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The room was perfectly lit, the gentle sun beaming through Caspar’s window, letting the two men bask in the warm shadow off to the side, in the comfort of Caspar’s freshly washed sheets.
They had been friends from a young age, so while Linhardt would usually be bothered by another’s presence in the room, he had already accustomed himself to Caspar, and Caspar had gotten used to doing his own thing while making a minimal amount of noise around Linhardt.
That’s why the two were perfectly fine sitting in the same bed, Linhardt against the wall, reading the same book on crestology for the third time due to the run-down monastery’s limited collection, and Caspar seated at the edge of the bed, back hunched, sharpening his axe with a repetitive, soft, scraping sound.
Linhardt didn’t need to block out the sound—In some strange way, the recognizable noise of Caspar’s axe brushing against the whetstone in an ever-familiar rhythm helped Linhardt focus. A monotonous sound that almost functioned like a metronome, guiding him through the words step by step.
But perhaps most of all, Linhardt didn’t want to feel alone. During these grueling times, thoughts of the corpses of foes and allies alike, all spread out across the battlefield, blood soaking his skin—those images, they never ceased to reappear in his moments of contemplation.
It was quite an annoyance, really. Peaceful naps under the sun filtering through the trees were an impossibility when such troubling—no, horrifying — thoughts kept crossing his mind.
That’s why he’d refused less of Caspar’s offers to hang out during the war. Linhardt suspected Caspar needed it too.
He had better things to do, but he didn’t think those things were worth doing when he was constantly reminded of the war that was currently going on; It didn't help that everyone else was also talking about the war. Though that didn’t much surprise Linhardt.
“Hey, Caspar,” Linhardt said, snapping his book shut. Immediately, Caspar’s attention was grabbed away from the rather boring sight of whetstone hitting steel, in Linhardt's opinion. He stared at him, clueless, waiting for Linhardt to continue talking. Caspar looked so innocent—so puppylike, that one could hardly believe he ruthlessly murdered hordes of Kingdom soldiers mere days ago. It was almost amusing. Well, not that Linhardt faulted him for it.
“All the war… doesn’t it tire you?” Caspar looked at him thoughtfully, carefully considering how to answer such a question. Though in truth, he’d already been asked it several times in its various variants. “Well, I guess? Sometimes you just gotta have one though, can’t do nothin’ about it,” Caspar shrugged, before dragging the whetstone against his old axe once again.
That was exactly the kind of thing Caspar would say. Linhardt thinks to himself, letting his fingers run aimlessly across the sheets. It was the same answer he always gave—because war was Caspar’s normal. He was raised by the Minister of Military Affairs; his childhood was training halls, legendary stories, and blood on steel. Of course he didn’t flinch at the thought of it.
Linhardt, on the other hand—he flinched too much. Thought too much. And yet here he still was, sitting in Caspar’s bed, listening to that steady scrape of an axe on whetstone. Always scraping. Did it really take that long to sharpen a weapon, or did Caspar just like the noise? Linhardt would never ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
He chuckled lightly.
“Don’t die just yet, Caspar,” Linhardt muttered almost jokingly, looking aimlessly out of the window. He could almost shut his eyes; sleep the days away; opt out of the strike force, and relax with fresh grass under his back—but Caspar needed him there, and he wasn’t going to leave him unless he was okay with it. Caspar chuckled lowly, “You know I won’t, Lin.”
With that “reassurance”, Linhardt picks his book back up again. It was better to distract himself and wait the war out rather than to try and reason it out—because that wouldn’t lead anywhere productive.
But there were some days, like that day, where no distractions could ever rid the taint from Linhardt’s subconscious. And on most of those days, Linhardt turned to Caspar to vent out his frustrations.
“I’m tired of this war.” The scratching noise stopped—just for a heartbeat—before Caspar picked up the rhythm. Same steady scrape, like he hadn’t missed a beat. “I know you are, Lin.”
“Sometimes I think,” he muttered, “if only I were born a little later. I could be napping my days away.”
“Yeah.”
“And by then, there’d be twice the number of crestology studies published. Maybe three times.”
“Yeah.”
“That would be quite pleasant.”
Caspar slowed the scrape before giving his inevitable answer.
“Yeah. It would be, Lin.”
Linhardt got a letter from his father not too long ago, suggesting he find a suitable wife for when the war was over—after all, he’d be the Minister of Domestic Affairs in a much bigger Empire by then. The thought troubled him, to put it lightly. Sometimes, Linhardt envied Caspar for that reason. Whenever he told him so, Caspar would always laugh and suggest they go run away together, freely.
Linhardt always thought that’d be nice.
The scratching noise never ceased.
“Hey, Caspar.” Linhardt tugged the tie from his hair, letting his bun fall loose. He’d probably try to fall asleep soon. Maybe he could borrow something from Caspar to wear—he was far too tired to go fetch his own clothes. Caspar looked up at him, still going at it, with the same steady rhythm. The same rhythm he had grown to love. Had he?
“If I ever escaped from the war and traveled the world outside of Fódlan, would you come with me?” Linhardt had made sure to frame it as an if . Never when . Otherwise, Caspar would start to ask questions Linhardt didn’t care to answer.
…
Then the scratching noise ceased.
Caspar blinked at Linhardt as if the suggestion was utterly ridiculous. “Why would I come?”
Linhardt found that a somewhat rude way to answer his question. “Well, it’d be rather dull to go alone.” Linhardt tried to explain, hoping Caspar would grasp the, frankly, quite simple idea.
“I— Well, yeah. I guess it would be.” Caspar chuckled nervously.
The room went wholly quiet, deafeningly so. Linhardt didn't enjoy it.
...
He yawned. If he was lucky, he’d be able to get an early asleep tonight, and this day would be over soon. The two had even started regularly sleeping in the same room. The beds were relatively large, so he didn’t suppose he’d change that today. But considering how fatigued he was, he needed a shower.
Linhardt reluctantly stepped out of the bed, putting his coat on. The monastery’s showers weren’t exactly inviting—nor were they private, but he wasn’t Bernadetta; he could manage a public room without much complaint.
“Lin,” Caspar stopped him. Linhardt felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned. Caspar’s axe was stuck in between the floorboards, the whetstone nowhere to be found—likely swimming somewhere under their bed at this point.
Caspar’s hand hovered, uncertain, before he let go of his sleeve.
“Please don’t leave me.”
“Alright.” Linhardt smiles, slipping his shoes off.