Chapter Text
“What if they’re here, Lin?” Caspar said, leaning forward from where he sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “How are we going to find them?”
Linhardt didn’t even look up from the book he was reading. He leaned against the headboard, the tail of his dark green hair hanging over his shoulder. The book was for one of their classes—Crests: A Study in Genealogy—and looked heavy enough to use as a weight in the training ring.
“The likelihood of that is less than three percent.” Linhardt’s voice was soft. They’d had this conversation a dozen times since his birthday had passed in Red Wolf Moon, but he didn’t sound annoyed that Caspar had brought it up once again. “Do you have any idea how many people live in Fódlan?”
Caspar picked at a loose thread on Linhardt’s quilt. “A lot.”
“More than ‘a lot.’ Try hundreds of thousands, if not millions.” Linhardt looked up from his book and met Caspar’s eyes. They were soft in the dim glow of the candle on his bedside table. Caspar’s heart flipped in his chest. “There’s no guarantee that they even live in Fódlan, much less are here attending Garreg Mach with us.”
Even if that was the reality—and Caspar knew it was, because Linhardt would never lie about something like that—it seemed unfair. Soulmates were a sacred bond, after all, and there was no one in the world who did not wish to find their perfect match in life. But still, it was horribly frustrating that most people didn’t find that person, and never had the chance to bask comfortably in the knowledge that someone would always love and care for them. It was easier for nobles, of course, because money bought knowledge, but there was still no promise of success. Plenty of scions of noble houses were used as marriage pawns, wedded to someone who was not their soulmate. Some of those relationships turned out well enough, occasionally becoming something as akin to a soulmate bond as you could get without having paired soulmarks.
Other times, though…
As if reading his thoughts, Linhardt added gently, “They might not be a noble. They could be a commoner from Almyra or Brigid, or beyond. Don’t get your hopes up too high, Cas.”
Caspar couldn’t promise that, but he nodded roughly. He could try, for Linhardt’s sake.
“I still think we should look,” he said instead, unwilling to give up the topic entirely despite Linhardt’s glare from over the top of his book. “Just in case. With so many people here, we might get lucky.”
“We’d have to get extremely lucky.”
“I just think it would be silly not to,” Caspar said defensively. “I just…have a gut feeling. I think we might actually get lucky. How often is my intuition wrong?”
Linhardt levelled him with a flat stare.
“Okay, don’t answer that. The point is—”
“Caspar,” Linhardt interrupted, marking his spot and setting the book aside. He took Caspar’s hands in his own and squeezed. “Go to bed. It’s late, and Edelgard expressly told everyone to be early for the opening ceremony tomorrow.”
Linhardt’s skin was soft, his fingers long and thin. Perfect for playing the piano and casting devasting spells on the battlefield, not that he practiced much of either. Caspar laced their fingers together and felt Linhardt gently caress the callouses on his hands, as if he could soothe them away with nothing more than his touch. They sat in silence on Linhardt’s rumpled quilt, hands locked and heads bent close together. There was a simple kind of enjoyment in each other’s company, of knowing they were two parts of a larger whole. They were already luckier than most, Caspar knew; how many others had not one, but two soulmates, and was lucky enough to have been childhood friends with one of them? It wasn’t unheard of to have multiple soulmates, but it was very rare.
He should listen to Linhardt’s advice and not get his hopes up too high. The disappointment of failure would sting, and it was Linhardt who would have to listen when Caspar inevitably came to him to complain about it.
But Caspar was certain that they could find something at Garreg Mach. Linhardt might be skeptical about his intuition, but it was right more often than not. If their soulmate wasn’t here—and they probably weren’t, because he couldn’t refute Linhardt’s logical explanation of the matter—surely there was a clue, someone or something that could lead them in the right direction. Caspar had never backed down from a challenge.
“All right, I’m going. You’d better not oversleep, Lin.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Linhardt’s lips, soft and gentle. They were still new to this intimacy, after all, with Linhardt’s birthday only recently passed, but it felt liberating and wondrous to do it. Linhardt returned the kiss with equal tenderness, his hair brushing against Caspar’s cheeks. His cheeks were red when they broke apart. “Good night.”
“Sleep well, Cas,” Linhardt said, eyes dark. Softly, still unused to the words on his tongue, he added, “I love you.”
Caspar grinned back at him.
“I love you, too.”
It was raining on the following morning at Garreg Mach Monastery, because of course it was.
Students had been arriving since the end of Lone Moon, especially the commoners who had not the means to travel quickly or in comfort. Some of the more academic scions of noble houses had also elected to arrive early, eager to get a head-start on studying in the impressively stocked Academy library. Yet the bulk of this year’s students, all noble or wealthy (or both), had neither the desire nor the need to make the journey until just days before the semester was due to begin. Leaving the comforts of home to live side-by-side with commoners for at least a year was, for many noble children, a difficult transition that many did not want to endure for longer than necessary.
For Caspar’s part, it wasn’t the dormitory room that was barely the size of his private bathroom back at Castle Bergliez, or suddenly being on (mostly) equal footing with the students of lower social status, nor even the communal dining hall that proved to be the most difficult adjustments at Garreg Mach.
No, the most difficult part of his transition was the rain.
Adrestia was famously warm, especially in the southern region where he had lived for all his sixteen years of life. As prestigious as it was to attend the Academy in the mountains separating the warm south from the frigid north, he was decidedly accustomed to the harsh sun and dry heat. When it did rain, it was a refreshing reprieve from the dust and sweat, but it never lasted longer than a few days and never felt as cold as it did at Garreg Mach. Indeed, the rain seemed to be a constant phenomenon over the four days since Caspar had alighted from his carriage at the tall gates of the monastery. When it wasn’t raining—which wasn’t often—it was still dull and cloudy.
So it wasn’t all that much of a surprise when the first day of the semester dawned cool and pouring rain. No, the bigger surprise was that Linhardt was already up and gone when Caspar finally emerged from his dormitory. In fact, nearly everyone was already gone to the reception hall for the opening ceremony, leaving only a few straggling students to stumble out of their rooms and hurry down the stairs to catch up.
Don’t be late, Edelgard had said the night before, speaking to the students of the Black Eagle house. She had sounded every bit the imperial princess, her expression commanding and her bearing regal. Caspar had stood just a little straighter under her sharp gaze, determined to prove his worth as a would-be knight of Adrestia by being attentive. Beside him, Linhardt had yawned minutely, but Caspar saw the way he straightened his shoulders and knew that he was listening closely too.
But after a night spent restlessly dwelling on different ways to track down their missing soulmate, it was Caspar who was running late for the opening ceremony. The clock on his desk had indicated there was still ten minutes before the ceremony was due to begin, but he had to high-tail it out of the dormitories if he intended to make it on time.
I should have listened to Lin, Caspar thought somewhat begrudgingly, tugging his spring cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was lined with red and embroidered along the edges with gold thread, the quality well above the standard issue cloaks from Garreg Mach.
Turning away from Linhardt’s locked door, he pulled the hood up over his head and darted out into the rain, racing past the greenhouse and up the stone steps toward the reception hall. It seemed like poor design for the dormitories to be situated so far from there, but the distance was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d ran farther and faster under the instruction of his father, though not often in the rain.
Just as he rounded the corner by the classrooms, Caspar hurtled face-first into another person walking just ahead. The person squeaked in surprise, momentarily knocked off-balance and pitched gracelessly forward. A blue umbrella fell uselessly to the ground and the hood of their cloak was knocked askew, revealing a head of dark silver hair. Caspar reached out automatically to catch the young man by the elbow before he fell into a rather large and ominous looking puddle on the ground.
“Sorry,” Caspar said a little sheepishly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” the other student said, righting himself and blinking at Caspar. His eyes were green, bright despite the gloomy morning, and he had a smattering of freckles across his nose. “No harm done. Are you heading to the opening ceremony as well?”
Caspar nodded and bent to retrieve the umbrella. “Yeah. My house leader will kill me if I’m late.”
Well, Edelgard probably wouldn’t kill him and just look at him with disappointment, but Hubert certainly would.
The other man made a sympathetic noise as he accepted the umbrella back. “That sounds rough. We’d better get going then. It’d be a shame if you died before the semester even started!” He grinned, and added, “My name is Ashe.”
“Caspar,” he replied, holding out his hand.
Ashe shook it, smiling. His fingers were slightly calloused and the skin over his knuckles was rough and dry. Yet his grip was firm and warm, his hand curling around Caspar’s in a manner that was not unlike Linhardt. Caspar had the irrational urge not to let go.
“We should get going,” Ashe said, finally pulling his hand back. “My house leader is pretty easy-going, but I’d rather not be late in any case.”
They set off together under the eaves covering the walkway in front of classrooms, Ashe shaking out his umbrella and snapping it closed while they walked. They were nearly of a height, but Ashe was much more slender than Caspar, nearly as thin and reedy as Linhardt. Perhaps he, too, was a mage. After all, whoever heard of a mage with muscles? It was why Caspar was always the one to defend Linhardt as a child from his siblings when they tried to roughhouse him too much.
“What house are you in?” Ashe asked politely, clearly searching for something to talk about instead of walking in awkward silence. The Golden Deer banner fluttered against the wall as they passed.
“The Black Eagles,” Caspar said proudly, puffing out his chest. “My father is the Minister of Military Affairs in Enbarr.”
“Wow,” Ashe breathed, sounding duly impressed. “That sounds amazing. I’ve always wanted to visit Adrestia. I come from Castle Gaspard in Faerghus.”
“Ah, a Blue Lion, eh?” There was nothing about Ashe that would have given it away, for his cloak was the standard issue one from the Academy, plain black fabric only a small amount of gold detailing to match the uniform. Caspar had met a few travelling dignitaries from the north, and the odd merchant that came to trade in Bergliez town, but they’d all been old and stuffy and not particularly interesting. Ashe was quite the opposite in every conceivable way. “Is that close to Fhirdiad? I heard it’s even colder there.”
“Not really. Castle Gaspard is closer to Garreg Mach, actually.” He smiled, pausing in front of the doors to the reception hall. They stood wide open, a sea of students, faculty, and members of the Church all crammed inside the room. Rows of chairs had been set up along either side of the hall with students grouped by house on both sides. “It was good to meet you, Caspar. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Oh, you can count on it!” Caspar assured him, grinning.
Ashe flashed another tentative smile and hurried away toward two girls who were waving frantically at him from down the aisle.
Not wanting to further risk Hubert’s retribution on behalf of Edelgard, Caspar made a beeline toward the Black Eagles students sitting on the right-hand side of the room and pushed his way through the row of seats until he made it to the empty one beside Linhardt. He sank down into the chair, untied his cloak and stretched out his legs. Beside him, Linhardt’s eyes were closed, his head nodded forward and arms crossed over his chest, apparently snoozing despite the raucous noise in the room. Caspar felt a surge of overwhelming fondness for him.
“You’re late,” Linhardt murmured, eyes still closed. His dark eyelashes fanned prettily against his pale cheeks.
“I didn’t sleep well,” Caspar said. He wiggled his fingers at Dorothea, who was sitting three seats over from him and glaring. She could rival Hubert on glaring people into submission. “But listen, I ran into another student on the way here.”
Linhardt didn’t open his eyes or make any indication that he had heard anything Caspar said. He pressed on anyway.
“Like, I literally ran into him, I felt kind of bad about that. He was really nice though. I think you’ll like him.” Caspar paused. “Do you suppose we’ll have any classes with the Blue Lions?”
Linhardt yawned and opened his eyes just enough to pin Caspar with an amused glance. “I would imagine so. That’s half the point of attending classes at the Academy.”
The noise began to die down around them as the professors called the hall to order. It was hard to see from his vantage point near the front of the room, but he was fairly sure that he could see Ashe’s silvery hair off to his left, squished between two men who Caspar didn’t recognize. Even though Linhardt was probably right, and that they probably wouldn’t find their soulmate within the walls of Garreg Mach, there was no reason not to befriend the students of other houses. There was something about Ashe that he liked, and although he could not quite put his finger on it, he resolved to get to know Ashe better over the course of his time at the Academy.
Satisfied with that decision, Caspar dropped his hand beside his chair and slipped his fingers between Linhardt’s.
As it turned out, Caspar was far from the only student at Garreg Mach to use the opportunity to try and find their soulmate.
Students spent their free time between classes and while doing chores around the monastery to question each other about their soulmarks, sometimes showing them off if they were small or located in an innocuous place on their skin. They gossiped about other people’s soulmarks, insisting that so-and-so surely was a match to someone else based entirely on hearsay and questionable recollections of the actual pattern of the soulmarks in question. More often than not, such beliefs were based entirely on the apparent compatibility (both in personality and in appearance) of the individuals in question and not any actual evidence that they were soulmates.
Still, Caspar listened intently to any conversations involving soulmarks, hoping to hear even a whisper of something that fit the design that he and Linhardt shared on their backs. Even disregarding Linhardt’s warning that their soulmate might be in another country entirely, it was a longshot that information regarding anyone who bore something so recognizable as the body of a large avian creature would not quickly make its way through the school grapevine. Such a soulmark would be difficult to hide, and other students would be too enamoured by it not to gossip.
“See, mine is a flowing river across my wrists,” one girl said to another two tables over from where he sat beside Linhardt in the library on an evening in Harpstring Moon. She proffered her wrists proudly for her friend to inspect. “I haven’t found my soulmate yet, but I’m sure they must have a majestic waterfall to match.”
“Perhaps they have an ocean,” her friend said, eyes sparkling. “It would symbolize their boundless love for you!”
Caspar rolled his eyes as they cooed about the thought. Beside him, with his head pillowed on his arms atop an open textbook about mage formations on the battlefield, Linhardt snored lightly. He ran a hand absently over Linhardt’s back, tracing the outline of the tip of his wing from memory through the fabric of his school jacket. It was identical to the one on Caspar’s back except that it curved to the right while Caspar’s curved to the left. A strange, winding ribbon that must begin and end on their missing soulmate’s mark curled along their lower back, running over the base of their spines.
There was no question that the completion of their soulmark was a bird (an eagle most likely, given the stark similarities of their wings to that of the Imperial heraldry). Caspar was grateful that they didn’t need to wonder what the final piece must be, unlike most others. Just listening to the two girls quietly debate the topic made him feel inexplicably protective of Linhardt snoozing lightly beside him. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live in ignorance of both his soulmates.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Linhardt murmured, apparently too tired to open his eyes. He looked somewhat like a cat enjoying being petted. “The chances are extremely low that they’re here.”
“I know, I know,” Caspar muttered. Despite weeks of classes, there were no confirmed cases of soulmates finding each other at the monastery yet. School legend claimed dozens of famous soulmate pairs had met within these hallowed halls, so it was technically possible, but Linhardt’s pragmatism on the matter was difficult to dismiss. “But it can’t hurt to look, right?”
Linhardt cracked one eye open to glare dolefully up at him. His opinion on the matter was clear enough without needing to say anything.
Caspar tried to tune out the gossiping girls and focus on his Reason homework, but his concentration was rapidly disappearing. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any aptitude for magic the way Linhardt did. He preferred a more direct approach to battle, either with his fists or a weapon in hand.
From across the room, a flash of silver caught his eye. Ashe’s arms were full of thick, dusty tomes as he followed one of his fellow classmates—Annette, with her orange hair looped over her shoulders and a permanent smile etched on her face—into the library and up the winding stairs just a few feet away from where Linhardt and Caspar sat with their books strewn across the table. He smiled at the two of them as he ascended the steps, too conscious of the other students who really were studying to call a greeting from the mezzanine above. He dutifully handed each tome to his companion (who swayed dangerously on the ladder that rolled across the shelves) as she returned them to their proper places.
When they parted ways at the foot of the stairs—Annette holding three more thick books with illegible script on the spines and Ashe with one slim volume in hand—she waved goodbye and strode out of the room without a backward glance. There was an audible squeal of surprise and the sound of her books hitting the stone floor as she rounded the corner that made both Caspar and Ashe wince even from that distance. Yet Ashe did not seem at all concerned that she might be hurt for her only shook his head ruefully and walked over to where he and Linhardt sat with a friendly smile that made Caspar’s lips twitch in return.
“Hey Ashe,” Caspar said with a grin, shutting his textbook with a thump and shoving several loose parchments aside so that there was some space at the table for him to join them. “Have you got that essay for Hanneman done yet?”
“Not quite,” Ashe said, sliding into the chair across from Linhardt and setting his book down. “I’m not sure I quite understand all the intricacies of how certain crests affect magic use. It makes it difficult to draft a thesis statement to properly support my argument about which one seems the most efficient in battle.”
The Black Eagles and the Blue Lions did share several classes, Hanneman’s dreadfully dull lectures on magic and crests being one of them, and they participated every other week in training exercises with the mysterious Professor Byleth. Caspar preferred the weeks they trained with the Blue Lions as opposed to the Golden Deer, though he wouldn’t say it so frankly in front of Edelgard. Nevertheless, the various classes they did share proved both fun and instructive. Of all the Blue Lions, Ashe was one of the most friendly, easily making conversation with his peers of both houses and of any social status despite his own low birth. Caspar had never really befriended a commoner before arriving at the monastery but talking to Ashe felt a little like talking to Linhardt—easy and comfortable.
“Same here,” Caspar agreed, slumping in his seat. “I asked Lin to finish the essay for me, but he told me I wouldn’t learn anything if he did that.”
“That’s because you won’t,” Linhardt said, eyes still shut despite the self-satisfied smirk that was half-hidden by his elbow. “One essay is enough for me. Hopefully Hanneman doesn’t assign any more.”
Ashe chuckled at that, and his green eyes sparkled with mirth. “Unfortunately, his syllabus does indicate that there’s at least three or four more essays due by the end of the year.”
“Lame,” Caspar complained, glaring at his textbook for good measure. Ashe watched him with an amused expression. “What does it even matter if I know about magic-based crests? It’s not like I even have a crest, magic-based or otherwise.”
“He’s always like this.” Linhardt sighed and deigned to raise his head long enough to exchange a long-suffering glance with Ashe. Two pairs of eyes swivelled to regard Caspar with a mixture of exasperation (Linhardt) and sympathy (Ashe). He would have been offended if Linhardt didn’t look so cute whenever he was fed up with Caspar’s foolishness and Ashe didn’t look…well, cute was a term Caspar really only applied to Linhardt, but seeing Ashe’s lips quiver with a barely-restrained laugh and his eyes dance in the glow of the chandeliers, it seemed equally fitting for him.
“I get what you mean,” Ashe offered, as if bridging the two perspectives. “I don’t have a crest either, so perhaps that is why they seem so complicated. But—” he added quickly, just as Linhardt was about to turn his disappointed gaze to Ashe instead, “—I do believe there is value in understanding how they work, especially in battle. We can work better with our allies if we understand the parameters within which their skills are best utilized.”
The two Black Eagles stared at him for a moment. Ashe squirmed uncomfortably under their combined attention, looking unfairly cute—really, that should only apply to Linhardt, and Caspar resolved not to dwell too deeply on what it said about him that he had begun thinking in terms of cuteness; his brother would never let him live it down if he knew—and wrung his hands worriedly in his lap. Then, with a smug smile, Linhardt rapped Caspar lightly on the shoulder.
“See, Ashe understands the importance of studying crests. At least in a basic manner.” It sounded a bit like an insult, but Caspar knew Linhardt well enough that this was downright praise coming from him. Few people got as excited about crests and studying as he did. “Why can’t you do the same?”
“Because it’s boring!”
“I think it’s actually quite fascinating,” Ashe interrupted helpfully, before Linhardt (who was sitting up straight now and looking thunderously at his soulmate) could launch into one of his lectures on the importance of studying crests. “There’s so much that we just don’t know about how crests function or how they’re passed down through bloodlines. We can’t even truly predict who will inherit one, even when the bloodline is old and well documented like yours. They’re not unlike soulmarks in that respect, generally following certain patterns across generations, but hardly constrained to our meagre understanding of the subject.”
Caspar blinked at him and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uhm…I think I understood like…maybe half of whatever you just said.”
“Do you enjoy studying crest and soulmark genealogy?” Linhardt asked, ignoring Caspar. He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on top of his knuckles. “You seem rather well informed on the subject.”
“I suppose you could say that. Mostly, I just enjoy reading old folktales and legends.” Ashe smiled sheepishly, as if he was ashamed to admit it. Linhardt was hardly one to judge though, Caspar knew, because he read legends and such too, if only to comb them for crumbs of truth amidst the fantastical. “And often, to understand the themes the author wrote, it is important to understand the historical context of how crests, social status, and soulmarks impacted the lives of people at that time. So, studying is part-and-parcel of the enjoyment.”
“Indeed,” Linhardt agreed, his eyes glowing eagerly now that he was presented with someone who shared his interests. “Have you read Lyon’s Great Houses and Greater Destinies: A Study of Crests? Or perhaps Sonia’s Links Between Soulmarks and Crests?”
“I’ve read volume one of Lyon’s trilogy. My adoptive father was fond of his work, but he didn’t have the others. I’ve never read Sonia though.”
“Lyon’s work is quite good for an introduction to the topic,” Linhardt said dismissively. “Sonia’s research is much more robust, attempting to link the possession of a crest with soulmarks, although much of it has been debunked in recent years. I would still recommend it if you’re interested though, as many legends are framed in a similar manner despite the reality of crests and soulmarks not supporting it.”
They fell into an animated discussion of research materials and popular legends—Ashe had a slim volume of poetic ballads in front of him that he intended to read and analyze in his spare time—while Caspar reluctantly opened his Reason text once again and tried to underline passages that seemed pertinent to the core of his essay. There weren’t many people who shared Linhardt’s passion for crest analysis, so Caspar wasn’t about to interject and distract him when he seemed genuinely happy to discuss the topic with a fellow aficionado.
After close to forty-five minutes of debate about the veracity of the legend of Seiros in Enbarr (and whether or not she truly had a soulmark as it claimed), Ashe stood and tucked the little volume of poetry under his arm.
“It was nice chatting with you,” Ashe said, smiling at them. “I’d love to stay, but I have to finish Hanneman’s essay too, and I have greenhouse duty this afternoon. Perhaps if it’s not a burden, we could continue this another time?”
“Of course,” Linhardt said briskly, admirably masking his slight disappointment that Ashe was leaving. So few people gave him their full enthusiastic attention when he started going on about crests and magic, after all, but Ashe was genuinely interested in the topic and willing participant in the debate. “I look forward to it. Do let me know if you read the other volumes of Lyon’s work.”
“You’re always welcome to join us,” Caspar assured him. “See ya around!”
With that, Ashe turned and hurried out of the library. Linhardt stared after him for a moment, eyebrows bent together thoughtfully.
“He’s smart,” Linhardt murmured, glancing sidelong at Caspar. “For a commoner adopted into a noble family that obviously had a late start in education, he certainly has a unique viewpoint on such complicated topics.”
“See, I told you that you’d like him!” Caspar said, smacking Linhardt on the back affectionately. “Whoever his soulmate is, they’re really lucky to have a guy like him.”
Despite Caspar’s best efforts, Garland Moon arrived with no further headway in finding who might bear the remainder of their soulmark. There was talk of a Golden Deer student finding her soulmate at Garreg Mach, but as it didn’t provide any more insight into their own missing lover, Caspar paid little attention to the details. He kept a watchful eye out in the training ring for any sign of an eagle, but though many combatants dispensed with their shirts as the weather grew hotter, not a single one of the marks he saw were even remotely a match to their glorious wings.
“What if it’s a girl?” Linhardt pointed out the flaw in Caspar’s otherwise perfect plan. “Women tend not to strip out of their clothes in public. So—even ignoring the very low chance that your hunch is correct—this seems like a very inefficient way of finding them.”
As much as Caspar appreciated Linhardt’s insight, it was annoying when he was right.
“Maybe Dorothea would agree to do some reconnaissance on our behalf—” Caspar began, smacking his fist against his palm.
Linhardt’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline in disbelief and he interrupted before Caspar could finish.
“After the fiasco with her undergarments, I highly doubt she’ll be willing to assist in any matter that involves removing clothing on your behalf.”
“You don’t have to say it like that, Lin,” Caspar mumbled, blushing. They passed a dozen students taking tea together under one of the many gazebos scattered around the monastery grounds, fingers tangled lightly together. “Maybe I should hang around the sauna more. It’s co-ed!”
“And risk Sylvain’s punishment for making women uncomfortable there? That doesn’t seem wise.”
“Look, Lin, if you don’t want to find them, that’s fine,” Caspar muttered, feeling petty. “We’ll at least have each other and they’ll just be alone forever and it will be fine.”
A brief flash of hurt crossed his face. “Don’t be stupid, Cas. You know I want to find them, too. I just don’t want to see you get into trouble over something that likely isn’t going to be found here anyway.”
Caspar sighed heavily, nodding once. He did know that, but it didn’t sit right with him not to try at all. If the rumors of that Golden Deer girl were true, it only served to further solidify his conviction that it was worth doing everything possible (within reason) to determine if anyone at Garreg Mach bore the other piece of their soulmark. At least this way, they wouldn’t be left to wonder forever if they had missed their chance. A low chance wasn’t no chance, and Caspar wasn’t intimidated by a challenge.
The hedge on Linhardt’s left opened into a grassy area with stone benches set under tall, well-pruned trees. A few people were sprawled out on the lawn with schoolbooks open. Caspar would have kept walking, his mind already devising ways to not creepily ask some of the girls he trained with regularly if they had a large bird on their back, when Linhardt tugged sharply on his hand. He gestured with his head toward one of the benches on the far side of the courtyard where a slim figure with silvery hair was bent over double with his head in his hands.
Linhardt glanced at Caspar with mild worry in his soft eyes. They set off in Ashe’s direction without a word, Caspar dropping Linhardt’s hand and jogging forward. He didn’t seem to hear them approach, but that was probably because his shoulders were shaking slightly with quiet sobs. Something in Caspar’s chest broke at the sound. It was almost the same feeling as when his older brother had accidentally broken Linhardt’s arm when they were younger. Even before they’d known they were destined soulmates, Caspar had been strongly protective of his scholarly friend. He hated to see the man he loved hurting, even if it was just an accident.
He’d tried to fight his brother—both taller and older and stronger—in retaliation and ended up with a broken arm to match Linhardt’s. But it was the thought that really counted anyway.
“Ashe?” Linhardt asked, taking a seat on one side of him. His hand hovered uncertainly over Ashe’s back. “Are you all right?”
Ashe’s head snapped up suddenly and he choked on his sniffles. His normally bright green eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.
“Of course he’s not all right, Lin!” Caspar crouched in front of him. “Tell us what happened. I’ll make whoever made you cry wish they hadn’t! Just say the word.”
“It’s nothing,” Ashe said between sniffles. He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves, but his voice was still unsteady when he tried to speak again. Linhardt patted his back and shot Caspar a concerned look over Ashe’s shoulder.
“It’s clearly something,” Linhardt said very seriously. “You certainly don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, but we’re willing to listen if you do.”
“Yeah, what Lin said,” Caspar agreed enthusiastically. “Then, I’ll go punch them in the face—”
“Focus, Cas.”
“T-thank you,” Ashe murmured, drawing in another deep breath. He hiccupped into his hand and took several more moments to collect himself enough to speak. “It’s…well, it’s about my father. It’s nothing much that you can help with, I’m afraid.”
“I see,” Linhardt said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We should have guessed as much.”
“Guessed what?” Caspar asked blankly. Linhardt shot him a withering look that he ignored in favour of squeezing Ashe’s loose fingers reassuringly. “What’s wrong with your father? Is he sick?”
“Caspar—!”
“He’s not sick.” Though he was quiet, Ashe’s voice cut across Linhardt’s admonishment clearly. He hung his head. “You’ve heard about the Blue Lion’s mission for this month, haven’t you?”
Caspar nodded. “Of course. Your House has to go and quell an uprising of the Western Church in Faerghus, right? It’s being led by a minor lord.”
Ashe nodded miserably. Linhardt put his arm around his narrow shoulders and shot Caspar another dark look.
“Lord Lonato is my father.” Ashe paused, then corrected himself. “Technically, he’s my adoptive father. My parents died a long time ago, before Lonato took me in.”
It took a moment for the impact of that statement to sink in. Caspar stared at Ashe’s wretched expression with a sinking horror. It was decidedly not a problem that he could punch to rectify. He exchanged a glance with Linhardt, who only shrugged and shook his head. There really wasn’t anything they could do. Their own House mission was to deal with some bandits harrying Varley territory just south of Garreg Mach. It was boring, but at least it wasn’t pitting a child against his father.
“They’re making you fight your father?” Caspar said, his voice going unusually high. “That’s just cruel. Why would the Archbishop give your class that mission? She should have given it to us or the Deer.”
“I don’t know,” Ashe muttered, shaking his head. “But…I just don’t understand why he would do this. He was always so kind. He took me in when he had no obligation to do so. Does he really hate the church so much that he truly thought an uprising was the right way to handle things?”
Neither Caspar nor Linhardt had an answer to that question. Ashe didn’t seem to expect one. He had finally managed to bring his breathing back to normal, and although his eyes were still red, there were no more tears leaking out of the corners. That eased something knotted in Caspar’s chest. He didn’t like seeing people he cared about crying, especially when it was about something he had no power to change. It didn’t seem just to force a child to fight against his father. One of them was likely to die in the encounter, leaving the other devastated.
Caspar hoped it was Ashe. He could comfort his friend, but he had no sympathy for a man who would deliberately pull a stunt like this knowing full well that it would put his son attending the monastery in a very awkward position. He would have to seek justice against Lonato on his own if the Blue Lions and the church failed to apprehend him.
“Some people cannot see the purpose in negotiation,” Linhardt murmured. He looked thoughtful, like he was recalling something he’d read. His arm was still around Ashe’s shoulders to offer him the comfort of human contact. “Some people think their way is the only way to change things, and they don’t care who else is hurt along the way.”
“But we’re not like that!” Caspar insisted hotly. He grinned at Ashe and squeezed his hands tightly again. It drew a shaky smile out of him that warmed Caspar’s heart. “We’re your friends, so we wouldn’t do anything like that. We’re here for you whenever you need us.”
“Thanks guys,” Ashe said a little thickly. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see this. It’s been a lot to take in.”
“Understandable,” Linhardt assured him, eyeing Ashe critically. “You should get something to drink. Perhaps some tea will calm your nerves.”
“We’re heading the dining hall anyway. Come and join us!” Caspar brushed the grass from his knees and reached out his hand. Ashe clasped it tentatively and allowed Caspar to pull him up. His legs were unsteady but Linhardt steadied him with a gentle hand pressed against the centre of his back.
“You’re both very kind,” Ashe murmured, smiling through the pain. Linhardt exchanged a knowing look with Caspar over the top of his head; they would keep an eye on him. If he was this distraught before the mission, no doubt he would be in a worse place when it was over. “My classmates have been very thoughtful, but they have their own worries too. This mission is difficult for us all. So it’s really great to have an outside perspective on it, and a shoulder to lean on that isn’t impacted by the situation at all.”
“Of course,” Caspar said, lacing his hands behind his head and grinning. “That’s what friends are for! Right, Lin?”
“Indeed,” Linhardt said, inclining his head. “I do enjoy having an insightful study partner, after all.”
They laughed as they set off together, with Caspar on Ashe’s left and Linhardt on the right.
To no one’s surprise, the mission to quell Lonato’s uprising resulted in the man’s death. No one amongst the Blue Lions was unaffected by it, but Ashe was the most depressed of them all. More than once, Linhardt reported finding Ashe sitting alone in a dark corner of the cathedral with his hands loosely clasped as he tried to decide whether or not he should pray to the goddess for mercy on Lonato’s soul. He struggled to accept the reality that Lonato had been ready to cut his adopted son down for standing with his classmates and future king in a fight he shouldn’t have been expected to participate in.
Accordingly, the following months were hard on Ashe. He was quiet and withdrawn throughout Blue Sea Moon and Verdant Moon, spending most of his time either in the library or working in the greenhouse with one of Dedue or Annette. For his part, Caspar made a point of dragging Ashe around the monastery between classes and insisting he needed Ashe’s help on whatever essay they had due for Hanneman or Manuela (and that wasn’t even really a lie—he did need someone to bounce ideas off of, and Linhardt refused to do it because it was enough work just doing it once).
Slowly, as the summer wore on, Ashe began to return to his old self. He smiled more often, laughed a little bit easier, and began practicing in earnest for the rapidly approaching Battle of the Eagle and Lion. It was all anyone could talk about by the time Horsebow Moon waned into Wyvern Moon. Students who only trained when they were forced to for class started to use their free time to brush up on their skills. Mages sequestered themselves in the library surrounded by books of advanced magic while priests volunteered in Manuela’s infirmary. Everyone was eager to show that their House was the most capable one of winning.
When the day finally came, bright and crisp with autumn air, Caspar was practically vibrating with excitement. Finally, he could show off his skills in a true competition and bring glory to the Black Eagles. While Linhardt had napped, Caspar had won the monthly axe tournament. While Ashe lost a sparring match to Felix, Caspar had eaten an entire week’s worth of protein. While everyone else in the school traded friendly barbs and placed bets on the outcome, Caspar ran twenty laps around Garreg Mach to improve his stamina. All those missions to rout bandits in outlying towns and dispense justice against thieves had led to this moment where Caspar could prove that he had all the hallmarks of a true knight.
“It’s just a mock battle.” Linhardt yawned, running a hand through his loose hair. The battle was scheduled to start earlier than most of their missions, and Linhardt wasn’t known for being an early riser. “It doesn’t matter who wins. The real battle was decided long ago.”
“That’s exactly the point, Lin!” Caspar insisted, eyes shining. Linhardt looked down at him doubtfully. “Sure, the real battle is long over, but imagine if we were there fighting it. If we win today, then it means we’re stronger and would have won it then, too!”
“That is absolutely not how it works, Cas,” Linhardt grumbled, rolling his eyes. “History is history; you can’t possibly say we would have won it if we had been there. Context is key, and our modern presence would inevitably change the way—”
To Caspar’s great relief, a horn sounded from the cliff overlooking Gronder Field to cut off the remainder of Linhardt’s impromptu lecture. It echoed through the trees as the students fell unnaturally quiet. Edelgard stood tall and proud on a hill, white hair gleaming like jade in the half-light filtering through the leaves. The Archbishop had bespelled all their weapons so that they wouldn’t inflict any lasting harm, but her axe looked just as dangerous as ever. Caspar was glad that she wasn’t his enemy in this fight. He was ready to fight any of his friends from the other classes, but Edelgard was downright terrifying in a battle frenzy, with or without a dulled weapon.
“It’s time.” Edelgard’s voice was calm and unhurried. She waved one hand. “Bernadetta, to the ballista, as we discussed. Ferdinand, Petra, you will take the west side. Caspar and Dorothea, cut off our eastern flank route. Linhardt, stay back and be prepared to provide support where needed. Hubert, with me.”
They saluted her as she leaped off the hill and raced forward through the trees, Hubert shadowing her like a great black bird. Caspar’s heart raced in his chest as he shot a quick glance back at Linhardt, the adrenaline of battle already flowing through his veins like a heady drug, and met his eyes. There was nothing to be afraid of in this battle, of course. As Linhardt pointed out, it was only a mock battle with considerably lower stakes than its historical counterpart. None of them could be harmed in this fight, but Caspar nonetheless felt a surge of protectiveness for Linhardt. He had to protect him, make sure that nothing got past him or Dorothea that might put Linhardt in danger, no matter how miniscule that might be.
“Get going,” Linhardt called. He looked a little fond despite the clipped tone. “Dorothea’s already out of sight. What are you waiting for?”
“All right, all right, I’m going.” Caspar waved his free hand as he dashed after her. “Be safe, Lin! Let’s win this thing!”
For all that the Battle of the Eagle and Lion was not a real battle, it certainly felt like one. Caspar caught up to Dorothea easily and took the lead through the trees, keeping his eyes open for any sign of movement. Gronder Field was a vast space, dotted with forest in parts and rolling grassland in others and occasionally broken by jagged rocky outcroppings that could provide cover. It wasn’t easy terrain to navigate but being on foot made it significantly simpler than cavalry units like Ferdinand. They used the undergrowth amongst the trees to cover their advance, moving as quietly as they could. It worked well enough for a time; Dorothea took out two Golden Deer lancers before they even realized she was within range. Her spell hit them from behind, knocking them unconscious. She sent up a flare to signal one of knights to take them off the battlefield.
It wasn’t until Caspar finally overpowered Raphael on the edge of the forest that their position became known. Three more students in yellow jackets—two with swords and one with gauntlets—came running at them, shouting some sort of battle-cry that Caspar matched with equal fervor. He parried the myrmidons with ease, using the flat surface of his axe to turn their blades aside and dodged the brawler just before his fist connected with Caspar’s cheek. Dorothea cast thunder magic all around them, which caused their opponents to jolt with fear every time it struck a little too close for comfort and created an opening for Caspar to cut them down. They sent up more flares there too.
So they pressed onward, keeping as close to the treeline as possible until it gave way to open field. The grass was waist-high, golden in the bright sunlight, and it offered no protection from roaming combatants. Undaunted, Caspar strode ahead flourishing his weapon and ignoring Dorothea’s fading complaints that he’d gone too far forward. There were more trees ahead, likely hiding more Golden Deer students within the brush, but Caspar was emboldened by his victories. He didn’t wait for Dorothea to catch up—he could take them all on alone.
Just as he neared the edge of the woods, Dorothea cried out in terror. He whipped around in time to see someone in a yellow jacket knock her down. She didn’t rise which meant that she was probably knocked unconscious from the attack, and he’d have to send up a flare for her if he was able to fend off her attacker long enough. He raised his axe menacingly, but his footing was bad. The ground was uneven and loose rocks made his feet slip when he lunged forward, missing the opportune strike on his opponent. Caspar rolled out of the way, loose grass clinging to his clothes, and grunting from the way his shoulder popped when he landed on it.
The figure loomed over him with a raised sword, grinning wickedly. He didn’t recognize them, but he hated that he was going to be defeated here when he was clearly one of the strongest competitors. Linhardt always complained that he was too hotheaded for his own good and that it would get him in trouble sooner or later. He hated it when Linhardt was right, especially when it came to fighting. Linhardt didn’t even like fighting, and getting him to study battle tactics or train was like pulling teeth. He’d never let Caspar live it down.
But the blow that Caspar expected to fall never came. The sound of an arrow whistled through the air and hit his opponent from behind. It pierced the thin jacket he wore and the student hissed in surprise, forgetting Caspar for a moment in order to look around for the whereabouts of his new attacker. A moment was all Caspar needed to take back the upper hand; he kicked the student’s feet out from under them and used his axe to hit him hard across the chest as he fell. He was out cold before he hit the ground, an arrow still protruding from his shoulder. It had plain fletching from the monastery’s reserves. Caspar glanced around, holding his axe aloft in case another arrow came flying at him too.
“Cas! It’s me!”
From the treeline ahead a familiar head of silver hair poked out through the branches. Ashe waved at him, grinning toothily. Something uncoiled in Caspar’s chest, seeing Ashe cleverly hidden within the upper branches. A higher vantage point gave him a good advantage over ground units and pegasus knights while keeping him relatively safe so long as no one figured out where he was situated.
“Ashe! You really saved my skin there.” Caspar jogged over and glanced around quickly to make sure there was no one else around. “But you shouldn’t reveal yourself like this! We’re on opposite sides. If this were a real battle…”
“I know, I know, you’d have to kill me.” Caspar’s heart dropped at the words. Ashe was smiling again, after months spent coaxing him back to his old self. He didn’t like the idea of hurting his friend. It was as unthinkable as hurting Linhardt. “But I couldn’t just leave you to get knocked out of the fight by that myrmidon. Linhardt would be so disappointed in you.”
“Got that right. Thanks, man.” Leaves stuck out of Ashe’s hair at awkward angles and his blue jacket looked dusty and ripped in several places, but whether that was because he’d been involved in a fight or simply from climbing trees, Caspar couldn’t say. He grinned up at him. “Since you saved my skin, I’ll let you go for now. But next time I find you, we fight for real.”
“Understood! Good luck in the rest of the battle.” Ashe lithely swung off the branch and smiled, clapping Caspar on the shoulder. Even through several layers, he could feel his skin tingle pleasantly under the warmth of Ashe’s hand.
He ignored the slight pang in his chest as Ashe hurried off deeper into the forest and then turned away in search of someone else to fight.
In the end, it was the Black Eagles who emerged victorious. Of their class, only Edelgard, Hubert, Bernadetta, and Linhardt made it through to the very end. The celebration that followed went well into the night as the students cheered and devoured the veritable feast that the monastery chefs had prepared. Caspar drank enough of the monastery’s weak beer to be comfortably tipsy by the time Linhardt dragged him away from the dining hall. He spent the night curled up beside Linhardt in his bed, exhausted and sore from the fight and pleased to fall asleep next to his soulmate. One of them, at least.
When dawn arrived, Caspar woke gradually to the pale light filtering in through the crack between the drapes. Beside him, with one arm cast across Caspar’s chest and the other pillowing his head, Linhardt continued to snore gently, totally at ease and deeply asleep. He looked peaceful, his brow smooth and unmarred, his dark hair fanned out across his pillow like strands of fine silk. Linhardt wouldn’t wake for hours yet, not until the breakfast bells tolled across the monastery and the noise of students in the dorms nearby became too loud for him to sleep through. Caspar smiled at him and pressed a kiss lightly against the crown of his head before he slipped out of Linhardt’s slack grip.
Despite a slight headache, Caspar headed straight to the bathhouse. It was early enough that it would probably be empty except for a handful of knights. He didn’t usually go so early, but between the headache and the way his skin still felt full of old sweat and dirt, he decided there was no reason to delay. He’d feel better and smell better, and although he wasn’t so vain as Ferdinand, he still didn’t want to feel like he’d just crawled out of a particularly dirty swamp.
He left his clothes in a haphazard pile in the change room, wrapped a towel around his waist and then pushed open the wooden gate that led into the baths. It was a large area full of natural hot springs that had been converted into an outdoor bathhouse. Large rocks ringed the pools and leafy plants were artfully spread around the area, offering shade in the daytime and interspersed with stone benches where people could sit when they didn’t want to be in the water. As he suspected, the area was deserted except for a familiar figure lounging in the farthest corner of the bathhouse.
Ashe lounged against the edge of the pool with his eyes closed as the water lapped gently against his navel. His skin was almost as pale as Linhardt’s. His hair was damp and clung to his scalp. It should have looked silly, but it looked bizarrely cute instead.
“Oh, Caspar,” Ashe said groggily as he waded into the water. He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Sleeping Beauty,” Caspar teased, delighting in the way Ashe’s skin flushed all the way down his throat. He took a seat across from him and rolled his shoulders appreciatively. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here this early.”
Ashe, still blushing, sank deeper into the water so that it covered the entirety of his chest. “I usually come here at this time. It’s nice and quiet and there’s no one around to spread gossip.”
Caspar, who heard all of the best rumours to do with soulmarks at the bathhouse, stared back at him incredulously. It occurred to him rather suddenly that he’d never seen Ashe’s soulmark. The other man never spoke of it, not even in passing, so Caspar didn’t even know where it was on his body. Judging by the way he’d found him lazing in the water, his soulmark wasn’t on his chest and he’d seen Ashe’s hands enough times to know it wasn’t there either. He was struck by the need to know. What kind of mark did Ashe possess? Caspar would proudly share his in turn—there was nothing to be embarrassed about when it came to soulmarks. He would never be embarrassed by something he shared intimately with his fated people.
“Congratulations on winning the battle,” Ashe said into the silence. Caspar shook his head to clear his thoughts, unsure of how bring up the topic without making his friend uncomfortable.
“Oh, thanks. I knew we’d win.” He flashed a cocky smile that lacked any real bite. Ashe rolled his eyes fondly.
“If Lysithea hadn’t found me when she did, I’d have taken out Bernadetta before she could take down Sylvain.” Ashe laughed, the sound echoing pleasantly through the bathhouse. It was carefree and bright, quite unlike Linhardt’s reserved chuckles and his own boisterous holler. It blended well with them, the cord that linked them together in a way that just made sense. “Felix saw me let you go. He gave me an earful after the fight for it, until Annette and Ingrid dragged him away.”
“If it weren’t for you, we would surely have fallen.” Caspar joked, joining him in laughing. Ashe’s green eyes sparkled like the clear water reflecting the dawn light. “I suppose I owe you now.”
Ashe waved that away, splashing droplets of water across the short distance between them. They pelted against Caspar’s chest playfully. “No need. I didn’t want to fight you, even if it was a fake battle.” He shrugged, causing the water to ripple outward from him. “I came here to be a knight, but now I realize that the hardest part about that isn’t learning sword forms or battalion formations—it’s knowing that if I had to face a friend on the battlefield for real, I might actually have to hurt them, or die myself.”
A shiver travelled along Caspar’s spine. “That’s the reality of war. But we’re at peace right now, so there’s nothing to worry about. Probably the worst you’ll encounter as a knight is boredom guarding someone’s castle.”
They reclined in the warm, comforting waters for a while longer as the sun rose ever higher in the pale blue sky. Ashe spoke of his siblings, of his disastrous attempts to use a lance, of anything that came to mind, no matter how innocuous. Caspar listened, offering anecdotes only Linhardt knew in return, allowing his muscles to relax and his mind to wander. When Ashe finally stood, staring ruefully at his pruned fingertips, Caspar’s desire to hear Ashe speak of his soulmark had faded into a quiet thrum buried deep in his chest. It slumbered lightly, content to wait for a more opportune time to ask him what his soulmark was, or if he knew who bore the remainder of it.
Then he turned to clamber over the rocks and onto the paved walkway where he had deposited his towel on a nearby bench, and Caspar saw it.
A massive golden lion shimmered on Ashe’s back, reaching from the nape of his neck all the way down to the end of his tailbone. It had piercing blue eyes that looked as cold as ice and whiskers that seemed to tickle his neck. The lion was unlike any creature Caspar had ever seen, though, with huge front paws like any lion and back legs that look unnervingly like an eagle’s talons. Its tail vanished off the left side and reappeared on the right, in a tuft of red and black fur that was quite a stark contrast to the rich colour of its coat. It was majestic in a way that no other living creature could possibly replicate.
And there, on either side of his back, were the protrusions of wings.
They had to be for wings—Caspar had never been so certain of something in his whole life. Although they were little more than stumps on the golden lion, they were unmistakably feathered with red tips that blended uncannily well with the wings that he and Linhardt bore.
Then, suddenly, the lion vanished from view as Ashe draped his towel across his shoulders and held it close. He turned sheepishly back to Caspar, smiling shyly.
“Sorry,” he said, flushing red. Caspar’s heart pounded in his chest. “I don’t usually flash my soulmark around like that. But my towel was over here, so there really wasn’t a way around it. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He paused to gauge Caspar’s expression. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about it.”
Before Caspar could do anything more than nod dumbly, Ashe disappeared out of the bathhouse.