Chapter Text
Linhardt’s world is fire, and blood, and destruction, and death. It’s the school he’d spent a year acquainting himself with up in smoke. It’s the shops where he’d once bought sweet buns lying in rubble across the ground. It’s a white-winged beast in the sky crying out and then silenced. It’s the demonic beasts that gallop unnaturally across the battlefield. It’s his professor’s scream as they fall, from a great height no one could survive.
His world is black and red, and waving above it all, a double-headed golden eagle.
“We have to go,” Caspar says.
Linhardt doesn’t respond. He’s frozen to the spot – he has been ever since he heard that scream, fading away to nothing. He can do nothing but stare, blankly, at a battle lost before it even began, at blood, red, red blood, leaching into the dirt and between the cobbles of the streets he’d once walked.
“The army is coming,” Caspar continues, urgently. He’s not even being loud – he really must be afraid. “Lin, we gotta go before they get here! They’ll take us back to the Empire, you know that, don’t you?”
Linhardt swallows shakily. “I know,” he says hoarsely. Smoke in his lungs. So much, destroyed.
“So we have to run!” Caspar steps in front of him, planting his hands on his shoulders, so Linhardt will actually look at him. He does, though his eyes can barely focus. “They’ll take us back and make us fight–”
“We can’t go.” It surprises both of them – Linhardt didn’t think he had it in him to disagree, let alone to interrupt. But he continues: “Where would we go?”
“We could figure something out–”
“No.”
They’re both silent for a moment, and Linhardt’s gaze slides away from Caspar’s face and stares, dully, at the carnage around them. He isn’t at his best, currently, but his brain operates on reflex – when Caspar doesn’t think things through, he does. And what he’s thinking is that running will make them as good as the Empire’s enemies. Running means more fighting, and bleeding, and dying.
Beneath a bit of rubble, he glimpses a hand, still and lifeless.
“I want to go home,” he whispers.
“Lin.” Caspar sounds desperate. “Linhardt. Come on. We can’t go back there. They-they’re the ones that did this, we can’t–” His voice breaks, and that’s enough to get Linhardt to refocus on him. His eyes are wet, and that’s how Linhardt realizes – Caspar knows his mind is made up even before he does. He thinks Caspar’s mind is probably made up, too. “Linhardt, come on. I can’t go back.”
Linhardt imagines a life on the run, imagines Caspar fighting for others and for justice and never for his own life. The only ending he can picture is Caspar lying in the dirt and bleeding out like the rest of them. He shakes his head, but before he can say anything he hears the call of soldiers, close.
“Lin,” Caspar whispers. He’s holding his hands, now, and tugging gently on them. “Come on.”
The path he imagines with Caspar has nothing but destruction waiting at the end. And it hurts, knowing it will happen, but at the very least he doesn’t have to be there to watch it. Linhardt pulls his hands away, taking a step back, and he sees pain flash across Caspar’s features before he sets his jaw, turns tail, and takes off.
It takes everything in Linhardt not to follow.
He never sees his best friend again.
Linhardt isn’t standing in the burning wreckage of Garreg Mach. He’s home, in the library, distracted from his reading by old, unpleasant memories. He sighs, resolutely turning his gaze back to his text, but the shadow cast by the battle five years ago obscures any coherent thought. He’s too tired to stop himself from recalling it – the way the students, those who hadn’t run or… worse, were given a scant hour to pack their belongings and head home. It was more time than the Knights of Seiros had, anyway; they had evacuated before any of the students could finish packing their bags, fleeing for goddess-knows-where. And Linhardt had gone home; with his schooling over, nevermind how unconventional his graduation had been, his father had pushed him into falling into his role.
“You have plenty to catch yourself up on,” he’d sneered, and Linhardt hadn’t argued – his father was completely right. Besides, how could he be disappointed? He’d always known a lifetime of governance and civil service would be his reward for completing his education. Father had set him to work, and Linhardt had taken up responsibility and fallen in line.
He had literally nothing better to do. Edelgard had visited him once, shortly after his return to Hevring Manor, to offer him a place in the army, and he’d refused. His understanding was that he would be confined to his home unless – until – he changed his mind. He’d had the occasional distraction; Lysithea, for a while, wrote him regarding a bit of personal Crest research she was undertaking, but the letters had ceased less than a year into his confinement, and he’d assumed she’d taken his advice and gone to Hanneman with any further queries. His other former classmates from the Golden Deer, unsurprisingly, had made no attempt to get into contact with him. As for the Black Eagles…
Linhardt winces. The memory of the single visit Ferdinand von Aegir had deigned to pay him still chafes. He’d spent the majority of it making thinly-veiled attempts to convince Linhardt to join the army, and the rest of it prying into his personal business, trying to hear about any visitors he’d had or letters he’d received. When all Linhardt had to mention was his failed correspondence with Lysithea, Ferdinand had tried and failed to hide his disappointment. Linhardt hadn’t figured out what he was trying to get at until his father had made it clear a few days later…
“Lord Hevring?” Linhardt looks up from his book – he’s yet to read a single word. The courier dips his head in respect. “Minister Hevring would like to speak with you in his study.”
“Fine,” he mutters, abandoning his book and brushing past the courier.
His thoughts keep drifting, refusing to stay anchored to the present: his father, over breakfast, being the one to deliver the news.
“Have you heard from the Bergliez boy?”
Linhardt had tried very hard not to flinch. He’d done admirably, munching away on his toast. “Not since the academy. Why?”
“The Emperor is looking for him.” That had gotten Linhardt’s attention, as he looked up at his father with undisguised surprise. “He’s been causing trouble for Imperial troops all across the Alliance border. She wants him brought in on charges of treason. Linhardt.” His father had fixed him with a glare. “If you know anything about where he is, if you ever find out, you’d best report him immediately. I trust you understand the dire consequences that would face this family if you were caught withholding information about a wanted criminal.”
Linhardt had understood, but his father’s warning didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. He hasn’t seen or heard from Caspar since the Battle of Garreg Mach; before that talk with his father, he hadn’t known he was still alive, and given he hasn’t heard anything about him since, he may very well be dead by now, either captured by Imperial patrols and executed for treason or killed on the battlefield, as Linhardt had always expected him to go out.
Linhardt doesn’t indulge in fantasies about where Caspar may be now, or in any ideas about him still being alive. What he can’t escape, no matter how he tries, are his memories, and the feelings they always stir up in his chest. His choice not to follow Caspar that day had been an outlier; he has always, from their first meeting at six to their battlefield experience at the academy a decade later, followed along behind him, if often at a leisurely pace, to ensure he didn’t get himself into any trouble. He’d followed Caspar from the Black Eagles into the Golden Deer – after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, Caspar had been clamoring at a chance to learn from the powerful professor, and Linhardt had shrugged and said something about the Deer being more his speed. A complete lie, and obvious to Claude after he’d floundered his way through class with Raphael shouting wrong answers in his ear and Hilda plying Lorenz for his notes; when confronted, he’d said he wanted to study their dear professor’s Crest, and Claude had taken that for true and let him be. It was true, sort of, but Linhardt had only really joined the class for one person.
It wasn’t about feelings, obviously. It made tactical sense – Caspar’s close-range, reckless fighting style required the assistance of a long-range healer, and Caspar could draw fire from Linhardt simply by existing. They made a good team. They always had. Feelings and friendship had nothing to do with it – they just fit together, a matched set. Even the professor had noticed and kept them together in battle formations, which suited Linhardt just fine.
When it came time to make the difficult choice, though, Linhardt hadn’t picked Caspar. If he wants to haunt Linhardt’s dreams with the impressions of his tears down his cheeks and his blood spilled across the dirt, that’s his right. At least Linhardt has peace and quiet; he’ll make do without Caspar’s warmth and light if he can at least have a bit of security.
He shakes himself out of his own head as he arrives at his father’s study, knocking and entering at his call. Count Hevring is seated at his oversized desk, attention on the papers spread before him; he keeps Linhardt waiting several moments before he finally speaks.
“Have you finished the report on–”
“Yes,” he says curtly; the interruption draws Father’s attention, making him look up at Linhardt with tight, narrowed eyes. He can’t find it in himself to be sorry – he certainly hopes his father didn’t call him all the way across the manor to ask if he’d finished a report .
“Mind your manners,” Father warns, returning to whatever it is he’s scribbling so furiously. Finally, he says, “You’ve learned a great deal about your future duties since your return home.” He’s fishing for a compliment on his teaching; Linhardt stays silent, forcing him to continue. “I believe it may be time for you to focus on more pressing matters. Each day, the Empire draws closer to success–”
“I’m not going to war,” Linhardt says flatly, once more drawing a sharp look from his father. “I’ve been quite clear. I’m not as talented a fighter as everyone seems to think I am; I’m clearly better suited to deskwork, and you just said my work is satisfactory. I’m staying here.”
He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it isn’t for his father to stand with a tired sigh and walk around his desk to speak softly to him. “Linhardt, you need to understand. Your loyalties are in question.” Linhardt swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “The Marquis Vestra distrusts any noble who refuses to throw himself whole-heartedly behind the Emperor’s cause; with your combat training, the expectation is that you will use it in service of her goals.” Linhardt is almost touched – he’s never seen his father so openly concerned for him. The effect is instantly ruined as he says, “We cannot risk our house’s reputation, its safety , on your indiscretions. If you will not fight, you must find another way to prove your loyalty.”
Linhardt bows his head, more to hide his frown than out of respect. “I’ll think about it,” he says tightly. Apparently satisfied, his father returns to his seat; Linhardt takes it as the dismissal it is and leaves, his back ramrod straight.
He has more important things to do.
It’s getting late when Linhardt finally decides to turn in for the night, satisfied that he’s gotten enough done to keep his father off his back. He yawns and stretches – his back pops – and makes his way out of the library, his makeshift office, with the stubby little candle he’s been working by for hours in hand. He yawns as he pads down the dark hall, accompanied by the patter of rainfall against the windows; it is late. Later than he’d meant to stay up. That’s hardly a surprise for him, though; even if the work is tedious, it’s easy to get absorbed in his reports and statistics, to let his focus narrow to a dull point scratching out needless formalities. It may not be his preferred way of spending his evenings – it doesn’t even make the top three – but it at least wears him out enough that sleep should come quickly, and he won’t waste valuable hours tossing and turning.
Small blessings.
His train of thought is interrupted by one of the servants calling for him, her voice low and urgent so as not to awaken the rest of the household. “Lord Hevring,” she says, rushing up beside him. Her eyes are wide, the picture of barely-contained panic. “Sir, there’s an urgent visitor for you…”
Linhardt frowns at her. At this hour? If it’s not yet midnight, it’s damn close. “Send them to a guest room, I’ll speak with them tomorrow–”
“Apologies, sir,” the servant says, shifting anxiously on her feet. “But it’s-quite urgent. He needs to see you now. Sir.” She swallows. “He insists.”
Linhardt peers at her for another moment. The insistence, the interruption, the anxiety – whoever this visitor is, he must be extremely important to have her in such a state. He wonders if it might be Hubert, here to vaguely threaten him under cover of darkness. ‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all that. As if on cue, thunder rumbles ominously. “Very well,” he says; he’s barely acquiesced before the servant is skittering away toward the entrance, and Linhardt half-hurries to keep up with her.
As he arrives in the entryway, the first thing he notices is that his mysterious visitor mostly certainly is not Hubert. Hubert wouldn’t lean so heavily on the doorman, and he wouldn’t be dripping rainwater onto the carpet. In fact – Linhardt squints through the dark – the visitor is shorter and broader than Hubert. Something stirs in his chest, a bit of familiarity; but it simply isn’t possible, it isn’t , because even if something about that build and presence is achingly similar, he is halfway across the continent, most likely, and on the run, and he ran away from Linhardt and he couldn’t possibly have run back , not into hostile territory, not in a terrible thunderstorm, he simply couldn’t .
Lightning flashes, illuminating brilliant blue hair, overgrown and tied back in a sopping ponytail. Linhardt would know it anywhere; he feels the recognition deep in his soul.
“Caspar?” he breathes, as the servant who’d brought him here rushes to help support him.
Caspar looks at him, eyes bleary but still that electrifying blue Linhardt remembers, and breaks into a wobbly grin. “Heya, Lin,” he says hoarsely. “‘Sgood to see you again.”
Thunder booms, and Caspar’s knees give out as he goes unconscious; the two people supporting him aren’t able to keep him up, and they lay him down as gently as they can onto the carpet as Linhardt springs into action, rushing to his side. The servants turn him onto his back, and Linhardt looks him over – he’s soaked to the bone, his hair hanging in damp straggles around his face. He’s hot to the touch – fever – and he’s got ingrained crevices under his eyes; he clearly hasn’t slept in… too long. Far too long. He’s scratched up and bruised, and his ankle is hideously swollen.
Linhardt swallows, hands trembling as he examines him, his best friend in the world here again after five exhaustingly long years. Here – in the home of an imperial loyalist who’d do anything for power and status, even send his own son to war. Caspar is wanted, and his father is desperate to lick the emperor’s boots and encourages Linhardt to do the same.
You must find another way to prove your loyalty .
Horseshit.
“Get him to a spare room,” Linhardt tells the servants, relieved when his voice doesn’t shake. “In a quiet corner of the manor. And do not speak of this to my father, or anyone .” The servants nod tightly, and Linhardt helps them hoist Caspar up and get moving.
With the attention firmly off himself, he blinks, his eyes surprisingly misty. He hadn’t realized how good it would be to see Caspar again, even like this, even with all the trouble it will undoubtedly cause him.
He hadn’t realized he’d been operating as if Caspar were already dead. But he isn’t – he really, truly isn’t. He’s here , and he’s alive.
Linhardt just has to make sure he stays that way.
Linhardt doesn’t sleep much that night.
As soon as Caspar’s laid down in a bedroom far, far from his father’s office, Linhardt gets to work. It’s like muscle memory – checking vitals, scanning for wounds, determining what medicine to give him to help him heal. He sends the servants for supplies, for his old healer’s kit that he’d left, unused, in his bedroom for five long years. It’s fitting that the first person he uses it on after all this time is the very same person who’d benefitted from its contents most frequently.
Funny, how life works.
Linhardt does all he can to patch his cuts and bandage his sprained ankle. He prepares a tincture for the fever, something he can take when he wakes. He pulls off his wet outer layers to hang them up to dry, from his ridiculous poncho to a tattered overcoat that brings back memories of the fights he used to pick back in school, along with his sopping boots and socks. Caspar’s fist is clenched tight, even in his sleep, but when Linhardt pries it open he finds himself staring at the charm he’d made Caspar what feels like a century ago, a little painted slat of wood he’d sworn would ward off lightning and keep him safe from danger. Linhardt swallows at the sight of it now, amazed Caspar’s kept it so long, touched he’d pulled it out tonight as he trudged through wind and rain to return to him, trusting in his promises even after all this time–
Anyway. Linhardt gently takes it from his hand and sets it on the bedside table. Just so it doesn’t get lost.
That’s all he can do. He tips the overworked servants with gold he scrounges out of his medical bag and settles in to watch him and wait. He studies him – how he’s grown, how he’s changed. He’s taller, now – thank the goddess, not as tall as Linhardt is – and his shoulders have broadened out. His muscle is more defined, too, across his arms and where his shirt clings to his chest and in his abdominal region, because Linhardt checked him over and had, perhaps, noticed. He looks like he hasn’t cut his hair once since their time at the monastery; Linhardt can’t imagine Caspar enjoys running around and fighting when it can so easily slide into his face, but he also supposes a decent barber is hard to come by, on the run. He’s also grown a stubbly mess of a beard, if it can even be called that, patchy across his chin and neck. The Caspar he remembers lamented the fact that every other boy in their class had to shave regularly, while he couldn’t even grow a single hair.
“I don’t have to shave regularly,” Linhardt had said, and Caspar had scoffed and said he didn’t count, which Linhardt had accepted as fair. He still doesn’t have to shave regularly; Caspar, on the other hand, very much does. Terribly. Linhardt isn’t above admitting that he hates the facial hair monstrosity.
Beyond that, Caspar’s spotted with a few scars that speak to terribly close calls; Linhardt can only imagine the stories that go with them, not that he has to. Caspar will likely brag about them as he always does, as soon as he wakes up.
Once he wakes up.
When he… wakes…
Linhardt startles awake at a knock on the door. He blinks – he hadn’t even noticed himself falling asleep, but apparently the armchair he’s still sitting in had been more comfortable than he thought. He yawns, stretching and popping his back. There’s bleary, early-morning light streaming through the windows. What a strange night, and such a strange–
His gaze falls on Caspar, still lying motionless in bed, and he startles. He didn’t dream it. Caspar is actually here, hiding in his home, in the middle of the Empire–
There’s another knock, and now Linhardt’s panicking, praying to the goddess or the saints or whoever is listening that it’s not his father or a guard because he doesn’t have time to hide Caspar or come up with an excuse or anything. He shoots to his feet, swallows heavily, steels himself, and finally cracks open the door.
“Sir.” It’s the woman from last night, and his shoulders slump in relief. He steps aside to let her in – she’s carrying a tray of tea, goddess bless her. “I hope all is well with your guest.”
Linhardt hums as she sets the tray down on the desk. “It should be. Thank you.” Still, though, she lingers, hesitating, and he asks, “Is there something else?”
She takes a deep breath. “Sir. I know you instructed us not to… speak of your guest to anyone.” His heart rate spikes. “But the fact is, you – we – need help to look after him, and I know there are many in this manor who remember…” She lowers her voice, in deference to this secret they’re keeping. “...Lord Bergliez fondly. Thom and I have spoken to a few – not many, I swear – who are willing to help with food and medicine and… anything else he needs. Someone should be by in a few hours with breakfast and a fresh change of clothes.” She ducks her head. “I apologize for doing this without consulting you, but–”
“It’s fine,” Linhardt breathes. He’s… shocked is an apt descriptor. Everyone who works in this house works on his father’s coin, and he assumed that their loyalty extended no further than that. Not to mention that he and Caspar had raised hells for the servants during their childhood. And yet, people are volunteering to put their lives on the line for his sake. He’s relieved, and overjoyed, and so much more at ease now that he knows he isn’t responsible for protecting Caspar completely by himself. “Thank you,” he says faintly. “Ah-spread my thanks to the others you’ve spoken to, as well. That will be all.”
The servant dips her head and takes her leave, leaving Linhardt to try to come to terms with the idea that there are employees who actually care for him, not as the future lord of the manor but as himself . Goodness.
He’s still wrapping his head around it when he hears a soft groan. In an instant, he’s at Caspar’s side, watching as he stirs a bit and his eyes peek open and then–
“Is that ginger tea?” he rasps. Linhardt could cry with relief, but he doesn’t, just fetches the pot and pours them each a cup. Silently, he places them on the bedside table, and Caspar whines. “C’mon, Lin, I can’t reach…”
“You need to sit up,” he says, slipping into medic mode because it’s a hell of a lot easier to deal with than the emotional turmoil of speaking to his friend again. “Come on, then, I can’t lift you if you’re deadweight.” With much maneuvering, they get Caspar sitting up, nestled by pillows and the headboard. Caspar holds his hands out for the tea and Linhardt presses the medicine he’d prepared into his hands instead.
“This first. Believe me, you’ll want the tea to wash it down.” Caspar obediently drains the bottle of its contents, and his face screws up at the taste; Linhardt is quick to pass him his teacup and watch patiently as Caspar gulps it down, with no regard to the tea’s temperature.
“That hit the spot,” he says, sounding more like himself, if not significantly more exhausted. “Man, it’s been forever since I had a good cup of ginger tea. No one can make it like the people here can! Everywhere else it’s always just kinda bitter and–”
“Caspar,” Linhardt interrupts, because his patience does have limits. Caspar looks at him, smiling brightly, if weakly, despite the dark bags beneath his eyes. Now that he has his full attention, he’s a bit at a loss. There’s much that he wants to say, questions he wants to ask, confusion swirling in his brain, and yet. All he’s able to concoct is a deeply honest, “What the fuck?”
Caspar’s eyes go wide. “You swear now?” he whispers, scandalized.
“I always swear, this isn’t–”
“Not in your parents’ house ! Lin! What if your father hears–”
“He isn’t going to hear, Caspar, honestly–”
“ Man , you think you know a guy, and then you see him again for the first time in years–”
“Five, to be precise.”
“–and he went and got pretty and started swearing –”
“ Caspar .” Caspar pauses, looking at him.
“Hey, Lin.”
“Hello. I’m hoping once that medicine kicks in you’ll be a little more lucid.”
“I’m lucid now!”
“No, you’re not.” Caspar pouts at him, but Linhardt merely plucks the teacup from his hands and sets it aside before he spills and burns himself. “And you clearly weren’t lucid last night, either, because I don’t know what else could possess you to come here , in the middle of a hostile nation, to the home of an imperial loyalist.”
Caspar frowns. “You’re an imperial loyalist? Shit.”
Linhardt sighs. He can already feel a headache coming on. “Not me. My father. Who doesn’t know you’re here yet , but the secret could come out at any moment.”
Caspar sighs, and he looks genuinely… remorseful. Linhardt almost feels guilty for telling him off. “Sorry, Lin. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just…” His face screws up as he stares blankly at the covers, and he looks so pained that Linhardt’s heart breaks, just a bit.
“What happened?” he asks softly. “Because you are in terrible shape.”
Caspar laughs mirthlessly, his fingers twisting together in his lap. “Got captured.” Linhardt’s eyebrows shoot up as he takes a sharp breath, and Caspar laughs again. “Yeah, pretty bad. I was getting carted along to… the capital, I guess, I don’t know, when I saw my chance and made my daring escape. I was running for a while. Then the scenery started looking familiar. I kinda just came here on instinct. It made sense at the time!” He scratches his head. “Of course, by that point, I hadn’t eaten in a bit…”
Linhardt sucks in a deep breath. “Then it’s true. You have been fighting the Empire all this time.”
Caspar puffs his chest out proudly. “Damn right I have! Been all over. Leicester, Faerghus – which sucks, by the way, not worth the trip – I’ve spent time in the Empire before and come out fine, too, so I thought I’d be okay, but I guess I just let my guard down.” He sighs, deflating. “Gotta say, it’s not a great feeling.”
“I would imagine not,” Linhardt murmurs. If he were in Caspar’s shoes… well, he wouldn’t be in Caspar’s shoes, because he doesn’t do daring – stupid – things like starting a resistance movement and fighting against his homeland. But even supposing he did, he doubts he’d be brave enough to escape and just run . And Caspar had run here, right back to him.
Imagine that.
“I know I shouldn’t be here,” Caspar says guiltily, snapping Linhardt back to the moment. “I know I’m just gonna cause trouble for you. But… I am really glad to see you, Linhardt.” He almost sounds shy, but he’s beaming at him, his face all lit up. “Look at you! You’ve changed so much!”
Linhardt doesn’t feel like he’s changed a bit. Gotten a bit taller, perhaps. Grown his hair out. Maybe put on some weight – he has been sitting around all this time. Still, he forces a small smile and says, “Not as much as you. Look at you, with a beard.”
Caspar winces, rubbing his chin. “You don’t have to be nice about it. I know I can’t grow a good beard to save my life, I just haven’t shaved in a while.”
“Good. I hate it.”
Caspar barks a laugh, and Linhardt can’t help but smile a bit himself. “ Man , I’ve missed you. What have you even been doing? More research? Fishing?”
Linhardt sobers. “Nothing nearly that exciting.” He pretends not to hear Caspar’s scoff at the idea that research and fishing could be exciting. “You know my father – he always said, once my schooling was finished, it was straight to work for me. And, well…”
“And you’re working ?” Caspar exclaims, loud enough that Linhardt flinches and prays there’s no one around to hear. “Seriously? You’re not just pretending to get him off your back. You’re actually working for real .”
Linhardt huffs, annoyed. “ Yes , Caspar, I’m working. We can’t all gallivant across the continent fighting wars. Some of us have other expectations to live up to.”
He’s expecting Caspar to argue back, to push him, to interrogate him, because he knows the Linhardt he knew wouldn’t give in to his fate so easily. What he doesn’t expect at all is for Caspar to frown and soften and say, gently, “You’re right. Sorry, Lin. There’s nothing wrong with that! It’s just not what I would’ve expected, that’s all.”
Linhardt makes a soft noise of agreement, because he’s floundering too much to come up with an actual response. An argument, he’d been prepared for. Gentle acceptance of the person he’d become wasn’t a possibility in his mind – apparently, Caspar has grown. Perhaps outgrown him.
Caspar smiles at him – it’s soft and knowing and devastatingly handsome, even surrounded by that shitty beard. “I can’t get over how nice it is to see you again, and talk to you, and…” He ducks his head, carefully reaching out to pat Linhardt’s hand. Linhardt swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “It’s just really good,” Caspar concludes. “I guess I never got used to not seeing you, so now things finally feel normal again.”
Linhardt finds himself nodding, because it’s true – he never really got over the urge to hunt down Caspar and nap on his shoulder, or complain about his day, or talk through the bit of Crest research he did manage to get through in between endless reports. “It’s good to see you, too,” he says carefully, “but goddess, Caspar, this is such a terrible place for you to be. My father would turn you in without a second thought. He may even turn me in for hiding you, just to curry favor for himself.” He sighs. “If you get caught, we’re both dead. Or worse .”
Caspar frowns. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here.” He shifts a bit, wincing. “So I’ll go. I don’t want you to get in any trouble–”
“No.” Linhardt’s palms go sweaty, and his heart pounds as nerves twist in his gut. He’s surprised by the abrupt refusal, but it makes sense. He’s already spent several years grieving Caspar, and he’s not ready to do it again. “Absolutely not. You’re unwell, your ankle needs time to heal-if you leave now, you’ll be captured for sure. You’re as good as dead out there.”
Caspar watches him, eyebrows stitching together in confusion. “But… if I stay here…”
“If you stay here,” Linhardt says resolutely, “you’re getting food and shelter and treatment, and if you’re quiet, we won’t be caught. This is… this is your best option. Stay here, until you’re healthy again.”
Caspar’s still watching him like a hawk. “But…” he says slowly, “I thought… your father…”
“It will be fine.” He sounds a lot more confident than he feels. It occurs to him that he’s practically begging Caspar to stay; but it’s not like that, he’s just making the wisest decision. Caspar is safest here, where Linhardt can keep an eye on him. “Stay. When you’ve recovered, then you can leave.”
Caspar stares at him for a few moments more. “Are you sure, Lin?” he says dubiously. “I mean, not that I don’t wanna stay, but–”
“I’m sure.” This time, Linhardt is the one to reach for him, to gently take his hand in his own. “Let me look out for you,” he says quietly. He has to – Caspar had covered his back and taken care of him and stood up for him for years, care that he’d repaid by turning him away when he needed him most. The least he can do now is return the favor; then, when Caspar inevitably leaves again, Linhardt can at least feel that he doesn’t owe him anything more, and he can live without the crushing guilt.
Caspar blinks at him, wide-eyed. “Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure. Just promise you’ll tell me to leave if you get fed up.”
He won’t. “I will,” he says. “But honestly, Caspar, that isn’t what this is about. You’re not here as a houseguest, you’re here to recover. I’m a healer, remember?”
Close-range fighter, distanced healer. It’s just like old times – Caspar had rushed into danger, and now Linhardt will deal with the aftermath. It’s terrifyingly real now, with higher stakes than he ever could have imagined back then, but he’s determined.
He failed Caspar once. He is never, ever going to do it again.
Caspar sleeps. For many, many days.
Oh, he wakes in fits and starts. And when he does, Linhardt is there; his father has never been very big on family dinners, as long as they don’t have company over, so Linhardt is free to work, eat, and, often, sleep in the guest bedroom, though he makes his way up to his own room whenever he can so he at least doesn’t destroy his neck and back from sleeping in that armchair. When Caspar wakes up, Linhardt feeds him and checks how he’s feeling. They don’t make much smalltalk – even conscious, Caspar is weak and exhausted, and Linhardt wants him saving his strength. So much the better, as he has no idea how to even begin talking to him.
Not to say his days outside of Caspar’s waking periods are business as usual. Linhardt finds his work frequently interrupted – he has to check Caspar over regularly, to see that his cuts are healing well and his ankle is set and his fever isn’t too high, and then he has to worry about Caspar, about being discovered, about what would happen to him if something like this happened again and Linhardt wasn’t around to help.
And then he wonders: what has Caspar’s life looked like, all these years? He has all the marks of someone well-traveled, and the scars of someone who’s been in many careless fights. What people has he met? What has he seen – what horrors, what joys? And then Caspar will stir in his sleep, and Linhardt will start right back in checking on him.
Finally, Caspar’s fever breaks. It’s one of the nights Linhardt spends in the armchair, and he’s awoken by Caspar’s quiet, pained moans. He spends an hour sopping Caspar’s brow with a damp cloth and murmuring soothing nonsense he isn’t even able to hear, and then Caspar seems to let out a sigh and sleep peacefully.
Caspar is awake before noon the next day, his eyes bright despite the bruised shadows beneath them, and he eats breakfast with a rigor Linhardt’s far more accustomed to. Said rigor means Linhardt’s forced to focus on his work rather than fixating on the carnage Caspar makes of his meal, but there’s a familiar irritation to Caspar’s abysmal table manners that warms his chest and reminds him that he is, at least, healthy enough to make such a mess in the first place.
After breakfast, Caspar is quiet, but no matter how many times Linhardt glances sideways at him, he remains awake. He tries not to feel too proud of himself, but really – he’s nursed Caspar back from the brink of death. Apparently, he still has his knack for healing. With every look at him, Linhardt is reminded that Caspar is alright again.
Well. Mostly alright. With every glance, Linhardt is also reminded of the parasite on the lower half of Caspar’s face.
“Sit up,” he says abruptly, when the sight of it becomes unbearable. “I’m shaving your beard.”
Caspar’s eyes go wide with surprise, even as he instinctively follows orders. “Oh, uh, okay. Thanks?”
“No need to thank me,” Linhardt says seriously, getting up to rummage through his medical bag. “It’s more for my sake than for yours.”
Caspar laughs, then his eyes go wide as Linhardt emerges with a straight razor. “Uh, you carry that around with you in your medical bag?”
Linhardt waves a hand – the one not holding the blade. “Nonsense,” he says. “I was just storing it there. I brought it in here as soon as I saw that hideous thing.”
Caspar rubs at his chin thoughtfully. It makes a horrible scraping noise against his skin. “You mean my beard?”
Linhardt winces and pulls out the rest of his shaving kit. “If you choose to call it that. I prefer to think of it as some eldritch interloper.” He brings the supplies over, sitting on the bed facing Caspar. “Chin up. Hold still.”
Linhardt leans in close, carefully using the shaving brush to rub soap all across Caspar’s ridiculous line of facial hair. Perhaps predictably, he’s not finished with the first step when Caspar starts filling the quiet. “Have you started having to shave yet? I remember back in school you didn’t.”
Linhardt hums softly in acknowledgement. “Not often,” he says. “But sometimes.” The hair on his face grows slowly, and it’s so fine that he can go a long while without it being noticeable. So much the better – nearly every time Linhardt shaves, he cuts himself. He decides he doesn’t need to tell Caspar that part.
“Really?” Caspar says. “That’s great! I remember back in school everyone was so jealous of how smooth your skin was.”
Linhardt frowns. “It’s still smooth,” he says, and Caspar lights up with glee.
“Ha! I knew it,” he crows. “I knew you always secretly cared about how you looked.”
Linhardt huffs, setting the brush aside. “I’d avoid poking too much fun at someone who’s about to have a blade to your neck.”
Caspar laughs. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, and he falls silent as Linhardt raises the razor, slowly gliding it against his skin. He has to stop frequently to wipe the hair from the blade, and it’s during one of these interludes that Caspar speaks up again. “Remember,” he says quietly, with a little laugh, “when my father grew that beard? When we were eleven?”
Linhardt snorts. “ You were eleven. I was still ten. I wish I could remember my father’s insult for it – it made me laugh. Something about bears?”
“Probably a wild animal comparison,” Caspar says, laughing. “He loved those. And my father hated it. But, I mean, yours kinda had a point. He is pretty unruly.”
“And look at you,” Linhardt says drily, “Chip off the old block.”
Caspar’s brow furrows, and he groans. “That’s low, Lin,” he grumbles. “That’s the last thing I want to hear.”
Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You don’t say? I seem to recall someone mentioning very often–”
“ Lin , c’m on .”
“–how much they hoped to one day be like their brave, strong father–”
“It was a different time!” Caspar complains, followed by a sharp “ Ow !” as the razor nicks him. Linhardt frowns and presses a finger to the wound, Healing it. Caspar sighs. “Thanks, Lin,” he says, sounding abashed. “Anyway, it’s not like I admire my father all that much these days. Not after… y’know. Everything that’s happened.”
Linhardt’s frown deepens at the reminder, but beyond a soft noise of agreement, he remains silent. That silence stretches for a long moment as Linhardt diligently continues his work.
“You know,” Caspar says finally, his tone light, like a joke, “it’s kinda dangerous, trusting you so close to my neck with a sharp blade.”
It’s a peace offering. An unnecessary one, since Linhardt wasn’t upset with Caspar to begin with, but one he’ll accept anyway. “You’re right,” he drawls. “I expended all that time and effort to nurse you back to health only to kill you in the bloodiest, most intimate manner possible.”
“People change, Lin,” Caspar says solemnly. “Maybe you’re over your fear of blood now. Maybe you think blood is pretty cool. I don’t know.”
Linhardt huffs. “If I thought blood was pretty cool , I’d have enlisted in Edelgard’s war. Yet here I am.” He finishes cleaning the razor, then sets it to the side. “There. You’re finished.”
Caspar lights up, immediately beginning to rub his hands across his face. “Aw, nice!” he says. “This feels a million times better. Thanks, Lin.”
Linhardt snorts, standing to put away his kit. “Don’t thank me. You look a million times better, so it was really a selfish act.”
Caspar continues stroking his clean-shaven chin as he watches Linhardt put the shaving kit back in his medical bag. “So how’s…” He’s clearly fumbling for a way to keep the conversation going. It’s almost sweet. “...work?” Ah, no, Linhardt thinks, he was probably trying to wrap his head around the concept of him doing work. That might be even more endearing.
“Work is fine,” he says, mildly amused. “Dull, but that’s to be expected. Why, do you want to hear about it?”
Caspar’s expression is priceless, as he could not more obviously be trying to hide his disgust behind a veneer of supportiveness. “Uh,” he says. “Well… if you… want…”
Linhardt snorts. “I’ll spare you the noble nonsense,” he says, just to watch Caspar relax. “Believe me, it’s barely of interest to me, and I actually know all the details. You’d likely find it incomprehensible.” He returns to the bed, sitting on the side of it to give Caspar plenty of space. “Actually, though, I wonder if I could ask you something. What will you do when you leave?”
Caspar cocks his head. “What do you mean?” he asks, frowning. Linhardt raises an eyebrow.
“I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re likely to make a full recovery.” Caspar laughs; pride stirs in Linhardt’s chest, as if making Caspar laugh is the greatest thing he could do. Ridiculous of him. He clears his throat. “You can’t stay here forever, I’m afraid, because my father would likely find you eventually. So when you’re feeling well again, what’s your plan? Will you return to your vagabonding?”
Caspar thinks for a moment, once again scratching at his chin. Honestly, he’s obsessed. “What month is it, again?” he asks abruptly. Linhardt frowns at the rather abrupt subject change.
“It’s the Red Wolf Moon,” he says, but before he can ask why it matters Caspar’s barreling on.
“And you said it’s been five years, right? So-wait.” Caspar squints at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “Wait! Your birthday!”
Linhardt blinks, surprised, his cheeks warming. That’s Caspar’s concern? He really is ridiculously sweet. “You just missed it,” he says. “Sorry.”
Caspar looks devastated , and his face falls. “What?! No, c’mon. I can’t believe it!” He crosses his arms over his chest and honest-to-goddess pouts. Linhardt holds back a laugh – he’d surely take it the wrong way.
“I’m sorry, Caspar, but you’ve missed five of them now, so I’m not sure why this one is so uniquely disappointing.” He tilts his head. “Anyway. What do the month and year have to deal with your plans?”
Caspar perks up at the reminder. “Oh, yeah! Well, it’s been five years, right? And next month is the Ethereal Moon? So obviously I’m going to Garreg Mach.”
Linhardt blinks once. Twice. Had he… heard wrong? Could that possibly be right ? “I beg your pardon?” he says.
Caspar has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Uh, Lin, five years? We made a promise, remember? The class reunion?”
Linhardt scoffs. Honestly, the nerve, acting like he’s the one being ridiculous here. “Caspar. The Imperial army conquered Garreg Mach, and Rhea has disappeared. There’s not going to be a class reunion in the middle of war, in a stronghold occupied by the other side, when the festival isn’t happening because the archbishop is missing.”
Caspar frowns at him. “First of all, I heard that the army doesn’t really use Garreg Mach, just watches it to see if anyone from the Church returns. It’s actually mostly occupied by bandits right now.” That’s worse . Caspar fails to realize this and continues. “Second, uh, the Millennium Festival doesn’t really matter. Our promise wasn’t to go back and have a blast at the festival, it was to go back after five years for a class reunion.” He crosses his arms. “So, yeah, I’m definitely going back.”
Linhardt sighs, exasperated. “Caspar, if the army is watching the monastery, don’t you think they’ll see you, a wanted criminal, sneaking in?”
Caspar waves a hand. “I can be sneaky. Trust me, Lin, I’ve grown a lot.” He makes some ridiculous wavey-eyebrowed face at him, perhaps to communicate growth. Linhardt doesn’t get it. “Besides, once I’m there, Claude will have a plan!”
“Claude is running the Alliance,” Linhardt says, tiredly. “ If he’s even there, what plan could he possibly have? The Alliance is neutral .”
Caspar laughs. “Aw, I’m not worried about that. Claude’s a smart guy, he’ll have something figured out.”
Linhardt does his absolute best not to sigh hard enough for his soul to escape his body. This entire conversation is exhausting , and knowing Caspar, he won’t be easily convinced. And it’s not really Linhardt’s job to convince him. That settles it: “Whatever you say,” he says. “I should get some more work done.”
Caspar frowns at him, likely surprised that he’s given up so easily, but he remains silent as Linhardt returns the room’s tiny desk. Linhardt allows himself to be absorbed by reports and statistics to forget about Caspar’s proposed suicide mission; the next time he glances over at him, Caspar has dozed off once more.
Since Caspar’s arrival, Linhardt has interpreted his father’s silence toward him as a blessing. Some gift from the goddess, thanking him for not joining the crusade against her or rewarding his kindness in helping out a friend. A good omen, even.
He should’ve know better.
“Father,” he says, half exasperated and half affronted. “Must I?”
His father frowns at him over his desk. It’s the first time he’s looked at Linhardt since calling him into his study. “Yes, of course you must,” he says sharply. “As I told you, I require that you pay the former count a visit to discuss Varley territory’s failure to produce adequate resources for the creation of weapons and armor for Her Majesty’s war effort. As the future Minister of the Interior, you must learn how to balance the demands of your fellow nobles to keep the flow of resources running smoothly.”
Linhardt tunes him out the moment he launches into his nonsense about responsibility. “But Varley is so far ,” he protests. Absurdly far, really, from the patient in desperate need of help confined to his bed on the first floor. “You have much more skill with negotiations. Surely you’d be better suited for this.”
“Nonsense,” Father scoffs, his attention falling back to his papers. “You will need to learn how to speak to your peers eventually, Linhardt.” What a dreadful sentence. “Besides, the count has fallen far from grace. He holds little more power than you, and you are a mere heir.”
“I’m flattered,” he mutters.
His father glances at him over his glasses with a little huff. “The point is, you needn’t be nervous. This is good practice for your future. Besides, you must want a break from paperwork.”
Linhardt narrows his eyes. Father hasn’t resorted to blatant bribery in a long time. But he would like a break from paperwork… “Travel this time of year is so tedious,” he complains. Focus, Linhardt – he has a best friend to look after. “Surely it can wait until the spring.”
“Surely it can’t,” his father says lightly. “My decision is final. You’ll set out in three days’ time. No arguments.”
Linhardt purses his lips; his father isn’t looking to see his disgust. “Fine. As you say, sir.” He half-bows, Father waves a hand, and Linhardt is free to go.
Naturally, he goes straight to the guest room.
“Terrible news,” he announces, inadvertently waking Caspar from a nap. He winces internally; he knows the pain. In fairness, Linhardt isn’t exactly used to Caspar being the one sleeping. Caspar blinks at him blearily, and Linhardt decides he may as well spit it out now. “My father insists I go do some ridiculous trade negotiations in Varley . Varley lost power when Edelgard ascended, so I have no idea why we’re still negotiating with them instead of merely telling them what to do, but apparently we are.” He sits heavily in the worn armchair and massages his temples. “So in a few days I’m leaving, and I’ll be spending a month negotiating with that awful man. Saints, I can already feel a headache coming on.”
Caspar frowns at him, processing. “Varley, you said?” he says at last.
Linhardt sighs. “That’s right. I’ve only met Count Varley in passing, but he is so unbelievably stubborn–”
“This is great!” Caspar declares. Linhardt squints at him, baffled. “Varley territory is way closer to Garreg Mach than Hevring. It’ll be a breeze!”
Linhardt sighs, exasperated. For some reason, he thought Caspar would have given up on that inane scheme by now. “Caspar, how do you expect to get to Varley, exactly?”
Caspar rolls his eyes and gives him a look to convey uh, duh . “I’m coming with you, obviously. You’re my nurse.” He bats his eyelashes, and Linhardt suppresses an eye roll of his own.
“And how do you plan to accomplish that? We have guards all over the grounds. You can’t make yourself comfortable in my coach and be done with it.”
Caspar frowns at him. “Well, yeah, but… I can figure something out!” Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Lin,” he whines. “I’m trying my best, here!”
Linhardt remains impassive for a long moment, but who is he kidding? He’s come this far. He sighs. “I can try to think something up.”
Caspar lights up brilliantly. “Really? That’s perfect! You’re the smartest person I know – if you can’t figure this out, nobody can!”
“Almost as though you put me in an impossible situation,” he mutters, but his mind is already churning with possibilities. “To be clear, the scenario you’re proposing involves you traveling with me and then escaping when we arrive at Varley?”
Caspar shrugs. “Yeah, more or less. I mean, I need more time to get better anyway, right? Hopefully by the time we get there, I’ll be my old self again!” He pumps his fist, determined, and Linhardt shakes his head to fight off the fondness that familiar action stirs in him. There’s simply no time for that now.
“It may be our only option,” he muses, reluctantly. “I have no choice but to go to Varley, and without me watching over you, you may be discovered. If you come along…”
“You can keep an eye on me to make sure I’m healing!” he asserts. “Come on, you know you want me as a traveling companion. I’m a great conversationalist.”
Linhardt rolls his eyes. “And a strong fighter, and brilliant company, and a trusted confidant, and oh-so-modest, too. I’ve heard it once or twice.” Caspar sticks his tongue out at him, and Linhardt snorts. “I only hope you can be a model patient, while we’re at it.”
Caspar lights up. “So…”
Linhardt sighs. “So, yes. I’ll start brainstorming ways to sneak you out with me.”
Caspar cheers. “Nice, Linhardt! You’re gonna do great. You’re the best at planning.”
“Someone has to be,” he mutters, embarrassed, but the comment doesn’t sound quite as biting as he’d intended. Alas. “This is going to be a disaster. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Caspar waves a hand. “Nah, no way. As long as you and I are together, we’re unstoppable.” He beams at Linhardt. “Right?”
There was… certainly a time when that was true. Now, though, Linhardt isn’t so sure. Caspar’s different, that much is instantly apparent; Linhardt isn’t sure he can keep up. He gives himself a mental shake. They don’t have to be a honed team – the situation has changed, and such synergy is hardly necessary. They just need to get Caspar out of Hevring with his life. “Right,” he agrees. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
Caspar smiles tiredly. “Good. That’s my Lin.”
Linhardt’s stomach flips. My Lin . How… preposterous. “You should rest,” he says briskly. “You’re obviously worn out, and I don’t need your input to come up with a plan.”
Caspar’s smile softens. “Okay, Linny,” he says; he sounds half-asleep already. “That’s good. Night.”
“Good night,” Linhardt says. For a long moment, he doesn’t go to work or to scheming. He watches the peaceful rise and fall of Caspar’s chest, at least until his deep breathing grows into snores, and wonders quietly how he feels so at ease here, in the heart of enemy territory. Perhaps, he thinks, being in this place so familiar to their childhood makes Caspar let his guard down. Maybe… maybe Linhardt does that. Maybe Caspar, after everything, still trusts Linhardt to look after him.
Preposterous.
But Linhardt will, of course. He’ll ensure Caspar is safe, for as long as he remains in his care. It doesn’t matter if Caspar believes in him – in fact, if he were wise, he wouldn’t. And Linhardt would prove him wrong. If he truly doesn’t have faith in him, Linhardt has every intention of proving Caspar wrong.