somnus.

     linhardt is war-weary. 

     now, he has experience in weariness; more experience than most, he’d imagine. yet all of this experience has served to prove one single thing to him: 

     war-weariness is the single worst kind of weariness. 

     it clings to his bones until they ache and lurks heavy within his eyes. sleep cannot alleviate it. rather, it staves sleep away, pushing linhardt to take teas and potions and concoctions that sometimes help, but not really. it’s a sickening mix of being numb yet alert. 

     a paranoia so intense that it burns itself out into apathy.  

     where does it come from? well, from war, obviously. it comes from marching. it comes from hearing bones crack. it comes from seeing someone you recognize on the other side of the battlefield. it comes from seeing the man you think you love more than anything else in the world narrowly avoid an axe being swung at his head. it comes from having nightmares about the scene for weeks.

     the war is creeping to its crescendo and linhardt finds himself swept along in the cacophony. in an attempt to stabilize, he reaches out to the past more often. it’s too bad that time slips through his fingers easier than the sand of the adrestian coast he grew up on. five years ago isn’t that long ago, is it? but it feels like a lifetime ago. there was once a boy in the black eagles house who loved napping. who killed a bandit and spent hours washing the blood off his hands.  

     how that boy would hate him.

     linhardt sinks lower in his chair, groaning. and the documents and maps in front of him continue to be ignored. 

     he stays like that for… seconds? minutes? hours? who knows - but eventually, claude is here.

     the monastery is still broken. a cracked shell of what it once was. yet claude hums a melody - a familiar melody, perhaps something from his own childhood - and gently pulls linhardt to his feet. away from the documents, away from the maps, away from… war.

     linhardt lets him. 

     the waltz is sloppy - thanks to linhardt, of course. he lets claude lead him, eyes shutting as he drifts along to the song. 

     linhardt is war-weary; this will not change unless peace greets them. 

     but, for a moment… claude’s gentle song can overpower the pandemonium of battle. it can provide linhardt with a relief that dulls the din racketing around in his brain.

     linhardt doesn’t want a grand life. 

     he couldn’t possibly care less about glory and is downright fine with being forgotten by history. he wants to read books and to fish and do research; to spend hours doing absolutely nothing and to be in bed with claude for as long as humanly possible. 

     yet there is power in simplicity. the waltz in the war-room is the best he’s ever had. 

     linhardt smiles into claude’s kiss; runs his fingers through claude’s hair. 

     “i’m afraid my waltz has grown a bit rusty,” he murmurs, his lips barely off claude’s. “we’ll have to keep practicing, don’t you think?” and there’s another kiss. 

     they will meet peace, and the war-weariness will no longer plague them.

          khalid’s been in the desert of preparing himself for these days for the last couple of months. he’s known that they’d be exposed to war, that blood would find them while they defended this monastery built on secrets and what he can only presume is suffering. he’s meditated on his part on the last few deaths of their mission, but that doesn’t make them easy to accept. it simply lessens the burning ache of his bones. 

          he bends a knee to rest one hand on it, appreciating the flesh of his palm less marred by the deep red that had been there before. “some of us have a knack for holding onto the worst sorts of memories. but letting go of them so soon –– i’m not sure what that says, either.” it allows linhardt some insight into him that khalid hasn’t shared with anyone else, though the moment’s brevity sweeps his glance away. “i try to remember the lives we can’t spare. but it’s not easy, and it’s… important to figure out a way to clear the noise from your head.” sometimes, it’s impossible. he knows that, too. if only they could remember the exhilarating feeling of having saved so many, instead. the wind in his hair should be just as significant. much as he knows it is, it troubles him even still. 

          khalid nods as linhardt thanks him. “of course. there’s no sense in acting like this hasn’t torn me up either.” right now, he doesn’t think so much about which houses they’re in. just thinks about the heavy shadows in linhardt’s eyes… the exhaustion and the dread. if only he could will that away with seltzer, too. “but i’ve been working on a few meditations in the morning to help me steady my breathing. if the sounds come back, i find it helps to count your heartbeats. and if you ever want to give it a shot, i’m glad to help.” 

     “the only memories i want to hold onto are the good ones,” linhardt states. “yet even those are drowned out by these missions.” dreams are replaced by nightmares and silence is replaced by screams. how is he supposed to bear the unbearable? how is anyone? hearing that claude also grapples with these horrors is somewhat of a surprise - if only because the leader of the golden deer carries himself in a way that seems... effortless. 

     after all, it’s grounding to watch him in battle. to see him pull back his bowstring and set off an arrow. the elegance of it almost eclipses that which surrounds them: a small relief amidst all of the turmoil. it would be odd to admit that to claude, though, wouldn’t it? it’s odd to even think of it. linhardt takes the lid off the vial, bringing it to his lips... allowing its contents to drown out any potentially cumbersome revelations that threaten to crawl up his throat. 

“ i’ve been seeing a great deal of you around here, linhardt. ”  she remarks simply whilst the books settle atop of the table across from him. a lifetime ago, they once knew each other – he, the son of count hevring and she, the daughter of viscount nuvelle… yet, all of that felt as if it was a dream away. now all that of the present are ghosts of her present… and he is no exception to that rule either. 

note book splayed across the table, an abacus settled beside her, she casts him a gaze.   “ i’ve heard you’ve been interested in crestology. professor hanneman must be elated. ”   constance speaks, as if allowing her shield down for the briefest of moments. there is concern that lingers in her mind, concern she dares not to inquire in fear of unravelling her weaknesses before him. 

@sleepcrest​ | no starter call, only love 💖

     constance’s voice breaks through linhardt’s concentration — he was so engrossed in the text that he didn’t even realize that she walked into the room. being caught off-guard like this isn’t exactly new to him, of course. linhardt has always been at the mercy of his fixations... even as a child. but it’s not a bad way to live. not at all. “he’s too elated,” he replies. “he said that he wants me to be his successor, which, frankly, sounds exhausting. even on a conceptual level.” still, professor hanneman’s expertise in the field of crestology can’t be denied. it’s interesting to have access to his research - to work with someone whose passion for crests aligns so well with his own. 

          linhardt’s been along with them for at least a few missions now, having earned the professor’s ( and khalid’s –– no sense in denying it ) favor over the last few moons. this mission of theirs, while khalid understands the necessity to see the reality of a battlefield, has taken its toll. he settles down with linhardt in the grass when they return, washing some of the red off his hands, and leaving the static in their heads to settle for a moment. 

          “hey,” he starts, the soft, forest color of linhardt’s hair cooling the worry in his peripheral. “that was pretty tough. i brought a little seltzer with me, in case your stomach was upset.” he offers the small bottle ( more vial than the other way around ) with a gentle turn of his lips; not quite a smile, but not less. “you okay?” 

@sleepcrest​ 💕

     it’s not ideal, accompanying the golden deer on select excursions. the house itself isn’t the problem: linhardt doesn’t care for social niceties and the professor knows better than to reprimand him for dozing during class meetings. rather, the issue lies in the bloodshed.

     and so the answer to claude’s question is simple: “no. not particularly.” it’s bothersome to lie about these things. besides, linhardt’s sure that claude can tell he’s actively fighting the urge to be sick all over this lovely little field. he reaches out for the bottle, holding it in his hand for a moment before meeting claude’s gaze once more. “...tell me, claude. why is it that i can still hear the sounds of battle, even now?” isn’t it bad enough to experience the horror once? why must its after-image cling to him? “if only the professor would invite me to go fishing with your house, instead. i’d much rather do something involving less...” blood. he can’t even say it.