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Heavy.
That is how Hubert felt all over his body. It was as if his own bones could bring him down in a crumpled heap onto the muddy, rain puddle littered ground, due to their massive weight. His body felt worn down, using all of its fleeting strength to stand upon his two legs. He struggled to keep his balance, both from the slipperiness of the squishy grass beneath his feet in relation to the constant downpour from above and the lingering fatigue that had settled within his muscles after coming face to face with a ruthless demonic beast.
The creature had come barreling through out of nowhere, and he was not the type of fighter to best handle such a vicious monster all on his own. He felt lucky that he had not been swallowed up by the damn thing, as he had been so very close to becoming food for the filthy creature. Yet, he scraped by with unleashing a massive surge of magic through his finger tips. In the wake of such power, he had ruined the already sullied gloves upon his twitching hands further.
Similar to the rest of his clothing, Hubert had been caked in dirt and grime from the waist down from trampling through puddle after puddle of blood, water, and mud. His clothing only further weighed his weary limbs down with the additional pressure of the water that had soaked into the fabric. It clung to his body, at least it did where the fabric had not been slashed, torn, or burned away from the assault of attacks he had faced within this merciless combat.
His breathing was labored as he tried to rendezvous with those still standing in his battalion. They had taken quite a devastating loss in the wake of such vicious beasts and the inhumane soldiers that fought alongside them. He had done his best to save those he could, but war was unforgiving. The loss of life was detrimental, and it never got any easier. Even to a man as desensitized as Hubert was to the blood and gore of conflict, the impact of losing souls from your own side had yet to become numb to him. He may be capable of wretched acts of slaughter, strangling the life out of vile foes with his own hands while wearing an expression of indifference upon his face, but this was different.
He was their commander. He had personally trained and worked alongside with each and every person within his battalion. Teaching tactics, offering advice, providing an ear to listen to woes, instilling a sense of community. Various missions have already come and gone, bleeding together and sticking through the worst that their enemies could fire upon them. He never lost more than a couple to extreme circumstances, but this battle had ripped them from under his fingertips. Even as he stumbled through the storm, his efforts were in vain.
There was a chill so deep it sunk under his skin from the frigid rain falling upon the field, and it only worsened his pathetic condition. His clothing and sad excuse of armor were in tattered remains. His arms could barely be lifted up from his sides, and the magic wisps floating from his fingers were burning upon his flesh as he tried his absolute hardest not to lose his connection to his magic reserves. A spell or two was all he had left in his arsenal before he needed to rest and regain his strength, but there was no time for such luxuries in this corpse littered field.
When things seemed as if they could not grow more bleak, they did.
As Hubert was hollering instructions to those still breathing, attempting to regroup and head back towards the other squadrons for a counting of heads at the end of such a grisly altercation, there was a sudden shift in the air. Without a warning, the wind brought with it not only teeth-clattering showers, but a new surge of foes from the horizon. Looking upwards to the sky, there is an incoming charge of Pegasus Knights.
Delayed reinforcements. Any other army would turn back seeing the massacre upon the ground, - along with this horrendous weather - but being this far into Faerghan territory, their people were growing desperate. Each soldier was willing to die for nothing.
Except possibly taking one or two more of the Imperial forces down with them.
A mere shell of himself, he feels a looming dread drag over his heart. Perhaps, despite his best efforts, he would not get the luxury of seeing this war out to its bitter end. To see Edelgard claim a victory that belonged to her. Hubert does not pray, but in that moment, he partially wishes he did to have a semblance of hope to cling onto as the sound of wings grows louder and louder.
Those who can still stand and fight rally to defend themselves and launch an assault back once the enemy was within range. Hubert knows when he is outmatched, so he knows it is best to retreat from his lack of magic and trounced physical condition. Gritting his teeth, he can spot the sight of incoming allies. Despite the skewed vision from the rain, his eyes are always capable of noticing the familiar sight of orange, disheveled locks even from such an incredible distance.
However, despite the sprint that Ferdinand was charging forward with, he is only so quick. There is much ground to make, and the Pegasus Knights are getting far too close too fast. He is leading his men fearlessly, knowing that with his strength and with Petra’s own flying behind him on her Wyvern, they will be able to quickly demolish the last few stragglers and secure another triumph for the Empire. Mud and water splashed up upon the ground as his horse trampled through the grass.
His hair is sticking upon his face and armor in clumps, but he has little time to care about something so frivolous. He is but a wet beaten dog, nursing a few fresh injuries of his own upon his arms where he had been grazed with blades. But he does not focus upon such pain. He doesn’t have room for thoughts about the lingering sting that surges through his muscles with each movement.
Nearly reaching where Hubert and his battalion were struggling to make a stand against the new foes, he feels his entire heart stop beating as a nightmare unfolds before his very eyes.
Within the rival forces there are various archers that begin to launch an onslaught of arrows upon the field. The incessant downpour obscures Hubert’s vision while his limbs feel as if they have been crushed under the weight of massive rocks and rubble. He attempts futility to dodge a plethora of arrows, but his energy is depleted. A worthless attempt to cast magic back toward the enemy only blows up in his own face. He stumbles back, only to be quickly assaulted with a massive surge of arrows into his flesh.
The tips are scattered, a few upon his hip, three in his shoulder, and one aimed brutally within his guts. He is not a vocal man when it comes to injuries, but a scream rips from his throat before he collapses upon his knees. Filthy water soaks further into his ripped pants. Hunching over, he feels lazily across where he had been hit, but does not dare to remove the arrows. They were luckily not poisoned, but truthfully, in his current condition, they didn’t have to be.
Would this finally be the end of his pathetic life? Taken down before he fulfilled his duty to change the world by his liege’s side. Closing his eyes, he focused upon the numbness that begins to settle within him and the gentle feeling of the droplets of rain falling down his face.
Furiously, he is ripped from such morbid thoughts as an arm reaches and grabs onto him, pulling his body onto the back of a horse. His eyes shoot open, and Hubert looks back to see Ferdinand staring at him with the most heart-wrenching expression. He can feel his anguish, even through the pouring rain he knows that there are tears streaming down his face. He forces his arms to wrap around his waist to grab onto him.
“Hold onto me. I shall lead you to Linhardt and the other medics in a brief moment.” He tries to speak, though the words are hard to make out in the midst of battle. “Please, hold on, tightly. Whatever you do, do not ever let go. Now, let’s move forward.”
Ferdinand attempts to be soothing with his voice to Hubert, but he is anything but calm. He feels enraged, a sudden burst of energy burning up inside of him and relighting the flames upon his heart. Tightening his grip upon the reins of his horse, he bolts forward to help defeat the incoming surge of enemies. He tries his best to keep the ride steady for Hubert’s sake despite the marshy terrain of the ground.
As he gets in range of a slew of Pegasus Knights, he feels his pent up fury within his fingers as he grabs at his bow. Carefully, he pulls an arrow tautly back until he can feel the bite within his shoulder to know he is prepared to unleash his wrath upon those who dared to aim upon those he loved. Eyes glaring with precision upon his first target, he lets the arrow slip from his fingers. He earns a direct hit upon the rider, watching them fall from the sky into a crumpled mess of broken bones in the mud.
He was not a man who particularly enjoyed mindless killing, but he also had no qualms about it. War was life or death. Compassion had no place within him at this moment. Thus, he let his mind be consumed by hatred and the quest for glory. He wastes no time, sliding another arrow into place and beginning his assault upon the sky. One by one, he brings soldier after soldier from their mounts.
There is a feeling of satisfaction that rushes through him each time he hears the agonizing yelps and screeches of those who splatter upon the ground from his well-aimed shots. While his skill with the bow was nothing compared to that of Bernadetta, he had still studied archery intensely. As he did with many other weapons, dedicated to always bettering himself. Becoming stronger. Getting sharper. Prepared for all that this world wished to toss in his way.
Then, assistance comes in the form of Petra and her fellow Wyvern riders. A weak smile manages to creep onto his face at the sight of her. Thus, he sets his bow back to instead grip upon his lance once more. Glancing at Hubert, he feels the familiar twist of unease within his stomach as his eyes are heavy, nearly shut as Hubert fights the urge to close them and let his mind fade out into unconsciousness.
“Bastards…” Ferdinand hisses, feeling his vicious vigor flare up as he wields his spear with a murderous intent. He dashes forward, going to make quick work of those who remain breathing upon the field. Approaching the crippled body of a Pegasus rider that had collapsed upon the ground, he grips onto his spear and ignores the blubbering that comes from their straggled voice as his lance sinks forward and stabs into the battered chest. It is like cutting through butter. The blood drips from the tip as he pulls it back, but he does not stop. He jabs his spear multiple times into the corpse, a savage amusement bubbling within him.
A renewed sense of purpose, Ferdinand rides across the ground to each rider he had knocked off of their Pegasi to be certain each job was completed. The weight of his spear gets lighter each time he lifts it, digging into the various bodies that had dared to defile Hubert with their wretched arrows. The blood that splatters each time is a healthy reminder; it informs him that he has done his duty. No one from this pitiful infantry would survive to inform their leaders of the massacre they had witnessed from the unyielding strength of the Empire.
Then, he feels the grip of Hubert grow limp.
Gasping, he looks upon Hubert and sees his eyes have finally closed. He was still breathing, although it was strangled and slow. His eyes overflow with tears once more, and his anger washed off of him like the rain upon his shoulders. He moves his hands, grabbing onto Hubert's once more and trying to get them to grip once more.
“P-Patience, my love, I shall see you to safety.” He murmurs, holding onto Hubert’s arms with one of his hands as he turns back to meet with the medical unit.
When Hubert awakes, his eyes squint at the dim light of a candle that is by his bedside. Letting his eyes adjust to the lack of illumination, he takes in his surroundings to surmise that he was laying upon a cot in one of their medical tents. He turns his head to the left, blinking at the sight of Ferdinand hunched at his side in a chair. He has looked better.
His face is obscured by his hair, which still sits in clumps from the rain, with dirt and grime intermixed within the tangled locks. His face is soft, despite the fact he can see the light bags under his eyes. He must have slept poorly - if at all - for however long he has been knocked out within this tent. Hubert can presume as much, for his partner was but a bleeding heart through and through.
He shifts to lean himself upwards, but he groans at the aching that sparks within his torso and shoulder. He glances upon his skin, noticing the bandages that are wrapped around his bare chest and stomach, as well as around his right shoulder. The sounds of his struggle and the cot creaking are enough to startle Ferdinand’s poor attempt at slumber.
“Oh! You are awake-- Goddess, Hubert…” Ferdinand gasps, going to scoot closer to his side, moving to grab on of his hands. He gives a weak squeeze, thumb running across the back of them. “..I am so relieved. It has been nearly half a day…”
Hubert meets his gaze, able to read the obvious suffering that he has gone through. He has likely forgone his usual after battle recuperation to attend his side. He was far too kindhearted for his own good. He knows he needs to clean himself up. To change from his dirtied clothes. Even without the heavy armor, the clothing underneath looks cold and wrinkled from the aftereffects of the rain. Not to mention the stains of crimson upon the fabric. He should be resting properly, tending to his own wounds. He can see where some have been bandaged, but he was not properly caring to them by being hunched over in such a state.
“Only because of you.” Hubert replies honestly, trying to cough and clear the dryness of his throat. “Thank you, Ferdinand. I...I have lost count of how often you have saved me in some manner.” He sighs, feeling like such a liability.
“Oh hush, your own strength is what kept you breathing. I only rescued you from the fray.” Ferdinand knows of Hubert’s insecurities, and he will not allow him to feed into them in such a vulnerable state. He pulls his stained hand up to kiss with his lips, a familiar gesture between the two men.
“...If I had not already promised my life to you, I would say I owe it once more.” Hubert shyly attempts to jest, and Ferdinand appreciates him dropping his earlier self doubt. Hubert does not have the strength to struggle with both mental and physical pain at once. Ferdinand will not see him beat himself further when he’s already wounded.
Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to his forehead, letting his fingers quietly run through his bangs. Ferdinand feels the weight of his own exhaustion upon him, as well as his hunger and need to rest as he gazes lovingly at Hubert.
“I shall fetch us a meal. Then, we will both rest. Is that agreeable to you?” He suggests, hoping to spend just a little more time together before going to properly rest his overworked body.
Hubert nods to him, a quiet kindness lingering in his eyes.
Live to fight another day. That was their motto. Keep charging forward, resting while you can and being fearless when you are not.