Work Text:
Hubert is halfway through the taxing mental calculations required to decode the Vestra cipher when the door to his office bangs open and the noisy, intolerable bag of sunshine that is the prime minister traipses in.
“Hubert!” Ferdinand exclaims, heavy riding boots clinking against the wood floors. “I have a proposal for you!”
Hubert cringes, and tries not to lose his place in the message he’d been decrypting, but the sight of Ferdinand with his hair wild from a morning ride and his skin warm with exertion make that quite impossible. “Please, Prime Minister. I am rather busy—”
But Ferdinand has already stomped around his desk, and is now peering down at the extremely sensitive communiques Hubert had been reviewing from his spies in Morfis. “Oh!” Ferdinand hops right up onto the top of Hubert’s desk, legs dangling over the edge. “This is the cipher you taught me how to work.”
Or, at least, that Hubert had tried to teach him how to work. Mostly Ferdinand had frowned and squinted and made a most becoming crease appear between his brows. He had no skill for deciphering it, and has clearly taken no steps to practice any of the exercises Hubert left him with.
Hubert knows this because he’s taken to writing increasingly absurd encrypted postscripts to his memos for the prime minister, ones he is quite certain would provoke a response from the proud peacock if he understood them. They began somewhat insulting, if he’s being honest with himself; but he only wished to test Ferdinand to see if he’d retained any of the skill. Once it became clear he had not, though, Hubert confesses he has grown somewhat . . . softer in those coded postscripts.
Not that it matters a whit. It’s only a silly game, after all—encrypting all the things he will never say to someone who never needs to hear them. It’s safest for them both.
“Indeed it is.” Hubert clenches his quill, teeth gritted. “And as you may recall, it requires uninterrupted focus to—”
“Yes, yes, I remember it well. You use some other text as the basis . . . What was the one you used to show me? The libretto for Eagle’s Fury, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t recall.” Hubert closes the book of Morfis poetry he and his field agents are using as their pad. With a sigh, he shoves it aside. “I suppose I shall have to return to that later.” He folds his arms across his chest and turns, trying to ignore the of noxious flutter in his chest when his knee comes to rest against Ferdinand’s calf. “What did you want this time?”
Ferdinand is studying him with one of his playful smiles, so hopelessly innocent and trusting. “What did I . . . ? Oh! Yes, of course.” He reaches inside the breast pocket of his coat and produces two pieces of card stock. “I, ah. I wanted to see if you would like to join me for a performance tonight!”
Hubert blinks, quite certain those words make some sort of sense together, but it eludes him. “I beg your pardon?”
Ferdinand holds out the papers for Hubert’s inspection. “The Great Gagliano! Apparently he is a renowned equestrian and performer from Morfis. I suppose he heard the prime minister was something of an enthusiast, so I was sent two complimentary tickets.”
Hubert takes the tickets from Ferdinand’s hands and scrutinizes them. The Great Gagliano and His Dancing Horses. Hubert frowns. He has attended the opera with Ferdinand and Her Majesty on multiple occasions, naturally, particularly when Miss Arnault was performing, but he cannot recall a time he has ever attended a function solely with Ferdinand to keep him company. They share many a late dinner shared in one of their respective offices after a long day managing the empire, of course, but that hardly qualifies as an outing.
“And you wanted to invite . . . me?”
“I . . . Yes!” Ferdinand’s smile fades, however, as Hubert stares at him in bewilderment. “Well—I did ask Lady Varley and Lord Bergliez first, but they are otherwise occupied this evening.”
Hubert arches one brow. As Minister of the Imperial Household, he is privy to all of the administration’s schedules, and does not recall seeing any matters listed for Bernadetta or Caspar, but perhaps he has not been updated yet. “Oh.” Hubert runs the edge of his gloved thumb against the card. “Well, I do have a fair amount of work to finish today . . .”
Ferdinand’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Yes. I understand—”
But the sudden pain in Hubert’s chest compels him to say, “—Assuming I can conclude my business on time, however . . . Yes. I would be—” Delighted? No, much too eager. “Amenable,” he says instead.
Ferdinand beams, and gives a little swing of his legs. “Excellent! I would be amenable to that as well. I will come by your quarters at six to fetch you, then.”
Hubert returns the tickets to Ferdinand. “But the performance is not until eight.”
“Well, we cannot attend on an empty stomach!” Ferdinand thwaps Hubert on the arm with the tickets. “It will be my treat.”
Ferdinand hops down from Hubert’s desk and departs, but it is several minutes before Hubert can fully return his attention to the dire warning of political unrest before him, the papers now crinkled from the prime minister’s shapely rump.
Post-script. I do not anticipate you will be able to decrypt this, but should you succeed, congratulations! We might just make a passable spy of you yet.
“—and then she had the gall to suggest that I was only clinging to the older proposal because I had been the one to author it, and I could not bear the wound to my pride. I do not support it because it is mine; I support it because it would truly be the most beneficial to every young subject of the empire!” Ferdinand takes a sip of his cabernet, fuming. “So there is another bill I’ll have to fight tooth and nail for, I suppose.”
If you manage to decrypt this, I am quite certain pride will not allow you to resist the urge to brag about your achievement to me, Hubert had written once, in one of his coded postscripts. But he will confess that Ferdinand’s pride is far better tempered these days with a steady competence, at least in his role as prime minister. It’s hard not to admire how far he’s come from the braggartly young noble he grew up despising.
Now, Hubert merely smiles at him, chin propped in gloved hands as he watches his supper companion vent in the bright dining hall of the Starlight. It is quite the compelling show—one he rarely tires of, in spite of himself. “She’s only saying that to impress the undersecretary of finance,” he assures Ferdinand. “Whose support she’s trying to secure for a new reallocation of funds.”
“Is she now.” Ferdinand swirls his wine with a fervor. “And how do you know what compels the minister of state welfare?”
“It’s my business to know. Everything.”
Ferdinand rolls his eyes. “Then what do you know about the Great Gagliano, and the Morfis tradition of horse dancing?”
“Oh, fine, you’ve caught me out. Not a damned thing. And—” He arches one brow. “That isn’t an invitation to enlighten me.”
Ferdinand presses a gloved hand to his chest, feigning indignance.
“What I do know is that Morfis is undergoing a great deal of instability at present. Their senate is on the verge of dissolution, and rebels claim more and more territory by the day. So this Gagliano is choosing an interesting time to go on tour.”
“He is a showman. I doubt it matters much to him.”
Hubert shrugs; sips his own wine. “You asked me what I know. I told you.”
Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle as he watches Hubert for a moment. “You assume that you know everything you need to know already. But someday, I will have something to teach you.”
“I look forward to the day, then. But, please, I’m begging you—nothing about horses, and any ‘dancing’ pertaining to them.”
The soft smile Hubert’s rewarded with almost makes him want to relent. “I make no promises,” Ferdinand says.
And as he watches Ferdinand finish his meal, there is a faint hitch in Hubert’s heart, but it is a pain he has ignored for years now, and there is no reason he can’t ignore it for years again.
I used to detest the way your eyes would light up at the most frivolous indulgences, but lately I find it endearing. I am glad you can find joy in such things—simply knowing it brings me a frivolous joy of my own. And I wonder
It is a good thing you cannot read this, for you would torment me unendingly if you knew.
Hubert has had quite enough of the dancing horses of Morfis by the time the first musical number is completed, but Ferdinand is enraptured, all but leaning out of their private box as he watches the spectacle. The Great Gagliano is in constant motion above the waltzing and weaving ponies: dancing from back to back, or vaulting over them, seizing hold of a trapeze to swing across the arena and ready for the next set of flips. His dense muscles bulge and stretch beneath costumes that look painted on. Messy golden curls tumble around his beaming face, and with an effortless click of his mouth, the sequined and feathered and bangled horses come running to obey his command.
Flames. Hubert considers himself fortunate when he manages not to get thrown for merely sitting in the saddle.
“Can you imagine the discipline and mastery required to train even one such steed?” Ferdinand rhapsodizes, during the show’s intermission. “It is hard not to admire such a dedication to one’s craft.”
I have discipline and dedication to my craft, Hubert thinks, petulant. But he merely offers a strained smile. “I am glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“How could I not? A fine meal at the Starlight, pleasant company, and a marvelous performance.” He meets Hubert’s gaze with a tentative smile, dimple twitching at one side of his face—all but inviting Hubert to lean in to smooth it out. “All in all, it has been a perfect evening, I dare say.”
The hitch lodges beneath Hubert’s heart once more, and he leans forward; brushes his gloved fingertips against Ferdinand’s knee. He is shaking, for void’s sake, and he only hopes Ferdinand cannot sense that tremor running through him as Hubert steels himself. Summons up the kind of courage that only that dangerous smile can supply. Because Ferdinand did invite him here tonight, after all—and if Ferdinand can offer such a thing, then surely he can manage this.
“Perhaps after we return to the palace . . .” Hubert’s voice cracks, but he forces himself to slog on, as if through the battlefield. “You might care to . . . That is, if you would like to join me for a glass of port—”
A knock on the box’s door interrupts him, and he lets out his breath in a rush. Ferdinand all but leaps out of his seat, away from Hubert’s touch. An usher steps inside, head bowed.
“Minister von Aegir. Pardon the interruption.” He bows. “The esteemed Gagliano has requested the pleasure of your company following the performance. If it pleases you, Prime Minister—”
“Oh. Yes, that would be lovely.” Ferdinand glances back at Hubert, who only stares at him. “We would be delighted to attend him.”
The usher jolts as he turns to Hubert, as if only just realizing he was lurking there, and takes a step back. “Oh. Um. Wonderful. I’ll let him know.”
Hubert continues to stare after the door as the usher scampers off, but Ferdinand retakes his seat with a tiny smile.
“You do realize that invitation was only intended for you,” Hubert says.
“Was it?” Ferdinand laughs nervously. “Even so, I would feel better with your presence.”
Now it’s Hubert’s turn to startle. “I am . . . gratified to know that.” He turns away before Ferdinand can see any color rise on his cheeks.
“I find your presence comforting. Like a—a shadow,” Ferdinand adds, with a dry laugh.
Hubert winces. Something dour and hard to grasp. But he supposes he’s earned that, several times over. How is he supposed to find courage to be more, when Ferdinand is everything he is not, everything he can never hope to be?
“You were saying something?” Ferdinand asks, smile fading. “Beforehand.”
The orchestra strikes up the circus music as the horses file into the arena once more. “Nothing that mattered,” Hubert says.
The great Gagliano, or Stefan, as he introduces himself, is even more detestably perfect up close. He kisses Ferdinand’s hand as though he were trying to suck the meat off of it, those perfect pink lips laying claim to the prime minister—such a dreadful show of disrespect. And yet Ferdinand giggles at that display—giggles!—and allows himself to be fawned over as Stefan ushers them into the sumptuous makeshift parlor of his dressing room backstage. He offers them plush armchairs and summons a tea service of a fragrant floral tisane.
“You are even more radiant than they say,” Stefan says to Ferdinand, “and I can see that legendary brilliant mind at work behind your eyes.”
Hubert struggles not to vomit in his mouth.
“Oh.” Stefan turns toward Hubert, lip curling suddenly as though he’s just spotted a spider in the corner of the room. “And you are . . . ?”
“That is Minister Vestra,” Ferdinand says proudly, before Hubert can answer for himself. “He is my companion. Um. Companion for the evening.”
“I manage the imperial household’s affairs, as well as any other such business her Majesty requires,” Hubert says, bristling.
“Oh! Like a valet.” Before Hubert can issue a poisonous retort, Stefan’s attention once more latches onto Ferdinand like a nettle. “So, tell me, Prime Minister, what did you think of the show?”
“Truly magnificent!” Ferdinand clasps his hands together and leans forward in his seat. “I must commend you on what is surely a deeply challenging training regimen.”
“Then you must not be familiar with our methods in Morfis,” Stefan says. “We believe in training horses through astronomy junction rainbow butter toast,” he continues, or he might as well say those things, for all that Hubert understands him.
And so proceeds the next ten minutes’ lively discussion between Ferdinand and Gagliano, their hurried dialogue filled with rapturous exaltations that Hubert can only somewhat identify as bearing some relation to horses, as a general concept.
“Do forgive me, Minister,” Ferdinand says finally, placing his hand on Hubert’s knee. The touch at least seems to stir Hubert from his bitter rumination on how completely inadequate Ferdinand must find him as a conversation partner on matters concerning that which he loves most. “I am sure this is terribly uninteresting to you.”
“It’s quite all right.” Hubert shifts his leg so that Ferdinand’s hand falls away, but it leaves an unpleasant chill in its absence. With a strained smile, he says, “It is a pleasure merely to watch you speak so passionately.”
Void’s sake, did those words really just come out of his mouth? He must be more rattled by the presumptuous horseman then he realized.
Ferdinand’s cheeks turn a pleasing shade of scarlet at that, but before he can reply, Stefan re-inserts himself into the conversation. “How right you are—Vesper, was it? Ferdinand’s—if you’ll forgive me for dropping formalities—skills as an orator are matched only by his enthusiasm.”
Ferdinand turns his face from Stefan with a shy wave of his hands. “You are far too flattering. I regret that I am but an amateur in equestrian matters these days. I am far too busy with my duties—”
“Then perhaps someday, if your schedule permits, you might be able to take a holiday to Morfis,” Stefan says. “I would be more than happy to instruct you in our riding and training methods there—”
Hubert sets down his teacup before he can crush it in his fist. “I am afraid that would be out of the question,” he says through gritted teeth, “given the current unrest in your homeland.”
“Yes, it is our hope that the government and the rebels can come to a swift agreement amenable to all of us,” Stefan says—and then faces Ferdinand directly once more and reaches for his hand.
Hubert considers how easy it would be to launch out of his chair and reach for the dagger in his boots in one single fluid motion—
“In the meantime, Ferdinand, perhaps you might grace me with the pleasure of your company for a morning ride? I know your time is as precious as those gemstone eyes of yours, but if you would honor a mortal horseman such as myself—”
“Oh. Well.” The blush reaches the tips of Ferdinand’s ears, visible through his wavy locks. “In fact, I am free tomorrow morning.”
“Splendid! Shall I meet you at the imperial stables, then? Maybe your valet here can make the necessary arrangements.” He laces his fingers around Ferdinand’s hand, then closes his other hand on top it.
Something dark and thorny takes root deep in Hubert’s gut. Already he can feel its branches coiling around him. But what use is there in protesting? It is not as if he has ever spoken his desires out loud—scarcely even to himself.
“That would be my pleasure,” Ferdinand says. He turns toward Hubert, and his easy smile falters. “You will join us too, won’t you, von Vestra?”
Hubert unclenches the tight fist he’s formed and presses his palm to his thigh. He should go. To keep an eye on this suspicious Gagliano, if nothing else. But as the vines dig in, he knows: it is only selfishness to insert himself into something that will clearly give Ferdinand great joy.
Which can never be a shadow such as him.
“Regrettably,” he says, “I have other meetings I must attend.”
Today you wore blue Srengi cornflowers in your hair, and while the color flattered you greatly, I made some biting remark on your vanity. Only later did I recall that you were meeting with a delegation from there. Forgive me, for I do seem to have a bad habit of underestimating you, and I apologize that it is rare for me to acknowledge thus.
Hubert looks up from his reports to address her Majesty directly in their morning briefing. “The question now is whether we will back the rebels in Morfis, assist the existing leadership in putting down the revolts, or simply leave them to their fate. Given what my spies have seen, the situation could easily be tipped either way, but only if we choose to interfere.”
Emperor Edelgard drums her fingernails against her desk, gaze drifting as she ponders. “Allow me to review the latest reports again, if you don’t mind?”
Hubert bows and places the stack before her. “Of course, my lady.”
He steps back from the desk, hands folded behind his back while she considers. As he does so, his gaze is drawn toward the warm morning light trickling in from her office window. It overlooks the palace parade grounds, and Hubert finds himself shifting closer, as he spots a pair of horses being led onto the ground by a palace stable hand.
The dark vines of envy pull tight around his throat as the prime minister steps into view, lush hair braided back, though a few red-gold wisps escape to frame his face with an angelic glow. Dressed only in his riding gear, rather than his usual formalwear, he is softened in the overcast light as he turns back toward the palace, face searching.
Hubert takes a step back so that he is not directly in the window.
But then Stefan appears, and immediately sews himself to Ferdinand’s side, arms waving exaggeratedly as their attention turns toward the horses before them. Hubert’s scowl deepens. They’re just horses, after all. What more could there possibly be to discuss? And yet Ferdinand’s is laughing and gesturing right along with him as they assess their mounts and then climb into their saddles.
“Something capture your interest, Minister?”
Hubert turns back toward the emperor, choking back a startled cry. But she is smiling—more amused, it would seem, then offended. “Not at all, Your Majesty.”
“Naturally,” she says, with a tiny little smirk, and taps one finger on the reports. “Because if something is distracting you, then perhaps you should take action to resolve it.”
Flames, how he has tried to resolve it. To bury it deep in the dank earth of his heart, where it might be smothered. But it’s only grown into these vicious thorns.
“I was merely . . . weighing our options,” Hubert says.
She shakes her head; picks up the stack of reports. “Then let’s hear your thoughts.”
“As you wish.” He tugs the cord to pull the curtains closed, then returns to the matter at hand.
I do not know why your gaze so often finds mine during council meetings, but I wish it would not. Those amber eyes of yours are terribly distracting, and the soft part of your lips, as if there is some question you are afraid to ask—more distracting still. If there is something you want, I wish you would just say so and leave me in peace.
“Hubert! There you are.”
Hubert hastily shoves the book on dressage he’s been perusing under a stack of household invoices on his desk. “Prime Minister. Is there something you require?”
Ferdinand picks up a wrought-iron puzzle toy from Hubert’s desk—some silly long-ago gift from Edelgard. “Yes, in fact. I was curious whether Her Majesty had come to any decision yet on our stance regarding the unrest in Morfis.”
“We are still deliberating,” Hubert says, with a suspicious quirk his brow. “Any particular reason?”
“Merely trying to keep myself abreast of the situation,” Ferdinand says. “I can see the merits to both sides of the conflict, but also the danger that continued unrest may pose to our interests in the region.”
Hubert’s frown deepens, and there is a sense of unease prickling at his skin. Whether it is his spymaster’s instincts, however, or the same dark vines he is trying his best to ignore, he cannot say for sure. “I will do my best to keep you apprised of the situation, then.”
With a satisfying ah-ha to himself, Ferdinand pops the puzzle toy free, and sets it back on Hubert’s desk. “Much appreciated, Minister.”
He makes no immediate moves to depart, lingering in front of Hubert’s desk. With his lady’s words fresh in his mind, Hubert laces his fingers together and takes a steadying breath. Tonight Ferdinand has a function with the economics council, but tomorrow . . . “If you wish to discuss the matter further, perhaps you’d care to accompany me to dinner again tomorrow night?”
He clenches his jaw as soon as the words are out, and the seconds until Ferdinand replies become hours in his mind.
Ferdinand heaves a sigh and takes a step back with a parting bow. “I wish that I could. Unfortunately, I have made other arrangements.”
The thorns dig in as Hubert’s throat further constricts. “I don’t recall anything on your schedule for tomorrow.”
“Oh! Merely a personal obligation.” Ferdinand’s smile wobbles as he backs away. “Perhaps another time, Minister?”
Hubert fights to keep his voice even as he replies, “Perhaps.”
It’s becoming quite vexing, your habit of taking lunch in my office. I enjoy the company, but the reason I do not take a lunch is because of the work I must do. You are dreadfully distracting, from your ever-thoughtful conversation to the way you watch me, your eyes intense on mine, a soft smile on your face as your throat bobs with a swallow. It is a wonder I manage to get anything done after that.
That evening, Hubert returns to the arena where the Great Gagliano is performing, but he is not there for the performance.
It is well after ten when Gagliano finally emerges, all his makeup wiped away and the collar of his jacket turned up. He scans from side to side before shuffling down an alley. He takes a circuitous route, wherever he is going—but this is Hubert’s city, and there are none better than him to flush out prey.
Hubert moves silently on the soft, absorbent trend of his field boots. When Gagliano’s path seems to dry up, it requires no great effort for Hubert to make his way up the side of an administrative building to gain a better vantage point. Finally, he spots that obnoxious gold hair dipping into a tavern off a side alley of the Arts district, so he makes his way from roof to roof toward it.
This tavern is dark, cramped; Hubert himself has met with a few informants here before. It is certainly not somewhere one goes when they want to see and be seen, as he would expect from such an obnoxious prick as Gagliano. But that realization brings Hubert some small relief that he can’t explain. It’s not so much that he wants Gagliano to be up to no good, so much as he wants to know his instincts are right, and the dark, thorny jealousy he feels is not getting the better of him.
Or so he tells himself as he finds his own darkened corner to lurk in. And the longer he waits, the more he desperately needs Gagliano to be up to no good.
Finally, a woman enters and joins Gagliano in his shrouded booth. Hubert creeps forward to overhear:
“Not yet. I am trying my damnedest, but he—”
“—Must be some mistake—”
“—Dining—”
Hubert’s breath catches. Does he mean dinner tomorrow with Ferdinand?
“—Harder. Must be something—let slip—”
“—Affections elsewhere.”
It is hardly anything to go on. But there is a narrative here that Hubert could weave, if he wanted to feel vindicated. One of shadowy rebels seeking out the Empire’s prime minister and attempting to seduce him to their cause. But it is predicated on far too much; it is far too self-serving for Hubert to trust it. He could only be hearing what he wants.
And that bit about affections elsewhere—he can hardly think of any way in which that’s true.
I find it strange to reflect on how much we despised each other only a few short years ago. Yet even then, it wasn’t so much that I despised you, as that I could not appreciate your qualities that are so different from mine. Do you despise me still for those differences? Or like me, have you come to feel that we are only two halves in need of a whole?
Blood is a deeply unpleasant medium to work in, especially when drawing an intricate sigil design with it. But for all his cursing, Hubert perseveres, until he has finally finished etching the sigil for disguise in the blood he has borrowed from the waiter at the Starlight currently bound, gagged, and unconscious beside him. He blows on the page a few times, then busies himself donning the waiter’s costume while he waits for the blood to fully dry.
Once he’s certain it’s safe from smearing, he straightens up takes a deep breath. He will have one hour to eavesdrop, and no more. He hopes that will be enough.
His bare fingers run over the sigil as he speaks the words, and with a shudder in his bones and quiver on his skin, he transforms into the bland, innocuous waiter he will pose as tonight.
And for what? So he can spy on Ferdinand’s date? No, he scolds himself, storming through the Starlight’s kitchens. To suss out whatever sinister scheme this Stefan has in store. It is his duty as the imperial spymaster to protect the empire from harm, and its prime minister from devilish plots. Nothing more.
He steps out onto the fine dining floor of the club and his heart stutters.
Ferdinand is resplendent in a red velvet blazer, with a matching ribbon loosely holding back his voluminous hair. A red Enbarr carnation is tucked behind one ear, countered by a white rose in his lapel. He is in immaculate, beautiful beyond mere words, and suddenly, Hubert feels ashamed for even looking at him, much less spying on him, or for daring to ever think—
Someone shoves into Hubert from behind, and he lurches forward a step. “Quit standing around, Georgie,” another waiter scolds him. “You don’t want to keep the prime minister waiting, do you?”
“I would never,” Hubert snaps, and storms off to their table with a scowl.
As he rounds one of the elaborate columns of the dining hall, however, he can hear Stefan blathering on. Hubert ducks behind a potted plant and leans in to listen.
“—And the most important thing to remember is that you are the beast’s master, and not the other way around. A lack of performance from your steed merely means your training has fallen short, and more corrective measures are needed.”
Hubert rolls his eyes. More horse talk. He should have known. He straightens up and approaches their table, head bowed in deference. “My apologies for the delay, gentlemen. Might I bring you a new round of refreshments?”
“Some wine, perhaps. Do you have any Vestra red?” Ferdinand asks, but is quickly overridden by Stefan, who leans right into Hubert’s space.
“Nonsense, Ferdinand, that would pair miserably with your lamb. You need something delicate for your palate. Why not a nice Varley white?”
Hubert’s blood is boiling, but he looks to Ferdinand for approval. And tries to ignore how voids-damned beautiful he is, hair aglow in the candlelight, face bright and eyes wide.
“Very well,” Ferdinand says, and looks down. “The white will do.”
Hubert bows curtly and stomps away with their empty glasses, but not without dropping a tiny eavesdropping sigil on the ground beside their table. As he pretends to busy himself with their wine, he touches the matching sigil drawn in ink beneath his ear.
“. . . Can hardly believe such a handsome and accomplished gentleman such as yourself has no suitors,” Stefan says.
Hubert’s fist tightens on the wineglass’s stem so hard it snaps. With a flush, he shoves it behind the bar.
“It is not a matter of whether I have suitors or not,” Ferdinand says. Hubert finds himself holding his breath. “My interest simply lies elsewhere.”
“I see,” Stefan says. “You are one of those men who loves to work himself to death. It sounds to me that what you could use is a long holiday away from your duties.”
Hubert slams the fresh wineglasses down onto the bar viciously enough that some of the nearby patrons jolt.
“What are you suggesting?” Ferdinand asks.
“Well, I hope it is not too forward of me to say,” Stefan says, “but should you ever desire to travel to Morfis, I would be delighted to accompany you. We could visit my stables, but also the many seaside vistas my country has to offer.”
As Hubert pours out their wine, his stomach is curdling, and it is all we can do to stay upright.
When Ferdinand does not answer, Stefan presses onward. “I find you . . . enchanting,” Stefan says. “It would be my pleasure for you to join me, stay for as long as you like . . .”
Hubert storms over to the table and slaps down their glasses of wine. “Your beverages.”
Ferdinand has been leaning forward over the table, enraptured, apparently, with this wicked deceiver’s words. He glances up at Hubert and mumbles a quick thanks.
But Stefan glowers at him. “I requested a Varley white for the prime minister’s lamb.”
Hubert straightens to his full height—a good head taller than the stouter acrobat. “My apologies, sir. I thought the gentleman had asked for a Vestra red.” With a sneer, he adds, “I only listen to what the gentleman orders for himself.”
Stefan throws his napkin down and scoots his chair back to stand. “This is inexcusable. I should like to speak to your manager—”
“Stefan, please.” Ferdinand reaches out and closes his hand on the stem of the wineglass before him. “I had asked for it initially, after all.” He then looks up at Hubert, a weary smile on his face. “This Vestra red will be lovely. Thank you.”
Hubert swallows down the sun lump in his throat and moves away without a response.
In his ear, Stefan continues to grouse about the restaurant’s poor service, but Ferdinand steers him back to their previous conversation. “I do not think it would be safe for me to travel to Morfis at this time. I understand the unrest may persist for quite a while.”
“I suppose that depends on the combatants,” Stefan says smoothly. “There are valid points to both sides, naturally.”
“You do not have a strong opinion on the matter?” Ferdinand asks.
“I am but a simple equestrian. I imagine that you are far better informed on the matter than I am. How does the Empire feel?”
Hubert realizes he is currently strangling a dishrag in his hands, so he retreats to the far wall of the dining hall and waits in the shadows there.
“I am afraid that I am not at liberty to disclose whether such matters are even under discussion,” Ferdinand says, “much less whether a determination has been made. Perhaps it is not for the empire to say.”
“Is Adrestia not the same empire that struck down the wicked Church of Seiros? I thought it was your duty to put an end to injustice wherever it lurked.”
“Oh,” Ferdinand says, “the simple equestrian knows his politics after all.”
Hubert catches himself smiling, and quickly wipes it away.
“It is hard not to hear of your valiant efforts, Prime Minister,” Stefan says, his tone far too syrupy. “I am so pleased to have the chance to bask in your greatness in person.”
Hubert risks a glance over at their table, only to find Ferdinand reaching across it. And as though broken glass were grinding into his skin, he cannot look away as Ferdinand brushes his gloved hand atop Stefan’s.
“And I am pleased as well.”
The glamour on Hubert’s skin stutters. His time is nearly up.
If he wished to, he could go renew it with more blood. But what is he, but another flatterer? Another suitor who failed to capture the prime minister’s attention away from his work.
No, he cannot even lay claim to that, he thinks, as he smears away the eavesdropping sigil inked behind his ear. To be a suitor, he would have had to make his interest known.
He would have had to be forward. Flattering. Determined. Commanding. All things he can never be.
He cast one last look of Ferdinand gilded in the dining hall lights before he retreats to the shadows, his magic ending once again.
I found myself most disappointed when you did not join me for lunch today. True, we had not made prior arrangements, but your absence was felt nonetheless. I had hoped after the war I might be rid of this irksome desire I feel for your presence, but it does not seem to be the case. I hope to find a solution soon.
The next morning, Hubert is nearly sideswiped by a gigantic bouquet of red roses as he tries to make his way through the palace halls.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asks the poor page buried beneath the load. “I ordered no such thing for the household.”
“It’s not for the household,” the page says. “A gift for prime minister. From an admirer.”
Hubert feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him. Multiple dozens of roses, when even a single one would amount to more than any gift he has ever given Ferdinand. He could order the page to destroy them, but what would be the point?
“Very well,” he says, his voice impossibly small to his ears. “Carry on.”
When Ferdinand’s joins him in his office for lunch, it is all Hubert can do not to send him away.
“I would have thought you’d be dining with your admirer again,” Hubert says viciously, not looking up from his work as Ferdinand sits opposite him.
“What? Oh. The flowers.” From the corner of Hubert’s eye, Ferdinand shrugs and props his boots up on Hubert’s desk. “They were excessive, I suppose.”
“Perhaps they think you deserve excess,” Hubert mutters.
“Well, maybe it is because the Aegir family has never wanted for material needs,” Ferdinand says, “but I find mere gifts rather cheap, don’t you agree? It’s deeds that impress me far more. Ones that demonstrates true thoughtfulness.”
Hubert finds he has crumpled the missive before him, and must smooth it out. Trying to keep his tone light, he asks, “So you are not taken in by your admirer’s gestures?”
Ferdinand swallows the bite of the apple he’d been chewing, and Hubert carefully watches the thumb he uses to wipe a dribble of juice from his chin and rosy lower lip. “I did not say that.”
“I would not have thought you had time for such distractions, Prime Minister.” Hubert clenches his jaw. “What with your busy schedule, and such.”
There is a long silence; he can almost feel Ferdinand’s glare boring into him. “Perhaps I enjoy the attention.” Ferdinand’s boots drop from the desk. “Goddess knows I do not get it elsewhere.”
Hubert winces, shrinking into his shoulders. “You are the prime minister. Half the Empire is clamoring for your attention.”
Ferdinand turns his head away. “That is not what I meant.”
“Fine,” Hubert snarls. “If you wish to waste your time with some charlatan equestrian, I suppose that’s your business. But don’t expect the rest of us to pick up your slack.”
Ferdinand’s head whips back toward Hubert. “I shall waste all the time I please. In fact, I shall accept his offer to join him for supper this evening at his hotel suite.” He stands straight, orange eyes blazing. So bright, yet hateful that Hubert has to look away. “Unless you have any objection, Minister?”
“It’s your damn life. Squander away.”
He cannot allow himself to watch as Ferdinand stomps from his office and slams the door. No matter the heat consuming his face or the ache devouring his heart. He has to focus on the latest reports from Morfis before him. Even if he has to read them over three times before he fully comprehends their meaning.
Before he fully comprehends . . .
Hubert sits up suddenly, a renewed blaze steeling him.
While I cannot share your great love for the opera, horse husbandry, or tea—I cherish the way those things all matter to you. Is there any such thing worth cherishing in me? I know that beyond my relentless efforts to bring about a new order—beyond the blood staining my hands, so that other’s might stay clean—I am only a shadow to you, underneath.
As Hubert picks the lock on the opulent penthouse suite where Stefan Gagliano is residing, he reassures himself that this time, he really does have due cause for suspicion.
The windows are inky blue with dusk, but the suite is otherwise dark as he slips inside and re-locks the door. He has never stayed at the Hotel Grand before, never having need to, but the luxury is apparent in every inch of the décor, rivaling the Imperial Palace itself in its most overindulgent days, before Her Majesty enacted change. He makes a cursory sweep off of the suite’s rooms, but he is not here to search for evidence this time. He would prefer to deal directly with his source now.
So he settles himself in a corner armchair just out of view of the suite’s front door, shrouded in shadows, and readies a Mire spell.
And waits.
And waits.
At long last, a key turns in the lock and the door creaks open. Stefan Gagliano, all of his airs and subterfuge gone, reaches for the light beside where Hubert sits—
And howls as the Mire spell locks him into place.
Hubert’s shoulders ease. For the first time since dealing with the accursed man, he is finally, fully in his element. He has earned the tiny smile he now wears as he studies Gagliano.
“Minister Vestra.” Stefan glares at him, radiant with fury. “I was wondering when you finally decide to make an appearance.”
“Ah, so you do know who I am after all.”
Stefan grimaces. “Unfortunately.”
Hubert steeples his fingers before him, and leans forward in the chair, his face just barely grazed by the lamplight. “Then I suppose you know why I am here.”
“Because you’re ridiculously in love with that fop you call a prime minister,” Stefan says, “as any imbecile can see—”
Hubert twitches one finger, and an array of Dark Spikes dance around Stefan’s form, threatening to press in. How desperately he wants to let those loose, give purpose to his burning rage and hatred and envy—
But he stops them just short of piercing flesh, and narrows his eyes. “Do you wish to guess again?”
Stefan shrugs, as much as the Mire’s stranglehold will allow him to. “I haven’t a clue.”
“You did not know that the Morfis Revolutionary Guard sent you and your carnival act on a tour of Fódlan for the express purpose of swaying the Adrestian Empire to your cause?” Hubert shakes his head. “My. If you were one of my spies, I’d say you deserved whatever misfortune befell you.”
Stefan howls, and tries to break free from the spell’s grasp, but Hubert refreshes it with a smile. “Damn you!”
Hubert crosses one leg over the other. “There is no use in denying it. And I can do so, so much worse. So you might as well admit what your intentions were with the prime minister.”
The Dark Spikes’ reflections glisten in Stefan’s wide, agonized eyes. He thrashes against the Mire spell again, but Hubert—he can maintain such a spell all day, if necessary. He is at last in his element in this whole absurd charade, and is loathe to step out of it.
“Fine.” Stefan slumps within the spell’s strictures. “I was supposed to persuade him to support our cause through any means necessary,” Stefan says. “But I won’t give you names. The Revolutionary Guard will rise and conquer the land for all of Morf—”
Hubert rolls his eyes. “You’ll have plenty of time for your manifesto in the dungeons.” He casts a Sleep spell to enshroud him, and Stefan slumps to the floor, conscious.
Hubert sits back with a heavy groan.
It’s over.
No more flattering horseman vying for Ferdinand’s affection. At least, not this time. Things can go back to the way they were, and he can . . .
He can do nothing. As always. Except, perhaps, find some way to dispel this illusion that he is hopelessly in love with the prime minister, as Stefan suggested—
There is a thud somewhere within the suite. Hubert stands and pulls a dagger from his boot—
Only for Ferdinand to appear in the doorway from the suite’s bedroom.
“Hubert?” Ferdinand gasps.
Hubert is frozen to the spot, dagger tipped back, ready to be thrown. “Ferdinand?” He lowers the dagger, bewilderment turning to suspicion. “What on earth are you doing here?” He glances past him, to the bedroom—
“I should ask you the same damn thing!” Ferdinand is clutching a stack of papers to his chest; his hair and the shoulders of his jacket are shrouded in dust bunnies. “I was trying to flush out a Morfis spy.”
Hubert’s limbs feel warm. He tries to make sense of Ferdinand’s words, which he’s quite certain are in a language he speaks, but nonetheless do not add up. “No,” he says, “I was trying to flush out a Morfis spy. And he confessed, so—” Hubert gestures hopelessly to the unconscious Stefan at his feet. “So I’m afraid your admirer was only trying to use you.”
Ferdinand rolls his eyes. “Of course he was. I am cleverer than you think, you know. I was waiting to have a plausible excuse for the hotel staff to permit me to enter his suite, so I could search for his correspondence—which I found, thank you very much, along with the book he was using as a pad! Can you believe he only had a single book in all his luggage? Tragic, honestly. Anyway, I was in the middle of decrypting his messages with his handlers when you so rudely intervened and I had to hide under the bed—for nearly an hour—”
“Wait. Do you mean that—you knew he was a spy all along?”
Ferdinand huffs, a sad smile twisting his lips. “You have trained me well in counterintelligence.”
With dread rising around him like a tide, Hubert forces himself to look at the booklet and stack of letters in Ferdinand’s hands. “And you were copying his correspondence? To bring to my attention?”
Ferdinand’s shoulders fall, and he looks down. I thought you . . . might be impressed if I were to handle this matter on my own.” He shakes his head, dust motes drifting free. “Perhaps I should have alerted you sooner, but—you have seemed so displeased with me of late—”
“Ferdinand. I could never be displeased with you.” Hubert’s breath catches in his throat. “But I thought you were—”
Hubert stops mid-sentence as the puzzle pieces finally lock into place, and his life flashes before his eyes.
“Ferdinand,” he asks, voice trembling, “are you telling me that you know how to decode a Vestra cipher?”
What would you say if you could read these words? How would you respond if I were to illuminate the darkest corners of my heart? If I told you all I felt for you, would you recoil in horror? Would you placate me with that false smile you wear for delegates and diplomats? Or is there a chance—any chance—that you might feel the same?
I’ll never know, because the pain it brings me now is nothing I can’t bear. Not next to the possibility of losing this bond we already share. I cannot risk trying to draw you closer only to push you further away. I hope—for us both—this can be enough.
The next few days are a flurry of interrogations, arrests, urgent messages sent by pegasus to Morfis, strategy sessions with Her Majesty, and an endless mountain of reports to write and review and file. Ferdinand contributes significantly to the whole proceedings, given the role he chose for himself as bait, but Hubert scarcely more than glimpses him throughout the process. He is in the spotlight, and Hubert, as ever, remains in shadow.
It is only once the bulk of the work has receded, and Hubert is trying to return his attention to other tasks, that his secretary knocks nervously and steps into his office.
“Erm. Prime Minister Aegir is here to see you, Minister.”
Hubert tries to ignore the bitter sting in his heart at that name. “I’ve already told you, he doesn’t need my permission to enter. You’re always free to send him right in.”
“I know, Minister.” He bows his head. “But he wanted me to check with you this time, just to be certain.”
Hubert closes his eyes. His lungs refuse to draw air; his skin burns with the prick of those dark, jealous thorns. He was an immense fool to put such selfish, vulnerable thoughts into writing in his little coded postscripts to Ferdinand. But he was an even bigger idiot to underestimate the man.
Of course he devoted himself to mastering the Vestra cipher. Of course he saw right through Gagliano’s ruse. Of course he had the audacity to think he could run an asset dangle operation without so much as informing the imperial spymaster, and of course he succeeded at it—with far more to show for it than Hubert’s own pitiful excuse of an investigation, burdened as it was by his own blinding envy.
And now he cannot even give Hubert a moment’s respite to stew in his own shortcomings and failings. Because to do so—would be wholly unlike Ferdinand.
And Hubert is in love with him for it. As any fool, apparently, can see.
“Go on. Send him in.” Hubert flicks a miserable hand at the door and shrinks down in his chair.
Ferdinand shuffles in, a bundle of papers clutched in one gloved hand. His shoulders are hunched, but when he lifts his head to look at Hubert, there is a careful smile on his lips, and it might as well be an envenomed dagger for all it pierces Hubert through.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand says softly, coming to a stop before his desk.
Hubert takes a deep breath. There’s no use dancing around the matter. If he’s ever to be interrogated, his foes need only send Ferdinand to make him crack.
“I apologize for the gross levels of . . . unprofessionalism I have displayed of late.” He winces. “Both in my conduct pursuing the Morfis spy, and my repeated offenses in coded messages I wrote to you. I have no excuse for the first, but the latter, you must understand, they were never actually intended to be read—”
“I know,” Ferdinand says. “That’s why I endeavored to read them.”
Hubert isn’t sure what to say to that. He fiddles with the metal puzzle toy on his desk—he never did slot it back together after Ferdinand solved it. “If you could read them, why didn’t you say anything?”
Ferdinand drums his fingers against his bundle of papers. “I thought about it. I wrote back, even—several times. But I never sent it.” He holds the bundle up, then lets his hand drop. “Ultimately, I decided that—if you actually wanted me to know how you felt, then I wanted you to say it to me.” His voice wavers. “In person. Unafraid.”
Hubert’s body feels hollowed out. Surely Ferdinand understands that he could never speak those things aloud. “But—why?”
With slow, quiet steps, Ferdinand moves around the desk, and comes to stand before him. Hubert leans back in his chair to take in the sight of him—his impeccable suit, his waves of hair gleaming copper, his face clear—open—bared. It hurts how beautiful he is, and hurts all the more to know who he is beneath such a lovely façade. Maybe it would have hurt less, after all, to feel the quick slap of rejection and then let this constant ache fade.
“You heard, I trust, what I told Gagliano as to why I have not taken a suitor.”
Hubert blinks. “At the Starlight? But I was—”
“Disguised as Georgie the waiter. I know.” Ferdinand smiles sadly. “I realized it as soon as Georgie failed to tell me about his latest trials and tribulations auditioning with the various theatre companies in our fine capital.”
“Flames,” Hubert mutters, “maybe you should be the bloody spymaster.”
Ferdinand shrugs it off. “I cannot possibly entertain a suitor with my attention so wholly fixed elsewhere. Which it is. And . . . and has been. For some time.”
It is a strange mixture of relief and disappointment that flushes through Hubert then. It will take time—but perhaps an end to his suffering is in sight. “Congratulations,” he mumbles. “Then I—I wish you all the best.”
“Goddess, you’re so damned dense,” Ferdinand says, and slaps the bundle of papers onto the desk.
Hubert flips through the notes with numb fingers. Each one is formatted much the same—a brief plaintext message at the top, with a painstakingly crafted ciphertext at the bottom. All using the Vestra cipher with their agreed-upon key from the Eagle’s Fury libretto. He couldn’t begin to focus enough to decode them just now, so he reads the plaintext instead.
Of course I can manage your silly code, you insufferable sow—
It is just as well you will not read this, either, because I would hate to bruise that outsize ego of yours—
If you are so vexed by my presence, then I am happy to remove it. Yours has been a constant vexation to me for years. But a comfort, as well—and I do not think my absence is what either of us truly wants.
The way your eyes lit up when you told me of your latest fait accompli for Her Majesty—have you any idea how lovely and devastating that expression is? I wish I could be the source of that for you as well. A selfish thought, but since we’re being candid here—
Perhaps it is unfair of me, but I am greatly pleased to know my absence today pained you. Not because I wish to bring you pain. But if I am to suffer in my fondness for you, at least I need not suffer alone—
It pains me when you speak of yourself as a shadow this way. You are more than your deeds for Her Majesty, and far more than whatever blood you’ve shed. You are devoted—loving—loyal. You give of your whole self, and your whole self is more than enough of a gift. I only wish I could deserve it someday.
If only either of us had the courage to speak these thoughts out loud. You were cruel to me once, in our youth, but this cruelty is somehow made all the worse for the affection behind it. So let me inflict my own wounds:
I have been in love with you long enough to forget how it feels to not be. Fervently enough to know no one else can ever compare. And if all I can do is put it in words you’ll never read, then at least I’ve spoken my truth.
Hubert glances back up at him, his vision watery.
“Did you really think,” Ferdinand says, “that you were so alone?”
Hubert reaches for Ferdinand’s gloved hand; Ferdinand allows him to clasp it between his own, and bring it to his lips, so he can kiss white satin knuckles as he tries not to let a tear slip free.
“I love you,” Hubert says. “I love you so much that it’s blinded me to everything else. Including, I suppose, your own feelings. But when I saw you being courted, showered in affection and gifts and flattering words—”
Ferdinand’s fingers squeeze around him. “I don’t want gifts. Blatant displays. Empty promises.” He takes a step closer; his free hand cups Hubert’s cheek. “I want the devotion of one whose loyalty is extremely hard-won. Whose compliments are never empty, even if they have to be dragged loose sometimes. And even if it is unendingly frustrating, someone who treasures me so much they must try to meter that affection in some ridiculous code—”
Hubert stands abruptly. “Ferdinand.”
Ferdinand smiles like daybreak. “Hubert.”
“May I kiss you?” Hubert asks. “Or should I put it in writing first?”
In response, Ferdinand leans up to meet his lips.
And those lips alone taste far sweeter and brighter than all Hubert’s imaginings. A searing light clearing away those envious vines. A balm on the wounds left by thorns. He brings his arm around Ferdinand’s back, holding him, this solid, incredible man, and when Ferdinand nudges his lips apart, he must cling to him to keep from being completely undone.
Their mouths fit like two puzzle pieces—different but a pair. A code unraveling into truth. Ferdinand sighs softly, and it fits into a hole in Hubert’s heart he’s long ignored—but now that he has it, he will keep it safe, secure there.
Their mouths part, reluctant, but Ferdinand’s forehead stays pressed to the bridge of his nose; he keeps Hubert in a steady hold.
“Well,” Ferdinand says.
Hubert laughs gently. “Well.”
Ferdinand’s lashes flutter at Hubert’s cheek as he closes his eyes. “Might you join me for supper at the Starlight this evening? I would—I would like to rinse out my distasteful previous evening there with that miserable, deceitful cur.”
Hubert exhales, shaky. “It would be a pleasure. So long as—erm—Georgie can forgive me—”
“I’m sure we can manage that.”
I promise I will tell you this in person, but I must thank you again for an enchanting evening that, for all we tried to prolong it, I still never wished to end.
It was never my intention to disappoint or vex you in any way, and I realize I have much to make up for. So I hope you will allow me to court you formally, in the manner you deserve. And so no other suitors might come calling, in which case I may be forced to investigate them for any number of unseemly crimes. (I jest. Mostly.)
I remain yours: devoted, enamored, and happily distracted, though thankfully no longer tormented—at least not in the same way—
HvV