carefully, “I don’t suppose you are familiar with the concept of Crest Stones?”

“I am,” Ferdinand says quietly. A breath. “I do hope you have no intention of using it.”

“Whatever it takes to win this war,” Hubert replies vaguely. He begins feeling defensive beneath Ferdinand’s scrutiny, which had suddenly become far sharper than he had ever previously credited the noble for. Strange, how things changed over the years. Yet, prevailing over the skepticism in those honeyed eyes was pain and disappointment. “In the end, Edelgard’s change would save far more lives than mine is worth to her.”

“You act as though the war had already been lost.” Ferdinand seethes, and Hubert can feel his own blood begin to boil. Just as he was beginning to think that they were getting a fine understanding of each other—like a bad habit, the ginger’s excessive optimism seems to resurface again.

“You admitted it yourself. We are at a large disadvantage. If we can dispatch the heads of the Kingdom army when they fight us here, we can turn the tide of the war back in our favor.” 

“Winning this battle does not require you to commit suicide, Hubert.” Ferdinand’s hands post at the desk, his voice rising to a shout. “So you think you can single-handedly win this war like some sort of righteous, morally-upstanding martyr?”

“No,” he answers with a narrowing of pale eyes. 

“Then, what is the meaning of this?” The noble questions, spreading his hands helplessly. Just as quick as he is to raise his voice, his volume lowers, cracking in its pain. “Why are you so quick to throw your own life away?”

There are more answers to that question than Hubert could ever hope to voice. He holds Ferdinand’s gaze steadily, unmoving, and he knows that it was inevitable for all those years of woven secrets to unravel eventually.

“Because there is nothing of it left,” Hubert says finally. “It is that simple. You said it yourself, that I look dreadful, worse for wear. I have no time left.” 

“Is it a disease? A lingering curse?”

“It’s my Crests, Ferdinand.” Hubert clenches his hands, feeling his stomach sink into the chair. “I was not born with these, far from it. When I was younger, not long after the Insurrection of Seven, I had dangerous experiments performed on me alongside the other ten Hresvelg siblings, and I was the sole survivor. The experiments resulted in my bearing two Crests, at the expense of my lifespan. The experimenters told me that I would live no further than my late twenties.”

“Why?” Ferdinand studies him with wide-eyed shock, and then, a look Hubert can only label as pity. It would be uncomfortable, if not a little touching. It’s the Imperial Year 1186, and Hubert is already 26 now. It was as Edelgard had said back in the Monastery ruins: time would not be kind to him. It would not heed his dreams nor ambitions. 

“This was voluntary, however. I elected to take Lady Edelgard’s place so that there would be one remaining heir to the throne. To guarantee her future, I compromised my life.” Hubert says simply, explaining like he would tell a story at a campfire. There’s a smile on his face, small but genuine. “That is why, even through all my suffering, I wouldn’t have changed my decision even if I had an opportunity to. It is also why I must act, while I am still of use—for the Empire.”

“So you are still in decent enough health to fight.” Ferdinand parrots, almost brainlessly.

Hubert stares him down like he’s lost his mind. “I just told you I have only a year or two left in my lifespan.”

“That’s plenty,” Ferdinand says without missing a beat.

He blinks, dumbfounded. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, but do you? A couple of years is plenty of time to find a solution, or perhaps even a cure. It is too early to give up on yourself.” Ferdinand stands up abruptly from his seat, facing him with that gallant sincerity he always bore, and the white-haired bishop momentarily feels as though he had been whisked back to their Academy days. Slowly, Ferdinand’s hand moves over his own, and clasps it. Tightly. “I will save you, I swear it.”

It's his turn to be surprised now, and the other does not disappoint him. Ferdinand’s gaze is stalwart and true as the sun. Hubert finds himself at a loss for words, composing a clever riposte several times over in his mind before surrendering in dry laughter. The prickling sensation of tears welling up in his eyes is not something he had felt in years. “It is unnerving that you are finally starting to sound like a real knight.”

“I mean it.” Ferdinand protests, his confidence suddenly deflating. His face burns crimson, redder than his hair. “I am a man of my word, Hubert! Did I ever give you cause to doubt?”

“I’ll hold you to it, then, Duke Aegir.” There’s a roundness to Hubert’s smile as he shakes his head, his pulse racing at the feeling of Ferdinand’s fingers interlocked in his. 

Imperial Year 1188

The war ends soon after, but not in mutual bloodshed. It ends, instead, with the lives of the Agarthans, after the union of Archbishop Byleth and Emperor Edelgard, and a new Church for Fódlan. With the war’s conclusion, a time of peace descends upon the continent. It is strange, to finally be bestowed with so much free time, but to also know that these blissful times are limited. But, in time, the shackles that bind Hubert to his hourglass shatter. It’s a far cry from regaining the sense of normalcy he had lost in the war, but slowly, Hubert learns to lower his guard, even if a little. More strangely, he finds himself with more free time than he knows how to deal with. With Byleth at her side, Lady Edelgard seldom requires anything of Hubert now. 

“Hubert.”

So, he arranges for a tea party with none other than the new head of House Aegir himself. As House Vestra traditionally never owned land, Hubert finds himself visiting the Aegirs’ estate every so often when no more tasks are left for him at the palace in Enbarr.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert greets, taking a seat at the table. The garden in Ferdinand’s estate is nice, he notes, with its well-kept hedges and lavish decor. Vines crawl over the iron-barred gates and hang about the cloth canopy of their gazebo. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee mingles with that of tea in the air. “It is nice to see you again, finally.”

“Indeed. I see Linhardt’s treatment has been working quite well for you.” Ferdinand smiles. Hubert’s hair was now black at the roots, fading into white further down. He had considered chopping the ends off more than twice. Even better, he had never felt so alive than he had in the weeks after his Crest extraction. “I hope life back at Enbarr is treating you well?”

“Well, I had the time to come here, so I would say it is.” Hubert muses, lifting a cup of coffee to his lips. It’s completely black, without a granule of sugar or drop of cream. “Her Majesty and that myrmidon have long returned from their honeymoon, yet it feels as though they are still newlywed. The palace has not known peace since their marriage, and yet Her Majesty had told me to follow my heart, as she has.”

“They wasted no time in their union, huh? They had been enemies on opposite sides of the field mere hours before.” Ferdinand laughs upon recounting the memory. Despite the atmosphere, his grip on his teacup is tight. He holds it like he would a lance, tight as though he had never completely unlearned the weapon. “That being said, we have all gone through a lot, together. Perhaps, it is not so strange to share a bond over that, even if it is as enemies.”

“Mm,” Hubert shuts his eyes, reminiscing. There are memories he had long repressed, and others that keep their hold on his heart tight, tugging at the slightest recollection. 

“Do you remember, Hubert?” Lime-green eyes open, and Ferdinand is gazing back with a soft fondness, sadness tinging the edges of his expression. “All those years ago, you told me something, that you wished for me to see you… And I did. Not for your Crests, but something else. From that moment to when the war began running its last course, to now, all I saw was you, Hubert; for your steadfast devotion to your duty. For your calculating intellect. For your cold countenance, that which belies a fond warmth reserved for your allies.”

“And I wish to be your companion, Hubert von Vestra, not just in war, but in life.” Ferdinand smiles, moving the teapot to reveal a small box. He lifts the lid. “Marry me, Hubert.”

His eyes widen at the sight of a ring bejeweled with glistening emeralds, its gold shining in the light.

“I am… I am truly happy, but there is one thing.” Hubert collects himself, a similar lovelorn expression dancing about his lips. Reaching into the pockets of his dark coat, he procures a similarly shaped box. “It would be quite difficult to accept your proposal so simply when I had already planned for one myself.”

Ferdinand’s mouth drops open on the spot.

“I have no such anecdote at hand as profound as yours, and it is selfish of me, to have owed you my life twice over and still ask you to spend the rest of yours with me.” Hubert kneels down by his lover, flipping the box open. Never had his heart raced so quickly, his blood suddenly burning like fire. The smile on his face is sincere and nervous, as he slips the ring onto Ferdinand’s finger. “However, I have been charmed by you; perhaps, not from the very start, but mine was a slow brewing yearning. You speak of my devotion, but now it extends beyond my duty. I devote myself to you, Ferdinand, Duke of House Aegir; boundless as the seas which cradle Fódlan. Will you marry me?”

Ferdinand looks at Hubert like he had just fallen from the sky. He laughs with messy tears rolling down his face and throws himself over Hubert, arms pulling him into a tight embrace to hold on for dear life. “Why ask when you already know my answer? I accept, Hubert. Over and over again, I will accept your proposal.”

Hubert cradles Ferdinand’s face in his hands, stars in his eyes. 

“And I accept yours.”