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“Petra!”
Linhardt didn’t even register who gave the shocked cry before he whirled around just in time to see Petra’s lithe form stumble to the ground as a bandit’s blade sank into her shoulder. He paid no mind to the bandit, who was quickly enveloped in a perfectly-aimed Mire from Hubert, and instead prepared a Heal as he rushed over.
He’d just barely placed his hands over the gash in her shoulder when another pained cry sounded from somewhere off to his left. Saints.
Linhardt’s hands trembled slightly as they hovered over Petra’s wound. Everything in him ached to turn and see who just got hurt, but he could only heal one person at a time and an incomplete job wouldn’t help anyone.
No amount of training could have prepared him for the absolute chaos that was battle. Sure, Linhardt knew in theory that this was how it was going to be, but talking about battle and actually experiencing it were two very, very different things.
His role was a lot more hands on than expected, for one. He’d hoped that by focusing on his magic he could avoid getting up close and personal with the carnage, but he hadn’t been able to learn Psychic quickly enough to put it to use in their first battle.
So, Heal it was.
Petra gave a tired smile as the wound finally closed and gave a quick pat to Linhardt’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, but she was already turning to seek out another opponent when Linhardt nodded.
Linhardt followed suit, twisting around to survey the battlefield.
Whoever it was that had shouted earlier must have been helped by Dorothea or simply wasn’t that injured at all, because after a quick headcount it was clear that all of the Garreg Mach students were still standing.
The same couldn’t be said for the bandits, whose numbers had dwindled considerably. Still, those who hadn’t fled or — ugh — were lying on the ground, dead, still fought doggedly, like a pack of cornered rats.
Hubert and Bernadetta were the easiest to pick out, as they stood a few yards away from everyone else to strike from afar. Neither looked particularly injured or tired, though Bernadetta was looking more than a little frightened. Despite this, the fletching sticking out of several downed bandits indicated a skill that must have taken a steady hand.
Those in the thick of the battle were slightly harder to keep track of, though sometimes a battle cry or triumphant shout would alert Linhardt to their state.
Dorothea had moved from her position with the rest of the backline and stood near Ferdinand, who kept shouting and whooping every time he landed a hit with his lance. Despite his energy, most of the sleeve of his uniform was missing and a freshly healed scar stretched almost entirely from wrist to elbow.
Caspar’s shock of blue hair was easy to spot where he weaved through a couple of bandits, throwing punches left and right and whooping with every successful hit.
Before the battle Linhardt had expected to babysit Caspar, but surprisingly — which may have been a bit of an unfair assumption, considering the amount of training Linhardt knew Caspar put in — he’d only received a few minor wounds. Thank Seiros.
Just then, a loud cry sounded from behind Linhardt, far, far closer than anyone else had been throughout the fight. He whirled around, arms raised, and saw a bandit tearing towards him with sword raised.
Linhardt’s body moved on its own, and before he fully registered what he was doing a Wind spell flew from his hands, striking the bandit just before he could swing.
The effect was immediate. The bandit flew back a couple feet, crumpling to the ground without so much as a whimper. Linhardt waited, nerves on fire, but there was no movement from the bandit. He didn’t get up again.
Linhardt lowered his hands, breathing heavily. Slowly, as if any sudden movement would somehow rouse the bandit, he stepped away from the body. The body , not the living, breathing person that had just charged a second ago.
The living didn't stare like that, dull and unresponsive as if the eyes were made of glass.
Linhardt shuddered and everything in him wanted to turn from the sight, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. He could hear someone shouting, but the sound seemed muffled and far away, keeping the words vague.
There was just so much blood. It hadn’t been that bad a few seconds ago, nor had any of the few bandits he’d hit earlier seemed to be that hurt, but now Linhardt had all the time in the world to watch as blood sluggishly dripped out of various wounds, pooling beneath the body and soaking into the ground.
Seiros.
Linhardt’s knees gave out and he sank to the ground, still staring at the lacerations his magic had caused. His heart raced in his chest like a fluttering bird and he couldn’t quite seem to draw a proper breath, the air getting caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs.
Goddess, he’d just killed someone. What had he done? The blood…
Finally, Linhardt’s eyes snapped shut. He could feel himself getting lightheaded as his pulse raced, but he couldn’t bring himself to calm down. He clenched his hands, fingers tangling in the grass as he gasped for air.
Suddenly, a warm hand landed on his shoulder, causing Linhardt to shrink down even more.
“Hey!”
At first it didn’t register who spoke, too caught up in his panic to focus on anything else.
“Linhardt. C’mon buddy, deep breaths.”
Caspar?
The hand on his shoulder didn’t leave, a constant warm weight that offered a surprising amount of comfort for how small a thing it was. Linhardt focused on it as he made a great effort to deepen his breathing. His heart still raced and his body still trembled, but Linhardt was slowly coming back to himself. “Can you look at me?”
Linhardt thought about it for a second, but then he remembered the crimson pouring from deep wounds and shook his head, eyes shut tightly.
“Alright,” Caspar soothed, though Linhardt could hear the worry in his voice. “Uh, I’m not entirely sure what to—” He cut himself off and the weight of his hand disappeared from Linhardt’s shoulder.
For a brief, irrational moment Linhardt’s panic picked up again, but the hand quickly returned, this time on his back. Caspar started to rub his back in a circular motion, interlaced with the occasional pat.
“Just so you know, everyone else is fine. The last few fled so everyone’s pretty much just cleaning up.” Caspar spoke casually, yet fairly subdued compared to normal — most likely for Linhardt’s benefit. “Petra’s shoulder isn’t hurting her at all and she wanted me to say thanks.”
“She already thanked me.” It took much more effort to speak than Linhardt wanted, but at least it was a step in the right direction. He took another deep breath, slowly forcing his hands to release their death grip on the grass.
Caspar huffed out a laugh but didn’t stop moving his hand. “Well, thanks again, then. I’m pretty sure she’ll thank you herself again later, so maybe be a bit nicer when she does and just say ‘You’re welcome’ like everyone else.”
Linhardt hummed in acknowledgement but otherwise didn’t say anything else. Thankfully, Caspar seemed to understand he wasn’t going to get much out of Linhardt just yet and continued talking.
It was nice, having something to listen to. Caspar’s voice helped fill the hollow feeling in Linhardt’s chest and ensured that he wouldn’t drown in it again.
Finally, after a fair amount of time had passed — goodness knows Linhardt didn’t care much to measure just how long — he felt as if his head had finally come above water. Caspar was still talking, rambling on about Alois falling into the fishing pond, of all things.
Linhardt just knew Caspar had to be dying to talk about the battle, but he appreciated the surprising tact Caspar was displaying.
Still, it seemed like Caspar had gotten lost in the tale and hadn’t caught on to Linhardt’s awareness yet, so Linhardt had to interrupt unless he wanted Caspar to continue forever — Which honestly didn’t sound too bad and was definitely something Linhardt would have to think about later, but for now there were other things to take care of.
“Is everyone ready to go?” He asked.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, looks like it,” Caspar said, “If you need to stay a bit longer, though—”
“I’m fine.” Relatively, at least.
“You sure? You’re still a bit pale…”
“Caspar.”
“Fine, fine!” Caspar’s hand disappeared from Linhardt’s back as he stood up. Linhardt felt a brief pang at the loss — irritating — but ignored it and moved to stand as well.
He only got into a crouch before he realized the error in his plan to move, as that would require opening his eyes. As much as the thought only sped up his heart a little bit, he wasn’t entirely confident that he could avoid falling into a panic again if he caught sight of the bandit.
Linhardt paused, but he didn’t have to consider long because Caspar jumped in again.
“Here,” he said, and before Linhardt could ask what he meant, Caspar wrapped his hands around Linhardt’s upper arms, tugging and slowly turning until Linhardt was standing and awkwardly shuffled to follow the movement. “You can open your eyes now.”
Linhardt almost surprised himself with how quickly he obeyed, blinking his eyes open without any hesitation.
Caspar had turned them both so that Linhardt faced away from the battlefield. Instead, all Linhardt could see was the sun, now low in the sky with the oncoming evening, partially hidden behind Caspar and the long stretches of field they’d crossed on their way there. It had the odd effect of outlining Caspar’s form so that he seemed to glow.
Linhardt met Caspar’s eyes, which crinkled a bit at the corners.
“Hey,” Caspar said, grinning far too brightly for any normal person. “Let’s go, yeah? I’m pretty sure they’re serving pickled rabbit tonight.”
“Ew,” Linhardt said emphatically, nose wrinkling at just the thought.
Caspar only giggled. “C’mon, if you think they’re bad normally, just imagine how terrible they’ll be when they’re cold if we’re late.” Caspar started to jog, heedless of the other students preparing to leave.
If Linhardt made no move to let go until they were well within the monastery gates, well, that was no one’s business.