The Search for the Lost Husband is a very widespread tale, closely related to Beauty and the Beast and The Master-Maid. Sometimes it seems like it's a default ending for fairy tales.
A young woman marries a supernatural male, who seems monstrous at first in the daytime, only appearing human (and unreasonably attractive) at night. The wife breaks a taboo, and her husband vanishes. She then searches the world until she finds him and they are reunited.
The shero is a woman, and her opponent is usually one as well - an enchantress who's trapped the husband, or a rival princess who wishes to wed him. In their notes, the Grimms wax a little poetical on how the story is about the heart being tried so that "everything evil falls away in recognition of pure love." There's also an interesting note about, in this case, light being an ill omen and darkness being good. This goes back to the taboo. Often, she takes a candle and spies on her husband in the night to see his human form, or attempts to break his spell/curse by other means.
Karen Bamford has a good analysis. The wife's journey is an act of atonement; she does penance for sinning against her divine husband, and wins him back through toil and effort.
In many cases, her long journey takes her through some kind of otherworld. In an Arabic version, "The Camel Husband," the young wife goes to the land of the djinn. The land East of the Sun and West of the Moon is a place beyond the bounds of the physical world and the laws of nature. Psyche (although her story is rather 425B, Mother-in-Law's Tasks or Son of a Witch --no offense to Aphrodite!--) literally goes through hell (ie Tartarus; she just has to ask Persephone for some beauty cream --while avoiding Charon, Cerberus, the Eumenides, the Fates, and other assorted denizens of the classical underworld!--).
This quest allows her to finally truly break the spell on her husband and resurrect him from a "metaphoric death" (Bamford). In many tales, the wife visits the husband during the night, while he lies in a drugged sleep, and tries repeatedly to awaken him. In "Nix Nought Nothing," (AT 313, ie Master Maid) the husband falls into sleep similar to Sleeping Beauty (genderflipped as a Sleeping Beau), ditto in "El sueño de san Juan" (AT 437; Aurelio Espinosa, A.R. Almodóvar, the frame story of the Pentamerone), and only the true bride can symbolically raise him from the dead with the power of love. In Cupid and Psyche, Cupid lies wounded for quite some time.
I found a Japanese folklore site that had an interesting perspective. (As seen through Google Translate, but whatever.) The bride's or groom's animal shape is the physical body (karada), and their human shape represents the soul or heart (kokoro), but that non-physical part of the self belongs to the otherworld. Death and rebirth are required to truly bring it into the real world. So then you have stories like the "Frog Prince" or "The White Cat Bride" where the enchanted animal spouse/fiancé must be thrown against a wall, burned to a crisp, or have their head cut off.
The folklorist Jan-Öjvind Swahn summarizes the AT 425 tale-type as
follows: ‘A mortal woman breaks the taboo which is incidental to her association
with a supernatural male, and he thus disappears. She searches for him,
finds and regains him.’ The AT 425 tale-type is an old story – one of the
oldest – with over 1500 versions on record from all over the European
language area and beyond.4 According to Richard Dorson, these ‘are only a
fragment of the mass of variants that could be accumulated from the living
oral tradition’. Donald Ward states that AT 425 ‘has achieved an acceptance
through time and space and among peoples of the most diverse cultures as
[has] no other magic tale’.
He
disappears when she violates a taboo, frequently an oath of secrecy about his
condition. To regain him she must perform a penitential search, overcoming
apparently insuperable obstacles, such as climbing a glass hill (glacier?), as in the
Scottish ‘The Duke of Norroway’ and the German Eisenofen, or crossing the sea, as in the
German ‘The Singing, Springing Skylark’, or, as in the Italian ‘King Crin/Re Porco’ and many other worldwide questers in this tale-type, wearing out seven pairs of iron shoes, seven
iron mantles, seven iron walking-sticks, and seven iron sun-hats. Her search usually entails the protagonist’s
emotional and physical abjection: the shero of the Scottish ‘The Hoodie-Crow’ must wear horseshoes on hands and feet to pick her way over a hedge of
poison thorns.When the bride of ‘Sorrow and Love’ pursues her betrothed, she has ‘only thin slippers on, and soon began to look more and more
like a tramp. Gave away all her jewellery in exchange for food ... Did not know
how to beg, as she had been brought up a lady. Asked everywhere for ... [him],
but no one knew the name. Nearly starved’. However, the AT 425 shero is usually aided in her quest by three female helpers–usually crones, sometimes
her husband’s relatives – who give her three valuable objects; they may also
impose tasks, such as filling a bowl with tears. When she at last finds her husband – ‘east of the sun, and west of the moon’, in the words of the
well-known Scandinavian version – he is about to be married to another; the true wife bargains with the false one, exchanging the three gifts
for three nights in the same room as her husband. On the first two nights the
husband sleeps, drugged by the rival bride, while the shero pleads for
recognition. So, in ‘The Duke of Norroway’, she sings:
Seven lang years I served for thee,
The glassy hill I clamb for thee,
The bluidy shirt I wrang for thee;
And wilt thou no wauken and turn to me?
When he finally awakes – as if from the dead – and recognizes her, the spell is
broken: he rejects the false bride and embraces the true one.
It would obviously be impossible to ascribe a single meaning to a tale so
old and so various. A story’s significance changes with each retelling.20 However,
the remarkable stability of the tale-type over time and space allows us to risk a
few generalizations. First of all, it is woman-centered; indeed, Swahn believes
that ‘it developed almost exclusively in a female milieu’. It thus resembles the
South and Southeast Asian ‘women-centered tales’ identified by A. K. Ramanujan: tales ‘told by older women about women and often to younger women’, in which ‘saving,
rescuing, or reviving a man, often solving riddles on his behalf, becomes the
life-task of the heroine (read: shero). In such tales females predominate .... The antagonists
are usually women ... [and] her chief helpers also tend to be women.’
Ramanujan also notes that ‘marriage begins rather than ends the story; a
separation ensues, and then a rescue of the male by the female’. The protagonists in these stories, Ramanujan continues, ‘are true cousins of
the feisty heroines (read: sheroes) in Shakespeare’s comedies that owe their plots to Italian
novellas, which in turn are related to tales in the 1001 Nights and the
Kathaasaritsagara/Ocean of Story.’ Since it is
a female-centered tale, we see things from the protagonist’s point of view. Thus
her husband is both beast and god; monstrous and beautiful; frightening and
desirable. The tale-type is also clearly about the sexual initiation of the
female; the transforming power of erotic love; and the domestication of the
male, the mysterious and foreign Other.
The AT 425 (Lost Husband) / AT 313 (Master Maid) protagonist typically pays for her ‘sin’ by the ordeal of the search
that characterizes this tale-type. Her journey is thus like a pilgrimage – an act
of atonement – and not surprisingly, in some versions she actually
dresses as a pilgrim (she is outright called "la peregrina" across Spanish lost-husband tales, whether with beastly bridegrooms or master maids). Her search also has some of the features of an otherworldly journey: in Apuleius, Psyche must literally go to hell (ie Tartarus, in order to get mother-in-law Aphrodite a jar of Persephone's beauty cream); in an Arabic
version, ‘The Camel Husband’, the heroine travels ‘into the land of the Djinn’, crossing ‘the boundary between the world above and the world
beneath’. (Sub-type J, unique to the Irish-Gaelic tradition, is actually named
‘the maid who serves in hell’). This arduous search is also redemptive, since
it finally allows the shero to break the spell on her husband, bringing him
back from a metaphoric death, and restoring him to his true identity. The
eponymous camel husband in the Islamic tale above tells his wife, ‘you have opened
the way for my return. From today I can live not as a camel, but as a man.’ In most versions (and again, the ‘Beauty and the Beast’ sub-type presents an
exception), the husband’s alienation from his true self is expressed in his
betrothal to another woman, the rival whom the shero has to supplant. The
happy re-marriage that concludes the plot is thus at once the shero’s
triumphant achievement and the reward for her labours.
Like the protagonist in Basile’s ‘Pinto Smalto’ (AKA Laboulaye's Perlino, which masterfully weaves Snow Queen elements into his French retelling!), who makes her own ideal husband (husbando?) by hand, Giletta di Narbona refuses
all her suitors. --The motif of the husband
literally constructed by the female protagonist also appears in Calvino’s ‘The Handmade King’ (Il reuccio fatto a mano), Italian Folktales, 489–93. In a West Virginia variant, ‘The Dough
Prince,’ the handmade husband (‘straight, tall, and very handsome’) leaves the
heroine to campaign against some bandits ‘in some far-off land’, where he is captured by the ‘queen of the palace’; see Ruth Ann Musick, ed., Green Hills
of Magic: West Virginia Folktales from Europe (Lexington, 1970), 149. See also
‘Master Semolina’, in Folktales of Greece, ed. Georgios Megas, trans. Helen
Coloclides (Chicago, 1970), 60–5.-- She pays for her inordinate desire with the pain of Beltramo’s
desertion (to fight in foreign wars, maybe against the Habsburgs? - Austria is mentioned as the enemy in Shakespeare's AWtEW) on their wedding day; and his subsequent written refusal to return to France from Italy. Like the typical AT 425/AT 313 shero, too, Giletta embarks on a search
for her lost husband, and as a pilgrim, she presumably travels on foot, a
constant feature of the traditional search. She also finds her husband sexually
in thrall to another woman, and bargains for the opportunity to spend the
night with him. Finally, she begs him to recognize her as his true wife on the
basis of her labors, and the story ends with their happy remarriage.
In Shakespeare's adaptation AWtEW, in any case, Bertram
figures in Helena’s ‘idolatrous fancy’ as this fairytale's bridegroom: he is both a
young god and a savage beast. Like the ‘handsome youth’ Pintosmalto or Perlino made of sugar,
almonds, gold (pure gold thread for literal golden hair) and precious jewels (literal emerald orbs, pearly whites, and ruby lips) in the Italian tale, Helena’s Bertram is a love-object
fashioned by desire.
By presenting the heroine’s flight from the Roussillon as an act of genuine
self-abnegation, rather than a conscious stratagem, Shakespeare sacrifices the
logic of the source tale: as many critics have complained, it is difficult to
reconcile Helena’s stated intentions in act 3 (self-immolation) with her
opportunistic orchestration of the bed-trick in act. But Shakespeare gains
a great deal: not only does he mitigate anxieties about his heroine’s display of
agency, he heightens her resemblance to the immensely sympathetic and
popular AT 425 and 313 shero, whose travel and travail are acts of atonement.
In the AT 425 and 313 tales the act of recognition itself is enough to free the
husband from enchantment. At the end of ‘The Hoodie-Crow’, the husband
declares, ‘That is my married wife ... and no one else will I have’, and at that
very moment the spells fell off him, and never more would he be a hoodie’. The simplicity of this ending satisfies because it is generically appropriate: we
accept it just as we accept the original premise of a corvid’s marriage to a human girl.
Shakespeare, however, famously problematizes his folk-tale materials, arousing different, conflicting generic expectations.6 Most readers want more from
Bertram than the few words Shakespeare allows him: as Susan Snyder observes, ‘the intractable baseness of its hero ... makes the happy ending feel not
inherent but imposed by fiat.’ Or, as Carolyn Asp puts it succinctly, ‘The
frog prince remains a frog until the end and the princess chooses to overlook
his slimy skin and love him warts and all.’
Is Shakespeare's Helena/Gilletta self-denying as her soliloquy in 3.2 implies, or self-seeking as her actions in
Florence may suggest? Some of these
contradictions dissolve, I believe, if we acknowledge Helena as ‘the wife who
searches for her lost husband’, a figure who is typically at once obsessive and
saintly; indeed, the obsessiveness is an aspect of the saintliness. Crucially in
this narrative tradition, the wife forfeits her husband through her own fault:
she is responsible for his disappearance, as Helena insists that she is to blame
for Bertram’s flight. Like Helena’s, the wife’s quest for the lost husband is at
once a penitential pilgrimage and a rescue mission. She redeems him from the
alienation of enchantment, symbolized in the person of the rival bride (Parisian noblemaiden Maud Lafeu in Shakespeare's AWtEW), not simply by her wit, but also through her suffering and with external aid. Both
agent and patient, she embodies a powerful stereotype of female sheroism.
Work Text:
Caspar eyed the suspicious liquid in his metallic chalice nervously, swirling it around with his hand and frowning at the way the pale drink splashed at the sides of the goblet, threatening to spill onto his uniform.
It was late into the evening of a free day at Garreg Mach, and Caspar was sat crouched in the corner of the courtyard with none other than Claude and Sylvain, arguably, two of the more chaotic students at the Officer’s Academy.
“You’re acting like it’s some sort of poison!” Claude laughed, raising his own glass to his lips, “Go on, have a sip.”
Caspar had found the two laughing manically at something or the other, drinking from chalices obviously swiped from the dining hall, with their legs stretched out as they leaned against the wall. When he asked them what they were doing, they invited him over to have a drink with them, and being as proud as he was, Caspar couldn’t deny the offer. It wasn’t like he’d never had a drink before, right? Right.
He laughed awkwardly, raising the drink so he could sniff at it, scowling at the bitter scent. “Uh, yeah, I’ll take a sip now!” he declared, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He slowly raised the goblet to his lips, eyes shifting up to see the amused glints dancing in the other boys’ eyes as he had a mouthful, swallowing dramatically. He felt a burning sensation tickle at his throat, and he desperately tried to cover up how his eyebrows were begging to furrow in distaste.
“Not so bad, right?” Sylvain smiled easily, downing his own drink and pouring himself another glassful from the tall bottle. It was some fancy alcohol from the Alliance, huh? Sure didn’t taste like it.
“Yeah, pretty good actually,” Caspar lied through his teeth, taking another chug to solidify his point.
“Yep, a lovely lady gifted it to me in town.” Sylvain nodded, letting his hands rest at the nape of his neck as he leaned his head back against the cold stone of the wall.
Claude snorted, “Yeah right.” Sylvain slapped him playfully on the shoulder and Caspar found himself laughing with the others, rocking back on his heels, cautiously taking another sip and deciding that the drink wasn’t as foul as it tasted before. Sure, it was still far from good, but at least it wasn’t awful anymore. He felt lighter than before, chuckling at the little jokes Claude and Sylvain made as they chatted and drank together.
“Hey little guy, are you sure you’re okay there?” Claude asked after a while, when the bottle was left with only droplets remaining, noticing the pink flush dusting Caspar’s cheeks and the way the shorter boy’s eyelids were drooping low.
“What? Yeah, I’m good, thank for askin’” he slurred slowly, wide grin encasing his face. “You got any more of this stuff?” he tipped the goblet back, frowning when nothing spilled out onto his tongue.
“Sorry man, we’re all out.” Sylvain had a pink flush dusting his own cheeks, but other than that, he showed no visible indication of being even slightly intoxicated.
“I think we should get you to bed now.” Claude said, and Sylvain nodded, standing up and dusting the dirt off his back.
“Mm, we leavin’ already?” Caspar tried to stand up, wobbling on his feet and almost falling back onto his ass, but luckily was caught by the other two, an arm supporting and helping him stand on each side. “Whoa, what was that?” he laughed, hearing Claude huff from beside him as they started walking slowly towards the dormitories.
“I don’t know why,” Sylvain began, noting the way Caspar frequently stumbled, standing on his or Claude’s foot, “but I feel like this might have been your first time drinking.” Claude snickered as Caspar’s cheeks grew even redder than they were before.
“What do you mean by that, huh? Of course I’ve had a drink before!” Caspar spoke almost shrilly.
“Hey, c’mon,” Claude laughed, shushing Caspar, “we don’t wanna let Teach or anyone else hear about this whole incident.” Caspar looked confused, so Claude elaborated, “You know, we’re kind of not old enough to be drinking.”
“At least not in front if the Professors. Otherwise, I’d say it’s part of the experience.” Sylvain commented with a dreamy smile. Perhaps he was more drunk than he previously let on.
“You’re both really bad influences.” Caspar grinned as they hobbled through the courtyard.
As they rounded the corner, Caspar felt his limbs drag behind him. “Caspar?” A familiar voice called, but to him it just looked like a blur of green and back. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Oh, hey Linhardt.” Claude greeted, getting a nod from the sleepy noble who glanced at the trio cautiously.
“Huh- Lin!” Caspar repeated excitedly, lifting the arm he had around Sylvain’s neck to wave at his friend.
“Yeah, we’ve kinda got an issue...” Sylvain chuckled as Caspar ambled to go stand beside his emerald haired friend.
“I can see that.” He commented, blue eyes scrutinising the drunk boy as he leaned his weight against him.
“We didn’t know he hadn’t had a drink before, and the next thing we knew, he ended up smashed!” the redhead laughed with mirth. “We were just taking him back to his dorm an-“
“I’ll take him.” Linhardt sighed, wrapping one arm around Caspar’s waist to support him better. “He can be an absolute pain to look after if you don’t know how to deal with him.”
“Hey! ‘M still here, y’know!” Caspar piped in, resting his head against Linhardt’s shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Sylvain asked, ignoring Caspar entirely.
Claude’s eyes glinted mischievously as he watched the two interact before him, Caspar snuggling closer into Limhardt’s side “I think that Caspar would like it better if we left it as just the two of them.” He winked at Linhardt who narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion, and Claude turned to walk away with Sylvain “Thanks again!” he called, turning back around the corner and leaving the two alone in the torch lit corridor leading to the staircase.
“Let’s get this over with,” he drawled, dragging Caspar with him to the base of the stairs, “Come on, just because you’re a little tipsy it doesn’t mean I’m going to pull your weight until we get there.”
“I’m not tipsy!” Caspar lifted his head from the crook of Linhardt’s neck so he could shoot a weak glare at the other, who simply rolled his eyes as they slowly ascended the stairs.
“The blush on your face says otherwise,” Caspar lifted his hands to feel at his cheeks, “so, you’re definitely a little tipsy. Honestly,” a smile graced Linhardt’s lips, “how much alcohol do you think that little body of yours can take?”
“Asshole,” Caspar grumbled as they reached the top of the steps, “I can take plenty, thank you very much! More than you can, probably.”
“Probably.” Linhardt huffed as they reached Caspar’s dorm, his hand resting on the small of the other’s back to keep him steady as he fished through his pocket for his key. “Hurry up, I’m getting tired.” Linhardt yawned into his free hand.
“Alright! Give me a minut- got it!” Caspar reached forward, missing the keyhole once or twice before the door was unlocked, his whole weight pressed against it, stumbling as it swung open. Linhardt grabbed his hand, steadying him, and led him to sit on the bed.
“Sit here,” Caspar slumped against the wall and kicked his legs up and down much like an energetic child, “as tired as I am, I’m going to go get you a glass of water.”
Just as Linhardt was turning to leave, he felt a firm hold on his wrist, “Wait, don’t go.”
“You’re going to feel terrible in the morning if you don’t drink some water.” Linhardt replied plainly, trying to banish a blush rivalling Caspar’s own which threatened to explode on his cheeks for different reasons than the other boy.
“I’ll feel even terribler if you go.” Caspar spoke seriously, his words slurring at the end.
“Terribler isn’t even a word.” He sighed, and yet, he found himself going to sit beside him on the bed, palm resting over Caspar’s.
“Well now it is.” He felt a head rest on his shoulder again, blue hair tickling his chin.
“Are you going to fall asleep on my shoulder, Caspar? Because if you are, I find that terribly ironic, considering I’m the sleepy one here.”
“You can lean on my head.” Caspar murmured, his breaths evening out and slowing down as he snuggled further into Linhardt.
“Our necks are going to hurt when we wake up.” He bent his neck awkwardly to lean on Caspar’s head.
“Mm, probably.” Caspar huffed, pulling the sheets over himself and Linhardt. “’Night.”
“Goodnight, Caspar.”
The next day he woke up with an incredibly sore neck and a cranky Caspar to care for, but he found that he didn’t particularly mind.
“I heard someone spiked the drinks.” Ashe whispered to Caspar, avoiding the herd of drunken teenagers who threatened to bump into him. The Garreg Mach Ball was in full swing, and the reception hall had been cleared out and decorated grandiosely.
“Hold on, I gave Linhardt a drink earlier this evening-“Caspar looked incredulously at Ashe.
“That might explain the way he’s been acting then.” Ashe smiled sheepishly, before frowning across the room at Sylvain, who was quite obviously the culprit.
“What do you mean by that?” They both turned around to head towards the table they left Linhardt to ‘nap’ at, in a secluded corner of the room.
“Well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
“Caspar!” Linhardt waved the other over enthusiastically, standing up from his seat at the table.
“Hey, Lin.” Caspar spoke hesitantly, noting the droop in Linhardt’s eyes and light flush on his cheeks. “You feeling okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he patted the seat beside him and Caspar sat, eyes searching Linhardt’s expression for any more signs of drunkenness.
“What are we doing?” Linhardt leaned in, mimicking Caspar and narrowing his eyes as he looked over the other’s face. Caspar could almost feel his breath on his face, and sprung backwards.
“N-Nothing!” he laughed nervously, “Well, actually-“
“If it’s about the spiked drinks, I don’t really care.” Linhardt let his head fall on Caspar’s.
“You knew, but you still drank it?”
“Hm, yes.” He snorted at Caspar’s flustered expression.
“Judging by the pink on your cheeks, I’m guessing you’ve had some too.” He lifted his head and poked at Caspar’s cheek to demonstrate his point.
Caspar groaned, “C’mon Lin, let’s get you back to your room before Seteth hears about any of this.”
Linhardt pouted, “But the ball’s only just begun, and I haven’t even been asked to dance yet.”
“You don’t like dancing, Lin.” Caspar replied, finding being the voice of reason more and more difficult with every moment that passed. He really wondered how Linhardt managed it.
“Yes,” he yawned loudly into his hand, “but it would be nice to be asked.”
“Okay then, would you like to dance?”
Linhardt smiled widely at Caspar, who had one hand held out to the other, “Actually, yes I would.” He took Caspar’s hand, and they both stood, “I promise I’ll go back to my room after this one dance.”
Ashe shook his head with a smile as he watched the pair clumsily dance with each other, a dark blush blossoming across Caspar’s face.
Caspar scrunched his face up, feeling fresh waves of pain pulse throughout his entire body. He forced his eyelids open, adjusting to the darkness of the room lit only by dim candles which were dangerously close to burning out, and tried to push his body into a sitting position, hissing at the sharp stabbing feeling he felt in his chest. Flopping back down onto his cardboard like pillow, he squinted his eyes, establishing from the beds surrounding him that he was in the monastery infirmary. He found himself here more often than not after the war had begun, always charging ahead on the front lines, and therefore, always getting beaten damn near to death by the end of each battle, despite the on-site healing he received.
The wound on his front was particularly bad, spanning from the left shoulder to navel, and Caspar cautiously tried to poke at his bandaged stomach, immediately yelping in pain as soon as he made contact, “Damn it!”
“Quiet...” he heard a muffled murmur from the bed beside him. He turned to look at the bed and was graced with the sight of a great big lump under the blankets with a head of green hair peeking out from the top, strands messily spread out across the pillow.
“Lin! What are you doing here?”
“Trying to sleep,” the other grumbled, shuffling under the sheets until he finally turned to face Caspar, “but I doubt that will be happening now you’re awake.” He was laying down wrapped tightly in his blanket with dull eyes scanning the wound at Caspar’s chest.
“Well, yeah! Don’t go back to sleep, I just woke up.” He ignored the sharp pain of his torso as he twisted to sit facing Linhardt, legs dangling off the side of the bed. The other didn’t reply, gaze still set firmly on Caspar’s bandaged front. “You okay there, buddy?” he asked after Linhardt remained silent for a few more moments.
His brows pinched as he spoke, “I should be asking you if you’re okay. If that gash were any deeper it would have killed you.”
Caspar flinched at his words, “But it didn’t, and that’s what counts, right?” He smiled sheepishly, trying to come across as unaffected by the harsh reality which Linhardt based his words on.
“I’m not joking, Caspar. You could have died.”
“Yeah, but you always patch me up, so what’s the problem?” Caspar’s raised his voice slightly.
“The problem is,” Linhardt began with a certain heat and intensity to his usually lax tone, sitting up to reveal similar bloodied bandages pulled taut against his skin, “I might not always be there. And then who will ‘patch you up'?”
“Lin, I-“
“You’re really too reckless, Caspar!” he shook his head, fingertips toying with the frayed hem of his blanket, “If you got hurt, and-and I wasn’t there to he-“
“I’m not going to die, Lin. Trust me.” Caspar spoke softly, wincing as he stood up to bridge the short gap between their two beds, sitting beside Linhardt now.
“You’re awfully confident about that.” The tension between the two was still palpable, the air feeling thick.
“Oh! Give me a minute, I’ve got an idea.” Linhardt felt the pressure on his bed shift again as Caspar got up to crouch behind the desk at the side of the room, shuffling through the drawers.
“What are you doing? Those are Manuela’s drawers, you know; you shouldn’t really be going through them.” Caspar paid no mind to Linhardt’s words and continued to dig deeper into one particular drawer, fingers brushing against stacks of paperwork until he procured a half empty bottle with a little noise of happiness. “Caspar...” Linhardt groaned.
“C’mon, Lin. this will help you lighten up a bit!” Caspar grinned as he stood up clutching his stomach with one hand and holding the bottle with the other, “Let’s have a little drink to ease the tension.”
“That’s ridiculous, this isn’t even our alcohol.”
“I’m sure Manuela won’t mind. Come on, scoot over.” Caspar nudged Linhardt’s wrist with the bottle, urging the other to lift the blanket to let him in. He sat beside Linhardt now, popping the cap off the bottle and smelling its contents before taking a long chug.
Linhardt looked at the other lethargically as he was offered the bottle, shaking his head before taking a sip. “This seems like a terrible way to ease the tension. Especially considering we’re both still healing.” He handed the bottle back to Caspar, who desperately tried to erase the thought of drinking from the same bottle as being an indirect kiss from Linhardt.
He laughed, “Probably. How strong do you think this stuff is anyway?”
“Strong enough, this is Manuela we’re talking about.” Even in the dim moonlight, which seeped in through a crack in the blinds, Caspar could see the faint dusting of pink across Linhardt’s cheeks.
“Hey, you’re blushing!” he pointed out, leaning in slightly to get a closer look “You can’t be drunk already!”
He averted his gaze from Caspar’s electric blue gaze, “I’m not drunk, I’ve had about two sips.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I want to go to sleep now.”
“Sounds like something a drunk person would say.” Linhardt ignored Caspar, letting his head fall on the other’s shoulder, shutting his eyes and finding one of Caspar’s rough hands which he held between his bandaged palms.
“Don’t be so reckless next time. Then we won’t have to drink to forget about it.” He cracked one eyelid open, noting the pink blush dancing across Caspar’s skin, “It looks as if you’re the drunk one now.”
Caspar’s blush wasn’t due to the alcohol, but he wasn’t about to tell Linhardt that.
The cold air was biting against Linhardt’s pale skin as he trudged through the desolate campsite towards a familiar blue head of hair. The other was sat on a log beside the hastily put out campfire, ceramic bottle lying beside him. His usually bright blue eyes were glazed over as he stared at the burnt kindling. He didn’t look up as Linhardt sat beside him, or when he felt a comforting palm rest on his knee.
“It’s cold out.” Linhardt commented dully, noting that the bottle by his ankles was empty.
“Yeah.” Caspar’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “You can go back to your tent if you want.”
“And leave you here?” Linhardt laughed dryly, hand searching for Caspar’s, weaving their fingers together tightly, “Don’t be so dim, Caspar. As much as I’d love to be wrapped up in a blanket, fast asleep, I think you need me more right now. You don’t really have the best coping mechanism.” He tried to joke, feeling Caspar’s hand loosen against his skin as he relaxed slightly. “You can talk to me, you know.”
“I know,” Caspar replied quietly, “it’s just-“
“He was your father. It’s okay for you to mourn his death.”
“It feels so wrong,” his voice trembled and Linhardt held his hand tighter, urging the other to continue, “to feel bad about an enemy general dying, but- he’s still my father!”
“There’s nothing wrong in it.” He spoke quietly.
Caspar let out a breath he was holding in, “..Yeah.” His eyes flickered upwards and he looked at Linhardt for the first time that night, “Could I have a-“
“A hug?” Linhardt finished easily as Caspar stumbled over his words. He nodded and let himself be pulled into a soft embrace, resting his chin on Linhardt’s shoulder.
Linhardt felt a dampness against his shoulder, and a warm breath stuttering against his neck. “I don’t know why I’m cryin’ now.” Caspar huffed, “It’s probably just the alcohol making me all emotional-“
“You should really stop drowning your sorrows like this, Caspar.” He spoke while drawing soothing circles against Caspar’s back with his fingertips. “I’m not sure that your liver will make it to the end of the war.”
“You’re probably right.” He laughed a little. “Thanks for being here, Lin. I mean it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”
“I know now might not be the time for it, but when I can’t see your face like this, it’s a little easier for me,” Linhardt hummed, urging Caspar to continue, “I just think that I really, really love you.”
Linhardt froze up, his shoulders tensing and grip around Caspar growing slack. “What?”
Caspar frowned as Linhardt pushed him back so he could face him, “I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but I had to say it. You don’t know if I could end up dying nex-“
“Caspar, shut up. Don’t talk about dying so easily.”
“So, you don’t feel the same way,” he laughed bitterly, “I should have known.”
“No,” Linhardt took his shaking hand, “I just want you to tell me this when you actually mean it.” He looked up at Caspar with sad eyes, “So if you truly feel that way, hold it in until after the war, maybe when you’re in the right state of mind to tell me.”
“Lin, I really do mean it-“
“Come on,” he stood up, heading back towards the tents, “we should get some sleep. We’re marching out tomorrow.”
They walked back in silence, parting ways to enter their own tents. The next day, neither brought up what happened and Linhardt decided that he was correct in thinking that Caspar was not in the correct state of mind to be spouting anything even minutely factual. He had his hopes up for naught.
The monastery dining hall was lit brightly with candles lining every table and happy chatter filling the room. The war had finally come to an end, and the celebrations had begun.
“It’s finally over, I almost can’t believe it.” Dorothea smiled as she held Petra’s hand.
“It all does feel very surreal, doesn’t it?” Linhardt spoke from across the table, toying lazily with the food on his plate with his fork, pushing a potato across the plate listlessly. “I still feel a little uneasy allowing myself to nap.”
“That is very unlike you, Linhardt.” Petra laughed.
“I never thought I’d hea-“
“Say,” Linhardt interrupted Dorothea, paying no mind to the miffed expression gracing her face, “do you know where Caspar is?”
Dorothea immediately forgot her previous annoyance upon hearing the brawler’s name, smiling mischievously, “Well, I heard Claude mentioning him being out in the courtyard earlier today, so he might still be there.”
He crawled over the bench, brushing off the back of his robes, “I’ll talk to you both later.” He headed towards the door leading to the comparatively empty courtyard, leaving a smiling Dorothea and confused looking Petra behind.
“I do not have understanding, why are you laughing?”
“Young love, my dear Petra, young love.”
Linhardt squinted his eyes as he searched the empty courtyard for striking blue hair, eyes brightening as he spotted the other sitting against a wall, pulling at the grass nervously, muttering something to himself.
He moved to sit beside him, and Caspar jumped, “Where did you come from?”
“The dining hall.” Linhardt laughed, lips quirking upwards as a red blush spread across Caspar’s cheeks. “What are you doing out here alone? You usually love celebrations.”
“I was just thinking about something,”
“Oh?” he took Caspar’s hand.
“Something you said, actually.”
“I say a lot of things, you might have to elaborate.” Linhardt smiled, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the brick wall.
“You’re not making this very easy for me.” Caspar laughed, grabbing Linhardt’s free hand, and turning to face the other. “Open your eyes, I want to tell you something.”
Cracking open one eyelid, Linhardt was faced with Caspar, brows pinched tightly together and mouth pulled into a frown. If his heart wasn’t beating a million miles an hour, he probably would have found it funny.
“Linhardt,” he began awkwardly, cut off when a bubble of laughter escaped Linhardt’s lips. “Why are you laughing?” Okay, he did find it funny.
“I’m sorry!” he tried to keep a straight face, smiling more widely seeing the grin blooming on Caspar’s face, “You just looked really cute like that.”
He coughed, “Okay, I’m ready. Start again.”
“Right,” Caspar chuckled, face relaxing and eyes softening, “Linhardt,”
“Caspar.”
“I am in love with you. I have been since...forever, probably.” His face was completely pink now, and it turned even pinker when Linhardt closed the gap between them, encompassing all his emotions into a soft kiss against his lips. It was slow and languid, and reminded them both that neither would be going anywhere any time soon.
“I think that I’ve loved you since forever too.” Linhardt spoke when they broke away from the kiss, foreheads pressed together.
“You’re gonna make me cry.” Caspar joked, pulling Linhardt in for a second kiss. “Let’s stay together then, forever.”
“I’ll drink to that.”