Chapter Text
STITCHES
Sewing was easy. Or rather, not at all. It was actually a hard and extremely detailed work that required all of one’s concentration to not make a single mistake that could ruin everything, which made it the perfect distraction. Better than lying on the floor of a dark room counting spots on the ceiling, anyhow. Other people called it boring, but they just didn’t see the flow of it; like in battle, once things really got going, everything was in a trance, and the rest of the world…went away. No bad thoughts, no nightmares, no memories. Just the present and what was in front of you, with no risk of people dying.
It was exactly because of that that Bernie was able to ignore the cold wind of Faerghus creeping in through the tent, the yells of soldiers outside, and a shirtless Hubert sitting on a bed just a few centimeters away from her, glassy-eyed and bleeding from a cut in his arm almost deep enough to show bone.
Professor Manuela had suggested it. Linhardt was overworked enough as it was, and he didn’t have the skill to do actual medical treatment instead of relying on healing magic all the time. Bernie, on the other hand, apparently had “steady reflexes” and “good concentration” and “enough knowledge of plants to at least not poison someone to death”. Of course, Bernie protested at first; leaving someone’s life in her hands was absolutely ridiculous, even if she had said she wanted to help out more, but Professor Manuela somehow managed to convince her. “It will be easy, my dear. Just a few treatments for simple injuries, nothing more than that. Get the hand of it and soon enough you’ll be able to do it with your eyes closed.”
She’d been right. Two days later, and Bernie could do it without thinking. Give a potion, clean the wound, dress the wound, and then done. With the way things had gone at Tailtean, so many people getting off with light (or at least not deadly) injuries had been a miracle.
“Many people” did not include Hubert. Of course it didn’t. And of course, he had to end up at Bernie’s tent. With her luck, he probably would have ended up there anyway, even if he had not requested her specifically.
Joining the ingredients in a bowl, Bernie grounded them into a light-purple paste, spreading them into the bandages. Lavandula. She knew that one well; it was the same herb Mother used to give her after Father’s…sessions, and maybe even the same amount. Whenever Bernie took it, she would fall down on the floor and stay there for hours, waiting for the pain to fade and barely aware of anything, so the fact that Hubert was able to even sit on the bed without any support was amazing. He was always amazing, compared to a crybaby like her.
No, this isn’t right. She couldn’t be thinking of him like that, not right now. Right now, he had to be nobody, another nameless, faceless soldier for her to help. Anything else would have ruined her focus.
Done with the medicine, Bernie approached him, gently pulling the injured arm forward, holding his hand to keep it steady. For someone who wrote all day, Hubert’s skin was surprisingly soft, though thankfully he must have been too tired from the first dose of medicine to notice her blush, with not even flinching as Bernie wiped the blood away with a wet rag.
Now, for the hard part.
"I-I’m going to have to sew that up now, so please hold still. It won’t hurt”. No answer. It was the same line she used every time, the first step of her routine. The tip of the needle slowly pierced the skin, just like fabric, and after that, it was all repetition and instinct. Pull the thread, from one end to the other. Tie a knot. Pierce again. Watch the edges. Don’t pull too tight. Don’t tear anything. Pierce again. Pull the thread, from one end to the other.
“I’m sorry.”
Usually, hearing Hubert’s voice out of nowhere would have scared her, but Bernie was already in too deep to care “Sorry for what?”
“Your flower. I ruined it. There’s blood and mud all over it.”
The needle shook, but just a bit. “Y-you took it with you? To the battle?”
“Of course. I promised to wear it, did I not? You would have been sad if I hadn’t.”
Yes, and she hated herself for it. “I wouldn’t. It’s fine.”
Bernie could hear the smile in his voice. The needle shook again. “You’re a terrible liar. There’s nothing wrong with admitting it, you know.”
She pulled the thread a bit harder, releasing a grunt of pain from Hubert, followed by a laughter. Strangely, she did not feel guilty about it.
“Alright, I understand. I’m sorry.”
Pull the thread, from one end to the other. Tie a knot. Pierce again. Done.
The salve in the bandages dulled the pain and made the wound heal faster. A few days of the rest and the arm would be fine again, and maybe there wouldn’t even be a scar.
Slowly, the world came back. The cold wind, the yells of the soldiers, Hubert sitting shirtless at the bed, still holding her hand, pulling her closer.
“You saved my life.”
“I- “
“What sort of idiot jumps onto a charging swordsman’s back and stabs him with an arrow? I came out with a cut, and you could have died. Why didn’t you run? I told you to run, but you stayed.”
The medicine. The medicine was messing with his head. Hubert never would have been so protective otherwise, or angry, or wrapped his arms around her waist like that. Bernie shouldn’t have payed attention to what he was saying either, or wrapped her own arms around his neck.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I-I’ll make sure to let you die next time.”
Oh, Bernie.
In her defense (not that she deserved any), Hubert also took a while to realize what had happened. Her apology came at the same time as his laughter, and they were so close, he could probably, no, she could probably-
The wind roared again, much stronger this time. The lavandula bottles all came crashing down, and by the time Linhardt had come running into to check, Bernie was already halfway across the tent, completely breathless. Managing to mutter some random excuse about supply checks, she ran from the tent, glancing at the piles of dirty, bloodied black clothes on the way out.
She had a new flower to sew.