nadja clasps hubert's hands in her own, grotesquely fascinated by the inky violet that seems to be staining his fingertips; its texture is scar-like, as if he'd touched a hot iron until its impression became permanent.
she'd have been horrified, were these markings not so familiar. she held his father's hands, she holds her son's. she'd already asked the important questions: does it hurt when others touch them. will i get hurt if i touch them. are they painful?
"be careful." she insists, fitting a white glove over his hand as if he's still a boy, and she's buttoning his coat. what a pathetic thing to say. she's certain her son's off to commit crimes she willingly closes her ears to. careful isn't on the table. she tries again.
"i love you." that's even worse. hubert can't want to hear that, can he? she doesn't know if she wants to hear that. she's his mother, but he's sworn the emperor's blade. sentiment is no longer a valid currency, but it doesn't mean she likes to consider how he'd do her in, if it was ordered. one more try.
"come home soon." better than nothing. / unprompted; @crimsenza
HANDS ARE WARM AND SOFT WHERE THEY CLASP HIS, the brush of thumbs over rough, magic-scarred skin; sensation dulled, the price paid for a kind of magic that was never meant to be wielded by them. magic gifted to them by the same forces that had imprisoned and tortured lady edelgard, all those years ago, the knowledge of which had been passed from vestra to vestra; ironic, is it not, that they should use their own magic, their own technology to fight them ?
he watches with rapt attention as she fits a glove over his hand, brow furrowed; he is not a child any longer, has not needed such things from her in more than a decade, yet he cannot bring himself to protest. ( she has always been rather reserved in her affections, but then, he is no different, is he ? he has always been his mother’s son. )
be careful, she says; does she believe him capable of acting with anything less than the utmost of care ? he has never taken a risk that wasn’t calculated, has never put his own life in danger without the certainty that it was necessary.
i love you, she says, and his eyes widen at that, a brow arched. [ certainly he knows his mother loves him, but they do not say such things out loud; it simply isn’t their way. ] it’s a strange thing to hear out loud, and there’s no reason it should make something tighten in his chest, but it does all the same.
“ i know, ” he says simply. “ i love you, too. ” insufficient. paltry. years of emotions span between them, the words barely scratching the surface of them; what words could ever suffice ? [ yet the words sound stiff, stilted, faltering in his voice. ]
come home soon, she says, and that, more than anything, he cannot promise; he has no intention of dying, after all, but nor than he discount the possibility of it, and he has no idea how long the war will continue. months ? years ? only time will tell, he thinks.
he is no fool. he cannot discount the possibility that this may be the last time he sees her. ( there are provisions in place, in case he were to fall in battle. in case lady edelgard were to fall, too. she is already made a widow, after all; he would see her taken care of, regardless of the outcome of the war. he owes her that much. )
gloved hands give hers a gentle squeeze before releasing them. “ i will write to you when i can. ”
