Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Hubert kept showing her up like this, Monica was going to have to take serious measures. This was the fifth time this week he’d asked her if she ‘had any spare paperwork that needed completing’ because he had ‘exhausted his own pile’. There was such smugness in the eye uncovered by his dark, unkempt hair that Monica imagined his concealed eye must’ve been perfectly neutral, that all expression had been sapped from it by the other eye like some kind of parasite. She began to dread that look in his eye whenever he approached her, for it never boded well for her pride; who was he to diminish her workload? She was perfectly capable of filing through the documents she’d been given by Her Majesty, but she couldn’t prove that when Hubert was sauntering around the place with time to spare, practically begging for more work to do, implying that she was slow and him taking some of her papers would be unburdening her! 

Of course, she did agree every time. The thought of what Hubert would do if she refused was unnerving enough to keep her away from that course of action. She couldn't risk a complaint being filed to Her Majesty ('Monica insists on keeping her stack of papers,' she thought he would say, 'when it would be far more efficient for me to take some of her work, seeing as I'm already done with my own. She is limiting the output of not only our tactician's branch, but our army as a whole. Therefore, I suggest that you-') No. Monica wouldn't let that happen. However, she also couldn't let Hubert's insults to her ego continue. She racked her brain for ways to put an end to his taking on her work, calling up the memories of each time he'd asked, but all she could replay in her mind's eye was the self-satisfied look on Hubert's face - and the embarrassing way she handed over her papers, the stack still so high on her desk. It was all just so impossible. How was Hubert so swift with his work? They were evenly matched in their analytical abilities (as Hubert himself had conceded!), so it wasn't a matter of skill. There must have been another way he was achieving this inhuman workflow.

To crack this mystery, Monica needed another source of information. She needed someone who knew Hubert well.

“Ferdinand,” she said, approaching the man at the stables. He was tending to a horse with a brush whilst it snacked on an apple. “do you have a moment?"

He turned and said brightly, "Hello, Monica! I'm almost done with Rosemary here, then you may have my full attention. Feel free to take a seat! You have my word I won't be too long."

The seat in question was a hay bale, and a rather itchy-looking one at that, but Monica had come to know that Ferdinand truly was a man of his word, so she sat without complaint.

“Alright, there we go.” He said a few moments later, and patted the ivory horse’s flank, a contented expression on his face that Monica had come to expect when seeing him around the stables. “So, what has brought you here? Forgive me for thinking it’s not to talk about horses - though I would love that to be the case.”

Monica recalled their previous conversation a few days ago, when Ferdinand had tried to inspire some enthusiasm in her for equine matters. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m still ambivalent to them.” She shook her head apologetically. “I came to ask you about Hubert.”

“Hubert? Is something the matter with him?”

Other than his infuriating nature, no. “Not him, so much as me. He’s been asking to take on extra work from my pile lately, meanwhile I’m struggling to keep up, and I just want to know how exactly he’s managing all of this! I cannot think of a single thing that would give him such an immense advantage over me, so I wanted to ask you if you knew of any.” 

“Hm.” Ferdinand raised a thoughtful hand, then realised he was still in possession of the horse brush and went to put it away. “Well I presume you’ve taken into account his coffee habits? That may be providing him a boost to work pace.” 

“Yes, I have considered that. But as far as I can tell, that isn’t what’s causing such a difference. I even-” 

When she didn’t continue, Ferdinand turned from the box of tack he’d crouched at to give her an inquisitive look.

Monica sighed, embarrassed. “I even kept track of his coffee intake so that I might try it myself. I copied it exactly, and yet by the end of the day I still hadn’t caught up to Hubert!”

“You are admirably thorough, Monica.” Only Ferdinand could be so generous as to compliment Monica’s making a fool of herself!

“You’re too kind.” 

“Nonsense! There is no such thing as being too kind.” He finished with the equipment box, which he’d taken to briefly re-organising after he’d put the brush away, and faced her once again, this time looking thoughtful. “Perhaps… hm, yes. Perhaps it is his schedule?”

“Schedule? But he and I both schedule our days, I’m sure of it!”

Ferdinand pointed a finger playfully upwards. “Ah, but his schedule extends far into the night. In fact, I believe that’s when he does most of his paperwork - when he doesn’t have some underhanded task to complete, that is. I have often seen him burning the midnight oil, ploughing through his paperwork like horses through a field…” His gaze drifted away.

“So… you’re suggesting he’s overtaking me in work at night.”

“Precisely. Because you do not work such late hours, correct?”

“Yes, I try to get a good rest every night.”

“Ah! As we all should!”

Monica noted that the gentle darkness under his eyes did not support his sentiment. 

“So, does that sound like a viable reason for his swiftness?”

“Yes.” She stood and gave him a nod. “Thank you for your help, Ferdinand.”

“It was my pleasure! And Rosemary’s pleasure, too.” He smiled and patted the horse, prompting a whinny. “Will you be taking to working at night as well, then?”

“Not if I can help it.” The final pieces slotted together in her mind. “I believe I have another way to get us even…”

*

Monica knocked on the wooden post outside Hubert’s tent. She heard a muffled sigh.

“Who is it.”

“Monica. I-”

“Wait.”

Two sounds followed, first the clinking of ceramic on wood, and second a sound Monica knew well, the dispelling of magic.

“You may enter.”

Hubert was sat at his makeshift desk, an assembly of open crates turned on their sides that doubled as storage space - Monica’s own desk, a similar affair but smaller due to the size of her tent, was where she stored ink and papers, but Hubert had switched out stationery for substances: the crates were stocked with vials of what she could only assume was poison. It was unsettling, but not unexpected. Atop the desk was a mug of coffee, a pen and ink jar, a pile of documents off to one side… all usual suspects for a workspace owned by Hubert. But there was an outlier, one which almost passed as another document but was, she suspected, a more private matter. Within moments of Monica’s entrance, and without looking up at her, Hubert swiftly turned over the piece of paper, with all of the composure Monica wished she had when trying to hide her journal, panicked, from prying eyes. The spike of envy this caused didn’t distract, however, from the confirmation this act provided her: it was surely something personal. Monica filed this information away for safe keeping.

“Out with it, then.” Hubert growled. “I’m very busy with work.”

Monica smiled, being able to see through Hubert’s words for once. He still refused to look at her, instead busying himself with leafing through the papers - the work he was supposedly doing when she came in.

“I have a proposal for you. And I want you to hear me out fully, without cutting in.”

“Will it be short?” He turned in his chair, finally, and crossed his arms.

“Yes, of course. Since you’re so…” She glanced at his desk, hoping to irritate him just a little. “...‘busy’.”

Hubert sighed. “Alright.”

“Excellent. It is about the work you keep siphoning from my pile.”

“With your consent, Monica. You make it sound a far more malevolent act than it actually is.”

“I thought I said not to interrupt me.” The phrase was familiar, an echo of how she’d chided her brother growing up.

“I didn’t agree to any such terms.” Hubert retorted, eyes wicked. He was even more exasperating than her brother.

Three breaths in, three breaths out. That’s how long it took Monica to recenter herself and remember that she was talking to Her Majesty’s most trusted advisor and friend - far too long for her liking, because Hubert had taken the opportunity to turn back to his desk and make idle work of shuffling things about.

“My proposal,” She began again, her voice level. “is that we have a kind of competition, to see who can complete the most paperwork.”

“Why ever would we have a competition?” The way he repeated the word made Monica feel like a child asking to play a game. But she had intended this to be serious!

“Because I want to prove to you that I’m not slow.”

“I have never called you slow.”

“You’ve implied it, every time you’ve come up to me and asked to take my work from me!”

Hubert laughed at her outburst, short and cruel. Monica wanted to slap him.

“My sincerest apologies for implying such a thing.” He said, neither sincere nor apologetic. “But you shouldn’t take the truth as an insult.”

Monica gasped. “It is not the truth! I-” She had to stop herself from trying to make an emotional defence against his words. “It’s not the truth, and I shall prove it with this competition. For the next week, we will compare our quantities of work completed, and see who is the quickest worker by sheer numbers. Do you accept?”

“Hm.” He paused, and Monica was glad to see him taking the offer seriously. “If it’s a simple contest that doesn’t interfere with the war effort at large… then yes. I accept. Perhaps this will inspire in us both a greater sense of motivation, too. That could only be beneficial.”

“Wonderful.” Monica smirked. “We shall record and compare our efforts from sunrise to sunset each day.”

Hubert’s face fell; Monica captured the delightful image in her mind. She would relish in this small downfall crafted by her hand for many days to come.

“Sunrise… to sunset.”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

After some internal battle that played almost imperceptibly across his face, Hubert stood. Monica was glad he hadn’t done so much earlier, as he had a certain intimidating air about him that was dulled when he couldn’t tower over people. But he could intimidate all he liked now; she had already won.

“Not at all.” He began to herd her out the tent door. “We shall begin tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Monica considered pointing out to him that it was only afternoon, but decided that she’d tested his patience enough already.

Hubert had a plan ready at a moment's notice to kill Monica. As well as a backup plan, in the event that his favoured poison was unavailable. This was, of course, his standard practice, but it was even more important in this case due to Monica’s proximity to Her Majesty. It was the same treatment for Ferdinand - though he’d felt his mind loosening on that front lately, forgetting the exact details of how he’d bring about his demise. But no matter. Monica was the person of interest currently.

Regret was not a feeling Hubert welcomed in his life. If left to linger, it would consume his soul. Unfortunately, he immediately regretted taking up this competition with Monica, and as such his plans to kill her were at the forefront of his mind from the moment she left his tent.

To stamp out this regret, he could stamp out Monica.

Though that would be a slight overreaction.

Instead, Hubert went back to his desk and picked up the letter he had been reviewing when Monica so rudely interrupted him. Seeing Ferdinand's name in his handwriting made his skin crawl. He'd been looking over this letter for something close to an hour already, and he was not keen on adding to that time, especially with the terms of Monica's contest: he could not afford to waste daylight hours on such… frivolities for the next week. Better to kick the habit now. He folded the letter and tucked it into the innermost pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. A pitiful metaphor.

He drank the last dregs of coffee from his mug and sighed. If he were to win this competition with Monica - because losing was out of the question when it would make the regret surrounding his agreement even stronger - he would have to prioritise paperwork during the day. This was easier said than done, when he was so used to getting the bulk of his most menial tasks done post-sunset, after he had spent the day at Lady Edelgard's side, and in meetings, and delivering their most vital messages around the camp in person… none of these tasks could be sacrificed for a trivial contest. But there was also the time spent overseeing the machinations of the army - or, this was how he would phrase it when asked what he was doing, as it would sound stupid to say he was simply… people-watching. There was something tranquil about observing others as they went about their day. What was once an offshoot of Hubert's work as spymaster had devolved into an activity for recreation. He shuddered at what he had become.

So, this was the time he would give up in order to beat Monica at this little competition. But would that be enough for a decisive victory? He couldn't underestimate Monica's capability for foul tactics, not when she'd already investigated his work hours in order to take advantage of them. She was no longer just the plucky, starstruck girl who was desperate for Her Majesty's attention. War had wizened her, so much that it was no longer a surprise to hear her suggesting battle tactics during war council that went against the majority's opinion. Her development was admirable… not that Hubert would ever admit that. Perhaps he could stand to gain a few hours of sleep each night, if only for the next seven days. That may aid his workflow, level the playing field with Monica.

The documents on his desk glared at Hubert. He glared back. This was going to be a long week.

Chapter Text

Day One

Monica woke with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. A plan well executed meant a plan that would lead to smooth sailing, and her plan to catch out Hubert on the terms of their competition was just that. This week would be a breeze, and at the end of it all she could gaze at the results and know that when the situation was fair, she was Her Majesty's most hardworking ally. Speaking of results - she needed to prepare the means to document their trials! She leapt to her feet and ignored the chill of her tent in favour of sitting at her desk and designing a tally chart.

(Hubert woke with great difficulty. Getting an early night's sleep did not suit him well - least of all when that sleep was poor. He'd had two dreams over the course of that restless night. In the first, he was in a meeting when, to Hubert's horror, during his briefing Ferdinand pulled a letter from his pocket and started reading it aloud, so that everyone could hear the pathetic compliments Hubert had put into writing for him. He awoke from this dream in a fit of panic, and in a somewhat delirious state rifled through his tent to find a better hiding place for the letter. The second dream started the same, a seemingly-normal council, but this time Monica came to the table with a stack of papers. She put it on the table, announced that this was all the work she had completed, and then as everyone gazed at the pile it grew taller. And taller. And taller. And-)

After creating the results chart, Monica got straight to work. She was so enthralled by the idea of proving herself to Hubert that she had been able to complete all her tasks by lunchtime, a feat that she couldn’t quite push down to scale in her usual humbleness, and so she was eager to talk about it just a little as she sat down to eat. She spotted Hubert striding out of the recreation quarter with his meal - no doubt to eat alone - and called out to him (thrice, before he conceded and turned around.)

“Come and join me, Hubert.”

“No.”

“Just a few minutes of your time, please? We should check in with each other.”

Hubert came to the table reluctantly, dragging his feet as though wading through a river, and sat opposite Monica. “Check in?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about it!” Monica wasn’t one for jokes, but gentle prodding was something she could do.

“No.” Hubert rolled his eyes. “I’ve merely suffered a poor night’s sleep.”

The bowl Hubert had put on the table, Monica could now see, was filled with a rather unappetising-looking stew. It consisted mostly of limp strings of cabbage, and perhaps there was some fish in there somewhere.

Monica heard a comment leave her lips before she could stop herself. "Do you always choose such miserable meals?"

A long sigh, accompanied by a glare. "Monica. I believe you said you wanted to check in. Not insult me."

She felt a little bit guilty. "Yes. Apologies, I got carried away. Let's talk about our contest. How is your work going?"

"...Why don’t you tell me how your work is going?"

"Very well!” She responded much too quickly, then cleared her throat and tried again. “Very well." She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. There was no use getting giddy about this. It was just work. Work for Her Majesty. Yes.

"Perhaps you neither wished to check in nor insult, then… you wished to boast."

"I-! I'm… I'm sorry, Hubert. I'm being rude. I didn’t intend to boast. I'm just so happy with what I’ve been able to do today. And happy that I was able to connect the dots to get something on you for once, instead of the other way round."

"Yes. You did well for that." A compliment!

Monica smiled. "I should credit Ferdinand for most of it, of course. He's always so forthright, so I asked him for ideas on what was giving you the upperhand before, and he had the brilliant suggestion of work hours. He knows you quite well."

"Ah.” He looked down at his bowl. “Of course."

There were a few moments of pause, where Hubert sipped at his soup and Monica ate her sandwich. She took the opportunity to assess him: he was honest about the sleep, clearly, as he looked far less alert than usual, his eyes lacking their standard sharpness. Monica was desperate to know how much paperwork he’d managed thus far, but didn’t want to be mean-spirited. She’d already insulted his lunch and boasted about her achievements. 

Luckily, Hubert spoke: “Your artifice yesterday has meant I’ve been most offput today. As I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know, I have barely skimmed the surface of the work on my desk so far. But,” He returned his gaze to Monica, and suddenly the sharpness returned. “I will not be letting you win. I am adaptable. I shall be back in top form tomorrow, and I shall trample your efforts into the ground.”

Monica was taken aback at the quick change in him (perhaps it was the soup), but after the shock, she was pleased. It would hardly be a competition if her adversary wasn’t willing to put up a fight. She chuckled. “I would like to see you try.”

Day Two

As expected, the first day of their contest was an abysmal loss on Hubert's part due to his paltry efforts in the morning. Monica had asked to meet him after sunset in order to calculate the results, and was rather excited to show him the chart she had produced. Her excitement had nothing of the effect that Ferdinand’s did; when Ferdinand talked animatedly about horses or tea, he had something like the endearing charm of a puppy… or so he was told. Hubert did not care for puppies or their charms. He could not speak for the matter. Regardless, Monica did not have this air about her. Instead, all her excitement did was provoke a quiet rage in Hubert. He had disgraced both himself and Her Majesty - flames, the entire army - in losing to Monica. All because he'd tried to get a pinch more sleep than usual in order to ready himself for competing. Competing. This was not a sporting match. He was not competing. Yet his loss had led to Hubert taking their little contest laughably seriously. It appeared that all dignity had been thrown out the window.

Well, dignity be damned. Today, Hubert was going to win.

After that devastating first day, he refrained from coffee in the evening and drank a simple elixir before bed to help him sleep. This eliminated all embarrassing dreams from his memories, for he slept deep and death-like. Wonderful. 

The next steps were simple: work until he could no more, and avoid distractions. Only necessary talks and appointments. Breaks for no longer than five minutes. Optimal coffee-sips-to-paperwork ratio. And absolutely no trips to the stables. Easier said than done, when Ferdinand had implied the other day that he would enjoy it if Hubert stopped by more often. But he persevered. 

When he arrived at the common area to meet with Monica at the day's conclusion, he did so with a smirk. His fingers twitched with anticipation, a similar feeling coursing through him as when he was about to reveal a crucial piece of information he’d extracted from a target to Her Majesty.

He couldn’t help but make an entrance by sneaking up on Monica. “Hello, Monica. Ready to tally up?” 

The jump his presence produced was satisfactory, as was the squeal. “Hubert!” 

Hubert chuckled darkly.

“I see you are in a good mood. I am not. My day has been a total failure.” 

She sounded downright dispirited. Hubert was enough of a sadist to smile at this, but not enough of a sadist to make her feel worse. He remained silent and placed his work checklist on the table Monica had chosen to sit at.

“It was all going well until Her Majesty spoke to me mid-morning.” She sighed, pushing her own checklist next to Hubert’s to begin the comparison. “She very kindly asked me to tea, and of course I would never refuse such an invite! I don’t regret accepting one bit, but it meant I couldn’t do paperwork for about an hour - but it was such a lovely hour! But I know it impacted my work, and…” She pointed at their lists. “Yes, look, you’ve obviously completed more work than me today…”

True enough, Hubert had won the second day of competition. He warmed with pride for about three seconds before remembering that he was not one to warm with pride. Additionally, he remembered that this win had come at a list of costs, costs which surely would not be sustainable to repeat for the next five days. And then he looked at Monica. She was resting her head heavily on her hands, as though her failings were quite physically weighing on her mind. This… would not do.

He sighed. “In order to achieve such an output, I had to sacrifice a great deal of… recreational time, I suppose you would call it. Such as your tea with Lady Edelgard. And whilst that allowed me to do plenty of work, it was quite taxing. So perhaps we should amend our expectations for this competition.”

“Our expectations?”

“We should opt for expecting each other to put in effort that is reasonable, not leagues above what we usually do - aim for sustainability. This will prevent our little contest from being an impediment to our army in the long term. We mustn’t be dropping dead from perfectly preventable exhaustion.”

“You mean allowing ourselves breaks during the day? That would be nice.”

“Yes. And you are not stupid, and I hope you do not think me stupid, so we may trust that each of us will use our best judgements for what is an appropriate amount of time off each day.”

“Of course! I think that’s a perfect plan, Hubert. It would make things a lot less stressful.”

“Good.” He put out a gloved hand. "To not overworking ourselves to death?"

Monica shook it, a smile upturning her lips. "To not overworking ourselves to death."

Day Three

The third day was by far the most peaceful. Monica divided her work between morning and afternoon, gave herself breaks on both ends, and spent midday on an expedition with Dorothea. They had a picnic in a nearby forest, where Dorothea regaled her with dramatic opera stories as the birds chirped around them. It was the calmest Monica had felt in days.

Upon returning to camp and taking their horses back to the stables, Monica was surprised to see Hubert there - not because of his mere presence, but because of his company. As they had agreed on committing to a more healthy work schedule, she had expected to see Hubert taking a break at some point in the day, but she hadn’t expected to see him taking a break with Ferdinand. They were sitting side-by-side on hay bales, bowls in their hands. More of that soup, she supposed. Monica couldn’t imagine Ferdinand would settle for such a plain meal, but he seemed more than happy about it, chatting away to Hubert about the horses. And Hubert, for his part, was doing a shockingly good job at mirroring Ferdinand’s emotions; he looked happy. Monica couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

When they passed and exchanged pleasantries, Dorothea cracked a joke to Ferdinand, who responded with a hearty laugh, and Hubert was silent. He appeared somewhat embarrassed, but Monica, frustratingly, couldn’t fathom why. As long as he was still taking their competition seriously, then Monica couldn’t care less about where he spent his breaks, and Dorothea surely thought nothing of seeing him there either; the stables were hardly a scandalous place to be caught. Besides, she didn’t think Hubert minded what others thought about him. Was her assessment of him wrong?

Nonetheless, they moved on, and Monica parted ways with Dorothea to press on with the rest of her paperwork.

Monica met with Hubert at the end of the day as was now custom. This time, their checklists were even: it was a draw.

“Not… an ideal outcome.” Hubert drawled.

“Agreed." She scrunched her nose. "I much preferred besting you. Can’t you go back to having poor sleep?”

“And can’t you go back to being distracted by Her Majesty?”

Monica sighed. “Well, our scores shall remain even until tomorrow.”

Little did she know that tomorrow would not be more decisive.

Day Four

“A draw? Again?” Now this competition was getting on Hubert's nerves.

"I suppose we're both working at optimal levels now… how vexing."

Hubert was not going to allow this stalemate to continue. Ever since Monica had triumphed over him with the scheduling of their competition, an idea had lingered at the back of his mind: sabotage. It hadn't been an appropriate option before, but now, all signs pointed to this being the path forward. A little bit of interference, a small scheme, a dabble of cunning. Not to completely drag Monica down, but to… tip the scales ever so slightly. To challenge her, of course. Not to make things easier for him.

With just three days remaining to take the lead, there was no time to waste. Hubert left the meeting with Monica and went straight to his quarters - where a certain ginger-haired man was standing outside.

"Ferdinand?"

"Oh! Hubert! I did not know you were out; I was just about to knock."

"Well. Here I am."

"Yes, here you are!" He twiddled his thumbs together.

"Care to tell me what you're here for? I… have work to do."

"Well, I - Hubert! What do you mean, 'work'? The sun has set."

Hubert was about to ask what that had to do with things before he realised what he was referring to. He had told Ferdinand about his and Monica's competition yesterday, when they had lunch together. Ferdinand had been eager for details, and so Hubert had indulged him. A mistake, perhaps. Now Ferdinand knew he was lying.

“Hubert…” Yes, there was the accusational tone. He’d heard it disturbingly less lately.

“Alright. It is not work. It is… something in aid of work.”

“Oh! Are you in need of any assistance? I am more than happy to-”

“Absolutely not. If that is all, Ferdinand, then I ask that you take your leave.” Pushing him away was the least he could do. The longer he spent around Ferdinand, the harder he found it to exit his company, and that would hardly be productive. He needed to focus.

Ferdinand looked deeply disappointed (or like a kicked puppy, as someone who was not Hubert would surely describe him as), but Hubert resisted recalling his statement and turned to open his tent. 

“I admire your stubbornness,” Hubert said, when still Ferdinand did not leave. “but I would like you to go.”

“I believe I told you to write me your compliments, Hubert.” A jest, of course. He didn’t know that Hubert had already written one such letter. “But thank you. I shall leave you be.”

Hubert murmured a thanks in return just after he had gone.

*

It took him a while to deliberate. Would poison be too much? A little drop in Monica’s food, just enough to spoil her day? He had more than enough choices, his storage of substances being the plethora that it was. No matter how much the thought delighted him, however, he could not yield to his wishes; a standard for tampering had already been set when Monica had tricked Hubert into accepting a contest limited to daylight hours. Verbal ploys were what he would have to turn to, then. Fine.

It was obvious enough that Lady Edelgard would have to be a part of his plans. She was Monica’s greatest weakness, and she had already been a distraction to her just two days ago. But Hubert wasn’t keen on involving Her Majesty in such lowly matters as a competition. Her part in this would have to be imaginary. It also needed to occupy Monica for several hours, longer than all her breaks combined, if it were to have a sizeable impact on her work. Getting her to leave the camp entirely would also be beneficial.

Hubert spotted an opportunity. And as Her Majesty’s spymaster, he knew when an opportunity was ripe for taking.

*

He cleared his throat outside the tent in place of a knock. The door peeled open. “Hello Monica. I have a message from Her Majesty.”

“Hubert, I - Her Majesty?” She gasped. “At this hour?”

“It is only nine o’clock.”

Monica stared at him for several seconds. She appeared to be vibrating on the spot. This distraction was already proving successful. 

“Then - what - tell me the message Hubert!”

“Oh, it is only a task for tomorrow.” Hubert said nonchalantly, gaze wandering aimlessly round Monica’s quarters. “Some market rounds and such. I just supposed you’d like to know in advance. I shall give you the list of goods tomorrow. Goodnight.”

He turned heel and left, but not before catching the shine in Monica’s eyes, which all but confirmed that his plan would have the desired effect. Her mind would be too addled with anticipation to sleep - a task for Her Majesty, what a privilege! - and if that wasn’t enough, tomorrow she’d have a wild goose chase to keep her occupied and out of sight for as long as Hubert needed to take the lead. 

Perhaps Hubert should go back to Monica and tell her to put a tally on his side of the chart for day five. After all, he’d already won.

Chapter Text

Day Five

Despite the sheer joy Hubert’s notice had lighted in her, Monica was still plagued by annoyance. It was something of a fifty-fifty split in her mind, and this was what kept her awake for far too long that night. When she woke, her brain reminded her quickly that today was the day she would complete a personal task for Her Majesty, and that it was also the fifth day of the competition already. The two pieces of information seemed linked together somehow, like hands intertwined, but Monica couldn’t parse out the meaning for this connection her thoughts had seemingly made before her conscious input. Another vexation: she would bet that Hubert had all sorts of these connections in his mind all the time, but he kept on top of them. She would have to work harder to conquer both winning their contest and understanding her own intuitions.

Hubert came to her door just as the sun was cracking streaks of orange over the horizon. Monica had been waiting for an hour before he finally showed face.

Thankfully, he made no delay in telling her about the task. “Lady Edelgard does not wish to make a fuss for a few personal supplies when the supply chain is currently under stress. Procuring them separately is far more appropriate.”

“Of course, I understand. Is that the list?” She peered at the slip of paper in his hands, but its contents were frustratingly concealed.

“Yes. Here you are.”

Monica took the list with just enough care not to tear it in two. She was disappointed to find that it was handwritten not by Her Majesty herself, but by Hubert. Though it could be worse (his script was uniform and purposeful, perfectly legible), she still mourned for what could have been a more personalised request. It read:

One parcel of standard parchment

Four large jars of iron-gall ink

One pack of Southern Fruit Blend tea

A small pouch of hemlock leaves

No less than twelve sticks of red wax 

She noted the tea as a subject of conversation to bring up with Her Majesty next she saw her; was it a new favourite, or was she simply looking to explore outside of her habitual blends? The other items on the list also spiked curiosity: letter writing tools - one could only imagine what words would grace those pages in Her Majesty’s fine cursive - and hemlock. The former wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, though Monica didn’t think Her Majesty would be writing that many letters herself, given how many she had beneath her to do such scribe work (perhaps these supplies were for personal letters, then… her heart swelled). The latter item, however, was odd. What did Her Majesty need hemlock for? Monica knew little about poisonous plants, but enough to mark that this was one of them. And the request was for a small pouch… maybe this was to keep on her person? That may be useful in a dire situation. If Her Majesty was prioritising her personal safety as such, Monica could only support her. 

Hubert left swiftly after he’d delivered the list. Either he had better things to do, or he trusted that he was leaving the task in good hands... Monica couldn't kid herself if she tried; of course he had better things to do. Had Hubert been so out of character as to linger for conversation, he would have told her that he was going to work himself to death - no, only half to death, as they had agreed not to be so stupid - in order to surpass her work today. And Monica would have levelled with him and vowed to do just the same, because that was precisely what she planned on doing as soon as she had purchased everything for Her Majesty.

After a horse ride out to the nearest well-stocked town, she wandered the markets in search of letter-writing implements. As she browsed, Monica thought about Hubert’s hasty exit and lack of words earlier. Most of Hubert’s communication was like that: if it wasn’t a matter of life or death, then he seemed to revel in letting others guess what he meant by curt actions and expressions. Just one of so many things Monica found irritating yet enviable about him. Her heart was on her sleeve as if she’d stitched it there herself, but truth be told it could be an obstacle. 

Three items crossed off the list later, Monica found herself in front of a merchant selling twine-wrapped parcels of tea. Southern Fruit Blend… she truly would have to ask Her Majesty about that. The reasons for her request were itching her mind in the way only an answer could scratch. But then again… now with the weight of the package in her hands, Monica felt something glowing brighter within her - it was that intuition from before, the connection she couldn’t place… except now Monica spotted a pin in the map of her muddled thoughts, and she plucked it out to let it all unravel -

It was no secret she was blinkered by devotion when it came to Her Majesty. Hubert would hardly have to think twice to take advantage of that. She clutched the parcel tighter. What if the tea wasn’t desired by Her Majesty in the first place? What if this wasn’t a list from Her Majesty at all? A battle began: hope versus the sinking feeling in her stomach that this was all a trick. Hope fought admirably, but it was no match against the growing evidence. The tea and the hemlock pouch - both explained away easily enough, but when paired with the fact that this task was keeping Monica away from camp, away from work, whilst none other than Hubert remained there, blissfully undisturbed… it was undeniable: this was an act of sabotage.

Despite her conclusions about the list, Monica still bought the final item of hemlock leaves. Not for Her Majesty (unfortunately), but for herself. Perhaps she would be needing them. The sinking feeling told her so.

*

A smirk contorted Hubert’s features as Monica arrived back at the camp. That was all the confirmation Monica could possibly need of her suspicions, and as such she strided past him without a second glance, hands wrapped firmly around the satchel of purchased goods. With any luck, that would irk him. He didn’t deserve to see the success of his plan played out across her face (because there truly was no doubt that her face showed all - she felt the irritation knitting her brows as she walked). With even more luck, he would begin to think that she was taking the items to Her Majesty, and he’d make himself look a fool by rushing after her. 

Monica found just who she was looking for under the canopied section of the recreation quarter, sharing a plate of sweet buns with Hapi and gesturing animatedly with a fluffy, purple fan.

“Excuse me, Constance. Would you be interested in a trade? This newly-bought tea blend, in return for your magical talents?”

The chortle Monica got in response was a little off-putting, but since it was followed by an enthusiastic agreement, she thought there were worse things to put up with in exchange for a brilliant plan. 

Besides, anything was more bearable than Hubert’s murderous laughter.

The first thing Hubert did after sending Monica on her errand was break into her quarters. Well, no. Technically, the first thing he did was laugh. Then he broke into her quarters. A magical ward was cast on her tent, which had not been present the last time Hubert was there, and as such the third thing Hubert did was laugh again. Monica was observant - she had noted the ward cast on his own tent when she had visited that fateful, conniving day - but she was not skilled in the spells of a spymaster. Hubert removed the rudimentary magic within seconds. 

Upon Monica’s little desk was her pile of work, neatly arranged by task priority. There was also the tally chart for their competition - which had been decorated since their meeting yesterday: hearts inked around Monica’s side of the page, a single skull drawn next to Hubert’s name. Some strange attempt at a morale boost after their consecutive draws, apparently. Hubert chuckled. 

After a fleeting consideration for the idea of adding another tally to his side of the chart, Hubert settled on what he had intended to do here, and set to work taking the documents. He picked out the most high-priority tasks, which were also the most interesting. An unfortunate side-effect of this was a stab of jealousy in his stomach when he saw just how interesting some of these tasks were. Why hadn’t Lady Edelgard given these straight to him? Investigating the root of an assassination attempt was exactly the type of task he’d like to sink his teeth into. What did it matter that he was already worked to the bone with other matters? Flames, Monica was fraying the last of his nerves. She didn’t know just how highly Her Majesty truly regarded her.

He worked at a steady pace for the rest of the morning, with a scattering of breaks to attend one meeting and deliver a vital message to a selection of the army’s generals. Lady Edelgard intercepted him at one point when he was returning to his quarters, and he almost confessed to her the existence of the work competition, but thought better of it when he imagined the laughter that would follow. She would laugh with him, not at him, and would tell him it was good to see him making the best of his rivalry with Monica, but that would not make him any less embarrassed at how childish he felt partaking in such a thing.

And here he was now, returning to his quarters again, this time after passing Monica instead of Her Majesty. The way she had continued confidently past him made Hubert start planning a second backup plan to dispose of her. He regretted indulging in that smirk. The air about Monica suggested she was about to get right back to work, as if nothing had occurred, as if Hubert hadn’t expertly removed her from the field of play for the entire morning so that he could thieve some papers and do more work than her. Ridiculous. No matter how confident she was, Monica was at a clear disadvantage. Hubert would win today. He had to.

Another hour of work. Or perhaps it was more akin to three hours, because he was nearing the end of his original pile now, and would soon be able to dig into those documents he took from Monica - only his stomach began to gnaw at itself in protest, and his throat was dry. Curse this mortal body. A swift trip to collect a meal, then, if only to fuel his efforts. He could not afford to lag behind now that Monica was able to continue with her work.

*

Cabbage and herring soup splashed over the sides of the bowl, he dropped it on his desk in such a pathetic hurry. This competition was truly twisting his mind into the most unpleasant habits. He had hardly taken long retrieving his lunch - though a brief encounter with Dorothea did slow him a little - yet he would’ve preferred not having to leave his desk at all. Just one or two hours more work and he’d be done for the day, and Monica would be left in the dust. Perhaps he could even anticipate tears as the tally went on his side of the chart tonight. What a treat. 

Hubert mopped up the soup spillage and picked up his pen with little enthusiasm; this next batch of paperwork was particularly dull. Finances were not his favourite activity by any means, but alas, these were classified matters that couldn’t be assigned to any other branch of Her Majesty’s force. 

And so, Hubert began his assault on the tedium - except his pen made no marks. Ah. A simple error, born of his haste. He dipped the nib into the inkwell again, observed the shining obsidian liquid that coated the metal as he withdrew it, then pressed it to the page once more… and the paper remained defiantly empty of any writing but the looping print of Her Majesty which was present before. Hubert rewrote his intended words over and over, cycling back in frustration as the ink continued to have no effect, until he ended up scribbling just the first word, expenses, expenses, expenses. Expenses. EXPENSES. Then there was a sizable dent in the document that, coincidentally, read ‘expenses’. But still no ink. Hubert poked the end of the pen with his finger: ink transferred without difficulty. This was not an issue with his tools. He wiped the inked finger on his cloak and set down the pen. Then he laughed. This was Monica’s doing, wasn’t it? Of course it was. She had been handed the opportunity on a platter when Hubert had left his work unattended to collect lunch. He had to give credit where it was due: she had managed to frustrate him quite successfully. But that was merely a temporary hurdle, for now his mind cleared and set his thoughts toward the simple conclusion: this was a spell cast on his documents. Easily remedied. He had even seen a similar trick before, and had a wealth of experience in the field of magically altering documents beside that - he was Her Majesty’s spymaster, after all. People often tried to hide messages and pass them right under his nose, and he always caught them out. He knew all the methods one could possibly need to remove such magic.

All of these methods he tried on his documents, but to no avail. Hours and hours of frustration, but still he couldn’t write on them. It… was impossible. His knowledge was not incomplete. He had worked hard over the years to obtain it. There was no spell of this kind that he couldn’t reverse. And yet.

Hubert stood. He took one last mouthful of his miserable, miserable soup. And he went to hunt down Monica.

Joy was another successful plan. Joy was collaborating with a capable ally to execute said plan. Joy was sitting with Her Majesty whilst she completed her work for the day because she was a little more than scared of how Hubert would react upon connecting the dots.

Monica wouldn’t have asked such a thing of Her Majesty if she hadn’t already noted that her work day was on the quieter side of things - her schedule indicated meetings only in the morning, and as such her afternoon was free. She also wouldn’t have asked such a thing if she hadn’t already realised some of her paperwork had mysteriously vanished, and so she needed to ask for more work to do anyway. And, in fact, she didn’t ask: Her Majesty graciously invited her to sit and converse when Monica entered the room, and let her continue with her paperwork there afterwards. All in all, she felt extremely honoured. 

She had offered Her Majesty the writing items from her satchel, but Her Majesty politely declined, explaining that she had more than enough for her personal needs. Monica felt vindicated. She was well within her right to sabotage Hubert in return for his poor impersonation of Her Majesty - could he not have chosen items that she actually required in her stock? Perhaps he couldn’t remember. 

Well, now he was paying the price. As she worked alongside Her Majesty that afternoon, several blissful hours passed. The ink-proofing spell was clearly proving difficult for Hubert to unwind. Ideally, he would never be able to remove it, though Monica knew to keep her hopes in check; Hubert was a highly skilled mage, and would no doubt figure it out eventually. It was buying her time, however, and for that she had Constance to thank. Between chatterings about nobility, she had cast the spell on Hubert’s desk, preventing anything on it from being written on, and Monica had listened in awe as Constance described the complexities of this new magic she had devised - how it evaded the wards on Hubert’s tent, for example, by working on a different level of energy. It was clever indeed to enchant the desk rather than the papers themselves, for the papers were surely where Hubert would start in his attempts to dispel the magic. This was what must be keeping him away for so long. 

When he inevitably showed up, Monica was well on her way to finishing her work. The door flew open, boots thudded on the stone slabs below, and Hubert’s eyes connected with Monica’s like an arrow piercing its prey. 

They glared at each other. Glanced at Her Majesty. Glared at each other again. Here was a crossroads: neither of them wished to let Her Majesty know about their competition. This was exactly why Monica had sought her company (as well as wanting to spend time with Her Majesty of course). As long as she was here, she was safe from unmediated accusation. No matter how much Hubert wanted to tear into her - his face displayed his intentions without hesitation - he would have to reveal all to Her Majesty.

As expected, Hubert did no such thing. “You will be pleased to know that I have discovered the issue. And I am… investigating a solution. I will see that this solution is immediate.”

“...Excellent.” Monica tried to twist her voice into amiability. “Uh… thank you for letting me know.”

Hubert’s face was layered with ire and pride. There was not a combination on earth that Monica feared more on his countenance.

“I will see you later.” He said brusquely, then walked heavily out of the room.

Her Majesty cleared her throat. “It is… good, seeing you two interact more often.” Her tone betrayed - intentionally, Monica knew - that she knew something was awry. Her Majesty was, without a doubt, intelligent… and Monica and Hubert were also tragically bad at hiding their animosity. “Now, how are you getting on?” She gestured to Monica’s paperwork.

“Ah - splendidly, Your Majesty. I deeply appreciate you allowing my company.”

Her Majesty looked to the door, then back to Monica. Her eyes were soft. “It seems to me you needed a place away from… interference.”

Monica nodded ardently and ducked her head to continue writing. She was grateful that Her Majesty didn’t inquire as to what exactly was going on. If she did, Monica knew what her response would be, but she would struggle to say it with conviction: it’s only a friendly competition.

*

Nervousness coursed through Monica as she sat waiting for Hubert. She watched the sun dip in the sky and tried to ignore her fingers tapping of their own accord on the tabletop. The common area was empty - well, save for Linhardt, but he was more of a crumpled, dormant form in the corner than a ready and willing conversational partner. Talking to someone before Hubert arrived was out of the question.

Like a mind-reader (a scraggly-haired, dead-looking mind-reader - Monica had to get a hold of herself before she insulted him on sight) Hubert appeared behind her. But she would not afford him the pleasure of scaring her. This time, she knew what to expect.

“Hello, Hubert.”

…At least, she knew what to expect in terms of his usual tactics. However, they were on new ground now. They had both crossed a line in this competition - Hubert had crossed it first with that false list - and Monica suspected there was no retracing their steps. Her feet were firmly planted on the side of sabotage, whether she liked it or not, and this was Hubert’s natural habitat.

Hubert did not speak. He also did not sit down. He didn’t do much of anything. Was he even breathing? He had taken the corpse look too far.

“Hubert?”

A long, world-weary sigh. Footsteps around the table. He produced a piece of paper from his pocket and Monica tensed. But then he set it down on the table, and she saw it was only his checklist. His checklist! She almost laughed in relief. Maybe she was overreacting. She was aware that she did that sometimes. Maybe the anger in him had settled?

“Someone attempted to interfere with my work today.” The anger had not settled.

“Come, sit down, Hubert.” 

When he didn’t, Monica realised that they wouldn’t get anywhere acting like this. The scales needed to be balanced. Since it seemed unlikely that Hubert was going to join her in attempted civility, Monica threw caution to the wind and channelled her nerves into anger. She couldn’t be humble about this, she reminded herself. She had sabotaged him. That thought brought her back up from composure to unease. Then the image of Hubert’s smirk floated across her mind’s eye, the smirk he’d worn as she returned from the task he set to sabotage her. And there was the anger, bubbling up from her memories, and finally, finally, she was on Hubert’s level. 

She levelled her gaze with him. “Someone attempted to interfere with my work today, too. Isn’t that a coincidence? Sit down, Hubert.”

Hubert sat. “Another stalemate, then?” He steepled his fingers.

“I thoroughly hope that is not the case.”

“My sentiment is the same.” 

His stare was relentless, and it made Monica restless. Anger did not suit either of them, she thought. Not this kind of anger, anyway. This was far too petty for loyal servants to Her Majesty; you sabotaged me, I sabotaged you, and thus we are both vexed. They were acting like children! 

Monica began to turn over her list for comparison, but stopped to observe the fast flow of thoughts in her mind. Who had won today? She didn’t feel confident like that first day - far from it - and neither did she feel the devastating sense of failure of the second day. But another draw? It seemed unlikely, after the ways they’d manipulated each other today. There would be a victor, Monica could feel it in her bones. Therefore, she needed to prepare. If she won, Hubert would likely walk out. If he won, he would be smug enough, but he wouldn’t stick around to boast. In either case, there would be no time for interrogation - and now, embracing that shallow, self-interested anger, that was all Monica wanted: answers. So that was what she sought first, leaving her checklist unturned on the table and mimicking Hubert’s glare.

“Did you discover a solution like you said you were going to?”

“...I did.”

Monica leaned forward ever so slightly, willing the story from Hubert’s mouth. He was resistant, however, so Monica prodded: “What was the solution, then? How did you… overcome such an obstacle?”

“You seem to have a particular stake in this situation. Would you care to admit why?”

He wanted her to stop dancing around the topic. She knew this because - in addition to the bitter edge to his tone - the exact same want had been brewing inside her too. An admission of guilt was the prize in this discourse. They truly were like squabbling children; one could exchange sabotage for stealing toys and the conversation would pan out identically.

Monica relented, if only to hold her truthfulness over him later to force him to admit to his own trickery. “Alright. It was me. I compromised your work by getting Constance to charm your desk.”

Hubert laughed dryly. “Congratulations. You must be so proud of yourself for such an accomplishment. Pity you couldn’t do it without help.”

He was asking for it now. “Oh, because working alone made your plan so much better.” Monica clenched her hands into fists atop the table. “Your shopping list was not a convincing mockery of Her Majesty’s needs. Not one, but two giveaway items.”

“I suppose I got ahead of myself, asking for a pinch of hemlock.” He rolled his eyes. “I thought I might as well take advantage of your little market trip to get something for myself. But -” He appeared to stop himself short to reassess his next words. “...Two items?”

Monica’s face lit up with a wicked smile. Was he not aware of his second mistake on that list? This was too good to be true. Her Majesty’s spymaster, giving himself away without even knowing it. She unclenched her fists, flexed her fingers, and relished in the expression Hubert was struggling to hide. “The Southern Fruit tea was the other.”

“But that blend is Her Majesty’s - no… it is not, is it.” His face crumpled. “That tea is… someone else’s favourite.”

Monica beamed. She would never mistake someone else’s preferences for Her Majesty’s. She knew her likes and dislikes as well as her own. Hubert should have known better.

Hubert shook his head, as if dismissing her thoughts. “Regardless, you lost precious time because of my plan. That is a success in every sense.”

Another frustration. She couldn’t deny that his plan had been successful in drawing her away from work. If only she had figured out the truth of the list before she had left! Then she wouldn’t have had to sabotage him back… “You avoided answering my question earlier. How did you figure out my… disruption?”

He laughed bitterly. “It was obvious that you had tried to get back at me. And then to remove the magic…” He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and Monica read the underlying admission: he hadn’t been able to dispel it himself. Ha! “It was simple. All I had to do was pry the answers out of suspects.”

‘Suspects’? Of course Hubert would jump at the opportunity to turn this into something like his spy work. “You… interrogated people?”

“Yes. Like grilling fish on an open flame. Though, luckily for them, I didn’t have to go as far as to gut or fillet them for answers.” A grotesque smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Monica tried to tame the shudder that ran up her spine, but failed miserably. “And when I happened upon Constance, she simply couldn’t resist telling me all about her spell when I told her the list of alternatives if she didn’t cooperate.” 

His voice was languid, and he sat with his back straight, maximising his limited looming effect whilst seated; he was enjoying this far too much now. Monica sorely missed his earlier embarrassment. If only she had commissioned a painter to capture the look on his face when he realised he had made a mistake. She would hang the canvas on the wall of the common area for all to see. The great Hubert von Vestra, shadow of Her Majesty, torn down by confusing tea blends! But now it was as if that had never happened.

Monica was done seeking answers - save for one. She turned over her checklist and took Hubert’s whilst he was still smirking. 

“Ah - grown impatient, have we?” Yes, he was far, far too pleased with himself now.

The lists were incredibly even as Monica worked her way down them. As she flicked her eyes further down, she wondered if it would be better to have another draw, if only to avoid the cataclysm that would occur if Hubert won now, when he was on his high horse, so terribly happy with how he’d turned the conversational tables away from his failures... but then Monica reached the final few rows and discovered that there were two additional ticks on her list where Hubert had none. She had triumphed. 

“I won today.” She said simply, focusing all her attention on Hubert’s face to watch it collapse. There may be no painter around, but she could commit his next expression to memory no matter how quickly it was concealed, because this time she had foresight. 

And oh, what a wonderful expression it was. 

The frown was his usual look of distaste, doubled - no, tripled - and intermingled with a despair that Monica had quite possibly never seen Hubert wear. His acidic eyes lost their vicious glow as the ridge of his brows slanted down. And, ever so slightly, caught by Monica only because she was paying close attention, his nose drew into a sneer.

“You cannot possibly be serious-” He snatched the checklists from her. Monica smiled on as his eyes darted across each paper with increasing desperation, his gloved fingers tightening until the parchment began to crease.

He threw them suddenly to the table and stood. The glee in Monica’s heart wavered. 

“A narrow win.” Hubert said bitingly. “And it will not happen again.” He put both hands on the table, smothering the papers, and leaned forward, eyes alight with rage.

Monica leaned back in her seat. “I-”

“I suggest you remain vigilant. There will be a nasty surprise arriving to you any moment now, and I would hate for you to miss it.”

Then he swung away from the table, sweeping the lists to the floor in the motion, and stormed towards the exit.

Unable to decide whether a gasp or a shout took priority, Monica scrambled to follow him, likely making incoherent noises of some description - she didn’t hear, all she could think was: he’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me, and this time he’s serious. 

She caught up to him outside, and Hubert stopped. His body was utterly still apart from his head, which he turned to look back at Monica - who, in that moment, wouldn’t be surprised if his head rotated all the way round like some kind of demonic owl beast, because the look in his eyes was truly something from the depths of hell. Monica felt like she was being eaten by flames in that stare - until her vision flocked with purple, a blinding shock of light, and -

Hubert was gone. 

*

Monica did not sleep that night. Or rather, she did sleep, but no rest softened her mind. Dreams flooded her with nightmarish visions. A cloaked shadow with crooked hands and a sinister smile. Blazing purple fires that encircled her, trapped her. Yellow eyes blinking in the dark of her room. A cycle of waking, over and over, each time making her believe she had finally broken free of her dreams, only to see those flickering eyes and wake again. And when she woke for good, gripping onto the feeling of lucidity like a life preserver, she could not set her mind at ease. She turned enough rotations in her bed that she felt like she was slow-roasting. The tally chart was like a beacon in the night; she could see it on her desk, knew exactly how it looked, regardless of the darkness. There were the doodles, inked by her naive self just one day ago, unaware of the battle she would soon find herself in. And there were the tally marks, three on each side, and a fresh fourth line on Monica’s side, shakily drawn when she had returned to her quarters that evening. 

Winning had never felt so sour.

Chapter Text

Day Six

Hubert awoke to a rather violent beam of light struck across his face. This was by no means the worst way to wake up, but it was still less than ideal. The person to take up this quarrel with turned out to be none other than himself, however, as he quickly saw the source of light to be an array of knives spread out on his desk like playing cards. Ah, yes. After warping back to his quarters last night he had taken to sharpening all twenty-three of his personal collection. For no particular reason. None at all. Whether he had left them out where the sun would later pierce through the canvas walls as a warning to intruders or a reminder to himself, he could not say, as he had passed out in a rageful slumber shortly thereafter. But regardless of his past self’s intention, he would take it as the latter, because there was but one truth to the matter: 

Hubert was going to stab her. Violently, with his best dagger. Four times. One for each chamber of her assiduous, brazen heart.

…This was, regrettably, metaphorical. He could not so much as lay a finger on Monica. He would lose Her Majesty’s trust, let alone his life. There would be no mercy for such a ridiculous overreaction on his part. Still, that did not stop the fantasy playing out in a distracting loop in this mind. 

He pushed it aside. Buried it deep, just as he had done many times before for many other incensing allies. The knives went back to their places, a curtain call; boxes, belts, the hidden sheath under his lapel. They would have their time, in other hearts (or abdomens, or ankles, or arteries). For now, their work as reflective alarm-clocks that rudely awoke him with that piercing sunlight was appreciated, insofar as it prompted Hubert to reopen the pathway of thought that sleep had barricaded last night.

So. Just how would he attack Monica, without… attacking her. He pondered this quandary as he prepared his morning beverage, decanting some of his water supply and ground coffee into a mug.

He could destroy her life whilst leaving her person untouched. Tear down her tent, vandalise her possessions… but that would be inelegant. Hubert had standards. Hubert also had a line which he was keenly conscious of toeing, and to do this he had to be relatively subtle. The whole army would notice a sabotage so public, it would be akin to a toddler throwing a tantrum. His plans could not risk his own dignity; Hubert was not willing to give that away for Monica of all people. And of course, he could neither risk Lady Edelgard discovering the exactitudes of their rivalry, that it had come to head in a contest. Inventing a shopping list in her name had already inched him closer to such a risk. And further, he couldn't distract from the war effort. That would be intensely foolish. He was already dedicating far too much time to this whole ordeal, he should not - would not - go further into this madness. Even though it was tempting. He could plan out something so -

No. No. He would not. There were simpler ways to tip the scales. Hubert retrieved a spoon from his coffee set and prepared a pared-down fire spell on his fingertips, leafing through his mental book of poisons as he did so.

His magic had barely made the ceramic tepid before a knock resonated from the post outside his tent. What kind of idiot came to visit at barely a minute past sunrise? Unless - no, it couldn't possibly be… no. His threat alone had been effective, he was confident in that. She wouldn't bounce back before he'd even had the chance to settle on what the 'nasty surprise' would actually be. Then who-?

"Hubert? Hubert, are you in there?"

Oh. Of course. The only other person deranged enough to be up and about at this hour was-

"Hubert, I really must insist you let me in. The morning air may be bracing on a brisk horseride, but it is quite freezing when one is standing still outside a-" 

Hubert peeled open the fabric door to reveal none other than Ferdinand von Aegir.

"Ah! Hello. Or rather, good morning. May I come in?" His freckled face was flushed, shoulders slightly hunched. Cold, indeed. Hubert's icy heart told him it could easily be colder, but he supposed the temperature must indeed have been adverse for a creature of the sun. 

Ferdinand made no move to step into the tent, because - in only some senses - he was not a fool, and he knew very well that entering without permission would trigger a chain of magical traps and lead to his unfortunate injury and/or demise. Instead, he bounced a little on his feet, rubbing his hands together, pupils darting around to capture the eye contact which Hubert was vehemently avoiding. 

It was unusual for Ferdinand to visit so early. Hubert couldn't help but wonder what had brought him here. So, for the sake of that damned itch of curiosity, Hubert waved a hand to dismiss the magical wards. "If you must."

"Thank you." Ferdinand hurried in. "I didn't have the foresight to acquire warmer gloves or a scarf at our last stop, though I really should have. I shall add it to my list, and…" Then he continued to rattle on, and on, and Hubert continued to listen for some unfathomable reason. 

After a swift check of his desk to ensure no knives or letters were lying in wait of discovery by bright eyes, Hubert gestured for Ferdinand to sit on the chair. He had considered the bed, the more comfortable option, but letting Ferdinand sit in the same place he'd dreamed about him finding his written compliments was a line he was not willing to cross. Hubert perched on the edge of the bed himself, briefly conscious of the fact that he was still in his nightclothes whilst Ferdinand was tidily dressed to meet the day. Not that it was an issue. His nightclothes were virtually the same as his daywear, minus the cloak. Hubert didn’t care. And if he did care, it was only a little.

Part-way through a spiel about his favourite scarf materials, Ferdinand stopped abruptly and seemed to give Hubert an assessing look, head to toe. 

Hubert felt like he was burning. It was time to be interrogative. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Why are you here?" They did not visit each other in private spaces such as this, let alone in the early hours of the day. This was not normal or casual, no matter how Ferdinand would try to play it. Hubert’s fingers twitched.

"Oh! Well, I-!" Ferdinand looked down at his hands in his lap.

Regrettably, a side-effect of Hubert's spy-work-turned-people-watching-hobby was a growing catalogue in his mind of every ally's body language. The longer he spent around them, the longer the file, and Ferdinand's was alarmingly great; if he transcribed it all from brain to book he would have nothing short of a tome. Thus, Hubert marked Ferdinand’s downcast eyes and fretting fingers as odd.

When Ferdinand was happy, his head sat askew on his shoulders, inclined to one side in a mirroring of his smile. When he was prideful, he lifted his chin higher, as though he were making sure the sky would hear every one of his words. When he was angry, he tensed, fists balled and eyes scrunched like he could not possibly bear touching or seeing any more of the wrongs in the world than he already had. But currently, Ferdinand was none of these things. He was nothing that occurred regularly enough for Hubert to know the pattern of. 

Ferdinand cleared his throat suddenly and began again. “We are friends, are we not?”

Well. That was unexpected. Hubert didn’t quite know how to respond. Interrogative, he reminded himself. “Is that the label you would apply…?” To this, to us? Either option sounded far too ridiculous, some self-referential hand-waving between them like they were having a quarrel about their relationship, so he decided to go without.

“Come now, Hubert! Would you not call us friends?” The twiddling of his thumbs was highly distracting.

“It is not within my realm to determine what is and isn’t friendship.”

“We spend time in each other’s company outside of work.” He shrugged - another anomaly. “I would qualify that as friendly behaviour.”

“Then, if you say so… that is what we are.”

Ferdinand smiled. Hubert almost sighed a breath of relief. Almost. Then Ferdinand’s face shuttered again and he looked… he looked something, something he didn’t look often, and it was driving Hubert up the wall not being able to tell what.

“Well, as your friend,” His gaze flitted away from Hubert’s. “I must ask that you are truthful with me. This competition with Monica… do you not think it has gone too far? That perhaps, you should, ah… admit you are at a stalemate and leave it at that? I think - well, surely it would be better to just - forget about it and move on?”

Hubert chuckled.

“Hubert?”

He chuckled further and stood up.

“H-Hubert. You know how much I dislike it when you do this-”

Nerves. That was what Ferdinand was displaying. He was nervous because he had come here for the express purpose of lying. In fact, he had likely been lying from the moment he set foot in the tent. All about scarves, and all about their ‘friendship’. Hubert did not think about how the latter point would run through his veins like slow-acting poison, because that would be a waste of time. Instead, he thought about how the next traitor he disposed of would have a particularly unprofessional number of stab wounds. Then he amputated that branch of thought entirely.

“You are a terrible liar.” He said, monotone. 

Ferdinand looked up at him in alarm. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Do not mock my intelligence. You are as obvious as a poorly-trained spy on their first job. Forget about the competition? Forget about what I have planned? That would be terribly convenient for Monica now, wouldn’t it?”

“You do not have to talk me through a great unravelling of my actions.” Ferdinand hung his head and sighed. “I am aware my efforts were paltry. I am not equipped for artifice like you are.” 

A moment to assess the situation. Monica had sent Ferdinand to him as early as possible. Evidently, she was still worried about his threat yesterday. Good. And now that he had caught her pitiful attempt at a diversion, he would double down on his promise. Perhaps… yes. Perhaps he would make a recruitment, too.

“If you were so easily persuaded to help Monica at this hour, on what was surely short notice, then perhaps I could persuade you to switch sides and aid me instead.”

“It would not be switching sides, I have not taken a side.”

“Perfect. A lack of allegiance makes you all the more persuadable. Care to assist my sabotage of Monica?”

Ferdinand looked aghast. “You are asking a noble to commit a very ignoble act!”

“You have already committed one such act for Monica.”

“Deceiving and persuading are not the same as sabotage! And regardless, I did not succeed! You were not fooled!”

This was the impassioned Ferdinand he knew well. Hubert could not resist fanning the flames. “What, so you believe it cancels out? If you are still using child’s arithmetic to solve problems then I fear I’ve made a grave error allowing you to be one of our core commanders for so long-”

“Do not make fun of me Hubert!”

“I am not making fun. I do not like fun. Are you sure I cannot persuade you?”

For someone so concerned with being noble, Ferdinand appeared terribly conflicted on whether or not to be ignoble. “If…” He sighed. “If it were anyone else I would say no.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hubert, for the first time in a long time, was genuinely stumped.

“It means that we are friends, and as such I will agree to help you.” ‘Friends’? So… that part was not a lie. “But only under very strict conditions.”

“How noble.”

Ferdinand ignored his jibe. “I will not do anything nefarious.”

“You are the type to brand everything you dislike as ‘nefarious’, Ferdinand. Do tell me what you think that word encompasses.”

He made a noise of frustration. “Poison, Hubert! I will not poison her! Or - or push her down a hill, or-”

As Ferdinand launched into an extensive list of all the underhanded deeds he would not commit, Hubert smiled. First, because he didn’t know Ferdinand was capable of imagining so many ‘nefarious’ acts. And second, because he realised there were worse people to have call him friend. Plenty, plenty worse.

Dearest Journal,

There is no measure in the world that could fully chart my foolishness. My own success, made my downfall by a ridiculous, overreacting, poison-knowledgeable adversary! Of course Hubert would not go down without a fight - of course he would not spare me a further retaliation. He cannot stand to lose. But neither can I. 

I have been thinking of Her Majesty. Save me the mocking, I know this is nothing new! I meant I have been thinking of her in relation to my troubles. She would not stand for Hubert's threats to my person, if she knew of them; she is devoted to her allies, and upon entering that rank I have somehow found myself receiving this devotion too. It is a privilege beyond privileges. I know now more than ever that my emergency exit from this competition shall be to call upon Her Majesty, but even when I am amidst fear and anxiety over Hubert’s threat, I cannot bring myself to do this. She should not have to stoop to our petty level to pick us up like quarrelling cats by the scruffs of our necks! I must try all I can before resorting to that, and as such I have decided to request the aid of someone close in rank - after all, despite the troubles winning has brought me, calling upon an ally has already worked splendidly once. 

Knowing his schedule, I set out before dawn to contact him before he left for the stables (far before Hubert’s usual waking time - though after recent escalation I cannot rely on old facts like I used to, so it is a miracle that he did not rise earlier just to hunt me down, and for that I am thankful). Now I am waiting for Ferdinand to return, or for Hubert to come for me - whichever happens first. Unfortunately, I cannot pin confidence on my plan. Ferdinand is a persuasive speaker, and is second only to Her Majesty in his sway over Hubert, but still the likelihood of Hubert yielding is slim. So in the meantime I must work - have, indeed, been working! Cowering for safety in my tent has the pleasant consequence of allowing for undisturbed time with my papers. If Hubert is going to strike me down, at least I will have completed my work for the day. It is for the greater good of Her Majesty’s cause, after all. And, perhaps, if some bolt from the blue prevents Hubert from doing his work today, and I am still alive to tell the tale by the end of it, then I will have won, and a tally on the chart will bring me one inked inch closer to victory.

I do not, however, have high hopes.

After writing a journal entry and filing through some more important documents for a few hours, Monica realised that Hubert… wasn’t going to show up? Or at least, not in person. This was somehow worse than what she’d been anticipating. His black-swathed figure would be an easy spot, even with her eyes drooping from a lacking last night’s sleep, but an invisible presence? Magic about to be cast on her tent, or a trap laying in wait, or an archer poised out of sight taking aim - well, the more she imagined the worse she felt. Her quarters were no longer a protective bubble - she needed to go somewhere public, and fast! 

Monica made a series of rapid-fire ticks on her checklist, organised her papers in a flurry, and bolted. Outside, the camp was beginning to bustle, the sun now nearly at the peak of its climb up the sky. She spent no time observing any of this and headed straight for the recreation quarter, following the warming smell of broth - until she bumped into someone, grass still underfoot and the posts and canvas of the mess hall several paces away.

“Oh! My apologies, I was in such a hurry I wasn’t paying attention.” Monica brushed down her dress and shielded her eyes to look up, blinking away the sunlight.

“You do not need to give me apologies. I was in no such hurry, and yet I did not move out of your way.” Constance’s periwinkle eyes were downcast and gloomy. “The fault is all mine.”

“Nonsense, you-!” Monica struggled to find the right words to say. She had talked to Constance in this sunlit state only a handful of times, and none had been successful. But she wanted to understand all her allies well! She would have to think this through another time. For now, she shook her head. “You mustn't say that. It’s not your fault.”

Constance sighed. “No, no. I have been foolish now just as I was foolish yesterday.”

Involuntarily, Monica furrowed her brow. No! She had no idea what Constance was referring to, but she didn’t want to prompt her into recounting her supposed failings! Working oneself into further despair was not what Monica wished for anyone - well, except Hubert perhaps. But even then, she was not a sadist!

Unfortunately, Constance was all too willing to continue: “I gave away the very secret I swore to you I’d keep!”

“You… didn’t-?”

“Or at least any human being worth their salt would keep secret how they helped an ally… but I did not. Hubert ousted me easily, like a rat entrapped, and I told him how to reverse the magic cast upon his desk. No apology can ever make my wrongs aright.”

"He did not oust you easily, and I know that for a fact. He was vexed for a wonderfully long period of time over that. Besides, it doesn't matter that you told him how to fix it in the end, because you had already helped me plenty! I triumphed yesterday, all thanks to you." Monica delivered her final words with a strong, hopefully-convincing nod. What she spoke was true, even if she was omitting any details regarding the ramifications of winning. Constance didn't need to hear of those right now.

"I cannot fathom why you are so unflinchingly thankful…"

Monica pressed a hand lightly on Constance's arm, unsure if it would be overstepping a boundary. When Constance simply continued frowning, Monica hazarded that it was alright for her to continue, so she pushed her gently and guided her under the canopy of the recreation quarter. If Constance noticed her gaze darting around for hidden traps on their way, she made no indication of it.

Once shaded, Constance's face was alight, eyes like stars illuminating a clear sky.

"Now-"

"I insist you let me help you again! My rage is immeasurable… do you know what dirty tactics he used to persuade me to give up the details of the spell? Threats! Threats and fear mongering! Why, next I see him I shall-"

"Yoo-hoo, Monnie and - well, Monnie and Connie!" A peal of laughter rippled from a nearby table. "I can't believe I hadn't thought of that sooner. Monnie and Connie! You make quite the pair."

Monica didn't have to look to know who that melodic voice belonged to, but swivelled to see Dorothea nonetheless. 

"Now, I couldn't help but overhear you talking about someone…?” Dorothea tilted her head innocently. “So, who is he, what are you going to do next you see him, and can I be there to witness it?"

Constance wasted no time in sweeping up her skirts and sliding onto the table bench. "It is none other than Hubert!"

Dorothea gasped dramatically. Despite the paranoia which still pressed in from the corners of her mind, Monica couldn’t help but smile as she took a seat. Though she wouldn't put it past him, the recreation quarter was surely an unlikely place for Hubert to strike, and so Monica allowed her tensed shoulders to drop a little.

As Constance shuttered open her purple fan and began to wave it absentmindedly in front of her, Monica's attention was drawn to something on the table. It was a well-worn book, pages fluttering in the low breeze of the fan with a delicate if somewhat erratic script inked on them. It was in front of Dorothea, so it must have belonged to her. A notebook? A journal? Monica’s interest piqued, but she tried not to stare. 

“What’s Hubie done? Is it worse than the time he ‘confiscated’ Linhardt’s cot? That really was quite ridiculous. Trying to prevent someone from sleeping was not his brightest idea, and not only because Linhardt was quite happy to sleep on the floor.”

“Whatever did he do with it?” Constance enquired, blouse sleeves puffed around her elbows as she leaned in.

“Goddess knows. If someone informed me he’d burned it, I’d believe it. Never make a habit of missing meetings, Connie. You’ll be on the receiving end of quite some wrath.”

“Yes, I know firsthand that he doesn’t appreciate interference with anything pertaining to work.”

Dorothea shut the book in front of her, scandalised. “Already? You’ve hardly been here a moon!”

Constance exchanged a look with Monica. In her mind, Monica found her previous entry, Constance von Nuvelle has an acute awareness of public image, and added beneath it: She is capable of extending this to help others. She would understand if I wanted to keep my predicament private.

Monica cleared her throat. “Well, Constance very kindly helped me out yesterday. I have a… contest, of sorts. With Hubert.”

“A contest. With Hubert.” Dorothea repeated incredulously. 

“Yes. I challenged him, and he accepted, and now it’s gotten entirely out of hand, and yesterday I asked Constance to create a spell that would stop him from being able to work at his desk, and that incensed him, and so he - well, I’m not actually clear on the details of the threats-”

“He said he would attach me to the saddle of an unheeding wyvern with my hands tied behind my back, unable to steer, and let it fly me away to some remote mountaintop, or else drop me in a lake or woodland when it realised I was upon it!” Constance rose from her seat and gestured wildly. “Then he said if I came crawling back from that ordeal he would assign me to the vanguard for a battle of low import equipped with nothing but a slightly sharpened twig and ‘watch the show from afar’!”

Someone in the kitchens dropped a pan.

Feeling eyes around the room wander over to their table, Monica coughed lightly and schooled her expression into neutrality. 

“I think you’re going to have to clarify to me,” Dorothea said slowly. “what exactly this contest entails that it could end up with threats like that.”

Constance looked around as though she hadn’t risen both her voice and her legs of her own accord. She sat.

“Well, it began merely as a comparison of paperwork.” Monica began. “But, as I said, it’s… gotten out of hand.”

*

After hearing Monica’s summary of the events leading up to Constance's involvement, Dorothea appeared ready for some kind of fight. Then, after revealing finally that following her victory Hubert was surely after her life - or as much of it as he could take under Her Majesty’s watchful eye - both Dorothea and Constance appeared ready for a fight.

"He had the nerve to threaten you and I both, all on the same day?!" Constance cried.

"It appears Hubie's on a roll. I suppose I'll be next?" 

Monica shook her head fiercely. "Please, for your own sake, don't get involved."

Dorothea waved a hand, bracelet jingling. “His threats don’t scare me, Monnie. I'll protect you, don't you worry!" 

“And I am determined to scare him right back!” Constance said. “You must let us help you! Not only to survive, but to win.”

The fire in her eyes was one to rival fierce warriors of legend. If she weren’t offering further allyship, Monica would be fearful.

“I’m not sure ‘scaring him back’ would be wise… but perhaps you could still help. I have a volunteering shift today, if you wouldn’t mind assisting me with that? Even if you just stayed outside on lookout. I get the impression he’s around every corner.”

“Of course we’ll help with that, won’t we?” Dorothea nodded to Constance. “And I can easily help with your paperwork after that too. I’m a dab hand with numbers, if that’s the sort of thing you’re dealing with.”

“And if you require inventive solutions, I am more than happy to lend a hand!”

Monica looked between the two of them in awe. An enchanting songstress and an innovative sorceress, readily offering their talents? She had to fight against her want not to bother them, tell herself this was an opportunity that would never arise twice. 

“Thank you both so, so much. I accept your gracious help.”

Dorothea shimmied her shoulders and stood. “Well, let’s get to it then! We have no time to waste.” She tucked the book under her arm, which Monica’s eyes couldn’t help but follow. Dorothea caught her gaze. “Curious?”

“Oh - well, yes. Apologies if it’s a private matter…”

“It can hardly be a private matter if I bring it here for all to see!” Dorothea chuckled. 

Monica felt her cheeks redden. That was a silly thing to suggest.

As they left the recreation quarter, Dorothea explained: “It’s my little book of anecdotes. I find it comforting to have a record of good times, so that I can revisit them in bad times.” Her smile was tinged with sadness. 

“That’s a lovely idea.” Monica remarked, because it truly was. The thought that Lady Dorothea kept something of a journal made her heart swell. 

“Maybe, if we’re lucky, a good story will come out of today.”

“I hope so.”

Put simply, Hubert was on edge. He wanted to poison Monica. So, so badly. His skin was crawling with the pull of it. But Ferdinand strictly would not help with that.

And that was how they ended up outside the storeroom.

“Hubert? Hubert!”

“What.” He said through gritted teeth, fingers working a pin into the lock. As well as trying to focus, he was trying to think of the best way to scare Monica later today. He had to make good on his threat alongside their current machinations. She was petrified, and he knew it, and he wanted to at least see it on her face once today.

“What kind of heathen does not respect a locked door?!” The ground shuddered with a soft vibration, the light stamp of a foot.

“The kind that picks locks. Will you be quiet now?”

A series of irritated noises, followed by silence. Hubert finished his ministrations on the lock and pushed the door, which gave way with a creak.

“I am regretting helping you.” Ferdinand said as they stepped inside.

“Then leave.”

More irritated noises. But no footsteps. Ferdinand appeared to be at a crossroads of every noble standard he had lived his life to up until this point. Appeared to have been at this crossroads for quite some time now, in fact. Perhaps if Hubert taught him how to pick locks, he would finally decide to abandon this conundrum? A consideration for another day. Now:

“We have a short amount of time for this, so I ask that you keep chatter to a minimum. We need to make this storeroom a pig sty before Monica’s shift begins.”

Ferdinand sighed and kicked a box half-heartedly. “Like this?”

Hubert couldn’t even begin to verbalise the ridiculousness of the situation. He needed someone to slap him, or draw the concealed knife out from his belt and hold it to his neck, because he had just broken into the storeroom with Ferdinand von Aegir and watched him nudge a box and call it vandalism. Flames, give me strength. And give Ferdinand some damned common sense.

“No.” He looked pointedly at Ferdinand as he slid a box off a shelf and dumped it on the floor. (Making sure its contents remained inside of it, mind you. He was trying to ruin Monica’s day, not the army’s inventory.) Then he began swapping the lids of crates, so that Parchment became Antitoxins, and Magic Herbs became Fishing Bait, and so forth.

Eventually, after standing like a gaping-mouthed statue for a while, Ferdinand joined in.

And then he made conversation. “So how have you been faring, when not totally engrossed in this competition?”

Hubert scrunched his brow. He did not know how to respond. Ferdinand was good at inspiring confoundment.

“The war effort is going well so far, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“You don’t tend to talk about yourself, do you?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with-”

“I feel you know everything about me and I know nothing of you! When we meet, you let me rattle on about my armour and horses and tea, and you evade all my questions about your hobbies! Come on, what do you do for fun? You must have some downtime, even at a time like this.”

“I do not-”

“-like fun.” Ferdinand finished, mockingly dry. “I know, I know.”

Hubert rolled his eyes. “If you know, then why ask in the first place?”

Either because he did not see fit to answer, or because he did not have an answer, Ferdinand said nothing and - well, and he shrugged. Which was odd. Hubert would have to take up Monica’s beloved pastime of tally-charting at this rate, to keep track of all these anomalous little quirks Ferdinand had been displaying. 

A thought flashed through Hubert’s mind then, like lightning, brief but unmissable. He considered, for this singular second, divulging a little to Ferdinand about his hobbies. People-watching. Reading. Finding constellations in the sky when he was on night duties. 

Ferdinand puffed a breath out of his nose, and Hubert was brought back to all those times at the Academy when he was about to reignite the embers of an argument. Familiar territory, there was no doubt about that.

“You really do not have a key? As the Emperor’s right hand?”

“No. I do not need a key.” Hubert volleyed back, suppressing a smirk. “I have no business with storerooms.”

Turning from the crate of miscellaneous rags he was disembowelling, Ferdinand narrowed his eyes. “I’m not one to accuse of lying, but-”

There was a creak. A telltale creak. Hubert raised a hand - almost to Ferdinand’s lips, despite how idiotic of a gesture that would be; Ferdinand was already quiet. He let it hover between them instead, fingers outstretched, then curling in slowly as he listened. Breathing. Multiple people, at least two. It was not Lady Edelgard, or Caspar, or Petra, or anyone else going about their business, because they would have no reason to stop before entering. There were minimal suspects among their army who would be slinking in the shadows of their own encampment - and one such suspect would be Hubert himself, so truly there was only-

A gasp ripped from Dorothea’s throat so abruptly that it couldn’t have been dramatic flair. Not that there was any inch of reason for her to be theatrical when the situation was so naturally shocking: Hubert and Ferdinand, standing in the centre of the storeroom which looked as though it’d been hit by a wind spell. 

Monica couldn’t quite believe her… luck? It was hard to call it lucky, when the place she was here to organise was in such a state. But she had caught the causers of that state, red-handed. Her face was torn between ecstatic and distraught.

Beside her, Constance took a breath, which was a small mercy as Monica couldn’t think of a single string of words to aptly communicate her current feelings. But - and it all happened so swift yet so slow, Monica felt the burning of these moments into her memory as they played on - Dorothea took a step forward as Constance began to speak, all as Ferdinand was raising his hands up in surrender, eyes wide as saucers, and Hubert’s palms flashed with an all-too-familiar purple light. Then Hubert disappeared, Ferdinand snapped his head around to gape at the now-vacant space, Constance decidedly did not speak, and Dorothea began to laugh. Monica thought she got that last detail wrong for an instant, but no. Dorothea was laughing. 

"That man is a fool." She sputtered.

"What?" said Ferdinand, somewhere between amused and indignant.

"He threatens Monnie, spends the whole morning doing Goddess-knows-what, then when he finally sees her he can't even stick around for the confrontation?" She turned to Monica. "I don't think you need to worry anymore. He's clearly not going to follow through on that little threat of his."

With such a warm expression gracing her features, it was no wonder that Dorothea could so easily convince a crowd that whilst she was upon the stage she was exactly the character she played. There was a deep well of earnestness within her, and it bubbled up through her smile, her eyes, her cheeks.

Monica gave a little nod, then looked around at the absolute havoc that was the storeroom. “I… suppose I shall get started, then.”

Ferdinand sighed. "Allow me to help."

Compromises were not Hubert’s strong suit, but today he would have to make an attempt. Ferdinand’s voice was ringing in his ears. He had heard in passing Dorothea’s description of him as a bee, and he thought that was quite appropriate. And so, instead of a vial of poison, he picked a concoction of corrosive ink, and instead of Monica veins, he picked her documents.

He wasted no time dallying around about Monica’s quarters, for he knew she would return to her paperwork quickly after having three pairs of helping hands to clean up the storeroom. Besides, there were far fewer amusing observations to make when he had already made an unauthorised visit for paper theft just yesterday. He swapped the altered ink for the open jar on her desk and made a hasty exit.

*

It was pleasing to have his efforts pay dividends in the form of a tally point. Pleasing, moreover, to watch Monica’s face burn up as she described the way the ink had dissolved holes into her parchment.

“Irreversibly damaging my paperwork is a step too far. You are lucky it only went through a few pages. That was important work for the army.”

Hubert, bitterly, knew that all too well. It was a step too far. She was right.

Not that he would admit it, of course.

“We are even now.” He said, holding up the tally chart. “Tomorrow will decide all.”

Monica sighed and looked out behind him towards the entrance of the common area. When her gaze returned to Hubert, something seemed to settle over her face. “Yes. So let’s make one last deal.”

“Deal?” Hubert settled his hands back on the table and was disappointed to find that Monica didn’t flinch. His presence no longer had the desired effect. His threat had well and truly worn off, wasted after that miserable meeting at the storeroom and then proven to be hyperbole after the only other action he took was directed at her papers, not her person. 

“A deal on how we conduct ourselves tomorrow.” She sat up a little straighter. “I suggest two rules: we cannot recruit others for help, and we cannot interfere with each others’ paperwork.”

“Hm.”

“That is not to say I want to rule out interference in general.” 

“Ah.” Hubert chuckled. Every day Monica got a pinch more sly, and in a twisted sort of way he was almost proud. “I see you know how to sweeten a deal. In that case, I accept.”

Monica stuck out a hand. She was confident. Hubert shook her hand for a count of three seconds, watching her intensely all the while. Underestimating her now would be a grave mistake.

Satisfied that she hadn’t done anything untoward - contact poison slipped past the hem of his glove, or some manner of minute dark magic creeping up his sleeve - Hubert rose to leave. He wasn’t one for goodbyes, so when Monica said nothing further, he continued on his way.

Except, like some latent reaction, she spoke just as he approached the exit: “Hubert?”

He turned back.

Monica was still seated, looking, in fact, like she had no plans to move. Tally-chart in hand, she blinked slowly, not unlike the owls Hubert saw perched around the encampment at night. A gentle smile. “I hope you sleep well.”

Then the table was awash with purple light, and Monica was replaced by thin air. The only trace of her left: a haunting after-image of that smile in Hubert’s mind.

He was not fond on being served his own medicine.

Chapter Text

Day Seven

“And you’re sure you’re feeling up to it?”

“Yes, thank you.” Monica replied, tightening the fasten of her cloak as she stood at the drawn canvas door of Dorothea’s tent.

“Well, alright. But we won’t go far. Just up to that stream we passed the other day would be good.” Dorothea gave her one last concerned look before turning to gather up her things.

Monica cleared her throat. She had prior been polite and not stared much at Dorothea’s belongings, but she couldn’t resist a quick peek into the tent now before they left for their outing. Beside her cot Dorothea had a small crate-turned-table which she seemed to be keeping her most personal belongings on; Monica recognised the book of anecdotes Dorothea had told her about yesterday, which was lying beside an ornate brass taperstick, the candle of which had nearly burnt all the way down. The taperstick was precious, as Dorothea had divulged, because it was a gift from a dear friend at Mittelfrank. Such a beautiful and sentimental item deserved more than the average, plain candle, and so Monica resolved in that moment to purchase Dorothea some embossed candles, in pretty colours if available, at the next market she went to.

Upon Dorothea's insistence, Monica had left her own travel bag at the camp - 'I'll carry it all in my pack, Monnie. Don't you worry.' - and so she'd brought the paperwork she intended to do with her. When Dorothea was done with her own belongings, she took them from Monica's outstretched hands.

"Do these need to stay uncreased?" Dorothea asked, the papers crackling as she brushed her thumb across them.

"Um, no." Monica kept her papers nice and neat usually, but she pushed aside her perfectionism for the sake of making Dorothea's job simpler. "They can be a little crumpled, so long as they're still legible!"

"Great, I'll put them on this side then…" 

Once Dorothea had packed her bag, they headed off to the stables. The sun was peeking out behind the clouds, breaking through the cold mist of the morning. Few people were out, and if they were, they didn't look too happy about it - save for Ferdinand, who Monica spotted in the very corner of the stables talking lowly to one of the horses. She decided not to disturb him, and Dorothea was busy rearranging the items in her pack to make it more comfortable to carry, so he continued his equine-intended murmurs without noticing their arrival. He appeared quite content, and, as far as Monica could gather, so did the horse. 

They saddled up at the far end of the stables where the horses unequipped for battlefields were kept; these horses were few, cavalry units being the logical priority currently. 

"Just let me know immediately if you feel dizzy or anything like that, promise?" Dorothea said, scooping her foot into a stirrup and hoisting herself gracefully up onto her horse.

"Of course, I promise. Thank you again for being so thorough in looking after me."

"Well, it would hardly be right to leave you without support after all of that. Right at the start of the war the infirmity was waylaid by several cases of post-warp fever when some mages used the spell on the battlefield before they'd completed their training… I hear they received quite the telling-off from their general. So for you to be faring so well after your first successful use of the spell, and on yourself no less-! Well, I just hope my concern for your wellbeing is understandable."

"I understand, and I'm deeply grateful for it. To think that Lady Dorothea would-" Monica stopped short as she caught Dorothea's look. High up on an ivory horse with the sunlight casting rays through the stable stalls onto her raised eyebrows, she looked like an unimpressed goddess.

Dorothea shook her head then, to Monica's relief, smiled. "Is Lady Monica going to join me," she gestured to the horse beside hers, "or will she stay here after all? Excursions aren't much fun on one's own, Monnie."

"I-I will join you! Just, uh-" Monica hurried over to her own horse and fumbled around with the saddle. The buckles were too tight, and then they were too loose, and then she realised that she probably didn't need to adjust them in the first place. "Give me… a few minutes, perhaps. Um…" 

There was a thud on the hay-strewn ground behind her, and suddenly a pair of hands were shooing Monica's away, bracelets jangling at the wrists. Dorothea righted the saddle buckles then turned to Monica.

"If we are to bloom like flowers alongside the Emperor, then I think we both ought to have basic horseriding know-how under our belts." There was a very slight smile upon her lips, but she kept the rest of her face remarkably still. Was she… teasing her? "But whilst you improve those skills I suppose I can help. And I am monitoring you for any side effects of that warp casting, after all. Now…" She gestured to the horse.

"Ah, yes." Whilst she wasn't a master of tack adjustments, she could mount a horse just fine on her own - under normal circumstances. But with the illustrious Mystical Songstress right beside her, looking like she was ready to catch her if she fell? Less so.

She made three spectacular embarrassments of attempts to get onto the horse before Dorothea took pity on her and placed her hands at her waist, giving her a push up on the fourth attempt.

Now sat on the saddle, Monica flushed. This event may not even make way to my journal, she thought, for I have memory enough of this embarrassment to last an aeon. If I try to reflect upon it in words I may combust.

*

The stream was the perfect choice of location, and Monica praised Dorothea extensively for it. Dorothea was ever humble, and ended up persuading her into talking about something other than her feats in decision-making.

"You said before that you love swimming. We ought to have a swim sometime, on another outing, or perhaps in that coveted peacetime…"

"That would be nice." Monica smiled, feeling flattered at Dorothea remembering something about her. Acts of remembrance were more selective in others without a memory like Monica's, she had been told, and so to remember a mundane little detail of past conversation like that… well, it was no surprise, because it was Dorothea, but it indicated that she cared.

"Streams like this are just so relaxing, aren't they? The gentle flowing sound…" Dorothea sighed.

"Yes, it's very calming, and I find it helps me to concentrate, which makes this the ideal place to bring my work." She pointed to the documents spread in front of her on the blanket they'd set on the grass. "I should have been coming here every day this whole week!"

"Well, that's hindsight for you. Next time you engage in a competition with Hubert you can come here straight away."

"Oh, there won't be a next time." Monica shook her head heavily. 

"No?"

"I'm certain about it. This one has already put me through so much… well, and put him through so much, too. We've put each other through so much. It's ridiculous. But I have to see it through."

"I have no doubt you will, Monnie. Though are you sure you don't want any help with these?" Dorothea gave a nod to the papers then flicked her hair behind her shoulders.

"Yes, though your offer is very kind. We actually made an agreement yesterday that we wouldn't get help from anyone else."

"Ah, I see. That makes sense, after…" Dorothea grimaced, but with a sparkle of humour in her eyes, "all of that."

‘All of that’ was just about all the description anyone could give the whole situation at this stage, let alone the events of yesterday. How does one escalate from comparing paperwork to deception, sabotage, and threatening serious bodily harm? Even having lived through it, even having each stage of the competition logged in her memory, Monica wouldn’t know where to begin putting together a coherent description of it all now that it had come so far. It’s a wonder she was able to tell Dorothea and Constance enough of what was happening that they got involved - and this was something she somewhat regretted. She was glad now that neither of them could be further roped into proceedings. The new rules for today would benefit everyone.

Dorothea’s eyes drifted to the stream, and she suddenly rose, picking up her long skirt to avoid tripping on the blanket.

“I’m going to walk a little downstream, let you get some work done.” She said with a smile.

“Oh, you haven’t been a distraction, I’ve gotten plenty of-”

“No, no, come on, Monnie. I’ve been watching. You’ve done three pages.” She crouched a little to put a firm hand on Monica’s shoulder. “And I want you to win.”  Then she stepped lightly away, began to hum a tune, and made her way closer to the stream.

It was only when it took until the beautiful melody was out of earshot for her to return to her work that Monica realised just how much she’d fooled herself. Not distracted? That was impossible when in the presence of Lady Dorothea. 

But now, she would get her head down and work.

It was becoming less and less of a coincidence when Ferdinand bumped into Hubert in the mornings. On his way from the stables back to his quarters. Hubert was getting sick of hearing Ferdinand pretending it was a quaint situation.

"Ah! Funny seeing you here!"

"Again." Hubert said under his breath.

"What was that?"

Hubert turned on his heel.

"No - no, wait!" 

Ferdinand skittered to keep up with his march towards the centre of the encampment, and damn it, he was fast.

"It is the final day of competition!" Ferdinand said as he levelled with Hubert's stride. "And I-"

Better to stop the spiel before it's started. “You will be disappointed to hear that we’ve agreed not to recruit others for assistance today.”

Ferdinand stopped walking. Hubert continued for a few paces before the infuriating curiosity at the back of his mind halted his feet. He turned, and saw Ferdinand standing there with his arms crossed. 

“And you will be disappointed to hear that I had no intention of offering my help a second time!”

"Why would I be disappointed?" Hubert scoffed. "Your help the first time was less than ideal."

"I - well. I was just…"

Kicked puppy, Hubert’s brain said, and he kicked the thought away.

Then Ferdinand tipped his chin up, a wave of indignancy seeming to crest over him. "Why would I be disappointed in not being able to help you again? Your performance yesterday was 'less than ideal'. You abandoned me!"

Hubert couldn't muster a fight to this fact, nor a confirmation. Yes, he made a cowardly move yesterday, but no, he would not admit it. 

There was a moment of silence, in which several people huffed as they dodged around the two static figures in the middle of a key pathway. Hubert crossed his arms; Ferdinand dropped his arms to his sides. 

"Is that all you wished to say?" Hubert asked, quieter now.

"Oh. No… I also wished to extend an invitation to you, but, ah… I fear the mood is now too sour for such a thing. A silly thing, too, really-"

"An invitation to what?"

Ferdinand sighed. "An invitation to take tea with me."

"Tea?"

"Well, an invitation to sit with me and have your drink of choice." He visibly shuddered. "Your terrible, terrible drink of choice."

"Why would I want to do that?" And why would you want to do that?

"Well, we seem to be quite good at spending time together when our paths cross." Ferdinand stepped out of the way of a group of people carrying crates. "I enjoy our lively debates. And we are friends. So, why not arrange a more formal occasion to meet?"

Hubert looked at him then. Bright, if a little uncertain, eyes. Freckled face capturing the light. Tousled hair. He tightened his crossed arms and joined Ferdinand at the edge of the path, a more sensible choice. Running an army required a level of smooth operations; it would not do to linger in stubbornness, making more trouble than necessary. It would not do to protest to the kindness of others.

He was no longer sure what he was thinking about.

"I have…" He cleared his throat. "Half an hour. Of spare time. At this moment."

Ferdinand's face lit up. "Really?" He said with a gasp.

"The more you question it the quicker it disappears."

"Of - of course! Let us go fetch our drink-making supplies!"

Hubert sighed. "Let's." 

Later, after Dorothea had returned and settled down to read the novel she had brought along, and after Monica had gotten a satisfactory chunk of work completed, conversation arose again. Monica had increasingly found ideas sifting through her thoughts until it became too difficult to ignore them, and she simply had to get some feedback. Dorothea asked about her plans for winning the competition today, and there came tumbling out of Monica's mouth something she never thought she'd say:

"I think I'm going to read up on poisons."

Dorothea blinked hard. "I'm sorry, did you really just say - Monnie… poisons?!"

"Not to kill! I must be very clear about that. There's a great web of lines I should never  - and don't ever intend on - crossing. I was just thinking that perhaps it would be a good way to put him off long enough to get the edge… oh, I don't know, this is ridiculous. I don't even know what I would use, or how I would use it…"

"Well I certainly wouldn't support an assassination attempt, but if you do something that gives him a few unsavoury symptoms, for just an hour or two… I could get behind that. Not that I could help you, of course. Is moral support still allowed?"

"I hope so. I need it. Thank you so much. In my most foolish moments, you still offer unwavering care-!"

Dorothea batted a hand at her. "Oh, stop it, you. Now let's brainstorm poisons."

“The warmth, the fragrance, the perfect balance of sweet and sour - oh, and don’t even get me started on the texture-!”

“I won’t.”

“It is silky and soft and runs along the tongue just so, rolling out each note of flavour as it goes, and…”

This teatime would be the death of him. Hubert was going to expire. Soon.

No sooner had they sat down at a rickety table at the edge of camp than Ferdinand had begun monologuing about his choice of tea. Southern Fruit Blend. Now that was a choice Hubert could do without. With every glowing word about the blasted tea that fell from Ferdinand’s lips, he felt a shovel in his stomach dig deeper into the pit, a drop of embarrassment welling up each time until it was overflowing. Why, oh why, did he write down Ferdinand’s favourite tea instead of Lady Edelgard’s? And why did he give this to Monica of all people, Monica who knew everything about Her Majesty, least of all simple facts like her tea preferences, facts even a lowly fly could likely remember better than him? 

Ferdinand was a parasite. His interests were bleeding over into Hubert’s. And for some flames-forsaken reason, Hubert hadn’t done anything to stop it, had entertained Ferdinand’s whims more and more until here he was, sitting opposite him as he talked about his tea until it was surely cold, with barely a protest to the invitation that had landed him here. Something Hubert would never admit: he was envious of Monica. She was clear as day with her emotions, understanding them seemingly without having to think about it, stating plain whatever she felt in the moment, whilst his emotional repertoire was like a pipe in need of unclogging. He could not for the life of him parse out why he had accepted the invitation, and furthermore why he was sitting here listening to Ferdinand ramble with no indication from his thoughts that he wanted to leave. 

“...When the tea is a rich golden-brown with that beautiful sheen, that’s when you know it’s been properly steeped, and you can smile to yourself knowing it’s a job well done. Now, the milk is a whole different beast. If it is too-”

“Ferdinand.”

“Hm?”

“As much as your speech has been… fascinating… I think you ought to actually drink the tea now, don’t you? Or else shall I throw it into that unfortunate-looking shrub over there?”

“Now, now, there’ll be no need for that!” Ferdinand hastily picked up his cup, though still took the time to carefully place his fingers in what Hubert assumed must be the noble way to hold a teacup.

“Good.” Hubert drained the last of his coffee and set down the empty mug. “I don’t have long before I must return to work.”

“Ah yes! We wouldn't want you losing.”

“No. I shan’t lose, seeing as I already have a plan.”

Ferdinand leaned in conspiratorially over the table. “A plan?”

Hubert leaned back. “Yes.”

“Well, what is it?! You must tell me.”

I mustn’t and I won’t, Hubert wanted to say, but instead said: “Something… ‘nefarious’, as you would say.”

A dramatic gasp. “Hubert! You surely don’t mean - not truly - are you going to poison her?!”

Hubert looked beyond him, at the line of trees. Empty frames of brown. Cold. Dead? Never truly. Hm… 

Another gasp, impossibly bigger. “You are!”

Hubert cleared his throat and stood up, keeping his eyes strictly away from Ferdinand. “Time’s up. I must take my leave.”

“Already? But-” Ferdinand sighed. “Hubert. Hubert, please. Tell me just one more thing. Tell me the truth. You won’t kill her, will you?”

Picking up his coffee mug, Hubert finally looked at him. Those pleading eyes. Golden. Pure. 

Despite all his wants to tease Ferdinand, to play with his beliefs, to make a mockery of the whole damn situation… he couldn't lie. Not to those eyes.

“I won’t.” He said, then walked away.

As neither Monica nor Dorothea had anything close to an extensive knowledge of poisons, or the ones that their current encampment possessed for that matter, their brainstorming came to a close rather abruptly soon after they'd started. But then - oh, a wonderful thing. Monica loved it when this happened: the memory popping back into the forefront of her mind with supreme clarity, a shining light, a beacon at just the right moment, the past illuminating the present.

"I have hemlock!" She exclaimed, feeling her eyebrows jump above her widened eyes.

Dorothea's expression was scandalised. "You do?"

Monica nodded rapidly, then more words flung out of her mouth, matching the pace: "And the reason I have it in the first place is because one of Hubert’s plans backfired, so then using it against him is even better-!"

Justice. Revenge. Whatever it was, it was going to be good, and Hubert would remember it just as she would, because it would etch her name onto the side of victory for the rest of time. All throughout this competition she had been trying to prove herself - it was the very thing that had started it in the first place - and now here was the best opportunity yet, so intoxicatingly perfect in all its narrative potential. Triumphing over Hubert by using the skill he holds with that silent, smirking pride was one thing, but that skill being one he uses to keep Her Majesty safe and secure? Monica was glowing. If she pulled this off, she would place herself firmly beside Hubert as a weapon in Her Majesty’s arsenal, she would serve her better than she ever had before, because if- 

Well, ‘if’... ‘if’ was a problem. She needed to nurse this fragile hatchling of a plan until it was flawless; ‘if’ could not be a factor in all of this. But she didn’t have time to develop it, because the longer she spent doing that, the longer Hubert would have to get work done, and it was already noon-!

Monica stood up in a hurry, standing on the ends of her dress in the process and half-tripping over - Dorothea braced her with one hand, the other still clutching a waterskin which she nearly tipped over in the rush.

“Monnie, Monnie, you’re getting terribly enthusiastic about this - which is great! But also dangerous. I don’t want you to get…” She let out a breath as Monica stood properly this time and began gathering items off their blanket, “in over your head.” 

“I’m not sure I have much choice!” Monica said, tucking her paperwork into the pack. “This is my final chance. I must give it all I’ve got!”

Upon seeing Dorothea’s furrowed brow, she blanched. She was, in all likelihood, in over her head. Dorothea had a right to be concerned…

“Thank you for worrying about me.” She said with a blush.

“You’ve been thanking me a lot lately.”

“Because you deserve it! I feel your songstress name was a misnomer - not that you can’t be mystical! But the Compassionate Songstress would be far more accurate.”

Dorothea rolled her eyes and smiled. “You love an aggrandising title, don’t you, Lady Monica?”

Monica was in half a mind to get flustered and apologetic about it, but Dorothea’s tone was playful. And besides, the unfortunate truth was that she couldn’t dally on making amends or test her skills of jest against Dorothea’s, because there was no time to spare.

“I fear we must continue this conversation later - I need to get back as soon as possible to work out my concoction of hemlock and how exactly I can use it against him! If you wish to stay, I understand, I wouldn’t want to cut your relaxation short-”

“Oh, I’ll come back too, we’ve had plenty of time out here. I’d rather be back at camp in case anything goes wrong - poisons are not a subject to be underestimated. But of course, I do have the highest confidence in your abilities, Monnie. Let’s go get your victory!”

He had a plethora of pre-made vials to choose from, so preparation was a non-issue. The issue was coming up with the 'how' and 'where' for the poisoning - but not because Hubert couldn't think of anything. Quite the opposite. The issue was that he came up with the idea far too quickly, and it sprung into his mind with the canter of a horse and the clinking of ceramic, and it was the worst idea he had quite possibly ever had in his entire life to date. 

Invite her to tea.

Ferdinand must never hear of this. He would be ecstatic.

The first tome on poisonous plants she unearthed at the encampment’s book storage would have to do, because there was simply no time for choosing - and that included choosing a reading location, which was what brought Monica to sitting on the floor as she scanned the index of the book in her lap for mentions of hemlock. She briefly entertained the thought of what her mother would say if she could see her now; she had always tried to foster a love of literature in her, but poisonous non-fiction was decidedly not something ever seen on her family home’s bookshelves.

As if being in a rush already weren’t enough stress, she had failed to account for the fact that the book would categorise by the plants’ ancient names. Navigation straight to ‘H’ was no longer feasible.

‘Abrus precatorius (rosary pea)’

No…

‘Caltha palustris (marsh-marigold)

Colchicum autumnale (meadow saffron)’

No, no…

‘Conium maculatum (hemlock)’

No… - wait, yes! She had almost missed it, her brain heady with the nagging need for expediency-

“What exactly are you doing down there?”

Monica gasped. “Y-Your Majesty!” She slammed the book shut, dust expelling from its pages.

Her Majesty towered over her, hands on her hips and further questions in her expression.

Monica would never, ever be unhappy to see her… but this was one rare occasion upon which she came close to feeling that way. Such a disservice in her thoughts must never see the light of day. 

She pushed herself up from the wooden floorboards, cradling the book behind her back. “A small bit of research, nothing really. In fact, I must get back to work! I hope you have a wonderful afternoon, Your Majesty. Goodbye!” 

A bow, an avoidance of usual eye contact, and something of a sprint out of the room, and Monica was sure that that was the worst interaction she had ever had with Her Majesty, and that she would have to make their next meeting a thousand times more felicitous to compensate.

*

Though the majority of her memory was saved for more important things, the pocket of her brain dedicated to details about their current camp could do with some expansion, if only a little. As it was, she only recalled two of seven sizable dents in the dirt, and so her hurried stride whilst studying the tome in hand was addled with stumbles. Not the best conditions for learning, to say the least, but it had the fortune of relieving her of the need to read as soon as she reached her tent some seconds later.

Immediately dropping the book on her cot, she went straight to her desk to retrieve the pouch of hemlock leaves. She had read only the summary list of facts during her short walk back, but this was more than enough:

All parts of the plant are toxic. Minor poisoning causes stomach ache and/or vomiting. Major poisoning causes progressive bodily paralysis; fatality. 

A very, very minor poisoning was all Monica sought - just enough to cause Hubert some discomfort, to ruin this one day of his. For this, the book estimated the ingestion of two to three leaves.

Feeling highly illicit, Monica dashed her way back across camp to fetch a pestle and mortar from the kitchens and brought it to her tent. Crushing the leaves was something of a hypnotic process; they went mushy at first, but then slowly divided into tinier, mushier pieces, and by the time the dregs of green were miniscule enough to suit her purposes, Monica felt her mind infinitely calm. If this is how the camp cooks feel, she thought, then maybe I shall take to volunteering there more often… It was only when she began pouring the powder-like leaves into a vial that a less calming thought struck her: Hubert will surely have some level of immunity to hemlock! All those moments came rolling back: three in total, all passing mentions of his practices in mithridatism, all vital indicators that he would surely be well prepared; if Hubert had acquired a tolerance for as many poisons as he had intimated, then hemlock was surely among them, and so her current amount of three leaves would not cause even the most minor of stomach troubles.

She went back and forth in her head about the predicament before throwing caution to the wind and settling on doubling the dose. It was already afternoon; she could not afford to wait any longer.

Onwards.

*

Where does one find a man who dwells in the shadows? Surely the answer was simple. But no: Monica found Hubert out in the daylight, by pure accident. They bumped into each other - though not quite so literally, for Hubert seemed adept at keeping people at arm’s length when he wanted to - on a random pathway across the camp.

Monica clenched her fists but tried to coerce a neutral expression onto her face. The vial of hemlock was still in her pocket. This was far from the best time to encounter Hubert; having just decided on her plan, she was going to locate his whereabouts without him knowing, then incorporate the poison into a snack platter that she would bring to him. She was going to harness every slice of acting knowledge garnered from Dorothea’s great tales and pretend to eat some in the hopes that he would take a poisoned piece himself. But standing face-to-face with her adversary now, it became obvious that such a plan would involve too much finger-crossing. The odds of Hubert taking the bait were slim. He may squint in the sunlight, but he could see through artifice with little problem. 

Well, there went that plan. But it didn’t matter now anyway; Hubert clearly had something on his mind. She would seize this opportunity.

“Working hard?” Monica prompted, wanting to smirk but feeling too tamped-down by the anticipation of what exactly he was thinking. 

A pained look crossed Hubert’s face as he appeared to inexplicably agonise over his reply. Monica watched with morbid curiosity as he took in a deep breath. Suddenly the weight of the vial in her pocket felt like that of a gold bar.

“I’ve been looking for you.” He said, looking past her.

“Oh?” 

“Yes.”

It was unusual for Hubert to deal out any preamble, let alone the evasive kind. It was… disturbing. Monica cleared her throat and crossed her arms, feeling the vial shift in her coat pocket with the motion. 

There was a deep sigh. And then he spoke, far too quiet than was appropriate for the busyness of the camp, but as Monica caught each half-heard word, matched it with the movements of his mouth, she understood why:

“Would you like to join me for tea?” were the words, and his expression burst into an unsettling twist, his trademark sadistic smirk overlaid with utmost turmoil, despisal glazing over his eyes.

Relief unfolded in Monica’s heart. Her plan of poisoned food, the unfortunate best she could come up with in short time, was no better than Hubert’s plan - because that’s what this invitation was, without a shadow of a doubt. Maybe he had exhausted his scheming abilities for the week, or maybe he simply did not care anymore; either way, this was a see-through ultimatum of sorts, and Monica was glad she would not have to worry herself about what he might plan, for the exterior of the thing was clear as day in front of her now. 

Committed to the opportunism she had entered the moment with, Monica smiled. “Yes. I would.”

Hubert’s eyes drifted back to hers. “You would.” He repeated, monotone.

“I would.” She lifted her head a little higher. Acceptance: of the invitation, of the possibility to be harmed by whatever Hubert had planned at this teatime, but, most vitally, the opportunity to slip the hemlock into a certain mug of coffee.

Hubert sighed again. Whatever had brought him to this pretence, he was oddly resigned to it. Monica found herself almost wishing he'd skipped the invitation and gotten straight to the sabotage - whatever that may be - for seeing Hubert so out of character made her skin crawl.

"Now?" She asked.

"Yes. Let's."

Accepting his invitation was like standing in an enemy archer's path and expecting them not to shoot. Monica knew this; Hubert was sure of it. She was playing directly into his hand because she had a card up her sleeve… but what was the card exactly? 

He took her to a secluded spot far away from any prying eyes (a previous spot of poisoning, in fact… though that one had crossed a line of lethality he would not be crossing today). They'd picked up the various items for drink-making along the way, and upon arrival at the location set it all down on a slightly crumbling low wall. Hubert briefly mourned the lack of a table-and-chairs set up, if only for the fact that it would have provided him the opportunity to perform the unsettling act of pulling Monica's chair out for her.

"Sit." He said instead.

“You sit first. I’ll make your coffee.” Monica said blithely. 

It was to be a volley, then. Hubert could play that game.

“I shall make your tea.”

“How exactly did you come by the knowledge of tea-making? Do you make it for Her Majesty?”

Rarely. The most of his knowledge came from Ferdinand. Whether he consented to acquire it or not. “Yes.” 

Monica gave him a strange look.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Do you have something more to say, or do you simply gaze wistfully at whoever happens to be in front of you when you start thinking about Her Majesty?”

“Oh.” She blushed and changed the subject by means of avoiding it entirely, choosing instead to pick up the jug of water and begin heating it between her palms, fingertips faintly glowing orange.

Avoidance was another game that Hubert could play, and so he did.

It was the most improper and least sensible place to make drinks, but they rallied forth, pouring the hot water into cups and balancing everything precariously on the cobbled wall. It was hard to miss how Monica was staring eagle-eyed at his process of making her drink when he was watching her for the selfsame reason. Nothing was slipped into either of their drinks. Everything was normal. Civil, even. Hubert hoped he would be able to change that very soon.

Whilst it would be a shame to have to rely on uninventive tactics, it seemed that this encounter would force his hand. A simple diversion was in order. What a bore.

"Speaking of Her Majesty-" He said, taking the threads of the dropped conversation into his hands, "here she comes now." And he nodded his head towards the path that they had come down, far to the side of their seating arrangement.

Monica looked steely at him, keeping her head firmly still - but then her traitorous eyes flicked to the side, just to check, just in case, and there Hubert was able to dose her tea from the vial he had been keeping to hand ready for this moment. 

No sooner had her eyes, narrowed now, returned to his face than they had looked down at her cup. There was little doubt in Hubert's mind that she knew what he had done. And that… well, that was a problem.

"Hubert." She said quietly.

"Mm?" He tried to keep a disinterested air about his voice.

"Can I…" Monica cleared her throat. "Can I tell you a story?"

"A… story?"

She appeared anxious. Hands tensed in her lap, the toes of her boots digging into the ground. “Not my own - it’s from Dorothea. She’s told me some wonderful stories over the past few weeks about her time at Mittelfrank."

There was a silence in which Monica seemed to be asking, can I go on? And Hubert thought, fine. Let her have this. Whatever 'this' is. Go on. He stared blankly ahead at the camp in the near-distance, the people milling about.

Eventually, she resumed: "Well, there was a songstress who was forever 'causing issues', as Lady Dorothea put it, and on one such occasion she caused damage - intentionally, as many reportedly believed - to the integral prop for one of their shows, a three-pendant necklace. The reason many thought the damage to be intentional was the existence of a long-standing feud between the issue-causing songstress and the lead of the upcoming opera, Eleanor, who would be wearing that vital necklace. And so with the damages done, the necklace was looking rather worse for wear - only two pendants, but the presence of three was part of the opera's storyline. Eleanor was devastated, but then do you know what she did? She performed on stage with that broken necklace, and not only did she perform well, but she improvised a heartbreaking backstory to the damages that added to the plot’s plays on the audience’s heartstrings. It was, as Dorothea described, a ‘power move’.”

Another silence, in which this time Hubert internally debated the meaning of this story and whether or not he cared. Unfortunately he concluded that he did care, cared quite a lot, because Monica was far from stupid and he knew well enough by now not to underestimate her. This story did not come out of nowhere; it meant something. He just could not figure out what-

"Hubert."

He sighed, exasperated. "Yes?"

"Well, now I'm going to… I am going to make a power move."

She dipped a hand into an internal jacket pocket, withdrew from it a slim glass tube, and tipped its contents into his coffee.

"Ah." said Hubert.

“We should have our drinks now.” 

Monica’s face was readable at the worst of times, but apparently they’d hit a new low, because Hubert could not puzzle out her intent from her expression. She had been practicing her skills of deception, it seemed.

“You’re kidding?”

She levelled her gaze at him and shook her head. Picked up her teacup, but held it low.

Hubert took his coffee and held it just off the wall, too. “After you.”

Monica did not drink, of course. “Ah, no, after you.”

“...We appear to have reached an impasse."  

She sighed. “After a week of cold-hearted sabotage the best we can do is sit and convince the other to drink? This is not how I expected things to end.”

“Mm. How about we both drink at the same time?”

Her brows knitted skeptically. “...Alright.”

“On the count of three. One, two, three.”

They both lifted their cups; Hubert stopped tipping the mug just before the liquid hit his lips…

…and Monica did the same.

They sighed in tandem, and Hubert was beginning to think they would never get anywhere with this. Perhaps they should each go back to their paperwork and settle the results the simple way. That was what this whole infuriating competition began as - and should have stayed as, the logical part of himself reminded him.

“I think,” he said, “we have both reached the same level of… getting one over on each other. Do you agree?”

“Yes. But I object to the fact that we’re letting that stop us. It’s all terribly unsatisfying, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” And then Hubert thought, whatever poison she has dosed my drink with has been steeping for quite some time now.

“How about this: we ask each other questions, and if we can’t or don’t want to answer them, we drink.”

“Wherever did you get that idea from?”

Monica flushed a little. “Lady Dorothea told me of the times she and the other songstresses played it at after-show celebrations. Though their games involved alcohol…”

“A different type of poison.”

“Yes. Anyway, I think it could be fun in its own way, and would give us something of a proper end to our contest - though we both must swear to drink truly this time. So… do you agree to my terms?”

Do I agree to drink poison? What a foolish proposition. But then… this is Monica. How bad could it be? She likely purchased a small dose of something banal at the market. It will probably make my tongue tingle and nothing more. “The last time I agreed to your terms, I became involved in an inane competition.”

She looked disappointed.

“But I will acquiesce this final time. For your sake.”

The disappointment wiped clean. 

Never let it be said that Hubert has no heart. That is only true nine tenths of the time.

“Alright. Wonderful. And let us both properly swear we will drink.” Monica held out a hand towards him, one finger extended.

“What are you doing.” Hubert deadpanned.

“Uh… a pinkie swear? Didn’t you do this as a child?”

“No. Making promises is dangerous business at any age. Why would I get my pinkie involved?”

Monica rolled her eyes and retracted the offer of her pinkie. “Just swear it then.”

“I swear I will drink it veritably this time.” Hubert said with a sigh.

“I, too.”

Silence, and Hubert thought about whether or not all of this was a mistake. He thought about whether the poison in Monica’s cup would still be at an appropriate severity by the time she drank it. It needed one minute to properly blend; that had passed. Then there was a window of approximately five minutes before it would increase in its… effectiveness, so to speak. Ideally he would avoid any unforeseen circumstances caused by this.

“What questions are we asking, exactly?”

“Oh, personal ones. Shall I start?”

Hubert blinked slowly.

“Um, alright. What… oh, what were the first words you said to Her Majesty when you first met?”

“I don’t remember, it was many years ago.”

“Then you must drink!” Monica tipped her chin up.

“No, that was an unfair question. No one except yourself has a memory for such things. Ask something else.”

“Since when have we been in the business of being fair?”

“Since this very moment. There, that was your question. Now answer mine: has it always been in your temperament to be insufferably obsessive?”

“That was not my question, but - insufferable? Obsessive?” Monica huffed. “If you’re asking if I’ve always been this apt at dedicating my life to one person, then yes, I have always been so.”

“No, I wasn’t asking about ‘dedication’. Your answer is insufficient. Drink.”

A noise of frustration escaped her lips. “I disagree - it was perfectly sufficient. But fine, if only to move this game along.” She took a quick sip of her tea, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “My next question is what you put in here.”

Hubert’s fingers twitched. He did not particularly want to reveal his pick of poison. It was not a pattern of his work to be overt with such things; every concoction he had something of a personal connection to, each one carefully crafted. So: either unmask a trade secret to someone who was, quite frankly, unworthy, or risk a taste of whatever was in his coffee? The decision was easy when he had already neatly talked himself into believing - knowing - that whatever he had given her was far worse than what she could’ve come up with.

“Pass.” He said, and drank from his cup.

A wicked smile emerged on Monica’s face. “Your turn.”

“Hm.” It was difficult to think of a question when he was trying to decipher the poison on his tongue. The flavour muddied together with the coffee to create something out of his mind’s reach. 

He was kicking himself for not practicing taste-tests in his own drinks more than a handful of times. After deciding long ago to never take something given to him at a function at which untrustworthy persons were in attendance, he had deemed the skill null, at least compared to other things he could be spending his time on. He would have to amend that.

Speaking of trust… “Do you honestly plan to stand with Lady Edelgard ‘til the end?”

“Of course! I’m hurt that you would ever think otherwise - I know it is in your nature to be skeptical, but really, you must see that my declarations of fealty ring true. I will be beside Her Majesty until the end, whatever that may be.” 

The fervour in her eyes was somewhat unnerving, though nothing Hubert hadn’t seen before. Come to think of it, that was a poor question. He needed to ask the unanswerable; it was time to be properly strategic.

Monica tapped a finger to her chin. “What’s the most recent embarrassing thing you’ve done?”

“I invited you to tea.”

She laughed. Laughed. “So that’s why you looked so… pained.”

Hubert cleared his throat. “Moving on. What did your latest journal entry entail?”

“You - how do you know I have a journal? Oh no, please tell me you haven’t read it! Because that would be the highest breach of privacy, and I would-”

“I haven’t read it. I merely glanced at its cover when I was passing by your belongings. Will you answer my question?”

“Ah… my latest entry? Well, that was…” Monica’s face grew pink. “Actually, I’d rather not say.”

“Then drink.”

She drank.

“How are you faring with it?”

Monica’s face twisted a little as she gulped, but then she seemed to steady herself, and looked determinedly at him. “You will have to save that until your turn, because that is a question. Now let me think of one for you.”

“You’re aware that poison increases in potency the longer it steeps? I suggest you hurry.”

Her eyebrows drew downwards. “Alright. My question is why do you insist on being snide even when the other person is clearly not in the mood?”

“Are we making psychological assessments of ourselves now?”

“Answer it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then drink.”

Hubert sighed deeply. He could not protest that this was unfair, not in earnest. So he brought the ceramic to his lips and drank. The taste was even more bitter than last time.

The bitterness seemed to affect his words as well as his tastebuds: “Your ‘dedication’ is so overzealous that it’s surely making up for something. So what is it in your life that you so lack, such that you feel you must cling to Her Majesty like a leech?”

This question wrote an expression on Monica’s face of equal parts sadness and anger. When she eventually spoke, her voice was flat and quiet. “Your assessment of me is in poor faith. I am not lacking. But if that is an insufficient answer for you, then I’ll drink.”

Their eyes were trained on each other now, and Hubert found himself unsettled to the brink of guilt. There was little he felt capable of save for nodding slowly and watching as Monica took a gulp of tea. Ask me something terrible, too, a part of him wanted to say. That part was one he was not in contact with often.

Monica shook her shoulders suddenly - for a moment, Hubert thought this was the poison’s doing and became rapidly concerned that it had indeed steeped for too long, far too long if convulsions were involved - and then she put down her half-empty cup and folded her hands in her lap.

“Everytime I see you with Ferdinand you act like you’ve been caught doing something awful - it’s that strange embarrassed face you have, that pained look. Everyone says you were always at each other’s throats at the Officers Academy, but now you barely squabble. You’re friends with Ferdinand now - so why are you desperately clinging to the idea that you’re not? Does it make you feel better somehow to claim you’re perfectly friendless? Emotionless? Un-”

“Enough.”

Monica looked keenly at him for a moment, as if there were even a sliver of a chance that he’d actually give an answer. Though Hubert had no doubt that she knew better. Her intentions were the same as his were with that cruelty; a nudge towards the cliff.

Whatever she meant by those questions didn’t matter, he told himself, because he was done. Done with this game and done with the entire competition. Flames to it. Let it be over already. So he took one final, long sip of coffee.

A whirlwind of emotions flashed across Monica’s face, the only two that were easy to pinpoint being smugness then fear. Hubert was glad to have produced a reaction at least. A reaction for his overreaction.

“That was - quite a lot.” Monica wavered.

“Yes.” He put the mug down and crossed his arms. “What a shame that even with a longer steeping time your poison will have little effect-” And then he started coughing.

The poison is working! The poison is working!

Though seeing the effects in front of her now, Monica very quickly began to reevaluate her elation in real-time.

At first he coughed, several times, like the kind brought on by a nasty cold, and then he stopped short and tried to clear his throat. 

It seemed to work, briefly. Enough to croak out the beginning of a question: “What did you-” 

Then there was more coughing, and Monica’s heart began to beat faster. She hadn’t considered thoroughly enough the prospect of watching Hubert process the bodily effects of her actions and choices. But this is only a minor effect, presumably a preamble to the stomach ache, she told herself. Everything was going to plan. 

Whilst she was debating whether it was more appropriate to say something or just get up and leave, Hubert stopped coughing again.

“What did you give me?” He beseeched, voice dry and clearly quieter than he would’ve liked.

“H-Hemlock.” Monica replied. The unexpected urgency of his tone rattled her. If it was just the coughing and a stomach ache, then why did he sound so-

Hubert looked down at his hands, and as Monica followed his gaze she noted with a rising panic that they had begun to shake.

“How much hemlock?”

“Does your stomach ache too?”

“Yes.”

“The shaking shouldn’t - uh, well, that wasn’t listed… I only used six leaves!”

“Six?!” His hands shook furiously now, matching the temper of his eyes.

“Well I had to factor in your increased immunity-”

Hubert gripped the wall and inhaled sharply. “I haven’t-” He began coughing again.

No, no, no, no, no! Hubert hadn’t practiced mithridatism with hemlock? Then with the double dose - ‘Major poisoning causes progressive bodily paralysis; fatality.’  She was going to kill him! Monica held her outstretched hands towards him and started up a healing spell, the words of choice fuelling it in her mind being please, please, please-! 

Hubert’s eyes widened as he watched the light of the magic grow in her palms. She held one hand to his own on the wall and held the other vaguely to his chest. Casting white magic under panicked circumstances was certainly not ideal - her hands began to wobble in what she perceived distantly as a twisted mockery of Hubert’s.

“Monica.” His coughs subsided enough for him to talk, but he sounded incredibly pained. “Monica…”

“I-It’s alright, I’m fixing it, I-”

A searing pain shot down both her arms, encasing her wrists in a phantom grip. She breathed in through gritted teeth. Hubert’s poison. Half a cup. How could she forget-

Her eyes shuttered with the intensity of the seizing of her muscles, and she could no longer tell if she was still casting, could only hope that she was.

In an instant there was a slightly shaky hand clasped around one of her arms. When she wrenched open her eyelids she realised she was teetering on the wall, her arms locked and near-unusable, except there was light pouring from her palms, dimmer now, but still there…

Then all of sudden there was more light, far too much and far too close to her. She closed her eyes again for a moment just as another wave of pain rolled through her arms, upwards this time from her deadlocked wrists, infinitely worse than the first…

But it faded. Slow and steady. 

A flash of moments, and the next thing she saw was Hubert in front of her, looking drained, hands - unshaking now - cautiously backing away from her arms, the last of the white magic trickling into nothingness.

Monica’s arms felt heavy, weak - but the pain was now just a memory. Not one she could forget, of course, but one she would hopefully never relive.

“You healed me.” She said breathlessly.

“You healed me first.” Hubert was looking down his nose at the cups, eyebrows drawn.

“Well, I suppose I did.”

The stunned silence allowed her chest to slow its rhythm. Monica watched the world of the camp go by in the distance beside them. Who would believe that on this little cobbled wall two people just poisoned and saved each other all in one breath? She certainly wouldn’t, if she weren’t one of those people.

A laugh sputtered out across from her. When she turned, Hubert’s face was a twisted grimace of delight. 

Whether it was the adrenaline from everything that had just occurred, or the tastelessness of Hubert’s humour finally clicking with her, she didn’t know, but Monica started laughing too.

“Do we still need to tally paperwork after this,” he said, “or can we call this competition dead and buried now?”

“Poison truly kills, doesn’t it?” Monica chuckled, before wincing at her words. “Ah - but you must know I really, truly, never intended to - well, kill you! Or come close to killing you!”

The idea of Hubert perceiving her as a threat now didn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility.

But he just shook his head. “You mustn’t worry. I’m aware of your intentions. And… your appraisal of me as someone who would be prepared for any and all poison…” He rose, walked away from the wall a short ways. “Well, I am both flattered and ashamed.”

"But you've mentioned that you practice mithridatism before."

"That is true."

"And hemlock is a common poison, as far as I'm aware."

"That is also true."

"So…” Monica decided it was best not to continue; that pained expression was creeping across Hubert’s features.

He sighed and brought a hand to his temple. “An oversight on my part. My practices have slipped since the war began. The safety of my Lady and her army are far more important than the upkeep of my peacetime endeavours in personal endurance… or so I thought. Perhaps I should reevaluate.”

Monica shook her head vehemently. “You mustn’t!”

Huebrt appeared confused.

“I mean, you’re doing wonderfully - with the army, with Her Majesty. And you overwork yourself, I know it. Please don’t add poison to the list, for your own sake.”

“Oh. Well… thank you. I dare say you overwork yourself, too. Your efforts don’t go unnoticed.”

“Aw, thank you! And to hear these words from Her Majesty’s right hand man no less-”

“Now. Enough of this sap. We have already agreed that the competition is dead, but I suggest we formalise it, for clarity’s sake.” He walked back towards her and extended a gloved hand. “A truce, then? Conclude that we are evenly matched?”

Monica accepted the handshake. “A truce. Congratulations to the both of us - for being such exceedingly good members of Her Majesty’s army that there is simply no contest!”

“Congratulations to us for ending each other’s suffering.” He said, as if correcting her.

“Oh, come now, I know we both enjoyed our competition far more than we should’ve-”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was referring to our literal suffering. The poison, Monica.” He had the nerve to look annoyed before turning his lips up with the following jibe: “How could you forget?” 

“You - Ugh, nevermind.” She stood, dusting down her dress. “I’m off to… well, I’m not sure what, actually. I suppose I could do more paperwork. Though without a competition it will feel considerably more dull.”

“I find myself in the unfortunate position of agreeing with you. With all of my high-priority work completed, and the day coming to a close…”

“Perhaps you could dedicate the rest of your day to becoming an unashamed friend?”

“Perhaps you could dedicate your day to becoming less annoying?”

Monica sighed in faux-irritation. “That was a poor riposte, even for you.”

Hubert had no reply but a faint shrug. She was about to begin the walk back to camp when the shine of ceramic hooked her attention; it would be nothing short of irresponsible to leave poisoned drinks out in the open, lying in wait for misfortune.

It seemed Hubert was lingering to help, so Monica passed him the empty jug and small boxes of tea and coffee. He took them wordlessly, perhaps lost in thought.

Well, now was as good a time as any for a last-ditch attempt at persuasion. 

“...Tell me what your poison was?” She dared, handing him the pair of spoons.

Hubert chuckled. He would likely cross his arms and assume his usual menacing pose if he weren’t laden with items like a packing mule. “A truce does not mean I will spill all my secrets.”

“It was worth a try.”

“Uh, what should we do with these?” Monica asked, holding up the half-full cups.

“We have some neutralising potions that should do the trick, then we can dispose of them safely. They’re in one of the storage crates, along with the-”

“Oh, I know.”

Hubert was puzzled for a moment, until he realised she was referring to her encounter with a less-than-tidy storeroom. “Ah. Yes, I’m… sorry. About that. And… everything else...”

“Really?”

“...Half sorry.” He said with a smile.

Monica smirked. “Me too.”