on the third night of their plight, there’s fireflies. away from the banks, they drift in minimal presence. a lone luminescence amidst the dreary night, a lone guidance— drifting. their presence tonight is profound, linhardt thinks. for, somewhere in a book he had read, they were symbolic for the spirits of the fallen. he may not have known the bodies that had plagued the banks personally but, as a firefly rests upon his shoulder and dimly glows, he cannot help but be appreciative. by an odd chance, perhaps the soldiers’ spirits have carried to these adrift lights. a good conclusion, linhardt thinks as he watches the beetle, an ending to which they are cleansed the horrific, final moments of war.
he’s about done with his business in the foliage when a violent rustle catches the heir’s attention. it startles him, heart leaping to the flat of his tongue as he freezes, alert. it’s silent— then, he hears it again, louder, paired with a harsh howl of wind. it is only when the rustling comes closer that linhardt springs to his feet, the firefly on his shoulder immediately taking off as the heir stumbles back. when a snap is heard near him, linhardt’s breath hitches, then he twists and jets off into the direction back to camp.
“dimitri—!” he calls breathless once he makes it back to familiarity, where a figure sits by the campside flame. the heir scrambles about until he plops himself by his schoolmate, skin pallid. “dimitri, i—!” no, he can’t talk— he’s wasting breath-- he needs a moment to collect himself— linhardt topples over, hands clawing at his chest as he desperately tries to calm his breath.
“dimitri, there’s-- there’s something over there..!” linhardt points to where he came, “and it tried to chase me...!” no, he definitely wasn’t overacting and he definitely wasn’t influenced by mercedes’ ghost story earlier. he was being rational. completely rational and very much justified about an unknown source in the forests.
@kingoftempests ( @maesterofmagic and @forlornwyvernrider included. )