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I LONG TO STAY WHERE THE LIGHT DWELLS
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses, but mostly a psl
Character(s): Linhardt, Hubert, Marianne, Edelgard
Pairing(s): Hubert/Linhardt
Word Count: 3,705
Summary: Hubert dies in battle. Linhardt is left to pick up the pieces.
Notes: For Sable! I'm only a little bit sorry about this. Part two is over here!
The assault on Fhirdiad had not gone according to plan. The Empire’s armies had swept through the streets of the Kingdom’s capital without mercy, and Empress Edelgard herself had been at the head, prepared to meet the newly-crowned Dimitri in battle. Byleth had been at her side, commanding their troops and organizing movements for a clash that was sure to end with a monarch dead.
Dimitri hadn’t been waiting for them in the castle. He had already taken the fight to the streets. They didn’t realize this until it was far too late.
Even now Linhardt has to ask himself how it was possible. Dimitri had grown from a tall and broad-shouldered boy into a hulking behemoth of a man, due in no small part to the massive cloak he wore making him appear even larger. How had he managed to avoid detection until it was too late? How had he managed to avoid Her Majesty and their former professor, and how had he managed to pinpoint the exact location of Her Majesty’s right and left hands?
Linhardt and Hubert hadn’t been with the main charge. Her Majesty had insisted they sweep through the rest of the city, to capture anyone who attempted to escape. Completely crushing the kingdom’s armies was the only sure way to victory, and Hubert had agreed to her plan. He didn’t like leaving her to face Dimitri with only Byleth for backup, but he had given in to the order with little resistance. Linhardt was certain that as soon as they were done, Hubert would have gone after Her Majesty and fought by her side, but…
He didn’t get that chance. Dimitri had found them, and Dimitri had killed Hubert.
In all honesty, Linhardt doesn’t remember much of the battle. He doesn’t remember when they learned Dimitri was among them, or whatever Dimitri himself had said when he was suddenly there - massive and intimidating with only one eye and one target. That lance of his was even larger than he was, and Linhardt only remembers the way it flashed as it cleaved downwards and the bright blood that followed and the sound somewhere between pure primal fury and horrible, devastating pain that Hubert had made.
He remembers the feeling of Excalibur building and releasing from his fingertips and he knows, logically, that he must have said or done something after that because Dimitri suddenly wasn’t among them anymore, but he can’t recall that part. Even now he doesn’t know what happened to the king. He doesn’t particularly care to find out either.
The injury Hubert had sustained was massive - a slash from where his neck met his shoulder to his hip - and it had been bleeding out entirely too fast. He remembers using healing spells (so many that his hands still hurt at just the thought) but there was so much blood and the wound wasn’t stitching itself together quickly enough.
Despite the pain, or maybe because of it, Hubert had remained conscious. One of his hands had caught Linhardt’s and he’d laced their fingers together so easily, like it was just another day where they were standing too close, talking too easily, enjoying one another in ways they shouldn’t.
I don’t have much time, He’d said, entirely too blunt for the situation. Not that he would have expected anything else from Hubert, of course. I need you to… know…
It had been obvious he was fighting off unconsciousness. Linhardt knows he replied with something, but he can’t recall what it was. Don’t leave me or I’m sorry or please don’t die or any other number of asinine things. Things he shouldn’t have said, things he wishes he could take back.
But Hubert had smiled at him, the expression far too forced. I love you, He’d said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like there was nothing else he could possibly want to express at that moment.
Like he’d been waiting for the right time to say it, and picked the worst possible time instead.
If I had… another life to give… He had continued, it would have been… yours.
Linhardt doesn’t remember what happened after that. He knows Hubert passed - he saw it - and yet when he tries to recall it, it feels like he’s wading through muddy water. Perhaps it’s his brain’s way of protecting him; he read something like that in a book once, he thinks.
He knows he’d been covered in blood afterwards - Hubert’s blood - and he doesn’t recall who helped him clean up, or even what happened over the next several days. It’s as though someone simply tore those memories from his head and dropped him off at the monastery, where he’s been ever since.
He doesn’t remember deciding to take up residence in Hubert’s room, but he hasn’t left.
The monastery dorm rooms have always been nicely furnished, and even the passage of time and five years without use haven’t changed that. When Her Majesty decided this would be their headquarters, they had cleaned the place up and without ever really agreeing to it, they had all taken their old dorm rooms and settled in. His room had been next to Caspar’s, and even after weeks of living at the monastery again, he couldn’t bring himself to look into his friend’s room. It was probably guilt, and that was probably what kept him up late some nights.
Hubert’s room is down the hall, next to Her Majesty’s. It’s been a week and a half since that battle (since Hubert died) and he supposes the room might as well be his now. Her Majesty hasn’t tried to shoo him away. (Her Majesty hasn’t come by at all.)
The room is a stark contrast to his own. His room was always full of books and papers and notes, usually scattered all over the desk and floor and that hadn’t changed even on returning to the monastery. It wasn’t exactly an ideal system, but Linhardt had never run into any trouble finding what he needed to in the clutter. Hubert’s couldn’t be any more different, with how pristine it is. Nothing is out of place in here, and there isn’t really anything to make the room feel like it was lived in either. It was a place Hubert used to rest - and even then he probably didn’t spend nearly as much time in here as he should have.
(He remembers Hubert telling him about Her Majesty’s sleeping schedule at one point. He’d seemed baffled that Her Majesty required six hours of sleep, so Linhardt had asked the obvious question, How many hours of sleep do you usually get?
Four to five, He’d replied and quirked an eyebrow at Linhardt’s undoubtedly stunned expression. Is that really so strange?
Yes, it is. So much about Hubert is - was? - strange.)
It had taken him two days to finally find the strength to get up out of (Hubert’s) bed, but once he had, it was with a purpose. He’d decided to look through all of Hubert’s things.
The desk was his first stop. Unsurprisingly, it was just as neat as the rest of the room, with nothing out of place. There were some papers left on the desk, stacked neatly and prepared for Hubert to look over them with his usual critical eye, to double check - triple check, probably - that everything was in order. Nearby was a selection of quills and ink and the necessary tools for creating seals - one for the Empire and one for House Vestra.
(He remembers receiving letters with that seal, and the excitement that would flood his system as he’d attempt not to damage the seal any as he opened the letter. That was four years ago, when they communicated frequently in a code so flowery and embarrassing no one would want to read the letters. His mother had asked him once if they were letters from a girlfriend. Not quite. He remembered responding to keep the ruse going.)
The first drawer he’d opened held more supplies along the same lines. There had also been a note from Ferdinand in there, penned in his usual flowing script and thick lines. It probably wasn’t Linhardt’s place to read it, but that hadn’t stopped him. It had been a formal letter of complaint about some policy Her Majesty was attempting to implement and how the Prime Minister thought things could be better worded in the official document to appeal to nobles and commoners alike. Nothing important - to him, anyway - but something Hubert would have surely addressed the moment he had time for it.
There had been a postscript at the end as well, with Ferdinand expressing thanks for the tea. Something about that had made his stomach turn in knots, and he couldn’t determine whether it was jealousy that Hubert had been handing out gifts to someone he didn’t get along with or the start of another crying fit, because nothing pained him more than being reminded of Hubert’s softer sides.
For all the care he put into being intimidating and cold, Hubert was one of the kindest people he’d ever met.
The drawer beneath that held so much paperwork it had made his head swim to try to look through it all. None of it was recent; it seemed to be copies of deeds and treaties and notes, things that would undoubtedly be useful should a situation arise within the Empire. He hadn’t bothered reading through them.
The final drawer was almost entirely empty, save for a bundle of papers bound with a string. It had taken him more time than he’d ever care to admit to get the string off and opening up the first paper had perhaps been a mistake.
It was one of his letters to Hubert from four years ago, he recognized his own writing and the stationary immediately. The seal of House Hevring had been broken, of course, and the pages were more worn than he remembered them being, but it was undoubtedly his words that filled the page. He’d always been better at composing poetry than Hubert, and though the saccharinely sweet words were almost embarrassing to him now, they were no less true.
Hubert had kept all of his letters after all these years, and from the looks of it, he’d read them often. Linhardt wasn’t exactly surprised, but he lost the rest of the day in tears.
He had decided to tackle the closet next. He wasn’t expecting to find anything in there aside from Hubert’s clothes - and there were quite a lot of them. Hubert had always dressed well, though his outfits offered very little variation in the same style. He even had several nearly-identical capes carefully folded at the top of the closet.
It was as he was trying to pull one of those down that something else fell from its position on top of the cape and smacked him in the head. Linhardt had picked it up; it was a long, flat box and when he managed to wrestle it open, he found several polished medals inside.
Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that Hubert had been rewarded for his service to the Empire as one of its primary tacticians and generals. Linhardt had never once seen him display or wear the medals. He could pick them all out - military service, military service, service to the emperor - and he had found himself wondering what medal they’d give Hubert in death.
Before he could lose himself to that thought, he’d seen something on the floor of the closet. There were boots in there, of course, but this was definitely brighter and fluffier.
He’d pulled it out, and found himself holding an identical replica of Nyx.
This bear didn’t have the tears and (rather pathetic) patch jobs his own had, but seemed to be brand new. Otherwise, the only difference was the lack of outfit, though that wasn’t something Hubert could have purchased just anywhere. Linhardt could only wonder why Hubert had picked up a second one, but he knew there couldn’t have been any other intended recipient.
He lost the remainder of that day as well.
Finally - yesterday? had it been yesterday? - he had looked under the bed. He didn’t expect to find anything down there; Hubert was entirely too neat to store anything beneath the bed and if he’d wanted to hide something, he certainly would have found a better place for it. But to his surprise, there were three books neatly stacked by the head of the bed.
The first book was a cookbook, which was a bit of an oddity on its own but it had been entirely for desserts and pastries. There were a few slips of paper on certain pages, marking recipes that Linhardt recognized as his own favorites. Some of them had never been served in the dining hall, and he could only wonder how Hubert had found out about them.
The second book would have been amusing, had he been able to tease Hubert about it. It was about relationships - about courting - and the proper ways to go about it. It was aimed for high society, but there were quite a few pages of notes jammed in there that indicated that Hubert wasn’t taking any of it seriously. Linhardt had traced the notes fondly, but left them in the pages to return to later.
It was the last book that was the worst, somehow. It didn’t have any notes in the pages, but its presence said more than Linhardt ever wanted to know. It was a book on Faith magic, on the very basics aimed at beginners with no talent for the study whatsoever. It was the sort of thing Hubert would have been embarrassed for anyone to see.
The rest of the day had passed and Linhardt doesn’t remember any of it.
With nothing left to search through in Hubert’s room, he hasn’t really had any motivation to get out of bed. He knows he can’t lay here forever and let the world around him keep turning, but he’s not sure how he’s supposed to get up and keep going. If Hubert had survived instead, he’d at least still be useful to Her Majesty.
It’s been a long time since he last thought about being discarded or killed for not living up to Her Majesty’s expectations, but perhaps he should start thinking about it again. He’s not really sure he’d mind if she decided he was better off dead.
There’s a knock at the door that interrupts him from his thoughts. His initial thought is to ignore it and whoever is there will go away, just as they did yesterday and the day before. And possibly several days before that too, he’s not really sure.
The knocking continues and he finally hauls himself up, setting Nyx down gently beside the other bear. He opens the door.
Marianne is there with a tray of tea and sweets in hand. She jumps a bit when the door opens, but she manages to keep everything balanced. “O-Oh! Linhardt, I didn’t… didn’t think you’d…” She trails off there. The worry is all too obvious in her voice.
He must look like a mess, he thinks absently. He doesn’t want to know what his hair looks like right now. “Come in,” He says instead, because it would be rude to shut the door in her face now that he’s opened it.
She sets the tray down on the desk and takes the chair, while he sits on the edge of the bed nearby. Marianne prepares the tea in silence, only looking up once to offer him a scone. He accepts it, and it’s only then he realizes that he can’t remember the last time he ate.
The tea she pours is his favorite - floral, but not too sweet or fruity, with a distinct aroma that reminds him of home. His mother always prepared this tea for him when he’d returned home.
“Thank you.” Marianne says suddenly. The confusion must be obvious on his face because she continues quickly, “I-I wasn’t sure you wanted to um… see anyone.”
“I didn’t,” He says, entirely too blunt and straightforward, “but I guess I can’t hide away forever.”
She looks so profoundly sad at that, and it occurs to him that he wants to help her, he just doesn’t really know how.
(You’re terrible at this, Hubert had laughed and the sound had made him feel giddy.)
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small, almost as small as it was when they were still students here at the academy. “I know words can never make up for what you’ve lost, but… but we’re all here for you, Linhardt. Please don’t hesitate to tell us what we can do to help.”
Nothing can help, but he doesn’t say it. Death is a natural part of life, and given how this war has been going, it’s only natural that someone would be taken from them. But why did it have to be Hubert? Why couldn’t it have been him?
He swallows thickly and picks up the teacup. “Thank you.” He says it because it’s proper and it’s the response she wants to hear, but he doesn’t feel very thankful at all.
Marianne continues to visit him over the next few days. She brings him tea every time, but she also brings food with her. Sometimes it’s a proper meal, sometimes it’s just sweets, but either way he tries to force himself to eat because he knows he needs to. Even the sweets don’t taste like much now.
She’s the one who convinces him to finally take care of his hair, and that’s what leads him to Hubert’s bathroom.
He hadn’t thought to look in here earlier, because he couldn’t imagine Hubert keeping anything particularly interesting in here. As expected, the room is entirely too neat. He draws the bathwater, eventually sinks in, and begins to work on his hair.
It isn’t an easy process, but there’s something almost soothing about it. This is something he can take care of and handle, one small knot at a time. He finds himself murmuring aloud, almost as though Hubert could hear, “I wonder… What would you think if I cut my hair short?”
He remembers the way Hubert looked at his hair when the other man thought he wasn’t looking. His hands would get dangerously close sometimes, like he wanted to reach out and touch, but he rarely would. Linhardt can remember the feel of Hubert’s hand in his hair that day they kissed in the capital so clearly, and he wonders what it would feel like to have Hubert tend to his hair.
(Wait, you’re telling me you’re the one who suggested Her Majesty keep her hair up like that?
Yes, Hubert had sounded almost embarrassed, those piercing eyes turned away on some point in the distance, she had wanted to wear her hair in a ponytail on the side.
Not very regal of her.
Certainly not.)
Linhardt finishes with his hair and returns to bed, and doesn’t leave until Marianne comes to bring him tea the next day.
The days slip by turning into weeks before he’s aware of it. He finally leaves his room, but his feet don’t take him far. He knocks on the next door.
Her Majesty greets him, her hair already untied from the tight buns, though she’s still wearing her regal red dress. There’s a soft smile on her face as she greets him. “Linhardt. Would you like to come in?”
“No, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He says, shaking his head. “I only wanted to tell you that I’ll be ready for work again tomorrow.”
Her smile shifts just the tiniest bit and he can tell it’s sad. “If you’d like, I can arrange for you to have leave to visit your family—”
“No need.” He interrupts her. It’s the sort of rudeness he never had a problem with five years ago. “I think it would be good for me to get back to work. I need something else to focus on.”
Her Majesty nods. “I understand. There is always plenty of work to do for the Empire.” She hesitates though, almost as if she has something else to say.
Whatever it is, he doesn’t care to hear it. He’s heard enough apologies and sympathies and he doesn’t want to hear them from her as well. It wasn’t her fault, and still he feels anger building deep within him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He says instead as he does his best to bury it. He bows and takes his leave before she can say anything else.
Hubert was Her Majesty’s right hand, and he knows she’s mourning too. But the Empire cannot halt its advance and there’s only one thing left to do now. Hubert would have wanted her to succeed, so he’ll ensure she succeeds in Hubert’s place.
Everything else is secondary.
Historical records show that after the Empire’s crushing defeat of both the Kingdom and the Alliance and the unification of Fódlan, Linhardt von Hevring continued to serve as Her Majesty Edelgard von Hresvelg’s stalwart supporter for several years.
It is not clear what changed, but Linhardt opted to leave Her Majesty’s service and went to teach at the newly-rebuilt Officer’s Academy. Reportedly, he only taught Reason magic and openly expressed his dislike of Faith magic. Though he was said to be a kind and fair professor, he often forgot his work or slept through his classes.
Eventually he left the monastery and disappeared. He gave up his title and was not heard from again. Around the time of his disappearance are when reports of a new class, the “Dark Flier” began to appear. The first Dark Flier was said to be a man with long green hair and a talent for magic and taming pegasi. While there are no concrete reports to prove it, it is highly likely that this person was Linhardt, chasing a dream that was never his to begin with.
Character(s): Linhardt, Hubert, Marianne, Edelgard
Pairing(s): Hubert/Linhardt
Word Count: 3,705
Summary: Hubert dies in battle. Linhardt is left to pick up the pieces.
Notes: For Sable! I'm only a little bit sorry about this. Part two is over here!
The assault on Fhirdiad had not gone according to plan. The Empire’s armies had swept through the streets of the Kingdom’s capital without mercy, and Empress Edelgard herself had been at the head, prepared to meet the newly-crowned Dimitri in battle. Byleth had been at her side, commanding their troops and organizing movements for a clash that was sure to end with a monarch dead.
Dimitri hadn’t been waiting for them in the castle. He had already taken the fight to the streets. They didn’t realize this until it was far too late.
Even now Linhardt has to ask himself how it was possible. Dimitri had grown from a tall and broad-shouldered boy into a hulking behemoth of a man, due in no small part to the massive cloak he wore making him appear even larger. How had he managed to avoid detection until it was too late? How had he managed to avoid Her Majesty and their former professor, and how had he managed to pinpoint the exact location of Her Majesty’s right and left hands?
Linhardt and Hubert hadn’t been with the main charge. Her Majesty had insisted they sweep through the rest of the city, to capture anyone who attempted to escape. Completely crushing the kingdom’s armies was the only sure way to victory, and Hubert had agreed to her plan. He didn’t like leaving her to face Dimitri with only Byleth for backup, but he had given in to the order with little resistance. Linhardt was certain that as soon as they were done, Hubert would have gone after Her Majesty and fought by her side, but…
He didn’t get that chance. Dimitri had found them, and Dimitri had killed Hubert.
In all honesty, Linhardt doesn’t remember much of the battle. He doesn’t remember when they learned Dimitri was among them, or whatever Dimitri himself had said when he was suddenly there - massive and intimidating with only one eye and one target. That lance of his was even larger than he was, and Linhardt only remembers the way it flashed as it cleaved downwards and the bright blood that followed and the sound somewhere between pure primal fury and horrible, devastating pain that Hubert had made.
He remembers the feeling of Excalibur building and releasing from his fingertips and he knows, logically, that he must have said or done something after that because Dimitri suddenly wasn’t among them anymore, but he can’t recall that part. Even now he doesn’t know what happened to the king. He doesn’t particularly care to find out either.
The injury Hubert had sustained was massive - a slash from where his neck met his shoulder to his hip - and it had been bleeding out entirely too fast. He remembers using healing spells (so many that his hands still hurt at just the thought) but there was so much blood and the wound wasn’t stitching itself together quickly enough.
Despite the pain, or maybe because of it, Hubert had remained conscious. One of his hands had caught Linhardt’s and he’d laced their fingers together so easily, like it was just another day where they were standing too close, talking too easily, enjoying one another in ways they shouldn’t.
I don’t have much time, He’d said, entirely too blunt for the situation. Not that he would have expected anything else from Hubert, of course. I need you to… know…
It had been obvious he was fighting off unconsciousness. Linhardt knows he replied with something, but he can’t recall what it was. Don’t leave me or I’m sorry or please don’t die or any other number of asinine things. Things he shouldn’t have said, things he wishes he could take back.
But Hubert had smiled at him, the expression far too forced. I love you, He’d said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like there was nothing else he could possibly want to express at that moment.
Like he’d been waiting for the right time to say it, and picked the worst possible time instead.
If I had… another life to give… He had continued, it would have been… yours.
Linhardt doesn’t remember what happened after that. He knows Hubert passed - he saw it - and yet when he tries to recall it, it feels like he’s wading through muddy water. Perhaps it’s his brain’s way of protecting him; he read something like that in a book once, he thinks.
He knows he’d been covered in blood afterwards - Hubert’s blood - and he doesn’t recall who helped him clean up, or even what happened over the next several days. It’s as though someone simply tore those memories from his head and dropped him off at the monastery, where he’s been ever since.
He doesn’t remember deciding to take up residence in Hubert’s room, but he hasn’t left.
The monastery dorm rooms have always been nicely furnished, and even the passage of time and five years without use haven’t changed that. When Her Majesty decided this would be their headquarters, they had cleaned the place up and without ever really agreeing to it, they had all taken their old dorm rooms and settled in. His room had been next to Caspar’s, and even after weeks of living at the monastery again, he couldn’t bring himself to look into his friend’s room. It was probably guilt, and that was probably what kept him up late some nights.
Hubert’s room is down the hall, next to Her Majesty’s. It’s been a week and a half since that battle (since Hubert died) and he supposes the room might as well be his now. Her Majesty hasn’t tried to shoo him away. (Her Majesty hasn’t come by at all.)
The room is a stark contrast to his own. His room was always full of books and papers and notes, usually scattered all over the desk and floor and that hadn’t changed even on returning to the monastery. It wasn’t exactly an ideal system, but Linhardt had never run into any trouble finding what he needed to in the clutter. Hubert’s couldn’t be any more different, with how pristine it is. Nothing is out of place in here, and there isn’t really anything to make the room feel like it was lived in either. It was a place Hubert used to rest - and even then he probably didn’t spend nearly as much time in here as he should have.
(He remembers Hubert telling him about Her Majesty’s sleeping schedule at one point. He’d seemed baffled that Her Majesty required six hours of sleep, so Linhardt had asked the obvious question, How many hours of sleep do you usually get?
Four to five, He’d replied and quirked an eyebrow at Linhardt’s undoubtedly stunned expression. Is that really so strange?
Yes, it is. So much about Hubert is - was? - strange.)
It had taken him two days to finally find the strength to get up out of (Hubert’s) bed, but once he had, it was with a purpose. He’d decided to look through all of Hubert’s things.
The desk was his first stop. Unsurprisingly, it was just as neat as the rest of the room, with nothing out of place. There were some papers left on the desk, stacked neatly and prepared for Hubert to look over them with his usual critical eye, to double check - triple check, probably - that everything was in order. Nearby was a selection of quills and ink and the necessary tools for creating seals - one for the Empire and one for House Vestra.
(He remembers receiving letters with that seal, and the excitement that would flood his system as he’d attempt not to damage the seal any as he opened the letter. That was four years ago, when they communicated frequently in a code so flowery and embarrassing no one would want to read the letters. His mother had asked him once if they were letters from a girlfriend. Not quite. He remembered responding to keep the ruse going.)
The first drawer he’d opened held more supplies along the same lines. There had also been a note from Ferdinand in there, penned in his usual flowing script and thick lines. It probably wasn’t Linhardt’s place to read it, but that hadn’t stopped him. It had been a formal letter of complaint about some policy Her Majesty was attempting to implement and how the Prime Minister thought things could be better worded in the official document to appeal to nobles and commoners alike. Nothing important - to him, anyway - but something Hubert would have surely addressed the moment he had time for it.
There had been a postscript at the end as well, with Ferdinand expressing thanks for the tea. Something about that had made his stomach turn in knots, and he couldn’t determine whether it was jealousy that Hubert had been handing out gifts to someone he didn’t get along with or the start of another crying fit, because nothing pained him more than being reminded of Hubert’s softer sides.
For all the care he put into being intimidating and cold, Hubert was one of the kindest people he’d ever met.
The drawer beneath that held so much paperwork it had made his head swim to try to look through it all. None of it was recent; it seemed to be copies of deeds and treaties and notes, things that would undoubtedly be useful should a situation arise within the Empire. He hadn’t bothered reading through them.
The final drawer was almost entirely empty, save for a bundle of papers bound with a string. It had taken him more time than he’d ever care to admit to get the string off and opening up the first paper had perhaps been a mistake.
It was one of his letters to Hubert from four years ago, he recognized his own writing and the stationary immediately. The seal of House Hevring had been broken, of course, and the pages were more worn than he remembered them being, but it was undoubtedly his words that filled the page. He’d always been better at composing poetry than Hubert, and though the saccharinely sweet words were almost embarrassing to him now, they were no less true.
Hubert had kept all of his letters after all these years, and from the looks of it, he’d read them often. Linhardt wasn’t exactly surprised, but he lost the rest of the day in tears.
He had decided to tackle the closet next. He wasn’t expecting to find anything in there aside from Hubert’s clothes - and there were quite a lot of them. Hubert had always dressed well, though his outfits offered very little variation in the same style. He even had several nearly-identical capes carefully folded at the top of the closet.
It was as he was trying to pull one of those down that something else fell from its position on top of the cape and smacked him in the head. Linhardt had picked it up; it was a long, flat box and when he managed to wrestle it open, he found several polished medals inside.
Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that Hubert had been rewarded for his service to the Empire as one of its primary tacticians and generals. Linhardt had never once seen him display or wear the medals. He could pick them all out - military service, military service, service to the emperor - and he had found himself wondering what medal they’d give Hubert in death.
Before he could lose himself to that thought, he’d seen something on the floor of the closet. There were boots in there, of course, but this was definitely brighter and fluffier.
He’d pulled it out, and found himself holding an identical replica of Nyx.
This bear didn’t have the tears and (rather pathetic) patch jobs his own had, but seemed to be brand new. Otherwise, the only difference was the lack of outfit, though that wasn’t something Hubert could have purchased just anywhere. Linhardt could only wonder why Hubert had picked up a second one, but he knew there couldn’t have been any other intended recipient.
He lost the remainder of that day as well.
Finally - yesterday? had it been yesterday? - he had looked under the bed. He didn’t expect to find anything down there; Hubert was entirely too neat to store anything beneath the bed and if he’d wanted to hide something, he certainly would have found a better place for it. But to his surprise, there were three books neatly stacked by the head of the bed.
The first book was a cookbook, which was a bit of an oddity on its own but it had been entirely for desserts and pastries. There were a few slips of paper on certain pages, marking recipes that Linhardt recognized as his own favorites. Some of them had never been served in the dining hall, and he could only wonder how Hubert had found out about them.
The second book would have been amusing, had he been able to tease Hubert about it. It was about relationships - about courting - and the proper ways to go about it. It was aimed for high society, but there were quite a few pages of notes jammed in there that indicated that Hubert wasn’t taking any of it seriously. Linhardt had traced the notes fondly, but left them in the pages to return to later.
It was the last book that was the worst, somehow. It didn’t have any notes in the pages, but its presence said more than Linhardt ever wanted to know. It was a book on Faith magic, on the very basics aimed at beginners with no talent for the study whatsoever. It was the sort of thing Hubert would have been embarrassed for anyone to see.
The rest of the day had passed and Linhardt doesn’t remember any of it.
With nothing left to search through in Hubert’s room, he hasn’t really had any motivation to get out of bed. He knows he can’t lay here forever and let the world around him keep turning, but he’s not sure how he’s supposed to get up and keep going. If Hubert had survived instead, he’d at least still be useful to Her Majesty.
It’s been a long time since he last thought about being discarded or killed for not living up to Her Majesty’s expectations, but perhaps he should start thinking about it again. He’s not really sure he’d mind if she decided he was better off dead.
There’s a knock at the door that interrupts him from his thoughts. His initial thought is to ignore it and whoever is there will go away, just as they did yesterday and the day before. And possibly several days before that too, he’s not really sure.
The knocking continues and he finally hauls himself up, setting Nyx down gently beside the other bear. He opens the door.
Marianne is there with a tray of tea and sweets in hand. She jumps a bit when the door opens, but she manages to keep everything balanced. “O-Oh! Linhardt, I didn’t… didn’t think you’d…” She trails off there. The worry is all too obvious in her voice.
He must look like a mess, he thinks absently. He doesn’t want to know what his hair looks like right now. “Come in,” He says instead, because it would be rude to shut the door in her face now that he’s opened it.
She sets the tray down on the desk and takes the chair, while he sits on the edge of the bed nearby. Marianne prepares the tea in silence, only looking up once to offer him a scone. He accepts it, and it’s only then he realizes that he can’t remember the last time he ate.
The tea she pours is his favorite - floral, but not too sweet or fruity, with a distinct aroma that reminds him of home. His mother always prepared this tea for him when he’d returned home.
“Thank you.” Marianne says suddenly. The confusion must be obvious on his face because she continues quickly, “I-I wasn’t sure you wanted to um… see anyone.”
“I didn’t,” He says, entirely too blunt and straightforward, “but I guess I can’t hide away forever.”
She looks so profoundly sad at that, and it occurs to him that he wants to help her, he just doesn’t really know how.
(You’re terrible at this, Hubert had laughed and the sound had made him feel giddy.)
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small, almost as small as it was when they were still students here at the academy. “I know words can never make up for what you’ve lost, but… but we’re all here for you, Linhardt. Please don’t hesitate to tell us what we can do to help.”
Nothing can help, but he doesn’t say it. Death is a natural part of life, and given how this war has been going, it’s only natural that someone would be taken from them. But why did it have to be Hubert? Why couldn’t it have been him?
He swallows thickly and picks up the teacup. “Thank you.” He says it because it’s proper and it’s the response she wants to hear, but he doesn’t feel very thankful at all.
Marianne continues to visit him over the next few days. She brings him tea every time, but she also brings food with her. Sometimes it’s a proper meal, sometimes it’s just sweets, but either way he tries to force himself to eat because he knows he needs to. Even the sweets don’t taste like much now.
She’s the one who convinces him to finally take care of his hair, and that’s what leads him to Hubert’s bathroom.
He hadn’t thought to look in here earlier, because he couldn’t imagine Hubert keeping anything particularly interesting in here. As expected, the room is entirely too neat. He draws the bathwater, eventually sinks in, and begins to work on his hair.
It isn’t an easy process, but there’s something almost soothing about it. This is something he can take care of and handle, one small knot at a time. He finds himself murmuring aloud, almost as though Hubert could hear, “I wonder… What would you think if I cut my hair short?”
He remembers the way Hubert looked at his hair when the other man thought he wasn’t looking. His hands would get dangerously close sometimes, like he wanted to reach out and touch, but he rarely would. Linhardt can remember the feel of Hubert’s hand in his hair that day they kissed in the capital so clearly, and he wonders what it would feel like to have Hubert tend to his hair.
(Wait, you’re telling me you’re the one who suggested Her Majesty keep her hair up like that?
Yes, Hubert had sounded almost embarrassed, those piercing eyes turned away on some point in the distance, she had wanted to wear her hair in a ponytail on the side.
Not very regal of her.
Certainly not.)
Linhardt finishes with his hair and returns to bed, and doesn’t leave until Marianne comes to bring him tea the next day.
The days slip by turning into weeks before he’s aware of it. He finally leaves his room, but his feet don’t take him far. He knocks on the next door.
Her Majesty greets him, her hair already untied from the tight buns, though she’s still wearing her regal red dress. There’s a soft smile on her face as she greets him. “Linhardt. Would you like to come in?”
“No, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He says, shaking his head. “I only wanted to tell you that I’ll be ready for work again tomorrow.”
Her smile shifts just the tiniest bit and he can tell it’s sad. “If you’d like, I can arrange for you to have leave to visit your family—”
“No need.” He interrupts her. It’s the sort of rudeness he never had a problem with five years ago. “I think it would be good for me to get back to work. I need something else to focus on.”
Her Majesty nods. “I understand. There is always plenty of work to do for the Empire.” She hesitates though, almost as if she has something else to say.
Whatever it is, he doesn’t care to hear it. He’s heard enough apologies and sympathies and he doesn’t want to hear them from her as well. It wasn’t her fault, and still he feels anger building deep within him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He says instead as he does his best to bury it. He bows and takes his leave before she can say anything else.
Hubert was Her Majesty’s right hand, and he knows she’s mourning too. But the Empire cannot halt its advance and there’s only one thing left to do now. Hubert would have wanted her to succeed, so he’ll ensure she succeeds in Hubert’s place.
Everything else is secondary.
Historical records show that after the Empire’s crushing defeat of both the Kingdom and the Alliance and the unification of Fódlan, Linhardt von Hevring continued to serve as Her Majesty Edelgard von Hresvelg’s stalwart supporter for several years.
It is not clear what changed, but Linhardt opted to leave Her Majesty’s service and went to teach at the newly-rebuilt Officer’s Academy. Reportedly, he only taught Reason magic and openly expressed his dislike of Faith magic. Though he was said to be a kind and fair professor, he often forgot his work or slept through his classes.
Eventually he left the monastery and disappeared. He gave up his title and was not heard from again. Around the time of his disappearance are when reports of a new class, the “Dark Flier” began to appear. The first Dark Flier was said to be a man with long green hair and a talent for magic and taming pegasi. While there are no concrete reports to prove it, it is highly likely that this person was Linhardt, chasing a dream that was never his to begin with.