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Hubert had done... something.
The carriage ride back to Enbarr was quiet, the morning sun shining through the windows, and Hubert allowed warmth to soak into sore, burning muscles. The Emperor and Ferdinand both had warned him against warping while so thoroughly exhausted—they claimed he should reserve it for emergencies, should consider taking better care of himself—and he had done his best to listen. As such, he was seated within a sleek carriage, returning from what was, objectively, a successful raid upon Those Who Slither in the Dark.
Except Hubert had done something.
He was not the type to bite at his lips normally—it was a trait he ascribed instead to the Prime Minister, more prone to worries and anxieties—but he did so now, worrying the flesh between his teeth as he watched the carriage seat opposite of him, currently occupied by a small, peculiar mass. It shifted occasionally, moving underneath the cover currently being provided by Hubert’s cloak.
Because it was entirely possible that on this otherwise objectively successful, carefully plotted mission, Hubert von Vestra had abducted a child.
He exhaled through his nose. “Abducted” was perhaps the wrong word—liberated, would likely be more accurate.
Truthfully, there were many problems with this situation. The acquisition of this child was one. The question about what Hubert would do with her was another.
The one he was considering the most, though, was one that put an inordinate number of things he had once assumed as unequivocal truth into question.
The child was Agarthan.
She was pale as a sheet, framed by a mop of dark hair and light eyes. Not that Hubert could see her right now, of course, covered as she was. When he’d found her in that dungeon, caged and shaking and scared, he had offered her his cloak. He wasn’t entirely sure why—it had just felt like the right thing to do.
She’d taken it, eyes wide, wrapped it around herself, and had refused to take it off since. Not that Hubert had asked for it back.
Sighing, he ran his hands down his face. He’d had to peel his gloves off once he’d gotten into the carriage, blood-soaked as they were.
He wasn’t sure why he’d saved her.
... That wasn’t true.
She was just a child. A child who was far skinnier than she should have been, who’d been kept in a cage, who had the same marks along her arms as—
Well.
And they’d been about to kill her. Those Who Slithered in the Dark didn’t allow their experiments to be rescued if they could help it; if the alarm rang out that a base had been infiltrated, they began to purge, slaughtering their test subjects before they ever had a chance to be rescued. Hubert had killed her would-be executioner instead, acting on instinct more than anything. Seconds later, and he would have been too late.
He’d crouched down a few feet away to look into those wide, frightened eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he’d said, as if that meant anything. When she didn’t scream, or cry, or try to run, and he noticed her arms trembling from the cold, he’d taken off his cloak and offered it freely.
She was just a child.
Bundled up in the darkened fabric, he’d ultimately carried her out into the cool night where the carriage was waiting. He’d set down her on the seat across from his, where she’d promptly fallen asleep.
And asleep she had stayed, seemingly unbothered by the bumps of the carriage ride or the sounds of the horses, until the sun had begun to rise and stream through the windows. She’d squinted against the rays, scrunched her face up in displeasure, and covered herself up entirely in her new cloak.
Flames, what had he done?
*****
“Hubert… what have you done?” Prime Minister Ferdinand von Aegir asked over a freshly penned letter that rested on his desk. He set his quill aside to focus his attention on his fellow minister, who was currently standing in front of him with his arms behind his back, like he’d been caught with his poisoning kit and sent to Seteth’s office as punishment.
Hubert wasn’t sure of the exact moment Ferdinand had begun to wave enough authority around on a stick that Hubert actually thought to respect it.
He stood in front of Ferdinand now and opened his mouth once, twice, with no accompanying sound. How did he say this, exactly? ‘I’ve stolen a child, Ferdinand, and I’m not sure where to keep her?’ That would go over well.
He hadn’t planned on telling anyone, truthfully. The Agarthan girl was in his office currently, now asleep on the rather worn-down loveseat he kept for the occasions where Her Majesty visited him after a long day, or when Ferdinand had a problem with no solution and needed somewhere to sit, throwing his noble legs over the side while he talked to the air to arrive at a conclusion (Hubert did, upon occasion, contribute to his thoughts).
The Agarthan girl still had his cloak, and she had still seemed dead tired, so Hubert left her to rest while he sorted out what to do next—though not before assembling a small plate of toast, scrambling a pair of eggs, pouring a cup of juice, and leaving the tray on the coffee table in case she woke up hungry. He had no idea what an Agarthan child would potentially eat, but he hoped toast was somewhat universal.
He’d also left an agent outside the door and requested that she look inside at short and irregular intervals. Just in case.
And he hadn’t planned on telling anyone, because it was such a peculiar thing, him returning with this child. A deviation he had never thought to account for. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed unfair to punish the girl any further. If she were going to remain in Enbarr, she should have someone... fit, looking after her. Someone who would not stick her with needles, at the very least.
Why he’d gone to Ferdinand about such matters, he wasn’t sure.
And Ferdinand was looking at him now, expecting an answer to his question.
“Honestly,” Hubert said, his voice sounding odd in his own ears, “it may be better to show you.”
*****
Ferdinand clicked the door to the office shut. He kept his hand on the knob for a moment, gaze angled downwards.
“Hubert,” he said, keeping his voice uncharacteristically low. “Why is there a child laying on your couch?”
“I... found her.”
It wasn’t a lie.
“Found her.” The tone of voice indicated he wasn’t convinced, nor would he let the subject rest. Hubert should’ve gone to someone else about this—someone who wouldn’t ask so many questions or look at him with such a piercing gaze—
“I cannot tell you out here,” Hubert hissed. He shouldn’t have had to voice that aloud—it should have been obvious.
“Then tell me in there,” Ferdinand replied, as if it were equally obvious.
They reconvened in a corner of Hubert’s office, though they kept their voices at a whisper—out of courtesy for their guest.
“Tell me the truth, Hubert. Where were you last night?”
“Near Aegir. We had suspicions of an Agarthan base.”
“Aegir,” Ferdinand echoed. His gaze grew distant for a moment, and Hubert had known the reaction before he’d said the word. Ferdinand no doubt considered it his fault that such a base had existed in a place he considered himself responsible for, despite the fact he had only recently acquired the power—or knowledge, for that matter—to do anything about it. It was irrational of him to place the blame upon his own shoulders.
“It was taken care of,” Hubert said, an attempt at reassurance. “But there was—a complication.”
“You rescued a child. That sounds like a success, not a complication.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Ferdinand’s eyebrows furrowed together; he seemed to reconsider the girl, then.
“She’s pale,” he said. “Like she’s never seen the sun.”
“She’s Agarthan.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“I thought I knew. Now, I’m not sure.” What did it mean, for them to have one of their own locked up for experimentation? This, too, was a deviation, a glaring contradiction to everything he had seen until this point. “There’s something else. She has—markings. Along her arms.”
“Markings? You do not mean like—”
“Yes.”
Ferdinand’s expression softened further—an act that seemed impossible. “Then it is a good thing you rescued her, is it not?”
In some sense, yes. The problem was this:
Hubert disliked gambling, risks, and surprises. He preferred to know the results of something before he acted, went to painstaking efforts to ensure he could force a desired outcome. It did not matter if it were a battlefield or a Reason exam—Hubert von Vestra prepared for any scenario.
This had not been in the plan.
“She is an Agarthan,” Hubert repeated.
Ferdinand frowned. It didn’t suit him. “I do not see why that should matter,” he said, as though it were fact. As though Ferdinand did not spend day after day trying desperately to undo the damage done to Adrestia—to Fódlan—by the Agarthans and their scheming. The schemes their fathers had willingly acquiesced to.
But they were not their fathers. And perhaps there were factors at play here Hubert did not yet understand.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand nudged, his gaze drifting somewhere over Hubert’s right shoulder.
On the couch, where there was once a mostly undefinable blob, was a very bleary-eyed girl. She rubbed at her eyes with her palms until they adjusted and, upon looking up, came to stare at the corner the Imperial ministers were occupying.
Or, Hubert imagined, she was staring entirely at Ferdinand, whose outfit was so ostentatious it could blind someone.
It was difficult to gauge her reaction. She did not seem scared, necessarily, though this entire endeavor had to be nothing short of terrifying. Instead, she watched with what was seemingly blank curiosity, as if she were waiting for something to happen before she made any type of decision.
Ferdinand began to approach before Hubert could think to stop him. He lowered himself to a crouch and, now at her eye level, spoke in a voice that Hubert found surprisingly delicate.
“Hello,” he said. “I am Ferdinand von Aegir. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
And then he stuck out his hand.
Hubert could hardly comprehend the simplicity of it all. The girl stared at Ferdinand and blinked owlishly; a glance down at his hand, a glance back up at his face. Though still not a gambler, Hubert would have bet the entire Imperial Palace that Ferdinand’s face boasted a brilliant smile. After a moment, she slowly reached out toward him and, trying to encompass his much larger hand with both of hers, shook his hand around in a motion that clearly demonstrated she had never witnessed a handshake before.
Hubert imagined that Ferdinand beamed even more.
“Very good! And this is Hubert von Vestra, because I imagine he forgot to introduce himself,” Ferdinand said, gesturing backwards to wear Hubert stood.
He had. In his defense, she had primarily been asleep during the short time he had known her.
It felt like he should do something in acknowledgement. A wave seemed too friendly, and perhaps, frightening, coming from him. Instead, he offered a bow—shallower than what he would offer Her Majesty, but Hubert von Vestra did not bow to just anyone. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he’d bowed to her.
“You’re safe now,” Ferdinand said, his voice maintaining a gentle cadence. “While you are here in Enbarr, we promise to care for you as best as we are able.”
A bit dramatic.
“Hubert has already made you some food, if you’d like some,” Ferdinand continued.
She was watching the plate, Hubert realized, but had not reached for it. This gave Ferdinand pause—he tilted his head for a moment before breaking himself off a piece of the toast and eating it.
“It has gone a bit cold, I’m afraid. But we can make you something fresh, if you’d like.”
Gingerly, she reached out and took the toast in hand. Brought it to her mouth, took a bite, and seemed perfectly content with it.
“It will help to eat something,” Ferdinand affirmed. “Hubert and I are going to discuss some things, since it seems you will be staying with us, but if you need anything, please let us know.”
Damn Ferdinand for being so good at this.
“So,” Ferdinand said upon his return to the corner of the room (only after he’d been sure the child would continue to eat). He was making a face—something close to a smirk played at his lips.
“What,” Hubert asked, though it didn’t quite reach the qualifications of a question.
“Do you not see it?”
“See what.”
“She looks like you, Hubert.”
Hubert snorted. “She does not.”
“Dark hair, pale eyes, paler skin? That does not sound like anyone else we know?”
“I—” He supposed she did have black hair. And pale eyes, though they were even closer to a shade of yellow than Hubert’s. And yes, Hubert was pale, but he wasn’t that pale. Still, judging strictly by coloration, Hubert supposed he might have a point. “—don’t see how this is relevant.”
“I suppose you are right,” Ferdinand admitted, though the playful hints in his gaze remained. “She will need a room, of course. A fresh change of clothes, and a bath to match. I would suggest that a healer take a look at her, but—”
“I am hesitant to overwhelm her with new faces,” Hubert said, and Ferdinand nodded. “I’m also not sure she should be left alone.”
“Don’t tell me you’re suspicious of her?”
“I am not—” Hubert exhaled through his nose. If she were a plant, somehow, it was the most convincing ruse he’d ever seen. Those Who Slithered had not expected him to rescue her—they had expected to kill her. If he had been only a second later— “Suspicious, per se. But she is in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar people. Frightened, almost certainly. It seems… wrong, to stick her in a room by herself and leave her.”
“Well, I suppose we could pull a cot into your quarters, if you’re that concerned—”
“My room?” Hubert sputtered. “Why?”
Ferdinand raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to match. “You saved her, so I assumed you would—”
“I cannot—Ferdinand, I cannot take care of a child.”
“Why not?” Ferdinand had the audacity to actually look confused.
“Ferdinand.” Hubert met his eyes. “I’m—me. Hubert von Vestra. Minister of the Imperial Household. Her Majesty’s Spymaster.”
Ferdinand quirked a brow. “I am aware of your titles, yes.”
“Sometimes I am not even in Enbarr.” While it was true that some of his more… violent work had slowed down over the years since the end of the war, that did not mean it was suddenly nonexistent.
“You have me! And Edelgard—”
“No. Not Edelgard. This is not something she needs to burden herself with.” Because truly, how would she feel, him having saved an Agarthan? No, she could not know.
“… Fine, then. You have me! And I’m sure some of the other Black Eagles, as well.” He paused. “Because if it is not you—us—then who, Hubert? Do you have someone else in mind?”
Ferdinand knew he didn’t. Ferdinand knew he hadn’t had the chance to think this particular scenario through yet.
Hubert rubbed at a temple with a gloved hand, having fished his replacement pair out of his desk the moment he’d arrived back in Enbarr. Ferdinand still didn’t seem to understand. “She cannot be more than six, Ferdinand! I—I cannot—I have no idea how to... to raise a child.”
“Neither did our fathers, yet that did not stop them. You could not possibly do any worse.”
“No, no, you are... I have no concept what she needs, or what she’s been through—I don’t know if she even speaks our language, she hasn’t said a word yet, and I—”
“She seemed to understand me well enough,” Ferdinand defended. “And she seemed to understand you when you rescued her. Hubert, the fact that you are worried at all is a good sign. But have you thought to ask her what she wishes to do?”
“No.”
“Perhaps try that, then. Now, I am late for a meeting with the Minister of Education, but I am confident you will do just fine in my absence. She likes you; I can tell.”
“You can tell no such thing.”
“Oh, I most certainly can.”
There were moments—however brief—that Hubert almost missed the obnoxious, braggadocious bravado of Ferdinand von Aegir in their Academy days, if only because Hubert had known then how fragile that mask was, how easy it was to prove that eager schoolboy wrong—or at least provide a convincing rebuttal to whatever had come out of his mouth. Prime Minister von Aegir, however, was far, far worse, because now, when he spoke, he often knew he was right—and this allowed him a certain amount of smugness that Hubert could not combat. He sported an easy kind of confidence, several years settled into his role as Prime Minister, his grasp on what he could and could not control much firmer. It was nice to see him have more faith in himself, Hubert could admit—but his growing ability to win an argument was concerning in the face of Hubert’s distaste for losing them.
Still, there wasn’t much to be done about it until Hubert had more time to think—so he simply sighed and bid Ferdinand farewell, requesting that he not budge on their insistence that the salaries of Fódlan’s best teachers be increased following a particularly successful school year.
This left Hubert alone with her.
She was still on the couch—the toast was gone, though she was now poking at the eggs with a finger, watching as they jiggled. Perhaps she didn’t like them? Edelgard had always preferred scrambled eggs when they were children, so Hubert had just assumed—
Well, they were cold now, anyway. Most people did not enjoy cold eggs, did they? Maybe she’d never seen an egg before.
She’d only eaten the toast once Ferdinand had taken a bite.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Hubert gestured to the couch. The Agarthan regarded him for a moment, and then the couch, features drawn into deep contemplation. Coming to some kind of silent conclusion, she scooted to the left to make room, though she was careful to bring the large, black cloak that was still wrapped around her tiny shoulders with her. Hubert sat down beside her with as much grace as he could manage. Smoothing out the fabric of his uniform, he took the fork he’d brought with the plate and impaled a piece of egg with it.
Cold, but hardly inedible. He’d heat it with a bit of Fire if he weren’t worried about frightening his guest.
The moment he’d swallowed the piece, the girl reached forward and followed suit, albeit with her bare hands. If it bothered her, she didn’t say. It was familiar in a way Hubert didn’t particularly enjoy.
“So,” Hubert began, still working out what to say. He noticed he was fiddling with his hands—something he hadn’t done since he was a child—and forced himself to stillness. Clearing his throat, he continued, “You are in Enbarr, the capital city of Adrestia. Of Fódlan. This is the Imperial Palace.”
He didn’t expect her to know what that meant, but it seemed important that he say it. At the very least, it gave him more time to organize his thoughts.
“We are prepared to offer you a place to stay here, if you would like it.” He didn’t know who “we” was, exactly—him and Ferdinand, he supposed. “I don’t know if you have… parents, or somewhere to return to?”
A pause. Eyes squeezed shut, a shaking of the head back and forth. A rather clear, nonverbal ‘no.’
To say Hubert was surprised would have been incorrect.
“Would you want to stay here, then?” seemed like the logical next question.
She nodded before he’d even finished the sentence.
“It does not need to be in the Palace, if you do not wish it. I understand my appearance and demeanor can be somewhat… frightening; if you want someone else to care for you, I understand that, as well. The work I do for the Empire is very important, and I cannot promise I will be able to afford you the attention another… caretaker… might.” He avoided the word ‘parent,’ the word feeling strange—even unspoken—on his lips. Most people contemplated adopting a child for more than a single day. Surely this counted as an extenuating circumstance.
“… The choice, however, is yours. If you want someone else to take care of you, I will find them,” Hubert finished.
It took her a moment to parse the words, and then her eyes went wide, mouth pressing into a stern frown as she shook her head vehemently. She pulled the cloak tighter around herself and huffed.
“You wish to stay here, then? You’re certain?”
A nod.
“You’re allowed to change your mind at any point, you know. You have but to let me know.”
For the first time since Hubert had met her, she smiled.
*****
The next few days were spent trying to help the girl settle into life in the Palace beneath the nose of the Emperor. Ferdinand recruited Dorothea, on account of her experience with children, particularly orphans—she acquired armfuls of clothing, that miraculously fit, and examined her wounds, finding no injuries besides the scars she sported that would not heal with time (Hubert had been hesitant to contact Linhardt, for fear he would treat her more as something to study). Dorothea also provided as much advice as she could, whether it was solicited for or not.
She remained rather emphatic that he inform the Emperor of the situation. He declined to do so.
The girl still had not spoken, as of yet. Despite his best efforts, Hubert had been unable to discern her name—or if she even had one. Every time he asked, she would simply shake her head, and she refused any attempt he made to give her a pen and paper. He suspected she did not know how to write.
He’d taken to calling her Agatha, if only because she did not seem to mind it.
Ferdinand, after finding out, had scolded him for a “lack of imagination” and “poor naming skills.” Agatha the Agarthan, he had determined, was not an appropriate name.
Hubert replied that the fact she was Agarthan should hardly have mattered.
For the moment, she was staying in Hubert’s quarters. Ferdinand had helped him move a cot into the open space, stacking it with more pillows and blankets than could realistically be necessary. Some nights were better than others. Sometimes she would sleep until dawn; other times, she would wake up to nightmares, thrashing about in an attempt to escape an invisible tormentor.
Hubert had seen something similar before.
He had never been someone suited to comforting others; it was not in his nature. Still, it was impossible to observe and do nothing. When they were children, in the weeks before she had hardened her heart and carved her path forward, Lady Edelgard would clutch at her favorite stuffed bear following a nightmare. Hubert didn’t know if it had helped—surely, however, it had not hurt.
So he had asked Bernadetta to sew a stuffed pegasus.
As with Lady Edelgard, he could not tell if it succeeded in chasing the nightmares away. But in the moments where he caught Agatha clutching it—in the wake of a dream or otherwise—he hoped it was a comfort.
*****
At present, Agatha was meant to be asleep.
It was a late night for Hubert, which was not uncommon—his work as the Emperor’s Spymaster and Minister of the Imperial Household would not cease just because he had mistakenly stumbled into a strange approximation of fatherhood. What he was working on now amounted more to busywork than anything that required careful consideration, but it nonetheless required his attention. He was examining a number of reports proposing labor and material costs for the repair of infrastructure along the coast—namely any roads and bridges crucial for travel and trade—that had been damaged in the wake of a devastating storm. Each budget was organized by area and included a description on the exact issues that would be addressed, as well as the proposed timelines for the work.
Admittedly, such a thing was typically reserved for the eyes of the Minister of Domestic Affairs; the position, however, was currently open, having been recently vacated by the late Count Hevring. As a suitable replacement had not yet been selected, and the matter of emergency relief and repairs were something of a priority, Hubert had assumed responsibility for the work himself. It was not as if anyone would dispute his eye for numbers, and it was all too easy for these funds to be misallocated if someone less watchful were to look them over.
He glanced up as lightning flashed along the edges of his pulled curtains. A late-night summer storm had begun a few minutes ago, thunder crashing as rain fell over Enbarr. Hubert enjoyed the weather, truthfully, for no other reason than pure self-indulgence. It was—
A knock at the door.
It was quiet; nearly inaudible to an untrained ear. Even now, so many years since the war, Hubert’s senses were still sharp.
“Come in,” he called.
The door slipped open, then clicked shut. Hubert set his pen aside, turned his head to face his guest.
Agatha stood to the side of his desk, candlelight highlighting tears that streaked her face as she sniffled. In her arms, she clutched her pegasus.
“You can’t sleep,” Hubert said, because it was obvious.
Biting her lip, she shook her head no.
“Because of the storm?”
Yes, she nodded. Her body shook.
“I need to finish this,” he informed her. “But you are welcome to stay here until the storm passes, if you’d like.”
Lightning struck again, and thunder followed soon thereafter. Agatha flinched, and more tears fell. Hubert sighed; in one motion, he swept his paperwork up into a singular stack and stood.
“Here,” he said, and with a light press to her shoulder, he moved them to the couch.
Hubert was not someone suited to comforting others, but he had to try, didn’t he? He adjusted his glasses and, in an effort to distract Agatha from the storm, began to read aloud from his report.
He would have to ask Ferdinand if he owned any fanciful storybooks.
Still, it seemed to help. Agatha listened to him for a time with rapt attention, seemingly overjoyed every time Hubert stumbled on a discrepancy to correct. Eventually, the tears stopped, and she slowly inched closer as the minutes passed. Hubert made no move to stop her—he simply continued to read, even as she peeked her head up between his arms to examine the words on the page herself (though he doubted she could parse what was written there).
He imagined it was the closest she had ever come to a hug.
After a time, Hubert spared a glance downwards to find that Agatha had fallen asleep against his chest, still holding tight to her pegasus. The storm had begun to die down, and the wax of the nearby candle was running low. There was a fair bit of work to get through, still; numbers that needed to be checked before dawn.
To do so, however, would require standing to replace the dying candle—which in turn ran the risk of disturbing Agatha from her hard-fought rest. Carefully, Hubert put an arm around her as he considered, completing the hug in full as she unconsciously buried her face further into his shirt.
And he let her sleep.