#[thread: lambert mini .02]

[pridelessdaydreamer]

“Well obviously you aren’t dead,” Lin replies with a light shrug. “If you were, you’d successfully fooled quite a few people—and by ‘quite a few,’ I mean ‘a lot.’”

Because the professor seemed to be very much alive, which was a part of the reason Linhardt was only mostly confident in his theory. The forces that would be necessary to undo history—or (if somehow, the king of Faerghus had survived) cloak the survival of the Kingdom’s ruler—would be utterly unheard of, save for the scale of feats achieved by Pasithee and her allies; perhaps the Projectionist also, though this didn’t seem her type of thing.

The boy then opens his mouth to continue—to assert that, yes, it is the crest of Blaiddyd—but then the man admits to not knowing (as a blanket statement of things, non-specific), and a rare sense of self-awareness suddenly takes over them.

“…”

What exactly is the appropriate response for a social circumstance such as this? (Their insides feel like scratching at the surface, unearthing more and more details until mostly confident could become entirely so.)

…At the same time, Lambert—the professor, the man right before them—seemed to lack the ability to look them in the eye at present, and in most situations, that was a sign for one to back off.

“…” (She sighs.) “Then…”

If Lambert was the risen dead, memory loss didn’t seem too out of the question, did it? (Whether one followed theological death—that the soul possessed one’s character and memories, and when death comes, the body is left behind—or sought a more empirical approach—that it is all in one’s skull and the mystery of its function; dying was the end of the human condition.) Undoing death, therefore, would have some sort of consequence, would it not? If magic can restore life, why couldn’t the cost be memories?

Linhardt is not too well-versed in dark magic—black magic, like Fire and Wind are incapable of such a feat, and it is too unholy to be Faith, she reasons—but that is what stories speak of its miracles. Great outcome at an even greater cost.

But Lin feels she probably shouldn’t say that.

“…Do the staff get charms?” (An awkward change of topic, but it is not often Lin does that sort of thing anyway.) A black feather is produced, and the student feels a retroactive relief the ball had been given such a side task.

“We can exchange them, if you’d like.”

Lambert chose to hear the kid out, even though everything in his being begged for him to get out of the room as soon as he could. It was so stupid to feel this way, all because a literal teenager was standing before him and asking odd questions, but there was just something about it that filled him with unease. Like walking through a quiet forest, but knowing that there are eyes on your back. They could be from a prey evaluating if you are a threat, or from a predator considering their next meal.

Linhardt’s demeanor was seemingly gentle, lazy, harmless. Even the tone of their voice seemed uninterested in keeping up with the energy around, instead choosing to mirror the frequency of the wind gently blowing from incoming winters. Nothing in them could even suggest a threat to Lambert, or at least not at first glance.

But those eyes, those eyes of cobalt that stared through his very being.

The fact that Lambert saw no malice in those eyes or on their voice tone, that this youngster’s mere curiosity felt more intense and burned more than any attack they could’ve attempted to unleash against him- that was horrifying.

And so, the professor heard what they had to say. Arms crossed, patient, expression unchanged.

A blink. He shook his head. “Hold on- hold on.”

“What in the blazing flames are you talking about?” Dead king of Faerghus? An usurper? What did all of this even mean? “I do not wish to usurp anything, and I am quite sure that I am not dead either. Where did you even get those theories from?” His brain was spinning in place, Lambert almost wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all. That he was somehow a secret member of the royal family of all things, or even better- a dead king who managed to drag himself out of the grave. It was utterly ridiculous, Fódlan didn’t even practice necromancy. The dead sadly stayed dead, it had no return.

He really, really wanted to believe in his own words, but the moment he realized he didn’t even possess conviction in his denial, his heart began to race.

“...I…I have a crest, I do not know which one it is. And I am not dead, okay? I am just-” What was he?

He couldn’t remember. Sure, teacher of the Ashen Wolves- but that was just the new persona he created to fill a void. He couldn't meet Linhardt in the eye.

"...I just do not remember."

No, he couldn’t understand. He just couldn’t accept any of this. The Goddess gives and takes, but she doesn’t grant second chances at life.

…right?

@pridelessdaydreamer

[pridelessdaydreamer]

Linhardt’s house inherits the Ministry of Domestic Affairs. It is for that reason that he is well-read on all matters regarding the interior. Administration, finance, law, and so on—that is the knowledge Linhardt must know.

That said, her best friend is of the family of Military Affairs—which is, for all intents and purposes, responsible for knowledge of the exterior. The focus is in military combat, but through visits, Linhardt has heard names, casually read over deeds, and seen the faces of those who had died.

In particular, they recalled having seen the dead of Duscur.

Lambert didn’t look exactly like the portraits—the armor of Blaiddyd no doubt inflated one’s presence a bit—but now, of all the times Linhardt had seen him (note: this was just the second), the heir of Hevring recognizes what could only be the late King of Faerghus.

(There is a noticeable pause before they respond:)

“Did you ever see Professor Hanneman? Did he confirm the presence of your crest?”

Dimitri.

That’s the first person Linhardt thinks of when she sees the head of blond hair in the crowd. She can’t see his face, but with a casual glance passing over him, it was (quite reasonably) her default response.

Eyes return to the figure, however, when the silhouette settles in; the shape of his hair, the height of his character. Linhardt looks back at him because he is decidedly not Dimitri, but rather: someone else.

Lambert. (From that one time–)

They make their way over, careful not to bump into anyone while keeping their eyes locked on the not-king. When they arrive, they place themself right in front of him: just to really get a good look at the man’s face.

“...”

All was okay, perfectly fine. The ball was progressing as it should, no fights had broken out yet and the students seemed to be doing quite the good job in keeping things civil and friendly, and most importantly balanced with the drinks being offered. If anything it was boring really, as a part of him almost wished for something to spark up so he’d have something to do that didn’t involve being blatantly exposed to his mind that seemed to be on a vicious tirade tonight. 

It was fine. Just focus on the kids and don’t think about anything else, the ball will be over before you know it and then you can sleep it all off.

He still felt it, the nauseating burn within his body- though weaker than before as the wretched crest seemed to become dormant once more. Or rather not dormant, but simply inactive for the time being. It was horrifying really, to feel that his body held on to a power with a mind of its own, and that now it seemed to have finally managed to wake up from the hibernation it had been sleeping through.

Lambert sensed someone standing before him- that was the correct word, because from his view he could only spot the top of a head. At first he thought it was just a student passing by, perhaps searching for a friend, but…they stayed. And stayed.

Azure eyes flickered down, meeting similar hues of blue- though not the same as his own. Cobalt, staring, searching, inquiring, all in the same iris, framed by dark green hair and a pale face.

Who- oh

no.

Oh it was that kid.

Lambert stared at Linhardt for a solid moment, partly stunned- trying to wonder how to even respond. Keep it simple and typical. “Linhardt, hello. Do you need anything?” He adjusted his posture, crossing his arms. “You wish to ask any questions?” Please ask for something normal like where’s the bathroom, please ask for something normal-

[pridelessdaydreamer]

“So then you believe me.” (Surely, he must—that sort of reaction certainly didn’t sound like doubt.) It was either that, or he’d somehow determined that he didn’t have a crest, and that would put them back at square one—but no, Lin was certain Lambert now understood. It was in the way the man spoke that gave it all away.

Which only left a handful of potential steps forward, but that would be dealt with in time.

“In truth, whether or not you bear a crest is of little import to me.” Perhaps the scholar sounded a bit contradictory in saying so, but the truth could only be the truth: there are plenty of crest-bearers out there, and the crest of Blaiddyd was not the rarest. “What matters is that it is the crest of Blaiddyd, and that can only mean so many things.”

They iterated them back in their first meeting: a hidden relative (or a lost one), a miracle spark that had gone unnoticed, the king of Faerghus risen again—all completely unlikely scenarios.

But then again, how many foreign graves walked the Academy today? (Though Linhardt had never caught precise names, he had heard them in rumors—and anything was possible if you could not disprove it.) Was it truly so impossible that one of Fódlan’s could stand amongst them?

(He bears the name and visage of the late-king—was it truly so impossible?)

“If you are who I think you are, then that mystery is soundly solved. Your kingdom believes you’ve been dead for four years, and your brother is in charge until your son can be.” (One might note the degree of casualness it is said with, as though telling a person they have died was a common occurrence.)

“If you happen to be someone else though, you’d probably do best to go into hiding, just to avoid trouble.” (A short pause, before adding:) “Unless you intend to usurp the throne—in that case, you should hide anyway instead of stirring up trouble where the church and crown prince can see you.”

A hand extends then to Lambert, more so as a gesture than an ask of any sort. “Regardless, I can’t make you think one way or another, so whatever the truth is, I’m sure you’ll understand?” (Another nonchalant shrug.) “Or something—I don’t know, but you get it.”

this ball is a hecking nightmare | linhardt mini

continued from here.

Breathe in, breathe out. No normal questions about where the beverages are or how’s the music going. No, the kid had to go straight to the point, apparently not having forgotten a single thing from their brief first meeting. Lambert thought the student looked like the forgetful type- because despite the questions they had this sleepy look on their eyes…that the professor wondered- and found comfort in- if they were just sleep deprived and speaking nonsense. 

No. The kid was serious.

“I did not need Hanneman for that.” Sadly. Lambert wasn’t going to reach for Hanneman either way, but enough things had happened to give him the confirmation that he didn’t even want to reach. Yes, he did have a stupid crest. No, he didn’t know which one it was, he couldn’t care- all he knew was that it was successful in at least completely destabilizing every perceived notion of peace he thought he had reached.

His body wasn’t his. He simply happened to share it with that star from hell.

“Why do you care anyway, honestly?” The professor’s tone was tired, almost whiny. It was unintentional but at this point he was trying his hardest to hold on to something, anything that could allow him to at least conclude his job. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to go to the Abyss and hopefully stay there until his mind figured itself out.

Though, he couldn’t, could he? He’d be running away from the very thing he came here to do.

Shouldn’t he be striving to regain his memories? Why such cowardice?

“What is the big deal of me having a crest?”

@pridelessdaydreamer