linhardt did not have quite as delightfully agreeable a turning to vampirism as khalid recalls. perhaps he hadn’t delighted in the farewell to his mortality –– but there was more choice in khalid’s first poison than there was in linhardt’s first blood. he’s known that since he first parsed linhardt’s reasons for such isolation; it is a fate most cruel to weather alone.
he supposes it’s no wonder he considers some element of his own vampiric metamorphosis a delight.
if nothing else, he can hold onto his dream for a length of time he could once have only hoped for in childlike fantasy. if nothing else, he can… at the very least, keep linhardt company. at the very best, he can help assuage the worst of his companion’s fears.
when he descended into the first of his readings on the bloodsucking fiends fódlan’s scholars wrote about, khalid wasn’t fond of the life-stealing element, either. he can only imagine how it truly effects someone whose made ill by the mere sight of it. being sustained by something that keeps someone else alive is a cosmic cruelty, and a thievery greater than khalid believes there will ever be words for. hence his extensive research into his unorthodox recipe, and the few substituted ingredients that he risked when putting his body through the test of what he refuses to call fate.
since then, he’s become deeply entangled in count von hevring. he’s invested himself in linhardt’s research, taken great lengths to assure his security and privacy, and found himself no less endeared to the man than he is endeared to a long afternoon in the sun without a care in the world. linhardt, despite all of the dread his lover suffers, brings khalid a peace that is almost alien to the rest of his life. whether they could attribute it to the long, low flutter of his lashes when he stirs from sleep or the way his lip curls while khalid is idling kisses along the tender flesh of his wrists, fine… like marble.
linhardt is frozen in time, but he is not frozen in the cruel nature of undeath. khalid won’t abandon him in a life that depends on the suffering of innocent lives, and so long as he’s capable of seeking, he will do his best to find.
and he does find something he’d very much like to try, come one winter afternoon, while they are tangled up in his bedroom under two sets of gold, silken sheets. he flips to the end of the book in his left hand with a newfound sense of urgency, rushing off the mattress to take a few notes in messy, inked scrawl. nothing he finds can truly be certain, but he’s grateful for possibilities that look a little like his own success. although khalid’s immortality is largely provable, he hasn’t exactly survived a century beyond the war just yet. he doesn’t know how he’ll age, or if he’ll someday wake and crave blood. there are no certainties, he doesn’t think. he can only trust his learned discipline and the research they’ve come through together.
what he finds in the book he misplaced from a cruel noble on the other side of the kingdom is an addendum to the first recipe for his own vampirism. it holds a list for the potential to alternate something in lieu of blood for survival.
khalid works tirelessly through the alchemic and herbal work, forgets to sleep more than a few hours for more than at least four separate evenings. he remembers the moon’s song in his chest, alive behind his ribs. it was consistent while he dissolved and diluted countless ingredients, testing them against the pads of his fingers and the palm of his hand. anything that might hurt a vampire was nixed, as he’s not one for risks he hasn’t already survived. and truthfully, he wants nothing more than to minimize linhardt’s pain as much as possible. in truth, he can’t test the serum himself. he already fails to crave blood. it’s just a matter of altering the chemical makeup of linhardt’s current condition.
the ingredient list mentions a passing fever that khalid reads over fourteen times. the conversation he has with linhardt regarding the illness that’s supposed to come and go over the length of a single moon is exacting as it is tender. khalid doesn’t want him to suffer at all, but some aches, he suppose, have their worth. he understands that the way things are now are by no means sustainable, and he understands that he only wants best for his one tether to the rest of his life.
( it is more than a single life now. they must claim their future –– he knows that. he supposes that’s why he’s glad to be here: he can nurse linhardt through any fever, any nausea, any head-pains that mortify or madden him.
and he does just that, when the time comes. )
he’s careful in delivering the elixir, as it were. but he’s even more careful when linhardt–as they anticipate–falls ill. khalid could all but hear the crows in the garden, mocking.
they won’t have much to mock for long.
at the halfway mark of what khalid understands is the extent of this sickness’ breadth, he feels the fever pitch. when he rests the back of his hand against linhardt’s forehead, cool and warm and slick with his shudder and sweat, he’s sure to brush some of the hair away. khalid’s tied up in a loose bun ( so as to avoid any tension headaches ), cooling the back of his neck, but the front strands come down in baby strands that he nudges back with care.
he massages his aches, helps heat the flesh where linhardt finds it tender with pain, brings him the water he can swallow. and when the fever begins to break ––
linhardt says, “i am weak.” and khalid thinks it is the fever talking. he smiles and shakes his head gently no. he is not weak. he is as strong as they come. he lowers his hand so he can take the one at linhardt’s side. he cannot feel a pulse there, but he imagines it.
linhardt says, “i am fragile.” and khalid says, “only for now. be brave for me, lin. you’ve come this far. look… can you feel that? your hands have even stopped their shaking. it won’t be long.”
linhardt says, “i am mortal.”
and khalid knows this is beyond sickness, beyond cure.
“of course you are. this isn’t going to prove that. no one could steal your mortality from you, and i’ve known that for a long time now.” perhaps there’s more to say, but the words can wait until linhardt’s a little more lucid. “all this is going to do is help you maintain everything you’ve kept so far. as for me––i’ll always be here to remind you that red or no red,” ( he’s learned even the word blood can exacerbate his upset - avoids it thoughtfully, seamlessly ) “–– you’re human. your soul will always belong to you.”
khalid presses a kiss between linhardt’s knuckles.
“though i might take a piece or two for myself.” then, preemptively, he grins. “what? it’s not as if you haven’t done the same with mine.”
when the sun crests on the end of sickness and bloodslake, they’re facing each other in bed, hands twined near to where their arms bend.
linhardt smiles; it’s the loveliest future he’s ever seen.
“catarina. i’ve done it.” linhardt plops down next to her. nestled against his side is a small, innocuous sack. a sweet aroma drifting from it is the sole indicator of its contents. shifting as to show her, linhardt tugs open the sack, to reveal… baked treats. delicious, still-warm, tasty baked treats. “i /borrowed/ these from the cafeteria,” linhardt says. “they’re freshly made.” there’s a pause; he shrugs. “no one was looking at them. it’s fine! it’s your birthday, after all.”
it’s catarina’s birthday! / accepting.
the smell of sugar finds catarina before the sound of linhardt’s footsteps, which is saying something. as a fighter attuned to the sound of those who walk slowly or quietly, she needs to be capable of picking out these sounds before they’re close enough to strike.
her guard trickles back down as he greets her. it’s only linhardt, after all –– and though there is no only linhardt, because she’s sure he is no mind to underestimate in this stupid place brimming with minds that work out the most unconventional shit in the world –– she doesn’t think he’s come to bother her. chiefly because he seems too lazy to plot some massively inconvenient birthday surprise, but also because if he did have some sabotage in mind for her, she thinks it would come when she were least expecting it. and right now, she is expecting all kinds of nightmarish things.
there is nothing nightmarish about the wafting aroma from the very unsuspicious sack he’s brought before her. how thoughtful, she thinks, and her stomach almost hurts as it reminds her of her hunger. garreg mach keeps her so busy, it’s easier than usual to forget. somehow, the fact that linhardt’s come into the knowledge that today is her birthday is one thing ( as she’s tried, to some extent, to keep it a secret ), but the fact that he’s brought her a few of her favorite desserts is a whole other one.
this honest, sleepy companion of hers seems one she’d like to keep.
“you certainly have done something. i thought you were going to tell me there was some rare crest-harboring moth inside that sack. would have asked, if it didn’t smell so nice.” she smiles, a rather soft and humble thing.
“thanks, linhardt… really. i’m sure no one would miss them as much as we might, so you made the right call.” though that might not be the whole truth, it feels like a fair enough one. “come sit. let’s share them.”
hilda may be a noble, but a student is still a student. there are days where going to class simply doesn’t feel appealing. as much as she’d adore listening to the professor chatter on about gambits, pincer attacks and the like, the weather is simply too lovely to stay in a stuffy classroom! the gentle winds, the clear blue skies... oh, it’d be a crime to spend hours upon hours only daydreaming about it during lecture followed by struggling to bask in it through outdoor lessons. she’d be absolutely sweaty with all the practice drills! no time to rest nor appreciate it at! all!
but goddess forbid she try to skip out on byleth’s lessons without an actual excuse. been there, tried that. all the noble girl was met with was a flat stare that made her skin crawl and drag the truth right out of her ( honestly, how does byleth do that with only a stare? )
lucky for her though, it doesn’t seem she’s the only one enticed by the weather.
❝ oh, linhardt, you poor thing! ❞ she calls to the obviously sitting boy, loudly enough for any passerby to hear. “are allergies getting to you? i suppose i’ll have to miss class and make sure you don’t faint! i’ve heard that can occur on occasion with terrible headaches.” her concern is terribly exaggerated, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in those bright pink irises. hopefully he’d catch on and be her accomplice!
❝ aw, what ? no, i’m not being silly ! you’re being silly. stop being silly, silly ! i think i would’ve said something if i heard a dying whale this far from the ocean. ❞ she lightly punches his arm, hearty laugh almost unbearably awkward. okay, behind the dorms ? definitely not the place to practice her singing, apparently ! // @sleepcrest
AND HERE SHE WAS , TO HER CHAGRIN , attempting to get to some training , without much luck considering the green-haired male’s snoring was distracting her from her timing . After about five minutes of listening to it , she was starting to get annoyed , pissed enough to wake him up at least , shaking him awake with a certain quiet fury to her .
❝ RIGHT , THAT does it ! We’re going for some HARDCORE training . NOW ! ❞
his blood ———— burns. like frostbite digging its claws into the branches of his veins and seeping insidiously towards his heart / burning a path along the way. it rushes through him : this icy heat and this rush of adrenaline and the frenetic tensing of his muscles and it’s a rare sight, indeed, for him to activate his crest.
so deeply hated and thoroughly loathed, this intrinsic part of him that brands him and marks him and elevates him when he had never asked for this nor wanted it nor WOULD EVER WISH TO HAVE IT ———— for all that it gives him abilities and for all that it passes unto him great strength. in spite of that and because of that he resents it / and the idea of RELIANCE ON IT / the idea of depending on it at all. how sickening. how weak.
BUT HE USES IT AND HIS BLOOD BURNS and it occurs to him, a distant and utterly dry thought that lingers on the cusp of being outright sardonic, that perhaps linhardt ( standing paces behind him and watching him with wide eyes right at this very second, and the beauty of this irony is terror ) was right about some things. namely : that using his crest to expel excess energy more so than not is a good idea beyond the theory of it and straight into the reality of it all / because while activating his crest is as easy as breathing ( and how infuriating that is, how frustrating that is to acknowledge / that he had been trained so well for his fucking major crest ) the use of it ———— HIS BLOOD BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS / pain lancing through him and driving through him and spearing him.
but his blade sings its perishing song / cornered though they may be / protector though he may be / and he grits his teeth and goes / fury blazing hotter and higher and he disappears into the fray.
and how terrible it is, indeed, to be reminded again and again of the abilities that his crest passes unto him / of the strength that it imbues : with each and every enemy falls before him and this blade and the easiness with which he wields it. as easy as breathing. in some ways it’s a slaughter and in some ways it’s a MASSACRE and in some ways his blood burns and sings and the shield on his back sings, too / a song that resonates through his very bones / a yearning song hoping and hoping and PRAYING FOR ITS OTHER HALF / for that sword that rests in a case in his room that seethes so quietly.
linhardt is safe, he knows. an instinctive sort of knowing, the sort of instinct that is deeply intertwined into his very being as he kills another and another and another ———— no one and nothing can get past him and spells fly and battle rages on as his blade drives through armor as if it were mere cloth and leaves once more. linhardt is safe and his blood is burning / for him, some would argue.
the beauty of this irony is terror.
steel through bone and a head goes flying and he’s BLOOD SPLATTERED AND BLOOD SOAKED AND BLOOD BURNING as it’s down to the last few of this damn ambush and he does away with them ———— almost, almost, but for the last but for the final but for the one who drives him to the ground with a blade to his neck and felix twists and the loaded blade tucked beneath his sleeve bursts and drives through the neck of the poor bastard who wished to end his life / blood bursting and blood spurting as that armored body falls on his.
silence rings as he breathes and breathes and it takes one moment and then another before he shifts and heaves the body off of his. footsteps sound behind him and it isn’t an enemy, he knows : it’s linhardt and it’s linhardt still when a presence appears beside him and felix pushes himself to standing, wiping blood from his face and his blood burns. it burns. it burns.
❝ you’re alive !! ❞ a hand on his bicep and he tolerates it as well as he can manage in spite of the ache that rings and in spite of his blood burning and in spite of the half-frenzied energy that emanates from him, still. but there’s something like RELIEF and there’s something like JOY in linhardt’s voice and on his face as he holds onto felix and / begins to heal him / second nature rearing its head.
❝ obviously. ❞
❝ i thought you died, you know, ❞ something flatter for all that the relief still hasn’t left him and for all that he seems to avoid looking at the RED THAT HE’S STEEPED IN and his hand squeezes his arm, firmly. ❝ disappearing beneath that man. ❞
❝ you said it yourself, ❞ his eyes catch on the brilliant green of his hair and the set of his brows before skittering away / to the carnage. ❝ i’m alive. ❞
❝ and so am i, ❞ linhardt’s head tilts and their eyes meet and his blood begins / to quiet. ❝ because you used your crest. ❞
WORD AS A TRIGGER and he begins to pull away reflexively for all that linhardt tightens his grip / still breakable as it is / felix allows himself to be halted, though not before dragging them a few steps out of sheer spite if nothing else. ❝ don’t start your business with crests again. i won’t activate mine for your research, no matter how much you bother me with it. ❞
❝ i was just trying to say thank you, ❞ voice gone severe and brows furrowed and mouth set and his fingers dig into the ridge of his musculature / healing magic rippling unpleasantly. ❝ i know how you feel about your crest, you’ve told me more than enough. you don’t have to yell at me. ❞
if he were any other man perhaps he would be chastised ———— but as RECALCITRANT as he tends to be and as combative as he tends to be and how temperamental he tends to be, there’s no room to be chastised in the grand scheme of THEIR ENTIRE DAMN RELATIONSHIP and how they had dragged themselves from one point to another, arguing and berating each other along the way.
nonetheless ———— he had been hasty, that’s for certain, and felix finds his gaze straying for a moment. and then returning after another, expression drained of the majority of his reactionary fury and settled into something more passive.
❝ you’re welcome. ❞
the fingers digging into his bicep loosen their hold / and they look at each other / and they look at each other / and they look at each other / before their gazes stray. birds : flitting away from each other, time and time again.
@sleepcrest // where do you dream ? where do you see ? —— touch.
linhardt’s hair is disheveled - sloppily tied up, the style done in a haste upon hearing the excessive knocking on his door. eyes barely open, the sun’s glare is too bright for him - as is the very visage of ferdinand von aegir. simplyhearing what ferdinand wants him to do is enough to wear linhardt out: to make him want to dive right back under his bed’s sheets. in fact… diving right back under his sheets sounds like the perfect course of action.
“ferdinand,” he begins, slowly. “there’s only one thing i’d pray for at this hour of the morning. and that thing is that you’d let me get some sleep.”groaning, he moves to close the door to his room once more. what did he do to deserve this…?
His hand was quick to take ahold of the door before Linhardt was able to close it. He always managed to slip away, but not this time. Today he was determined to make his fellow student work — do anything that was not sleeping.
“I knew you would have trouble getting up early and that is why I have given you two extra hours to sleep.”
“In that time, I have finished a warming up, taken care of my horse, had a wonderful morning tea and read a few chapters of this new book I have started.” There was a lot Ferdinand wanted to do in a day. Perhaps too much for any regular students to handle, but he was a quick worker. Once he had the hang of something, it would take him no trouble and he had no trouble planning his day to make the most of it. Surely Linhardt could achieve great results if he set a few goals for himself.
“Do you see how much you can achieve when you get up early? I can guarantee you that you will feel much more energized when getting ahead of your day.”
@sleepcrest said: ❝ i think i forgot what human contact felt like. ❞
❛ is that so ... ? then i suppose the sudden hug must’ve been strange. ❜ ferdinand made it a point the ensure that his friends were boding well & now was not an exception. when he’d caught sight of linhardt alone in the library, truth be told, he’d felt something distinctly sad wash over him. he did seem to enjoy his isolation, but ... perhaps not so much as he broadcasted it given the way he seemed to allow himself to relax into the gesture.
❛ well, then i hope being in the arms of another brought you some joy this day ! ❜ there is a smile offered, even if it cannot be seen. linhardt deserved it for all the research he was taking part in for the sake of ... well ... discovery, ferdinand supposed. it would undoubtedly serve their cause well.
