Chapter Text
It is a mysterious, consuming force, and it plagues Hubert, mystifying him with its power. It is unlike any magic or cipher he has been met with, so it is nothing he can translate, nothing he could even begin to comprehend. He understands it, then, as not magic at all.
As such an unknown power as it is, he becomes wary of it, and perhaps even goes as far to distrust himself for falling victim to its power.
Ferdinand von Aegir’s smile. Pathetic. He feels so foolish for even naming it.
And he is certainly a fool for it. He’s even grown to admire the warmth (the burning on his cheeks and chest) that lends itself to such a curse, chasing after it eagerly when he hears the call. He jests with Ferdinand now, though it took some time for Ferdinand to realize that’s what it was. Now, he doesn’t miss a beat, and even seems to find Hubert to be genuinely funny- cruel as his humor may be. And if nothing else, he is sure that Ferdinand is grateful to be free of their childhood antagonism. As is Hubert, naturally.
So he jokes, pulls comedy from an unnamed noble's death like a fresh shot of espresso, and fully means offense by it.
Ferdinand gasps, covers his mouth in shock. He chokes back a laugh and breaks eye contact with Hubert, surely ashamed that he found the joke to actually be quite funny. Hubert feels the spark of faith magic in his skull, feels it ignite in Ferdinand’s laugh.
He rests his hand on Hubert’s back, then, as he regains his composure, and lets the touch linger. His hand is broad, surely calloused (if Hubert thought of them ungloved and on his bare skin, which he certainly doesn’t) and warm, and presses into the tense muscle between Hubert’s shoulders. He says something, reprimands him for his unkind words, but his obnoxious laughter and broad hand seem to execute any intelligent thought Hubert may have been capable of, and by extension, any apology he might offer for the offending joke.
And perhaps Hubert has grown weak to his hands, melts into and shivers because of them. And perhaps he does think of those hands at some length, deep in the recess of his brain, in the darkness of night as his oil lamp burns low and his eyes strain on parchment. As his vision wanes and his tired mind grows distracted. If those thoughts that follow are of nightmares or fantasy, he does not believe it matters. They run away from him until he is left chasing the image of Ferdinand above him, those powerful hands gripped tight around his neck, crushing his trachea, executing him in a dreamy haze. Hubert never struggles. Instead, he simply lets Ferdinand take what he wants, gives it eagerly. And yes, he is again a fool for fantasizing of his death in such a way. That image of Ferdinand should frighten him. He should revolt in the waking world, shove the cavalier away, curse him for enchanting him with such an extraordinary magic.
Instead, he revels in it, and feels hollow as he does so- eviscerated, prostrate. Ferdinand’s voice whistles through him, makes his heart and body sing a pathetic, quiet aria, and his strong hands provide the baritone. His terrible, terrible smile is the haunting drone of the organ.
It takes focus to parse the lyrics, but as soon as he can translate, Hubert is able to respond:
“I suppose a brief ride would be agreeable, though I’d like to return before sundown. I’ve still some matters that soon demand my attention.”
“Oh, of course I am aware, Vestra. I will have you returned to Her Majesty no later than dusk, even sooner if I am able. I will make sure of it!” Ferdinand leads Hubert to the stables, hand dropping lower to the small of his back before breaking contact totally.
Despite the heat, Hubert shivers.
——
Naturally, Ferdinand is able to saddle his horse without incident, then moves to help Hubert saddle Dagmar. Hubert hums a thanks, attempts a smile, but feels horribly stupid for it, and is grateful Ferdinand doesn’t see it.
Other than that, he says little.
He finds himself quieter around Ferdinand these days. There is no need to best him, no need to correct him, or fault him, or tease him. Instead, Hubert lets him talk, and finds that pang in his chest growing.
——
They ride out to the Enbarr aqueducts that lay outside of the palace walls, Ferdinand leading Hubert and Dagmar from several paces ahead. He often looks over his shoulder, mostly to, unsurprisingly, speak. He comments on the beautiful rosy glow of the heavy sun or the wet chill coming to rest in the northern mountains. For once, Hubert finds himself admiring the scenery as well. He wonders if it will be like this, years after the war, and if he will be able to ride with Ferdinand after it all. He goes cold to think of Ferdinand riding through dusk alone.
As his thoughts wander, Hubert catches Ferdinand’s eye and senses a reluctance in it. The younger finally looks away in silence, his lips pressed into a firm line, as if to stop himself from speaking.
There is no way to ask what Ferdinand had meant to say, nor is Hubert sure he would even want to hear it. He has been rather sentimental lately, a trait that makes Hubert’s heart weak and soft. He can’t stand it, and is grateful when Ferdinand spares him it.
They meander as Hubert’s thoughts do the same, and eventually come to an isolated slope leading down to the banks of the watercourse beside the palace.
Ferdinand dismounts Egon, and Hubert Dagmar.
Hubert still stands behind Ferdinand when the silence is broken again.
“You’ve already wasted so much of your valuable time with me today.” Ferdinand thinks aloud, though his voice is quiet, soft. “I am grateful. I’ve come to not only appreciate our time together, Vestra, but perhaps long for it. Awfully selfish of me, no?”
Their silence stretches on, Hubert staring at the back of Ferdinand’s head, his hair growing long into a cascade of golden light. The brilliance of the sun catches it, brings about an ache to Hubert’s chest where he fondly recalls how short it had once been kept. How his comrade has grown, too- to be not only more radiant, but stronger, smarter, so many things Hubert had doubted Ferdinand capable of before.
“Selfish, yes.” He finally speaks. “There is no shortage of work for me,” he shakes his head and approaches Ferdinand, standing beside him. “Even now I’m unable to give you my full focus. So I do apologize for that.”
“Yet you are still here.”
Hubert looks out across the water, a vibrant sunset reflecting on the shallow waves’ peaks. The sight seems to catch Ferdinand’s attention as well, as his eyes search across the vastness of the river. Hubert can’t see, but imagines the golden sparks also reflected in Ferdinand’s eyes.
“And yet I am. I am here when I would be elsewhere, and with no good reason.” Hubert looks to Ferdinand out of the corner of his eye, something akin to remorse in his voice. “That is selfish, isn’t it?”
Ferdinand stares back at Hubert, his eyes and face warm like syrup. He can only hold eye contact for a moment, then his attention returns to the valley.
“Is that so bad? You could do to consider your own feelings from time to time.” Ferdinand responds.
And Hubert reflects on that. He knows the battle he’s fighting is more than Ferdinand could even begin to wrap his head around. He knows he can not afford to act selfishly now, and knows that he never really had the choice to do so prior. His life has been sacrifice in the name of fealty. Certainly, he takes great pride in his loyalty and selflessness, so much so that he doesn’t know who he is without it.
And yet he aches to reach out, dig his fingers deep into everything his cruel heart desires. He aches to take, to own, to have. He aches to belong and to be held and touched, he aches for broad, calloused hands. The desire is overwhelming, looming and threatening to destroy Hubert’s plans, his focus thinning out until he is nothing but desperation and want.
“I am afraid that’s an indulgence not afforded to me currently.”
“And would you do to afford it to yourself in the future?”
For what future Hubert has, he is unsure. Every moment is valuable, every day another victory of which he rides upon further conquest.
And so he doesn’t tell Ferdinand that his future is uncertain. He doesn’t tell Ferdinand that if he does have a future in stone, he might like to conquer his own desires, and take claim to his own empire of peacetime.
Instead he remains silent, keeps his eyes trained on the growing shadows tinging the landscape.
“I see.” Ferdinand frowns but doesn’t push any further.
A silence falls between them again, and Hubert is grateful for it.