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TO GUARD AGAINST THE COLD THAT I KNOW SO WELL
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses, but mostly a psl
Character(s): Hubert, Linhardt, Ferdinand, Edelgard
Pairing(s): Hubert/Linhardt
Word Count: 3,065
Summary: Linhardt dies in battle. Hubert learns to grieve.
Notes: For Sable! I'm even less sorry about this one!! Part one is over here!
The attack on Fhirdiad had been successful, and the Kingdom was quickly brought to its knees. Though Dimitri had managed to kill Cornelia and take the throne for himself, Her Majesty’s forces swept in and killed him and his soldiers.
They already had their former classmates’ blood on their hands, so this shouldn’t have been any different. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been.
It was hard to think like that when Linhardt was among the dead.
He remembers it clearly - the moment the boorish king had emerged from a back alley with that horrifyingly massive spear in tow, Hubert had realized they’d made a grave mistake. Her Majesty - as well as Byleth and Hubert - had assumed that Dimitri would want a head-on assault, that he would stand at the castle’s gates waiting for them. That was why they had split their troops, with Her Majesty and Byleth leading the main charge while Linhardt and Hubert took to the streets to catch any important Kingdom officials from escaping.
Dimitri was not supposed to be there. And yet there he was, with that one blue eye fixated on Hubert himself.
I’ll kill you, The king had said, and then I’ll have her head. I’ll rip it from her body with my bare hands!
There was no denying Dimitri’s monstrous strength. In terms of raw power, he put both Her Majesty and Ferdinand to shame, which was quite an impressive feat. Engaging him here was quite literally the worst possible outcome, and they would be lucky if any of them made it out alive. Dimitri certainly couldn’t hope to take too many powerful spells, but all he needed was a well-placed thrust or slash to dispose of any of them.
It would have been smart not to engage the beastly king and to withdraw in the hopes that Her Majesty’s troops would have caught sight of the movement. Instead, Hubert decided to take matters into his own hands.
You aren’t worth being crushed beneath Her Majesty’s heel, He’d snapped, already conjuring dark magic. I’ll dispose of you for her!
The spell he’d flung at Dimitri had been one of his strongest, something that had taken him years to learn and even longer to master. It was powerful, devastating and should have killed the king instantly.
It didn’t.
Dimitri’s lance would have found him long before he could prepare another spell, but he didn’t even have the opportunity for that. The familiar tingle of Faith magic had tugged him backwards and it was only later he’d realize that only one person was close enough to fling him out of harm’s way like that.
He didn’t see Dimitri’s spear flash downward, but he did see Dimitri pull it free from Linhardt’s body as he advanced.
There was no remorse or regret in that eye, and the only thing left was hatred. It was almost frightening.
In truth, Hubert doesn’t remember exactly what he said after that. It was most likely undignified, unbecoming of a man in his position. He knows he let his emotions get the best of him, and he’s probably better off not remembering whatever horrid, hateful words he flung at the king. He can remember just how furious he was - at Dimitri, at his own soldiers, at the Kingdom, the Empire, Lady Edelgard herself, and of course, Linhardt. Linhardt, for daring to die on him. For leaving him like this, without even a goodbye.
For saving him, and dying in his place.
The spell that tore through Dimitri next did not kill him either, and against all rational thought, he had charged the king himself. Such a move could have easily gotten him killed, but somehow it hadn’t. Somehow his hands had found themselves around Dimitri’s neck and he hadn’t even given the man a chance for final words before unleashing a final spell.
It was a bloody, disgusting kill. He hadn’t cared.
He’d sat with Linhardt’s body until Her Majesty came to collect him some time later, and only let the soldiers take Linhardt’s body after she managed to calm him down.
The rest of what happened is a blur. He knows there was a funeral - a spot up on a hill, overlooking Fhirdiad because they couldn’t possibly take Linhardt’s body back to the Empire - and he knows that there were others who died that day as well. He does what is asked of him, and goes where Her Majesty directs, and he doesn’t allow himself to stop to think about anything.
Fhirdiad would make an ideal base of operations while they get the remaining nobles under their control. Fraldarius and Gautier territories still hold quite a bit of sway within the Kingdom, and they will undoubtedly fight until the very end. But Her Majesty has not placed him in charge of such efforts and instead has sent him back to the monastery to handle preparations for their attack on the Alliance.
In short, she’s giving him time and space, something he probably should need and take for himself.
To be honest, he’s terrified to sit down and actually process it all. He doesn’t want to think of his actions, of how in that moment he mirrored the beastly king in more ways than he’d care to count, and he certainly doesn’t want to confront the fact that Linhardt is dead. How can he? He’s never properly learned how to grieve. He doesn’t know where to start.
Hubert doesn’t sit still once he’s returned to the monastery. He roams the grounds, constantly in search of something to do to occupy himself. There isn’t much to do, and those that are here with him give him pitying looks from afar, when they think he can’t see them. Sometimes he wants to snap, to let himself break like he did in Fhirdiad, to prove that he’s not someone who deserves pity or sympathy.
He wants to be left alone. He is left alone. He hates it.
You seem to be opening up more lately, Her Majesty had said to him, mere days before that battle. I’m pleased to see it.
At the time he had been so embarrassed on being called out like that; he had made some excuse and left. He hadn’t told her it was Linhardt’s doing. He hadn’t told her that Linhardt was finally starting to break through the walls he painfully constructed over the course of his life - walls he had thought he’d never be able to tear down.
(He remembers Linhardt holding him tightly, agreeing that his father was a horrible man, but not for the reasons Hubert had hated him for. Linhardt had been gentle with him, patient. There had never been any rush for him to lower those walls, everything was done at his own pace. He wanted to let Linhardt in, he wanted to find a way to heal from everything that had happened.)
It doesn’t matter now, he tells himself. None of it matters now. Linhardt is dead, and those walls will remain. It’s safest that way. If he allows himself to start to let down his guard once more, he could be hurt again.
Hubert von Vestra cannot allow himself to be hurt again.
Days pass. Weeks pass. His work keeps him busy, but not as busy as he’d like. The only change comes when Ferdinand returns to the monastery, all smiles and cheer and everything Hubert would like to throttle.
(Even the thought makes him flinch.)
“Hubert!” Ferdinand greets him cheerfully before he can slink out of the Entrance Hall undetected. “I was wondering when I’d bump into you.”
“What do you want, Ferdinand?” It isn’t nearly as icy as it should be, it’s too tired for that.
The Prime Minister frowns at him, glancing him up and down. “When was the last time you slept?” He asks in all his tactless glory.
“Does it matter?” He bites back.
“It does,” Ferdinand nods, as if he’s made up his mind about something. His arm comes up too fast for Hubert to block it, but he doesn’t move to hurt. Instead, he holds it out and waits, patiently. When Hubert doesn’t respond, Ferdinand continues, “I’ll escort you to your room.”
“How gallant,” It’s sarcastic, bitter, and aimed at the wrong person. He knows that. It’s been months since they were at each others’ throats.
Ferdinand knows it too, and it doesn’t wipe the smile - gentle now, sympathetic - off his face. “Please, Hubert.” That’s gentle too. Infuriatingly gentle.
He doesn’t remember deciding to take Ferdinand’s arm, but somehow he’s being escorted back to his room anyway. He wants to protest, but doesn’t have the energy for it.
Ferdinand leads him to the dormitories and then up the stairs. Thankfully, he doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t keep a pace that’s too fast for Hubert to follow. Even though he has the height advantage, he’s finding himself suddenly very tired. It’s probably because Ferdinand is exhausting to be around.
They stop in front of a door that isn’t Hubert’s and he glances down the hall toward his own before looking back at Ferdinand. He doesn’t ask the question, so his companion speaks up instead. “I think it would be a good idea if you stayed here tonight.” The words are carefully selected and stated, like he’s trying very hard not to offend Hubert.
He doesn’t have to push the door open to know which room it is, but he does anyway. Linhardt’s room has always been a mess. Even after returning to the monastery five years later, his room doesn’t look much different. Papers and books are everywhere, all over the floor and desk and there are even a few stray ones on the bed. Nyx is there too, propped up against the fluffy pillows and blankets at the head of the bed.
Hubert studies all of it with a critical eye, and for a moment he genuinely believes he’s too tired to feel anything about this. Then it sinks in that Linhardt will never be back to nap in that bed again, or read those books about crests, or organize his research in any meaningful way, or to hold Nyx in his arms, and he can feel something within him snap.
He wants to lash out or fight or do something, and the only thing he has grounding him to reality is his hand on Ferdinand’s arm. He can feel his fingers digging into the thick material, but if it hurts Ferdinand, he doesn’t give any indication of it.
“I’m sorry to bring you here like this.” Ferdinand’s voice is quiet, for once. “Grieving is… very difficult. It can be hard to know where to start, or how to process it.”
“I don’t…” He trails off, unable to find what he wants to say. I don’t need to grieve, is probably what he was going for, but it sounds painfully wrong.
“Do you want me to go?” Ferdinand asks and he finally looks at him. His expression is openly worried and Hubert isn’t sure whether it’s guilt or rage that builds within him. Regardless of what it is, he pulls away from Ferdinand.
“I’ll be fine,” He says instead. It’s bitter and angry and helpless and it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Even so, Ferdinand doesn’t leave until he’s entered Linhardt’s room and slammed the door shut behind him. He can’t stand to let Ferdinand get a look at this room, not now.
It’s all he has left of Linhardt.
Hubert does his job as expected, but as soon as he’s done for the day he returns to Linhardt’s room. It takes him days to go through all of Linhardt’s notes and belongings - far more than he has, anyway - and he organizes and sorts them all. Perhaps it’s wrong of him to do that, but it isn’t as though Linhardt really gets a say anymore. If he doesn’t do it, someone else will be tasked with it, and he hates the idea of anyone else touching Linhardt’s things.
He still isn’t all that familiar with crests and the research Linhardt was doing, despite having heard quite a bit about it from the mage. In truth, he usually tuned it out and watched Linhardt’s excited expressions and movements, finding them more adorable than they had any right to be over something so completely pointless. But there still are uses for crests in this war, and the information he’s gathered can be passed on to someone who can use it. Linhardt’s contributions need to be known, because it isn’t as though the man can finish his research now.
The floor is clean now, with no trace of papers or books left behind. Not everything was about crest research, of course, and he’s kept the personal things for himself. Some were letters exchanged between Linhardt and his family, some were personal notes from their former classmates within the Empire. Things he really has no business reading, but he can’t seem to let go of anyway.
It’s the rest of the room he’s not sure what to do with. What does he do with Linhardt’s clothes? His pillows and blankets? Nyx?
He realizes then just how profoundly alone he is in the world now. Her Majesty is out of reach - has always been out of reach - and Linhardt was the one person who grounded him. He’s made great strides in befriending the others they have left, but it’s too little, too late. No one could ever hope to compare to Linhardt.
What he wouldn’t give to run his hands through Linhardt’s hair one more time. If only he’d had time to tell Linhardt just how important he is, how much he loves him and how desperately he wanted to be with him. How sorry he was for the past four years, how if he had another life, he’d gladly give it for Linhardt.
He doesn’t know when he starts crying, or what even brought it on. The last time he cried was when he was a child, when he heard that Lady Edelgard had gone missing and was thought dead. He’d locked himself in his room and cried.
Even though it’s been nearly twenty years since then, he cries just like he did back then, locked away and ashamed of his own feelings.
Her Majesty returns a week later. She has orders for him, and he completes them to perfection as always. He refuses her invitations to tea every day until she corners him outside Linhardt’s room one evening.
“Hubert.” Her voice is controlled, with no indication of what she might be feeling. Her expression gives her away, though. There’s the barest hint of a crease between her eyebrows, an indication that she’s displeased and doing her best not to let it show.
“Your Majesty,” He greets her, bowing. “Is there something I may assist you with?”
“Inside, now.” She pushes him toward the door and he complies, opening it and allowing her entrance.
Her Majesty takes the chair at the desk and he moves to stand against the wall, arms folded as he leans back. The door remains closed, but unlocked - a show of trust. It isn’t one that’s necessary with her and they both know it, but old habits die hard.
“Hubert,” Her Majesty starts before hesitating. She tries again. “I’ve been very worried about you.”
“You don’t need to trouble yourself with me, Your Majesty.”
“Edelgard,” She bursts out suddenly. For a long moment, they both stare at each other. Her eyes are a fraction too wide and he’s certain he’s not doing a good job of hiding his own surprised expression.
She exhales. Breathes. Starts again. “You’re a dear friend, Hubert. My closest ally. You’re the one I rely on, more than anyone else. I could never have made it this far without you.”
He shifts, uncomfortable. He’s never liked hearing her praise him like this.
“I know you’re hurting.” She continues. “There’s nothing in this world that can make losing someone you love any easier.” She’s certainly noticed his flinch, but she doesn’t address it. “Please, allow me to take care of you, just this once.”
“Lady Edelgard,” A compromise, still with enough respect to make her frown, “I will work through this. Continue to give me assignments, and I will not fail you. I’ll assist in the war against the Alliance. I will not allow—”
She interrupts him, in a way he absolutely isn’t expecting. Her Majesty stands from the chair and closes the gap between them in a matter of steps. Her heels are loud against the wooden floor, and he finds himself more focused on that than her arms reaching out and tugging him forward.
He can’t remember the last time she hugged him.
“I’m sorry, Hubert.” Her words are soft, muffled into his shoulder. Even after all this time, he still dwarfs her in size. “Had I thought you two would be in danger, I would have…”
“I know,” He murmurs into her hair. “You never would have let that happen.”
His arms wind around her - despite how improper it is, despite their positions - and slowly the walls begin to crack.
Historical records show that after the Empire’s crushing defeat of both the Kingdom and the Alliance and the unification of Fódlan, Hubert von Vestra continued to serve as Her Majesty Edelgard von Hresvelg’s stalwart supporter. He became known throughout the Empire as her right hand and went out of his way to end rebellions and crush dissenters as necessary.
When Her Majesty retired and passed her crown on to her successor, he followed her into obscurity. This did not last long, as he resurfaced only two years later to take a position at the newly-rebuilt Officers Academy. While he taught Reason magic and trained particularly skilled mages in dark magic, he also taught Faith magic. He was said to be an exceptionally strict instructor who only accepted the best from his students.
His teaching position did not last long, and there are no more records of Hubert. Some say he returned to Edelgard’s side, where he spent the rest of his days, while others allege that he took off on his own. Regardless, several advances in both dark magic and Faith magic can be attributed to his work.
Character(s): Hubert, Linhardt, Ferdinand, Edelgard
Pairing(s): Hubert/Linhardt
Word Count: 3,065
Summary: Linhardt dies in battle. Hubert learns to grieve.
Notes: For Sable! I'm even less sorry about this one!! Part one is over here!
The attack on Fhirdiad had been successful, and the Kingdom was quickly brought to its knees. Though Dimitri had managed to kill Cornelia and take the throne for himself, Her Majesty’s forces swept in and killed him and his soldiers.
They already had their former classmates’ blood on their hands, so this shouldn’t have been any different. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been.
It was hard to think like that when Linhardt was among the dead.
He remembers it clearly - the moment the boorish king had emerged from a back alley with that horrifyingly massive spear in tow, Hubert had realized they’d made a grave mistake. Her Majesty - as well as Byleth and Hubert - had assumed that Dimitri would want a head-on assault, that he would stand at the castle’s gates waiting for them. That was why they had split their troops, with Her Majesty and Byleth leading the main charge while Linhardt and Hubert took to the streets to catch any important Kingdom officials from escaping.
Dimitri was not supposed to be there. And yet there he was, with that one blue eye fixated on Hubert himself.
I’ll kill you, The king had said, and then I’ll have her head. I’ll rip it from her body with my bare hands!
There was no denying Dimitri’s monstrous strength. In terms of raw power, he put both Her Majesty and Ferdinand to shame, which was quite an impressive feat. Engaging him here was quite literally the worst possible outcome, and they would be lucky if any of them made it out alive. Dimitri certainly couldn’t hope to take too many powerful spells, but all he needed was a well-placed thrust or slash to dispose of any of them.
It would have been smart not to engage the beastly king and to withdraw in the hopes that Her Majesty’s troops would have caught sight of the movement. Instead, Hubert decided to take matters into his own hands.
You aren’t worth being crushed beneath Her Majesty’s heel, He’d snapped, already conjuring dark magic. I’ll dispose of you for her!
The spell he’d flung at Dimitri had been one of his strongest, something that had taken him years to learn and even longer to master. It was powerful, devastating and should have killed the king instantly.
It didn’t.
Dimitri’s lance would have found him long before he could prepare another spell, but he didn’t even have the opportunity for that. The familiar tingle of Faith magic had tugged him backwards and it was only later he’d realize that only one person was close enough to fling him out of harm’s way like that.
He didn’t see Dimitri’s spear flash downward, but he did see Dimitri pull it free from Linhardt’s body as he advanced.
There was no remorse or regret in that eye, and the only thing left was hatred. It was almost frightening.
In truth, Hubert doesn’t remember exactly what he said after that. It was most likely undignified, unbecoming of a man in his position. He knows he let his emotions get the best of him, and he’s probably better off not remembering whatever horrid, hateful words he flung at the king. He can remember just how furious he was - at Dimitri, at his own soldiers, at the Kingdom, the Empire, Lady Edelgard herself, and of course, Linhardt. Linhardt, for daring to die on him. For leaving him like this, without even a goodbye.
For saving him, and dying in his place.
The spell that tore through Dimitri next did not kill him either, and against all rational thought, he had charged the king himself. Such a move could have easily gotten him killed, but somehow it hadn’t. Somehow his hands had found themselves around Dimitri’s neck and he hadn’t even given the man a chance for final words before unleashing a final spell.
It was a bloody, disgusting kill. He hadn’t cared.
He’d sat with Linhardt’s body until Her Majesty came to collect him some time later, and only let the soldiers take Linhardt’s body after she managed to calm him down.
The rest of what happened is a blur. He knows there was a funeral - a spot up on a hill, overlooking Fhirdiad because they couldn’t possibly take Linhardt’s body back to the Empire - and he knows that there were others who died that day as well. He does what is asked of him, and goes where Her Majesty directs, and he doesn’t allow himself to stop to think about anything.
Fhirdiad would make an ideal base of operations while they get the remaining nobles under their control. Fraldarius and Gautier territories still hold quite a bit of sway within the Kingdom, and they will undoubtedly fight until the very end. But Her Majesty has not placed him in charge of such efforts and instead has sent him back to the monastery to handle preparations for their attack on the Alliance.
In short, she’s giving him time and space, something he probably should need and take for himself.
To be honest, he’s terrified to sit down and actually process it all. He doesn’t want to think of his actions, of how in that moment he mirrored the beastly king in more ways than he’d care to count, and he certainly doesn’t want to confront the fact that Linhardt is dead. How can he? He’s never properly learned how to grieve. He doesn’t know where to start.
Hubert doesn’t sit still once he’s returned to the monastery. He roams the grounds, constantly in search of something to do to occupy himself. There isn’t much to do, and those that are here with him give him pitying looks from afar, when they think he can’t see them. Sometimes he wants to snap, to let himself break like he did in Fhirdiad, to prove that he’s not someone who deserves pity or sympathy.
He wants to be left alone. He is left alone. He hates it.
You seem to be opening up more lately, Her Majesty had said to him, mere days before that battle. I’m pleased to see it.
At the time he had been so embarrassed on being called out like that; he had made some excuse and left. He hadn’t told her it was Linhardt’s doing. He hadn’t told her that Linhardt was finally starting to break through the walls he painfully constructed over the course of his life - walls he had thought he’d never be able to tear down.
(He remembers Linhardt holding him tightly, agreeing that his father was a horrible man, but not for the reasons Hubert had hated him for. Linhardt had been gentle with him, patient. There had never been any rush for him to lower those walls, everything was done at his own pace. He wanted to let Linhardt in, he wanted to find a way to heal from everything that had happened.)
It doesn’t matter now, he tells himself. None of it matters now. Linhardt is dead, and those walls will remain. It’s safest that way. If he allows himself to start to let down his guard once more, he could be hurt again.
Hubert von Vestra cannot allow himself to be hurt again.
Days pass. Weeks pass. His work keeps him busy, but not as busy as he’d like. The only change comes when Ferdinand returns to the monastery, all smiles and cheer and everything Hubert would like to throttle.
(Even the thought makes him flinch.)
“Hubert!” Ferdinand greets him cheerfully before he can slink out of the Entrance Hall undetected. “I was wondering when I’d bump into you.”
“What do you want, Ferdinand?” It isn’t nearly as icy as it should be, it’s too tired for that.
The Prime Minister frowns at him, glancing him up and down. “When was the last time you slept?” He asks in all his tactless glory.
“Does it matter?” He bites back.
“It does,” Ferdinand nods, as if he’s made up his mind about something. His arm comes up too fast for Hubert to block it, but he doesn’t move to hurt. Instead, he holds it out and waits, patiently. When Hubert doesn’t respond, Ferdinand continues, “I’ll escort you to your room.”
“How gallant,” It’s sarcastic, bitter, and aimed at the wrong person. He knows that. It’s been months since they were at each others’ throats.
Ferdinand knows it too, and it doesn’t wipe the smile - gentle now, sympathetic - off his face. “Please, Hubert.” That’s gentle too. Infuriatingly gentle.
He doesn’t remember deciding to take Ferdinand’s arm, but somehow he’s being escorted back to his room anyway. He wants to protest, but doesn’t have the energy for it.
Ferdinand leads him to the dormitories and then up the stairs. Thankfully, he doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t keep a pace that’s too fast for Hubert to follow. Even though he has the height advantage, he’s finding himself suddenly very tired. It’s probably because Ferdinand is exhausting to be around.
They stop in front of a door that isn’t Hubert’s and he glances down the hall toward his own before looking back at Ferdinand. He doesn’t ask the question, so his companion speaks up instead. “I think it would be a good idea if you stayed here tonight.” The words are carefully selected and stated, like he’s trying very hard not to offend Hubert.
He doesn’t have to push the door open to know which room it is, but he does anyway. Linhardt’s room has always been a mess. Even after returning to the monastery five years later, his room doesn’t look much different. Papers and books are everywhere, all over the floor and desk and there are even a few stray ones on the bed. Nyx is there too, propped up against the fluffy pillows and blankets at the head of the bed.
Hubert studies all of it with a critical eye, and for a moment he genuinely believes he’s too tired to feel anything about this. Then it sinks in that Linhardt will never be back to nap in that bed again, or read those books about crests, or organize his research in any meaningful way, or to hold Nyx in his arms, and he can feel something within him snap.
He wants to lash out or fight or do something, and the only thing he has grounding him to reality is his hand on Ferdinand’s arm. He can feel his fingers digging into the thick material, but if it hurts Ferdinand, he doesn’t give any indication of it.
“I’m sorry to bring you here like this.” Ferdinand’s voice is quiet, for once. “Grieving is… very difficult. It can be hard to know where to start, or how to process it.”
“I don’t…” He trails off, unable to find what he wants to say. I don’t need to grieve, is probably what he was going for, but it sounds painfully wrong.
“Do you want me to go?” Ferdinand asks and he finally looks at him. His expression is openly worried and Hubert isn’t sure whether it’s guilt or rage that builds within him. Regardless of what it is, he pulls away from Ferdinand.
“I’ll be fine,” He says instead. It’s bitter and angry and helpless and it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Even so, Ferdinand doesn’t leave until he’s entered Linhardt’s room and slammed the door shut behind him. He can’t stand to let Ferdinand get a look at this room, not now.
It’s all he has left of Linhardt.
Hubert does his job as expected, but as soon as he’s done for the day he returns to Linhardt’s room. It takes him days to go through all of Linhardt’s notes and belongings - far more than he has, anyway - and he organizes and sorts them all. Perhaps it’s wrong of him to do that, but it isn’t as though Linhardt really gets a say anymore. If he doesn’t do it, someone else will be tasked with it, and he hates the idea of anyone else touching Linhardt’s things.
He still isn’t all that familiar with crests and the research Linhardt was doing, despite having heard quite a bit about it from the mage. In truth, he usually tuned it out and watched Linhardt’s excited expressions and movements, finding them more adorable than they had any right to be over something so completely pointless. But there still are uses for crests in this war, and the information he’s gathered can be passed on to someone who can use it. Linhardt’s contributions need to be known, because it isn’t as though the man can finish his research now.
The floor is clean now, with no trace of papers or books left behind. Not everything was about crest research, of course, and he’s kept the personal things for himself. Some were letters exchanged between Linhardt and his family, some were personal notes from their former classmates within the Empire. Things he really has no business reading, but he can’t seem to let go of anyway.
It’s the rest of the room he’s not sure what to do with. What does he do with Linhardt’s clothes? His pillows and blankets? Nyx?
He realizes then just how profoundly alone he is in the world now. Her Majesty is out of reach - has always been out of reach - and Linhardt was the one person who grounded him. He’s made great strides in befriending the others they have left, but it’s too little, too late. No one could ever hope to compare to Linhardt.
What he wouldn’t give to run his hands through Linhardt’s hair one more time. If only he’d had time to tell Linhardt just how important he is, how much he loves him and how desperately he wanted to be with him. How sorry he was for the past four years, how if he had another life, he’d gladly give it for Linhardt.
He doesn’t know when he starts crying, or what even brought it on. The last time he cried was when he was a child, when he heard that Lady Edelgard had gone missing and was thought dead. He’d locked himself in his room and cried.
Even though it’s been nearly twenty years since then, he cries just like he did back then, locked away and ashamed of his own feelings.
Her Majesty returns a week later. She has orders for him, and he completes them to perfection as always. He refuses her invitations to tea every day until she corners him outside Linhardt’s room one evening.
“Hubert.” Her voice is controlled, with no indication of what she might be feeling. Her expression gives her away, though. There’s the barest hint of a crease between her eyebrows, an indication that she’s displeased and doing her best not to let it show.
“Your Majesty,” He greets her, bowing. “Is there something I may assist you with?”
“Inside, now.” She pushes him toward the door and he complies, opening it and allowing her entrance.
Her Majesty takes the chair at the desk and he moves to stand against the wall, arms folded as he leans back. The door remains closed, but unlocked - a show of trust. It isn’t one that’s necessary with her and they both know it, but old habits die hard.
“Hubert,” Her Majesty starts before hesitating. She tries again. “I’ve been very worried about you.”
“You don’t need to trouble yourself with me, Your Majesty.”
“Edelgard,” She bursts out suddenly. For a long moment, they both stare at each other. Her eyes are a fraction too wide and he’s certain he’s not doing a good job of hiding his own surprised expression.
She exhales. Breathes. Starts again. “You’re a dear friend, Hubert. My closest ally. You’re the one I rely on, more than anyone else. I could never have made it this far without you.”
He shifts, uncomfortable. He’s never liked hearing her praise him like this.
“I know you’re hurting.” She continues. “There’s nothing in this world that can make losing someone you love any easier.” She’s certainly noticed his flinch, but she doesn’t address it. “Please, allow me to take care of you, just this once.”
“Lady Edelgard,” A compromise, still with enough respect to make her frown, “I will work through this. Continue to give me assignments, and I will not fail you. I’ll assist in the war against the Alliance. I will not allow—”
She interrupts him, in a way he absolutely isn’t expecting. Her Majesty stands from the chair and closes the gap between them in a matter of steps. Her heels are loud against the wooden floor, and he finds himself more focused on that than her arms reaching out and tugging him forward.
He can’t remember the last time she hugged him.
“I’m sorry, Hubert.” Her words are soft, muffled into his shoulder. Even after all this time, he still dwarfs her in size. “Had I thought you two would be in danger, I would have…”
“I know,” He murmurs into her hair. “You never would have let that happen.”
His arms wind around her - despite how improper it is, despite their positions - and slowly the walls begin to crack.
Historical records show that after the Empire’s crushing defeat of both the Kingdom and the Alliance and the unification of Fódlan, Hubert von Vestra continued to serve as Her Majesty Edelgard von Hresvelg’s stalwart supporter. He became known throughout the Empire as her right hand and went out of his way to end rebellions and crush dissenters as necessary.
When Her Majesty retired and passed her crown on to her successor, he followed her into obscurity. This did not last long, as he resurfaced only two years later to take a position at the newly-rebuilt Officers Academy. While he taught Reason magic and trained particularly skilled mages in dark magic, he also taught Faith magic. He was said to be an exceptionally strict instructor who only accepted the best from his students.
His teaching position did not last long, and there are no more records of Hubert. Some say he returned to Edelgard’s side, where he spent the rest of his days, while others allege that he took off on his own. Regardless, several advances in both dark magic and Faith magic can be attributed to his work.