Chapter Text
Ferdinand’s personal notes are meticulous to a fault.
Sorted according to an arcane system only known to himself, filled with detail and diagrams, observation and research. A list of crests: von Hevring’s minor Cethleann is of note, as is von Varley’s minor Incech and von Vestra’s major Timotheos . Edelgard depends on him for this, after all — on day one of classes, she’d known everything she’d needed to begin building alliances with the students in her care, Ferdinand at her side. A cheerful, sunlit presence to offset the serious tilt of her mouth and the unsettling depth of her gaze.
This is his role, of course. To be the very picture of the cheerful, airheaded spare of the von Aegir household. What use has he for books and theory as a crestless son when his sister presented her crest of Cichol over four years ago? Murmurs abound, speculation about what he might even be doing at the Officer’s Academy — looking for a wife? Only here on Edelgard’s orders? Passing time while his sister is groomed for the Duchy?
He does nothing to contradict the rumors, playing into the image as much as he can. Harmless, naive Ferdinand von Aegir, preferring riding and sparring to lecture and reading. His class notes and the papers he hands in to his professors are sloppy and near-illegible. He laughs too loud, sits too close, smiles too bright. He must be envious of the other noble heirs, the students say, though he’s always so cheerful and kind, if a little dull. Always putting so much sugar in his tea.
Ferdinand quickly becomes known for lingering around the stables at all hours of the day, whether tending to his own horse or making conversation with the knights on guard around the corner at the gate. Every student at Garreg Mach has stable duty at least once a week, sometimes more. He knows their names, houses, families, though he puts on a show of stumbling over the details as he goes through the motions of acquaintanceship. It’s easy, with his persona, for everyone else to write off his constant presence as a genuine love of horses and company coupled with a desire to shirk his homework.
They’re not entirely wrong – he has always loved horses, and conversation, and people. By this virtue, he sees more of some students than others: Ingrid and Sylvain are by constantly , and Ferdinand has quickly accumulated a wealth of information on the interpersonal and political relations of the up-and-coming Faerghus ruling class. Marianne’s a harder nut to crack, rarely answering with more than a word or two when he strikes up a conversation, but he thinks he’s starting to get somewhere. Others still he endears himself to with his aid – he knows that Hilda positively hates stable duties.
All of it neatly recorded for later. Later, when the stables are the least of his worries, when they must gather any sympathetic comrade to their side and prepare to remove the rest by force. Ferdinand feels a twinge of regret every time he remembers that this schooltime idyll cannot last, was never meant for him to keep.
He is thirteen years old and Julieta has presented the power of her Crest in a spectacular fashion, demolishing half the stables in a fit of ten-year-old rage. While Ferdinand knows objectively what this means — he’s the spare now, he’s no longer needed by his family — it still takes a while to truly sink in. Julieta is rushed through ceremony after ceremony and Ferdinand must smile and shake the larger hands of important men and women and listen to them tell his parents how lucky they are that one of their children has finally proven suitable for the Duchy.
It is two months after this that Ferdinand is dressed in his best clothes, his hair braided in the historical von Aegir style, his hands shrouded in black gloves so soft they feel like nothing but air, and presented to the future Empress.
At first, he is so put off by her ghostly visage that he scarcely remembers to bow until his father puts a hand on his back and digs his thumb in painfully through the layers of his waistcoat and shirt. Ferdinand folds himself in half, stares at her shiny, pristine shoes instead. Perhaps she was lifted directly from the carriage and set down on the entry hall carpets, he thinks with a bitter twist of his lips even as he says,
“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Edelgard.”
“And you as well, Ferdinand von Aegir.” Her voice is small and soft like birdsong, but when Ferdinand straightens and meets her eyes again, there is nothing but steel to be found.
“My son,” his father says, “from now onward, you will personally serve the princess in Enbarr.”
Ferdinand’s blood runs cold and, despite his present company, he takes a step back to look at his father with wide, shocked eyes.
“You mean for me to leave Aegir?” he demands, fingers curling into clenched fists. His formalwear feels suddenly too tight, stiff and suffocating.
“Yes, Ferdinand,” his father replies, edging on exasperation. Ferdinand can feel the cool gaze of the princess on him still. “It is an honor to be offered this position in the royal household, you know.”
“I know this must come as a surprise,” the princess interrupts in that strange little voice, taking a step forward, smoothing her palms over her skirts. “I do not begrudge you your reaction, Ferdinand. We will return to Enbarr the day after tomorrow.” She is the very picture of royalty. Ferdinand hates her. “Until then, I do hope that you will consent to show me all that Aegir has to offer.”
She extends her hand, unsmiling. Ferdinand considers biting it.
“Of course, Lady Edelgard,” he says instead, cradling it in his own gloved hand and kissing the back. There are scars on her fingers. How strange.
The next day, Ferdinand is led around the grounds of House Aegir by a retinue carefully selected by his father to accompany his outing with the Princess. He dreads spending his last days at home leading this pompous, unsmiling girl past portrait after portrait of his own unsmiling ancestors and then down to the lake to discuss matters of state. It's not that he doesn't understand — of course he understands, but he resents her all the same.
However, he cannot be rude with all his father's guards watching, including a few he knows will report every word directly to the Duke. Impending departure or no, Ferdinand knows that his father can make his life a living hell from any distance.
They take lunch in the orange groves, the landscape idyllic, the scent sweet and delicate on the breeze. By all rights, it should be perfect. The finger sandwiches turn to ash on Ferdinand's tongue.
He's taken by surprise when the Princess brushes her hands elegantly on her skirts, looks up at their retinue, and says, "please, if you will, I would like to talk to Ferdinand privately."
A few of the guard give each other panicked looks — Ferdinand knows full well that they must have strict orders from his father not to let them out of earshot, but they certainly cannot defy a direct order from the future Empress of Adrestia.
"Of course, my Lady."
Once their privacy is assured, Ferdinand sighs and drops the tension in his shoulders, expecting Edelgard to do the same. Her stare remains impassive, her posture perfectly straight and upright. It makes something in Ferdinand balk.
"Is... everything alright?" he asks, attempting to keep his tone diplomatic. She considers him a moment longer. It's easy to forget that she's two years his junior — her gaze speaks to a soul aged a thousand years or more.
"If you could have taken me anywhere in Aegir," she says, still in that small, sweet, strange voice, "where would you have taken me?"
The question catches him off-guard. Why could she possibly want to know that? It must show on his face because her brows tighten just a fraction, as if his silence perplexes her. She does not say anything more, simply waits.
"I... do not know why it would matter, my lady," he tries. A flash of irritation across lavender eyes.
"I wish to know."
"Then..." Ferdinand purses his lips, turning his eyes to the orange trees. He'll miss the harvest this year. "The stables. I do not know if you ride, but they are, in my opinion, the most impressive thing we have here." She nods for him to continue. "And perhaps the catacombs. So few people venture into them... but I doubt you would find them of much interest compared to what must lie beneath Enbarr."
"It is a good answer," Edelgard says, catching him by surprise. She appears thoughtful. "Useful answers." A wan little smile flits across her mouth. "You are correct that the catacombs under Enbarr are far vaster and older than Aegir's own, but it is good to know that you hold an appreciation for their use."
She talks like a noble thrice her age, Ferdinand wonders silently. He nods, unsure where she's leading him.
"Ferdinand," Edelgard says, and it's only the second time she's said his name. The first time it's really struck him. "I do not relish bringing you into this against your will, but... you should know before we depart —" her eyes bore into his, fire burning cool, and he cannot look away, "— that there are things moving in Fodlan's dark places that you will come to recognize in your service to me. I hope one day you will stand with me against them."
Her voice is nothing but a whisper now, her expression so intent as to be fearsome. Despite the warm summer sun, Ferdinand feels chilled down to his bones, as if the Faerghan winds had come early and sudden and stripped all heat from the air around them.
"I don't understand, my lady, I —"
"Ferdinand," she says, taking both his hands between her own. Even through two pairs of gloves, the touch is like a shock of thrumming power. It's too much, even for the bearer of a crest, it's — it's wrong. He finds himself shaking his head without knowing quite why, a denial of the unnatural. No, he mutters, barely audible under his breath. She continues, unwavering. "I do not know you yet, but I can only hope that you are good. The forces we work against —"
"No," he says, louder, wrenching his hands away. "I don't— I don't believe you."
"You will understand soon enough," she says calmly, gaze a quiet storm under placid pools. "And when the time comes, you will help me or you will stand out of my way."
It's no question what she means by that.
Ferdinand runs. He tears off to the stables, scales the ladder to the hayloft, and stays there until dawn.
When the time comes, his belongings are packed into trunks and loaded onto carriages. He himself is dressed in his finest clothes and packed into the head carriage with Lady Edelgard.
The next three days are the longest of his life, but they are nothing compared to the months and years that follow.
At night, the candles burn low as Ferdinand and Edelgard pore over figures and intelligence reports in her quarters. The networks of corruption in Enbarr and across the Empire come together in their hands, tracing lines across maps in ink like wine-dark sea.
House Varley’s hold on the Oghma mountains has vexed them of late, the veins of mythril and umbral ore contained deep within in its craggy, nigh-impassable peaks necessary as part of the agreement with their associates. They’re making her armor, strange and twisted to disguise her well, and it won’t be complete unless they can ensure the ore’s successful transport.
“Perhaps his wife –”
“She’s not the bargaining chip you think she is,” Ferdinand cuts in, “not now that he has Bernadetta.”
“True.” Edelgard rubs her temples, eyebrows pinched together. “We have the means to take a convoy by force,” she continues, drawing a finger down the map, tracing a winding mountain road from a smaller city where the two of them have a mercenary contact towards Varley territory.
“Actually,” Ferdinand muses, “I have an agent in Bergliez that could take up in the Varley household.” He makes a note, precise and tiny in the margin of the map. “She’s good with numbers, she might be able to divert a shipment from the inside before we have to resort to force.”
“Won’t that be too noticeable?”
“More noticeable than hired bandits?” Ferdinand tugs the pins from her hair, the neat bun falling in silvery waves down her neck that he combs through with his fingers. Tension leaves her neck and jaw with it free – Ferdinand wonders often why she doesn’t just cut it like she clearly wants to, but he doesn’t pry. “We have to try one way or the other. I’m simply proposing we attempt subtlety first and leave the other option as recourse.”
“Fine,” she acquiesces, “but your agent needs to work fast. You know how short time is.”
“Of course.”
He sets his hands to work dividing her hair into three thick strands, plaiting them loosely so as to be comfortable for bed. They fall into a comfortable silence, this an intimacy hard-won between them.
“Do you think long hair would suit me?” Ferdinand asks idly, tying off the end with a satin ribbon drawn from her nightstand. Edelgard laughs, the sound thin and tired.
“As if you need yet another reason to be vain,” she teases. Ferdinand smiles, shrugging, unrepentant.
“Do you need anything else?” he asks, hands lingering at her shoulders.
“No.” She stands, smooths her hands over her nightdress as if she might needs be presentable for someone other than Ferdinand. It’s an instinct he finds endearing now. “Go on – I think the professor has double marching drills planned for tomorrow.”
Ferdinand groans at the thought – he might not hate heavy armor exercises as much as Linhardt and Dorothea do, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys them. Edelgard laughs at his expression. Damn her and her seeming indifference to sweating.
“I swear, she’s crueler than your old tutor,” Ferdinand says, leaning against the doorjamb. Edelgard’s eyes sparkle with mischief rarely seen outside this room, reserved for the two of them alone.
“Think optimistically, Ferdinand,” she says, lips quirked. “You’ll get to see von Vestra struggle through a day in full armor.”
Ferdinand does laugh at that. “You do know how to cheer me up, Edie.”
Ferdinand and Lady Edelgard hate each other for almost two years.
It feels almost inevitable that he would hate her — she has torn him from his home, his family, everything he has ever known to reside in her palace with its endless hallways and warrens and rooms with generations of severe Hresvelg portraits covering the walls.
Ferdinand spends his first month trained by the staff in every aspect of the palace’s goings-on, from the movements of each servant to the proper way to address every senior member of staff and all the Imperial Guard. He learns petulantly at first, and then voraciously when it becomes clear that he's good at this, that his natural gift for people translates well to understanding the inner workings of a household as large as that at Enbarr.
He sees Lady Edelgard every day, of course, spending most of his time in her company, just off to the side or in the corners of rooms. He waits on her just as politely as necessary to avoid incident but no more, no warmth in his bearing towards her.
In her turn, she speaks to him with barely-restrained disdain — it seems that their disastrous picnic in Aegir’s orchards has not faded from her mind. No matter what he does, it seems she is always destined to look down on him, cold and distant. Sometimes, he feels more like her misbehaving child than her retainer, the way she speaks to him.
And it isn’t fair! Ferdinand is more than capable — he carries out her every command without complaint, ensures that she is comfortable and taken care of and wanting for nothing. Blasted royalty, he thinks, deliberately ignoring that he grew up with the comforts of a valet himself.
The worst part, though, the worst part, is that she speaks to him as if he is dense . It is tradition in Enbarr that the Imperial heir and her retainer are tutored together, but it quickly becomes obvious that she is miles ahead of him in every subject. Ferdinand was tutored back at home, of course, but he realizes now that the rigor of his studies does not compare.
Still, he tries to keep up with her out of an ill-judged spite, pushing forward even when he knows he lacks the information required, challenging her in the oppressive dust of the grand classroom where only the two of them and their decrepit tutor will hear.
“Ferdinand, are you listening to yourself?” Edelgard huffs, unfolding her arms to gesture at the map spread out on the table in front of them. “A mage battalion would be crushed coming in from the east.”
“Not if they’re cavalry,” he retorts. “Kriemhild IV managed to —”
“Kriemhild was a fool,” Edelgard cuts him off, looking a bit like she wants to toss him out the classroom window. “She got exceedingly lucky with the rain and the resource depletion amongst the Sreng forces, anyone who’d read about the battle would know that —”
“I’ve read —!”
“That’s enough,” their tutor wheezes, exasperated and terrified in equal measure. “See here, the best strategy would have simply been to send an armored squadron to hold the line while flying in archers from the north, none of this… this Kriemhild nonsense.”
Ferdinand at least has the decency to look abashed. Edelgard’s expression doesn’t change, even as their tutor assigns them each a mountain of books to read and equations to solve in the coming week.
That evening, Ferdinand mutters angrily to himself the entire time he spends declining marriage requests on Edelgard’s behalf, ink staining his fingertips.
Hubert von Vestra is a thorn in Ferdinand’s side from the moment they meet. From his closet full of nothing but finely brocaded wine-and-gold vests and dark riding cloaks (Ferdinand checked, he owns barely anything else) to his penchant for dropping his family name at every possible opportunity, Hubert grates on Ferdinand’s nerves whenever he’s near.
Which is often, as he insists on sticking his infuriatingly aquiline nose in Lady Edelgard’s business at every opportunity. He thinks himself a schemer, Ferdinand can tell, sniffing around their heels for any sign of weakness to give him an advantage on the future Empress. The von Vestras have always been groomed for the Prime Ministry and, oh, does Hubert let them know it. Near daily.
“Upon my honor,” Hubert hisses, slamming his palm down on the desk in front of Ferdinand, “if Lady Edelgard is to keep you as her servant, you ought to show more… decorum .”
It’s a warm day near the close of Harpstring Moon and all the doors are propped open to let the classrooms air out after the long winter. Ferdinand’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hands bare to enjoy the heat and sun. Hubert, however, seems incapable of shedding clothing, still clad in his full uniform, cloak and gloves and all. He must be sweating, Ferdinand notes, even as he smiles up at him with his usual lack of guile.
“Are you referring to something specific, Hubert?”
“You know very well what I refer to,” he sneers, some of the effect lost by the fact that one eye is completely obstructed by his flop of hair. Ferdinand tracks the remaining eye as it flits over his distinct lack of gloves, his exposed forearms, its corners crinkling with barely-masked disgust.
“I’m not sure I do!” Ferdinand replies cheerfully. Hubert’s eye narrows.
“During tactics lecture,” Hubert says, gritting out every word like it pains him, “you humiliated Lady Edelgard in front of the entire class.”
He can’t help it — Ferdinand bursts out laughing. Hubert looks as though he might combust at any moment.
“Hubert, my dear friend,” he chuckles, “it is very flattering that you think I’ve the ability to humiliate her Majesty.”
"It is unbecoming of you to contradict her in public," Hubert continues, fingers twitching like they want to burn all the hair off Ferdinand's head. “Even if you are of noble birth, her Majesty's image must remain pristine. You never know who might be observing —”
"I'd think it would be more unbecoming for the Empress to be incorrect about battlefield tactics in public, don't you? She’s here to learn like everyone else, after all. It would seem strange to me if she ruled the classroom without question or debate!"
Hubert scoffs. "Perhaps if the Professor had corrected her, certainly, but for you to —"
"And why not me?" Ferdinand's smile doesn't waver, but it's a near thing.
"Because you are a fool , von Aegir," Hubert spits, “And I do not know what has landed you in Her Majesty’s good graces, but I will find out.” By now, he's bent at the waist with his hands flat on the desk, ostensibly to intimidate him. Their faces come close enough to feel the other's breath.
Ferdinand thinks he looks rather like a large, misshapen bat, and the notion is so ridiculous that it dispels all the anger bubbling in Ferdinand’s gut and replaces it with a vindictive sort of delight.
"Perhaps you’re right,” he replies, glib and grinning, “and I’m simply a lucky fool.”
Hubert huffs, straightening and brushing imaginary dust off his spotless uniform. "I simply do not understand what she sees in someone like you," he mutters, looking askance.
"I have a particular talent for braiding hair, actually," Ferdinand says, and laughs brightly as Hubert makes a noise of pure loathing and stalks away.
Ferdinand’s in the Princess’ chambers to retrieve a garment for the seamstress when he’s startled by a clattering from outside, low voices that sound strange and unfamiliar. While he has permission to be in here, the sudden, inexplicable terror of being caught makes him dash for the servant’s passage on the wall near the vanity, closing himself inside and pressing his ear to the wood.
There’s the distinctive whump of someone being tossed on the bed — Edelgard, he presumes. Perhaps she’s ill? Someone would have alerted him if she were, he’s on the first line of communication amongst the staff when it comes to the Princess…
“Check in on her tomorrow.” The voice makes Ferdinand want to run, bile rising in the back of his throat. That’s no doctor he’s ever heard — the voice lacks any human compassion or concern for life, and besides, Ferdinand knows all the doctors and nurses on staff in the Palace.
“Are you sure she’s stable?” comes another, pitched higher. A woman? Her timbre is much the same — clinical, detached, inhuman. Ferdinand shudders even as he forces himself to listen closer. “You know we only have the Ordelian girl left if she —”
“She’s stable, look at her.” Shuffling, a faint whimper — oh, Goddess, the Princess. “We will check tomorrow. If she dies, we have options, you know this.”
The woman clicks her tongue in irritation. “Why must humans be so… delicate?”
Laughter from the first voice, and steps retreating, the conversation growing too quiet to hear properly. Ferdinand holds his breath, counts the seconds up to a hundred before he cracks the door and peers out.
Edelgard’s curled into herself on the bed, eyes squeezed shut and shivering in her thin shift. He tries his best to make no noise, but the door to the servant’s passage has always squeaked.
Ferdinand nearly shrieks as Edelgard’s eyes fly open, pale and luminous and unseeing in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. She scrambles back weakly, folds her arms around her body, a protective motion, and Ferdinand’s breath catches to see the bruises and lacerations all up and down her arms.
“I should…” Ferdinand manages, voice tremulous and embarrassingly high, “I should get the night nurse, I’ll go —”
“No!”
Ferdinand freezes, eyeing her warily. Edelgard’s obviously in pain, but the panic is far sharper. He closes the door that separates her bedroom from the rest of the chambers, keeping his front to her like she’s a spooked horse, though he feels much more the frightened animal here.
“What should I…”
“Can you get me water, please?”
He pours a glass from the pitcher on the vanity with shaking hands, bringing it and the stool with him to her bedside. Her own hands tremble as she takes it delicately. The silence hangs like a funeral shroud, mourning the shattered pieces of their previous relationship, never to be regained.
“You understand now,” Edelgard says quietly, the weight of a hundred years writ into the smooth, pale face of a fourteen-year-old.
“I understand nothing,” Ferdinand whispers back, eyes fixed on the bedspread. “I didn’t want this.”
Edelgard laughs bitterly. “You didn’t want this?” she says, followed by a coughing fit that sends Ferdinand scrambling for something, anything to help. He takes the glass, eases her back into the pillows, presses the back of his hand to her forehead.
“You’re burning up.” He goes for a cloth to soak in cool water. Settling back on the stool, he has to work not to wither under her lavender stare, even hazy as it is.
It’s another long, brutal silence before he works up the courage to ask, “Who are they?”
Edelgard tells him what she knows.
It takes the whole night to tell him, though some of that time is spent with Edelgard drifting, too exhausted to continue speaking. Ferdinand finds salve and willow bark tea in one of the many cabinets in the attached bathroom to try and ease her pain and fever, but once he’s accomplished that, he finds himself with nothing to do but stare out the window during the long minutes she sleeps, mind racing, puzzle pieces clicking together.
When the first weak rays of dawn break through the glass panes, they alight on Ferdinand hunched on the stool, ragged yet rapt. Edelgard sips weakly at another cup of tea, wincing at the taste.
“You understand why I tried to warn you, now,” she murmurs, looking out at the haphazard trickle of rain beginning outside. “And why I can’t let anyone stand in my way.”
“Yes.” Ferdinand’s wracked with the impulse to reach for her. He doesn’t. Instead, he stands, sweeping into the most formal bow he can muster, almost bent in two.
“Lady Edelgard,” he says — proclaims, rather, though his voice is weak, a mere shadow of it’s usual vivacity. “Please accept my service.”
Goddess help him, she laughs.
“I accept,” she replies, and her smile is small and wan but it is there despite the horrors she’s spoken of tonight.
“Whatever it takes,” he says, even as he is wracked with fear of what that could mean for him, for them, for Fódlan itself.
Professor Byleth is an asshole with a thin veneer of dignity. Naturally, Ferdinand loves her.
Today, she's paired them up for brawling drills with what Ferdinand internally dubs their punishment classmates. For some, it's more effective than others — to make Linhardt brawl at all feels like a punishment, while setting anyone against Caspar is a surefire way to leave them with bruises for days. Bernadetta is paired with Edelgard, who terrifies her to her core despite Edelgard's every attempt to make herself friendlier.
It leaves Ferdinand paired up with, Seiros bless him, Hubert von Vestra. Even for brawling, all Hubert's done is shed his heavy cloak, the rest of his elaborate outfit still fully intact. Ferdinand himself is down to the bare minimum of clothing for decency's sake, the heat and the drills driving everyone on the training grounds to do the same.
"Are you really going to wear a waistcoat to a fistfight?" Ferdinand asks, taking a ready stance opposite Hubert, feeling Byleth's unsettling gaze on the back of his neck. Hubert doesn't reply, just curls his upper lip and raises his fists. His wrists are so skinny, Ferdinand's a little afraid he might snap them with the first punch.
The thing is, Ferdinand's no good at brawling either. Give him a sword, a lance, a dagger, he's fast and deadly in a way few would suspect just looking at him. Bare fists are not his strength. At the very least, though, he does not look as though he might sway in the wind the way Hubert does as he awkwardly bends into his own stance. He's so thin.
Embarrassingly enough, that might be why Hubert gets the first blow in on him, glancing off his cheek before Ferdinand can dodge or block it. The Church mages around the training grounds are casting mild wards that protect them from the worst of any blows, but that doesn't mean they won't come away with bruises from strong hits. If Hubert had put any more force behind his punch, it might have left a mark.
The look on his face is insufferably smug, one eye still hidden behind his flop of hair. Ferdinand grimaces.
"Lucky blow," he concedes, raising his arms in defense.
"What was it you called yourself, von Aegir," Hubert taunts, "'a lucky fool?'"
Ferdinand knows he's being goaded on, but damn him, it's working. He darts forward, aiming his fist for Hubert's knobbly shoulder, grimacing in petty triumph as it connects and sends Hubert stumbling back.
“Don’t get cocky yet,” Ferdinand grins, twisting on his feet to avoid Hubert’s return swipe.
They exchange a few more cautious blows, one after another, circling in their patch of dirt. To his right, he can hear Bernadetta shriek out an apology after she manages to flail out a successful hit on Edelgard. Ferdinand can’t help the fond smile at her antics, though it makes Hubert’s brows crease.
“Are you mocking me, Aegir?” he spits, mouth twisted like one who’s bitten into a ripe fruit only to find it rotten and sour.
“Mock you? Never,” Ferdinand replies as he darts forward, forcing Hubert to take a quick step back. “That would be quite unbecoming, don’t you think?”
“Quite,” Hubert grits out, stumbling a little but still managing a jab to Ferdinand’s stomach that winds him enough for Hubert to regain space. Ferdinand laughs breathlessly.
“Playing dirty now, are we?” Ferdinand’s hair sticks to his face but he pays it no mind, distracted instead by the faint redness that gathers along Hubert’s one visible cheekbone. Perhaps simply the heat, but Ferdinand’s never been one to give up an advantage when it comes along. He plasters on his most infuriating grin. “I expected more decorum , Hubert.” The name drips like poison from his mouth.
“Shut up,” Hubert mutters, so low as to be almost inaudible. He lunges forward with such ferocity that he practically trips himself. It’s nothing for Ferdinand to sidestep, laughing airily.
“Seems rather embarrassing, beaten by a fool —”
“Shut up!”
Before Ferdinand can process what’s happened, he’s flat on his back on the dirt, gasping for air with a heavy weight on his hips. There’s a crackling in the air around them and he’s spent enough time around Edelgard to immediately identify the feel of an activated crest. Hubert’s particular crest leaves an acrid taste in the back of his mouth, its magic vile and crawling over his skin. Instinctively, Ferdinand tries to push up, to wriggle away, but Hubert’s heavier than he looks, damn him. He finally manages to take in enough air that Hubert’s face swims into focus, and oh, does he look murderous.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that again, von Aegir,” he spits, venom in his every word.
Ferdinand will regret this later, but something strange and hot sparks in his chest upon noticing that Hubert’s flush has only gotten darker on his cheek. It should be unattractive against his pallid complexion, but Ferdinand finds that he wants to keep it there. He’ll convince himself later that it’s spite driving the urge, and part of it might very well be — there’s anger there, too, that even against Hubert , his lack of crest could cost him everything .
For now, though, he gives Hubert his best simpering smirk through the grime smearing his face.
“Or what? You’ll tell your father?”
Hubert punches him in the face hard enough to bruise even through the wards.
By now, the whole class has stopped their own drills and is watching them wrestle on the dirt, expressions a mix of enthusiasm, terror, and resigned exasperation. Byleth does nothing to stop them — for all Ferdinand knows, this was written down in her inscrutable lesson plan all along.
Ferdinand knocks Hubert away, rolling them over and over and coming to a stop with Hubert under him, struggling to escape, but Ferdinand’s got the advantage of weight and leverage.
“Going to hit me with your crest again?” Ferdinand snarls, properly angry now. Hubert doesn’t answer, just glares and tries one last time to shove him off with his palms flat on Ferdinand’s chest.
Ferdinand’s just about to let him up, victory secure, when there’s familiar, dreadful press not of a crest but of dark magic, a minor spell that would have dislodged him if he hadn’t noticed Hubert’s fingers twitching or felt the prickle across his skin.
There’s no time for rational thought. There’s the moment before he has the stiletto up out of his boot and against Hubert’s throat and the moment after. Hubert’s eyes go wide at the press of steel, his body stilling completely.
Ferdinand has a split second to notice that his flush deepens before Byleth’s pulling him off Hubert with a curse, surrounded by a chorus of muttering from their classmates. Adrenaline makes Ferdinand shaky, hyper-aware of his own body. Byleth gives him a look , her eyes darting from the knife still in his hand to his face. He shrugs, casual as he can be, stowing the knife back in his boot. Byleth’s eyes remain on him for a moment longer before she steps back to address the class.
“Right, we’re done for the day,” she calls, as ever eerily calm. “Aegir, Vestra, you’re on weeding duty for the week.”