𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞. two friends, close since they were children ——– and yet they shared two widely different personalities, likes and dislikes, and even positions on the battlefield. it’s this closeness that helps caspar in battle. always knowing linhardt had his back, that no matter what wounds he sustained his friend would always be there to make sure he lived to see the next morning. and it’s this very difference between them that makes caspar misjudge his actions.
linhardt, his friend, the only man who’d much rather take a nap than ever be out in a war. the kind of person caspar knew wouldn’t make a reckless decision. 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝘩𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡. maybe they had rubbed off on another, but as caspar’s body was pushed with so much force he almost fell over… he knew something was wrong.
there’s blood. crimson blooms on linhardt’s body, and his eyes go wide. he doesn’t realize it but he screams. the smell hits him as he regains composure, fingers balling into a fist. one foot in front of the other and caspar darts forward, knuckle connecting with the jaw of the brigand. the axe in his own hand went forgotten for a moment before he raises it above himself; and with all the force in his body —- it meets with the neck of the man. his head is nearly knocked off his body as the fast cooling corpse heaves over onto the field. the next moments felt like a blur, like snapshots of a movie.
he remembers dropping his axe, hands holding linhardt close as fights raged around them. he remembers his hand stained in his best friend’s blood, screams ringing but not reaching his ears. 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝘩𝑖𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡.
the next thing he knew he awoke with a start. bandages strewn around each wound he’d garnered in the fight, hands no longer wet with blood. how much time had passed? it felt as if he’d been asleep forever, but never does caspar mind his own wounds. instead he’s quick to move from his bed and frantically begins to search for linhardt. any inkling of what had happened to his friend, a notion of whether he was alive or dead. anything.
and calmness finds him when he sees linhardt, muscles relax and lips part to exhale a sigh of relief. he doesn’t think, not that he ever does, as his body almost instinctively makes its way over to linhardt’s side. he’s alive, caspar can tell, that offers some comfort to him. 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙, sleeping as if everything were alright —- as if everything in the world didn’t matter in this moment. beside the bed is a chair, one caspar sees fit to occupy. his hand rests on linhardt’s forehead for a moment, as if he needed to touch him to make sure he was alive. for once, he had nothing to say. it was simply enough to know that linhardt wasn’t dead.
There’s something to be said about the sensation of sleep —— the nothingness . This time there were no colors that danced beneath his eyelids , no dreams of crests or academia that occupied his mind. He would wake without anything to reflect upon or analyze , which wasn’t exactly the worst thing that could happen. He was unaware of his predicament , at first , of the pain that befell him just hours ago. Linhardt was unaware , perhaps blissfully , that a blade pierced somewhere that had somehow been unfatal. He was unaware , too , of Caspar ( who was equally as damaged as he ) who took to sitting at his side , fingers resting upon his own . So unaware that when he awoke , he looked only to Caspar’s face , not yet to the bandages that seemed to occupy his frame.
It didn’t seem that Linhardt yet recognized the soreness that remained from his little stunt , either. He was hardly the sort to act on impulse , and the very act was ... well , calculated at least in some regard with the slim expectation that he would survive. And here he was , waking in the infirmary . In one piece . What a strange and miraculous predicament he found himself in.
A yawn bubbles forth from between his lips , and only then does the pain begin to register. It’s a bitter aftertaste in his bones where magic —— magic that wasn’t his own —— had sewn him back together. A surface level remedy , imperfect and hasty as it were , with some lingering sense of urgency.
He’d have to examine his condition further , and remedy the rest on his own. How tiresome.
Though , Linhardt does find his hand moving to hold Caspar’s. He’s bandaged too , but very much alive. Alive , and here. Just as he had envisioned.
“ Well ... that’s the worst I’ve slept in ages. ”
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