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When the war comes to an end and Rhea the Immaculate One is simply flesh and slowly coagulating blood and Byleth’s skin has warmth and Edelgard finally, finally allows herself to weep:
Hubert finds himself on his knees in the dirt, feeling so light it is as if he is flying.
He blinks up at the sky. The rain is not as heavy as it was when they defeated the Kingdom forces in Fhirdiad. The fires from the ballistics and the Church mages are kept from spreading by it. Hubert is no longer angrily fearful of the Goddess like he was as a child, but the lack of care the Church showed for the citizenry of Fhirdiad in this final stand fills him with a new, flagrant anger. It brings him back to the earth. Makes him solid again.
Carefully, he pushes himself to his feet. Takes stock of his body. He took a blow to the head when he dismounted his horse, but it had not given him pause as he pushed forward to keep Edelgard, Byleth, Lysithea, and Ferdinand’s backs. Rhea’s last struggle had sent all but Edelgard and Byleth flying far back. Hubert guesses he must have hit his head again. He reaches up, feels gingerly at his wet hair, and finds a warm, wet patch when prodded over and behind his left ear. It throbs.
Several meters away, Byleth holds Edelgard as she weeps. These sounds, loud and heartfelt, are not her sobs of grief nor her cries of terror. They are equal parts relief and release. Hubert understands.
It is not over. This is only the beginning.
Hubert feels giddy.
Healer. He should get to a healer.
He turns. Unsteady but able to find his footing after a brief stumble. He fumbles with his medicine pouch. Takes a Concoction. It closes the wound in his head and heals another he hadn’t noticed in his left shin. He stands for a long moment, blinking rain out of his eyes after he pushes his hair from his face.
“Hubert!”
He turns just in time to see Ferdinand, soaked in rain and illuminated by the dying fires. He makes careful progress on the back of Hubert’s own mare. She looks much less pleased to see Hubert. Likely she thought that Ferdinand was finally claiming her as his own. She is a good war horse, not spooked by magic or ballistics, but Hubert is no natural horseman. Through years of stable duty, the contrast between him and Ferdinand has always been obvious.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand says again, and he reaches down as Hubert reaches up; he lifts Hubert as if he is weightless, and the sensation of flying returns. “I was right; I thought I saw you take a blow to the head –”
The blade of the pegasus knight’s hand axe missed Hubert, but the handle grazed him on the forehead. As Hubert fumbled his dodge, he spotted Ferdinand dancing for Edelgard. That must also have been when he fell and injured his leg, the latter injury entirely missed due to the head wound. Hubert had gotten back up, adrenaline surging, in time to see the pegasus knight shot from the sky. Bernadetta, he guesses, because she had ridden closer to ask if he was alright. He hadn’t realised Ferdinand had seen him take the hit, too.
“I have a Concoction in my left pocket,” Ferdinand says as Hubert adjusts himself to sit behind; he feels at Ferdinand’s left hip to find the opening. “I think the medical corps are still held up by the fires in the city. We should find shelter.”
“Yes,” Hubert says as he pulls the vial out of Ferdinand’s pocket; it is sticky with blood. “Ferdinand –”
“The Professor will take care of Edelgard,” Ferdinand says, misreading Hubert completely as he turns their horse towards a dark, undamaged stone structure to the far right. “Drink that, please. You know my healing skills are mediocre at best.”
Hubert pulls the cork out with his teeth. Tastes warm copper. He spits the cork away from them and swallows the Concoction instead of attempting to put it in Ferdinand’s mouth. He does not know where Ferdinand is bleeding from. If it is somewhere vital, the Concoction might do more harm than good.
“Alright,” Ferdinand murmurs, more to himself. “Hold on.”
Hubert drops the vial and tightens his hold on Ferdinand’s waist as he kicks the mare into a canter. The structure approaches faster, Ferdinand navigating them around bodies, broken stone, lost weapons. The movement makes Hubert’s head hurt distantly, enough adrenaline in his system to keep real pain at bay. Beneath his arms and hands, he can feel Ferdinand’s muscles tighten more than necessary when a movement too far left jostles them. His wound must be to his leg or foot. Possibly groin and hip.
“You’re injured,” Hubert says as they pull to a stop in front of what Hubert now recognises as a grain silo.
“Loosen your hold so I can dismount,” Ferdinand says instead of answering. “I will help you down.”
“My legs are fine,” Hubert says, more aware now that he has had two Concoctions and adrenaline pumping back into his blood. “I am feeling much better. Let me help you.”
Ferdinand breathes out through his teeth. They are both beginning to shiver. Soaked through their armour and clothes and mail.
“Fine,” he says, matter of fact rather than petulant. “Be careful. The ground is slippery.”
Hubert lets go of his waist. Dismounts to the right. The ground is very wet and slick, worse here because the cobblestones are worn and not broken. He takes a moment to make sure he is steady on his feet before turning back to Ferdinand. He looks up.
It could be a trick of the weak light, but he could swear that Ferdinand’s eyes are glowing.
“Ferdinand,” he says and lifts his arms.
A deep breath. Audible over the rain. Ferdinand lets go of the reins and reaches down to steady himself on Hubert’s shoulders. His hair falls forward and hits Hubert in the face.
“My apologies,” Ferdinand says through gritted teeth. “Can you take my weight?”
“Yes,” Hubert says because, unlike their training hall bouts and war councils and long ago academy lessons, this is simply what it is and not a competition. “Now?”
“Now,” Ferdinand agrees.
He heaves himself off Hubert’s horse. Hubert wobbles but is able to keep them upright. Ferdinand lands heavily, pulling most of his weight onto his right leg and the rest on Hubert.
“Let’s get inside,” Ferdinand says through gritted teeth. “If we stay out longer, we will both catch our deaths of cold.”
This is sensible. Hubert holds onto Ferdinand who holds onto him as they approach the heavy wooden door. It is shut, and when Ferdinand lets go of Hubert to push against it, obviously locked. Hubert motions for Ferdinand to move away before pressing his right hand over the lock. It is thankfully not a bolted door, and the lock melts easily under the acid of Miasma.
“Hah!” Ferdinand exclaims, somewhat inappropriately.
Hubert cannot hide his own smile as they enter. The store is nearly full. A table with an abandoned inventory book and a large candle holder sits near to the singular window. There are several chairs, and the mill in the back wall still has flour in its base. Ferdinand limps to one of the chairs and sits down heavily. He fishes a matchbox from his oilskin pouch. Lights the wide, two-wicked candle in the holder. Uses his wet, gloved fingers to pinch out the match.
“Hopefully the medical corps get here soon,” he says as Hubert blinks, his eyes adjusting to the light. “I don’t think I can ride back to get the Professor and our Emperor, if they are injured.”
“You certainly should not,” Hubert says because now he can see how Ferdinand’s left leg is a mess of torn flesh and his foot, still in his greaves and boot, likely swollen if not broken; he was right not to have taken a Concoction himself; it would have healed his ankle awkwardly and a real healer would have had to break and set it again. “How did you get on my horse?”
“It takes some weight,” Ferdinand says, less concerned than he should be. “How is your head?”
Hubert grimaces. Reaches up to feel at the wound. It is closed up, although the flesh under his hair is still tender. His skull must not have fractured if the Concoctions have done this much work.
“I will be well,” he says because it is the truth. “Let me take a look at your foot.”
“If you can get it out,” Ferdinand grimaces, pushing the candle holder closer as Hubert crouches down. “Please do not tell her, but Lysithea fell on it when Rhea threw us and probably broke it.”
Hubert, because of the residual adrenaline, barks out a laugh. He looks over the clearly swollen ankle and shakes his head. He is no healer himself. Trying to move it more than Ferdinand already has will only cause pain if not more damage. The rest of Ferdinand’s wounds to his leg and hip seem to be from falling and scraping along the broken flag and cobblestones. It is ugly but nothing life-threatening.
“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, lifting his head, and falls silent.
Ferdinand gazes down at him. He is very pale, but his eyes are very bright and aware. His lips are red and chapped, and his hair is matted against his head, his forehead, over his shoulders, dripping everywhere. They are both dripping everywhere. The dampness could spoil the grain.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand breathes, reverent and relieved.
He sits up. Leans forward.
Descends.
In the candlelight:
Hubert can feel the scratch of Ferdinand’s chapped lips. His eyelashes flutter. The same orange as his hair, his eyes. Hubert breathes. Out. In. He tastes rain. Water. Saliva. Copper.
A high noise. A low noise. Wanting. Needing. Ferdinand’s gauntleted hand upon Hubert’s jaw, cheek, earlobe. Hubert’s hands. Wet leather squelching on handfuls of Ferdinand’s hair.
“Ah…”
They pull apart. Hubert rises as Ferdinand sits back. Ferdinand blinks up at him, hand still on Hubert’s face. Hubert’s hands still in his hair. The candlelight makes shadows in the grain store and lights their faces. Hands. Skin.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand starts.
“Ferdinand,” Hubert starts.
They both stop. But instead of silence, Ferdinand’s lips lift and split his face in a giddy, almost mad grin. Hubert can feel his own face stretching similarly, doubtlessly ghastly. Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle and dance, and Hubert knows:
“Oh, I have wished –”
“Yes,” Hubert says; he leans forward again; Ferdinand reaches to cup the back of Hubert’s neck over his soaked collar and beneath his dripping hair. “ Yes .”
The second kiss is even better. Ferdinand’s chapped lips have split, so Hubert is prepared for the faint taste of blood. He opens his mouth for Ferdinand’s tongue to pass over his teeth and hit the roof of his mouth and meet his own. He wonders what he tastes like to Ferdinand. If he can taste the poisons that Hubert has swallowed and now, now, finally –
A sound rises. Tears and blossoms. Hubert holds Ferdinand’s head steady as they trade the sound between them. It is not a cry. It is not a sob or a whimper or even a word. It is so many years trying to get to this moment, this place where something, someone –
Don’t leave me. I won’t leave you.
Promise me. Promise me.
Yes. Yes. Yes!
Out on the field, Edelgard has Byleth. Within this silo, dripping wet and bloody, Hubert comes to know Ferdinand for the first time in a line of tens of thousands of uncountable moments.
There is still the war in the shadows to be fought. A country to be revitalised. Reconstructed. Reborn.
The rain spatters. The last of the dragons, burning out.
Against Hubert’s lips, Ferdinand breathes. A laugh.
Along this bloody path:
They finally have victory.