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Chivalry is a dead tale.
It died along with the King of Faerghus. It died with his brother, Glenn. It died with his long forgotten friend who’s character has been reduced to a mere savage beast.
They call it the “Tragedy of Duscur” and yet, they continue to hail it as a story of heroism.
The people of the Kingdom, the House of Fraudelrius, hell, even his father. All they talk about are noble sacrifices as the legendary heroes of their story hold their ground against the evil beings of Duscur.
Grief is clear in their eyes but continue to prattle on about recognising those who lost their lives as heroes, passing their stories down with the same respect everyone gives Loog, the King of Lions.
Honouring the tale of the King who put his life on the line for negotiations in order to better relations, both for his country and the world around him.
Honouring the tale of Glenn who kept his fiance and his family and his kingdom at the forefront of his mind the entire time he defended the young prince from certain doom.
Honouring the tale of Dimitri who lived through the tragedy, who proved that their sacrifice was not for naught, even if only one remains.
Even if only one animal carcass walks around pretending to be a living human.
All hail chivalry, and the thousands of dead souls that follow it.
The way that they speak with distance they’re long forgotten legends even if the incident only occurred five years ago.
It’s as if they’re only fiction.
When Felix heard of the events that transpired in Duscur, he panicked. He cried to Sylvain, blubbered to Ingrid, worried with his father, prayed endlessly to the Goddess.
He was but a mere child at the time. At 13 years of age, Felix’s hands have been polished sharp by his blade but his heart has yet to be encased by protective steel.
But, even inside that steel, his heart still pumped and beat and hurt.
The report of the tragedy was his biggest enemy back then.
As the messenger read the mission status out loud to the House of Fralderius, Felix wanted nothing more than to leap forward and tear that paper in half, rip it to shreds, let it blow to the wind, grab his sword and slice each individual piece out of existence
His King gone. His brother gone. His inseparable friend gone.
And when he heard that Dimitri was the sole survivor, he almost broke down right there.
What was he supposed to feel? Happiness that his friend had survived? Anger that his brother did not? Excitement to see his friend once again? Sadness that his last image of his brother was of him saying goodbye?
An all-consuming urge to hug both of them, alive or dead, and to never let go?
It didn’t matter. His feelings that threatened to pull him apart didn’t matter.
When Felix saw Dimitri shaking and shivering in the middle of the castle with nothing but fear and suffering oozing out of every part of his body, it no longer mattered.
His brother is dead, his friend is alive. Those are the facts and Felix has to accept them. The bitterness that wells up in his throat can simply be swallowed down again. They can be ignored until the next time it builds up like phlegm and even then, it’ll just be spit out and disposed of.
He held Dimitri’s hand tightly in the morning, talking to him, coaxing him to laugh. Anything to see that bright, beautiful smile the prince once behold.
He guided Dimitri’s hand during the afternoon, swiftly swinging it, a wooden sword grasped in both their grips. Anything to bring back that unbreakable, valiant strength the prince once displayed.
He carressed Dimitri’s hand when evening fell, rubbing gentle circles, whispering comforts and reassurances as the sun sets behind them. Anything to be with the Dimitri that he loves.
If Felix cried himself to sleep at night, cursing the Goddess and the whole entire world for everything that’s happened, Dimitri didn’t have to know.
Dimitri eventually smiled again, he talked again, he acted just like the kid he once knew as friend. Ecstacy built inside Felix and for once in those two years, it suppressed all the bitterness.
Maybe the King didn’t die for nothing. Maybe his brother’s death wasn’t in vain. Maybe chivalry did exist.
Yet, all good (fake) things had to come to an end.
Felix was a stupid, naive child. He was no better than all those countrymen he despises. He should have known something dark was still lurking behind that kind exterior. That facade that he had helped to build.
By all means, it should have been a small and easy mission. Frankly, it was. A minor rebellion is nothing like the events a prince nor a major crest bearer would be training for. They all set out individually, staying close to one another. Not soon after they set foot on the battlefield that a fog descended, obscuring vision further than a foot away from where they stood.
Almost as if it was an instinctual response, Dimitri ran straight into the depths of the fog. Without hesitation, Felix ran after him.
Dimitri disappeared from his line of sight, leaving the only trial that Felix could follow the clashes of metal on metal and ensuing battle.
Ambushes were plenty along the route, constantly lashing out in hopes of catching Felix off guard. They were always quickly dealt with, so that he could catch up to Dimitri before anything happens.
It was a minor rebellion. Nothing large scale. It won’t turn out like the tragedy.
The last sentence kept repeating in his mind. It became his mantra on the battle, pushing him onwards as he continues to fight like his life depended on it. Like Dimitri’s life depended on it.
Dimitri finally enters his line of sight, deep in a fight of his own. Behind him, though, was the telltale twinkle of light magic.
Without a moment to think, Felix leapt into action.
He sent his sword through the mage, leaving them to crumple onto the ground. Instantly, the fog dissipated, both the physical one on the battlefield and mental one in his own mind.
The painful truth had to be revealed at one point of another, always with startling clarity that leaves no room for doubt.
There, his friend stood, chest rumbling in a silent laugh. Dimitri’s lance was discarded, pierced right through an enemy’s chest, the angle of it suggesting nothing but a painful and gruesome death. The prince’s hands (the same ones he once held, guided, caressed) were clasped over a knight’s neck, pressing down with a sickening crack.
The body was held there for a moment before falling unceremoniously onto the ground, joining his dead comrades in a bloodsoaked pile.
Dimitri turned around and he might as well have sent his lance through Felix’s head.
Blood splattered all over his face, tainting his skin a dark dirty red. His eyes were more empty than when he had arrived back as the sole survivor. And his smile...
The vision of him smiling in the midst of all the blood and gore was disturbing enough. But, his lips were curled in a smirk, his eyebrows cocked in a way that implied pride. It was as if…
It was as if that Dimitri enjoyed the massacre of his enemies.
All that bitterness Felix had suppressed rose up his throat again and threatened to push out of his mouth.
He walked away.
Their journey back was a silent one. He ignored all attempts Dimitri made at conversation. After all, there was no use talking to a lying beast.
When they arrived back to their home, Felix immediately shut himself in his room.
Curse the stupid ideals that their country upholds. Damn all those naive followers who do nothing but preach them endlessly time and time again.
Felix was once complicit in their idiotic beliefs but not anymore.
That bloodthirsty boar prince should be sent down straight to hell and all those foolish notions of the Kingdom that he helps to propagate.
His old friend died right alongside his brother. His heart and soul were massacred in Duscur, burned to ash without a single trace left intact. Nothing of the Dimitri he once knew remained.
Chivalry is a dead tale.
And Felix won’t hesitate to cut it down. Strength is his only companion on the battlefield, his sword his most trusted ally.
A lone wolf he may be but never, not ever, will he give into the foolish ideals that cast all he loved into the lost void of unknown.