Caspar clutched the letter tightly as if for dear life. It was as though the words - those beautiful, intricate words ensnaring not only in their content, but in their penmanship as well - were a life source, seeping their vigor in through Caspar's skin and setting his heart alight. Linhardt had remembered; he hadn't forgotten about their night, nor their promise.
Life as a noble had not been for Caspar. Lessons in politics and financing, tending to matters of the Empire and being a servant to Adrestia… Being the Minister of Military Affairs had sounded enthralling - finally, he had a responsibility that his father and brother had not beaten him to - yet he'd soon realised that the title was nothing more than filling out paperwork. A desk job.
Caspar could not have been more bored of his new status. Yet, what other choice did he have? The war was over: he was no longer needed as a soldier - had no use of his brawling capabilities or feisty fighting spirit. His spark had been flattened. Day in and day out, he'd sat at the gorgeous oaken desk, looking out of his window at the city of Fort Merceus far below him. The same carriages had rolled through the gates every morning; the same guards walking the same patrols; the same merchants bringing their same wares.
And Caspar had felt alone.
Until that one fateful day. Until that one day a month ago, when a fancy-looking letter had been brought to his desk and presented to him. The seal of House Hevring had been stamped upon the wax at its back. Just the mere sight of it had made Caspar's heart flip in his chest; Linhardt.
He'd pried the letter open as gently as possible, and inside had been his saviour. The unmistakable script of Linhardt's handwriting, bearing the most wonderful request Caspar had ever been offered.
House duty is insufferable - you know this as well as I. Let us leave - explore this country and this world. Together. Alone.
Caspar had not felt such happiness in a long time. Not since that one night, before the war… Their night.
Now, as he stood atop the hill, he felt the sun beating down upon his skin, kissing it as gently as the heir of Hevring had in their one night. The scene materialised beneath his eyelids.
Linhardt, eyes brimming with happiness, speaking to him in a corridor of the destroyed Garreg Mach. War was in their midst, and the two had just finished joking around, when the moment had gone quiet. "Let's you and I come out the other side of this war alive and well, okay? That is a promise worth making." Linhardt's face had been hard, but kind. Stern, but caring.
"Definitely!" Caspar had responded, feeling his heart begin to pound at the delicacy of the moment. "And let's win this thing while we're at it!"
Linhardt had nodded. Standing deep within Garreg Mach's walls, they'd been alone. With nobody around, silence had fallen between the two men to be replaced instead with a spark; their eyes met, and Caspar had become lost in the fantastic midnight blue. He'd felt his blood pump faster through his veins - his skin begin to prickle and his palms began to sweat, and he swallowed a lump in his throat as he'd become aware of a feeling in the pit of his stomach - one that he could only describe as…
Attraction.
The night had still been young. Without even knowing how, Caspar had found himself with his hand in Linhardt's, following the man through the monastery back to their old bed chambers that they'd adopted once more from their academy days. Linhardt's room was messy inside: bed unmade, books strewn around, clothes in piles upon the floor.
The men hadn't cared. They'd been whisked away to another land - one that was filled with passion and breathlessness as they found themselves connecting; their bodies clashed, Linhardt nipped at Caspar's lips, and the two had wound up in his bed. Heat had pressed against their bare skin, forming small beads of sweat upon them both as years of pent-up passion and lust and longing unfolded before them.
They spoke their secrets to one another - Linhardt confessing that his admiration for the brawler's resolve had soon transformed into attraction. Caspar had been dumbfounded, unable to stop himself from blurting that his platonic adoration for the man had become something more romantic long ago. Their whispers only furthered the night's ardour, leaving them unable to keep away from one another as they could finally enact what they'd dreamed of for so long.
At long last, they had each other. They'd loved each other for hours, eventually slipping into each other's arms in the bed, the pillows engulfing them. One thing had remained unspoken throughout the night, however.
Tomorrow, they would leave for war. Tomorrow, they would have to tuck their feelings away and pretend this never happened as they set out marching to battle. Yet, they had still promised things to one another. They'd promised that they would both live through the war, and that they would win it. And, just as Caspar had been drifting off to sleep with Linhardt tracing soothing circular motions across the skin of his back with a delicate finger, he had muttered something.
"Lin…?"
"… Yes?" had been the sleepy reply.
"When this war is over… can we find each other again?"
The eyes like midnight had opened slowly, locking onto Caspar's own with heavy blinks. "To be together…?"
That response had been better than anything Caspar could have hoped for. "Please…" he'd said.
And Linhardt had nodded. "Of course."
Atop the hill, with the cool breeze against his skin, Caspar von Bergliez waited. For Linhardt, he would wait for years. He already had.
He brought the slightly-battered letter up to his face for the thousandth time, reading the beautiful scrawl:
Meet me on the First of the Garland Moon, on the base of the Oghma Mountains where our families once camped in our youth. I know you will remember the hill.
Caspar did. He was unable to forget it. Knowing exactly what Linhardt had meant, Caspar had travelled for days to get here - had loaded up supplies upon a cart and silently slipped through Fort Merceus' gates upon a horse one night, leaving behind a letter to his family, stating that he could no longer handle the snores of maintaining his title. He knew he wouldn't miss them - not if he was with his man.
He loved this hill. So many times had he found himself upon it in his dreams, looking out at the vastness of the world below him, feeling grass and wildflowers beneath his fingers before the mountains turned to rocky crags behind him.
Before the war, nestled in Linhardt's bedsheets together, Caspar had run his fingers through the man's virescent hair, the tresses so soft they'd felt like silk against his skin. "Do you remember how we met?" he'd asked, a smile cradling his lips.
"You already know the answer to that," Linhardt had replied, eyelids heavy as he'd fought off his slumber, but still desperate to remain awake to spend more time with his love.
Of course - neither of them would be unable to forget the fateful day they'd met. When their families had convened on friendly terms to discuss boring Empire matters, bringing along their children. Both being six years old at the time of meeting, Caspar and Linhardt had bonded immediately, and had played endlessly in the wildflowers atop the hill.
Caspar soaked up the sun as he stood upon the crest now, watching his horse graze and wispy clouds float lazily overhead. He breathed deeply, relishing the fresh scent of the countryside that he'd been kept away from for so long, trapped within Fort Merceus. Now, he finally felt free.
"Fond memories?"
The voice made Caspar's heart skip a beat. Turning, he found Linhardt behind him, and had to draw a breath. Somehow, the man looked even more beautiful than when he'd last seen him. Robes of cobalt fell to his shins, bringing out the startling blue of his eyes wonderfully. Its accents were black and white, with fine, intricate patterns woven into the material.
For only the second time in his life, Caspar was witnessing Linhardt with his hair fully down: no ponytails, nor lazy buns. Now, it reached his chest, with a slight wave to it that Caspar recognised as meaning he'd put little effort into his appearance. Not that that was anything new; Linhardt barely ever cared what he looked like, but somehow he managed to look astounding no matter what.
"Lin…" he breathed, the name being the only word entering his mind as he took in the man's beauty.
"Hello, Caspar."
He couldn't resist. Caspar rushed towards the heir of Hevring and fell into his arms, breathing in the handsome, musty scent he hadn't realised he'd missed. It was so familiar; the scent that had washed over him as he'd entered Linhardt's bedroom at the monastery - danced in his nostrils as he'd been in the man's sheets and in his loose hair and against his skin.
He felt Linhardt's skin against his neck now as the man pressed his face against him as they embraced. No words were shared - no noises were made. Simply silence, enveloped by the grass rustling in the wind and the birds calling overhead. He could have stayed like that for hours. Perhaps he did, as the moment seemed to last an age.
"You remembered…" Caspar whispered at last.
"I could never forget."
Caspar closed his eyes once more, pressing his forehead even further into Linhardt's shoulder. He almost felt like crying. After so much war - so much bloodshed - and so many months wasted sitting behind a desk in Fort Merceus, he was finally where he belonged. His love was here, he was in his arms, and nothing else mattered.
The world awaited them, and now they could finally be alone. No responsibilities, no cares, no house matters to attend to, nor war to fight in. Now, it was their time. Their world.
"Come on," Linhardt said, finally pulling away and looking deeply into Caspar's eyes, his own swimming with adoration. "Let's get out of here."