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Chapter Text

Linhardt rested his elbows on the white marble railing of the balcony connected to his father’s office, his hands curling to cup his chin as he surveyed the scenery before him. Ever since childhood, he’d been acutely aware of just how isolated Hevring manor felt from the rest of the world, but it was almost disconcerting how even in the middle of wartime, so little had actually changed; the last time he had been here was three years ago, mere weeks before he had journeyed to the Officers’ Academy for one last breath of freedom, and even now, not a painting was out of place, nor a speck of dust to be found. It was still, to this day, the most opulent jail that Linhardt had ever seen, and although the weather outside was mild, Linhardt gave a slight shiver; the Hevring manor still evoked within him suffocating feelings of being cramped, restrained, and overall uncomfortable, like wearing fitted clothing that was a smidge too tight. Then again, perhaps that was the point; some people thrived in an environment like this, and the ones who didn’t were simply expected to get used to it.

Linhardt had never gotten used to it.

His sigh was plucked from his lips and stolen by a roaming breeze, carried through the trees into the clear blue skies. While the family estate in Enbarr was surrounded by trees, gardens, nature, and the like, the house in Hevring itself was closer to the sea, so the smell of salt assaulted the senses, and the screeches of seabirds often served as Linhardt’s lullaby. The soft morning sunlight that shined down upon him tingled warmly against his skin, as good of an invitation as any to forget his cares and woes and simply rest. Perhaps this time too he would administer to himself some soporific and fall welcomingly into the smothering peace of a dreamless sleep, far from the nightmares he’d had upon first returning to the manor. He’d dreamt of blood and bone and fire and helplessness, of melted stone and the end of freedom, a prized bird finally having its wings clipped so it could never even hope to fly free. Perhaps in his own way, his father had been correct in manufacturing propaganda that had emphasized his “trauma,” because it also meant that nobody was willing to ask and thus Linhardt could put off thinking about it for as long as he possibly could.

The young heir knew full well that trying to consciously not think about the events of that day was drawing him dangerously close to actually thinking about it, but as much as he tried to refocus his attention on the manicured landscape before him, none of the beauties of nature could seem to draw his attention away from the niggling worries in the back of his mind, phantoms and shadows of what he’d seen. Even as he ran towards the light in earnest, the shadows at his back seemed only to lengthen; it was only a matter of time before old pains would come to wound him once again.

Turning away from the frozen landscape of picturesque springtime, Linhardt walked back into his father’s study, closing the glass door behind him and leaving the room, allowing his feet to decide where he should go. He idly wound his way downstairs, passing by the main dining room, the lounge, and the game room before he found himself stopping just before the entrance to the portrait gallery. He blinked back into consciousness, staring at the hallway with no small amount of trepidation. Did he really want to go down this path? All of the previous heads of Hevring had their portraits mounted here, their stern visages staring down on all who passed by them without a wisp of warmth to offer. At this point, his father’s face would also have been mounted on the wall, the gilded frame as symbolic as it was elegant. Linhardt almost felt as though he should want to see it, but truthfully, he couldn’t be less interested. Perhaps it was the fact that the eyes of the Hevring ancestors seemed to follow him every time he’d walked this hall, judging. Waiting. Weighing his worth as one of them, that he too would stay a songbird in one of his two designated birdcages until he joined their ranks as a symbol of himself, the glinting gold of his picture frame all anyone could see. He too would be laid into limbo like the rest of this house so that the leaf would never chip, and not a soul see beneath the gilt.

Oddly enough, this entire thought process made him think of Lysithea, and an interesting discussion they had indulged in some time ago before everyone at the Academy was scattered like flower petals in a strong wind. He held a hand to his chin, tapping his lip as he tried to recall their long conversation from yesteryear, reaching his mind back to a candlelit night and a few precious ghost stories.

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Linhardt and Lysithea had encountered each other by chance a few weeks after Linhardt had attempted to talk to her for the second time about her crests. With naught but the stars as their witnesses, the two were the only ones in the library that evening, everyone else but the night watch having already retired to their rooms. Linhardt had arrived as soon as he’d woken up from his evening nap, intent on completing at least one more chapter in his book before breakfast the next morning. From the look of the stacks of books and sheafs of papers piled around her work area, as well as some leftover sweet buns obviously nabbed from the dining hall, it was safe to assume that Lysithea likely came here straight after dinner and had stayed since. As soon as she’d seen him, he could see that she was on guard, even more so when he selected some books and brought them and his bag over to her table to sit across from her. She had stood up abruptly, as if to leave, but after seeing that Linhardt was making no move to engage her in conversation and was instead absorbing himself in a book, she sat back down with a long sigh and returned to her own reading. The two were silent for some time, each of them losing themselves to the worlds within the words unfurled on the pages (punctuated by the occasional sound of Lysithea snacking on a sweet bun), before there was suddenly a loud thump, like something falling from a shelf, making the mage jump in her seat.

“Gyahhh!” she yelped, her hands coming up to cover her ears as her eyes shut tight, her book falling from her hands and landing lopsidedly on the table. Linhardt looked up in alarm from his reading, and seeing her clear distress, stood up and began to scan the shelves. The candles’ flickering light cast shadows upon the shelves, the library breathing as the wind wound around the ceiling beams and kissed the tops of the pages. Linhardt felt a shiver shoot down his spine, and he sat down again, giving an appraising look Lysithea’s way as her hands fell away from her ears and she opened her eyes once more.

“I believe it was just the wind knocking a book off the shelf.”

“I...I know that!” she snapped, a faint blush of embarrassment blooming across her face. “I’m not a child!”

“I agree, but considering your reaction…”

“Look, it’s late, and I’m a bit jumpy. That’s all,” she retorted, resettling her book in her lap and finding her page again.

“...Fair enough.”

Linhardt’s eyes fell back to his book, and he was about to reimmerse himself in the written word when Lysithea suddenly spoke up again. “Hey, Linhardt. This may sound, well, somewhat unscientific, but... do you believe in ghosts?”

The sea-eyed healer looked up at Lysithea once again, his nose scrunching at the query. “Hm, I suppose that it depends on what you mean.”

Lysithea tilted her head and furrowed her brow, clearly not understanding what he meant. “How so?”

Placing a bookmark in his book and closing the cover, Linhardt rested his elbows on the table, interlocking his fingers as he thought through his response. “I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of ghosts, frankly. People should move on when it’s their time. If souls are still bound to this realm by powerful emotions such as guilt, sadness, rage, or responsibility, then they run the risk of losing all that made them human in the first place. If you mean ghosts in the more metaphorical sense, however, in some ways, I detest those more."

“...Is that so,” Lysithea replied, almost sadly, and she gave a little sigh. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but do you recall what I told you the last time we spoke about crests? About… the terrible things that one must endure to become like this?”

It was Linhardt’s turn to be confused, but he nodded. “I do.”

“Well, despite being the only success, I was not the only one to have undergone such a procedure. Everyone else who went through that horrid ordeal all died, and to this day, I feel as though I can see their silhouettes in the corners of my vision, reminders of the torment, grief, and pain that I had never even thought of escaping from were it not for Professor Hanneman and his research.” Lysithea placed her hands at the edge of the oaken table, and even in the weak candlelight Linhardt could see they were shaking, tremors running deep beneath her pale skin, and her gaze slid downward, locked on her trembling fingers. “All that I have endured… it haunts my dreams. It’s gotten better with time, but even now, I only sleep when I have to.” She gave a resigned huff. “At this point, I can only hope to do right by my parents before I die, so that they, at least, can live the rest of their days in peace.”

Linhardt paused, then took a deep breath. “I cannot hope to understand all that you have gone through. That much is true. But I can speak to my own ghosts to some extent. Once I leave these walls, I will be thrust into the world of Adrestian politics and nobility, forced to give up what I hold dear in order to assume the mantle of ‘Count Hevring.’ I have never desired to take up such a position, and yet, I also understand the futility of trying to flee from it. The ghosts that haunt me are less actual apparitions, I suppose, but all of the expectations, the crimes, the secrets, and the responsibilities that wrap ‘round my neck to strangle out of me any vestige of free will or individuality I have left. I while away my time here doing what pleases me because I know that my days of doing so are precious and finite, hence why I, too, throw myself into research, sleeping when I can so that I have enough energy to continue my studies. If anything, I am glad to see that you think so warmly of your parents, because truthfully, as much as I love my own, I also know that they see me as a means to an end, that I too will be remembered as another famous face on the wall of the Hevring manor someday, another Count Hevring to be molded just like each and every one prior.”

He went silent, then, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Ah, I’m sorry. I said a little too much, I believe.”

To his surprise, Lysithea shook her head. “No, it’s alright. I appreciate that you told me all of this. Maybe you aren’t as heartless as I thought.” She paused a moment, then reached over to her supply of sweet buns and pushed the pile toward him so that it was now sitting between them. “Here, have one. We’re probably both going to be here for a while yet.”

Linhardt blinked in surprise before accepting the treat, picking it up gingerly and taking a small bite off the end. The sweet taste of Noa fruit filled his mouth, and he gave a slight hum of appreciation as he swallowed it down. “Thank you, Lysithea. That was quite delicious. Also… if there is anything I can do to--”

“You mentioned last time that you were working with Professor Hanneman on his crest research, right?” Lysithea interjected, holding up a hand as if to stop him from saying anything more, and Linhardt simply nodded in response. “Then you are already helping in ways I never could have dreamed of. Thanks to the research that Professor Hanneman is conducting, I can dare to have hope again. For me, that is more than enough.”

“...Alright then,” Linhardt replied, and they both fell silent once again, each of them returning their attention to their tomes. However, the sweet buns stayed where they were, and once the sun’s rays heralded the morning’s arrival and other students and staff began to enter the library, Linhardt and Lysithea were just exiting, in notably better spirits than when they’d first entered.

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Perhaps it wasn’t so strange to be thinking of that now, Linhardt mused as he blinked back into consciousness, once more firmly rooted in the present day. Here in this portrait gallery was where all of his own ghosts dwelled, all of the burdens he would be expected to shoulder personified in paint. A promise of inevitability, because where else would he go? What else could he do? In the eyes of all who hung here, joining them was an inevitability, as expected as time slowly inching its way forward. And yet… the war had changed much. The Adrestian Empire was not guaranteed to succeed, and even if it did, with it would come a reckoning, a reformation. There was the chance, still, that what was unnatural could still be reversed, as in the case of Lysithea and her crests, or Linhardt forced to eschew his own nature and be a puppet of his parents. Perhaps there was still time yet before he would be made to walk this hall. With that in mind, he turned away from the portrait gallery, making his way to the kitchens. While some might have said it was rather early in the day for sweets, Linhardt allowed himself to ignore etiquette just this once; after all, he far preferred the idea of eating something delicious in honor of the living rather than wallowing in the memory of the dead.

Chapter Text

The upstairs salon of the Hevring estate was one of Lady Hevring’s favorite rooms in the house. Elegant tapestries depicting the Crest of Cethleann and various locales within Hevring adorned three of the walls, several chairs and sofas had been arranged so as to promote conversation, and an entire wall of windows allowed the light in, bathing the room and its furniture in brightness. Across from the windows was the door to the rest of the manor, and facing the door was the antique chaise lounge upon which Linhardt had draped himself, a vision of lethargy in his loose green linen nightshirt.

Linhardt had been dreaming about taking a nap in the perfect napping place--tall trees all around to block out the harsh sunlight, a large lake nearby with crystal clear water, and a hammock secured between two sturdy tree trunks that he could lay in and sleep as he pleased. In his mind’s eye, he was already there, moments away from rest and relaxation, when he was suddenly jarred back to reality by an awkward, extended throat clearing from somewhere nearby. Slightly cracking his eyes open, Linhardt lifted his head to behold the chamberlain of the household, Grisholm, standing a respectful distance away from him. Grisholm was a tall man in his late 50s who wore a traditional black morning coat with gray striped trousers, a gray vest, a white-wing collar dress shirt, and a forest-green tie, along with cufflinks, polished black wingtips, and his signature white gloves. All in all, he was the proper model of a butler, and he was as much a perfectionist as his lord, having served the household faithfully for decades. No matter how hard Linhardt tried to remember, he couldn’t seem to recall the chamberlain removing his gloves for any reason at all, even to launder his last pair.

“Ahem. Master Hevring, as the future heir to the household, you will be expected to occasionally make your rounds around the estate. You cannot spend all of your hours cooped up inside this mansion.”

“Oh?” Linhardt replied with a sigh, fixing the chamberlain with a sly eye. “And here I thought I was supposed to be recuperating.”

“Be that as it may, Master Hevring,” Grisholm stated sternly, not taking the bait, “the Count has also directed that during your time here, you should be educated in some aspects of noble life and expectations. Thus, I am here to help you into more appropriate attire and take you for a tour of the training yard today.”

Linhardt gave a displeased huff, but did not push the issue. The servants here were awfully loyal to the family, and they truly did want what was best for him; even Grisholm here had seen him grow up, and while Linhardt couldn’t say he was close with the man, at the very least, he could sense that the wizened chamberlain’s concern for him was genuine. Perhaps Grisholm understood that much, because he walked over and gave his young master a single, yet firm, pat on the shoulder, looking down into Linhardt’s eyes. “If it is too much for you, Master Hevring, we shall return at once. However, the Count believes that easing you into your future responsibilities and providing you with a structured, orderly schedule, with some room for rest, will be beneficial to your health.”

“...Fine,” Linhardt conceded, standing from the lounge as Grisholm retracted his hand. “I will do so if I must. Let us go and get this over with as soon as possible before I feel myself succumbing to the siren’s song of sleep once again.”

Grisholm nodded, giving his master a quick, crisp bow before escorting him to his chambers. Soon enough, Linhardt emerged dressed in comfortable black breeches and polished boots, along with a well-fitting white shirt that was tucked in at the bottom topped off with a forest-green waistcoat featuring the family crest stitched on the front. Grisholm gave his approval of the ensemble, and without further delay, a carriage was summoned and the two rode off in the direction of the training grounds.

Despite the burning brutality of the sun, determined to exert every last drop of sweat from anyone foolish enough to be outside today, Linhardt could hear the now-familiar noises of soldiers at work as he stepped through the gate leading to the training grounds, barracks, and stables where the Knights of Hevring were conducting their training exercises. As soon as he and Grisholm stepped through, however, all activity in the nearby vicinity seemed to stop, the very air holding its breath, until the blast of a horn rang out across the training yards, and all of the soldiers present turned toward the gate. “HALT!” bellowed a commanding voice, and a fortress knight donning the silver and green livery of Hevring approached Linhardt and Grisholm. “I offer my tidings and respect to Master Hevring!” the knight exclaimed, voice carrying far and wide, and Linhardt had to do his best not to wince at the volume. “It would be my honor to escort you across the grounds!”

This one clearly did not have an indoor voice, Linhardt privately noted. Giving a polite cough and a slight bow, he quickly introduced himself. “I am Linhardt von Hevring. And you are?”

The knight quickly saluted, standing straight. “I am Mishel Argawal, Captain of the Knights of Hevring! It is an honor and a pleasure to escort the young master around the yards today.” The knight turned their head, and barked out an order. “Lieutenant Facul! Keep everyone on track!” they commanded, and received a shout of “Yes, sir!” and another ear-shattering, air-shakingly loud horn blast in response. Clearly that had been satisfactory because right after that, everyone else went about their business once more, pawns, knights, bishops, and rooks strengthening themselves for the day their commander would deem them fit to deploy.

Thus began the tour of the various facilities available, and by the time Linhardt had finished meeting and greeting the blacksmith, the battalion master, and the quartermaster, all of whom wished to catch up on the latest news and views and express how lovely it was to see their young master again after all these years, desiring to know every personal detail about his life at school and his condition, Linhardt’s head was spinning and he was approximately two polite greetings away from demanding that Grisholm allow him to escape back to the estate right there and then. As far as Linhardt was concerned, he was a stranger here; the resounding ring of steel against metal was grating to his ears, and despite the fact that Captain Mishel was doing their best to explain to him all that was happening, he could feel the information entering one ear and sliding out the other, nothing bothering to stick nor pique his interest. It was frustrating knowing that someday he would be expected to have to act on this knowledge in a meaningful way, when truly, he couldn’t have cared less. All he could hope for was that something around here would stimulate his interest before he found a post to lean against and sleep standing up. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Finally, the tour led them to a decently-sized paddock, where some of the horses were being tended to. Captain Mishel called for the stablemaster, and before long, a burly woman with long red hair tied back in a kerchief, a farmer’s tan, and arms that could break timbers like twigs was standing before them. “This is Ms. Varrish,” the Captain explained, giving her a respectful half-bow. Linhardt had to appreciate how well the captain was able to bend in that armor. “She’s the horse breeder and stablemaster, and it’s thanks to her that the Holy Knights of Hevring have such fine steeds.”

Ms. Varrish gave a loud snort, her hands coming to rest on her hips. “That’s the truth, Captain! And hello to you, Master Hevring! Here to inspect the horses for the first time I take it?” Linhardt gave a curt nod in response, feeling his patience for meeting new people and being outside wearing dangerously thin. Ms. Varrish must have taken the hint, because with a sweep of her arm, she stepped aside, allowing them into the stable area. “All of our horses are good lads and lasses! Most of ‘em are out in the paddock being exercised, but we have a few who’re here that you can look at.”

Ms. Varrish then spent some time introducing Linhardt to the horses, and if he was being honest with himself, it was actually rather calming; the horses themselves were quite well-behaved, and they were certainly less judgmental than some of the humans he’d met. Ms. Varrish was also quite knowledgeable, and the fact that she was so warm and friendly instead of being standoffish and formally respectful to the point of being cold was a welcome change. All too soon, however, the tour of the stables was over, and Linhardt would have been quite satisfied with it were it not for a horse in the last stable catching his eye. “Ms. Varrish,” he questioned, and all three of his retainers’ heads swiveled to stare at him, for these were the first words beyond greetings that he had uttered ever since arriving at the training area. “Is there something wrong with this horse? You have not introduced him.”

“Oh! Well, that’s Bluebell. There’s nothing really wrong with him, but… well, he strained a muscle, and since then, he’s been right moody, even lashing out at his handlers. It’s not pretty.” Linhardt simply nodded, then cast his eyes around the stable.

“What does he like to eat? Apples?”

“Well, yes, but Master Hevring, I simply cannot allow you to approach--”

She was quickly cut off by Linhardt plucking a ruby-red apple from a wooden bucket nearby and approaching Bluebell, holding it out carefully. Immediately, Grisholm and Captain Mishel sprang forward, but with unhuman strength, Ms. Varrish grabbed their collars and made them pause. “Wait! Don’t spook the horse, or he could kick!”

The captain and chamberlain settled down, watching intently as Bluebell sniffed at their young master’s hand, then gently accepted the treat. Linhardt then walked over to the horse’s side, looking down at his swollen joint. “Yes, I see the problem.” Taking a deep breath, Linhardt cast a Heal spell on the joint, moving his hand clockwise in slow, steady, circular motions. It was perhaps half the speed of a usual cast, but to the collective surprise of the three retainers, Bluebell showed no discomfort, pain, or upset during the spellcasting, allowing Linhardt to walk away, completely unscathed.

“Master Hevring!” Ms. Varrish cried, rushing over to him and grasping his shoulders. “You’re not hurt! And more than that, you actually healed him! How!? Most horses get spooked by healing magic, so it can’t be applied safely, even using Physic--” Suddenly, a gloved hand came down hard on her shoulder, and with another forceful throat-clearing from Grisholm, Ms. Varrish’s face went red and she released Linhardt from her clutches. “Erm, my deepest apologies, young master. But please, could you share how you did that?”

Linhardt huffed and shook his head. “It was quite simple, really. As you said, horses tend to become skittish at the sensation of healing magic. However, one reason is because the after effects that accompany the magic, namely the smells, can leave the horses confused, especially if those scents are foreign to them. By giving Bluebell an apple beforehand, he was too caught up in his treat to take notice of the sensation of my magic. In addition, by making those slow, careful motions, it feels less like an overwhelming blast of magic in one place and more like a soothing sensation across a larger area. The horse can more easily handle the effects of healing magic if it is done this way, hence allowing the horses to heal better, and faster.” He looked back over his shoulder at Bluebell, expression suddenly shifting from neutral into thoughtful. “Horses too are our comrades on the battlefield. It is important that we treat them well, for if we do not, we run the risk of hindering both them and their riders, leading to disaster that otherwise might have been avoided. It is important to consider our people, certainly, but without support from horses, we would surely be crippled otherwise.”

Ms. Varrish looked as though she were about to cry. She grasped Linhardt’s hands in hers (Linhardt had to restrain himself from flinching at the strength of her grip), eyes practically shining. “Young master, thank you kindly for your insight. I will have our dedicated horse healers practice this technique so that we can continue to raise and care for our horses in the best possible ways! I can’t thank you enough!”

She then escorted the three out of the stable and back to the main training grounds, where Captain Mishel led them back to the main entrance and gave Linhardt a deep bow. “Many thanks to you, Master Hevring. Truth be told, I did not have a clear picture of who you were as a person until this day, but with your display of wisdom in caring for the horses, I am proud to have met you. It has been an honor.”

The young Hevring’s eyes widened, and he was taken aback for a moment at the genuine sincerity in the knight’s tone. It was an odd feeling to be respected like this when he knew full well that he was hardly the ideal noble his father wished him to be, but the praise warmed his heart nonetheless. “Thank you, Captain,” he replied, before a loud yawn escaped him. “Well, I do believe that today’s adventure has thoroughly worn me out. I believe I would like to rest now.”

Grisholm gave one of his crisp half-bows, clapping his hands. The carriage they had arrived in rolled up to where they were standing, and Grisholm opened the door for his master before getting in himself. The two rode back to the manor in silence, Linhardt folding his hands in his lap as he recalled just where he had learned that technique, a memory from many moons ago now resurfacing in the back of his mind.

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In Linhardt’s personal opinion, Marianne had always been one of the hardest people to talk to. She was so skittish and self-deprecating that most who talked to her seemed to walk away feeling worse than before, and given the extent to which she believed in her own bad luck, Linhardt supposed he could understand the sentiment. After all, it was never easy trying to convince someone that their very existence was not a cause of ruin for other people. Progress on the front of convincing her that her crest was perhaps rather lucky instead had been slow; after their last conversation where he had helped her pick vegetables, the young healer had been hoping that she would become a little more open, but it seemed that she’d needed more time. He had resigned himself to getting nowhere fast with Marianne when one day, they were assigned to stable duty together.

“Me and Marianne? Well, this should save both time and effort,” Linhardt declared happily, and Marianne had simply stared at him, baffled.

“Time and...effort? What does that mean?” she asked quietly, running a comb through Dorte’s soft mane.

“Nothing much,” he retorted, clumsily trying to brush the horse’s hide and getting an angry-sounding nicker in response. “Just that I enjoy being in your company, and that as part of my ongoing investigation to show you how wonderful you are, any time I get to spend with you is meaningful.”

“O...oh!” Marianne exclaimed, seemingly at a loss. “Well, I… oh. One moment, Linhardt.”

The seriousness and sudden focus in her tone caught Linhardt’s attention, and he watched carefully as she pulled a carrot from her pouch and fed it to Dorte before casting a Heal spell, but rather than finishing the spell as quickly as possible and having it take immediate effect, she seemed to be chanting it slowly and moving her hands in small circles along his side. “There you are, Dorte. The soreness should be gone.”

Linhardt blinked, impressed; while he was no horse whisperer the way Marianne seemed to be, even he could tell that Dorte was in a better mood. “What was wrong with him? And how did you do that?”

Marianne gave a little squeak of embarrassment, but contrary to Linhardt’s expectations, took a deep breath and began to explain. Linhardt listened, fascinated at her words, and did his best to commit it to memory. The fact that horses responded differently to Faith magic than humans did was well-documented, but the fact that Marianne had apparently developed a technique for casting it that a horse could bear to handle was quite revolutionary.

“I’m honored you think so,” Marianne replied. “The handlers here at the monastery seemed to think so as well. I’ve seen them practicing. It’s partly why they let me come and go as I please; it is not only because I am a student here, but because I’ve proven that I can be trusted with the horses.”

She reached over to pat Dorte’s nose, and the horse raised its head up to enthusiastically lick her hand. “You see, it is imperative that we take care of horses. When battle plans are considered and strategies made, it is always about men. But what about horses? Messenger birds? All of the other animals involved in battle, and never of their own free will? Dorte here doesn’t mind it, but that’s because he was bred for it. He knows no other life. And should he ever stop being useful, it is unthinkable what they’ll do to him. He could become meat, glue, or any number of things. That’s why…”

Marianne moved her hand up to scratch Dorte behind the ears, and he answered with a joyful whinny, lowering his head to that she could reach more easily. “The casualties of a battle cannot only be counted in men. If a horse’s injury is not properly cared for, then he cannot properly serve his rider, and in a perilous situation, that could lead to the worst. As people who have the power to heal, who are able to provide comfort and protection, we must know how to heal not only the people, but those who bear their burdens. If we wish to avoid needless death and pain, then we must also take responsibility for the animals who suffer alongside us.”

The blue-haired healer pulled her hand back, and if awakening from a trance, suddenly blinked, a look of embarrassment appearing on her face. “Oh! Please forgive me! I’ve said too much.” Quickly leading Dorte back to his stable and grabbing her pack, Marianne gave a curt farewell and crisp bow to Linhardt, running off toward the cathedral as though something were chasing her.

Linhardt simply stood in the yard for a moment, staring at her retreating back. Perhaps it was true that getting closer to Marianne would take time, but the fact that she had shared with him such a valuable lesson left him with a deep sense of satisfaction. Retrieving his own pack, he headed right to his room; best to record all of this while it still burned fresh and bright in his mind, an interesting spark of possibility that he had never before considered.

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During the time that Linhardt had been submerged in the realm of his reverie, the carriage had pulled back up to the manor and he had allowed Grisholm to lead him back to his room, where he was now back in his nightshirt with a comfortable silk robe over top. Blinking back into awareness, he turned to Grisholm, who seemed to be waiting faithfully for his young master’s return, and met his gaze. “...Thank you for today,” he said simply, and the chamberlain’s expression remained fairly neutral, but Linhardt could see the slight smile peeking through.

“Of course, Master Hevring. I am more than pleased that today was so successful, and that you had such an excellent tour of the training grounds.”

“Yes. I believe, however, that I would like a nap before dinner.”

“Very well. I shall wake you when it is time to prepare.” With that, Grisholm bowed once more and left, shutting the double doors behind him with a click. Once he was alone, Linhardt jumped backwards onto the bed, landing with a soft thump on the velvet bedspread, and stared up at the ceiling. What was Marianne doing now, he wondered. Was she still the same timid waif she always was, or had the war granted her courage or ability she’d never thought possible? Truly, either seemed like plausible outcomes, and as Linhardt slipped under the covers, resting his head on the pillow, he closed his eyes and thought of Marianne, and horses, and the many techniques of healing magic still yet to be discovered before the outstretched hands of sleep finally claimed him.

Chapter Text

Nighttime descended upon Hevring like a curtain closing a play, draping across the sky as a signal to its captive audience that the day was done. Sleep’s sweet summons drew ever nearer, though perhaps willfully ignored for a time by the promise of wine or mead, dining and dancing, and good company as well. For Linhardt, however, it was the start of those magical hours in which his brain was feeling cooperative enough to focus on that night’s particular subject of study, and ever since he had been returned home much like a disobedient dog deposited at its master’s door, he had developed a strong interest in stargazing. The stars had long been thought to have some correlation with crests, and although he had wanted to study them even at Garreg Mach, the bother of trying to escape curfew and the fact that there were so few ideal spots for stargazing meant that this particular topic of research had fallen to the wayside over time. However, since returning to Hevring, a lack of access to the extensive library of the monastery and Professor Hanneman’s profound knowledge of the subject had limited his areas of inquiry, but staving off boredom meant that he had discovered, or in this case rediscovered, other aspects of crestology to occupy his time. Thankfully, he had been granted an unparalleled view of the skies, the isolation of Hevring manor being perhaps the only saving grace about this place, meaning that he could resume his study of the stars without much interruption.

Tonight, the skies were clear and the weather mild, meaning that Linhardt would happily forego rest for the next 12 hours in favor of gathering as much data as possible. Truly, this wasn’t so different from what he had habitually done both at Garreg Mach and, more secretively, back in Enbarr, although he had been surprised to see Grisholm hesitate once he had explained his intentions, the chamberlain clenching his jaw as though he were deciding whether he had something to say. After a moment, however, he had merely bowed in acquiescence to his young master’s request, calling for extra hands to assist him with the preparations. Several servants took hold of Linhardt’s quills and inks, piles of pages and notebooks abounding, sprinting them up the roof of the manor with nary a question to be had. Grisholm, with the aid of another servant, lugged a portable work desk up the winding stairs as another maid tenderly took up the telescope, usually sitting pretty in their lord’s library. At Linhardt’s insistence, he himself was left to bring up the books he’d acquired on astronomy, safe and secure in his arms as he ascended the staircases standing between him and bliss.

Once he reached the rooftop, he was pleased to see that a suitable space within the rooftop garden had been arranged for him, everything he had asked for arranged neatly near a comfortable-looking chair and cozy comforter that he could snuggle up in. An extra lantern had also been brought, situated carefully so that the flickering lamplight would not overshadow the delicately twinkling stars adorning the darkling heavens above, and with that placement in mind Linhardt arranged his books and notes to his liking before settling in for a fruitful night of notetaking and new discoveries. With as much care as he could muster, Linhardt adjusted the telescope, pointing it skyward. Within what felt like mere moments, he was entranced, spellbound even, by the constellations and their mysteries and histories, and somewhere between noting the tale of Timotheos as it related to the Blue Sea Star and sipping some soothing Angelica tea that the maids brought, he found himself recalling one of the few times he had managed to stargaze at the Monastery. Unlike now, however, back then he was not by his lonesome; beside him had sat Annette, a rather Reason-focused student from Faerghus, and although she often misunderstood his penchant for napping as laziness instead of a constant need to renew his energy for his assorted personal projects, Linhardt liked to think that they had become acquaintances, if not friends, during their time at the Officers’ Academy. Now, beneath a starlit sky with a balmy breeze just starting to blow, he remembered those days, and he allowed himself the space of a moment away from the starlight to bask in memories instead.

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Linhardt had been anticipating this evening ever since enrolling in the Officers’ Academy. It was a gorgeously clear night beneath the Red Wolf Moon, even if it was chillier than he would like, but the normally obfuscating moonlight was being blocked by the immutable mass of the monastery itself, lending him an unparalleled view of the starlit heavens that he simply couldn’t pass up. A few months ago, soon after the admission of the Professor to the ranks of the faculty, Linhardt had come across a small hill, hidden just beyond a hole in the wall located between the student dormitories and the greenhouse, while he was searching for an ideal napping location. Now, it was not only a humble hideaway where he could catch a nap in peace, but at least for tonight, it would be his preferred place to stargaze.

With a thick down comforter wrapped tightly ‘round him, quill and notebook in hand, Linhardt was more than ready to sacrifice his sleep for the night (and thereby most of tomorrow’s class time) to delve right in. He had foregone the evening meal to gather some books and studies on stars from the library, and had found a notebook with a few free sheets that would at least hold some preliminary points. He had even managed to obtain a telescope from Professor Hanneman, who had apparently always intended to explore this area of research but had never gotten around to it and was more than happy to lend a hand to one of his most precocious pupils. Linhardt quickly yet delicately deployed the instrument and arranged his research notes, eager to get started, when suddenly, there was the sound of struggling and a loud gasp, and Linhardt turned his head to see what the fuss was about only to come face to face with his classmate, Annette.

It didn’t take a genius to piece together that Annette had come to deliver not dinner, but a lecture. Linhardt could tell by the strong set of her jaw, her displeased expression, and her palms resting on her hips that he was about to be told off, and so he braced himself, waiting, but the words never came. Instead, however, the sweet-toothed singer sighed, letting her arms slump to her sides as she walked over to him. “There you are, Linhardt. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Linhardt blinked in confusion, tilting his head slightly to the side. “For me? But why?”

Annette crossed her arms, rubbing at them to presumably keep away the chill. “Because you were missing during dinner, obviously! I was worried about you!”

Linhardt’s expression turned to one of surprise, his eyes growing wide and mouth slightly agape as he stared her down, her gray-blue eyes not once looking away from his own. “Well, I can’t say that I’m terribly used to people worrying about me; I’m well aware that I hardly fit in most of the social circles here. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.”

Annette simply let out a deep sigh, taking a seat next to the green-haired healer and letting her palms sink into the grass. “While you may be a legendary lazybones and you seem to sleep more than listen to lectures, you’re still my classmate and comrade, Linhardt. Just because I don’t agree with your work ethic doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you as a person, and I know I’m not the only one. There are plenty of people who feel the same, I’m sure.”

Linhardt simply gave a non-committal hum. “That would be nice if it were true. Unfortunately, I can’t exactly test that hypothesis, but the fact that you bothered to tell me as such did lift my spirits. Thank you, Annette.”

The sorceress soloist couldn’t help but give a pleased grin, a little chuckle escaping her at his words. “Of course! Well, now that I know you’re alright, what exactly are you doing out here?”

As the topic shifted back to his original intent for this little escapade, Linhardt unwrapped himself slightly from the cozy comforter, offering a corner to Annette as an invitation for her to also indulge in its warmth. She blinked, surprised, but appreciated the gesture, wrapping the comforter around her shoulders. “I’m here to study the constellations, and with any luck, uncover how they relate to crests,” Linhardt explained, sweeping a hand over his assorted piles of papers. “It’s long been theorized that the stars have some relationship with the Goddess, given that she supposedly lives on the Blue Sea Star, and if crests were truly distributed as she willed it, then it stands to reason that perhaps the skies hold mysteries that we may yet know nothing about when it comes to crests and their powers.”

“Wow, Linhardt,” Annette replied, gracing him with a genuine smile and sounding somewhat impressed. “I knew that crests were your main research interest, but I never would have thought that you would be out here studying them like this.”

Linhardt shook his head, a small smile forming on his face. “These are the questions that keep me up at night. You asked me how it was possible that I could sleep for two days, and this is why--I have always felt more active, more alive, at night and the moonlit hours are the only time I can spare to work on my personal projects. I only have until I leave the monastery’s walls to learn all that I wish to know about crests, so I throw myself into my research wholeheartedly and handle the rest as it comes.”

Annette gave a disbelieving snort at that. “Avoid it, you mean.”

“If I must. Now, could you please hand me the book titled The Starry-Eyed Scholar? Yes, that one. Let’s see… page 32…”

Before they knew it, the night seemed to fly by, the two students absorbed in their chance encounter turned study session. They went back and forth on various theories and topics, with Annette proving that despite crests not being her main topic of study, she knew more than enough to keep up with the discussion, and between the two of them, Linhardt’s precious pages were soon covered in sketches and notes, formulas and ideas for future research. By the time the monastery bells rang thrice, indicating that they had already entered into the wee hours of the morning, even the ever-energetic Annette was yawning, barely able to keep her eyes open. “Hey, Linhardt.”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m going to head back first; I’m getting pretty tired,” the redhead replied, slipping out from under the bedding and standing up, dusting off her uniform in the process.

“That’s quite understandable. Rest well, then.”

“Are you going to go to sleep any time soon?”

“Likely not tonight.”

“Linhardt!” Annette groaned in frustration, before giving a long-suffering sigh and bringing her arms up in a shrug. “Fine. I can’t make you. But please, for me, try to get some sleep tomorrow, alright? And not in the middle of class.”

The forest-haired Faith-wielder gave a little huff, but Annette could see that he was smiling. “Alright. I promise.”

With that, Annette gave a little wave and rushed back to her room, no doubt hoping to get out of the cold as soon as possible. Linhardt watched her go before turning back to his books, still smiling quietly to himself. Annette had made for excellent company in both the intellectual and emotional sense, and overall, it had been nice to share his thoughts with such a studious scholar. His resolve strengthened, Linhardt looked back through the telescope, jotting down more notes in the margins as he went. It was still rather chilly outside, but not even the cold could dull the warmth in his heart.

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Linhardt returned from his jaunt down memory lane to a cup of cold tea clutched in his hand and the wind having scattered his loose research notes all around the area. With a long sigh, he placed the teacup down on his desk and stood from his chair, pulling the blanket tightly around his body. He meandered about the garden, collecting the escaped papers, and quickly reorganized them before returning to his desk and slipping them under a book for safekeeping. Slumping back in his chair, he stared forlornly at the telescope, which suddenly seemed to have lost its appeal. Research was still enjoyable, no doubt, and he felt like he had made rather decent progress tonight, but a part of his heart was starting to feel rather lonely, and the conflicting feelings he was experiencing of joy at his success and longing at being unable to share in his joy with someone else was nigh indisputable proof that he was more affected by his “bedrest” than he had wanted to believe. Sure, he had access to all the material goods anybody could ever want, but would he never again have a peer, someone who cared about him but didn’t stand on ceremony with him, someone to make him feel that he was cared for not out of obligation, but because he was genuinely liked? That’s what he was missing most, he realized with a start, and before he could even try to dissect that feeling, he took a deep breath and set it aside. According to the ringing bells of the chapel, it was still rather early (for him) to retire for the evening, but given his current mood, it was probably a good idea to get some sleep and start fresh tomorrow morning.

Gathering up his books and papers and blowing out the candle within the lantern, Linhardt descended the stairs and re-entered the manor, leaving a message with one of the guardsmen instructing Grisholm to clean up his improvised study. Although it had been fun at first, perhaps studying the stars would have to wait until another chance encounter presented itself.

Chapter Text

Linhardt took a small sip of his mocha latte, sighing in bliss at the feeling of three shots of espresso warming him up from within. The to-go cup clenched in his gloved hand provided a welcome warmth in stark contrast to the frigid air that chilled his breath, such that on every exhale he could see it for just a second before it dissipated into nothingness. The Pegasus Moon always brought with it cold chills and freezing fog, and Linhardt was just about to be grateful that it was a rather sunny morning with no snow clouds in sight when the wind picked up, almost blowing his emerald-colored scarf right off his neck and eliciting panicked yells and biting curses from several of the other students milling about. With a long-suffering sigh, the young medical student securely rewrapped the long linen cloth and lamented for the third time that day (despite it being only 10 A.M.) that the campus dining hall was so far from his destination, bracing himself against the wintry wind as he trudged his way across campus to Saint Indech Hall, home of Garreg Mach University’s College of Sciences.

He was about halfway there when a sudden sneeze on his part forced him to stop and readjust his earmuffs before pressing on, nose scrunching in irritation at the chill. With a sniff, he continued his trek, wishing this particular professor believed in digital learning. Alas, he had no such luck, for as evidenced by the many weighty books in his backpack, Professor Hanneman would accept nothing less than full face-to-face engagement on all things, from classes to office hours to scheduled laboratory work. Still, Linhardt couldn’t deny that he had learned much from the man, and even if “effort” wasn’t usually his style, Professor Hanneman’s classes had always been interesting enough to warrant the energy needed to stay awake and actually take notes.

A few minutes later, Linhardt entered the hall, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he took another sip of coffee and braced himself for the long, unforgiving ascent up the tall marble staircase in the foyer up to the fourth floor, where Professor Hanneman’s office was located. Once he’d found it, Linhardt briefly knocked on the door and with a twist of the doorknob, walked right in. As the head of the Department of Genetic Studies, Professor Hanneman had been gifted with a marvelously spacious office that was chock-full of bookcases containing research notes, old papers and studies, historical documents and records, and scrapbooks of research trips he’d taken. On one wall was a corkboard bearing sketches of the symbols of several ancient family crests, including the Crest of Cethleann, which was associated with Linhardt’s own family. By the window was an antique side table with an electric kettle, several mugs, a few tins of assorted tea, and small containers of creamer, sugar, and honey; with a glance, Linhardt could see that the kettle was already on and boiling some water. Off to the side of the room was a particularly high-throughput DNA analyzer, which required a small sample of hair or blood and could allow a specialized computer program to determine and extract genomic data in a matter of hours. The professor had apparently built it himself thanks to grant funding from the university and several other sources, and it remained his pride and joy to this day.

Against the back wall, sitting at his desk, was Professor Hanneman himself, busily pouring over some papers. Today he was wearing a gray sweater vest with a green tie, monocle gleaming as it caught the light, and draped over the back of his chair was his distinctive grey cashmere overcoat. At Linhardt’s entrance, he looked up with a start, giving his student a sincere smile as he set the documents aside. “Ah, there you are, Linhardt! Come in, come in. I have some water for tea brewing, but it looks like you have something of your own already. Please, take a seat.”

Pulling the door closed behind him and walking over to the elegant oaken desk, Linhardt shrugged off his backpack, letting it fall to the floor with a thud, and delicately placed his coffee cup on the desktop. He unwound his scarf and removed his gloves and earmuffs, unzipping his backpack and slipping the accessories inside. He then removed his long black winter coat, which reached all the way down to his knees and was incomparably warm (it even came with a fake fur-lined hood), and draped it over the back of one of the chairs, revealing his cozy gray GMU sweatshirt, along with his most comfortable pair of blue jeans and green high top sneakers to complete the look. Now divested of his winterwear, Linhardt took a seat in the empty chair, staring at his professor intently.

Professor Hanneman rested his elbows atop the desk, interlacing his fingers just below his chin as he fixed Linhardt with an appraising look. “Now then, as your academic advisor, I have to say that I am extremely pleased to see that you’ve maintained such good grades in your studies. Why, I could hardly contain my excitement when you informed me that you wished to study alongside me, perhaps finding a goal along the way, and I can already see such promise from you. However, I do wish to ask you… are you quite serious about wishing to study the strange phenomena associated with the families who bore specific crests as parts of their familial coats of arms?”

Linhardt nodded, resting his thumb and index fingers on his chin as he carefully chose his words. “I do. I’ve read in books and in some of your ancestor’s research findings that people genuinely believed that the members of families associated with these particular symbols had Goddess-granted powers of some sort. In addition, some houses shared symbols and some did not; unlike the Essar coat of arms, which shares the mark of Saint Indech with Varley, the Hevring family is the only one recorded as incorporating the symbol of Saint Cethleann. If there is some kind of power or trait passed through bloodlines, it might offer insight into the ‘magics’ of Reason and Faith that some people were purported to wield. It sounds rather ridiculous if you ask me, but I do believe that there could be a scientific explanation for these phenomena, as there often is.”

Professor Hanneman listened closely to Linhardt’s explanation, not making a sound until his student was finished. Once Linhardt paused, seemingly done, Professor Hanneman stood from his desk, walked over to his tea table, and selected some leaves, scooping them into one of the mugs before pouring in the water and walking back over to the desk. “I think that it is a rather interesting proposition, Linhardt,” Professor Hanneman replied, sitting back in his desk chair and watching the steam spiral up from the cup. “However, you must be aware that such research will be difficult and that at times, you may make no progress at all. What will you do then?”

Linhardt huffed, considering the question carefully. “I think… that despite the fact that there will be times when progress is slow, I would still like to devote myself to it. Usually I tend to avoid my troubles, but in this case, from what I’ve already learned and what I hope to learn, I know this path might be a troublesome one. In fact, it might not lead anywhere. But I still find myself intrigued by it nonetheless.”

“Oh?” his advisor asked, breaking into a wide grin. “Well, I can’t say I expected that level of commitment from you given your unsure attitude when we first talked about your future, but I am more than pleased to see it. Does this mean that you have a goal in mind?”

Linhardt hesitated, hands coming to grip at his knees as his gaze slid to his coffee cup. “I’m not sure that it can be called a goal, but for my own satisfaction, I long to find out the truth of this mystery. Perhaps it may even end up having relevance in some other respect that I don’t yet know of. I just know that I want to see how far this idea can go, even if it is less concrete than other ideas out there.”

A beat of silence passed between them before the professor began to chuckle, and Linhardt’s gaze snapped up to the older scholar’s face, surprise written all over his own. “Well stated, Linhardt,” the department head said, picking up his mug and walking back over to the tea table. “In my personal opinion, your research is not ‘less valuable’ simply because you’re choosing to investigate something that interests you rather than something lucrative or something popular. Research done because you want to do it is hardly a bad investment, for it means that the field will surely expand through the addition of your successes and failures. My own ancestor, the first Hanneman von Essar in my family, would have surely said the same thing.”

The department head added two lumps of sugar, stirring carefully as he looked back at Linhardt. “As your advisor, I am here to set you on your path to success,” he continued, taking a sip of his tea and giving a content hum before returning to his desk and taking a seat once more. “Part of that is encouraging you to perform your own research and cultivate what speaks to you. I could tell you what your father would want me to say, but he has already passed through these hallowed halls and is living his own life. Only you can decide your academic future, and if you have chosen this road because you wanted to, then I will support you wholeheartedly.”

Linhardt could feel tears pricking at his eyes as he nodded, warmth flooding his chest. “Thank you, Professor Hanneman,” he murmured, truly touched. “In that case, is it alright if I continue being your TA next semester? I should also schedule my laboratory time with you.”

The professor beamed, immediately turning and gathering a few of the documents lying about his desk. “Of course, of course! Let’s get that all figured out then…”

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Linhardt awoke with a start, sitting up in bed with a jolt as he returned to his senses, processing where and when he was. He had been dreaming of course, but all he could remember was that he had been wearing outlandish clothing and speaking to someone who had looked remarkably like his mentor, Professor Hanneman, back at the Officers’ Academy. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face, and brought his hands up to massage his temples. That dream had felt unsettlingly realistic, to the point where Linhardt felt like he could walk outside and demand to know all about… He paused, wracking his brain, but the name was no more, like it had never existed in the first place. Humph. Never mind, then.

Thoroughly awake now, Linhardt pushed back the bedcovers and retrieved some slippers, wrapping himself in his most comfortable robe as well. Retrieving a candle from his nightstand and lighting it with fire magic, Linhardt shuffled out of his room and through the ornate hallways of the manor until he reached the double doors leading to the second floor balcony at the end of the hallway. He unlocked them with ease and stepped outside, letting the gentle wind play with his stray locks of hair as it snuffed out his candle. Setting it aside, Linhardt rested his arms on the railing and stared out across his family’s territory.

“Only I can decide my academic future, hm?” Linhardt murmured, his words wicked away by the wind almost as soon as he’d said them, and in his mind, he continued to think on the value of pursuing knowledge with the goal of self-satisfaction, and of unexpected gains that could in turn be used for others. Perhaps there was indeed value in learning what one wanted instead of relying on others to tell them what they should learn or study, for how else would new discoveries be made? Linhardt felt himself slipping into a familiar trance, turning the idea over and over again in his head, until he could feel his eyelids grow weighty and his eyesight sluggish. Letting out a loud yawn, he stepped away from the railing and retrieved his candle, locking the doors behind him and returning to bed. He slept soundly for the rest of the night, dreams of cozy coats and words of wisdom lulling him into restful sleep.

Chapter Text

The Hevring manor was abuzz that day, whispers winging down the hallways and catching the ears of each servant they passed. Rumors began swirling and spreading, from trembling lips to startled ears, the cycle repeating again and again until it seemed everyone was explaining and expounding on the reasons behind the most miraculous occurrence to have graced the grounds in some time.

“He’s awake before breakfast; perhaps he’s feeling ill?”

“But that’s just it; he’s at the training grounds! He wouldn’t be allowed if he were unwell…”

“I wonder if he had a nightmare and couldn’t go back to sleep?”

“Our young master? Doubtful.”

“The bells haven’t even rung 10 yet…”

“I cannot BELIEVE I’ll actually have an opportunity to cook him a proper breakfast! Usually if he’s awake at this hour, he’s too tired to appreciate it and almost falls asleep in his eggs.”

As the entirety of the estate spun stories and swapped suggestions on what might have brought about their young master’s enigmatically energetic attitude this morning, Linhardt himself was out at the training grounds. In an outdoor arena constructed with high walls and magic-nullifying properties specifically for this purpose, Linhardt was engaged in a mage’s duel against a veteran warlock specializing in wind magic, who shot blast after blast of wickedly cold winds his way. However, with a deep breath and his innate Resistance, Linhardt was able to negate the attack, landing a counterattack with his own cast of Cutting Gale. The warlock brought a hand to her head, stunned, and Linhardt took the opportunity to initiate his next attack, with every intention of ending the duel with a final Fire spell. His attack aimed true, and as soon as his magic landed, his opponent crumpled to the floor, out of the fight.

As soon as she was defeated, a piercing whistle sounded, and Zethirra, leader of the Hevring Prayer Troops’ mounted cavalry unit and the referee of the match, raised her arm in Linhardt’s direction. “I declare the victor to be… Master Hevring!” There was a cheer from several onlookers who had filtered into the stands at some point, including a notably loud cheer of “Well done, young master!” from a certain fortress knight, and as a medical team rushed over to heal his opponent, Zethirra walked over to Linhardt, her helmet tucked under one arm to reveal her short black hair and piercing blue eyes. “Well done, young master,” the Holy Knight congratulated, giving a half bow toward Linhardt. “Your skills in Reason are quite superb, and coupled with your above-average ability in Faith and current status as a Bishop, it’s clear to see that you will have a difficult decision in your future. However, both master classes available to you will require the use of a lance, so might I suggest--”

She was suddenly cut off by Linhardt raising his hand and looking at her in confusion. “Pardon? A lance? Why in the world would I need to learn such a thing?”

Zethirra blinked at him, nonplussed. “...As I said, both master classes available to you--”

“Yes, I heard you say that,” Linhardt cut in a second time, ignoring the angry red blush appearing on Zethirra’s face, “but the class that I had in mind does not require a lance or a horse. It requires my Faith and my Reason, both of which I plan to become proficient enough in to pass the certification test with ease.”

“Faith and Reason…” Linhardt could see the moment understanding dawned on her, as her face paled and she regarded him with much the same expression one might have viewing a carriage accident. “Young master. You cannot possibly be considering applying to become a Gremory.”

“And why ever not?” Linhardt asked, trying to keep his tone even and neutral. “Just because the Gremory uniform consists of a dress and stole doesn’t mean that it cannot be modified to suit me, or that I have any real discomfort with wearing it as it is.”

“That’s…” The unit leader bit her lip suddenly, obviously holding herself back from saying something rude, and Linhardt stared her down, waiting to hear what she could possibly have to say. “It’s just not done, young master. His Grace, your father, would never approve of such a class change, and I highly doubt that any other lord would either. Possible class progression is determined at birth, much like many other aspects of life, and to covet a class that is unavailable to you is unthinkable, especially for a noble heir like yourself.”

Linhardt knitted his brow at that, letting out a disappointed sigh. “I see. Then I shall simply have to remain a bishop for the rest of my life, because if the price of mastery is forcing myself to skewer my opponents and have their blood stain my hands, then it is far too steep for me. Goddess forbid that personal comfort and being true to oneself outweigh tradition.” Ignoring the shocked look on Zethirra’s face, Linhardt said nothing more, simply turning on his heel and walking away from the arena. “Young master!” came Captain Mishel’s cry from the stands, but Linhardt neither slowed his pace nor gave any indication of hearing the outburst; he was far too angry to do anything but walk home and stew in his thoughts, hopefully coming up with some sort of idea before he reached the manor. The other knights and servants stood aside, letting him pass as Zethirra’s eyes bored holes in his back, her gaze as pointed as the lance she wielded.

As he headed back towards the house, waving off the carriage that had been waiting for him, Linhardt slipped his hands into the pockets of his green bishop robes, casting his head back to look up at the clouds. Images of simpler days at the Officers’ Academy came back to him, and Caspar’s face appeared in his mind, as well as a memory of the time he had first set his heart on becoming a Gremory, many moons ago.

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Caspar practically skipped his way out of the Black Eagles classroom, a loud “Yahoooo!!” leaving him as Linhardt strode sedately behind him, a small smile on his own face. He and Caspar had both passed their Advanced level exams, meaning that Linhardt was now a certified bishop and Caspar could now wear his own set of “chain mail” as a grappler. “Alright!” the bluenette cheered, whirling on his heel to face Linhardt. “Now I gotta work hard to become a war master! It’s perfect for me!”

Linhardt shook his head, a small smile stretching across his face. “When it comes to sheer enthusiasm, nobody could possibly match you, Caspar.”

His childhood friend grinned, his smile as wide as the day was long, and grabbed Linhardt’s hand, tugging him along. “You know it! What about you, Linhardt? Which master class are you gonna be?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I haven’t particularly given the matter much thought, considering that my only two real options both involve horseback riding and lances, neither of which interest me in the slightest.”

Caspar lifted his arms in a shrug, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’ve never been big on that sort of thing. Maybe the Professor can help you figure out if there’s anything else you could do. Now, c’mon! We’ve gotta get to the tailor and get our new duds!”

Linhardt sighed, lamenting the loss of the celebratory nap he had planned to take; the actual appointments with the tailor never took long, as this particular establishment was well connected to Garreg Mach and at student orientation had forced them all to go through the entire rigmarole of obtaining their measurements, then designing custom uniforms and the like. Thus, simply by presenting their certificates of mastery, the shop would design and present them with their new garments in a matter of days and bill them upon receipt. Rather, what Linhardt was less than enthused about was the fact that the tailor shop was all the way down in the town, rather than being part of the monastery itself, meaning that it would require an actual trip on his part, and quite frankly, that sounded like much more work and effort than Linhardt was quite ready to give at the moment.

As if sensing his hesitance, Caspar clapped him on the back, causing him to stumble slightly. “Don’t worry, Linhardt! If you need me to, I’ll just carry you back! It’ll be easy!”

“Caspar, you do realize that…” Linhardt trailed off as he took in Caspar’s eager, puppy-like expression, and promptly realized that he was, indeed, going to town today. “...no, never mind. If we leave now, we can get there before they close, and I can fit in a nap before dinner.”

“Sounds good to me, Lin!” Caspar beamed, pumping his fist high in the air. “Let’s go!”

The two headed for the front gate, passing through without issue, and indulged in a good 20 minutes of walking in which the air between them was filled with chatter about their exams, Caspar describing an epic match he’d had against Felix earlier, and Linhardt mentioning offhandedly how he’d caught some fish to feed to the cats to which Caspar demanded descriptions and full details. Before they knew it, they had arrived in town, the streets busy and bustling with merchants and vendors selling all manner of goods, as well as commonfolk and nobility alike examining the wares for sale. Children laughed and ran about a nearby fountain as mothers sat on nearby benches and caught up with neighbors. The life and vibrance of the town was a sight to behold, and although Linhardt wasn’t a fan of the hubbub, he could certainly appreciate the peace.

After a few more minutes of walking, the two friends found the shop with little trouble; they had both been to the tailor’s many times (Linhardt for needing several spare uniforms after his tended to get dirty and he didn’t want to bother with washing them, and Caspar because his recklessness was often reflected in the sorry state his uniform ended up in after everything from a practice match to a training exercise) and could fairly reliably find their way here in their sleep. Despite their constant patronage, however, a friendly new face greeted them as they pushed open the door and walked on in. “Hello there!” exclaimed a lass with bouncy brown ringlets and a friendly, freckled face, standing behind the counter. Inquisitive green eyes looked over the two, and from her demeanor, it was clear that she was new; she came off as a bit “energetic” for such a sophisticated store. Then again, energetic wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Linhardt mused; if nothing else, it would help “liven up” the shop somewhat. Dresses, robes, and uniforms of all sorts lined the wooden walls, and small flower pots were perched in the windowsills, filing the room with a fresh lavender smell. In a display case next to the counter, a myriad of accessories rested, destined to be paired with owners who eventually attained their classes. Hats of all make and type hung elegantly upon each wall, from wide-brimmed warlock hats to beautiful veils for bishops. To the back were samples of uniforms for the Officers’ Academy, as well as accessories and footwear. The entire shop was geared toward providing for the Garreg Mach Monastery, and it was no surprise considering the quality of the clothes. Other than the shopgirl, they were the only two inside the store at the moment, the other attendants all seemingly out, and it gave the shop a rather personal, homey feel.

“Now then, what--erm, I mean, honored customers, what can I do for you?” the girl asked, and Linhardt and Caspar handed her their certification papers. The girl’s eyes skimmed over them, wide-eyed. “Oh my! I understand; I’ll get these sorted for you at once. In the meantime, here’s the catalog so you can get a sense for what you’ll wear.”

The attendant retrieved a thick, hidebound tome from behind the desk and flipped through it, eventually turning it and setting it down on the countertop. She first pointed out Caspar’s new outfit, and he stared at the diagram intently as the shopgirl found his paperwork and began to fill it out, preparing the order for him. “Right then! Please sign here, and you’ll be set, Master Bergliez.”

Caspar eagerly signed his name on the form, and the attendant gave a quick nod and set it aside, handing him back his certification. Picking up Linhardt’s next, she flipped to the Advanced Magic Classes page and set it before him. Linhardt’s eyes roved over the bishop outfit; yes, this would do. Idly, he flipped the page, eyes going wide at what he saw.

“Excuse me. What is this class?”

The girl looked up from her work and took a glance, giving a hum of recognition. “Ah, this is the Gremory master class! It is the only one with a focus in Reason and Faith magics and is 'considered the pinnacle for practitioners who only wish to wield magic and not weapons,'” she recited.

Linhardt’s eyes lit up, and Caspar beamed at him. “Linhardt, that sounds perfect for you! You’ve just gotta check it out!”

“Um, a moment please!” the attendant interjected, and both Linhardt and Caspar looked at her curiously. “I’m sorry, but… as far as I know, that class is reserved for ladies only. There is only one approved model for the design, and it is not considered suitable for men.”

“What!” Caspar exclaimed, slamming his hands on the counter, and the girl yelped, bringing her hands to her chin in fright. “Ah… sorry if I scared you,” Caspar said bashfully, removing his hands and placing them on his hips instead. “But that doesn’t make sense. Linhardt here’s got strengths in Reason and Faith. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to become a Grim Mary or whatever just because he’s… well, a he!”

“I… I’m sorry, sirs…” the shopgirl quivered, near tears. “But those are the rules, and I can’t do anything about it…”

“Then let’s do this,” Linhardt cut in, interrupting the stand off. “I would like to try on one of your samples of the Gremory dress. It will take no more than a few minutes, and afterward, I will give you a nice tip, sign the papers for my order of bishops’ robes, and we will be on our way. You won’t say a word about it to anyone. Is that fair?”

The girl looked around, as if wishing her manager or a customer or someone could help get her out of this mess, but seeing that there was nobody else, she simply sighed. “...Very well, sir. I will return momentarily.”

With a little bow, she headed into the back, leaving Linhardt and Caspar by their lonesome. Caspar brought his hands up to the back of his head, interlocking his fingers. “Man, that’s so dumb though. Why don’t they just make a male design, anyway? What’s stopping them?”

“Tradition, most likely,” Linhardt replied thoughtfully, eyes trained on the door to the back room. “If I had to guess, Gremory has always been a class held by women, and nobody has ever bothered to complain about it before so there was no need to get a universally-approved male design. Thus, I was never told about it as one of my class progression options.”

“Ugh, what a pain,” Caspar groaned. “They should just let people be whatever class they want as long as they put in the work.”

“...I couldn’t agree more, Caspar,” Linhardt murmured. “However, the politics of becoming a Gremory aside, if I find that I can handle wearing the dress, then perhaps I will have a better chance of such an appeal being considered; the class itself suits me far better than any other, and if I can find it in myself to put up with the outfit, then I would be strongly inclined to plead my case.”

If it had been anybody else, Linhardt never would have added that last thought, but this was Caspar, his best friend since he had been six, and instead of judgment, all he got was a smile and a gentle pat on the back. “Go for it, Lin. You’d look nice in a dress.”

In that moment, that attendant returned with one of the sample Gremory dresses, a red and white ensemble complete with the matching stole and accessories. “Sir, please follow me up these stairs to a fitting room.” She led them to the second floor of the shop, gesturing to one of the four available rooms. “Would you like any assistance putting this on?”

“Please,” Linhardt replied, and he and the attendant walked inside, leaving Caspar to head back downstairs to wait for them. After 15 agonizing minutes of trying to keep himself entertained, Caspar finally heard the sound of Linhardt’s footsteps, turning to see his best friend descend in the gorgeous red and white dress, with the attendant trailing behind, and as soon as Linhardt moved away from the bottom of the stairs, she locked the front door and headed back to the back to retrieve a mirror. “...Well, Caspar? Linhardt asked hesitantly. “What do you think?”

Caspar was simply staring, a look of wide-eyed wonder on his face. “Lin, you… you’re SO pretty.”

Before Linhardt could respond, the assistant returned with the mirror, placing it before him, and Linhardt could only gape at himself. He really did look pretty in this dress; it hugged his figure in all the right places, and despite having nothing to fill out the bust, it still looked good somehow. The stole draped elegantly around his back, and the accessories all added to the look, being both elegant and tasteful. He had asked to try the dress on solely because he had wanted to make it work, perhaps tweak things in a few places so that he could claim to be unbothered by the feminine design so long as he got his Gremory certification, but he could tell that he was falling in love with it as it was. For the first time in his life, Linhardt felt a deep sense of satisfaction fill his soul, a joy that he had never felt before bubble up from somewhere inside him. He felt powerful. He felt beautiful. He felt right. Gender, tradition… who cared about those things? Looking at himself in the mirror right then and there, part of him longed to simply run out the door right this minute with the dress still on, consequences be damned. He certainly didn’t feel like a woman or anything like that, but perhaps he wasn’t entirely a man either, at least as society defined it. Perhaps he could be somewhere in between? Or, if possible, not bother with the question of gender at all? It was a tempting thought, that was for sure.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and the rattling of the handle, and all three of them swiveled their heads to stare toward the storefront, the moment lost. “I will be there momentarily!” the attendant yelled, and with a panicked look, she turned back to the two students. “P-pardon me, sir,” the shopgirl stammered, “but I will need to ask you to please take that off at once.” Linhardt, not trusting himself to form words, simply nodded, gathering the material in his grasp.

“I’ll help too!” Caspar exclaimed, gently shepherding Linhardt up the stairs and back into the fitting room as the attendant unlocked the door, enthusiastically greeting her manager, who had just returned from errands. A few minutes later, Linhardt and Caspar descended the stairs in their student uniforms, and the manager, a stern-faced woman in her late 40s wearing round glasses and had her short crimson hair tied back with a bow, exchanged pleasantries with the two nobles, thanking them for visiting once again. True to his word, Linhardt signed his name on the order form for his bishops’ robes, handing the girl several gold coins before a loud “ahem” came from beside them.

“Pardon me, Master Hevring,” the manager interjected, hands on her hips as she fixed him with a stern stare. “We do not take any sort of payment in advance.”

“Oh no,” Linhardt replied with a shake of his head. “This is simply a tip for your newest addition. She was quite helpful to me today, and I am showing her my appreciation. That is all.”

“...I see. In that case, please forgive my impertinence.”

“Of course,” Linhardt replied smoothly, and with a wave, bid both the manager and shopgirl farewell as he and Caspar left the store. The sun was just starting to set, and from the look of it, they had enough time to return to the monastery before dinner, so they began their trek back, Caspar going slowly so that Linhardt could keep pace with him. “Hey, Linhardt.”

“Hm?”

“I meant it, you know. You looked really good in that dress.”

“Well, thank you, Caspar. Strangely enough, I found that I truly enjoyed wearing it. I’m not usually a fan of ballgowns and the like; far too frilly and stiff. But that dress was meant to be moved in, a garment crafted for battle and beauty alike, and the fact that it is meant for a class that suits my strengths is an unimaginably large bonus.”

“So do you think you’ll try to work toward that?”

“To be frank, Caspar, I doubt that the monastery will approve my request, and even if they did, my father certainly never would. And yet…” Linhardt let the thought hang in the air, not quite wanting to let it go, and Caspar simply gave him a side-eyed glance before slipping his hands into his pockets.

“...Well, maybe you and I could go somewhere one day where you can be a Gremory. You should get to feel how you want, Lin, and if you wanna wear a pretty dress and cast spells, then you should.”

“...Thank you, Caspar. That means more than you could ever know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Linhardt returned to the manor utterly worn out, with every intention of dragging himself to his bed and sleeping until dinner. As soon as he set foot in the doorway, he waved off the footman and denied his need for a maid to come help him undress as he dragged himself upstairs. He made his way without delay to his bedroom, locking the door behind him as soon as he was inside and making a beeline for his bed. On the bedspread, however, he saw a note in neat handwriting waiting for him, and began to read it, curiosity piqued.

“Dear Master Hevring:

Cavalry leader Zethirra has indicated that you are in need of new bishops’ robes after today’s training. However, she also expressed that you may be interested in helping design them. So long as they retain certain features required of all bishop ensembles, we can certainly work your input into the design. Please inform me at your earliest convenience if you wish to proceed.

Your faithful servant,
Grisholm”

Linhardt turned the note over and over again in his hands, mulling over its contents. While Zethirra might have her opinions on traditionally allowed classes, perhaps this suggestion was her way of making a peace offering, of suggesting that if he were never to attain a master class, at least he could decide how he looked as a bishop to some extent. It was unexpectedly thoughtful of her, and he set the note aside, satisfied. He would certainly follow up on this with Grisholm… after this nap.

Chapter Text

It was well-known among the Hevring Prayer Troops that the night watch was really little more than a formality. The Hevring estate was located a fair distance from the nearest town and near the sea, meaning that it was too far for a casual visit, and the intimidating wrought-iron fence surrounding the perimeter dissuaded errant animals of all sorts. Thus, almost every night was a peaceful, quiet one, and the guards had to fight off sleep far more often than intruders. This was not to imply that a single one of the night watch shirked their work, but it also meant that the young monk responsible for doing the rounds of the front pathway was not at all prepared to see a worn-looking battlehorse bearing the body of a man, the rider slumped in the saddle as the horse came to butt its head against the closed gates. “Hey! HEY!” the monk shouted, drawing the attention of the other guards, and in a flash, reinforcements arrived, the rest of the watchmen opening the gate to let the man inside as a medical team arrived on the scene.

The monk was then tasked with alerting Grisholm, and he ran to the side door, rapping out the secret code so that the evening attendants would let him in. The door was answered by two maids and he bade them to call for Grisholm immediately, the chamberlain arriving in a matter of moments. “Right, right, I understand,” he stated solemnly upon hearing the story. “I will retrieve the young master.” He then turned to the two maids who had called for him, both of them clearly nervous but awaiting instructions. “In the meantime, you two, relay to the Head Maid all that has happened. She will give you instructions from there.” The two bowed and dashed off, and Grisholm looked back at the monk, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, my boy. Go and report to your superior; this will no doubt prove to be a long night.”

Grisholm was proven correct as a short time later, the now-conscious traveler was seated on a couch in the parlor, warming his hands with a freshly prepared cup of Angelica tea as a healer sat beside him, keeping a watchful eye on his condition. In front of him was a small plate of bread and cheese, both of which had been nibbled at but not dug into. He was dressed in what first appeared to be traveler’s clothes, but upon closer inspection in the candlelight it was clear that the man bore the orange and silver livery of the now-dissolved House Aegir, which had immediately piqued the interest of Linhardt, who thankfully had been so absorbed in his crest research that he was still awake at this hour. The young heir was now sitting across from the rider on another couch, wrapped in a white silk robe emblazoned with the Crest of Cethleann and comfortable white slippers. He too held a cup of Angelica tea, sipping it slowly as his guest simply stared into the teacup’s depths. With a sigh, Linhardt placed the cup on the table and looked toward Grisholm, who took the hint and cleared his throat. “Sir, your name, please.”

“H-huh?” the man jerked, almost spilling his tea but managing to steady himself. “Ah… Irving. Irving Hilmer, sir.”

“Very well, Sir Hilmer. You are dressed in the colors of House Aegir, which no longer exists, and you look… hunted. Please explain yourself.”

With a jerky nod, Sir Hilmer began to explain. “Y...yes. I am a member of… a band of runaway knights originally based in Aegir. Once our territory was relinquished to the Empire, we knew we could not stay there, so we began to travel. I was sent to scout ahead, and given the fatigue and weariness we have all felt, I suppose it was only natural that I fainted. Still, I am ashamed that these were the circumstances in which we met, but I am grateful all the same.”

“...Grateful, you say?” Linhardt questioned, drawing questioning glances from Grisholm, the healer, and the rider. “That seems somewhat odd, given the fact that I am still an heir to a territory within the Empire and could very well report you and your band. Is there a particular reason why you feel so at ease around me?”

A bead of sweat trickled down Sir Hilmer’s temple, and he took a large gulp of tea. “Erm… no… I just… our leader spoke well of you, and so…”

“Your leader? I was unaware that any of the Knights of Aegir knew of me, or even particularly liked me.”

The man began to tremble in distress, and the healer gave Linhardt a warning glare. He sighed, and motioned for Grisholm to hand him a piece of paper and some ink. Linhardt quickly scribbled a note, holding it out to Sir Hilmer. “Take this note to your leader. Grisholm, please get this man some fresh rations for his journey back to them.”

As Sir Hilmer inspected the note and placed it in his chest pocket, the chamberlain bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him, and Linhardt looked to the healer. “Has his horse been taken to our stables?”

“Yes, Master Hevring,” the healer replied quietly.

“Good. His horse is in no state to travel, so he may borrow one of ours. Get him what he needs and send him off; I have no doubt that he would like to be on his way.” He nodded to the healer, who stood, bowed back, and ran off to relay the command.

Sir Hilmer looked up at him then, wide-eyed. “I… thank you, Master Hevring.”

Linhardt simply nodded, a yawn escaping him, and he rose from the couch. “Come along.” Sir Hilmer finished his tea, standing up somewhat shakily, and Linhardt reached his hand out to steady the knight, walking him toward the door. They continued in silence, walking until they reached the front door, and once the footman saw them, he opened the door to reveal Grisholm supervising the packing of rations onto one of their horses. At the sound of their arrival, the chamberlain turned, giving them a warm glance and a bow.

“Master Hevring. The horse and rations are ready for Sir Hilmer’s departure.”

“Excellent,” the young heir replied, looking skyward as his eyes took in the bright moonlight spilling over the front yard. With this light, he likely wouldn’t even need a torch to light his way back. Linhardt remained on the stoop as Sir Hilmer walked over and mounted the horse, giving Linhardt a clumsy half-bow from the saddle.

“Thank you for your great kindness, Master Hevring! I won’t forget it, I promise you!” Sir Hilmer swore, riding off into the night, as Linhardt and his staff watched him gallop off into the night. As Grisholm turned and began walking up the steps, Linhardt caught his eye.

“Grisholm, prepare some guestrooms and have them keep the gate open. If I am correct, we are about to have a number of guests staying with us for a time.”

The chamberlain’s eyes widened, and almost imperceptibly, his hands trembled slightly. “Young master, to take in--”

“I know. But if their leader is the man I think he is, it would not do to turn away an old friend. All I ask, Grisholm, is that you omit the color of their clothes from your report to my father.”

The chamberlain was silent for a long moment, but he gave Linhardt a long sigh and a crisp bow. “...it shall be done, Master Hevring,” he replied, before striding inside.

With their conversation concluded, Linhardt continued to stand on the front stoop, a maid eventually bringing him a fresh cup of Angelica tea that he idly stirred as he watched and waited. Inside, the mansion was abuzz with activity as servants were woken and rooms prepared, but outside, there was only a quiet stillness, as if the nighttime were holding its breath in anticipation. For Linhardt himself, he would normally feel the demon of drowsiness’s influence upon him by now, his limbs feeling heavy and his thoughts slower. Tonight, however, he was holding it at bay, determined to stay up until he had an answer to his note. A bell sounded, then another, and just as Linhardt was wondering if he really wouldn’t come, there was the rumbling of hooves in the distance, and a battalion of ten rode up, being led by a man with a rather familiar horse. The group approached the open gates, striding through unhindered, and the wrought iron closed behind them as they rode up to the front door. The leader stopped, dismounting his horse, and as he removed his helmet, placing it among the other items strapped to his horse, Linhardt’s heart was moved to see that he had indeed been correct.

“Ferdinand,” he murmured, for standing before him was the one and only Ferdinand von Aegir, his hair considerably longer than it had been in the Officers’ Academy, and his eyes held much more weight, more clarity in them, but despite all of that, Linhardt could still make out the noblest of nobles, a man who, despite being a little too fervent in his pursuit of true nobility, had earned his utmost respect.

“It… it has been too long, my friend,” Ferdinand choked out, and he reached out, almost desperately, tears starting to pool in the corners of his eyes. Linhardt took Ferdinand’s hands in his own, giving them a light squeeze before letting go and draping an arm around his shoulders instead.

“Come inside, Ferdinand. I have already had rooms made up for you and your men. I would like to talk, of course, but as you know, sleep calls me so very strongly and it has been a rather long night.”

“Yes, of course… I shall see you tomorrow, then. Just… truly, thank you.”

With that, the guests were led to their rooms, and Linhardt retired to his own, removing his robe and slippers and leaving them haphazardly on the floor as he crawled into bed, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Linhardt had come out of the cathedral one sunny day to see Ferdinand standing at the bridge joining the building to the monastery proper, staring up at the skies above the Officers’ Academy and gazing almost wistfully at the passing clouds. Not wishing to interrupt, Linhardt moved to pass him when Ferdinand began to speak. “Linhardt. Do you have a moment?”

His words were raw, vulnerable in a way that Ferdinand himself usually never was, and that gave Linhardt pause. With a huff, he turned and walked to stand next to the other noble, resting his hands on the railing and following the Aegir’s gaze out into the wide blue skies. “I suppose. What is it?”

“Do you think… that I am living up to the example of Saint Cichol?”

Linhardt blinked, somewhat caught off guard by the doubt and worry in Ferdinand’s tone. “Saint Cichol?” he echoed, trying to follow Ferdinand’s thought process.

“Yes… you see, I have come to realize over the course of our time here that my father is not the man I thought he was. Perhaps I’ve always known that, because whenever I tried to think about what it meant to be noble, I thought about Saint Cichol and the example he set. His crest runs in my veins, after all, and while I suppose it sounds silly, I have always felt close to him because of that. I wish to protect my land and people, and do right by them. I wish for other nobles to do the same. Our crests show that we are of the ruling class, and that means that we have a duty to make our people’s lives better…!” His hand balled into a fist on the railing, and Linhardt could see his arm shaking.

“Hm. So you see your crest as a source of inspiration then?” Linhardt asked thoughtfully, starting to piece together a general sense of where this conversation was going.

“Well, yes,” Ferdinand replied, seeming almost confused by the question. “Do you not?”

Linhardt simply gave a slight huff, continuing to stare off into the distance. “The crest itself is a boon, I feel. It allows me to heal others even more effectively at times, and it was the cause of my steps into crest studies, leading me down a fascinating and exciting path of knowledge. Saint Cethleann, to me, is perhaps less of an aspiration than a source of respect, but I have long been interested in who she was as a person. And yet, it is the trappings of nobility that come with this crest that I despise. I find it burdensome that my future has been more or less decided for me, and that I must succeed my father despite the fact that I am hardly qualified for the job. I wish to do what makes me happy and what I can put my best effort toward. In that sense, this crest is a double-edged sword, bringing with it both blessings and burdens that I never asked for and don’t have the choice to.”

Ferdinand listened attentively, the two standing in silence and continuing to watch the clouds until Ferdinand was able to form his next thought. “So you don’t feel that having a crest means that you are beholden to do right by your people?”

“...I think that having a crest or not does not guarantee a person’s character. Some of the kindest people in the world have crests, as well as some of the most terrible. Having a crest or being born first should not be what determines one’s successor, but rather, who can do that job the best. I have long believed that. And so, it is not about being beholden, but rather the fact that I do not wish to be shouldered with these burdens, fail to give my all to my post, and do a poor job as a result, letting down my people anyway. That’s all there is to it.”

A tremor of emotion had entered into Linhardt’s voice by the end, and Ferdinand swallowed, seeing that he had touched a nerve. “I apologize, Linhardt. What I said was… uncalled for.”

Linhardt simply sighed in response. “No, it’s alright, Ferdinand. But truthfully, crests are many things to many people. As you said regarding Saint Cichol, you look to him for guidance and inspiration, and feel that you must personally embody some of those traits. But for others, their crests are burdensome, lonely things. It would be nice if crests guaranteed aptitude, but that’s simply not how the world works.”

Ferdinand simply nodded. “I see… that said, Linhardt, I do think you embody Saint Cethleann quite a lot.”

Linhardt turned to look at him, confusion evident on his face. “In what way?”

“The Crest of Cethleann is described as ‘a symbol of kindness and mastery of light.’ To think about your people to the extent that you have, even if it is from a rather pessimistic viewpoint, I think that reflects quite strongly on you. You have a kindness to you that can be hard to see, but is very valuable. I’m glad that I could call upon you.”

Unsure of how to accept such praise, Linhardt merely nodded. “...Thank you. And I am glad that I could help. That said, this entire conversation has worn me out, so I believe that it is time for me to nap. Good bye,” he called, turning away from the railing and beginning to stride back toward the monastery.

“Wait, Linhardt…!” Ferdinand called, and Linhardt stopped, turning back to look at him. “You didn’t answer my question!”

“...Oh! That’s right. Well, Ferdinand, you are strong, and not just in the military sense. Saint Cichol was strong, but he was also just, and desired to do right by those who followed him and loved him. In that sense, I think you’re doing just fine.” With that, Linhardt continued to walk away, leaving Ferdinand with a smile on his face as he turned back to continue watching the clouds roll by.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast the next morning was a private affair between the two of them, Ferdinand’s men having been granted the day off to bathe, rest, and put their personal affairs in order. They sat in the breakfast room, chatting and catching up over tea and pastries, until finally, Ferdinand fell silent, a pensive expression on his face as he struggled to find words.

“...Linhardt. I don’t know if you remember what we talked about years ago now, on the monastery bridge, but I’ve been thinking.” Ferdinand paused a moment, his gaze sliding down to his teacup. “I admit that I have been doing much reflecting about what it means to be a noble. About how nobles can be responsible for terrible acts, and kind ones too. In the time that I have been away from my territory, I have learned much about this world and the people in it, and I am glad that you and I had our talk that day, for that too has broadened my mind. Although I am technically no longer a noble, I can still be noble, and in the end, perhaps that is far more valuable. However, I wanted to ask. Do you, by chance, still feel that you are not qualified to be a noble?”

Linhardt furrowed his brow, giving a sigh. “As a matter of fact, the feeling has only intensified with time. I do not feel right here. This is not my place, and I am not sure that it ever will be; I do not know if you’ve heard the rumors about me, but...”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Then I need not repeat them. Needless to say, if I could leave, I would.”

“...Well, that takes care of that, then.”

“Hm?”

“Have you forgotten? The promised day in which all of us swore to meet at Garreg Mach once again is drawing near. If you need a means of getting there, then I would be happy to offer you a ride. Noble or not, I would never let a favor go unrepaid. Of course, if you need time to consider it, I am happy to give you until we must leave to make your decision.”

Linhardt simply stared at him for a long moment as the offer processed in his brain, and after a moment, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “...I will let you know, Ferdinand. Thank you for your offer.”

Ferdinand then stood, as did Linhardt, heading for the door to the breakfast room. “Of course. For now, I shall check on my men, and with any luck, we will be out of your way in a few days. Until lunch, Linhardt!” he called, and with a wave, he shut the door behind him, leaving Linhardt alone with his thoughts, his dreams, and a strange spark of hope in his heart, the possibility dawning on him of finally being able to choose the direction of his future for himself.

Chapter Text

Linhardt felt as though he were sleepwalking, looking around in awe as he retreaded old stone paths he hadn’t seen in years now. A full moon hung daintily in the sky, illuminating the entire monastery in silvery moonlight, and despite the piles of rubble around and the repairs that needed to be made, there was still a sense of beauty that remained. Old classmates had returned en masse, familiar faces (albeit older, wiser, and often more scarred) passing by on their way to reorient themselves with the monastery they had all called home for almost a year. It had only been 2 days since everyone had reconvened at the monastery, but Linhardt had to admit that seeing them all again was a joy, and while some hadn’t changed much, others had--

“Heyyyy, Linhardt!” a familiar voice called from behind him, and Linhardt turned to see Caspar, waving furiously as he rushed toward him. Yes, Caspar was one of those who had changed dramatically during his time away from the Academy and the Empire, and Linhardt could barely believe that the boy who had once been too short to even be his headrest was now a man tall enough to meet his eyes properly. What a strange world they lived in.

Linhardt gave Caspar a quiet smile as the brawler rushed up to him. “What is it, Caspar? You seem… out of breath.”

“Yeah… well…” the bluenette panted, holding a hand to his head. “I was looking everywhere for you! Come on over to the dining hall!”

Linhardt blinked, confused, but allowed Caspar to lead him back to the dining hall, curiosity thoroughly piqued. As soon as he stepped through the doors, he was quickly handed a glass of wine by Dorothea, and as a few more stragglers trickled in, the songstress herself was gently lifted to the top of a table. “Everyone!” she called, tapping her glass with a spoon, “we’ve all gathered here together again in order to keep a promise we made 5 years ago. Now that we have, I’d like to call a toast and celebrate everyone’s birthdays that were missed! Despite everything, you’re still here. We’re still here. In spite of this terrible war, we continue to live, to dream, and to work hard. So, in celebration of survival and hope for the future… say it with me! One, two, three! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” everyone echoed, and they all, including Linhardt, enjoyed the wine, the birthday celebration quickly kicking off with platters of food being brought out and trays of teas, desserts, and sweets quickly covering the tables for all of the students to feast upon. Linhardt sipped more of his wine as he gazed at the faces of his friends and acquaintances, smiling at seeing their happy expressions, and leaned against the wall closest to a table holding a heaping plate of sweet buns, staring into the depths of his wine glass.

His birthday this year, similar to all of the other ones he’d had ever since being returned home, had consisted of a large feast that only he and the staff had attended, a gift from his parents that he neither wanted nor asked for (this year, it had been a full set of horse riding equipment) and going to sleep early. Here, however, the party was lively, a celebration of survival and having made it through everything thrown at them in order to fulfill their collective promise and gather together once more. If you had asked him before entering the Officers’ Academy whether he would ever have made the choice to come back, he surely would have laughed, but now, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he would want to be. In the end, he mused as he sipped his wine, he had made this choice for himself, and the consequences were his to bear. Linhardt plucked a sweet bun from the plate, digging into it with gusto and letting his thoughts wander as he savored the taste of Morfis plum on his tongue. Everyone here had clearly undergone hardship and struggle to survive during these times of war and madness, to reach this place once again, but not one of them, outwardly at least, appeared to regret it, and Linhardt himself couldn’t really say he regretted it either.

Polishing off the last of his wine and leaving the empty glass on the countertop near the cooking area, he slipped out of the dining hall and made his way through the monastery to the cathedral. Very few guards were on duty tonight and the ones that were had been stationed by the front gate, so he was alone to travel as he pleased. He crossed the bridge that he had talked to Ferdinand on, passed by the place where he and Caspar had reconnected once again, and made his way into the cathedral proper, staring at the rubble of the cathedral’s central statue. The moonlight shone in through the holes in the roof, and Linhardt took a seat in one of the pews, basking in the quiet. He had enjoyed seeing everyone again and celebrating their many missed birthdays, but now he was ready to sit and sort out his thoughts.

Closing his eyes, Linhardt allowed himself to breathe.

Would Grisholm and the others be alright? He hoped so. He doubted that his father would punish them too harshly, especially because Linhardt had never told a soul about his plans to escape, and there was no doubt in his mind that neither Linhardt’s father, nor anyone in that estate, would have expected a frail layabout such as himself to actually flee. Not to mention that at this point, sending anyone to retrieve him would be fruitless; if Linhardt did meet his father again, it would be on the battlefield.

Linhardt’s eyes fluttered open once more, and he craned his neck back in order to gaze up at the starry expanse above him. At least that was one thing this terrible war hadn’t ruined; the skies were still beautiful, and hope still sparked in his heart. It was true that he could die here. It was true that his friends could die here. Yet, he had come here by his own will, with the resolve to see the people he cared about and to be free to live his life as he pleased. He would no longer just survive as the future Count Hevring, lamenting what he had lost; no matter what happened, he wished to live, live according to his own principles and desires and help others as much as he could.

With that thought in mind, Linhardt stood and exited the cathedral, heading back to the celebration. Difficult times were sure to come, but he had found his resolve and made his choice. From now on, past even the end of this war, he would live with it.