"Are you sure you can do this?" Lysithea asks again.

"I'm sure," Linhardt says, not even sparing her a glance.

She's sitting on a chair in his motel room, watching as he prepares for the blood draw. He lays his instruments out in meticulous fashion. Alcohol and gauze one side of the table, followed by needlework and labelled vials. He's ready, but only in theory, she thinks. Perhaps he's changed, but during wartimes, he used to turn his eyes from an open wound or slashed shoulder. Truly he could heal blindfolded if he wanted to.

"I warn you. This will be the first of many," he reminds, but she figured as much. "I wish it weren't so, but if I am going to get rid of your crests, I should think of them as blood-borne contagions."

She nods. Her arm is already lying palm side up on the table, sleeves rolled up to her shoulder.

He pauses again, takes a moment to glance over her. He takes another deep breath, which makes five now, because she's been counting.

He definitely cannot do this.

Some inane part of her allows him to try anyway.

He punctures her skin with surprising ease, but the façade quickly disappears. Blood flashes in the hub of the needle and his face starts to pale. Maybe a little green too.

"Linhardt…?"

He looks away, tries to get a hold of himself.

"…I'm fine," he gulps out, sounding every bit uncertain. He quickly fights off the light-headedness and looks again, but that's all he can take.

Hindsight is always perfect. His grip on her arm slackens and the other goes to his head. She acts faster than he does. The loose needle is discarded and she reaches for his arm to stop him from swaying. She stands, decides quick she won't risk walking him to bed and just eases him to the floor instead.

He passes out before he reaches the ground.

She curses him for ignoring his limits and chides herself for letting him try. When she stands back up to observe her work – Linhardt lying unconscious on the damn carpet – she only shakes her head.

Troublesome, she thinks. How he managed to survive the horrors of war is a growing mystery.

Over the next while, his breathing becomes slow and deep, and he probably feels a little disconnected from the world (sleeping). She doesn't bother with worrying. Instead, she steps over him and revels in silence until he wakes.

Ten minutes later, he jolts upwards from his short-lived nap. His eyes are wide and confused, wondering how he ended up on the floor. When he turns, she's quietly wiping down the table with a rag. The smell of alcohol and disinfectant finds his nostrils. On the table, his vials are stacked neatly and filled with red. All that blood and she doesn't look the least faint.

"It's done," she pipes up, finally looking down at him. She flicks the dirty rag in his direction, which doesn't look threatening at all. "We need to establish some house rules. From now on, I will be doing the blood draws while you wait outside. You are too fragile for the job."

His stares agape for a second. No one likes to be called fragile, not when he's been forced into the throes of war for five years. The feeling dissolves quickly, because she's right. The hardened look on her face softens too.

"I'm sorry, Lysithea," he says, because it feels necessary.

She shakes her head. "Don't worry about it."

Later, he pulls out his microscope and notebook. As he works in silence, Lysithea runs her hand over the analyzer and watches as her patterned crests glow and oscillate before her. She gazes at them stoically, her mind caught between acceptance and loathing. When she chances a glance back at Linhardt, his gaze veers to her. His face is calculating and thoughtful and when she asks what he's thinking, he says nothing.


Days turn into weeks. She spaces her visits and splits her time between him and work at home. Sometimes he requires her participation and sometimes she watches him work. It's not a bother. She uses the time to finish her errands around town anyway.

She learns quickly when Linhardt is interested in something, time becomes a long forgotten concept. It's strange. He neglects himself to make room for research, showing her a side she's never seen. He becomes incredibly productive, burns his way through textbooks and writes pages of notes until all the ink has run dry.

She doesn't expect it to become a problem, but with Linhardt, she finds herself picking her battles. He either sleeps or works for three days straight. There is no in-between.

"Ridiculous," Lysithea grumbles to herself, just after she opens the door to his room. She suspects he's intentionally leaving his door open because he's gotten too lazy to open it for her.

He's dozing off at his desk, cheek pressed against a book and snoring lightly. He was sitting there last night when she warned him against overworking his mind. If the unopened dinner plate on the counter is any indication, he passed out from exhaustion.

She keeps his well-being in mind as she attempts to introduce a semblance of a normal lifestyle in him – eating regularly and sleeping at night, ludicrous as it sounds. One would think a grown man can keep track of time and care for himself.

Naturally, she becomes familiar with his habits. He has a small appetite. He always feels cold no matter the weather. He enjoys the pastries they sell next door. She knows when he's tired, when she can bother him for breaks and when she cannot. Nowadays, she tries to tell apart the differences in his barest expressions. If he notices at all how dependent he's become, it doesn't show.


"Why are you doing this?"

Lysithea is gazing out the window when she realizes she's never asked. They're sitting across each other at a homegrown restaurant, mostly out of necessity. He's grown a shade paler being cooped up in his room with no sun. He resisted stubbornly, of course, and it's embarrassing how much coaxing it took on her part to get him outside.

Linhardt looks up briefly from his book, and then turns the page. "I was under the impression you wanted your crests removed."

Her eyes narrow. "Is that enough?"

He shrugs. "It's one reason. Do you think I acted foolishly?"

"Giving up your title and inheritance for the sake of research? Maybe a little. I figured you would prefer to live comfortably."

He closes his eyes and flips his book shut. For a moment, she wonders if she crossed a line.

"I doubt it would have been comfortable," he says softly, pondering the idea. "I was never cut out for noble duties, and the months I spent under my father's roof were nearly unbearable. By choosing research, I thought I was doing everyone a favour. It seemed simple enough."

"Hmm. That's not simple," she murmurs, wishing he wouldn't minimize it.

Linhardt sits forward and props his chin on a hand. He looks at her thoughtfully, like he's trying to read her, and it makes her uneasy. He's been doing it a lot lately.

"Tired?" she asks, just to break silence.

He yawns into his hand, and then folds his arms over the table before burying his face into them. He uses his book for a makeshift pillow. She rolls her eyes when he's not looking. This is the part where she should scold him, but sometimes she lets him have his way.


Lysithea paces the floor, seems to burns a hole with every step.

When she casually slipped in that her parents were inviting him to dinner again, Linhardt didn't even look up from his reading. He gave her a calm and collected 'sure' and proceeded to turn the page. His aloofness irks her most of the time, but now she wishes she were more like that.

She'd debated picking him up – he will sleep through anything if given the chance – but he arrives in time. Even with him here, she just can't shake off the nervous energy. She knows her predicament is rather unconventional – she desperately wants them to get along, but not for reasons many would assume. They will ask if he's come across any breakthroughs. They might suspect hidden intentions beyond research – goddess knows she has suspicions of her own – but uncomfortable as it is, they should get to know the person who's trying to lengthen her life, maybe even save it.

Fortunately he's polite enough. He'd been raised a noble after all. Besides his insomniac habits, there's little to question about his general manners and speech.

"I've been interested in crests for as long as I can remember," Linhardt pipes up when he's asked. "Strange how they seem to govern our world, but also divide the people within it."

Her father studies him for a small moment. "You must be speaking of crest inheritance."

Linhardt nods once. "Right. Most people believe that crests are goddess-given blessings. Those of us in possession of one are thought to be closer to the goddess herself, both in blood and power, because it allows us to use her gifts and talents."

Beside him, Lysithea starts picking at her food. She's listening, but her mind seems far away from here.

"I speak of magic, of course, in the case of Lysithea and myself," continues Linhardt. He rubs an itch from his eye to ward off fatigue. "…Other gifts are not so easily seen. Carrying pounds of heavy armor and feeling nothing at all. Possessing great sight and wisdom. Even a crest's uncanny ability to shape one's personality."

Lysithea's father indulges enough. "What brings you here?"

Linhardt frowns at his drink and keeps his tone soft. "…Personally, I don't believe humans were fit to possess crests in the first place."

Finally, Lysithea looks up at him. She doesn't interrupt.

He sighs softly and sets aside his plate. Already his appetite has come and gone. "For those born with a crest, the cost often lives in inheritance. We see it all the time; families split apart, favouritism amongst siblings, noble daughters auctioned off for financial gains…" Linhardt's looking down at his hands now, and considers his next words carefully. "…Blood reconstruction itself is an age-old practice, but I believe it proves how human blood is highly incompatible with a crest's natural power. Many have suffered and died from it, and even those who survive don't leave unscathed."

There's silence afterwards. A beat. They shift their gazes across the room, anywhere but each other. Perhaps the consequences are better left unsaid.

No one says anything back, or even stops him from talking, so he finishes his explanation.

"It's only a theory," he says, throwing in an unconcerned shrug. "Besides, crest removal could open new frontiers in research. It could also help people like Lysithea, who I care enough about to make it possible."

Lysithea's lips pull a little, almost a smile. She glances at her parents and reads the interest in their eyes. There's skepticism too, and maybe even some wonderment. Linhardt can easily take up hours of conversation explaining the mere history of crests in Fódlan.

They pause to clean up and move to the living room, but the questions don't stop. He seems more than willing to oblige. She doesn't mind, because there's something unspeakably enchanting about listening to someone speak with conviction and a deep-rooted knowledge. It never comes off as dry and uninteresting. One would never guess Linhardt slept through all his lectures at the monastery.

As the night goes on, she finds herself observing the details of his face instead. The colour of his hair, his skin, the lines of concentration in his eyes when her childhood is brought up. The politeness with which he responds makes her feel warm, and she wonders for the first time if she's attracted to him – if this is what attraction even feels like. When he glances over her, her heart does an uncanny flip. There is a weight on her chest she cannot explain.

Lysithea falls asleep when he ventures to the Nabateans. It's a story she already knows, one he shared with her on a rainy afternoon.

Later, she wakes to a dim candlelight. Before uncurling her stockinged legs underneath her, she listens for the quiet whispers at the door. She peeks discreetly, seeing Linhardt with his coat on and speaking in hushed tones with her father. Their conversation ends quickly. Linhardt bows, turns his heel and her father closes the door behind him. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits up.

Her gaze goes over to his form. "What were you talking about just now?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing, dear, but your friend is quite the historian."

She smiles and picks herself up.

"You truly believe he can do as he says?" he pipes up, always the more skeptical one.

Tired as she is, her voice is firm. "I do."

He says nothing for the rest of the night. No challenge this time, and she's glad for it.


The following week, she follows her usual routine. Walk the long distance into town, knock on his door, turn the knob to find it's already unlocked and then find him either sleeping soundly or holed up in his next reading.

Today is different. She finds him standing by the window, eyes glued to a letter in his hands. She peeks around his arm to see who it's from.

"Professor Hanneman?" she asks, recognizing his signature. "Is everything okay?"

He hands her the letter.

"They've uncovered a multitude of documents from the Agarthan base, some of which could be of use to us," he explains casually, gathering his notes scattered across the table.

"Hmm. What kind of documents?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Many of them concern experimentations."

She looks up then, and casts a doubtful expression. His expression doesn't change.

"Your file is one of them," he says, answering the question in her mind. "Professor Hanneman is holding onto it, but has not read it. He will not do so without your permission."

She sighs and tugs at her sleeves for a bit. "Well, I have little reason to refuse. If it furthers your research, I won't hinder it." She makes her up mind easily, expression more resolute now. "Please tell him to dissect it however he sees fit."

Linhardt doesn't smile or nod. He acknowledges her with an arched brow and a curious expression. It makes her a little uneasy, like he's trying to read her thoughts.

"I have other news for you," he changes the subject. "There is no easy way to say it, but I've done most of what I need to do here. I'm going back to the monastery to meet with Professor Hanneman and discuss my findings. I'm also interested in reading those documents as well, if you let me."

This surprises her more than the letter. "You're leaving?"

"In a sense, yes, but I was wondering if you would come with me? It would relieve the hassle of going back and forth, and I'm sure Professor Hanneman would be delighted to see you. You could tell him yourself he's allowed to read over your files."

Her nervous energy spikes, and unconsciously her fingers start worrying with the edge of her tunic.

"I…don't know," she says honestly. "I'd have to run it by my parents first."

He reacts without judgment. "I understand. Don't feel rushed to make a decision now."


The Myrddin stables are populated primarily by tourists travelling between territories, merchants selling their wares, mercenaries looking for new contracts and hunters scouting for beast locations. The rooms are crowded enough, loud with guests coming and going. Lysithea's tapping her fingers at the front desk, waiting impatiently for their room key. They were lucky enough to haggle for a room.

Their room is at the end of the hall. Lysithea settles herself on the desk and wonders if she should write to her parents. Linhardt is quick to claim the bed after dumping his belongings on one side of the floor, eager and glad to be off the road after three days of travelling. She doesn't have the energy to scold him or even shoot him a disapproving glance.

In the afternoon, she peruses the merchant stalls and grabs something ready-made for dinner. Some of them are curious why a girl her age is travelling alone without an escort. She tells them she's a tourist passing through, unwilling to give out specifics.

When she returns, Linhardt is in the same spot where she left him. She glares at his sleeping form, unsure why it irks her nerves. Maybe it's the fact that her bones are aching, or the weather is getting cold, or she's simply frustrated. She wonders how he will fare on his own when this is finished.

She nudges his shoulder. "Linhardt."

No response.

She pokes his cheek. "Wake up."

Nothing.

She picks up one of his arms and gives it a tug. Finally, he stirs and opens one bleary eye. "Hmm. Just five more minutes…"

She rolls her eyes and turns with a huff. Dinner is prepared none too gently, and she pushes his share to the corner of the desk. Afterwards she stews over her plate to will off the steam. "Tch, wasting my time…" Her knife digs a little too deep into the piece of meat. "I don't have many years left and this is how I'm spending it."

She's unable to pinpoint the source of this pent-up frustration either. Taking care of Linhardt is only a part of it. She misses her home and her parents. Being on the road has not been easy. Her headaches have worsened. She hides her jealousy when she watches Linhardt perform magic without struggle. There are documents with details of her experimentations waiting at the monastery. She hates counting her days.

She also cannot explain why all of this is surfacing now.

There's a rustle from behind and she hides her face from the candlelight.

He pads over and leans against the desk, tries to make out her face. "Tell me what's wrong."

She brushes it off, but the air is still stricken with tension. "Nothing."

He tilts his head. "You're upset."

"I am," she admits easily, with too much emotion. She slumps on the back of the chair. There are pangs of pain growing steadily at the front of her head. She doesn't know if they're because of her crests, or the war, or if it goes back further than that. Maybe everything.

She presses her fingers to her temples in a self-soothing manner, but nothing can erase the bitter memories.

"Headache?"

She nods enough to get across.

He replaces her fingers with his and spurs a soft healing incantation. His magic has always been warm and inviting. Infused and touched with light. Like a sweep of a soft breeze, or standing steady on ocean waves. It's the nature of his crest. Hers has always burned like lightning, corrosive even to her own fingertips. Her hands were never meant to heal.

"You're thinking too loud," he mutters, and for a split second, she wonders if he's read her mind.

Her head dips in drowsiness. "Sorry."

He sighs softly, and continues his ministrations. Somewhere along the line, she stops thinking and worrying altogether and allows his light-infused magic to spill over her.


Walking through the monastery gates feels like coming home.

The cathedral is still in ruin. The rubble is gone, but the space is empty. Pews and tapestries are missing. Statues have rusted. The atmosphere is hollow. Symbolic, she thinks, for the state of the church, but other parts of the school have been rebuilt.

She returns to her old room where she can't help but settle. Drop her bags at the door, sweep a finger over her desk, slide over the dusty curtains. There's a window in her head where she sees herself – late nights spent studying, scribbling notes, muttering spells and formulas in her sleep. How bittersweet to know many of the students who once housed these dorms are long gone. She'd been one of the lucky ones.

Her reminiscing is cut short as she makes for the research lab, but instead she finds them in the board room. Hanneman trifles through boxes stacked against the corner of the room and Linhardt fiddles with instruments scattered across the table.

"Ah, here it is!" the older man pipes up, heaving a stack of papers onto the surface. He adjusts his monocle for a better read. "Come, Lysithea. I believe this is your file."

She looks in his direction, and then down to the offending papers. She steps forward and hesitates before taking her seat. She racks her brain and tells herself to pull it together. Hanneman slides the bulky folder to her and closely gauges her reaction.

"Perhaps you'd like to read it another time? No rush, my dear," Hanneman interjects.

Lysithea fixes her mind on the truth, uncomfortable as it is. "No, I want to."

Another moment of hesitation, and she finally opens the damn thing.

Her attention is drawn to the number stamped next to her name, and even though she expects it, it still stings the back of her eyes. The description written below piques her interest. Her hair had been lavender purple. Stature short and skinny. Tender age of four years old. Crestless. No affinity for magic or weaponry, at least not yet. She had other siblings.

Ah, damn it.

She doesn't remember much about the mages in dark robes and masks, but she remembers how it hurt. She'd been reduced to a tool, often bribed with the idea of coming home, or seeing her parents again. But as a child, she had no way of knowing. Instead, she struggled to please, because obedience was rewarded – she was a good girl, the night was pain-free and she lived another day. She thought it normal, unaware how children were supposed to be raised.

Linhardt is reading over her shoulder and interrupts before she flips the page. His question is a silent inquiry, and she doesn't lie. She moves her chair to make room and he pulls one over. She's glad for the reprieve and company.

They take it day by day, in a literal sense. The mages documented meticulously, and it will take days to read each and every progress note. At the time, Lysithea wasn't counting. Minutes stretched into hours, which turned into weeks. Time had been measured in the magic she learned – the moment she awakened Gloucester's power, or the first time Charon singed her hands, or the multitude of times she failed to call either of them.

Hanneman leaves the room eventually. She hears his footsteps echoing in the hall, and somehow knows he won't be back until next morning.

She makes it to Day 90 before the words start blurring into each other. She's tired of sitting. Her back and shoulders hurt. She feels her eyes drooping. At one point, Linhardt has gone ahead of her. He has a pile set aside for records he intends to reread later and she marvels at his focus and concentration – such a strange enigma.

She tugs the end of his sleeve, rises from her seat and then neatly tucks in her chair.

"Leaving?" he mutters softly.

She nods and stretches her arms. "It's late. Come with me? We can pick it up tomorrow."

"No, I'll stay."

She gives him a tired onceover. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning."

Her mind goes to her room, still covered in dust. When she tells him good night, she catches his expression – solemn and earnest. Maybe the passages have sunk too deep. She squeezes his hand on her way out, just to let him know she's not there anymore.