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They said Hubert was the best at what he did, and Hubert had been inclined to believe it, when he saw how sloppy some of his colleagues could get. They were doing it for the money, for revenge, or even some from a place of pure malice. They would always mess up, somehow.
They left trails, they spoke too much, they made stupid mistakes when they thought they’d be discovered. That could never happen to Hubert, of course, because Hubert acted from a place of devotion.
Nothing much was known about him, and that was because there was not that much to say. His best friend, one of the emperor’s daughters, was experimented upon and died in a world of pain. He was taken under Lady Cornelia’s wing, and then dedicated his life to her. That was pretty much it.
Yes, Hubert knew what his colleagues were whispering about him. That he was a fool. That Cornelia was a harsh mistress who never even so much as spared a glance in his direction, expected him to go on even the most dangerous missions, never thanking him when he arrived victorious, hands still shaking from what he’d done, never allowing him more rest than what was strictly necessary, treating him like a dog and nothing more.
They were right.
But they implied that there could be more in this life for Hubert by saying this, and that’s where they were dead wrong.
Since adolescence, Hubert had known nothing but a life of hiding within the walls of Shambhala. He grew up having to be meaner than the other guy. He became tall and lean, a bundle of nerves and a pair of chemically burned hands.
He became the best at what he did.
One such reputation necessarily came with its lot of responsibilities.
Hubert came back to his quarters one day after having to participate in a series of experiments aimed at creating smarter demonic beasts.
Those never failed to make him feel like an empty shell.
Nauseous, he dragged himself to his bed. Thoughts were being had, distantly, in his head, but they didn’t quite feel like his. There was a membrane between him and the world, and he knew that if he’d try to push it, it would only distend, then snap back in place. It was comforting and sad.
He slept a lot that night, maybe five hours, and immediately went to the chapel where he knew he’d get a new set of orders.
The Agarthan chapel was a place of devotion to the ancients who stood against Sothis so long ago. It felt like a forest of pillars under the canopy of a great dome.
There, Lady Cornelia herself could stand for hours on end, and always with a plan ready for Hubert to put to fruition.
“Duke Aegir thinks he can outsmart us and play both teams at once,” she said, never looking away from the altar where incense hovered above an offering of lilies and chrysanthemums. “He was arrogant. He thinks we would be willing to forgive his first mistake.”
She paused. Hubert already knew what she meant: her lips were closed, but her smirk told the whole story.
“I shall bring you his head,” he said, bowed, and left.
~
The Prime Minister really was arrogant. As it turned out, his manor was left almost unguarded, and Hubert did quick work of the six guards he encountered.
The plush carpets were perfect to muffle the sound of his footsteps. Hubert navigated the manor from the plans he had studied, careful never to light a candle.
Duke Aegir was nowhere to be found on the South Wing, neither in his chambers, nor in his parlour, which meant, if his intel had been correct, that he was having his customary midnight snack.
Crossing the entrance was the fastest way to reach his target, but also the most dangerous. The Duke’s son could be coming home from the party he’d been at any time now.
Hubert did not reach this position by taking any chances. However, taking the long way through the servants’ quarters would mean risking to cross many more than just one man. What’s the worst that could happen? If Hubert crossed the Duke’s son, well, he could simply kill him.
Hubert crossed the vast entrance and almost reached the door. Almost.
But before he knew what was happening, there was the dead weight of a man on top of him, and a voice heavy with the smell of wine in his right ear:
“Who are you?”
Hubert had very little time to think about his answer : “An intruder, my lord! I saw someone enter!”
That managed to make his assailant perk up a little. From the corner of his eye, Hubert saw a lock of hair land on the carpet next to his chin. Long hair – Hubert’s guess was right, it was most likely Ferdinand Von Aegir.
“That does not answer my question,” the man said. “I know there is an intruder, you’re right here. Who are you?”
“I am from the Emperor’s secret services. We’ve suspected trouble for some time, and I’ve been trailing this man for weeks now,” Hubert replied, feigning all the disdain and resignation someone who’s just failed their mission because of a meddling civilian can have.
The best lies always hold a kernel of truth.
“Well, it’s doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. You can check in my overcoat’s pocket, if you don’t believe me.”
There was some fumbling around. Ferdinand had to grope for the document in Hubert’s pocket, realise he couldn’t read it in the dark, and light a candle while maintaining Hubert pinned under him. It took him a hot minute.
Hubert patiently waited as Ferdinand read the thing: “We, the emperor… protected under… in any and all… oh!”
And there it was, Hubert’s masterpiece at work. The grueling hours acquiring documents containing the emperor’s signature and seal, then paintakingly forging them, almost never failed.
Ferdinand lifted himself away from Hubert: “I’m so sorry!”
“I suppose it is fine,” Hubert said, getting up and brushing the dust from his lapels. Now he had to play the role until the end. He sighed, “It will take a few more weeks to catch the assailant.”
It had to be now. There was still a chance to do this. Hubert had already killed too many, it had almost drained him of his magic. He would escort Ferdinand to his bedroom, accomplish the mission, and be done with this as a wanted man, but also a successful one.
Yet when they reached his bedroom door, Ferdinand looked at Hubert, truly looked at him, in a way no one had in a very long time. At the light of the candle, Hubert felt seen, and he was returning Ferdinand’s gaze, as an equal.
Hubert saw Ferdinand’s skin, pale, dotted with the occasional freckle. A smart glint shone in his eyes, almost a hint that he knew more than he let it known. His soft hair framed his face and fell on his shoulders, muscular and lean.
What would Ferdinand see? Probably this air of dread and menace Hubert sharpened so thouroughly, and that he could never quite dissimulate. His hair constantly hiding a part of his face. His lips, thin and cracked from a lifetime within the poorly ventilated corridors of Shambhala. His clothes, all-black but still inconspicuous, those of a spy or an assassin, depending on what the situation called for.
Under Ferdinand’s eye, Hubert felt pinned like a butterfly to a wall, much more so than when he was pushing him on the ground mere moments ago.
Each passing second led Hubert to understand that he was not fooling this man.
But then, the most unexpected thing happened.
Ferdinand had a sudden weird pout as if he just took a decision, and asked him to stay and keep watch over him.
“Just an hour or two,” he added. “I just… even though the assailant left, it would make me feel so much safer if you stayed.”
No.
Absolutely not. There was no world in which Hubert would do such a thing. Yet he was surprised by the words that came out of his own mouth:
“Of course.”
Ferdinand Von Aegir, as it turned out, was a chatterbox. Possibly because he frequented every elite salon and party and participated in everything, down to the last game of backgammon, the man had a way of making a conversation happen with pretty much anyone.
Even, as it seemed, his father’s would-be assassin.
“It must be terribly exciting, to be a spy, then?”
“No? Well, now that you mention it, it does sound like it consists in a lot of waiting around. So which one is it? You must tell me. Is it very dull ?”
Undeterred by Hubert’s monosyllabic answers, Ferdinand asked a couple dozen other questions, as if they were both guests from some garden party.
When would the man fall asleep?
He was seated straight in his bed, his ponytail falling over a frilly nightgown, ever so slightly tipsy from his carousing night, but wide awake.
Hubert was at a loss as to how to end this charade, but then came one last question.
“You might have been a spy then… Did you ever meet the emperor’s late children?” he asked, one finger tapping his chin. “Ah, you were probably too young, but…”
Hubert could not help but answer. “Edelgard.”
A shadow passed over Ferdinand’s face. “Yes… I knew her well. It was when she passed that I realised how important she was to me.” It was a statement, no longer a question.
Yet Hubert had to reply, with a rough voice, “She was paramount to me.”
“I am surprised to hear this,” said Ferdinand. “That girl didn’t have many friends. She kept to herself a lot, only chatting with her half-brother and that weird lanky kid…”
The look of recognition Ferdinand gave Hubert was disconcerting. Hubert was probably unmistakable: the weird lanky kid had become a weird lanky man.
“Yes,” Hubert replied to the unsaid question. “That was me. After she passed, I was formally enrolled, and began my training as a… as a spy.”
Ferdinand did not even have to ask, this time. It was like a dam breaking. Hubert felt the need to tell him everything about him, only replacing “Cornelia” for “the emperor” when it was necessary. He told Ferdinand about the fear he felt during his first missions, so intense. About the nausea he still felt whenever he killed or tortured.
He told Ferdinand about the shame.
He told Ferdinand about the guilt.
He told Ferdinand about the pain.
The man in front of him was wearing his emotions on his face, but he did not seem disgusted or horrified. Rather, Ferdinand seemed surrounded by layers and layers of the sadness Hubert could never express himself.
He was silently crying and listening.
Hubert was almost dizzy to have let so many emotions pass through the membrane between him and the world, tearing it a bit more with every word. When there was nothing more to be said, they both let a peaceful silence settle. It was nice, soothing.
Unprompted, Ferdinand started talking in turn.
He had been raised to fulfill grandiose expectations. He was never enough. He was always too young, or too forward, or too naïve. Mostly, Ferdinand was too good. So many times, he had been taken advantage of. People thought he was a fool they could manipulate. The worst part was, even when Ferdinand saw through them, there seemed to be no other choice but to accept his fate and follow what others wanted him to do, what they wanted him to be.
At that, Hubert reached for his hand. “I understand. I truly do.”
When had they gotten so close? Somewhere along his own story, Hubert had sat on the bed, and as Ferdinand spoke, he had found himself leaning in, drinking those words as if they could save him.
Ferdinand did not pull his hand back.
Instead, he found a scar on Hubert’s hand and stroked it with his thumb, letting his other fingers interlock with Hubert’s.
It was… nice.
Nicer than Hubert could ever remember.
A sharp knock on the door kicked them out of their reverie.
Beyond, a servant was calling: “My lord, may I come in? I bear dreadful news!”
Ferdinand muffled a squeak. “Hummm, I’m not decent! I’ll be but a minute!”
The first light of dawn was shining on Ferdinand’s copper hair. They had spoken all night long. No doubt, the dead guards had been found by now, and the manor was probably in high alert. Hubert would have to play the role of the “emperor’s spy” until the end.
Needless to say, he was cooked. His lie had worked on a tipsy Ferdinand, but Duke Von Aegir knew his face. Knew who sent him, and why.
“You must go, out the window, now,” hissed Ferdinand under his breath. “The wisteria is stronger than it looks, you can climb it down, I’ve done it a million times myself.”
Hubert was dumbfounded, and just stared at the man for a heartbeat.
“What?” said Ferdinand. “No one will buy your story about being a spy, I know I didn’t. Now, go!”
The knocks resumed. It was now or never.
From behind the door, the servant asked: “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“Just one more minute, please!” shouted Ferdinand. Then, turning his attention back to Hubert: “Promise we’ll meet again?”
Hubert framed Ferdinand’s head in his hands, glorious in the golden dawn, and kissed him with all the love and despair a miserable assassin can be capable of.
Ferdinand kissed him back, embracing Hubert in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I promise,” he said against his lips, and left out the window like a lover from a vaudeville. As he did, he stole a last glance at Ferdinand.
He was beautiful, this man who knew all too much, in his silly nightgown, passing a finger over his lips, where Hubert’s had been a moment ago.
As he left, Hubert realised that he had left a trail, he had spoken too much, and had made a stupid mistake when he thought he’d be discovered.
He realised, also, that he had to come back, somehow, to this bedroom he now held as a place of devotion.