Chapter Text
"I do not care much for food, but I will admit that the fish our soldiers grilled is not too bad," Hubert said, picking at his plate as he and Ferdinand sat at a table near the camp kitchen. "It quite reminds me of a dish we may have had back at the academy. I do not know if that is a glowing review of the food we have now, or whether that is something else for the food back at the monastery."
Ferdinand laughed, his already present grin widening in the presence of his counterpart. He knew that in meetings such as this one, he was quite hopeless—gazing at Hubert as he dished out cutting remarks and dry humor, his attention could not be drawn to anyone else even if they hit him with Thoron.
It's not like this mattered. Whenever Hubert entered a room, walked through the aisles of the makeshift war camp, or simply made his presence known anywhere, all other soldiers would give him a wide berth, disappearing from sight and whispering at a distance about the spymaster. The table they were seated at, while sparsely populated to begin with, fully emptied the moment the two of them approached, and so there wasn't anyone else at their table to request Ferdinand's attention be dragged away from Hubert. And thus, Ferdinand could afford to spend all his energy at the moment focused on the spymaster across from him.
There may have been a time in Ferdinand's life when he would have wholeheartedly agreed with the negative sentiments expressed by the public toward Hubert—though he would have never joined in, as spreading rumors behind someone's back was ignoble—but now, with the passage of time, the exchange of gifts, and a broader perspective, Ferdinand had seen Hubert's softer side, and had experienced firsthand the strength of his unwavering loyalty, dedication, and drive, and so now he could not roll back his friendship with Hubert even if he tried. He knew that many of the things whispered about Hubert were true: he did assassinate enemy generals, torture prisoners—though only those with information on the other army, Goddess, their own soldiers had nothing to fear—and conduct all of the secret, bloodier missions that the rest of their Strike Force were either oblivious of, or carefully kept out of the reddened path. But frankly, regardless of how much blood was on Hubert's hands, the thought of those hands in his own still made Ferdinand's heart jump all the same.
In short, Ferdinand was aware he had a rather unconventional taste in men.
He blamed all the time in his youth spent at the opera. Of course he was enchanted by the beautiful heroines sweetly singing elegant arias back then, but perhaps if he hadn't watched one too many productions featuring a tall, dark, dashing villain whose full body cackles reached up to the rafters and through the private box his family was perched in, then well. Perhaps his tastes wouldn't have aligned in such a way.
Either way, Hubert was interesting, Hubert was intense, Hubert was darkly handsome, and Ferdinand was enamored.
He just wished that others could see Hubert the way that he did.
Hubert claimed he didn't mind the negative perception of him that most of the army shared. In fact, when Ferdinand had brought it up once, he said he encouraged it; politically, it was helpful to have someone act as a magnet to the shadows, to keep Edelgard's hands appear clean next to his. But it was this dehumanization, this approach to himself in which he treated himself as a commodity or a weapon, that Ferdinand loathed. Maybe Hubert could put on a strong front, or even believed that it was no issue, but the closer he got to Hubert the more Ferdinand knew that it was affecting him nonetheless. As Hubert let down his walls and let Ferdinand see the wonderful, sweet, sharp man behind them, Ferdinand hated the fact that he needed such high and strong walls in the first place.
Unfortunately, the middle of a war was not the best time to try to practice better self care routines, nor make overt romantic advances. So now, as the two of them left the dining area and weaved between tents, Ferdinand did not reach out to place a reassuring hand on the small of his back, nor did he take his hand in his, no matter how much he wanted to do either.
He had, however, taken it upon himself to try and show Hubert as much warmth as possible, in the hopes that his voice could drown out the whispers around them. His logic was that small compliments that didn't lead to any grand emotional entanglements between the two weren't out of place and weren't a waste of precious time, and could only lead to doing good. Whenever Ferdinand praised him, Hubert would raise his hackles and get defensive, or try and maneuver the topic away. But the hint of a smile, the red tint across his cheeks that he tried to hide in his bangs, and the fact that since Ferdinand had begun acting this way, Hubert had personally sought out his company more and more, all pointed to Hubert enjoying it. And so Ferdinand would only continue this behavior.
"Oh- by the way. Thank you for helping me with the inventory stores earlier. You are very kind," Ferdinand said with a smile, walking in step with the other general.
Hubert gave a sigh. "You needn't worry yourself with thanking me, nor inventing traits I don't have. If it wasn't me, it would have been anyone else in the army who helped."
"I am not making it up," Ferdinand protested, refusing to let the smile drop from his face. "I genuinely believe you are a kind person."
Hubert let out a hmph, but Ferdinand could see a the start of a rosy hue adorning his cheeks (his perfect cheekbones, Ferdinand's brain unhelpfully supplied) before he covered his face with a hand. A warmth spread in his chest at this, as he continued staring at this bashful, wonderful man.
(Ferdinand knew he wasn't subtle; his adoration was written all over his face and Hubert's lack of overt reaction was reaction enough for the gossip mill to start running. However, he didn't care about his own reputation anymore to be upset over a few rumors. He heard the soldiers whispering that Hubert had put him under a love spell, or that Ferdinand was putting on an act toward the Emperor's shadow in the hope of a promotion. Ferdinand didn't particularly like those ones, but some could be amusing, like the ones where the soldiers thought Ferdinand was taming Hubert. More and more, soldiers were whispering, General Aegir is able to de-fang the Vestra viper. Whenever Ferdinand heard this one, he laughed to himself; he couldn't de-fang him even if he wanted to. He quite thought Hubert's venom was part of the appeal.)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was the aftermath of a particularly grueling battle, the Adrestian army having just returned to the camp in the dead of night, and all Ferdinand could think of was a bath. He'd gotten used to the everyday grime of living in a camp in a war quite quickly, but no matter how many years the war dragged on, he could never get over the putrid mix of mud and blood on his clothes, in the joints of his armor, right after a battle. Dorothea would sometimes poke fun at him and his noble expectations of hygiene; Ferdinand would huff and respond that they should revolutionize the concept of a battle by introducing a mandatory shower break in the middle of the fighting for all soldiers regardless of side. Neither of them meant it, of course, but the routine of the jabs was a welcomed reprieve in the face of so much death.
Their camp was set up by a lovely riverbank that the army had taken to using for bathing while they've been here, and Ferdinand was ready to head down the trodden path to the bank; what gave him pause was a brief movement out of the corner of his eye, walking to a different section of the trees beside the river. He'd recognize that shadow anywhere, but puzzled over what he was doing. Hubert wasn't walking toward the trees in his usual measured, looming way, but rather walking with haste in a way that Ferdinand would call scurrying, if he wasn't talking about Hubert von Vestra. He also usually didn't bathe when others did, preferring to go much later to avoid people. This was peculiar, and Ferdinand wouldn't have given it much thought, if it hadn't been directly after a battle. Was he injured!? Ferdinand changed course and speed-walked toward the trees Hubert had disappeared into.
The trees were dense, but the copse was small enough that after a minute of pushing branches out of the way as to not hit him in the face, he emerged to a different bend in the river. This part of the river was smaller and without a wider bank—no wonder no one else came here. The area was quite beautiful; in the moonlight, the low-hanging trees and the tall grass glistened like blades of ice cutting through the stillness, and fireflies lit up around him like dying embers. Ferdinand didn't take note of any of this, his attention solely focused on the figure in black slumped over by the edge of the river. He rushed over.
At the sound of armored greaves crumpling the grass underfoot, Hubert's reaction was instantaneous; his head whipped around and a hand went straight towards his leg, where Ferdinand assumed was a hidden knife. Upon seeing his comrade and classmate, though, the fight drained out of his body and his hand went back into the water. Now that Ferdinand was closer, he saw that Hubert had both his hands submerged in the river, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thin, milky white skin that shone in the moonlight, dappled by thin, dark shadows from the trees. It occurred to Ferdinand that he had never seen any inch of Hubert, beyond his face, bare. He willed himself to look away and met his friend's face, who was staring at him quizzically.
At this, Ferdinand remembered that he had burst in through the trees with no warning; he needed an explanation. But seeing Hubert sitting here in a rather normal fashion, with a rather normal complexion and a rather normal disposition, he realized his frantic energy from earlier might have been for naught. "You looked injured."
Hubert lifted an eyebrow. "I am not injured."
A beat of silence between the two.
"Will that be all, then? If so, I would rather you go away," Hubert continued with a scowl. He was being abnormally combative, Ferdinand noticed, which only happened when Hubert was running out of options to hide something. Interesting.
Against anyone's best wishes, Ferdinand instead approached Hubert, sitting down next to him even as the other's glare got darker. A single look from Hubert was enough to send even the bravest soldiers from their army running with their tail between their legs, but Ferdinand had never feared him. If Hubert was hiding an injury and pushing himself despite it, Ferdinand wanted to know.
This close, he noticed the faint tremors from Hubert's hands, the ripples branching out from them where they shook in the water. "Have you hurt your hands?"
Hubert's face went through a myriad of emotions all in quick succession—too quick for Ferdinand to name—before he returned back to the venomous glare from a moment ago. "I have not. Have you only come here to pry? I would rather you leave me alone."
"May I see them?" Ferdinand replied, ignoring the murderous look directed at him.
"This is none of your business," Hubert responded through gritted teeth, but as he shifted in an attempt to loom over Ferdinand from their seated positions, he suddenly cringed, his hands spasming and instinctively rising to his chest defensively. And so for the first time, Ferdinand saw Hubert's bare hands.
What he had thought were shadows cast from the overhead trees were not shadows at all; the dark shapes on Hubert's arms were seared into his skin, ink black against paper white. The very tips of these burns, close to his elbow, were thinner and lighter, practically appearing as darker than usual veins; but as Ferdinand's gaze traveled down his forearms, the veins grew thicker, muddier, a scorched black rather than a dusk gray, the skin looking cold and brittle to the touch. When he reached his hands, the skin was completely charcoal black, withered and sharp in places that should have been soft and warm, and the very tips of his fingers had so much of the color and life leeched out that they instead appeared pointed and curled, like claws.
Ferdinand gasped, and instantly brought up his own hands, a healing spell washing green light over his counterpart's scorched limbs. "Did this happen in today's battle? What caused this?"
The spell seemed to have helped somewhat, as the spasms stopped and Hubert's face slowly slackened from the pained expression he donned a moment ago. As the wisps of faith magic faded out, he slowly raised a hand up to the moonlight, illuminating sharp ridges and cracks in the skin. "No. This started much earlier."
Content that he was no longer in immediate pain, Ferdinand sat back, confused. "What…"
"Dark magic." Hubert looked resigned, all energy drained from his body and leaving only the barest, smallest of Huberts. "I have been using dark magic for as long as I can remember, in service to Lady Edelgard and her cause. I use it without hesitation, and I would have it no other way. But magic can come with a price."
Ferdinand's brow was already furrowed, a million questions on his tongue. "But Lysithea uses dark magic as well, and I have seen her hands, they do not look like… this."
Hubert nodded. "That is because Lysithea has both a crest and regularly uses a tome. I do not have a crest, and in my missions and on the battlefield, I am often forced to cast without a tome. Tomes act as a medium, a way to release your magic without harm; flinging spells from your bare hands, well. The magic rips away your skin, leaves you blistered, and burns your vitality as fuel."
Ferdinand didn't quite know how to respond to that, so Hubert continued. "It is what it is. I have long since made peace with it, and I have no regrets. Occasionally, after expending too much magic, I get brief spells of pain. But they are very manageable, I can assure you. Nothing for you to worry your pretty little noble head over." He completed this statement with an eye roll.
"Do you not value your health!?" Righteous anger for his friend exploded out of Ferdinand, and in a blink of an eye he was on his feet trying to hoist Hubert up from his shoulders. "You should see a healer, one with special knowledge on these effects! You cannot live your life like this!"
Hubert shouldered him away, sitting back down on the grass. "I just told you that it is nothing to worry about, Ferdinand, do not be so dramatic."
"Right," Ferdinand huffed, "if it truly was nothing then you would not have tried to hide it so. Who else knows?"
"Linhardt, I have gone to him for occasional healing ointments and spells. Her Majesty likely is aware. Various agents under my employment probably know as well."
"So you are not trying to keep it secret?"
Hubert turned his face away, fully obscured by his bangs.
"You, Ferdinand, were never supposed to know."
Sitting back down, Ferdinand turned toward the river. He watched as a leaf drifted down in the lazy current, bobbing up and down. "Why me specifically?" He didn't mean to sound so hurt, but he'd thought he and Hubert were beyond pointless secrets nowadays. It stung a bit.
Hiding his hands back under his cloak, Hubert took a moment, his mouth open but not settled on the words yet. Eventually, voice strained, he started with, "You think that you see something nice inside me. I guess I did not want you to be privy to the truth of it: both inside and out, I am stained by my actions, and my bloody path consumes me. There is nothing pleasant about me, and you have been deceived."
The statement was so incredulous, that Ferdinand could do nothing but sit there in silence, shocked, before bursting out in laughter. "That has to be a joke." At Hubert's continued silence, the other man only withdrawing further into himself, Ferdinand quieted down. "You… truly think that seeing an injury would change my opinion of you? Hubert this is absurd."
"It is the truth," Hubert said, voice unnaturally quiet. "Make no mistake, I have fully accepted this path and it does not bother me on most days. It was merely… an interesting experience, I suppose, having one person not see me as the monster I am. Although, I do feel bad about tricking you."
"Hubert. I know you, and I know our friends. Edelgard does not see you as a monster. None of our friends see you as a monster. I do not see you as a monster."
Hubert turned back toward him, scowling. "The audacity you have to claim to know me when you do not know half of the things I have done."
"Of course I know you!" Ferdinand threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "In case you have not noticed, I spend roughly half of every day—at least!—by your side, and I have known you since we were younger. Believe me when I say, you are not a monster!"
"Look at me, Ferdinand," Hubert spat out, his voice raised, "and try to tell me that there is any shred of humanity left in me."
Ferdinand turned to him then, taking in the sight of his closest friend. Blackened, burnt claws, the damage spreading up his arms in greedy tendrils. His uniform and armor, covered in blood. Cuts and more blood on his face, obscured by long, unkempt dark hair. His face contorted into a sneer, his eyes piercing. He looked every bit the monster he was said to be, all claws and fangs and shadows and blood.
Ferdinand thought he had never looked more beautiful.
He reached out, and gently—gently—enveloped one of Hubert's hands in his own. It was rough, sharp, the claw-like tips feeling cold and dead to the touch. He didn't care; he would hold Hubert even if the entirety of him withered away into ash. "When I look at you, I only see a beautiful soul."
Hubert stared at him, his usual guard dropped; his face was open, vulnerable, in a way that Ferdinand had never seen, and he couldn't even begin to decipher what emotions he was seeing. He didn't seem to have any words, so Ferdinand continued. "I care not for what acts you have done in Edelgard's name, nor how much blood you have spilled; I know you, I care for you, and I know you have only done what you believe will keep those you love safe. You are not a monster. You have a human soul, and it is overflowing with love."
Hubert's hand began shaking again, though this time it didn't seem to be from the painful spasms.
Then, quick as a viper, he withdrew his hand and shot up, nearly tripping over the end of his cloak as he backed away from Ferdinand, never once breaking eye contact.
And then, in a flash of violet light, he warped away.
Ferdinand stared at the spot where Hubert was a moment ago, finally naming the emotion he saw a moment ago in Hubert's eyes. Fear.
Placing his head in his hands, he let out a sigh. He really needed to stop coming off so strong; once again he had been found in a delicate situation, and had decided to bulldoze his way through and upset the other person.
He only hoped this didn't ruin anything between them.