Archive of Our Own

Claude

It's Linhardt's own fault.

It's been a long day after a late night, a night Linhardt spent cold and cramped in the library that didn't even yield any real dividends—just dry eyes and a headache. He had to drag himself to the dining hall on his own power, and now he can barely summon the appetite to poke at the dish in front of him, even though it's one of his favorites. At least he doesn't have to make stupid conversation, he's thinking, two seconds before Claude von Riegan slides in next to him on the bench.

Wonderful.

"Linhardt. Friend. Friendhardt." One arm worms over his shoulder, like a tentacle. Ugh.

"What do you want, Claude."

"You know me, just trying to build those inter-House bonds," Claude says. "Bringing folks together, discovering each others' innermost selves."

"That sounds exhausting."

"Oh Linhardt, such a kidder. But as long as I'm here, got anything you want to share with your friend Claude? Any secrets?" Claude waggles his eyebrows, deliberately over the top, like he's kidding. He's not kidding.

Linhardt's tired and grumpy and he doesn't have the energy to fend off Claude and the inevitable trapdoors rigged under every sentence. That's probably why he says, "Nothing that would interest the future King of Almyra, I'm sure."

Because really, for someone so full of his own tactical brilliance, Claude's not exactly a master of disguise.

There is a very long silence. Ha. Linhardt takes a satisfying bite of saghert and cream.

It would have been less satisfying if he'd known it would be the only one he'd get. Next thing he knows his shins are banging on the bench, ow, as Claude hauls him up with an iron grip on his arm. "Okay, time for a little chat with Teach, here we go."

"What are you doing," Linhardt says, and, "Ouch, leave me alone," as Claude propels him out the dining hall, across the courtyard, into the reception hall, up the stairs, down the corridor, and into Captain Jeralt's office, where the new professor is leafing through a crumbling old volume on tactics. She looks up as Claude hauls Linhardt through the door. Claude opens his mouth.

"—and that's why Linhardt should join the Golden Deer House," Claude finishes with a flourish. "Whaddaya say, Teach?"

The professor blinks at them. "All right."

"What," says Linhardt.

* * *

Lorenz

"And so," Claude says, addressing the cluster of acolytes—Linhardt's new classmates—hanging off his every disingenuous word, "let's all welcome our newest Golden Deer, Linhardt von Hevring!"

"Yay!" Hilda cheers, clapping eagerly, as Marianne attempts to shrink into the stonework. "Another boy to order, er, learn with!"

"Whoo!" Raphael claps a hand on Linhardt's shoulder and nearly knocks him over. "We gotta get you powered up, little buddy. Wanna hit the training yard?"

"Well," sniffs Lysithea, "as long as you can keep up in class."

Linhardt does smile at that. He's been conducting research since she was in the cradle. There's the one bright spot in this mess, at least. He's got his suspicions about Lysithea, not to mention Marianne; this could be the ideal opportunity for rigorous close-range observation.

"Why are you smiling at me," she says, unnerved.

"Our new classmate clearly appreciates the quality of a lady of the nobility, even one as yet unripened," says Lorenz. "As do I." He ignores Leonie's "Don’t be gross, Lorenz," and Lysithea's "I am not a fruit," and sweeps into a flourishing bow. "We may have met before, but please allow me to introduce myself as your new classmate. Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, heir to House Gloucester and future leader of the Leicester Alliance, at your most humble service."

"I know who you are," Linhardt says.

"Did you not hear? Reintroducing myself, dear von Hevring. Now that we are classmates our relationship is entirely different." Linhardt hopes not. "I must say, how refreshing it will be to gain the perspective of a noble of the Empire—problematic in its own way, of course, but a wealth of tradition, truly an inspiring legacy—"

Linhardt doesn't catch the end of the sentence. He's studying Lorenz, running through what he's observed from afar. There must be something useful about Lorenz. Somewhere. Maybe.

"You must join me for tea," Lorenz says. "Let us say, four o'clock, in the arbor. I shall brew for us myself. Excellent! Until then."

He strides off, whistling.

The Golden Deer watch him go. Leonie pats Linhardt on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it," she says.

Ignatz adds, hopefully, "I'm sure we'll all get along."

Linhardt wouldn't count on it.

* * *

As if he intends to take Lorenz up on his invitation; he's going to skip, of course. As a matter of fact, can one really call it skipping when one never agreed to the invitation in the first place? No, of course not. And so it is demonstrated.

Unfortunately, the late spring sun is warm and buttery and perfect for dozing off in the sheltered corner by the fishpond. Linhardt wakes to a low golden glow. He has no idea what time it is. He might as well go to the library, do a little reading before dinner, maybe finish off his nap. He trudges up the steps, ducks under the cloister, yawning, and—there's a very familiar yell echoing from the direction of the training grounds.

Linhardt does an about-face and walks, not that quickly, toward the safety of the entrance hall. He'll go by the inside route, even if it will take him extra time and energy, the chance that outdoorsy types would—

By the time he sees who's right in front of him, it's too late.

"Ah! Linhardt! Right on time—slightly early, even." Lorenz gifts him with an approving smile. "You understand that a noble is always punctual in keeping appointments."

In Linhardt's experience, a noble keeps appointments whenever they feel like it, unless their partner is a different, more powerful noble. More importantly, how can he get out of this? The table is laid with pastel cakes and fine porcelain; Lorenz is already gesturing to a wrought-iron chair "Please. Do be seated."

He could just walk away. And Lorenz would probably follow him, expostulating over his ignoble rudeness, badgering him over the meaning of such a slight, probably demanding satisfaction, until Linhardt would have to figure out not only how to make Lorenz leave him alone so he could concentrate on his reading but how to get out of a duel under the eyes of the whole monastery. Or worse, he'd actually have to fight one. Exhausting.

Plus, the sweets do look good.

Linhardt sits down. "What kind of cakes are those?"

Lorenz glows. "A fine eye indeed! Traditional sweetmeats from east Gloucester, you'll find the delicacy of flavor truly suited to the noble palate. A perfect compliment to the slight piquancy of the brew. Speaking of which, hmm hmm." Lorenz actually rubs his hands together, like he just can't help it. "Let us pour."

Lorenz makes a ceremony out of it, the same way Linhardt's old governess used to, so many have lost the really genteel ways these days—no, Master Linhardt, you may not eat your cookie before your hostess has poured. He watches as Lorenz pours with a rock-steady hand from an artistic height, speed and angle calibrated so as not to splash a single drop. Lorenz turns the cup so the gilt painting on the side is displayed toward Linhardt, gracefully withdraws his hand and repeats the movements for his own cup. Then he folds his hands in his lap with an expectant air.

"...Very nice?" Linhardt says. Lorenz dips his head in acknowledgement.

Oh. He's waiting for Linhardt to drink first. Linhardt doesn't mean to jump through the hoops—in fact, if he'd managed to think a few seconds ahead, he might have poured a little tea in the saucer "to cool," just to see what Lorenz did—but old Adalberta's lessons are too deeply inscribed in his kinaesthetic memory. Linhardt's already lifting the cup in practiced motions, inhaling the aroma—smells like… tea—and taking a careful "tasting" sip. It's the perfect temperature.

Lorenz nods approvingly. Ugh. He should have poured it in the saucer.

"It is quite reassuring to see the cultural ties that reach beyond our borders," Lorenz says. "Proof that true noble quality rises above the petty concerns of nation-states."

"My governess said the old traditions are dying out," Linhardt says, just to be contrary.

It doesn't work. Instead Lorenz puffs up like an engorged peacock. "Really. What a shame indeed. The art of serving tea is of the highest importance to the noble houses of—well, certainly to House Gloucester. We have preserved traditions passed down for generations! Dear, dear. I should be glad to educate any of your classmates—ah, former classmates, pardon me—in their lost heritage."

"That's nice," Linhardt says absently; his mind is already wandering, wondering how much of what Lorenz said is accurate. If there truly is a difference between the Alliance and the Empire in their preservation of cultural arts, does it speak to branching values, or simple provinciality? Gloucester is an Imperial border province, which makes it an interesting test case—

Hm, his cake is almost gone. He doesn't remember eating it.

"Indeed. On that note," Lorenz says, "you really must tell me what inspired you to transfer houses. Not, of course, that the Golden Deer aren't heir to decades of history, surely comparable to the finest traditions of the Empire itself, hmm!—in fact, one might—however—"

Linhardt is willing to let Lorenz gallop away down the trails of digression and never return to the question, but Lorenz collects himself. "But that is beside the point. What, ah, caught your interest, if I may ask?"

Linhardt says, "Claude invited me."

Lorenz looks pained. "And you are... drawn to... him?"

He sounds like he's talking about an affair with the garbage midden. Linhardt shrugs. "It seemed like an interesting place."

Lorenz's eyes narrow. He's not sure whether to take that as an insult or not. Interesting.

"The new professor," Linhardt clarifies.

The suspicion evaporates and Lorenz leans forward again, alight. "A fascinating individual, indeed. Superior taste, of course, to have selected our house—ah, perhaps I shouldn't let that slip, but surely it can't hurt now that you're a member yourself. But really quite mysterious, the most shocking gaps in her knowledge of our civilization, and yet quite, ah, hm—"

Does Lorenz have a crush? That's hilarious. Linhardt takes another cake under the cover of distraction. Linhardt has to hand it to him: Lorenz knows what he's talking about. The cakes do go perfectly with the tea. Sweet but not overpowering, melting on the tongue. He'll have to see if C—ooking staff at the dining hall will make a batch.

Lorenz is deep in soliloquy now. Something about how Claude von Riegan may have gotten his sticky, grasping hands on the armrests of leadership but he, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, won't stand by and let blah blah blah. Linhardt tunes him out. Anyone with the slightest bit of analytical inclination should be able to discern that Claude von Riegan gives two half-pennies for the Alliance as an ends in and of itself. What bothers Linhardt is that he can't tell what Claude does want.

Linhardt eats five of the little cakes and Lorenz doesn't say anything, even though Linhardt can tell he's dying to. Gloucester etiquette must be good for something after all.

"We must do this again," Lorenz says when the pot is empty, beaming with self-satisfaction.

"Uh huh," says Linhardt. "Goodbye."

The cakes have ruined his appetite for dinner. He'll skip the library after all and just do some reading in his room. If he's lucky, he'll make it back to the dormitory smoothly and uneventfully.

He's not lucky.

"Lin!"

He hears the voice bellowing from halfway across the monastery grounds. For a split second he thinks, I'll just ignore it. Ridiculous thought. When, in the last seventeen years of his life, has he ever been able to just ignore it.

He doesn't turn around all the same, just keeps walking, pointed in the direction of the second floor. "Lin! Linhardt!"

Pounding of feet, panting of breaths, like being chased by a dog. He has the timing down to a fine art; in just a few seconds now—

"Is it true?" Caspar demands, yanking him around. He's always so physical. "You weren't in class today, Edelgard said you transferred houses. It's not true, right? Right?"

Linhardt shrugs. It's not enough to free himself from Caspar's grip. "Good afternoon to you, too, Caspar. Yes, I'm fine, and you?"

"Ugh, like we have time for that! This is important." Caspar clamps both hands on Linhardt's shoulders and stares into his eyes. "What's the whole story?"

"Well," says Linhardt, "when Seiros descended from the heavens—"

Caspar makes a noise—sort of a howl—of extreme frustration. "Linhardt!"

Linhardt falls silent.

"Come on," Caspar says, pushing, always pushing, "you just, like, slept through lecture again, it's not like you'd actually transfer. Not without telling me. Right?"

"It was Claude's idea," Linhardt says.

Caspar lets go of his shoulders.

"What?" he says, blankly.

"He convinced me," Linhardt says. "There's a lot to learn from the new professor."

Caspar whirls around. "Oh, yeah? Where is he? I'm gonna—"

"No," Linhardt says over him, because this invalidates the whole point of agreeing to—"Don't. Claude's my house leader now. Leave him alone."

Caspar's mouth falls open.

"I have to go read," Linhardt says. "I have some catching up to do."

Caspar doesn't say anything about how Linhardt's always ahead in the reading. He doesn't say anything at all. He just stands there, like he's been turned to stone, as Linhardt walks away. Linhardt doesn't look back.

* * *

Ignatz

"Okay," Caspar says, the moment Linhardt steps outside his room the next morning, "so you transferred."

Linhardt rubs his eyes. Caspar's still there.

His voice is hoarse with sleep. "What are you doing there."

"Waiting for you," Caspar says, like it's obvious. "For breakfast."

It's far too early for this. Linhardt blinks at Caspar once, twice. It's barely Garland Moon and they're in the mountains. "Weren’t you cold."

"Me? Nah, did some stretches, kept the blood flowing." Caspar shrugs the question off. "Anyway, that doesn't matter. Why didn't you tell me? Did you think I'd be mad?"

"No," Linhardt says, but Caspar isn't actually waiting for an answer.

"I'm not mad! I mean, maybe I'm a little, y'know, frustrated? I guess? But that's just 'cause I had to find out from Edelgard, come on, you coulda given me a heads up." Despite Caspar's words there's a decided downward curve to his mouth.

Linhardt says, "It was a rather sudden decision. There wasn't a lot of time to talk."

Caspar frowns. "You don't really do sudden anything, Lin."

Linhardt shrugs, short. "It's just class. It didn’t seem important."

Caspar looks at him like he's grown a second head.

"To you," Linhardt revises, on the fly.

Caspar scoffs. "Um, I'm only your best friend? Besides, we always share—" A thought appears to strike him. "Wait, am I gonna have to take notes by myself now?"

"Caspar." The voice is poisonously sweet, drifting from behind the door a couple rooms away. Who lives there again? "Would you kindly keep it down?"

"Mind your own business," Caspar shouts back. There's an ominous silence.

The door crashes open. Dorothea is framed in the doorway. Her hair is wrapped in curling rags. There are dark circles under her eyes.

"Caspar," she says. "Let's have a little chat."

Caspar gulps.

"Oh, uh, Dorothea," he says. "Wow, didn't realize that was... your room..."

Linhardt makes his escape. Halfway to freedom Caspar’s voice hollers after him. "Linhardt! You can't just run aw—no, I'm sorry, I'm listening, ow—"

Perhaps not. But he can certainly try.

* * *

The new professor—his professor, he supposes—is just as odd and interesting as Linhardt suspected. So that's two points in favor of his new house. It's not a huge number.

She assigns them bizarre tactical simulations that begin with "You're facing a magically rejuvenated beast while in range of two ballistas, and you know a rear assault will wipe out your strongest lancers and your battalion mage—"

"That's an interesting assumption," Claude says, "considering beasts are generally more vulnerable to polearms. What are the hard odds?"

"One hundred percent."

Claude begins, "Come on, Teach, how do you—"

"You just know," she says flatly.

Intriguing. "Like foresight," Linhardt suggests.

Half the heads in the class turn toward him. He rests his cheek on one hand.

The professor says, "Close enough."

Claude's looking between them like he’s at a jousting tourney. It's the first time Linhardt's volunteered a comment since joining their class. He yawns.

Claude very clearly slots Linhardt into Later, and turns back to the professor. "All right," he says, "say you've got mounted ax wielders—"

Linhardt dozes off during the second half of the simulation. He wakes to a soft, insistent poke against his arm. Small and pointy, like a quill.

Linhardt rubs his eyes. He hates being woken by other people, unless it's under very specific conditions, the type one would need to spend years and years learning.

It's the one with the glasses. Ignatz. He offers Linhardt a little wince and a sympathetic smile. He probably thinks Linhardt dozed off by accident. He'll learn soon enough.

Fortunately for Ignatz, it's almost the end of class, and there's not enough time for Linhardt to fall asleep again before the professor dismisses them. Linhardt ambles outside with the vague thought of going to the library. The weather's chilly and grey, no good for an outdoor nap.

"Linhardt? Um, excuse me?"

Ignatz again. Linhardt yawns, jaw-cracking. "What is it?"

Ignatz looks only a little daunted. "Do you have a minute?"

Linhardt is ready to say, I have a very busy schedule this afternoon, since you interrupted my nap. Then he notices a few other familiar faces trickling into the courtyard. The Black Eagles are getting out of class, too.

"Yes," Linhardt says. "Let's go back in the classroom."

Ignatz looks confused but follows him back inside. The professor's already gone. Linhardt takes a seat. Just the position makes him sleepy. He tries, not very hard, to conceal another yawn.

Ignatz doesn't seem to notice. He says, "Do you believe in, um, visions?"

Absolutely not, and if it had been any of his former housemates that's exactly what he would have said. He eyes this boy's huge spectacles and anxious face.

"Not particularly," he says, "but neither have they been disproven. A field untouched by the harsh yet clarifying light of research."

"O-oh," Ignatz says. "So you didn't say that, in class, because—because you've experienced, um, foresight, or..."

"Not as such." Linhardt peers at Ignatz, then sits up. Now this is interesting. "You've had visions."

Ignatz flushes scarlet. "N-not, I mean—well, I don't know. I think so? I've had dreams. Of." How does one face turn that red? Surely the strain on the blood vessels is too much? "Of the Goddess."

"Oh." Linhardt slumps again. Disappointing.

Ignatz can see it. He droops. "I guess that doesn't really... mean anything..."

Linhardt says, "I really couldn't tell you. I'm not very religious." Ignatz droops further.

How pitiful. Linhardt heaves a sigh. "If you want to assess these phenomena properly," he says, because Ignatz asked, "you should collect data. Keep a research journal."

"A... journal?"

"Describe your visions." Linhardt ticks off items on his fingers. "Note points of commonality or, conversely, distinguishing features. Don't forget the conditions immediately preceding, of course, any external factors that might affect the manifestation."

Ignatz straightens up. Slowly, his face brightens. "Wow, Linhardt. That's a great idea!"

It is? "It is."

"If I write down what I see as soon as I wake up, I'll be able to remember the details later, and use them for my paintings!" He's glowing now, a completely different person. "Of course I can never capture a fraction of the Goddess' true beauty, but every detail that brings my paintings toward a more faithful reflection of her glory is worth the effort!"

That is not what Linhardt meant at all. Ignatz grabs Linhardt's hand in both his own, too impassioned to be self-conscious. "Thank you so much, Linhardt! I'll be sure to show you my next work!" He dashes out of the classroom, presumably on fire to begin, what, dream journaling?

"You're welcome," Linhardt says, to empty space. Then he puts his head down on the desk and goes back to sleep.

* * *

"Linhardt. Linhardt."

Linhardt opens his eyes.

"Oh," he says, and smiles a little. "Caspar."

Caspar looks hilariously surprised, which—that's right. Caspar is angry because he transferred classes. And, Linhardt has to remind himself, that's a good thing.

"So you're not mad at me," Caspar says.

Surely he’s got it the wrong way around. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"I thought maybe that's why you transferred."

"Don't be silly," Linhardt says. "It has nothing to do with you."

That might actually be the worst thing he could have said. Hurt slices across Caspar's face, sharp and clean. He pulls himself together, because he's Caspar. Ugh. "Okay, then, it's not my fault, so—was it Edelgard?" His face darkens. "Or Hubert? You just tell me, Linhardt, I’ll make 'em stay in line."

Linhardt ignores the pang in his chest. "It wasn't anyone. I told you. It was Claude's idea."

"Since when do you care about anyone else's ideas?" Caspar demands. Then he winces. "Uh, I didn't mean that how it sounded."

"No," Linhardt says, "you're absolutely right. I only care when they're interesting." That should be pointed enough.

It sails right over Caspar's head. "So what's Claude thinking that's so interesting?" he says, heated, and then, "Actually, you know what, I don't care if he's a high and mighty house leader, I'm gonna go right up and—"

"No," Linhardt says, far too quickly, but Caspar doesn't notice. "It's—it was the new professor."

Caspar frowns. "I thought you said—"

"That was Claude's idea. That I'd find the new professor interesting. And I do. She's absolutely fascinating. Like no one I've ever met before."

He's practically gushing, to cover his mistake, but it's not exactly a lie. She is different, in a way that goes beyond mere eccentricity, something Linhardt can't quite put a finger on.

It works. "I knew it," Caspar exclaims, eyes alight. "She's so strong that even you had to notice! I've gotta get her to fight me, she doesn't even look that ripped but man oh man—"

Linhardt lets Caspar enthuse, inching toward the door in hopes of escape. Caspar grabs his arm. "Hey. Hey, Linhardt, could you put in a good word for me? Tell her I'm, like, one of the strongest guys you know, at least as strong as—you think she'd believe you if I said I was as strong as Raphael? She totally threw him in training yesterday, I saw it when I—uh, just happened to be walking by."

"What exactly should I say," Linhardt says, winding the spring, and off Caspar goes.

Linhardt sets course for the library. Caspar follows him, jabbering in his ear the whole way, right up across the second floor and into the hushed space of the library, whereupon he's promptly ejected by Tomas. If it were the new professor, or even Seteth, it might not have worked, but Caspar thinks Tomas is creepy. Linhardt was counting on that.

If only he could concentrate on his reading.

It takes him far too long to notice Claude, blending in with the shadows at the back of the room. The stack of books at his side makes Linhardt take a second look.

Claude catches his eye and winks. Linhardt looks away.

* * *

Raphael

So class is all right. It's interesting, almost every day, and even if Linhardt does drop off three lectures out of five, that's surely fewer than if they'd been led by anyone else other than their odd—and oddly interesting—professor.

The worst part, as always, is physical training. Now he's got Leonie and Raphael and even Lorenz clamoring for a spar to "test his strength", which probably means to get the satisfaction of throwing a new and unknown victim to the ground, and Hilda trying to foist off her role in group exercises on him—ha!—and Ignatz offering ever-so-helpfully to help him with his bow skills and even little Lysithea looking him over with a dismissive sniff. Meanwhile, Claude's everywhere, always, watching, with the perfect excuse of trying to get a feel for Linhardt's field capabilities as his house leader.

At least there's none of this business with—shudder—melee weapons, like the Blue Lions. The Golden Deer love a good ranged weapon, from bows to siege machines. Well, Claude's really the only one interested in the latter. Close enough. As weapons go, a bow isn't as tiresome as it could be. Linhardt goes nice and slow, spacing out his shots, taking plenty of time to aim. He can also take his good sweet time trudging out to the target and collecting the arrows. Especially the wider they fly.

Most importantly, the priorities of the Golden Deer House under Professor Byleth and Claude von Riegan are at least as much strategic as physical. The Black Eagles were physical; they just pretended it was all about the mind. Unless you were Hubert, not a chance. What if your battalion goes down. Why don't you ride. Why don't you fence. Why don't you, et cetera ad nauseam. Maybe if Linhardt had stuck around long enough, he'd have been able to move into the elite exempt. As it was, he'd witnessed Edelgard restrain Ferdinand from literally breaking down Bernadetta's door to make her go to training. Claude wouldn't do that. He'd find out exactly what to do to make you leave your room on your own. Upon reflection, arguably worse.

The more Linhardt thinks about it, the more of a muddle he finds his own thoughts. Ugh. In the end, the best option is the same regardless of the house: skip training and nap. Soon enough, his new classmates will figure out his priorities.

And they do. With one exception.

After approximately the dozenth time Linhardt's slithered out of a strongly worded invitation to join Raphael on the training grounds—"Now that we've got each other's backs, we've gotta know each other's strength!"—Linhardt says, "Raphael. I hate training."

"But it's good for you!" Raphael says. "A workout a day keeps the healers away, right?"

If his years observing Caspar are anything to go by, it's rather the opposite. Caspar admires Raphael, Linhardt remembers. Something about how his biggest muscle was his heart, and that was really saying something.

It's like Raphael can read his thoughts. "Besides, I know you musta done this before! You're friends with my little buddy Caspar, aren't you?"

"He wouldn't like to hear you say that," Linhardt says.

Raphael frowns. "Aw, no, I bet he likes being friends with you! You're a funny guy, Linhardt."

That's—Linhardt can't pick where to begin. He opts for the obvious choice, opens his mouth to say, I meant calling him little, and what comes out is, "How would you like it if someone you trusted turned their back on you."

Linhardt has a moment to truly feel the pureness of his mortification before Raphael scratches his head and says, "Well… I'd probably figure they had a really good reason for it!"

"Really?" Linhardt's voice is sharp and dry. "If—" Who does Raphael talk to? "If Ignatz started ignoring you? Avoiding you?"

Surprise crosses Raphael's face. There, Linhardt's ready to say, I thought not.

"Huh," Raphael says, "you knew about that? Then you should know it was all just a big misunderstanding!"

"What," says Linhardt, because—what.

Raphael slings an arm around Linhardt's shoulders. This must be how yoked oxen feel. "Betcha it's not as bad you think, Linhardt. Caspar's got a big heart for such a little guy. All you gotta do is talk to him! Man to man! Heart to heart!"

"I—" Linhardt honestly doesn't know what to say.

Raphael doesn't seem to notice. "And that's why," he goes on, "it's important to keep training! Be honest with your body, and you can be honest with your feelings. Come on, let's get going!"

Linhardt's too thrown to fight back. The next thing he knows he's in the training yard, grudgingly stretching his arms over his head, one and two and. Even when, utterly exhausted, he stops halfway through the threatened hundred lunge rep count and walks out, Raphael grins at him toothily and says, "It's okay if your muscles are tired, buddy, you'll be stronger next time!" There isn't going to be a next time. And he isn’t going to be honest with his feelings. Whatever that even means.

He dozes off in the dining hall that night, sandwiched between Ignatz and Hilda. When he starts awake, Ignatz looks ready to drag him off to the infirmary, until he says he had a training session with Raphael. The whole table laughs in sympathy; Ignatz pats him on the shoulder. Even Lorenz gives a delicate wince. Across the table, Claude watches from behind a smile.

* * *

Hilda

"Linhardt. Hey. Linhardt."

Someone's trying to get his attention, like a particularly obnoxious insect. They're disturbing the peace of the library. Linhardt frowns down at the page. The Dagdan tradition emphasizes—

"Lin. Linny!"

"Must you call me that," Linhardt says to the page.

"Linny-Lin-Lin. Ooh, I bet Claude would like that one."

Linhardt gives up and puts a marker below his line of text. "What do you want, Hilda."

"Well," Hilda says, locking her hands behind her back and twirling in a half circle, "since you ask! I'm on shelving duty today, and I'm working really hard at it, because the library is so, um, valuable, but all these dusty, I mean important books, some of them are so old I can barely read them! Then I saw you and I thought, wow, since you know so much about all the books here, maybe you could help me? Like, show me where they go?" She blinks wide, guileless eyes at him.

It's a good effort. Linhardt would be lying if he said his hindbrain didn't give a twitch at so old, even as his rational brain counters that none of the real goods would be allowed into the general pile for reshelving, to be manhandled by students and their grimy, uncareful fists.

"I'm busy," he says. "Good luck."

Hilda puffs her cheeks and lets out a heavy breath. "Come onnn, Linhardt, you actually like this stuff. I'm young and beautiful, I should be out in the sun, not wasting away in this dusty old cave!"

"Mmhmm," Linhardt says absent-mindedly, halfway back into the lore of Dagda.

A perfectly manicured hand lands with slap in the middle of the page. "Are you even paying attention?"

Linhardt blinks up at Hilda. "I told you. I'm busy."

"With—" She edges her own palm off the text and makes a face. "The Book of the Green Field? That old thing?"

"Ah, you can read Dagdan," Linhardt says. "Then you shouldn't have any trouble with the shelving. There's nothing more obscure than Middle Script in the general collection."

Hilda lets out a huff of breath and places both hands on her hips. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you?"

"Thank you," he says placidly.

"So stubborn," Hilda says, sing-song, "that sometimes I wonder what you're doing with us!"

All of a sudden something in the back of Linhardt's mind says Danger, danger. The sort of instinct rabbits must have when a hawk's overhead. Linhardt's never been one for hunting.

"The way I see it," she says, "you were pretty comfy with the Black Eagles, right? I totally get that. Everyone knows your limits, no one's too pushy! Perfect sitch. I know I wouldn't wanna give up a cozy little niche like that."

Danger danger danger danger.

"So if you're here with us, and don't get me wrong, we love you—" this is debatable, "—but there's gotta be a reason."

Hilda leans all her weight on her arm. The desk creaks.

"So," she says, twirling the end of one glossy, candy-pink ponytail around a finger. "What's the deal, Linhardt?"

Linhardt looks at Hilda. Hilda looks back.

"Why don't I show where you some of those books go," he says.

Hilda gives him a sweet smile. "Gee, Lin," she says. "Thanks."

* * *

Lysithea

Caspar corners him in the dining hall. Caspar haunts the library. Caspar lies in wait outside his room. Linhardt is running out of distractions. Why, why, must Caspar be so stubborn? Is it genetic? Is it a latent and undiscovered Crest? Now there's a topic for—no.

Linhardt waits until the rest of the Black Eagles are safely on their way to the dining hall and then corners Edelgard. "Oh," she says. "Linhardt. How unexpected."

Linhardt doesn't beat around the bush. He says, "You need to get Caspar to stop."

One perfectly shaped brow goes up, like she doesn't already know. "Stop what?"

"Harassing my new classmates," Linhardt says. "They have to trust me. That's hard enough without Caspar jumping out of the bushes at them."

It's not exactly true, and harassing is a strong word, but it's the one that'll work on Edelgard. A Black Eagle student interfering outside house boundaries? Daring to appear anything less than perfectly self-contained? Perish the thought.

Sure enough, the brows draw together. Not a happy look. "I see," Edelgard says. "I'll speak to him."

The thought of Edelgard's icy disapproval tearing into Caspar isn't a pleasant one. Linhardt shoves it away. Anyway, she probably knows what he's doing. But she also has to acknowledge he's right—by her way of thinking at least. Some house leaders might encourage a little constructive interference.

Edelgard says, "I haven't had the chance to say—I'm sorry we're losing you, Linhardt. You would have been a valuable asset to the Black Eagles."

Linhardt has no doubt whatsoever that the words are genuine, just as he has no doubt they have nothing to do with classwork. He shrugs, deliberately offhand. "It's one year. I expect we'll see plenty of each other after the Academy."

"Yes," Edelgard says. Her expression is opaque. "Who knows what the future holds."

* * *

Lysithea's kept a pointed distance since the first day. Linhardt assumed she was put off by his (perfectly reasonable!) level of scientific interest, or perhaps disgruntled by the prospect of classroom competition—an unwarranted concern. Not so, it seems. The same day he speaks with Edelgard, Lysithea parks herself in front of his desk in the empty classroom. "You. Talk."

Linhardt closes his book. "Certainly," he says. "Shall we talk about Crests? I've been reading the most fascinating treatise—the Sage of Gwenhwyfar, quite ahead of her time. Did you know she speculates that it's possible to dupli—"

"Quiet," Lysithea hisses. "Are you stupid? Are you trying to blow your own cover?"

"My what?"

She leans forward and whispers fiercely, "Are you here to spy on me?"

"Of course not," Linhardt says. Then he puts on an evil smile, because it is so very fun to toy with her, like playing with an angry little cat. "But that's exactly what I'd say if I were spying on you, isn't it."

"Don't joke," she seethes, and—she's upset. Her voice is shaking. It's not just nerves, or secrecy. There's real fear there. Linhardt's been told he's not the most emotionally perceptive, so if he's noticing—

"You're from the Empire. I know they're there." Ridiculously, she looks over her shoulder, like there's someone following them. "So excuse me for being a little suspicious when you simply—waltz into our house even though you very clearly don't want to be here!"

"I don't not want to be here," he says, which is true. The only place he wants to be is the library. And maybe, well—unimportant. "There's a perfectly good reason I switched classes."

"Oh yeah?"

"Claude asked me to."

Lysithea's eyes go wide. "Claude asked you?"

Linhardt raises his eyebrow. "Ask him, if you don't believe me."

Lysithea's lips compress as she chews this over. For someone so small and mistrustful, she's clearly imprinted on Claude, like a baby duckling. It seems dangerous to him, but to each their own.

"So," Lysithea says abruptly, suspicious little eyes boring into him, "if I said you looked pale..."

Linhardt blinks. "I do spend rather a lot of time in the library."

She stares him down. He stares back.

She deflates.

"Fine," she says. "I suppose I believe you."

Linhardt opens his mouth to suggest—

"But leave me alone. I have a lot of work to do."

"Pity," he says. "I thought we could trade Crestology tidbits over lunch."

"That sounds creepy," she tells him. "Goodbye."

The youth are merciless. Linhardt is still smiling when he leaves the classroom for the dining hall.

"You sure look like you're in a good mood," Caspar says, right in his ear.

"Caspar," Linhardt snaps, hand clapped to his chest, where his heart is racing. "Are you trying to startle me to death?"

"Maybe!" Caspar juts a belligerent lip out. "Maybe then you'd stop avoiding me!"

"Yes," Linhardt says, "because I'd be dead."

"Ha," Caspar says, stabbing a finger at Linhardt, "so you admit it. You were totally avoiding me!"

"I never said that," Linhardt says, but he's already slipped up.

"Then what gives? Come on, Linhardt, so what if we're in different houses! That doesn’t mean we can't hang out, right?" Caspar’s looking at him expectantly, like he’s waiting for Linhardt to say what he always says in the end, when Caspar's persisted until he agrees to practice a new counter or walk into town or boat down the river on the Bergliez estate. Oh, I suppose.

"I’m not sure," Linhardt says. "I have a lot to do now."

The way Caspar's face crumples is simply—awful. "But Lin—you gotta help. You promised. I have—I have that fight coming up, remember? Your strategy, my fists?"

Linhardt says, "You'll have to learn how to figure things out on your own."

He can't look Caspar in the eye when he says, "I have to go." Caspar doesn’t follow him.

* * *

Leonie

After that, Caspar gives up. No, he doesn't; Caspar never gives up. He falls back to regroup. Linhardt taught him that.

The weather's getting better. Linhardt spends a lot of time down by the fishpond, dangling a line from the dock to the water and drowsing in the sun. Leonie's there more often than not, hauling in fish after fish. For an active person, Leonie's not so bad. She goes about her business like an industrious little worker ant and lets him fish—or nap—in peace. Live and let live.

"Hey, Linhardt," she says one afternoon. It's the sort of tone that usually indicates trouble, by which Linhardt means effort.

"Yes," he says, wary.

"You know a lot about the math we've been doing in class. Trigowhatsit."

"I wouldn't say a lot," he says, which is both cautious and honest, if they're speaking in absolutes.

"I'm crap at it," she says frankly. "I just can't get my head around how the stuff on paper works in real life."

"I see." Wait, maybe he should have said I'm sure you're not that bad. Ah well, too late.

"So, I could use some help," she says. "How about we trade? Help with math stuff for a lesson cleaning fish?"

Linhardt blanches. "I don't need to clean any more fish."

"Really? You looked pretty bad it."

"I am," Linhardt agrees. "And?"

"You could get better." Matter-of-fact, like that's reason enough to do it.

"I don't like blood."

"Neither do I," she says, which surprises him. "Tough luck. We've all full of it. Can't get through life without seeing it, so you might as well get used to it."

"I don't like guts, either," Linhardt says. He'd like to hear her say they can't get through life without seeing those. Although, going by what he’s heard about the Golden Deer’s first mission—

She rolls her eyes, like she knows what he's doing. "Aren't you specializing in white magic? How are you going to deal with battlefield injuries if you can't even look at them?"

"After we graduate I don't intend to set foot within fifty miles of a battlefield."

Leonie arches an eyebrow. "Really? You're just going to sit back and leave the fighting to everyone else?"

She sounds like Caspar. It makes him—irritated, an unhappy rumbling in his stomach. "I certainly am," he says. "In exchange, when it's time to record the history of the era I'll consider giving you a footnote."

She snorts. "Thanks."

He hears himself saying, "If you come to the library tonight after first evening bell I'll go over the week's lesson with you." He hastens to add, "But not before then. I have a very tight schedule."

Leonie brightens. "Really? Thanks, Linhardt. How about this, if you really don't want a lesson I'll clean your fish for you next time."

"It's fine," he says, heaving a sigh. "I suppose you can help if you happen to be around."

She grins at him. "You can always count on me to be around."

He supposes that's probably true.

Leave the fighting to everyone else, she'd said. It's only after she leaves that he realizes neither of them entertained the possibility that there wouldn't be any.

* * *

Marianne

The class is moving deeper into the study of magic. Here, at last, is a subject where his old house far outstrips the new. The week's reading is old hat; intermediate magical theory Linhardt dealt with about a thousand years ago. He flips through the copy on the library shelves. What do you know: he remembers it perfectly.

As long he's here, he might as well browse the surrounding shelves. One never knows what gems might be hidden away, especially up here in the gallery. Misshelved, perhaps, overlooked for decades…

"It's not use hiding," he says to the row of spines. "Your secrets will be mine."

This declaration is greeted by a small, stifled sound.

Linhardt glances up. Marianne is staring back at him, white-faced.

"Oh," Linhardt says, moving to preempt a time-consuming apology. "Sorry to disturb you."

She flinches. "Oh, no. You didn't—I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have intruded."

"It's the library," Linhardt says. "You're probably the least intrusive person here."

She just shakes her head, fingers twisting together in the front of her dress. He's honestly a little surprised she hasn’t already—ah. The reading.

Linhardt holds up the book for class. "Were you looking for this?"

She starts to nod, then catches herself. "No, I don't need to—you have it, you should—I’ll just go."

"As a matter of fact, I already have a copy," Linhardt says. It’s true; it didn't make the cut to bring to the Academy, so it's in his old rooms at home. "I was merely browsing."

"It's fine," Marianne says, distress growing. "Please don't mind me."

"Shall I put it back on the shelf and walk away? Then you can snatch it up after I leave. But I'd really rather finish my browsing."

Marianne doesn't answer. Her face is pinched and unhappy. Linhardt feels a momentary brush of—surely that can't be guilt.

He walks toward her, slowly, holding out the book in front of him. She flinches again, like she's afraid he's going to, what, attack her with it? Absurd.

He stops a foot away, book outstretched. She doesn't move.

"I'm going to stand here until you take it," he says. "Would you like to keep time?"

Her eyes are startled and wary. Linhardt doesn't move. It's like—fishing, isn't it. Dangle the bait, and then wait. Don't move. Just wait.

Slowly, a timid hand reaches out. Thin fingers close on the book.

Marianne says, "Thank—"

"Aha," Caspar trumpets, shattering the hush. "There you are!"

Marianne recoils in surprise and the book falls to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust as pages come loose and flutter free.

"Caspar," Linhardt hisses.

"I figured it out," Caspar says—exclaims, at top decibel. "Why you transferred."

"How often do I need to—"

"It’s gotta do something with Crests, right?" He's glowing with satisfaction in his own insight. "Like, something super rare that you could only find out by pretending—"

Marianne makes a noise like an injured animal. Caspar blinks and swivels around.

"Oh, hey, Marianne," he says. "Sorry, didn't see you there."

Marianne cringes away. Her eyes dart between Caspar and Linhardt. Without another word, she turns and flees.

Caspar scratches his head. "Huh. What got into her?"

Linhardt breathes, slowly, through his nose. He's… angry, he realizes distantly. Really angry. He says, icy, "Now look what you've done."

Caspar looks blank. "Huh?" Then, "What, Marianne? Aw, c'mon, I didn't say anything but hello!"

No, he said Crests, and any fool should be able to see that Marianne shies away at the mere mention of a Crest. Linhardt's seen her maybe half a dozen times outside of class, if that. And now Caspar's probably scared her off talking to him until graduation.

Linhardt says through his teeth, "Didn't Edelgard talk to you about minding other houses' business?"

Caspar shrugs it off. "Eh, this is more important." His eyes narrow. "Wait, is Edelgard why you left after all? Did she yell at you?"

"No, for the last time I— That doesn't matter. Stop hounding my classmates, Caspar!"

Caspar stiffens.

"Oh, excuse me, I didn't realize your new classmates were so special—"

"You just chased someone out of the library!"

"I didn't mean to!" Caspar mutters something too quiet for Linhardt to catch.

"I beg your pardon?"

Caspar raises his voice, defiant. "I said, if you ask me, she could stand to grow a little more backbone."

Linhardt takes another deep, steadying breath. There's clearly no point in arguing. "This is the last time I'm going to say this. Stop it. I mean it."

"Well, maybe if you weren't hiding I wouldn’t have to—"

"How many times must I tell you to leave me alone!"

He didn't mean to say it like that. The words hang in the air. Caspar looks like—like—

"Fine," Caspar says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I won’t bother you until your precious house is over and done with. Or maybe ever, how about that, huh."

"Fine."

"Fine!" Caspar stomps away, sending the shelves rattling, and clatters down the stairs. "Have a nice life!"

"I will!" Linhardt yells after him.

He's—his shoulders are heaving, because he's breathing so hard. Like he's been running a race. He can't remember the last time he was this upset. He picks up a book at random. His hands are shaking.

Behind him comes the pointed sound of a throat clearing.

Linhardt turns around. Tomas is surveying him with pure disapproval.

"Von Hevring," Tomas says, shaking his head. "I expected better of you."

He points in the direction of the stairs.

Linhardt descends with stiff precision. The students on the ground floor are staring. There's Claude at his favorite table in the back. For once, Linhardt doesn't even care.

* * *

Of course there had been a reason.

He won't let himself enumerate them even in the privacy of his own thoughts: the calculations that coursed through his mind, lightning fast, in the moment Claude said "Whaddaya say, Teach?"

One: He knows Claude's secret—the secret, the one around which all else turns—and Claude knows he knows it.

Two: That secret gives him a lever long enough to move the world, until Claude figures out just what makes him, Linhardt von Hevring, tick.

Three: He has just ensured Claude's very personal attention for the rest of their time at the Academy.

Four: It won't take nearly that long for Claude to look approximately one inch to Linhardt's side.

There is, therefore, only one choice to make, as clear and obvious as a geometric proof.

Linhardt says to the new professor, "I suppose your class does seem rather… relaxed."

* * *

Five: Knowledge is the lever that moves Claude. Caspar is the lever that moves Linhardt.

* * *

Claude (Again)

It seems to have worked, finally. Caspar no longer dogs Linhardt's steps, haunting the library and the dorm and the dining hall, decibels bellowing around every corner. In fact, Linhardt has no idea where he is or what he's doing. That's fine. That's what Linhardt wanted: a safe distance. He can focus on his research without anyone bothering him. It's fine.

"Hey, Linhardt, buddy."

When will people leave him alone in the library? Linhardt turns on Claude, ready to give him an earful. Then he sees what Claude's holding.

Linhardt reaches for the book without thinking. The House of Wisdom? Where—no, how—no— "What are you doing with a copy of that?"

Claude holds it temptingly out of reach. "This old thing? Brought it to school with me. Didn't really think it'd come in handy as a bribe, but hey."

Linhardt can't take his eyes from the rich, unfamiliar tooling of the leather covers. Even the binding is different from the tomes he knows so well. His hands itch to hold it, to smooth over the thick vellum pages and drink in the knowledge completely unknown. A book he's never touched. Think of it.

"A bribe for what," he says, already ninety nine parts ready to give it.

"Well, it's been two whole weeks since you joined our merry little band." Claude spreads his hands, book notwithstanding. "I think we should have a talk."

Warning prickles along Linhardt's spine. "Should we."

"See, that's exactly what I mean." Claude tucks the book under one arm, pulls out a chair and flips it around, straddling it backward and resting his other arm on the headrest. "I gotta say I'm a little hurt. You seem to think we're enemies."

There's an answer to that, one that would spring to the lips of at least eighty percent of the population of Fódlan, if they knew what Linhardt did. It's not right though. Whatever is going on in Claude von Riegan's twisty, scheming brain, that's not it.

Claude beats him to it. "I assure you, I bear no ill will toward the people of Fódlan."

"I don't think you do."

"Then where's the trust? Where's the love?"

Linhardt snorts, an undignified sound that would undoubtedly make Lorenz and Ferdinand and possibly even Edelgard curl their collective lip. "Did you just ask me about trust?"

Claude mimes an arrow to the heart. "Ouch, buddy." He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Linhardt's had enough. "Why should I trust you? I don't know—" who you are, what you want, how you plan to get it "—anything about you."

Claude raises an eyebrow. "I'd say you know more than most."

That again. Linhardt dismisses it out of hand. "So what? That's hardly empirical data. A title? The promise of a title? Half the school has those, and you can see exactly what a shambles they are. What does that say about you, hm, let me see—precisely nothing."

His voice is rising. He shuts his mouth with a snap. Claude—hasn't said anything. He's propped his chin on one hand and is simply watching Linhardt, unreadable.

"See, Linhardt," Claude says after a minute. "That's why I want you in our house."

"Please," Linhardt scoffs. "You didn't think you had a choice."

"Oh, I had plenty of choice." Claude leans back, free arm behind his head. "I've had weeks to watch you now. You think I wouldn't have figured out a way to send you home to the eaglets if you weren't a good fit for us?"

"You could have tried," Linhardt says, contrary.

Claude shrugs. "Summer sickness, maybe. A few chills, the shakes. Can't keep up with Teach on the field, better to head back to the nest and let a friend look after you." A cold chill runs down Linhardt's spine. Claude goes on. "But you know how to look past the obvious. You don't take anything at face value. You want to judge the truth with your own eyes. You have to know how rare that is."

"It's not my fault no one else has the clarity of thought to reach rational conclusions," Linhardt says, disgruntled. He doesn't want to touch what Claude said about a friend. Just in case it was—a coincidence. Somehow.

"And that's the other thing I like about you," Claude says. "You assume that anyone could, and would, reach the same conclusion. If they just thought about it."

This is—Linhardt doesn't like it. "All right," he says sharply. "Then you can help with one of those conclusions. Answer a question for me."

Claude is still smiling, smiling, skin deep. "I'll do my best."

"What do you want?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me. What do you want?"

Claude’s eyebrows are raised. Linhardt doesn't blink. He's been told it's unnerving. Good.

Claude looks up at the ceiling and smiles. "I want—people to stop taking things at face value." He quirks his mouth at Linhardt. "See? With you, I'm already halfway there."

Linhardt lets the silence, weighted with skepticism, speak for him. Claude catches the meaning and shakes his head.

"I mean it. I want us to move past—" He looks around the library, the heart of the monastery that is the heart of the Church, and flashes Linhardt a wink so there-and-gone he almost misses it. Got to watch our words. "What people look like. Where they come from. Where the borders lie. Little things like that."

Linhardt stares at him. He hears, under the flippant words, exactly the magnitude of what Claude is saying.

"I told you, didn't I?" Claude says. Now his smile is ironic. "Bringing people together. Discovering each others' innermost selves. Simple as that."

"Simple," Linhardt says, winded, and then, "It's never going to happen. You know your history. People aren't that reasonable."

It's like he said the magic words. Claude leans forward, and the smile is gone, along with the ironic detachment. He's all fire. "It's because I know my history. So many people don't. All they know are stories, legends that make us feel good about where we wake up in the morning and what we do to get us through the day. Sure, they feel good. But that's all they do.

"I'm not saying that opening up will solve every problem. Maybe in some cases ignorance really is bliss. I don't know. But the only way to figure it out is to start talking about it."

Talking. Edelgard isn't going to settle for talking. Linhardt had thought it would be bad, before. He had no idea. It's not the political clash he’d anticipated; it's worse than that. Two towering ideals on a collision course.

Claude says, "Linhardt—"

Linhardt braces himself for whatever's coming next.

"Never mind what I want. Don't you want to just—know more? There's a whole world of knowledge out there. Ideas and research and ways of thinking you've never even conceived of. The library in—" Claude checks himself. "—my hometown makes the one here at the monastery look like your bedside shelf. And yet it has nothing from Fódlan, nothing at all. As long as Fódlan keeps its borders closed, its collective knowledge can never amount to more than the sum of the people inside them. Are you satisfied with that?"

Linhardt doesn't say anything.

"Think of it," Claude presses. "A world where people can come and go, generations of knowledge begetting generations more. The purest, most honest pursuit. Isn't that worth something? Isn't that worth struggling for?"

Linhardt's lip hurts. He's bitten it.

Claude leans back.

"Anyway. Just something to think about." He stands up and lays the book in front of Linhardt. The House of Wisdom, the first and last treatise on the history and science of Almyra in the Fódlan tongue. "I'll let you get back to your reading."

Footsteps, light as a cat, walking away. Linhardt stares at the book without seeing it for a long time.

* * *

Caspar

Linhardt doesn't sleep well that night. He's being manipulated. He—it has to be manipulation. Deft as a marionette. Damn Claude von Riegan, or whatever his name really is, for being so good at this.

The sky is rosy with dawn when he finally drifts off. He sleeps through breakfast and wakes only at the bell signaling a last warning before the dining hall closes. He doesn't bother rushing to make it. Instead he goes to the classroom, because he doesn't know what else to do. He leaves Claude's book in his room. Serves him right if something happens to it. Then he doubles back because, no, he can't risk that until he's done reading it.

There's only a handful of students there yet. One of them's Claude, who gives Linhardt a nod. Linhardt doesn't nod back. He'd liked the way it was before. He'd liked the small comfortable days of his small comfortable existence, the security of a tight circle of things he cared about. Really just the two. His books, and his friend.

He takes his customary seat—and it is his seat now, halfway up the room on the far right, away from the chill of the doorway but out from under the professor's watchful eye—and gets out his books and his paper and his quill. He doesn't open them.

What does he do now.

Voices rise and fall around him in as his classmates trickle in. "Morning, Linhardt," someone—Leonie?—calls, cheerfully. "Missed you at breakfast." Linhardt doesn't answer. Maybe they'll think he's sleeping with his eyes open.

Slam.

What sounds like half a ton of books hits the desktop. The chair next to Linhardt's is yanked backward with an earsplitting screech, before a body drops into it with the heft and impact of a small cannonball. Linhardt knows who it is even before he looks up. That doesn't keep his mouth from dropping open.

"What are you doing here," Linhardt says.

"I'm transferring." Caspar's chin juts out the same stubborn way it has since they were children, and no, this is wrong, this is not acceptable—

"You're not serious," Linhardt says.

"Oh, I'm serious." Caspar slams a hand on the desk, toppling his inkpot—empty, thank the Goddess—and glares at Linhardt. "Serious as the grave."

Linhardt tries to keep his voice even. "Don't be ridiculous, Caspar."

"What? What's so ridiculous? I'm not good enough? Not smart enough?"

"Of course you're not," Linhardt starts, meaning not not good and smart enough—Caspar's pushing him to double negatives, unbelievable—and then when Caspar's face goes uncertain in a way that shows he's taking it wrong, "Of course you're—good enough, whatever that even means, that's hardly the point—" And that look Linhardt's seen a million times before: Ha, see, I was right, it'll be fine! "—no, I just said that's not—get that look off—argh!"

"I am or not?" Caspar challenges. "Make up your mind, smart boy."

"Oh, shut up," Linhardt snaps. Caspar snorts. They're glaring at each other. Linhardt is in fact, so busy glaring that he doesn't even notice Claude von Riegan's slithered up until it's too late.

With the kind of effort Linhardt only ever exerts for one end, he gets himself under control. Just act normal. "Well, well," Claude says, rubbing his hands together. "Teach says we've got yet another new classmate! That'll be fun for you, Linhardt, huh?"

"Sure," Linhardt says, "Whatever," and gets a perfect view of the sharp slice of hurt across Caspar's face. Wonderful. Thank you, Claude.

Claude turns to Caspar. "So. Caspar! What brings you to our humble house?"

"This guy," Caspar says, handing Claude everything Linhardt just spent two miserable weeks trying and failing to keep away from him, like the infuriating, reckless, straightforward, good-hearted person he is. "If he thinks there's something so great about you guys it's worth switching houses and he's so busy having a good time that he can't even spare five minutes to tell me what it is, guess I just have to come and find out for myself, huh!"

Linhardt should have known from the very beginning that for any clever path of evasion he could forge, Caspar would find a way to slice straight across it. "Really," Claude says. "Don't get me wrong, we're glad to have you for any reason! Especially since I hear Adrestian nobility tend to have strong feelings about—"

"I don't give a shit what my dad wants," Caspar says. He's not even looking at Claude, he's still glaring at Linhardt. "He's had it his way long enough, it's my turn to make my own decisions now."

The antennae go up. "Oh, yeah? You're—"

"Claude," Linhardt says. "Back off."

Claude's voice cuts off. He's so surprised, Linhardt realizes, that he actually did.

His mile-wide weak spot, visible from Almyra itself. Linhardt's—it's probably too late for him. The path to what Claude envisions will be exhausting. It's likely going to end in tears. Just the thought makes Linhardt wants to run and hide and even knowing that, he can't. So it's too late for him. But it's not too late for Caspar.

"You've got me," he says. "I'm in."

Claude blinks. "In?"

"You're right. It's worth it."

The penny drops, along with Claude's jaw. And then—he smiles. This time it isn't a mask.

"Well, hey," he says. "Not to sound desperate, but boy, am I glad to have you."

"So, uh, this is kinda weird, guys," Caspar says, conversationally.

Linhardt keeps his eyes on Claude. "This was my choice. That I made, by myself. So don't..." He flicks a glance to Caspar, and back again. "Just don't."

"I'm telling you, we could really use a little more trust in this relationship." But Claude's voice is good-natured, and he's not pretending he doesn't know what Linhardt's talking about.

Linhardt says, "So we're agreed?"

"We're agreed," Claude says, tapping the pages of Linhardt's book. He turns to Caspar. "Welcome to the Golden Deer, buddy. We'll do introductions later. I'll let you two catch up before class."

Claude folds his hands behind his head and walks away, whistling. The key is eerie and unfamiliar. Linhardt puts his head down and begins to copy the text on the page with short, sharp strokes. What's it about? Doesn't matter. He just needs to keep his head down and his hand moving.

"Uh, Lin?" Caspar says. He sounds—tentative. Uncharacteristic. "What was that about?"

"Let me give you some advice," Linhardt says, keeping his quill moving and his eyes on the page. "Claude von Riegan is smarter than either you or me. His goals are bigger than we are. His priorities are higher than ours."

"Uh, okay." Caspar sounds puzzled. "Sounds like Edel—"

"No," Linhardt bites out. "It's not." Because what he wants is bigger, and scarier, and more captivating, and— "But he is like Edelgard in one way, which is that he won't hesitate to use any tool at hand to achieve his vision. And now that includes you."

"Huh?" says Caspar.

Linhardt drops the quill and turns to Caspar, too exasperated to bottle it up any longer. "Stay out of Claude's way unless you're ready to get on his chess board. Because once you are you'll have to choose. Claude or your father. Claude or your home. Is that comprehensible? Do I need to break it down into smaller words?"

Caspar's eyes are wide. He's staring at Linhardt like he's seeing him for the first time.

Linhardt looks away. "That's my advice. Take it or not. It's up to you."

He picks up the quill again. The only sound is the scritch of the nib against parchment. Linhardt keeps writing, just—random words, nonsense, anything to keep from looking up. Scritch, scratch. Scritch, scratch.

"Linhardt?"

"What."

"Lin," Caspar says. "Were you trying to protect me?"

"What on earth are you talking about, Caspar," Linhardt says, able to keep his voice perfectly even yet not to do a single thing about the rush of heat he can feel, curse it, coloring his face.

"Linhardt," Caspar says, in a very different voice. Something horrible happens to Linhardt's insides. They've melted.

"If you intend to stay here you'll have to get to work right away," Linhardt says. His voice is too loud. "The Golden Deer House is at an entirely different level in trigonometry. You'll need to study for the rest of Garland Moon to have a hope of catching up."

Not even the anathematic word study does the trick. Caspar's still looking at him with big moonstruck eyes like Linhardt just promised to start a fight, or knock someone down, or whatever Caspar thinks of as—as—

"You'll help me," Caspar says. "Like you always do. Right?"

Linhardt spares a moment to send up a prayer for fortitude to the Goddess. He already knows it will be useless.

"I suppose I have no choice," Linhardt says, as Caspar beams at him with a goofy, radiant smile.