Chapter Text
It is a bitter, fast-drawing night of the Wyvern moon, the day’s battle behind them as soldiers settle into camp tents. Caspar’s voice carries even through the moss-wrapped trees, along with equally loud shushings that sound like Dorothea and Petra and the soft crackle of dying fires.
It is a very good thing it was a small skirmish, one easily won, Hubert thinks. Otherwise any enemy, no matter how idiotic, could find them. They’re still half-children, most of them- they’ve made the decision to follow, but have yet to learn fully what that means. Past school assignments, bloody as some were, have nothing on what their army is staring down. Battles are won with quick action and bold spirits, wars are won with endurance and nothing more.
They’ll become soldiers, or they’ll die. It's a formula as true as any magic he's ever studied.
One particularly irritating soldier has yet to make his way to camp. Hubert approaches the makeshift stable, horses herded between trees and kept there with a fence of scavenged rope and the vain hope they’ll stay with the ones who feed them.
He pauses for a moment to watch Ferdinand touch each one, lift their heavy hooves, run a hand down their long legs, his lips constantly moving, though Hubert can’t catch what is being said. When Ferdinand gets to one in particular he stops and begins to pick the snarls out of her mane, and Hubert feels compelled to interfere. This is a war camp, not a horse...salon, or whatever it is horses have.
“Why are you still here with the horses, Ferdinand? We break early in the morning.”
Why are you still here? his mind echoes. Hubert never expected Ferdinand to follow Edelgard. He still half-expects to find him missing after every battle, run to noble exile or locking himself away under house arrest with the rest of his family in protest.
“Hm?” Ferdinand looks up from the mare, his woolen jacket now littered with faint gray hairs and dust. “What do you mean?”
“You should be resting.”
Ferdinand laughs, and other horses turn their heads, perhaps thinking it's a neigh. “Why Hubert, be careful, or someone may think you are concerned for my well being!” The mare nudges Ferdinand, petulant, and he brings his arm around her head in a pathetic display of affection. “I was only checking their feet again. No hoof, no horse, as they say, and we need them.”
That would be a practical enough answer, if he hadn’t just seen Ferdinand brushing the stupid beast’s hair.
“Fine then, stay out here as you like.” This is already more than his necessary duty, and while Hubert won’t be indulging in the suggested rest, there are other things requiring his attention.
“I like petting them, I suppose.” Ferdinand runs a sheepish hand through his hair. It’s grown longer since they started the campaign, copper with a hint of curl now falling over his ears, constantly being tucked back. “And talking to them, reminding them that they are very good horses.”
How like Ferdinand to answer after Hubert has already decided the conversation is over.
How like Ferdinand to give an answer more fitting of an eight-year-old girl. His lips curls, remembering past words with his lady. That the soft von Aegir heir has no place in her new order. They could lock him up with his father. Throw him into the turbulent sea his former territory faces.
But Edelgard had merely shaken her head.
You of all people should be glad we don’t judge men by their fathers. We need him.
And he is grateful for him today, having seen him save Edelgard from the path of a Kingdom loyalist’s arrow. That is what the olive branch of his current presence and pretense of concern means, not that Ferdinand is bright enough to pick up on it. “You like...petting them.”
Ferdinand turns back to the mare, running a hand over her neck again. “After a day of slaughter, it is simply nice to touch something alive, and I believe they appreciate it. That is all.” He juts out his chin, as if expecting argument. “I do not expect nor need you to understand.”
“I don’t.” The horses are tools of war, not pets. Like tools, they'll end the war with fewer of them than they started with; sentimentality has no place here. “Like I said, you’d do better to rest.”
“Take your own good advice, and leave me be. Unless you would like to try it yourself?”
There’s something absurdly hopeful in von Aegir’s eyes.
“Try what, letting you pet me?” He intends for it to come off as the mockery it is; instead, Ferdinand colors to his ears.
“The horses, Hubert,” Ferdinand replies, voice clipped and tight with propriety. “They’re very soothing.”
“I have a healthy respect for both their service to Lady Edelgard and the size of their teeth. More is not required. I might as well tell your lance it is a very good lance, it would have the same amount of understanding.”
“He does not mean that, my beautiful lady,” Ferdinand turns back to the mare, letting her nuzzle at his palm. “Come, give her a pat and make friends.”
Hubert is not sure why he sticks his hand out to let the mare sniff it. He can ride in the sense that he can stay on a horse, as any noble can, and has a basic understanding of what is required to keep one of the creatures alive. He knows a bit more about pegasi, but the basics are the same. If this creature had feathers, she'd be much prettier.
“Now pet her neck, like so.” Ferdinand strokes the her gently, a scratch under the mane that she stretches into.
Hubert gives her two perfunctory taps with the tips of his gloved fingers. “There, the horse has been pet, now...”
“Oh for the saints, Hubert.” Ferdinand takes his hand and places it against the horse.
Hubert stares at the juxtaposition of Ferdinand’s battle-shaky hand on his gloved one, tanned skin pressing softly on black leather. Somewhere in the battle or the fall Ferdinand bashed his knuckles, now scraped raw and rimed with dried blood. His fingertips slip between Hubert’s where they’ve fallen slightly open.
Hubert can’t remember the last time someone touched him without the intent to kill, and something unfamiliar and unwelcome curls along his spine. He wants to move his hand. He can’t.
“She came from the Aegir stables,” Ferdinand says softly as the mare flicks an ear at them and Hubert barely hears over the sudden pounding of blood in his ears, sharp as any battle adrenaline. “Her name is Tatyana, though her current rider apparently calls her Dove, which I suppose suits her as well.”
It’s the closest Hubert has heard Ferdinand come to complaining about his fall from grace. There are no more Aegir stables because for all intents and purposes there is no more Aegir; the lands have been seized, anything useful to the army distributed, anything not sold off to fatten the war coffers.
He hasn’t told Ferdinand how his father cried over losing the family’s legacy silver and never once asked after his son.
With a sigh Hubert lets Ferdinand guide his hand in a soft swipe along the horse’s coat. Tatyana Dove von Aegir, a most ungrateful nag, reaches around to nip his leg.
“You are going to be glue...” Hubert hisses, though he knows he deserves it. Perhaps she sensed his opinion on her lack of wings.
“Hubert, please!” Ferdinand laughs, a sound that yanks him from the aftermath of battle and places him somewhere tilted and warm. “She only thinks you have treats. The innocent soul and has no idea just how miserly you are.”
A carrot is thrust into his hand and removed by the horse before he even fully registers its presence.
“See?” Ferdinand continues as she chews peacefully, and cicadas trill in the twilight behind them. “No harm done.”
“Hm.” The mare pushes at Hubert again, this time sans teeth. He runs a hand along the length of her nose, scratches at her cheek as she leans into him. She is solid, her huffing breaths warm.
It is...not bad, he supposes.
He can practically feel Ferdinand smiling beside him, humming with his boundless enthusiasm even when silent.
Of course, he doesn't stay silent for long.
“See now! You have made a friend, and I am also very pleased. Perhaps we can say you have made two friends.”
Hubert withdraws his hand with a snap, the familiarity hitting cold. “You overstep, Ferdinand.”
The light in Ferdinand’s amber eyes dims slightly, and his brows narrow. “My apologies. I momentarily mistook you for someone else. It will not happen again.”
It is a more appropriate look for a man who has killed today. It is certainly an expression an expression more familiar to Hubert, though he bites off a response to the challenge as something small and guilty twists in his gut. They are allies now, not schoolboys. He can find the man irritating to his bones; as fun as it is to needle him, perhaps there are better times. "Good night, Ferdinand."
Ferdinand turns back to his horse, and Hubert makes his way back to the camp, flexing lingering warmth out of his hand. If later, Dove finds her way transferred to Ferdinand's battalion, it is merely a tactical decision. If she occasionally finds herself being passed an extra carrot, that is also tactical; well fed horses win wars.
If seeing Hubert with the horse makes Ferdinand smile, that is neither here nor there. And if Hubert's mind occasionally drifts to the image of a bloodied hand pressed against his, bright warmth on a dread autumn night, that is nothing at all.