Chapter Text
The words blurred together until Ferdinand no longer knew if he was looking at crop yields, reconstruction expenditure or rents owed.
The hurricane of parchment on Ferdinand’s desk didn’t seem to be getting smaller. Most of the missives were trivial arguments between neighbours and former nobles. Even so, Edelgard ceding control to him in such matters filled him with gratitude.
Maybe if he closed his eyes for a moment the document would become clear to him. And then he could sign it off and move on to the next. He’d scrawled ‘Ferdinand von Aegir’ so many times that when he went to write a shopping list he found he’d written his name over and over instead.
The desk was made of very fine chestnut timber and he would like to behold it again! All he needed to do was look at the page and -
***
Ferdinand woke with paper stuck to his cheek. His candle had burned itself out, he was lucky it hadn’t set the office on fire. The quill was on the floor, next to a black ink splotch. Hopefully magic would be enough to remove the stain.
A twinge in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten for hours. He dragged himself to his feet, trying to shake off his weariness. A five minute stroll in the brisk night air would do him good!
The full moon in the sky lit the faces of a few sleepy guards. He could hear Constance gleefully shouting “SNAP!” from one of the guard posts.
The Food Hall was completely dark and silent. It must be later than he thought. The door was locked tight and no one answered his polite knock.
“Good evening Ferdinand.”
Ferdinand started like one of Edelgard’s beloved cats. His hand went for his sword before he caught a glimpse of a green eye.
“Hubert. What are you doing up so - “
Hubert took a piece of pointed metal out of his coat and for a moment Ferdinand wondered what he’d done to deserve being stabbed. Then Hubert slid the object into the door’s keyhole. A second later, the lock clicked open.
“Care to join me for a meal? No doubt you are used to more entertaining company, but I am afraid at this late hour you may find your choice of companions limited.”
“We cannot just break in like this! What kind of example are we setting to our soldiers?”
Hubert rolled his eyes. “Spare me the lecture. We are hardly surrounded by witnesses. At any rate, it is hardly breaking in when I have a key.”
“I suppose not. Still, this feels decidedly odd. Ought we not wait until morning?”
“You may place the blame on me if you fear the Kitchen Master's ire. I for one need a good meal.”
A flare of indignance. “I am not afraid of anything, especially not the Kitchen Master!”
They entered the dark hall and lit the sconces in the kitchen so they could see what they were doing.
Hubert gave him an odd head tilt. “Did you spill your ink pot?"
Ferdinand blinked. That was the last question he’d expected. “Have you been spying on me?”
Hubert gestured at his face. “The evidence is extremely apparent.”
Ferdinand put his hand to his cheek and felt something wet. His fingers came away black. Great. Hubert did a poor job of not looking amused. Ferdinand swiped off the ink with a dishcloth while Hubert clanged pans down from the cupboards.
“How come you’re burning the midnight oil? Trouble?” asked Ferdinand.
“Always. We are at war and our cells now hold two more Faerghan spies.”
“A productive evening, then.”
“Quite.”
Hubert turned back to the task at hand and lit the stove with a burst of magic.
“I did not realise the culinary arts were among your many talents, Hubert.”
“Cooking is merely throwing some ingredients in a pot and setting them alight. Anyone can do it.”
“I wholeheartedly disagree! I can always tell who is assisting in the kitchen. Petra undercooks meats, Dorothea is over enthusiastic when it comes to sauteing vegetables.Caspar is…um…very experimental.”
“Then I eagerly await your review. Now, fetch me the sharpest knife. I wish to decimate these onions.”
***
The onions met their fate swiftly. Ferdinand was told to ‘stop hovering’ so he sat at the counter watching Hubert stir. The image of Hubert, Her Majesty’s foremost terror, inexpertly wielding a wooden spoon, was somewhat comical. Ferdinand went from trying not to laugh out loud to wondering if this was all some strange dream. The pot smelt familiar, as if Hubert knew what he was doing.
In Aegir, they had onion soup in winter to stave off the chill. He could remember sneaking into their family’s kitchen only to reveal himself straight away by knocking over a stack of dishes. He thought the cook would give him what for. But she let him sample a spoonful of soup instead.
Ferdinand had been spoiled like that. Surrounded by people who indulged his every whim. Even his father prevented no obstacle; if Ferdinand wanted something it was easy enough to talk him round. Any weapon, any book, any opera ticket.
When had the two of them last eaten together? Right. Before Garreg Mach, his hair cut short for the new term. He hadn't known it would be the last time they shared a meal. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes to try and stave off the memory.
Make me proud, he’d said.
"Ferdinand?"
Hubert's tone brought him back to the kitchen. It had a strange cadence to it. Chiding, but gentle. Very unlike him, lending further credence to the dream theory.
“Apologies. The scent of the onions is strong. Enough to bring tears to one’s eyes.”
“Is that so? Perhaps I have natural immunity then."
Hubert dished up the soup while Ferdinand carved some bread from the lone leftover loaf. Slightly stale, but good enough. He surreptitiously pinched his wrist and it hurt.
They sat down to eat. Ferdinand wondered if he should break the silence, but it was oddly comfortable. He took his first spoonful of the soup.
Hubert forgot to add sage and overdid the salt. But the onions were sweet, even slightly burned. Despite its flaws, the finished dish was not terrible.
He could feel Hubert looking at him over their bowls and wished he knew what the man was thinking. Hopefully it wasn’t about how Ferdinand’s bloodstream would handle a dose of experimental poison. Ferdinand had met one of Hubert’s haunted guinea pigs in the infirmary. The conversation had been equal measures terrifying and fascinating.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” asked Hubert. “Signing things, or writing back reasons I cannot sign things. The usual.”
“I hoped you might accompany me on a mission, if you can spare the time. It is some way from the camp. Her Majesty has granted her permission.”
“Will there be fighting?”
“I cannot discount the possibility.”
Ferdinand laughed softly. “Ah. So the meal is to make sure I do not collapse from hunger mid-skirmish.”
'You might collapse without a skirmish at this rate. While a healthy work ethic is appreciated, you are allowed breaks.”
“Our mercenary friend has been telling tales.”
“They are not the only one. I have heard several concerning comments about the state of your face of late.”
“Hubert. While I appreciate the thought, I know you have enough worries of your own. I assume our mission is related to those strange mages?”
Hubert hesitated. “Yes, exactly. So I need you on top form.”
"Thank you for breakfast, Hubert. I will gladly repay you tomorrow."
“Hold on. Breakfast? How much sleep have you had exactly?”
“Dawn is almost upon us. I cannot possibly sleep when a new day is beginning!”
The food and Hubert's company buoyed his mood. Ever since that day at Fort Merceus, something had settled between them. It made his loss easier to bear. At last Hubert and Edelgard trusted him completely! Another seemingly impossible feat accomplished.
A dark part of him whispered: you bought their trust with your father’s life. What kind of man does that make you?
No. His father brought punishment on himself. Ferdinand delivering it was a mercy. And now he needed to make damn sure his father’s name was only a footnote in history. House Aegir belonged to him and he would make it shine bright once again.