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Ferdinand von Aegir is no stranger to long battles. The victory always feels just a fraction more satisfying if it’s hard earned. He knows that the others will disagree on such a sentiment, but he cannot help it. What more could one strive for than a well-earned win?

The current battle The Black Eagle Strike Force has found themselves is one of those longer ones. 

When they had departed Garreg Mach to descend upon Fhirdiad, they had not expected to be intercepted on the way. But alas, the village they passed through needed their help. The Eagles are the might of Adrestia—they have a duty to protect and defend.

Ferdinand only hopes there’s a village left to save once the battle reaches its end.. They arrived at the siege what looks to be days after it began—buildings burned to ashes, the population terrified and worn down, and a notable casualty count. The crew of brigands that attacked the village were larger than the usual, and significantly more brutal. It was lucky that the Black Eagle Strike Force came across them—what punishment could be more fitting than the leaders of Adrestia upending their attack?

The battlefield is in complete disarray now, the Eagles bringing an additional whirlwind of chaos with them. In the very centre of the field stands Edelgard, her opponents standing no chance against Aymr as she cuts them down. She is supported by Lysithea and Byleth, making even quicker work of their opponents. 

Petra, Dorothea and Sylvain work just as diligently to the north of the field, while ushering injured villagers into the medic area where Mercedes and Linhardt are pushing themselves harder than ever. Meanwhile, Hubert, Bernadetta and Jeritza are stationed on the outskirts of the battlefield, commanding battalions and ensuring that no enemy ploy goes undetected, all while engaging in combat themselves. 

Ferdinand has to force his vision away from Hubert. It’s a difficult thing not to glance over and check his whereabouts every few moments, and Ferdinand only possesses so much self-control. Concealing just how deep his affections for Hubert run should be impossible, not when Ferdinand is certain he looks like a lovestruck fool in the middle of the battlefield as he watches Hubert cast Mire with pure strength in his stance, or commands his battalion with fierce determination. He even takes a brief moment to teach a young villager behind him how to defend herself—and even though Ferdinand is certain that Hubert terrified her by doing so, he still finds himself proud of his love for the effort. 

“Ugh! Will this ever end?” Lorenz questions from beside Ferdinand, tugging at the reins of his steed. It’s enough to pull Ferdinand’s attention back to his own situation. A quick glance at Lorenz confirms that he hadn’t noticed what had captured Ferdinand’s attention so deeply—a lucky thing. Ferdinand isn’t sure Hubert was ready to deal with the rest of the Eagles growing aware of their changing relationship status just yet. Two moons is too soon for such a declaration, and Hubert has made it clear that he values the period of adjustment. 

“Where did the reinforcements come from?” Ferdinand asks, gripping his own lance tighter. He, Lorenz and Caspar had been put in charge of securing the southern entrance to the village, a task that never seems to end. For every brigand they cut down, three more seem to take their place. The duration of their battle has even worn-down Ferdinand’s horse, Ferdinand choosing to proceed on foot. It’s almost enough to be considered dire. 

He lifts his lance and pushes it into a nearby brigand’s shoulder. The wound isn’t enough to kill him, but will surely prevent him from rejoining the battle. It’s Ferdinand’s preferred way of conducting himself, though the war hasn’t given him many opportunities to lower the casualty count. 

War may be long and trifling and scarring, but Ferdinand will not allow it to lead his moral compass astray. Not if he can help it. 

“Hey, guys?” Caspar says, picking up one of the weapons the brigand Ferdinand incapacitated and holding it up. “Do these seem weird to you?”

Lorenz dismounts his horse, clearly taking pity on the creature for working so hard and offering it some reprieve. He takes what looks to be a dagger in his hands, brows furrowing as he turns it over. 

“What is it?” Ferdinand asks. He inches closer to peek over Lorenz’s shoulder, trusting Caspar to watch their backs as they fuss over the dagger. Caspar wouldn’t let anything sneak up on them, he’s always been more protective than he reveals. 

“You don’t recognise this instrument either?” Lorenz asks. 

Ferdinand cannot say that he does. It’s a dagger, yes, but it has a presence. As though just looking at it weighs heavily on his chest. The silver of the blade glows —it’s almost a mockery of a sacred weapon, this one carries a far more sinister aura. Ferdinand has seen a similar instrument under lock and key in Hubert’s laboratory. 

“I do not think we should touch it,” Ferdinand says, taking it from Lorenz’s hands. The last thing he wants to attend to today is Lorenz being overcome by a cursed dagger. Call him superstitious, but such things certainly can happen. Even though Ferdinand wears gloves, he doesn’t wish to handle it for longer than he must.

Besides, Hubert has warned Ferdinand of their hidden enemies, albeit briefly, referring to them as only Slitherers. Ferdinand has pieced together enough: that they possess power beyond imagination. Ferdinand puts the dagger in the satchel attached to Lorenz’s horse, and notes to tell Hubert of it later. 

“You’re correct, we have other things to focus on now.” Lorenz pushes his hair back as he speaks, movements forced. “We need to find where these hooligans are coming from.” 

In the few, short moments they have been distracted, the number of enemies on their side of the battlefield has doubled. It shouldn’t be possible—is it another sign that there’s something more sinister at play? Ferdinand cranes his neck to try and spot Hubert amongst the mess, to gauge whether he is solving their mystery. 

Caspar groans, and looks around in tandem. “There must be some entrance we missed, maybe something near the forest? I can’t see where else they’re coming from!” 

The three of them all turn their heads instantly. It’s difficult to see through the trees, even more so with the smoke flooding the battlefield, despite Jeritza’s best efforts to quell the blaze of whatever building has been engulfed by flames. 

“At least we are getting good practice for whatever is to come in Fhirdiad,” Ferdinand mumbles under his breath. It earns him a huffed laugh from Lorenz, though it’s more a frustrated sound than a humoured one. “Let me go investigate the forest. You two stay here, ensure to keep an eye on our allies.” They don’t require that warning—both Caspar and Lorenz are more than capable of conducting themselves honourably in combat, but still, Ferdinand would be failing the rest of the Eagles if he did not ensure they were being cared for. 

“That isn’t safe!” Lorenz exclaims, readying his lance to strike at their next opponent, a rather large man who seems insistent on rushing them. It won’t end well for him. Lorenz is excellent with a weapon, after all. “Ferdinand von Aegir, do not do anything so foolish!”

Ferdinand frowns. They’re not making any progress as they are now. Complacency is only going to lead to the injury of more villagers, and in time, one of the Eagles. Ferdinand cannot let that happen, he cannot sit idle and let this battle claim another casualty. 

“I cannot hear you over the sounds of the fight, Lorenz! I will return, shortly,” Ferdinand says, turning his back on his friends as he approaches the nearby tree front. He feels somewhat guilty in ignoring Lorenz’s warnings, but Ferdinand will not be able to sleep tonight without the knowledge that he took every conceivable route to stop such brutality. It’s only the right thing to do. 

“Just give a really, really loud holler if anything goes wrong!” Caspar calls out after him. “We’ll be there!” 

“Aegir!” Lorenz's voice cuts through Caspar’s as sharp as a blade. Ferdinand can only imagine the look of pure indignation on his face. “Come back here!”

“Focus on watching the others!” Ferdinand shouts back, though it may be lost to the wind and smoke. He will be okay, Ferdinand is more than capable of defending himself. 

He continues through the trees, staying close to the edge of the forest, where the battlefield is just in sight. It’s eerie, being just a fraction too far to hear the clashing of metal and the shouts of combatants. All Ferdinand can hear as his own footsteps, dried leaves crunching under his heels as he examines the situation. 

The forest is lush, he can see why such a populous village was set up in this area. The thick foliage is filled with berry trees and honeycomb, and the occasional animal prints that allude to a potential for a hunting ground. 

However, the more resources a village possesses, the more likely they are to be punished for it. Ferdinand grimaces as he continues treading on. 

There are two brigands he encounters early on. He makes quick work of them—a few thrusts of his lance and a solid fist to the face is enough to render them incapacitated. As a general of the Adrestian army, Ferdinand considers himself an expert in all things combat. Two brigands are light work. 

However, two brigands turn to four, and then six, and that’s how Ferdinand knows he’s on the right track. These men surely aren’t wandering through the forest aimlessly, there’s something here of importance to them. A camp, shrouded by shrubbery, most likely. 

Ferdinand continues on, ignoring the nagging feeling in his chest to return for Lorenz and Caspar’s aid. He has strayed far enough that they would not hear him, no matter how loud he screams for their attention. An unnerving thought, but to go back would be to waste time, of which the Eagles have spent enough of here. He cannot let any more villagers get hurt when he could solve their perils with his own two hands.

It’s about fifteen minutes of creeping through the forest when Ferdinand spots two immediate problems. 

One, the brigands have indeed set up a camp here. Except, it’s quite expansive, and certainly looks more like an organised base. Though Ferdinand stays by the tree line so as to not become lost in the forest, he can see why the villagers had not realised its presence. It’s tucked just behind enough thick foliage to remain hidden from anyone outside the forest. He can count around three dozen brigands in his immediate view, though he suspects more are within the confines of the base. 

Really, brigands aren’t usually so organised as to have so much reinforcement, nor to place their bases so strategically as to constantly have an entry point to plunder a village. It makes Ferdinand feel ill—how could one target an innocent village in such a malicious way? How long has this been planned for? And what would have happened if the Black Eagle Strike Force had not passed through the area?

He can’t pay those thoughts much attention now, because the second problem takes immediate precedence over the base. 

By the edge of the tree line, he spots two children. They must have come into the forest to take cover from the battle. He doesn’t blame them, battles are loud, bloody, and terrifying—the poor little things probably didn’t know where else to run to hide. 

He just wishes they hadn’t run to the outskirts of an enemy base. The brigands are surrounding them, axes and swords swinging in a way that’s purely to intimidate. Based on the tear-stained faces and quivering lips of the children huddling, pressed up against a tree as they shake, it’s working. 

A red hot rage flushes through Ferdinand’s very being, swirling in his chest at the sight of the brigands closing in on the children. Such a sight is enough to spur him into immediate action. Without giving it a moment's thought, Ferdinand sprints forward as fast as his legs will allow him. He passes through an opening between two of the brigands, placing himself between them and the children, lance at the ready. 

“Children? Really? Are you incapable of a true fight?” Ferdinand knows he shouldn’t goad, not when there are ten of them, and one of him, but he simply cannot hold his tongue. What these cowards were attempting to do is despicable! And to think that Ferdinand was worried about sparing their comrades earlier—he wishes he had brought down the heavy hand of justice much sooner. “Such cowardice is laughable!”

The brigand closest to Ferdinand takes a swing of his axe, which Ferdinand easily blocks with an angling of his lance and a step backwards. 

Ferdinand isn’t quite sure how he’s going to win such an unbalanced fight yet, but he will work it out. He always does, somehow. He has not come this far to fail at the hands of cowards. 

“Hello, children!  Can you please run back home and find somewhere safe to hide? Go look for the pretty lady with green eyes and pink dress, she will help you. Go!” With them out of the way, Ferdinand can go on the offensive instead of remaining stuck in defensive combat. Plus, he knows sending them to Dorothea is the right thing to do. She will help them without a doubt. 

He doesn’t turn around to watch them—taking his eyes off his opponents would be suicide, but he hears their footsteps as they retreat back into their village. Ferdinand points his lance at any of the brigands that move within this time. No child will be harmed on his watch. 

Once they’re out of earshot, he does his best to quickly gain an upper hand. Never before has the element of surprise been so crucial. Ferdinand quickly jabs his lance forward, into the stomach of one goon, before twisting it back and shoving it under the legs of another. 

By the time the rest come to their senses and attack him, he’s made quick work of three of them, now lying motionless on the ground. He isn’t sure just how much damage he’s caused, nor does the adrenaline pumping through his veins permit him to consider the thought for more than half a second. 

The situation quickly goes from bad to worse for Ferdinand von Aegir. He’s already outnumbered, and enemy reinforcements are headed their way due to one particularly annoying brigand who has decided to shout for help at the back of the group. But now he’s been deemed a sizable threat, a few of the burlier brigands brandish daggers in addition to their axes. Daggers just like the one Caspar had found earlier. The force radiating off of it forces Ferdinand’s breath to catch in his throat. 

Ferdinand does not want to find out what happens if he’s to be cut by such an instrument. He holds his lance up in the most defensive position he can, and considers his options, doing his best to ignore his heart pounding in his ears. Panic will not serve him now. He pushes his fears to the side, instead letting determination push him onwards. 

He knows the village is only a few yards away. He could certainly run away if he tried hard enough, as disgraceful as that would be. Or perhaps, he couldn’t. As the brigands close in, Ferdinand finds himself pressed up against the trunk of the tree the children had previously been seeking refuge behind. It cuts off his chances for an easy escape. 

Ferdinand sucks in a deep breath as he holds out his lance once more, expecting the man on his left to slash out. However, it’s the one on his far-right that moves first. Ferdinand ducks just in time to prevent his arm being sliced off, chest heaving as he realises he’s grossly under-equipped to take on what now looks to be twenty men.

If Ferdinand survives this, Lorenz is going to kill him. Then Hubert, and probably Edelgard too. 

A second bout of energy rushes through Ferdinand as he swings his lance, taking two of the brigands down. Letting himself be cornered simply wasn’t going to get him anywhere—he may as well try his luck. However, it’s the moment that his lance makes contact with the second enemy soldier that he leaves his back completely open. One brigand takes the chance to hit him with the hilt of his axe, sending Ferdinand tumbling into the tree. 

He stumbles, trying to catch himself and ignore the pain that shoots down his back at such an impact. He barely has time to block the next attack that falls upon him, too flustered to even process who dealt the blow. His head spins slightly as he tries to push through, tries to stay on his feet and deflect as many swings of axes and daggers as he can. 

Ferdinand doesn’t have time to consider that he might die. Every moment requires his full attention now. He can’t let his hands shake or his conviction waiver. 

The next movements go by in a blur. Ferdinand moves on pure instinct, parrying, blocking, striking, the way he has a million times before. He isn’t one to allow himself to be overpowered, and he has the benefit of experience on his side. His opponents aren’t in any formation, nor know how to strike simultaneously to prevent him picking them off. It works, for a while. His hard work earns him a tighter grip on the upper hand.

Overconfidence quickly prevails for Ferdinand. The pain in his back wears off enough for him to attempt more daring moves that he knows would receive him an earful if he weren’t alone. However, he needs this battle to end before he is forced back on the defensive. If these brutes calculate a real plan, there won’t be much Ferdinand can do to protect himself. 

So Ferdinand fights tooth and nail to incapacitate as many brigands as he can. He even fights a fraction dirty, throwing feints with his lance, just like Hubert had encouraged once. Ferdinand had, of course, argued that it was an ignoble move, but he was counting it as a lucky blessing now. 

His opponents don’t remain helpless for long. Though Ferdinand has dwindled their numbers further than he imagined himself able to, they quickly retaliate. The next time Ferdinand conducts his flamboyant spin-turned-attack, one takes the moment to shove an axe at his feet, tripping him mid-movement. It’s enough to send him hopping backwards until his back is pressed up against the tree again. 

Ferdinand is no fool. He knows a losing situation when he’s in one, and seven men descending on him with brandished daggers while Ferdinand has no room to push forward certainly counts. 

“May we talk about this instead?” Ferdinand asks, a last-ditch effort to even distract his opponents. 

They don’t take the bait. The closest man slashes his dagger towards Ferdinand’s chest, and Ferdinand lifts an arm to defend. The shining steel of the dagger does not just bounce off his gauntlet as Ferdinand expects it to. It slices right through, rendering Ferdinand’s arm completely exposed. 

Ferdinand’s eyes go wide. That should be impossible—yet he has just seen it for himself. Whatever those daggers are, wherever they came from, they are terrible news. Nothing should be able to slice through metal as though it is paper. Ferdinand will come up with theories of their nefarious origins later, for now he simply needs to survive. 

He kicks a leg out at one of his assailants, but it doesn’t land. Instead, it gets Ferdinand a knock to the head with the hilt of a brigand’s axe. His vision swims for a moment, flickering at the intensity of the blow. Ferdinand heaves air into his chest, too dazed by the blow to formulate a plan. He’s survived worse—he just isn’t yet sure how to survive this. 

The moment Ferdinand devises a plan to knock the brigands into each other, he discovers that he no longer needs it. Just as he loses whatever he has left of an advantage, just before one of those accursed daggers he’s been trying desperately to avoid slices right through his neck, the most miraculous thing Ferdinand has ever seen happened. 

Dark magic bubbles underneath the feet of his assailants, the murky blackness lapping at their heels. Ferdinand wants to shout in relief—he knows that magic anywhere. 

The brigands don’t notice their impending fates. Their attention is too firmly on Ferdinand to look down. They receive no warning before those bubbles materialise into a sharp, solid mass right below their feet. The inky tendrils shoot out, spearing each brigand right through the chest. It happens so fast that if Ferdinand had blinked, he would have missed it. Just as fast as it came, Dark Spikes sink back into the earth, leaving seven corpses in its wake. Every single man drops to the floor with a thud, and Ferdinand doubts they’ll ever get up again. He averts his gaze immediately.

It takes Ferdinand a few seconds to recover. He takes some deep breaths, willing his heart to stop pounding against his ribcage. That call had been too close for comfort, and despite the relief now flooding his system, he cannot deny that he is extremely lucky to be alive. He believes that he knows exactly who he has to thank for that. 

With more hesitation than necessary, Ferdinand peeks out from behind the tree, back in the direction of the village. 

Surely enough, through the clearing, Hubert von Vestra is looking back at him. 

If Ferdinand was a lesser man, he would have been terrified by the murderous glare that Hubert was offering him. He looks terribly unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest and top lip curled in a snarl. It appears he’s ready to give Ferdinand quite the telling off—perhaps he will finish what the brigands started. 

Still, Ferdinand’s heart melts a fraction. Just as Ferdinand watches Hubert in battle, he should know that Hubert watches him in equal measure. His wide overprotective streak certainly extends to Ferdinand, now more than ever. He probably knew where Ferdinand was from the moment he stepped foot in the forest. Hubert is as vigilant as he is protective, after all. 

Ferdinand is well aware just how much Hubert loves him. Even if he’s currently looking at Ferdinand as though he wishes to kill him, Ferdinand knows how deep Hubert’s affections run. 

“Thank you!” Ferdinand calls, unsure if Hubert can hear him from such a distance. It is likely to be loud in Hubert’s position, surely Ferdinand’s voice is drowned out by weapons clashing and orders being shouted, but Ferdinand cannot help himself. It’s taking all his self-restraint not to run down to the village and bury his face in Hubert’s chest as his adrenaline rush wears off. 

Hubert continues staring, still with enough venom to scare anyone else. 

“Their base is here!” Ferdinand calls back. He points rigorously behind him to attempt to convey his message across the distance. 

Confusion, followed by realisation, and then a mask of indifference all flash across Hubert’s face in a split second. He points at Ferdinand, then points back at the village. 

Ferdinand concedes. He’ll return, if only just to alert the others of where their opponents are coming from. 

Though, it seems he will not need to do the alerting. Hubert barks an order that’s inaudible from where Ferdinand stands, and then his battalion of mages all descend upon the area. Once, Ferdinand had found the masked uniforms of Hubert’s mages absolutely terrifying—now they’re a comforting presence as they draw near. Ferdinand directs them to the base behind him, to which it seems they’ll greatly outnumber the remaining opponents. That will be the end of that, then. 

The rest of the battle goes by without much complication. Ferdinand rejoins the village centre, thanking Dorothea as he passes for protecting the children he had found earlier. Then, he reunites with Caspar and Lorenz, the former looking ecstatic to see him, and the latter appearing murderous. Ferdinand, however, has become long used to such glares. He pays it no heed as he assists in apprehending the remaining brigands, whose numbers have greatly dwindled since their base has become overrun by mages in plague masks. 

After another hour or so, it finally comes to an end. The Eagles run out of assailants to incapacitate, any villager with a dire wound is healed, and the final fires are put out. It was a battle that was hard-won, but meaningful fights always are. 

“A miracle!” Lorenz exclaims as a horn is blown, signalling that it’s safe to put their weapons down. “How long did that rubbish persist?”

“Too long!” Even Caspar agrees with such a sentiment, though he still grins as he wipes leftover blood off of his gauntlet.  “Are we heading back? I wanna see how Lin and the others are faring.” 

“Please. I would like to find some water to get this mud off my boots.” Lorenz looks down at the traitorous dirt with total despondence, and if Ferdinand wasn’t so exhausted, he’s sure he would have laughed until he cried at such an expression. But based on the ache in his back and head where he’s been previously struck, and the stiffness of his shoulders and legs, he can only offer a huff of agreeance. 

The rest of the Eagles are regrouping in the village centre. As Ferdinand approaches, he cannot help release the residual tension in his chest at the sight of his uninjured comrades. Caspar runs off immediately to pick Linhardt up, spinning him around despite Linhardt’s tired protests. Dorothea and Sylvain watch on fondly while Mercedes tends to their smaller wounds. Petra and Lysithea appear to be collecting stray weapons, passing them to Jeritza to sort into piles. At the outskirts of the battlefield, Bernadetta is conversing with Byleth, both beside Edelgard, whose focus is instead on the leader of the village. It is likely that she’s discussing how the Empire will offer support in the reconstruction efforts, just as she does for any wounded town they pass through. 

As noble as such a pursuit is, it is not what Ferdinand’s attention is drawn to. The absence of her shadow is far more concerning. 

Ferdinand cranes his neck to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of pale skin and black drapery in the growing crowd. It’s difficult to see through the villagers exiting their hiding places and gathering in the plaza, but Ferdinand persists. He isn’t worried—he surely would have been made aware if Hubert was injured, it’s only a matter of where he’s snuck off to. He’s scarcely been one for crowds, after all. 

It doesn’t take long to spot him—a fact Ferdinand is too proud of. Hubert is still to one of the further ends of the battlefield, crouched over the corpse of a brigand with two of his subordinates, deep in conversation. Likely about those daggers, if Ferdinand were to take a guess. 

“You two did well out there!” Dorothea calls over, waving a hand in the air.

Sylvain snorts in response as Mercedes finishes tying a bandage around his wrist. “You did well almost getting yourselves killed, sure!” 

Ferdinand hadn’t realised Sylvain witnessed the predicament he had found himself in earlier. The last thing he wants to deal with after such a long day is a scolding about the dangers of the battlefield, a speech he’s had delivered to him more than three dozen times now. It’s not that he looks for danger—it just happens to be his role to rescue others from it. 

In today’s case, if he could redo the mission, he would keep every moment exactly the same. So long as those children in the forest are safe, then Ferdinand is proud of his conduct. 

“Do not lump me in with that nonsense!” Lorenz declares, hands on his hips.

“Ferdinand, a word?” Edelgard cuts in before Lorenz can continue his dramatics. She’s moved away from the villager, and steps towards him. It has always been a challenge to read Edelgard—her face seems blank as she approaches, but Ferdinand knows well that she is excellent at concealing both her joy and her frustration. 

“Of course, Edelgard,” he offers with a bright smile. 

“Good work out there finding their base. Though I must ask, did it seem unusual to you?” Her tone is hushed, loud enough to avoid looking secretive, but soft enough that the others would need to strain to hear. Even Lorenz, though still beside Ferdinand, does not seem to catch onto her words, more concerned with scraping mud off of his boot. 

Ferdinand places one hand on his chin. “Unusual? I suppose it seemed rather advanced for brigands of their calibre.”

If Edelgard is looking for confirmation that the Slitherers are somehow involved in today’s battle, she won’t find it with Ferdinand. He cannot be sure of their trademarks, but mainly, Edelgard may not be aware that he knows of the Slitherers. The only information he possesses is via the scarce tidbits Hubert shares, Ferdinand’s snooping, and the wit he has to put it together. 

One of these days, Hubert will confide in him and tell him more. Ferdinand works hard to keep his trust, and harder to prove he can take care of himself—that Hubert can seek his help without fretting. 

Up until today’s battle, that was. Ferdinand cannot contain his grimace as he recalls Hubert’s frustrated frown earlier. It may be a setback in Ferdinand’s plan to gain his lover’s complete and undying trust, but he still knows he will achieve it. Another day, certainly, but eventually. 

Edelgard hums and taps her foot against the dirt beneath her. “Thank you, Ferdinand. I will wait for Hubert’s comprehensive report before—ah, speak of Hubert. Excuse me.” 

She nods politely as she turns away, though somehow Ferdinand knows that won’t be the last time she speaks with him on this matter. For now, her attention is on Hubert’s approach. 

Ferdinand too cannot focus on anything else. The way Hubert runs his hands through his hair to push his bangs out of his eyes is very alluring, after all. He speaks in hushed tones to Edelgard as she makes her way to him, dismissing his subordinates who enter a nearby tent, all holding cloth-wrapped items. So not touching those daggers was a clever move—Ferdinand mentally applauds himself. 

“Ugh, everytime Vestra is near, I feel a strange chill,” Lorenz moans from beside Ferdinand. “I even failed to see him approach. Are we certain he’s not a phantom?” 

Ferdinand places his hands on his hips and shakes his head. It is always a strange thing to him, that others never seem to alert to Hubert until he wants them to, meanwhile Ferdinand finds his every movement magnetic. If only he could somehow show them Hubert through his own eyes. It would be a true treat to make the rest of their comrades understand what a treasure Hubert von Vestra is. 

“You should not be so cruel,” Ferdinand replies. He keeps his voice level, tries to remain somewhat neutral instead of saying what he truly thinks, lest Lorenz grow suspicious of him. He doesn’t want to inflict Lorenz’s opinion of their relationship on Hubert yet—though Ferdinand would happily verbally annihilate Lorenz if he tried to upset his darling. He is not above arguing with Lorenz. 

Lorenz scoffs. “You should be agreeing with me! It is you he gives such a hard time to. I pity you for having such a pull of his attention.” 

The old Ferdinand would have disagreed wholeheartedly, exclaiming that the only thing Hubert knows to give attention to is Edelgard. The current Ferdinand, however, has to turn his head to hide a blush from Lorenz. He likes having Hubert’s attention, more than he cares to admit. 

Except for the current moment, that is. Once Edelgard finishes her questioning and dismisses him, Hubert’s gaze immediately snaps to Ferdinand. 

It seems he hasn’t quite forgiven Ferdinand for his stunt earlier, if his glare is indicative of such feelings. His eyes narrow the moment they lock onto Ferdinand’s, and he mumbles something under his breath that Ferdinand is certain that he doesn’t want to know about. 

“For the record, I did try to stop you,” Lorenz says as he shuffles away, leaving a wide berth of space for Hubert to slot into. 

Ferdinand can sense the argument before Hubert even opens his mouth. It’s bound to happen, Ferdinand has long accepted its impending arrival. He’s certainly not against quarrelling with Hubert—not when Ferdinand is sworn to his ideals, and not when he knows Hubert would never let one argument ruin their relationship—but still, he doesn’t relish these fights as he used to. Goading Hubert is far less satisfying when all Ferdinand would much prefer to spend their limited time together in softer ways. 

Still, as Hubert looms closer, the dangerous look in his eyes renders Ferdinand choiceless in the matter. 

“What in the heavens were you thinking out there?” Hubert exclaims as soon as he’s within touching distance of Ferdinand. “You do understand the concept of a death wish, do you not?” 

Ferdinand audibly sighs. Partly because he is frustrated that Hubert refuses to understand his actions, and partly to get a rise out of him. There is nothing that riles Hubert up quite like insolence. 

“What, you have nothing to say for yourself?” Hubert crosses his arms over his chest and looks to Ferdinand expectantly. 

To match his stance, Ferdinand places his hands on his hips, refraining himself from dusting some stray dirt off of Hubert’s cloak. Instead, he says: “What would you have me say? I certainly will not be apologising for my actions!” 

There is no chance for Hubert to reply before a groan rings out from the rest of the Eagles. It seems they’ve caught wind of the argument taking place before them; though how could they not when Ferdinand’s voice was loud enough for half the continent to hear? 

“Not this again,” Caspar complains. “C’mon guys, it’s been a long day, why don’t you just sit down and take a breather?” 

“I agree with Caspar! Ferdie, Hubie, none of us are in the mood for a headache. Please?” Dorothea stands on her tiptoes to look at Ferdinand over Hubert’s shoulder, pleading look on her face. 

“Good luck with that,” Linhardt snorts from his spot on the floor. “Does Hubert look agreeable right now? Or Ferdinand, for that matter?”

Ferdinand doesn’t think he looks disagreeable, but the way his chin is tilted up at Hubert may suggest otherwise. The rest of their group should certainly be used to their dissensions by now. Still, Edelgard pinches the bridge of her nose, Lysithea rolls her eyes and Byleth watches on with a blank expression. 

Hubert doesn’t care even a fraction that they have an audience. For all Ferdinand can tell, he doesn’t even notice. His attention is firmly on Ferdinand, eyes unwavering from Ferdinand’s face. 

“Don’t you dare throw yourself into danger like that again,” Hubert hisses, voice low. His gaze is piercing, pinning Ferdinand in his place under its weight. Hubert doesn’t look anywhere other than Ferdinand, as though he is the only thing that exists before him. 

It’s enough to make Ferdinand’s blood boil. Whatever part of him that tried not to engage in an argument with Hubert after such a long day fades instantly, replaced with sheer irritation at being told such words—at being told what to do at all. 

The audacity that Hubert must have to say such words is astronomical. To think for one moment that he should have any degree of control over what Ferdinand does on the battlefield is enough to make Ferdinand want to rip his hair out. In that moment, Ferdinand knows he’s incapable of seeing reason: but he scarcely believes there’s reason at all for Hubert’s opinion. 

“Excuse you, my job is to protect people! That involves a degree of danger, and I will not have you telling me otherwise!” Ferdinand’s words boom louder than he intends, but Hubert doesn’t back down. He’s not scared of Ferdinand, even if the glint in Ferdinand’s eyes suggest he should reconsider that. 

Instead, Hubert laughs. It's low, and deep, and not the laugh that Ferdinand usually enjoys from Hubert. This one is cruel—Ferdinand recoils at the sound. “And how do you plan on protecting people if you cannot protect yourself, hm?”

“I had a plan! I am perfectly capable of—”

“Being gutted with a knife, yes, I saw that,” Hubert interrupts. 

Ferdinand has almost forgotten how unrelentingly frustrating Hubert is when he wants to prove a point. For a man who always complains that Ferdinand is the stubborn one, looking in a mirror would benefit him tremendously.  

If Ferdinand was anyone else, he’d think Hubert could be reasoned with. But because it’s Ferdinand who’s on the receiving end of Hubert’s ire, he knows better. They’ve been bickering with one another since before they knew what the word meant. Once Hubert, or Ferdinand, for that matter, is worked up, their arguments only exist in circles. Ferdinand is too wearied by the day to commit to repeated arguments and petty insults that neither of them really mean. 

So Ferdinand closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He begs his heart to stop pounding so violently against his chest, for his blood to stop rushing in his ears, and for the goddess to grant him the patience he needs now. 

When he opens his eyes, however, the itching need to continue arguing with Hubert has not faded. Miracles do not come true—the moment he sees Hubert’s forced, cruel snarl, Ferdinand remembers why he’s so furious. His purpose has been pulled into question, and that is not something that Ferdinand can bear. 

But within a few seconds, everything shifts. It’s not Ferdinand’s deep breathing that dissipates his frustration, instead it’s the sight that greets him. He looks at Hubert, really looks at him, and suddenly all of Ferdinand’s protests die in his throat. In Ferdinand’s silence, Hubert has taken up scanning over Ferdinand’s body with his eyes, up and down, left to right, over and over again. Pale green looks over every inch of Ferdinand, not settling anywhere until he’s confident that Ferdinand isn’t sporting a secret injury. 

The moment Ferdinand notices, the tension seeps from his body. Everything inside of him softens at the sight—and just like that, Hubert’s harsh words are forgiven. Hubert was only scared. His verbal lashings were fuelled by the very well-founded fear that something could have happened to Ferdinand. 

It’s familiar to Ferdinand—he has acted similarly in the past. When Hubert overworks himself and Ferdinand must physically manhandle him into bed, his bitter words are only ever a response to the worries that Hubert’s work ethic is going to cause him harm. That Hubert stresses over Ferdinand’s well-being, just like Ferdinand does over Hubert’s, should not come as such a surprise. 

Dating Hubert comes with a particular set of quirks that Ferdinand is still learning. Thus far, Ferdinand has discovered that Hubert has a misplaced sense of shame about the scars on his body, that he’ll do just about anything to avoid heights, and will not take a moment of rest until he’s proven himself in all facets of life. And now he learns that Hubert shows his fear through blistering anger—a fact that makes sense, and settles easily in Ferdinand’s chest. 

It’s not as though Hubert has had any other example to look to when it comes to emotional outlets, not as though he has any model of tenderness to base his own responses on. He described himself to Ferdinand as a knife once—Ferdinand has spent every day since learning to love his razor-sharp edges. He’d never expect Hubert to dull them, nor ask him to change. Ferdinand, however, will cease engaging in any form of argument that will only sharpen such edges. Hubert has experienced enough of that to last three lifetimes. 

So instead of adding any more vitriol into the moment, Ferdinand’s frown lifts into something fond. Hubert misses such a change—he’s so focused on the tasks of ensuring Ferdinand’s safety and continuing his incessant nagging that there’s scarcely the chance for him to notice any other details, that it’s likely he’s forgotten where they stand, as well as their audience. Not that anyone would still be listening at this point. Their arguments are too mundane for the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force to have any desire to pay them any attention. 

“You always run off alone, always leave yourself wide open—truly, do you ever learn? Do you forget how to think on the battlefield, or perhaps you left your brain back in Enbarr?” 

“Boss!” a voice calls from inside the tent. “You might want to come see this!”

Hubert sighs, and drops his arms. Ferdinand hadn’t realised how exhausted Hubert looked until he stood plainly before him. Now, he sees subtle circles under his eyes that Ferdinand wishes he could wipe away, and a heartbreaking tiredness to his posture. 

One of Hubert’s mages sticks her head out of the tent and gestures to Hubert to hurry. It seems his subordinates has discovered something that requires his attention, despite the disfigured voice not sounding overly panicked. It does take a certain amount of unflappability to work for Hubert, after all. 

“This conversation isn’t over,” Hubert warns as he turns away, top lip still curled in a deep-set frown. 

Something inside Ferdinand’s chest recoils at the thought of Hubert walking away now. Once upon a time, he would have been thrilled at an escape route from Hubert’s venom, but not now. Not after Ferdinand has realised the root causes of their spat. 

If there’s one thing Ferdinand has learned in war, it’s never to leave anything unspoken. There’s no victory in a sour note, and no satisfaction in an empty argument. Especially when any day could be their last. So while Ferdinand still won’t let his positivity waiver, he’s not going to let himself be blindsided by tragedy either—even from one as personal as an argument with the love of his life. 

He reaches out to grab Hubert’s sleeve, gripping the dark cloak tight enough that Hubert cannot walk away from him. 

Hubert turns back around, and before he can snark something back about goddess knows what, Ferdinand ever so slightly trails his hand downwards, brushing his pinky down Hubert’s hand before linking their fingers together. 

It’s the most affectionate they have ever been in public, but Hubert doesn’t pull his hand away. It sends a flush of warmth rushing through Ferdinand’s very being. No argument can outweigh their type of love, it’s a sweet confirmation to something Ferdinand already knew. 

“I will not apologise for my actions,” Ferdinand says. He does his best to keep his voice low, lest he grab the attention of any other Eagle. “I will always, always do whatever I can to save a life, Hubert. Please do not attempt to change my mind on such matters. However, I apologise for scaring you. That is never my intention.”

A series of ever so subtle expressions flick over Hubert’s face. Ferdinand has become quite proficient at reading the subtle curves and lines of such looks, and he lists them as they come: surprise, warmth, pride, frustration, confusion, ire, all masked back into indifference. 

Hubert scoffs. “I was not scared— ”

“It is okay, darling.” Ferdinand gently cuts in. If Hubert is too obtuse to realise why he is so worked up, Ferdinand will allude to it just enough for him to come to the conclusion on his own. “See? We are both fine.” 

Hubert doesn’t deny the accusation this time. His eyes flick down again, as though he needs to confirm this information for himself. Worrying is most definitely going to lead Hubert into an early grave. The way he tries to carry infinite burdens on only his shoulders is enough weight to bear without him constantly fretting over Ferdinand too.

A fraction of the tension seems to dissipate from Hubert’s frame. It’s as much as Ferdinand dares to hope for. He’s pleasantly surprised when Hubert squeezes his fingers around Ferdinand’s, his gloved fingers perfectly entwining with Ferdinand’s own. 

It’s a win, which is always hard to achieve when competing against Hubert’s overactive brain and cynical imagination. Ferdinand resists the urge to pull Hubert’s hand up and press a kiss to his knuckle, just how he always does when it’s the two of them alone. 

“Boss!” the voice from the tent calls again, this time louder. 

“That sounds rather important,” Ferdinand muses. He untangles his hand from Hubert’s, but not without the most subtle caress of his thumb against Hubert’s wrist as he pulls away. “Should you go investigate?”

Hubert looks between the crimson tent his subordinates are residing in and Ferdinand once more. His face has relaxed in the last few moments, his eyes no longer narrowed and snarl reduced to his more familiar frown. 

“You’re sure you are uninjured?” Hubert asks. He has the decency to look somewhat remorseful as he speaks, clearly aware he’s been bested in their squabble—that Ferdinand is more proficient in reading Hubert than Hubert probably realises. So much for being some mysterious force lurking in the shadows, Ferdinand cannot help but grin at the fact that Hubert is his to decipher. 

“Yes, I am fine. And while I cannot promise I will never put myself in such a position again… perhaps I will try to do better and take you with me next time. If only so you do not go grey before you reach thirty.” It’s the best Ferdinand can offer. Not a restrictive promise, but an understanding. 

Hubert nods once. “Dragging me into your antics, hm? That’s fine by me. I suppose I should not be so harsh on your heroic tendencies.”

At that, Ferdinand cannot help a laugh. It’s small, and tired, but still a laugh. It seems he might well and truly be on the path to fully cracking the code that is Hubert von Vestra. To get the Hubert version of an apology just might be a sweeter victory than the battle they have just won. 

Before Ferdinand can mention such an important detail to Hubert, a strange noise echoes through the battlefield. The clashing of metal, followed by an ear-piercing screech. It emanates from the tent of Hubert’s employees, and it’s followed by a chorus of ‘ uh-oh. ’ 

Hubert sighs, long and heavy. He’s worked too hard today to have extra duties to see to, but Ferdinand knows he doesn’t have a choice. 

“I need to go check on…whatever that was,” he mumbles. He offers Ferdinand an apologetic glance. It’s not often that Hubert’s motives are so clear, but right now they’re plain across his face: he only wants to stay with Ferdinand. It’s enough for Ferdinand’s heart to grow ten times larger in his chest. 

Hubert takes one step forward, closing the gap between them. Before Ferdinand has the chance to remind him where they’re currently standing, he does something so unexpected that Ferdinand doesn’t dare stop him. He doesn’t even have the chance. 

In the moment that Hubert forgets himself, whether it be because of the adrenaline of the battle or their argument, the fears they regularly face, the love they share, or even the fact that he’s thoroughly distracted by everything going on: he kisses Ferdinand.

They’ve kissed hundreds of times, but this one quickly becomes Ferdinand’s favourite. It’s so sweet, every gentle brush of Hubert’s lips against Ferdinand’s conveying exactly how much love exists between them. Ferdinand’s eyes widen at their first contact, but he quickly melts into the kiss. How can he possibly focus on anything else when Hubert touches him as though he’s the most precious thing in the world?

Hubert’s lips are rough against Ferdinand’s, and taste of battle and desperation, but still Ferdinand craves more. He presses up on the tips of his toes to deepen their kiss, sighing happily into it as Hubert angles his head just right. 

The embrace is over within an instant, but Hubert is not done surprising Ferdinand just yet. Before he pulls away completely, he comes impossibly closer to brush his lips against Ferdinand’s forehead. It’s enough to get Ferdinand’s heart to explode in an overwhelming heat. The flutter of Hubert’s kiss against his skin tingles delightfully, and Ferdinand relishes the touch and the pink flush to his cheeks that it brings. 

And then the moment ends. It’s bittersweet to see Hubert step away, but Ferdinand knows he must—but is appeased by the fact that he’ll be returning those kisses tenfold when it’s just the two of them alone. 

That thought is what causes the gravity of the situation to crash back down, nearly crushing Ferdinand in its wake. Hubert did that in front of every single person they know. Still, he walks away with a dramatic flick of his cape, towards the tent, clearly oblivious to the potential chaos that he’s just unleashed. He must have been more frazzled than he gave away, to make such a bold move without an ounce of awareness. 

Later, once he’s made aware of the situation and finishes berating himself as he realises what he’s done, Ferdinand is going to enjoy teasing him for the rest of his life.  

Any hopes that the rest of the Eagles didn’t notice are completely dismissed the moment that Hubert moves away, exposing Ferdinand to a dozen pairs of eyes, all in varying degrees of shock. 

They all saw the kiss, then. Ferdinand cannot deny what’s happened—even if the blush on his cheeks deepens at the thought of being perceived in such a private moment. 

He isn’t ashamed of Hubert, nor is he ashamed of loving Hubert. He’d scream his affections from the roof of the Imperial Palace every morning if he could. Ferdinand’s embarrassment only comes from the wish that they could have announced their courtship on their own fully conscious terms. Hubert is far more conservative than Ferdinand, and also bears extra responsibility that could be called into question if he is thought to be distracted. Avoiding the politics of their relationship is not feasible forever, but it has been nice while it lasted. 

It is too late for Ferdinand to consider ‘what-ifs’ now. Instead, he must focus on the present, and do what he can to stop potential gossip spiralling out of control. 

He takes a deep breath. These are their friends. He shouldn’t think so poorly of their characters—maybe Hubert really is rubbing off on him. What a terrifying and thrilling thought. 

Just as Caspar opens his mouth, Ferdinand holds up a hand. It’s a silent plea to stay quiet, at least until Hubert is inside that tent, distracted well enough. Ferdinand doesn’t mind bearing all the attention in this situation: the stares of his peers scarcely bother him, not like they would irritate Hubert. 

By some miracle, they all oblige to his wide-eyed request for silence. Even though Dorothea bounces on the balls of her feet, and Caspar has to physically hold a hand over his mouth, they manage to stay quiet. Ferdinand cannot look any of them in the eye yet, risking the loss of his own composure, so he chooses to watch Hubert leave, eyes glued on the way he slips into the tent and ensures to tie it closed behind him. 

The moment he does, the chaos well and truly begins. 

Everyone speaks at once. So much so, that Ferdinand cannot make out a single sentence that is thrown at him. It all sounds like a cacophonic word soup. Certain words stick out, such as “Hubert”, “kiss” and “huh?” 

Ferdinand does the only action he deems appropriate for such a situation. He extends his arms out to the side, not sparing even one ounce of dramatic flair, and takes a deep bow. 

He was never going to deny what had just transpired, and taking control of the situation is the best way to overcome it—there’s scarcely a difference between this and dealing with the political circuit. 

Plus, Ferdinand is proud of his love. Pride swells so warmly in his chest and blossoms into a sweet affection. He always knew that one day he would be free to love Hubert as loudly and openly as his heart desires—he cannot be truly worried that the day has come sooner rather than later.

Once he exits his bow, back straightened and chin held high, he realises the group has fallen back into a silence. They should be used to such theatrics, but still no one seems to know exactly what to say. Ferdinand cannot wait to tell Hubert all about it later. 

“Will that be all?” Ferdinand asks. He feigns innocence, batting his lashes and taking a step backwards. “You all fought incredibly well today, if I may add.”

Lorenz is the first to cut him off, blocking off Ferdinand’s less than subtle attempt to steer the conversation. “ Aegir. Why him?” There’s an agony underlying every syllable. Lorenz’s brows are scrunched together, and if Ferdinand didn’t know him better, he’d think him on the verge of tears. “Of all the eligible bachelors in Adrestia—who would fawn over you, might I add—why Vestra? ”

The way Lorenz spits Hubert’s name like venom only makes Ferdinand want to dig his heels in deeper. However, he has had enough fighting for one day. No bait will lure him into another one now. 

He cocks his head to the side, and looks at Lorenz as though he doesn’t understand his implications. “The answer to that is quite simple, Lorenz. Because I love him.” 

Ferdinand did not realise how lovely it would feel to say such words to an audience until they were rolling off of his tongue with such ease. It’s scarcely the poetry that he wishes to wax about Hubert, but perhaps that’s what makes it all the more special. The words are the purest form of his heart’s affections. He can do nothing to hide his smile at this moment—even Lorenz’s wide-eyed surprise at the words doesn’t deter him. 

“Ferdie!” Dorothea coos. She’s matching his grin as she skips over—more animated than she’s appeared in months. Since the moment she realised that he’s indeed not the most terrible person on the continent, she’s become a dear friend; of course she’s happy to see such a lovestruck look on his face. “You didn’t tell me!” 

“I did not tell anyone,” he emphasises, lest she feel offended by such things. Now he has found himself in her good graces, he works hard to remain there. 

Dorothea holds out her hands and holds Ferdinand’s forearms, hand absentmindedly running over the cut in his gauntlet. “You must tell me everything!” 

“And say it out loud! For the rest of us to hear too!” Sylvain calls. He’s slung his arm around Lorenz’s shoulders, clearly attempting to contain Lorenz’s ire in a friendly embrace. He looks far happier for Ferdinand than their other equestrian-club member, offering Ferdinand a thumbs-up and delighted grin.

“It must be a tale of interest.” Petra appears deep in thought as she muses, tapping at her lip. She is the least surprised of the group as she stands beside Bernadetta—she always has been perceptive, it would not be a shock if she realised their feelings before even Hubert had. Next to her, Bernadetta’s eyes widen. She’d never be so bold as to ask for details, but the way she ever so slightly leans forward is telling enough. 

“Is Hubert secretly a romantic?” Mercedes asks. She stands as she speaks, hands clasped in front of her. 

“No way.” Linhardt looks somewhat amused at the concept, one thin brow perfectly arching. “Can any of you picture Hubert writing a love letter?”

The thing is, Ferdinand can picture Hubert writing a love letter: he has a wooden chest where he collects them back in his quarters. 

As the group debates the merit of Hubert understanding romance, Ferdinand doesn’t waiver in the slightest under the attention. For the most part, their friends seem happy with the development, as seen in Mercedes' sweet smile, Caspar’s enthusiasm and the way Dorothea looks up at him with a brightness she’s barely worn since the war broke out. 

While Ferdinand knows they didn’t share news of their courtship so they could adjust accordingly before battling any external factors, the support is something he didn’t realise he’d appreciate so deeply. He almost wishes Hubert was beside him, too—if only to know that his peers are in fact capable of viewing him as a human being, and not some ever-present omniscient force. 

A fresh rush of affection works through Ferdinand as he smiles back at Dorothea, and then to Sylvain, skimming his eyes over the others as he does.

“Gautier!” Lysithea calls. “The bet! I win!” Her hands are on her hips as she steps onto a rock for a better vantage point. “Even Vestra got a real date before you!” 

“The…bet?” Ferdinand asks, face falling slightly. 

“ Shit!” Caspar’s voice sweeps over the battlefield. “I thought it was gonna be Sylvain who got hitched first for sure. Way to go though, Ferdinand! I never saw this one coming!” 

Dorothea gives Ferdinand an apologetic smile as she releases his arms. “Don’t focus on that. And don’t tell Hubie about their bet, either. I’m really happy for you, Ferdie. Is love everything you dreamed it would be?”

“It is even better than in the operas,” Ferdinand confirms. “Works of fiction cannot compare to the real thing.” 

Ferdinand has learned plenty about love over the course of the last few months. He has discovered firsthand that love is not the soft, weak thing that romance novels make it out to be. That it does not make one weak in the knees, and does not threaten his independence nor his integrity.

To Ferdinand, love is strength. It’s the knowledge that no matter how difficult a day is, that he has someone pushing him forward, standing beside him as he braces any storm. It has its soft moments, yes, but more: it encourages Ferdinand to be the bravest soldier he can be. It gives him a purpose in their constantly changing world—a solid ledge to stand upon amongst constant shaky ground. How could he ever be expected to put that into words? 

Dorothea looks thrilled as she turns over her shoulder to mouth something at Sylvain and Lorenz. Ferdinand cannot make it out, no matter how hard he tries. 

Lorenz looks less frustrated than he did in the aftermath of his immediate surprise, the shock morphing into annoyance the longer he is trapped in Sylvain’s headlock. With his other hand, Sylvain pushes back Lysithea’s forehead as she charges at him to collect her money—it must be some serious gold they’ve wagered. Caspar seems to be attempting to convince Linhardt of something, but it’s unlikely that Linhardt cares. Petra, Bernadetta and Mercedes gossip between each other, all while Byleth and Jeritza seem to bicker about whether or not the love lives of their ex-students are of any interest to them. 

As much as Ferdinand is thrilled with such a result, he cannot deny that one person is missing. While Edelgard’s positive thoughts and approval are not everything to Ferdinand, they certainly are to Hubert. On that merit, they matter deeply to Ferdinand, too. 

He’s prepared to do whatever it takes to win over Edelgard’s blessings, if he must. Whatever rebuttals she may have as to why pursuing a relationship at such a time is ill-advised, Ferdinand will change her  mind. Hubert is worth the fight. 

At some point in all the groups fussing, Edelgard has snuck up beside Ferdinand. Considering Hubert is referred to as the shadow, Edelgard’s ability to travel while evading detection is just as terrifying. The moment Dorothea notices her, she steps back, giving her and Ferdinand space to converse freely. 

It is impossible to ascertain what Edelgard is thinking. As Ferdinand regards her out of the corner of his eye, he cannot help but notice her perfectly blank expression, or the way she stands with her hands clasped behind her back. She gives nothing away as she glances up at him expectantly. Perhaps he was wrong not to worry about her opinion until now. 

“I suspect this was not a surprise to you,” Ferdinand says. It would be quite the shock if Hubert hasn’t informed her of his affairs already—they are like family, after all. 

Edelgard hums, but offers no response to his question. She crosses her arms over her chest, and taps her gloved fingers against her elbow. “You didn’t tell me.”

Did she expect him to? It would be unlikely. They are on friendly terms, but not enough to constitute Ferdinand informing her of his relationship before Hubert did. Such news makes infinitely more sense to come from Hubert than it ever would Ferdinand. 

“Good,” she continues. She looks up at him properly now, and her impassive expression warps into an ever so slight smile. It’s the softest expression Edelgard has offered Ferdinand in the two decades they have known each other. “I’m glad you didn’t. That you kept your relationship from me, and the others, says more than you realise.” 

Her words leave Ferdinand completely baffled. It shows on his face as he runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it over one shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”

Edelgard’s fine brows furrow as she stares at Ferdinand with a knowing look. “You kept it a well guarded secret. For Hubert’s benefit, correct?”

Ferdinand nods, although he is unsure where this is going. He doesn’t miss the way Edelgard moves to readjust the way Aymr is leaning beside her. If she’s about to chop him into pieces over his affections towards Hubert, it might just be the most terrible and heartbreaking way to die. He never considered that he would go by Edelgard’s axe, but it quickly becomes a terrifying possibility. He swallows thickly and tries to maintain a smile. 

“Then it is clear to me that you prioritise what is best for him. That is the only thing I ever want for Hubert—for him to be treated as he deserves.” 

Ferdinand’s grin returns within an instant. How can it not upon hearing such sweet words? Edelgard’s approval is significant enough to Hubert that Ferdinand holds it in high esteem, too. He didn’t realise how deep the relief would be to hear her response. 

“Thank you, Edelgard. I will hold your words in my heart.” Ferdinand gently pats his hand atop his chest, beating right over his heart. 

“And Ferdinand?” she adds. Her knuckles tighten around Aymr’s hilt. She looks up at him through dark lashes, waiting to pounce. 

“Yes?”

Her lips quirk up further than before as she looks at Ferdinand with a wicked glint in her eyes. “I don’t care where our professional and personal relationship stands. If you do anything to wrong Hubert, it is I who you will deal with. Do not forget it.”

The sentence is so unexpected, that Ferdinand almost bursts out laughing. He bites his tongue back, but tilts his face away so Edelgard cannot see his lingering smile. It is a sweet sentiment—and sweeter to know that Edelgard loves Hubert just as much as he does her. Even though he doesn’t need protection, her defence of her family is touching. 

She looks completely serious as she awaits a response, tapping her foot against the cobblestones beneath them. 

“Edelgard, I would never do anything to hurt him. He means a great deal to me, you see. You have full permission to punish me accordingly if I wrong him.” Not that Ferdinand ever will, he’s certain. He plans to spend the rest of his life cherishing Hubert von Vestra, as long and as deeply as Hubert will allow. 

His words seem to appease Edelgard. She nods, and pats him on the shoulder. “Good. You both deserve the best.” 

“Edie! Stop hogging Ferdie! We want to hear the story of how they fell in love now!” It seems Dorothea has grown impatient. She’s ushered the Eagles into a seated semi-circle, as though they wait for a grand performance. Sylvain also seems quite the culprit in this, failing to meet Ferdinand’s gaze as he silently questions what has gotten into his friends. 

Edelgard hides a laugh behind a hand. “It seems you’ve been summoned.” 

Ferdinand considers what version of the story he is going to tell. He can tone it down, tell it truthfully, or he can exaggerate the details to add a dramatic flair to the tale. Not that it needs it: an unexpected kiss from Hubert underneath the stars already has a perfect charm to it. No work of fiction could live up to Ferdinand’s most precious memory. 

Before he can move, a voice hisses from the edges of the central field. “Can you lot keep it down? It’s horribly hard to think with constant squawking in the background.”

Surely enough, Hubert is peeking out of the tent he’s taken residence in. Blind to what’s happening, he only looks irritated with the Black Eagle Strike Force, glaring at them to keep quiet. 

Quiet is too much to ask for. Especially at a moment such as this. A chorus of “Hubert!” rings out in varying volumes. Hubert, may the goddess bless his soul, looks absolutely baffled by the way he’s been greeted, raising a brow as Sylvain and Caspar usher him out of the tent. 

He throws Ferdinand a questioning glare, but Ferdinand can only smile and shrug. A confused Hubert is horribly endearing. It takes all of Ferdinand’s dwindling self restraint not to run up to him and pull him into his arms, before informing Hubert of the madness he unleashed. 

While it would be nice to hold Hubert tight and protect him, based on the devious glints in the eyes of their peers, there is nothing Ferdinand can do to save him now. It seems that for Hubert, the longest battle of the day is only just getting started.