#war phase

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Claude/F!Byleth

Read it on AO3

Their new professor was very difficult to read. Her apparent lack of expression, somewhat monotonous way of speaking, and overall mannerisms led many to believe that she didn’t really feel… anything. That this must be related to her moniker of ‘Ashen Demon’. But after several weeks of watching his new professor, Claude could say at least one thing for certain: Teach did not like to share her food.

She would take her meals in the dining hall, often sharing space with students from all the houses, and while she didn’t turn down meals with Edelgard and Dimitri, she took meals with them less than she did any with Claude, though he attributed that to being the house leader under her direct supervision. Not one for small talk, she often sat and ate in silence while her dining companions chatted around her.

He wondered if she was simply gathering information on everyone the same sort of way that he did.

Claude: But you can't say "Enjoy the next 24 hours" without sounding vaguely threatening.

@linhcrdt, CF war phase, transferred from here:

just his luck to be assigned night watch.  one would think that his narcoleptic streak would render linhardt’s credentials for such tasks null but, alas, everyone must play their part. it wasn’t as if the healer could sleep at night anyhow, the pleasantries of a perfect slumber cast itself away with whatever remains of peace fodlan had once known. 

they’re at a stalemate in the war. the professor is missing, and the fact that they’ve been able to stride with minimal casualties was nothing short of a miracle. in trying times, hope was nothing but a concept– and a fictional one if to be more precise. the war has waged on for years and, frankly, linhardt doesn’t see a glimpse of a conclusion near the horizon. everything is so grim and so bothersome– and yet, odd as it is, linhardt finds it worthwhile to be amongst the strike force than to be peacefully tucked at home, ignorant. 

war has its benefits and it’s reaped through his crest research. they may not have gained any monumental victory towards their cause yet, but at least linhardt’s managed to harvest some of his own. it’s the bursts of knowledge that keeps the healer stable despite it all, as selfish at it is. the magnificence of crests shine through turmoil, in instances where their power pushes an individual past human constraints. linhardt’s managed to delude himself– as long as his research benefits from the strife, he has no qualms being on the battlefield. 

but then, there’s caspar. that’s where it gets complicated.

in order to evade devastation before its dues, linhardt’s crafted a makeshift comfort within the grim realities of war. he’s evaluated and came to terms that, whilst all his classmates-turned-comrades happen to be alive now, there’s no logical proof that declares that even half of them would remain by the end of it– himself included. if dorothea were to perish, that would be unfortunate. had it been petra? it’d be pitiful, for she would have been exhausted upon foreign soils. ferdinand? to be expected. bernadetta would be a shame. hubert and her majesty? well, frankly, that was deserved. 

only speculation of caspar’s impending misfortune that caused linhardt’s stomach to twist, to cause for his blood to run cold. the effects of his hemophobia had lost its charm long ago, yet the mere thought of caspar battered, shattered, and very much lifeless never failed to spike nausea. even now, it gives him goosebumps. it makes his chest race, throat quivering— he hates it. he despises it because, logistically, caspar’s survival rate isn’t exactly high, either. the cursed fool jumps into battles just as impetuously as he did at sixteen, as if he still had something to prove to himself, as if the war was going to end if he’s just hit a certain body count and constantly gave it his all. how someone could see death in the eye and still be so half-witted despite it all– honestly, it pisses linhardt off.

(and, of course, it’s just his luck to be so smitten by the said moron. of anyone he could have pinned for, of course he’d have to fall for the one who seems so stupidly eager to die on the battlefield. the one who never gives a second thought to any battle he’s roused himself within, the one who is stupid enough to break his weapon and continue fighting bare fist and all.)

think of a demonic beast, it’ll rise to exist. a swat to his bun announces a certain person’s presence (– and when had he been face first against the dirt?), linhardt gives a groan and stirs himself up. bleary eyes wander until they catch a glimpse of boyish looks against diffused moonlight. he stares, calm despite the outburst, and contemplates whether or not to sink back to the ground. if only death could be half as peaceful, he thinks, words dipped in fine cynicism, an art that linhardt’s found that he’s mastered over the times. he dares not to speak it, however, as he’s come to notice the begrudged state his companion is in. it’s odd– caspar’s rarely been anything but an optimistic bundle of energy.

“you look terrible,” linhardt opts to quip instead, rising, before he takes a seat next to caspar. he leans forward, shifting his weight on caspar’s side, and an arm lazily drapes around the other’s waist as aegean searches for baby blues. “something wrong?”

He didn’t expect otherwise (didn’t want to expect it either), but still, he is gratified to see Linhardt shift into an upright position and scoot closer to him. Five years ago from anyone else, he might have scooted away from the arm the mage wraps around his waist; but they’ve been fighting this war for four years now, amid fire and screams and demonic roars. He’ll take any reminder he can get that his friends are still alive and well, do anything to ensure they stay that way… even give his life for theirs if need be to save them. Caspar is the second son of Bergliez: his brother Julian, not he, will inherit the title their father currently holds (still holds, despite his age, for Gilead von Bergliez is nigh impossible to defeat in battle). The only purpose left to him is battle, and he’s dedicated all his strength to ensuring Edelgard’s vision becomes reality. Death is not unexpected for the men of his house (indeed, it is far more unusual to have representatives from three consecutive generations still alive), and he’s long since come to terms with the idea that the last thing he sees may well be the head of an enemy pike, even as the seeming indomitability of his forebears lets him delude himself into thinking he’ll survive this just as they did before him. No, it’s the others’ deaths that concern him more… Linhardt’s in particular.

This war came upon them so suddenly (even as he knows the flames of it are largely of Edelgard’s making), swept them up in its ultimatum of join or die. He knows Linhardt would much rather not be a part of it at all—even up to their graduation, he still blanched at the sight of blood—but it’s far too late for any of them to back out now. The mage has, predictably, taken up positions at the rear while he, predictably, threw himself right into the face of it all—but none of them had expected enemy reinforcements from behind until the screams fell upon them from within the infernal brush. Caspar had been part of the van, too far away to support the rear. The knot that lodged in his gut when the fighting broke out, when Linhardt’s scream of all people’s pierced the din— It was like a lightning bolt through the chest. The thought that he might not make it in time to save his friend was cause for him to move faster, even as his cramping limbs screamed at him no more. Thankfully Linhardt had escaped permanent injury resulting from the ambush (thank the goddess), but it was a harsh reminder that any one of them could die at any moment; and however much Caspar thinks he’s accepted that possible fate as his own, accepting it in others is far from easy. The mere thought of Linhardt dying near tears him in half. For fifteen years, they’ve never strayed far from each other. When they fight together, it is with the fluidity of two souls made one. Could he go on, should the other fall? Caspar isn’t sure… yet those demons still plague him even as he tries to sleep. Even worse, it’s Linhardt’s turn at night watch, and he’s out there alone. Anything could happen, and he’d never know about it. And so with a frustrated noise, he threw back his blankets and stood upright, strapped on his armor as he headed out. One could never be too careful in these dangerous times.

(The sight of Linhardt sprawled flat on the ground when he reached the outpost sent a second shock of terror through him. It hewed far too close to the repetitious image in his nightmares that drove him out of bed tonight.)

But all that is behind him now. Linhardt responded to the swipe to his hair-bun; he is here, awake, and more importantly alive. The weight of the mage’s body on his, the rise and fall of his shoulders beneath Caspar’s easy grip, the hand around his waist as if by inviting himself here, he’s become the biggest pillow in Linhardt’s collection (never mind that his heavy pauldrons can’t possibly make for a comfortable headrest)—only the familiarity of it all can still his breathing into something normal… though it would seem that not all signs of his distress could escape his friend’s watchful eye.

“You look terrible,” he observes, oceanic eyes searching his. “Something wrong?”

Caspar doesn’t answer for a moment. He can’t bring himself to answer, even though (or perhaps because) the one asking is the reason for his disquiet. To talk about it, he fears, is to invite its occurrence in reality, and Caspar would give anything to ensure that this particular event does not come to pass. Still… he has never been one to hide or lie. That he is debating doing it right now is writ as obviously on his face as his mind. Perhaps Linhardt did not even need the firelight to see it. Yet even so—!

“I couldn’t sleep,” is all he can bring himself to say. “I was just thinking…” He trails off reluctantly, then with an effort continues. “That last battle was pretty rough. Not even Hubert expected we’d be assaulted from behind. … We all got out okay this time, but it’s only going to get tougher from here on out, isn’t it.” He knows the answer already: It’s not even a question of if anymore; rather, it’s when. The young man shoots a sidelong glance towards the mage, and the knot in his stomach twists tighter. Nope. Still can’t say it.

“I wish the professor were here!” he bursts out instead. “He always knew how best to solve our problems back in the academy. Surely he’d know how to put a stop to all this without so much death and fighting! I wish—!”