Mercenary blade work has always fascinated Dimitri — sharp and fearless — but Byleth’s sword unnerves him.
Swift. Precise. With slick footwork aiding the years of hot blood crusted on his blade.
Once the bandits are dealt with and the mercenaries agree to accompany them to Garreg Mach, Dimitri’s gaze refuses to leave that sword gleaming at its master’s hip like it’s waiting to strike him. Something within his chest thunders as they walk. He recognizes his emotions. Awe. Respect for the worn pommel looks and just how rugged Byleth’s hands must be. And flickers of disgust for the traces of himself he saw in Byleth’s impassive face as they fought in the forest.
Ghostly murmurs flit through Dimitri’s ears. Whether they’re warnings against the mercenaries or commands to mimic them… He doesn’t understand.
(He doesn’t want to. Not when sunlight hits teal hair — and the sight demands his undivided attention.)
*
The Red Canyon isn’t half as red as expected.
Not until the Professor tugs his sword from the bandit chief’s throat.
Dimitri wonders if the name Red Canyon owes itself to bloodshed. (He wonders if someday, Duscur will also carry an ominous second name.) If people have spilled blood here before... If people like him—people who have killed and will continue to kill in the name of duty—have…
He looks at the other Blue Lions, scrubbing their faces at a riverbank, but forgoing the stains on their uniforms. All of them have killed today. He stares as Mercedes unties her hair with shaky hands, but it doesn’t come undone, matted red, and Dimitri should have intervened before she’d been forced to—
"-mitri. Dimitri."
The Professor stands much too close without warning. His hand hovers over Dimitri’s shoulder, neither touching nor asking for permission to. It snaps him wide awake, suddenly focused on the phantom warmth of the Professor’s glove and the gravel beneath his feet.
"...Professor, my apologies. Do you require my assistance?" Although I won’t be of use, goes unsaid as he looks towards the others healing and bandaging each other.
"No. But are you alright?"
Alright? He is alright. He assures Byleth as much, but somehow when they resume their journey to the monastery, the Professor constantly glances his way, and Dimitri doesn’t know how he feels being alright anymore.
*
Magdred Way scrapes open wounds Dimitri never expected to be touched when fresh and still bleeding. They killed civilians. They took up arms against the people he was sworn to protect. His stomach is wrung dry. He knew of the monster within him. Perhaps he is a monster wearing human skin. But what about the others? What about Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, Mercedes, Dedue, Annette, and Ashe? What about them? What are they supposed to wear: monster skin?
Between Ashe’s downtrodden face and his guilt for shouting at a faultless Byleth, Dimitri drags his feet towards the horses.
He doesn’t expect Byleth to ride with him again, and he doesn’t. Instead, he leaves Ashe in Dimitri’s care.
"I trust you," Byleth says.
Not just to take care of him, but to hold him together until we reach the monastery. To empathize with his loss. To be there for Ashe if he ever needs a stalwart rock to lean on.
(Dimitri’s father doesn’t skirt his periphery that evening, and Glenn simply lays still in the bath.)
*
Foraging is not an arduous task for Dimitri. He’s skilled and quite enjoys it. Sent with the Professor, however, he feels like he’s been shaken upside-down. He picks mushrooms and marvels at leaves. But every time they walk deeper into the forest, he follows in the Professor’s footsteps—smaller than his. When it becomes routine, his head spins.
*
The Sword of the Creator suits Byleth. Its bone-colored ridges fit between his hands seamlessly, just like the rims of porcelain cups sit between his lips at tea.
Miniscule embers sizzle in the pit of his stomach when Dimitri recounts the occasions he’s passed the gardens, only to spot Byleth sharing tea with another student. Some part of him—independent of his ghosts—whispers he’s privy to the way Byleth whips the Sword of the Creator with matchless precision. Few are blessed with such opportunities. He should be thankful Byleth shares even that much of himself. That he keeps Dimitri in proximity, privy to his next moves in battle. Battle. They are headed into battle, and that is where his head should be.
"Dimitri," he calls, brushing their shoulders together as they walk, "you look pale. Have you been resting enough?"
"I simply had a fitful sleep last night. I assure you there is nothing to worry about."
Byleth pins him with that gaze.
The one that questions, exhorts, empathizes, and chills Dimitri to the bone. (He has to stop seeking those eyes. He has to stop looking for acknowledgment in such a perilous place.)
His arm sparks whenever he touches Byleth. It’s dangerous. Each spark travels straight to his chest and they’re supposed to be vigilant, passing through a forest with no guarantee of their safety. If either of them were to lose focus, they could be ambushed by unknown dangers. Still, Dimitri inches closer. The back of his hand knocks into Byleth’s when he shuffles the contents of his basket around and doesn’t pull away when their gauntlets click occasionally. They cross wild undergrowth and carefully tiptoe over sheets of drying twigs, all the while close enough for Dimitri to hear the professor breathe.
This close, he can pick up the scent of tea in the otherwise overwhelming forest, and he’s immediately shoved back into the thoughts he’d left behind with much difficulty.
"Professor, do you perhaps wash your hair with tea?"
"Hm? You could tell? Lady Rhea suggested it."
The Professor’s expression doesn’t change. It usually doesn’t. Some part of Dimitri fears his stoicism and some part of him is mystified by the composure.
"Does it smell strongly?" The Professor asks. He’d meant it in jest, so the seriousness surprises him. Dimitri didn’t expect him to be bothered—no, to care enough to question it.
"...It smells"—divine, heavenly, so fitting—"pleasant."
"I see."
No, he doesn’t see, Dimitri thinks. He doesn’t see the way light passes through the foliage and settles on him. He doesn’t see the way his tea parties turn heads or birth envy. He presses his lips together and adjusts his grip on the wicker basket.
The professor halts and with a hand on his chin, turns to Dimitri like he’s solving one of Annette’s strategy questions.
"Would you care for some tea before bedtime? I have some chamomile in my room and Jeralt says it’s good for sleep."
He crushes the basket’s handles and his berries roll to the ground… but at least, he’s invited to tea now.
*
The Gautier relic kills Miklan. To the world, however, Sylvain killed Miklan, forever erasing the stain on House Gautier’s name.
Murky yet vehement storms follow them as they leave Conand tower. Mud-lined hooves traipse into monastery premises, and Dimitri waits until Byleth and Sylvain join them. Silent together, as they’d been the entire way.
For once, Dimitri resents his professor.
If only he’d been less understanding. If only he’d been less supportive. If only he’d left Sylvain to them. Had he finally seen through Dimitri’s inability to console his friends? Had he finally noticed the darkness lurking within him—the ghastly, haunted abode his body served for the dead?
*
Rodrigue requests them at Fraldarius.
Dimitri keeps to himself the entire way, half-tired after a long, sleepless night, and half-consumed by a barrage of unexpected thoughts.
Is Rodrigue safe? Why request the Blue Lions? Will Felix be alright? Of course, he will, Fraldarius is his home. Will the Professor get along with Rodrigue? Does the Professor see a reason to pledge his allegiance to Faerghus when a new Faerghan debacle awaits them every moon?
Byleth is no stranger to Fraldarius’ marketplaces—Dimitri feels a little silly for hoping otherwise—but he admits he never used a blade the Captain didn’t entrust to him during his mercenary days.
"Professor, the best blades in all of Fódlan are forged in Faerghus. Allow me to show you around."
He’s borderline giddy when Byleth pulls on a cloak.
"Wait, Boar," Felix bites, all hatred with no youth. It stings, but not as much as Glenn’s corpse crawling after his brother.
He may be a boar, but he’s also the crown prince. He may be strong—so cursed he breaks every delicate thing within grasp—but he’s the crown prince. He shouldn’t roam around the markets by himself. Not in his Kingdom. The Lions tag along as they are wont to, and Dimitri would never begrudge them. Never.
Yet his chest burns hotter than Ailell when he catches Sylvain appraising daggers with the Professor.
*
"You can entrust the night patrol to me."
"As long as you’re awake, Dedue won’t sleep."
Dimitri turns to Dedue pointedly, but he has never been one to leave his liege alone. A worn, exasperating argument ensues. Dimitri is always on night patrol when their missions require overnight travel. He doesn’t sleep well, and it’s easier for him than to wake someone else forcefully and disrupt their rest. Dedue worries for his safety more than his station, and he worries about Dimitri’s health. The argument runs in circles through dinner and after.
The other Lions finish pitching tents, kindling the bonfire, and Ingrid, unexpectedly, gives in to exhaustion first.
"I will stay," Byleth interrupts, and settles on a log before anyone can object. "Everyone. Go to sleep."
Being commanded to sleep doesn’t work.
Merely an hour later, Dimitri leaves his tent and perches next to the Professor, watching the orange blaze dance across his sharp features.
They talk in whispers. About training, gambits, Dimitri’s escapades to the library. The gentle rustle of trees and the ambient wind draw him closer to sleep, but whenever his eyelids fall, he sees blood and fire. He sees the flash of flames spreading over wool and hair. He smells it. His stepmother’s hand breaks through the bonfire and digs sharp nails into the earth, trying to latch onto it.
"You’re drowsy."
"I won’t fall asleep, Professor."
"Then at least rest your head a little."
Before he can comprehend what happened, Dimitri is looking at the sky. Thin clouds float in front of the moon. How pretty, he thinks. When Byleth’s face appears above him, the sky becomes even prettier.
His head is in the Professor’s lap.
Soft. Despite the edges of armor, Byleth is soft.
The Professor’s warm hand is carding through his hair. Patting his head. Searing aimless circles into his skin.
"Rest. We have a very long way to go." Byleth says, in a soft voice Dimitri has only heard him use around cats. His ribcage shakes with intensity, but he doesn’t resist. He huddles closer, sapping warmth, and Byleth’s hands only grow gentler, scratching behind his ears and dipping into his neck.
Come morning, Dimitri hasn’t caught a wink of sleep, and he’s uncertain if he feels rested. However, Byleth smiles at him, and he melts into a puddle of pure energy.
*
Every skirmish away from Garreg Mach means a campfire.
Every campfire means Dimitri’s thigh pressed against Byleth’s. Or Dimitri’s head in Byleth’s lap. Or Byleth’s fingers pressing into Dimitri’s temples. Or—
*
The campfire en route to Gronder Field means soft, nervous lips meeting warm, bitten lips before Annette comes tumbling in with a list of counter-Claude strategies.
*
The Blue Lions emerge victorious.
Waiting to reach the monastery is nigh impossible when everyone, including the Knights and the professors, is overflowing with excitement. They pitch a massive tent in a clearing, and Dimitri accompanies Alois and Jeralt to the closest taverns just to drag back barrels of alcohol. All differences are lost amidst cheer and ale. Dimitri is danced by every Blue Lion, then Claude, then Edelgard, and when his ears are hot and his heart thumping—his headless father.
The King’s head rolls between prancing feet, screeching and barking at him to stop losing time. To stop failing the dead. To seek genuine triumph against those who tore into his loved ones in Du—
Byleth waits with his hand outstretched.
Dimitri bows politely and then steals away from the tent.
*
They say victory augments boldness. Dimitri would agree if boldness meant allowing his Professor to sleep on his shoulder in a carriage filled with grinning classmates.
*
The Professor picks Felix to dance, and Dimitri doesn’t smolder.
He may be a monster with insatiable bloodlust, but he wears the mask of a prince. He doesn’t need to dance to touch Byleth’s waist or sweep him off his feet. Claude claiming Byleth’s first dance dislodges his heart. He shakes it off as they climb the Goddess Tower. It was a dance. Byleth would dance with him now if he requested it, but… He loses his confidence in the face of asking him to hold hands.
"I have heard rumors that a kiss may better seal our wishes." He says, playful and a little guilty for ruining the romantic mood.
Byleth doesn’t hesitate before closing his eyes and leaning in.
*
Dimitri can’t speak. Heavy footfall and clicking hooves invade his mind, pushing him headfirst into Glenn’s rasping. His father is crying today. Thick, hot tears stream down his severed head, pooling beneath burnt hair.
"My son is Useless! My son doesn’t want Revenge! If my Son loved Me I wouldn’t have To Keep Burning in eternal flames! I WOULDN’T HAVE TO KEEP BURNING—"
His stepmother screams, shrill and deafening, so much so he can’t hear the rain. He can’t hear Byleth’s sobs and little heaves. He sees them. He sees them and can’t understand what Byleth and the Captain were doing in Duscur. Burnt flesh invades his lungs. Crackling, half-ashen bones peek through the dirt. It rains soot.
Was the Professor also a victim of Duscur?
Drenched as he is, Dimitri shrouds the father-son pair under his cloak. He prays for them as he prays for his own. And if his professor were to covet vengeance even half as desperately as he does, Dimitri will offer his flesh and blood.
*
The Professor has changed.
Hair and eyes aside, the way he carries himself is filled with a strange, iron-willed melancholy. He has never seemed more sorrowful or more certain. Dimitri can’t fault him. He’s just lost his father—the only person who’d been a constant all his life. He mourns, then drags Dimitri away from the training hall after days of sleepless nights; he works himself thin, then reaches out despite the constant thundering in Dimitri’s head.
They sneak away. They ride to a tavern they once took shelter at and Byleth wastes no time cradling Dimitri’s face and pressing their lips together.
Their tongues lap at each other hastily—fearfully.
What if they were to lose each other as well?
"Profe-"
"Byleth. I’m Byleth like this."
Like this: breathing heavily, with nimble fingers unclasping armor and uniform, with mussed-up hair, and fresh blossoms trailing down his neck.
The Professor has truly changed.
He never took initiative before. Not vigorously. Not for stripping Dimitri of his ghosts with his tongue and body heat. Dimitri reaches to intertwine their fingers, but Byleth pins down his wrists and the rest of their night is lost to pleasure.
"You don’t have a heartbeat," Dimitri notes with an ear pressed over his bare chest. The King’s wayward head rolls into view, stands proudly on the windowsill overlooking the little town. He yells about Dimitri wasting time on a dead one who still gets to eat and breathe.
He shrieks when Dimitri doesn’t snap his lover’s neck as instructed.
Byleth rubs circles into his scalp, says he never had one, and neither of them falls asleep, but the solid, muscled presence beneath Dimitri helps act traitor.
*
"YOU TRAITOR—"
"Please… Father…"
"YOU WERE BETTER OFF DEAD THAN—"
"I know… I will avenge you, I promise, please, just give me a little more time—"
"BRING THEM TO DAMNATION—"
*
"I have a bad feeling about the ritual," Byleth says, tightening his hold around Dimitri’s waist.
Ever since they’ve taken to leaving the monastery grounds by themselves under the pretext of teaching Byleth how to ride, they never return before sundown. Today, Byleth stops under a gigantic frosty tree and spreads his coat over the thin blanket of snow beneath their feet.
Snow. Crunchy snow. Dimitri digs a finger into it and waits to go numb.
"Must you go through with it, then?"
"...I don’t know. I don’t think I’m in a position to refuse."
Dimitri pokes Byleth’s cheek with his icy finger, enjoys the wintry blush, and closes his eyes. He reaches for Byleth’s hand, but withdraws, opting to cover it with his cloak instead.
He will graduate soon.
He will have to leave Byleth behind because he has to bring peace to the dead. Even now, Glenn hangs from the branches, dripping molasses-like blood onto the ground. And he can’t guarantee he will remain alive after it. To bring peace to the dead means to eventually join them. He cannot alienate them forever.
Dimitri cannot callously provide Byleth with the position to refuse, no matter how much he wishes to.
A deep, resonant headache devours him before he can talk to Byleth about it, however.
*
"I’m here to listen," the Professor says. "You can talk to me about anything. Just don’t overwork yourself—You can rely on us—"
*
They don’t wander away from the monastery after that. The guard throws nervous glances whenever Dimitri passes by, and someday, he will make amends for all the anxiety he and Byleth have put the poor man through. It’s impossible that no one knows they’ve been sneaking out. Dimitri is infamous for haunting the monastery night after night.
After the ritual.
He will take Byleth and they’ll ride off to a different place, somewhere beautiful and peaceful.
Maybe… Maybe once he assumes the throne… He wouldn’t need to die to appease the dead?
They could, perhaps, see all of Faerghus. They could avenge their dead together, traverse all of Fódlan and all of Duscur to bring justice to this land. They could walk hand-in-hand over sunset bridges and moonlit sand. He wants to take Byleth everywhere he goes. Be it paradise or damnation.
He will ask. Once the ritual is over, he will ask.
*
(And then Byleth goes to the one place he cannot follow until Edelgard’s head hangs from the gates of Enbarr.)
Comments