Work Text:
Crack!
Two knights continued their gallop past each other as splinters of wood rained into the cloud of dust kicked up by their steed. At the end of the tilt, one rider lifted her lance, cracked down the middle, and the crowd before her stood to applaud and holler their excitement. She took the final point, as the other knight had missed his target, and thus won her match, securing her spot in the final joust.
The opposing knight removed his helm and bowed graciously—Lorenz had matured greatly since their school days—and the winning knight buzzed with excitement as she approached the imperial box, where Edelgard and her entourage were seated.
The knight removed her helm as she halted her horse just below the platform, and a shock of straw-blonde hair was stuck to her face with sweat. Cheeks pink from exertion and exhilaration, Ingrid shyly smiled as she unsheathed and raised her sword, and, with a winning smile, Edelgard stood and secured a red, lacy handkerchief to its tip. Ingrid bowed her head and spurred her horse into a trot around the arena, holding the sword and the favor aloft while the crowd roared her name.
It was little surprise to Hubert that Ingrid was the winner of her joust. There were few knights as dedicated to training as she. Hubert hoped that she would show Gautier no mercy in the final joust; his lip curled at the thought.
As both competitors headed for the gate, Hubert turned to Edelgard. “Your Majesty, are you enjoying the joust so far?”
The emperor lifted her face with a private smile. “I am, more than I expected,” she said. “Thank you for arranging this, Hubert.” Hubert simply bowed his head. There was no need for her to thank him, not when he was still her loyal servant. Edelgard insisted otherwise, but this was one topic where Hubert still insisted that he knew better. Regardless, making the arrangements for the tournament, small as it was, had been fulfilling for Hubert, and the greatest reward was seeing Edelgard enjoy herself. She worked far too hard.
The master of ceremonies spread his arms, and the crowd cheered, though with less enthusiasm than before. He waved at the gate, and nearly every person in the audience inched closer to the tilt, eagerly waiting for the next event. Then he cried: “In our next joust, a champion from the far northern reaches of Fódlan, Sir Sylvain Jose Gautier!”
Hubert frowned. “What…?” He huffed and turned to track down whoever had ruined his plans. The final joust shouldn’t happen yet—the war games were first, between Leonie Pinelli and Petra. But Sylvain was trotting the perimeter of the tilt, ruining everything.
Edelgard lifted her hand, and Hubert froze in place. “As you were, Hubert,” she said, the picture of serenity.
“I apologize, Your Majesty, but someone made a mistake, I have to fix this now—”
“Everything is as planned,” Edelgard said. “I…meddled. There was a late entry.”
Hubert’s jaw clenched. “A late entry?”
The master of ceremonies gestured to the gate and shouted: “Please welcome your next champion: Lady Ferdinanda von Aegir!”
“What.” Hubert lurched forward and gripped the back of the emperor’s chair.
Edelgard reached behind her and patted his hand. “She knew you would worry,” she said.
“I am not worried,” Hubert gritted out through clenched teeth, eyes locked on a gray mare and her knight, both plated for the joust. The knight’s helm was topped with an ostentatious red feather. Hubert resisted every impulse to bury his head in his hands and scream. Of course she had insisted on that ugly plume. How could Hubert have expected anything less?
Ferdinanda was strong and brave and chivalrous, everything a knight should be. Ferdinanda was also a woman who thrived on ample positive feedback, such as the cheering of a crowd at a jousting tournament; in other words, very knightly. If he were more fond of head trauma, perhaps Hubert would find himself in that very arena, jousting for his lady’s honor. Equally fond of adoration, Sir Gautier was not above the rush of an eager crowd. A young woman was hanging over the ring wall with a rose in her hands, and Gautier brought it to his nose with a sappy smile, and then tucked it behind her ear. The woman squealed loudly, and dozens of other maidens attempted to bestow their own gifts upon the knight. Hubert sneered and redirected his attention to Ferdinanda. His comrade was also schmoozing with the spectators, but Ferdinanda kept her greetings comparatively modest. Her visor was lifted as she walked her horse along the wall, not a strand of bright hair spilled from her helm. Unable to see the details of Ferdinanda’s face, Hubert was stuck staring at the horrendous plume bobbing as she waved to children and old women in the crowd.
Hubert exhaled, though it brought no relief, for the heraldry trumpets immediately began to blare. With a final, practiced wave, Ferdinanda lowered the visor of her helm and trotted her steed to her starting position. She lifted her lance, proud, and Sylvain met the gesture with a lance of his own—the drums rolled, and both knights leveled their lances and charged. Before the moment of impact, Hubert looked away.
He stared at his boots through the entirety of the match, only knowing the score by Edelgard’s excited clapping and distant, disappointed sighs. It was over soon enough, though, and Edelgard laughed as she applauded: Ferdinanda had been victorious. Hubert expected nothing less, but still. He worried. He lifted his face and half-smiled at the sight of Ferdinanda galloping around the ring of the tilt, surely smiling underneath her helm.
Her steed slowed to a stop, and Hubert fetched the favor from a pocket to ensure a seamless presentation from Edelgard to Ferdinand. A flicker of movement caught Hubert’s eye: Sylvain Gautier was approaching Ferdinanda with a roguish smile, and Hubert steadied himself with a hand on the back of the emperor’s chair. Gautier trotted up alongside Ferdinanda, saying something that was lost to the din of the crowd. Ferdinanda paused, and— Hubert’s grip on the chair tightened. That lout had taken Ferdinanda’s hand in his own, all gallantry, and with a flirtatious wink, he kissed the back of her hand. At least she was covered by her gauntlets. There would be no damage done to her hands by…by Sylvain’s lips.
It lasted mere seconds, but Hubert relived the moment over and over, even as Ferdinanda and her steed approached the platform, and she lifted the visor of her helm and made fleeting eye contact with Hubert. It did not escape him that her cheeks were a brilliant color best compared to a tomato. Edelgard presented the favor, and Ferdinanda cried her thanks, but she did smile at Hubert before dropping her visor down and embarking on a victory lap—her sunny expression was a sorely needed balm.
Both knights trotted out of the tilt, still waving and blowing kisses to the adoring crowd, only to be immediately replaced by their wargame counterparts. Petra’s acceptance of the invitation had been a letter full of joyous sentiment; she had not visited Fódlan since her return to Brigid, so their correspondence was limited by the speed of watercraft sailing between the nations. Leonie had been more difficult to track down, but there was little his network could not do. Delivering mail was far easier than some of the tasks he’d previously entrusted to them.
As much as Hubert enjoyed war games, he had greater concerns to address. Namely, red-haired, philandering, annoyingly-talented-at-chess concerns. So he straightened his coat and asked his liege: “Your Majesty, may I fetch you any refreshments?”
“No, thank you, Hubert,” Edelgard replied, eyes fixed on the arena where Petra was being introduced to the audience.
“Are you certain?” he pressed. “Not even a fruit juice? Or perhaps some mead—”
“Hubert.” Edelgard smiled, and to anyone else she would have looked serene. But Hubert had known his emperor for far too long to ignore the teasing light in her pale eyes. “Just go to her.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sniffed, and he turned on his heel. Hubert would procure a sweet treat for her anyways.
Hubert’s nose wrinkled when he reached the backstage grounds. Hopefully, he would not have to linger there for long, for he only needed to find his target. Ferdinanda’s steed was in an open stall, being tended by one of the several pages running about the backstage grounds. Hubert asked the page if he knew where Lady Aegir was, but the poor boy was only able to sputter nonsense and point towards the gate. Hubert dipped his head and thanked the boy then stalked away.
He spotted Ferdinanda first—how could he not? She was wearing familiar armor, decorated with the symbols of the empire: dawn-red fabrics and the two-headed eagle. And of course, her helm with its hideous plume was tucked against her side as she smiled and nodded, talking in a low voice with the dreadful Sylvain Gautier. Hubert scowled. Ferdinanda hadn’t noticed his presence yet, evidently too absorbed in Sylvain’s dribble. That was fine. Espionage was just as much about being seen as much as not being seen. Hubert crept up behind the talking pair until he was looming over Sylvain’s shoulder.
“What a remarkable joust,” Hubert said, looking directly into Ferdinanda’s eyes. Her cheeks pinkened immediately.
“H-Hubert!” Ferdinanda yelped. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Nor I, you,” Hubert said, and he ached as Ferdinanda’s lips settled in a pout.
Sylvain turned with a gloating smile. “Hubert!” He opened his arms and bowed his head. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Hubert did not smile. “Indeed,” he said.
Sylvain adopted a jaunty pose, his body weight settled on one leg and a hand on the corresponding hip. “How is Edelgard?” he asked, and Hubert, knowing what his liege would think of it, did not strangle Sylvain.
“Her Majesty,” he said, “is quite well.” Behind Sylvain, Ferdinanda’s expression had quickly shifted into a bemused smile. Right. He’d come down here with a purpose in mind. “I was hoping to speak with you, Ferdinanda.” Hubert positioned his body to close Sylvain out of the conversation with his shoulder.
“Well, don’t mind me,” crowed Sylvain, peering around Hubert at Ferdinanda. He did not move an inch.
Hubert turned, unable to restrain the twitch of his eye. “Alone, Sir Gautier.”
“Ohhh,” Sylvain said, as if he hadn’t known that since the moment Hubert arrived. “Well, in that case.” He turned back to Ferdinanda and bowed, too gallant to be genuine. “Fare thee well, my lady,” he crooned, and as he walked away he had the audacity to clap Hubert on the shoulder.
Hubert glared over his shoulder as the philanderer left the staging area entirely, likely to hunt some other maiden to woo. “I hate him,” he muttered.
Ferdinanda giggled, bringing Hubert’s attention back to his purpose. “He is just trying to rile you up,” she said. “You should not make yourself such an easy target for his jokes.”
“He should not be so licentious,” Hubert protested. “What if you were a woman of weaker will?”
“But I am not,” Ferdinanda said, smiling, and Hubert’s shoulders relaxed an inch. “You came to speak with me?”
“Yes,” said Hubert, but his mouth was dry as he looked upon her rosy, freckled cheeks, her full lips.
Ferdinanda’s fine eyebrows drew together. “Did something happen?” she pressed. “Does Edelgard need my assistance?” She was a vision of worry—that would not do.
“No, nothing like that.” Hubert shook his head and tried to moisten his mouth once more. His tongue darted out across his lips—just as dry.
“Ah, that is good,” Ferdinanda said, smiling once more. She shifted her helm to the opposite arm, cradling it between her elbow and her waist. “Then this is a social call, I presume?” Hubert nodded, and Ferdinanda’s eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile impossibly brightened.
Was there anything he could say that would not be too forward for the moment? Anything at all? So early in their courtship, when such a relationship was entirely new territory to Hubert, he still struggled to measure his speech. It was a nightmare—after a lifetime of living for Edelgard and Edelgard alone, Ferdinanda had snuck her way into Hubert’s heart, and he was still taken aback by her innumerable charms.
Rather than spill forth his visceral affection, Hubert opted to comment on her hair. “This is a different style than your normal braid,” he said, taking one of the twin tails in his hand and draping it over the front of her shoulder. It was not a braid that Hubert would have chosen, not like the ones Edelgard preferred.
“Petra taught me this one,” said Ferdinanda. “I thought it would be easier to tuck my hair up in my helm like this.”
“Hm.” Hubert pinched the braid just above the ribbon with his left hand. Then, he pulled one of the tails of the bow with the other hand, and the knot slipped free.
Ferdinanda whined her displeasure at the sight of the emerald-dyed ribbon in Hubert’s gloved hand. “You had better tie up my braid before it unravels and I make you redo it all!”
“As you wish,” Hubert chuckled. He relished in Ferdinanda’s confusion as the green ribbon was stashed somewhere in his cloak and replaced with a short black length of silk. He tied off the braid with the black ribbon as quickly as he’d removed the green, and when Hubert lifted his eyes to hers, Ferdinanda was blushing a lovely shade of pink. “Is this acceptable?” he murmured.
“It does not match,” she fussed, but she was fiddling with the plait in a coy manner that, at times, had been known to ignite an aching in Hubert’s chest that he feared to name.
“It suits you,” he said, and he indulged himself further by touching his thumb to her chin. “Consider it a token of my favor.”
“Oh!” gasped Ferdinanda, and her blush deepened to red. “Well, that is quite noble, Hubert! Very…very becoming, I must say. I did not expect such a gesture.”
Hubert rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, regardless. “I thought it would be appropriate.”
“It is! Very appropriate,” she said. “It is a handsome gift, Hubert. Thank you.”
Hubert’s heart swelled, embarrassingly, and he nearly burst with his unspoken thoughts. Luckily, he was stopped by a page dashing over, a body brush still in hand. “Lady Aegir! The final joust begins soon!”
Ferdinanda seemed just as flustered as Hubert, so flustered that she grabbed his bicep as she jumped to attention, crying, “Oh, Goddess! I must—I am sorry, Hubert, we will talk after the match—”
“Yes, yes, indeed, go,” Hubert said, waving his hand to dismiss her, when Ferdinanda rocked up onto the balls of her feet and drew very close to his face.
“A token of my own,” she said, hurriedly, and she pressed a quick kiss to Hubert’s cheek before dashing away, calling out to her squire.
The crowd in the arena burst into rapturous cheering—the war games had ended, there was a victor, and Hubert should have been at his lady’s side, but instead he was glued to a spot by the stables, his face burning where Ferdinanda’s lips had touched it.
A herald trumpet played a short riff high above Hubert’s head, and shaking away his stupor, he ran up the wooden stairs to the emperor’s platform, skipping every other step.
Edelgard was standing, waiting for him, and Hubert bowed and murmured his apologies. As always, she waved his courtesy off and sat down, patting the seat beside her. With a gracious shake of his head, Hubert refused and returned to his position at her shoulder.
Ingrid and Ferdinanda were already atop their steeds, walking the perimeter of the tilt, as the master of ceremonies presented them again to the crowd. When Ferdinanda’s name was announced, Edelgard held her hands up above her forehead as she clapped. It was impossible to miss the twitch of their friend’s scarlet plume as she directed the front of her helm at the platform—directed her gaze at Hubert. Knowing she could see him, Hubert withdrew the green ribbon from his cloak and brought it to his lips, never releasing her gaze. After a taut moment, the knight spun her horse around, and Hubert smiled to himself. If only he could see past that helm. There were few things lovelier than Ferdinanda’s sweet blush. It almost made him want to act the part of the chivalrous gentleman in all her fantasies.
“Hubert,” Edelgard said.
Hubert straightened his spine—this was no time for daydreaming.. “Your Majesty?”
“After the joust is completed, will you please deliver a dinner invitation to Lady Galatea?” the emperor asked.
To Ingrid? “You believe she’s going to beat Ferdinanda?” Hubert asked, struck with disbelief. For Edelgard, whose judgement, though not perfect, to already be arranging a dinner in the victor’s honor, when the match had not even begun…
Edelgard smiled like she once did when they were children, and her voice was sweet, cloying. “A private dinner invitation, Hubert. Tonight, ideally.” She’d learned that tone from Dorothea, many years ago.
“Your Majesty, the victor’s dinner—”
“Can be scheduled tomorrow night,” she assured him. “Besides, I’m sure that regardless of which woman wins, Ferdinanda would cherish a private dinner with you.” Edelgard looked up at him. “Perhaps you can deliver an invitation of your own.” Beside her, some of her attendants were giggling amongst each other. Hubert’s protest was interrupted by the beginning of the joust, and torn between duty and desire, he turned his eyes to the shining armor of the two knights. A dinner with Ferdinanda, a private dinner, when he should be waiting upon the emperor and ensuring her safety. He cast his gaze back to Edelgard’s sparkling eyes, hands clasped before her chest, the smile stretching across her lips. It was like the child, stolen from her home and Hubert’s care, was sitting on the platform, not the emperor who had reunited the continent in a crashing wave of blood.
Hubert closed his eyes and sighed, then he leaned over her shoulder and whispered in her ear: “Have you always been able to see so clearly through me?”
“Not always,” Edelgard whispered back, “but you are not subtle when it comes to these matters.”
Hubert flushed and turned his eyes to the tilt. The knights had taken their places; Ingrid raised her lance, then Ferdinanda, and the drummer began his roll. He straightened his spine as both steeds rushed toward the middle, lances lowered and directed at opposing shields. Right before impact, Hubert shut his eyes, coward that he was, and winced at the wretched shattering of wood. The crowd roared its approval, and Hubert opened one eye—both lances had been shattered. A draw.
The knights returned to their starting positions with new lances, and they held them aloft. The drumroll, the pounding of hooves against dirt, and Hubert forced his eyes to stay open as Ferdinanda and Ingrid descended upon each other. He flinched as Ingrid’s lance collapsed on itself—a solid hit—but Ferdinanda seemed to hardly feel the hit as she landed a strike of her own, and both competitors scored a point for their cracked lances.
The third round: the lifting of lances, the drumroll, all proper, then as the horses ran along the tilt, Hubert’s grip on Edelgard’s chair was desperate enough to break his fingers—Ferdinanda slipped to the right, the saddle sliding with her, and she thrust her lance up into the sky. Ingrid did the same, though she waved her free hand to beckon squires to Ferdinanda’s side. Before that precious head was slammed against the ground, Ferdinanda’s steed slowed to a walk, and her fall was shorter and more graceful than it may have been. Still, Hubert could not stop the strangled sound that escaped his throat as Ferdinanda hit the dirt in a puff of dust. Edelgard glanced over her shoulder at him as she moved to stand. (A bad habit that she refused to cure: jumping into action whenever a comrade was injured, though the emperor had not an ounce of faith magic to use for their benefit. It was all the more reason Hubert continued to dedicate himself to her service.)
But Ferdinanda was hale enough for the next round, insisting on tightening the girth strap herself once she was standing. She lifted the visor of her helm and turned to smile and wave at the imperial box. Edelgard lifted a gracious hand in acknowledgement, a warm smile across her face, and with the other hand she reached behind her to pat Hubert’s wrist.
“She’s alright,” murmured the emperor. “That’s our Ferdinanda.”
“Indeed,” rasped Hubert. He waved, with a weak, bloodless expression, and Ferdinanda held his gaze across the arena before lowering her visor and mounting her horse once more. For just that moment, eyes locked across the crowded area, Hubert and Ferdinanda had been alone, no strangers distractedly peering into their affairs.
Hubert released the stale breath his lungs had refused to exhale, and an inhale of fresh air restored his clarity and confidence. Ferdinanda would win, he believed she would. She would attend the victor’s dinner the following night, but that night, while the emperor dined with Ingrid Galatea, Hubert would sit across from her and relish in the way her hair glowed in the candlelight. He would listen to her rave over the meal, he would be sure to surprise her with a dessert (sweet buns, perhaps). He could make her tea.
The drumroll began, and Hubert’s eyes fixed on that awful red plume she loved so much. The two knights rushed to the middle, lances directed at shields, and—
The crowd erupted with cheers as Ferdinanda spun her steed at the end of the tilt to look at Ingrid. The other woman’s head hung; though she’d struck true, her lance was still intact, while Ferdinanda’s lance had split entirely down the shaft. Ferdinanda had won, and she held her broken lance aloft and whooped her delight. Edelgard stood, applauding her friend, and Hubert released his grip on the chair where she’d been sitting. His fingers ached; perhaps, if he asked nicely, Ferdinanda would massage his hands during their dinner—not that there would be a dinner. Unless she wanted to have dinner with Hubert, which would be magnanimous, certainly.
After the victory ceremony, Hubert left Edelgard in the care of her personal guard and her attendants (or rather, was forced to leave her side by the emperor herself) and descended the stairs to seek out Ferdinanda. He found her at the bottom landing, greeting anyone and everyone who passed her. When their eyes met, Ferdinanda’s glow brightened. “Hubert!” she called, and it was as if the milling crowds parted before him. When he reached her, he bowed at the waist.
“Congratulations, Ferdinanda,” he said, and her smile worked its way around his heart like a squeezing hand. “I expected nothing less.”
“Oh, please,” she said, though her smile never lessened. “Ingrid had just as much chance to win as myself.”
“Perhaps,” said Hubert, “but I would place my faith in you no matter the circumstances.”
Ferdinanda flushed and averted her eyes with a nervous laugh. “Flatterer.”
“The victor’s dinner will be tomorrow evening at the Imperial Palace. The emperor is…occupied tonight,” Hubert said, as delicately as he could. Ferdinanda lifted her eyebrows with a wry smile.
“It seems I have no plans tonight, then,” she said. “I look forward to a relaxing night at home.”
Hubert cleared his throat, already mortified by the blush he knew was creeping over his face. “If I may, could I tempt you to spend your evening with me?” he asked, his voice perfectly stable and clear.
Ferdinanda was now the same color as her ridiculous plume. “Oh!” she squeaked, and Hubert’s heart ached. “W-why, yes, that is a fantastic idea! Where shall we go? And what time?” She was too bright; Hubert had to avert his eyes before his vision faded.
“My apartments at the palace, perhaps seven o’clock, to give you plenty of time to bathe and dress,” he said, then he paused to clear the scratchiness in his throat with a cough. “I can cook something for us. Tea will be served, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Ferdinanda. She laid a hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “I look forward to our dinner, then. I will bring some coffee beans for you,” and with a giggle, “and wine to share.”
Hubert wrinkled his nose. “Make it whiskey,” he requested.
Ferdinanda rolled her eyes, but her smile was still warm, bright, and killing Hubert slowly. “Fine, whiskey, then. I shall see you tonight.” Before she walked away to remove the tack from and groom her steed, she patted her hand, still armored, against Hubert’s cheek, just twice, and extremely gentle. Hubert unwittingly smiled, and his cheeks burned, but somehow, Ferdinanda was not repelled by this. She patted his cheek once more before turning and striding through the milling crowd, patting children’s heads as she walked along. Frozen where he stood, Hubert indulged in the fading embers of Ferdinanda’s warmth, relishing the tingle in his face where she’d touched him without reservation, smiling to himself as he watched her braids bob against her back with every step, one ribbon green, the other black.