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Chapter Text

A whole year after Byleth vanishes from his life, Dimitri returns to Garreg Mach. 

He makes the trip, weary and exhausted, wearing a ragged and dirty fur cloak he stole from a dead body weeks ago, and holding the broken lance he has been using as a weapon and crutch since he escaped the capital. His whole self is a disaster: his hair, a mess of tangles and bloody knots falling over his damaged eye; his body, littered with wounds carelessly bandaged and healed with his sparse knowledge of white magic, limping on one side from constant tripping on things he cannot see well. An empty concoction bottle hangs from his belt, the diluted medicine he had been using so far gone as of last night, when an ambush by Imperial rogues had found him half asleep and delirious not far from the monastery.

He killed them all, of course. The blood is not his, never his, unless it is the constant stain on his hands that has been there since five, maybe six years ago; before he met his class, his teacher, before the one good year in the Officer’s Academy that has probably been the happiest he has been in ages.

It is the memories that bring him back to the Monastery -back home, one could say. His retainer is gone, his allies trapped in their own lands by Imperial command, his beloved professorGoddesssavior gone with not even a body left behind, and he is the one who remains still. The voices of vengeance and betrayal sing in the forefront of his mind, but the memories of laughter and cheerful teasing are a vague light in the back of his mind, pushing him to look for somewhere he can rest .

The Monastery is destroyed, but surely there is still something to salvage. Dear Professor’s personal garden hidden in a niche in the walls, maybe, or the weapons held in storage under Felix’s and Ashe’s rooms’ floorboards, hopefully. Perhaps, the broken shields Annette and Ingrid used as materials to build the cats a shelter or the scraps of clothing in all their rooms can be used for something, if they are still there.

He wants them to be. He wants a familiar sight.

He just wants to get home.

The Monastery itself is quiet. There is no Felix sparring against Ingrid in the training rooms, no Dedue or Ashe humming in the shared kitchen, no Mercedes spooking people by making sheets fly as if pulled by strings. No Annette practicing her singing while polishing her axe, or Sylvain pretend procrastinating as he traces magic sigils in the air, or dearprofessor running left and right with lost items in their bag. There is no laughter from his squires, his small group of young students who trailed after him, swords and lances at the ready to learn.

There is just… strays. Cats stalking the shadows, dogs darting out of his path, birds scattering with each sound he makes. And-

Rats. Can’t forget the rats.

With a wild scream, he rushes.

Five rats, none his people. The imperial gold marc bouncing in his hand is proof enough they are not worth his time.

He drags the bodies as far from the Cathedral and the eyes of the Goddess as he dares go before slashing their eyes and stripping them of their equipment. Not everything, as right now he is not gone enough as to take the dead’s belongings. Just the useful things: some rations, two short knives, a chipped sword and a bow, a set of lockpicks he deems durable enough for the ancient doors of the Monastery. He takes it all before dumping the corpses all for the wild beasts to feast, and heads back inside the walls he used to call home.

Home.

He first goes to the dorms. As he expects, they are empty of all useful possessions, probably taken by rats or by people before they fled. Still, when he opens the secret passage under Felix’s bed, he is pleased to see the small collection of weapons still hidden there. They are old, as Felix had claimed them at the end of their lifetime for his weird training, and probably have maybe one or two battles before they break, but weapons are weapons even if he has to be careful with them. Ashe’s room proves to be a bust, but he still finds a few arrowheads and some bandages in the small safe buried by his window.

Next he checks Professordearest’s room. There is, of course, nothing to be salvaged there, but it is… comfortable. It feels safe, and warm, and even if there is no one in there he feels a soft and protective presence watching over him.

He wraps himself in his cloak and lays on the bed. He can continue tomorrow.

Tomorrow becomes the day after, and on and on until a moon passes. He goes scavenging, the cats following close, and sleeps surrounded by a pack of half-feral dogs. He goes hunting for rats, always at a distance of the Goddess’ influence, and builds himself a reputation. Occasionally, he heads to town, hiding himself while listening for rumors, and at times follows those rumors to Imperial soldiers for his blood fest.

The Monastery is his base of operations, and he would not have it another way.

It is when returning from one of his hunts that he hears the voice.

Follow, it says. Follow me.

The first time he hears it, he ignores it. He believes it to be Professor Byleth Eisner, calling from the afterlife, just like his parents and Glenn do when both sun and moon rest and his nightmares come to life. When the darkness crawls around him, hands of the dead tugging at his limbs, the quietest lullaby in his mind telling him to stop, to forget his quest, to join them all on the other side.

The next time, it is daytime, his ghosts quiet as they always are unless the sun is down. He listens, even as the dogs around him perk up and run towards the source. They can hear it, then it cannot be a ghost, it cannot be his mind- then, what is it?

Follow me, it says, with Professor’s voice yet nothing else. The tone, the cadence, it all belongs to someone else, to a child, perhaps, or a really young Professor.

He follows.

(The dogs, feral as they are, serve as good guides to his destination, even when they follow the shortest path. He himself, feral as he is, doesn’t mind crawling into small spaces or sliding on wet mud or even toppling a whole tree.

He ignores his inner Felix telling him he has become a monster.)

An odd statue attempts to stop his path, but stops upon landing the first hit to his blind side. 

His blood spills.

It hurts. A lot. His refilled diluted concoction is enough to heal the damage, but the pain of the bruise stays. Like the damage was deeper than mere skin, like burrowing into his very soul, the bruise burns and aches in a pain he has never felt before.

He leaves the statue be. What else can he do? It was not moving any longer, it will not spill blood, it is worthless to his revenge. Still, he marks the statue’s spot before moving on, just in case.

He finds a few more, and climbs on one to look ahead. He remembers this place, vaguely, as the road to the Holy Tomb, and if he can guess that woman’s mission, then it would not be weird if he found Imperial soldiers around. Still, there is no sign of intelligent life around, just beasts.

He is a beast himself. He does not feel out of place at all.

The path is as tricky as he remembers, but the dogs help him find safe paths. He promises himself they will feed well tonight, after he finds whatever is it he needs to see in here.

The voice grows quiet. A soft laughter and gentle teasing lead him on to the entrance of the tomb, and as he tries to find the lock mechanism it goes completely silent. The final word it speaks sends dread down his spine, makes him move faster, acting on a time limit he does not know but feels in his bones.

Help us.

The Holy Tomb is quiet, as it should be. Empty, save for the coffins where the Crest Stones rest and the huge throne at the end of the passage. 

Except, it is not empty at all.

He runs. His weapon falls to the ground as he scrambles up the stairs, throwing himself to his knees next to the stone throne of the Goddess. It hurts, but nothing hurts as much as seeing the one sitting on the stone, curled around a sword he has not seen in a whole year.

They haven’t changed. They look the same as the last moment Dimitri saw them, messy green hair and black armour, the brooch he had gifted them long ago attached to their coat. Their eyes are closed, and he would give up his life just to see the icy green behind their lids, either sharp as they scold him or soft and glowing with pride.

“Professor…”

His voice comes out against his will, breaking the silence of the tomb, but there is no reply. BelovedProfessor looks as if they are not breathing, not living, cold and frozen in time and stone, like yet another statue in the resting place of the Goddess.

They are warm.

Dimitri reaches for their hand, takes it between his own and holds it to his lips. It is warm, alive, as if teacher dearest is just sleeping after a long day of grading papers and training. Just as he had found them many times, napping before dinner in the most unexpected places; he can almost hear Professor’s complains when he shakes them awake or picks them up to carry them home.

“ Byleth.”

There is no breathing, no pulse, but it is okay. They are alright, they are alive, somehow, even if frozen in what could easily be their grave. Surely the Goddess brought them here, a means to protect and ward Her chosen, Her own; surely, if they are here, then they will one day wake.

The sword in their hands pulses with power, a steady glow brightening and fading as if taking place of the missing heartbeat. And maybe, maybe it is: why would the Goddess’ sword not aid its wielder in their healing? The world is made of so many odd things already.

It hurts, seeing them like this.

Dimitri presses his lips against their cheek and sits down by their feet. 

He will protect them until they wake up.

Chapter Text

By each day that passes, dear Professor looks less alive, and Dimitri feels less like a human. 

He cannot stay down in the tomb all the time, but he visits every two or three days, sitting next to the sleeping body of Byleth and talking to them. He recounts events from his past and present, and tells old forgotten tales of Fódlan’s history. It is his personal hour of rest and comfort, curled up next to a Goddess’ throne and his saviorGoddessguide, talking until his voice goes rough with use.

He hadn’t heard his own voice in months, and now he talks so much. He must keep the silence away.

He is not alone, though. The Monastery’s cats and his- the pack of dogs join him on his trip at times, though they never go inside. Once, he found the Archbishop’s messenger owl waiting for him when he left, quiet as a shadow, and it followed him back to his nest as it used to do with Professor. 

It is odd company, but it is all the company he has, so he is grateful.

They hunt with him, too, although it is rare. He takes all his kills away from the Monastery and the Tomb, in respect to the Goddess and Byleth, but occasionally one or two rats will make it through the walls only to be mauled by his pack: he will wake at their screams and raise to defend his land, but when he gets there he will find the dogs and cats and owls feasting on their flesh.

As it should be. How dare anyone break into their home?

He has gone back to routine, though very different than it was before. He wakes surrounded by sleeping dogs, eats whatever is remaining from last night’s dinner and goes out. He tends to his pack, cares for Dedue’s flowers and collects seeds in little pouches for Professor’s personal garden. He puts away his broken weapons for Ashe and Felix to collect later, even when he knows they will not come here ever again, and brings scraps of cloth to Mercedes’ room to try and salvage later on. He drags himself to town to listen to rumors and, when he is sure he finds something worth the trip, he heads out to wherever it is Imperial troops were sighted to kill them all.

Glenn, Father and the others do not dare go down the Tomb with him. At times, when the new moon comes, he will go down and spend the night at dear Professor’s feet, a lacking attempt at trying to maintain his sanity. They do not talk to him down there, he can be at ease, at peace, even if just for the few hours he allows himself to rest before going back to the Monastery.

Like this, months come to pass.

It is one day when he is coming back from Imperials hunting that he sees intruders near the Tomb. The very first time they dare go close to his haven, and he is tired, exhausted to the point of his eyes dropping closed against his will. He watches, one of the hunting hounds he had brought along with him whining at his side, but he cannot get himself to move just yet.

They are very clearly here for the Tomb. As he follows, trying to not fall asleep, he hears them complaining about pointless orders and madmen ruling the country. He agrees with the madmen comment, but he cannot say he agrees with the whole venture being pointless. Professor is down there, after all, unable to protect themself even if they were able to move, and they are so, so very important-

Leave, the voice says, after maybe half a year of absolute silence. It is still childish, still sounds broken and tired, but this time it brings a source with it. The shade, a vague green figure standing guard atop one of the statues, moves slow yet wild, a shudder down his and the soldiers spines whenever it waves its arms around. Leave us be, it speaks again, but of course, no one but Dimitri, mad, delusional Dimitri, can hear it.

The soldiers get too close to the shade, and the hound goes wild. The white owl comes screeching down, charging at one of the soldiers, as a dozen or so cats pounce another. He won’t get another distraction, so while they are distracted, he joins the assault.

(The shade is not new. He saw it at times, back in the Monastery when dearProfessor was lecturing them. It just hovered nearby, moving left and right from windows to the door, following quietly to the training grounds and then back to their room. The one time he was tasked with delivering overdue papers to Byleth at their room, he had seen the shade more clearly, small sized as it was, sitting on the desk next to the Professor’s treasured and heavily annotated calendar.

He never asked. From rumors, he knows Felix asked, in a roundabout way very unlike him, after that fateful day at the end of the Guardian Moon, after the very last time any of them saw the shade. He knows Lysithea tried to figure out what made people able to see it, but she never got anywhere: magic or Crests had no hand on it, as both Ashe and Dorothea had seen it, that one last time, but Edelgard, Claude and even the Archbishop were blind to it.

They, as a class, never talked about it. Professor’s shade was their secret to keep, from the very first time Dimitri had almost walked into it -he stopped himself at the last second, instinct telling him to step aside; he even muttered an apology, making Byleth look up from their book curiously-, to the few times Linhardt would follow it with his eyes, head pillowed in his arms as he scribbled pages and pages of something only he could understand. They did not mention it, not to the Professor, not to each other, yet they were all aware that the others could at the very least sense it.

And then, one day, it was gone.

He remembers very clearly the day of the ball, when he had followed reveredGoddessdearProfessor outside after the people became overwhelming. 

Dimitri had had his dance, mandatory for him as house leader and future King, and he had tried to ignore Claude pulling Byleth on some animated foreign dance across the whole room; however, when Ferdinand von Aegir, at that time still a proud Eagle, had made his way over, all politeness and smiles and ‘may I have this dance’ became probably the most hated words for all the Lions around, they had all had enough. Sylvain had smoothly cut in, giving time for their endearingly awkward Professor to flee, and even Dorothea had pulled her hand at distracting people from their retreat.

And so, Dimitri followed, intent on lending a hand, or ear, or arm for Professor to put themself back at ease. What he did not expect to find was Byleth and their shade, hidden away in an abandoned balcony, having their own dance.

‘Dear beat to my heart, sword at my hand, may I have this dance?’

He stood watch, making sure no one could see their awkward Professor leading nothing-but-air through the steps and tune, trying to ignore the happy childish laughter coming from the shade.

He still met them at the Goddess Tower later, because he would not give that up for anything in the world.)

The shade lingers after he is done dealing with their enemies. It follows him, thanking him in its own quiet way of white magic on his wounds and repetitive words, an endless stream of ‘thank you, thank you all, we are grateful’ as he and his pack bring the soldiers away from the Tomb to dispose of the bodies. 

As always, he slashes their eyes, not once questioning why is it that they all got used to doing it for their human kills. It is an odd ritual indeed, but he and his class had learned from Byleth, who learned from Jeralt, who probably never explained why it was to be done this way. The shade is grateful as always.

The eyes are the window to the soul, or rather, the eyes are the doors to the Goddess. Not for the first time since his supposed execution, Dimitri wonders if people haunt him because they got burnt or buried with their eyes intact.

The Tomb is quiet as always once he returns, more tired than usual. He keeps the doors open for his pack to go in, and for the first time ever, they do, scattering once inside in groups to rest for the night. Even the owls, his rarest of companions, find themselves perches for their vigil, and he closes the doors with a yawn and an injured cat in his arms.

He, the cat and the shade make their way to Byleth’s sleeping body, looking less alive than the last time he was here. Ashen, like their old nickname, and like the cat that ends up curled up on the throne. He decides it is a fitting name for it, and so he names his first animal companion in a while.

“Ashe, since you are grey,” he says to it while feeding it drops of diluted vulnerary. The shade twirls in agreement. “See, Professor agrees. Ashe probably will not, but well, what he does not know will not hurt him.”

He ends up wrapping himself on his cloak once again, leaning his head on dearProfessor’s knee, a warm presence blanketing over them all with a soft lullaby and ancient words as he drifts off to sleep.

Rest, the voice says, less broken, more serious. We will protect you now.

Chapter Text

It is when he is brushing dried blood from Dedue’s fur that he realizes he has become compliant. 

No, that is not the word he is looking for, not quite. He follows no laws except his own, but in his own personal wildness he has settled for routine. He will hunt for rumours, deal with said rumours, and head back to the daily life he has made for himself. Every cycle of the moon, he will find himself repeating the same motions: hunt, feed, rest. Tend to the Professor in their slumber, care for the animals who have become almost extensions of himself, worry over the map of Fódlan in the Cathedral where he keeps track of his quest.

It is curious, if oddly peaceful. While the war rages out there, while his people suffer at the hands of the woman born from the fires of Hell itself, while his brothers and sisters in arms try to hold their own lives together, he is… not. 

The Monastery has become his personal haven, where he can hear himself think, maybe for the first time in what could be years. He has not felt himself slip into madness as he often did in the first year of the war, instead floating in an odd state of acceptance and single-minded focus that keeps away the worst of himself, and also everything he learned while growing up.

Half-mad, at best. Inhumane at worst.

(Was he ever human, he wonders at times. Maybe he was not.)

The war goes on, fires burning and weapons clashing, death and plague spreading from the rotten orders of the Empire, and he and his pack sweep each hidden niche for blood to spill. They travel to all corners of the land, breaking stones and toppling pillars, as if the crippling devastation they leave behind was their lives’ design.

Just another part of the world. Death, plague, famine and war; just the evils of the everyday. And, like the child of War he is, he has made a natural attempt at not ending it as it should be, but rather maintaining it.

He is not quite sure how he feels about it.

(What is peace? Did it ever exist?)

The Cathedral does not hold a statue of the Goddess anymore, but it is unnecessary.

As every few nights, following the routine he has carved for himself, he makes his way down the Holy Tomb, past stone coffins and dozing cats, and up the stairs to kneel before the throne. However, instead of leaning his forehead on his beloved savior’s knee, quietly talking to himself and to Byleth as he recounts his past ventures, he puts his hands together as in prayer, closes his eyes and

sinks

Survive, Dimi-

His next expedition is longer than usual, making him circle the Monastery in an aimless quest as he follows rumour after rumour. He finally locates his target near the lands of Galatea, a messenger and their guard bearing news of the Empire’s lawmakers. 

He does not know who they are, nor does he care. In fact, the world spins in colours the moment he sees who awaits for said messenger.

For a second, he looks up at the sky. It is bright in daylight still, with the pale silhouette of a waxing crescent appearing behind some clouds. His companions, the ghosts and spirits of the dead that haunt his cursed existence, shouldn’t be out just yet.

Felix, then. From the distance he can almost make sense of the words he is yelling at the Imperial soldiers, but he cannot focus on them enough to care. Felix looks like a mirage, fading from his sight with each blink, but unmistakably there : swift, dexterous and humanely strong. He stands at one end of the bridge, a troop of infantrymen at his back, while the Imperials stand at the other.

A whole river separates them, but a river is more than enough to hold them back from battle.

The sight of Felix (friend, companion, brother, pack) stops his progress, makes him retreat back into the woods. He should have attacked the last time he had those rats in sight, but it is too late now. He will have to wait until they are far enough, until Felix is gone from sight, lest he gets caught in the crossfire.

He is not so gone today, as to bring his curse to his friends’ doors.

He attacks the next day.

The soldiers fold like paper at his hand, fragile and weak and no older than him, they are just kids tainting with redredred his lance, toppling on the ground like the broken toys of his childhood memories, like a memory branded in his sight.

He will have forgotten about their faces by tomorrow. They will fade into the thousands of hands that reach at him from the shadows each night, the countless corpses he has made himself and left rotting in the fields, each more gruesome than the last.

He looks at the bodies. The bodies can’t look back. Time passes, spilling from his fingers like his own mind, like his sanity, slowly leaving him just as humanity has already done. Just as identity leaves each empty husk on the ground, lifeless and less real with each second that passes.

...

Can he eat this?

He reaches down.

Don’t, Glenn’s voice calls from the owl perched on his shoulder. It is night already, the crescent moon taunting him from the sky, the shadows tugging at his arms and whispering twisted promises. It’s too late.

Maybe next time, says another one, from right next to him at his blind side. It sounds like his father, yet not his father at all.

Maybe next time.

He doesn’t make it to the Monastery in time.

The new moon finds him crouched under a rotting tree, shadows climbing up his limbs, voices in his ears.

His father looks at him in disappointment.

He s c r e a m s

He ends up slaughtering a squad of Imperial soldiers that managed to track him down, their dying shrieks helping mute his nighttime companions. The silence afterwards is uncanny and unnatural, although he should be glad that he is allowed a moment of rest.

It is not peaceful. It is not restful. He feels more tired after this month outside than when he had been fleeing Fhirdiad.

He needs to get home, to his pack, to his Goddess.

Gustav, the huge ginger cat that usually greets him at the gate, is dead when he returns.

He cradles his body in his arms, tears long dry, sobs unheard.

It is like a milestone of history: the before ends, the after begins. What was it dividing, exactly, he does not know. Maybe a turning point of war, maybe the path of no return for his decaying humanity. Either way, the before ends, and he

sinks

Time passes.

Life continues.

Rumours of a one-eyed monster are spread in towns, word of mouth reaching all corners of the Empire. His haven gets more visits. Some are weak, rats with no skills or dreams, and they go down easily. Some are trained soldiers in imperial red and deceptive blue, and they go down in surprise.

They feed his pack, and for that he is grateful.

They feed him, and he regrets.

At times, he gets updates on the Kingdom. They are rare, as rumours don’t make it so far with no one wanting to talk, no one accepting a truth, but still enough that he can build a mental image of what Fódlan looks like.

Horrible, he thinks. Tainted in imperial black and bloody red.

He burns his map in a fit of rage. It is worthless , he can’t look at it anymore.

Borders are nothing to the march of war.

Eventually he burns his calendar too.

What is time, but a social construct? Does he need time, when he is but an idea, a beast born from war and made to kill, to destroy, to spread the madness that is his curse across the nation and more?

He keeps track in skulls and bones, broken armour and chipped swords. Keepsakes of battle, that pile up and up and up, landmark to the border of civilization.  

One per troop that makes it to him, hoping to claim the reward on his head. He greets them with voiceless taunts and brutal deaths, leaving none behind to spare a word of his survival, his location, or of his growing pack of senseless beasts.

One per expedition out into the wild, hunting for a next meal, more information, or simply to satiate a need for blood. He tries to keep the trips short, but it doesn’t seem to matter nowadays: every night, moon full or new, his companions will be there, far enough to never reach, close enough he cannot ignore the whispers that curse and goad him to keep walking.

The only thing that remains the same are his visits to the Professor. Holy savior, beloved Professor, his personal Goddess keeping him at the gates of madness, one foot on each side yet leaning for the endless precipice of mania. He does not know what he would be like, were his dearlybeloved Professor not at a throw’s reach from the home he has made his own.

Caring for the Professor doesn’t take long: it is a ritual, reverent and silent, where he offers his hopes and worries in exchange of an anchor. He talks to them out loud, but with time he stops, keeping his thoughts in his mind as if he were talking to the Goddess. What is the point of talking, if no one will answer? 

It is lonely.

So very lonely.

(His father waits by the doors, a disappointed frown constant in his features.)

With his pack eerily silent around him, he looks for something to do around the tomb. He wonders if it has ever seen as much activity as it has had since they came in for the first time. He tries to remember, what Mercedes said about the Catedral, about keeping up the pretense of holiness, about maintaining that which is sacred. Water for statues? No, that’s not quite right. How he wishes the Professor were awake, they probably know what he needs to do.

Dust gathers atop their stone-like skin, atop the sword that pulses like a heartbeat to his ears, and he can only wipe it off. What else is there to do? They don’t age, their appearance is the same. They don’t move, so they can’t gather dirt from the outside world. They are pristine, immaculate, the sole innocent being in what is his current life.

He will kiss their hand, but that is all the skin contact he allows himself. 

He is unworthy (Glenn agrees. He laughs at him a lot).

Once, he accidentally tracks blood into the tomb, up the stairs and on Byleth’s hand. He freezes, wide eyed, and then almost stabs himself with his dagger.

The shade stops him. He hasn’t heard their voice in what feels like years, and yet it stops him, taking his hand and pulling him back, making him drop the blade that has many times almost claimed his life.

(He is so tired.)

Survive, Di-

He does.

He survives.

He doesn’t question anything anymore. Not the wolves following him everywhere, who have grown bigger than their species is known to. Not the cats that guard their home, whose claws can tear into a man’s throat in a single swipe. Not the crows in daytime and owls in the night who, smarter than normal, guide him towards his objective each time he goes out. 

(Not the will-o-wisp that linger around them when it is dark, each with their own light, each with their own voice, healing their wounds with quiet spells. Not the shade that lingers, a small voice that could be Byleth or another divine being, wishing them safe travels when they leave, guarding their home through sheer presence and Goddess’ blessings.)

He doesn’t question them.

They are his pack, beasts born of and for war, silent as death and quick as plague. They are his, sinful creatures who bathe in blood and delight in murder.

Just as he does.

If they thrive in war, is it really worth it to try and end it?

He waits.

One day, that woman will move. One day, he will catch her. But until then...

Is it really wrong, to do what he does best?

Survive

Then, one day, Byleth is gone from their throne.

They are not there, simply gone, no evidence of them ever moving or leaving on their own. Empty, the whole tomb is. No track to follow. No remain left behind.

A despair filled roar comes out of his throat, a sound as humane as he has felt for the past few years. It is echoed by his pack, from the tomb, to the path, to the monastery and beyond.

They search. They track. They hunt.

Two whole days they are out there, with no rest at all. Soldiers find them, and they kill them all, troop by troop. Those odd statues that guarded the tomb start moving once more, and he breaks them on his own. 

They return, empty handed. 

(there is no shade to tell them welcome back)

His already cracked sanity breaks breaks b r e a k s

Chapter Text

He has no idea how long he has been out here. The sense of time has been lost to him for ages now, measured with vague variables that he doesn’t keep track of. What is the point of it?

None. There is no point.

Not anymore.

He wakes up to the sound of steps. Step, step, coming up the stairs, soft and quiet.

For a second, he thinks he is in danger. He prepares himself to leap, to attack, to flee and get a better position.

It has been cycles since anyone managed to sneak up on him, on them, on the wild army of death itself. He sleeps every two or three dawns, always inside the building, never completely unguarded. The strongest of his pack usually stand guard around him, while the monastery’s strays watch over the entrances. There is rarely any chance for anyone to come closer without him knowing.

They howl when danger is near. Rumours in town call it the lament of the dead at times, a cry of war at others, not that he has bothered remembering.

He trusts them more than he does himself, and this is the only reason why he does not react, why he allows his tense limbs to relax once again. Dedue curls closer around him with a huff, which is enough reason for him to go back to sleep. Whatever it is, it might be his mind trying to play tricks on him.

Step, step. They are getting closer.

He ignores it.

He wakes up once more when a hand -an actual hand, physical, present- rests on his shoulder.

“Di… mitri?”

The voice is gentle. It reminds him of many hours sitting in silence before the Goddess, many hours praying his thoughts in the comfortable darkness of the Holy Tomb. It is warm and familiar, rough with misuse, and unusually human.

It has been many moons since he last heard a human voice so close to himself, and even longer since he last heard his name. His eternal companions speak through his pack, or through the thin veil of madness a distance away. They rarely approach nowadays, prefering to embody in the animals that gather around him if they are not looking at him from the doors to the other rooms. His pack’s touch is rarely so gentle, either, claws and paws and fangs too sharp, fur and feathers too rough.

This is not pack. This is not one of his deathly cohort.

He looks up.

His eyes meet green. The armour is still black, covered in grime and blood dried for many years; the coat is still the same, brooch still attached to the same place he saw it before it vanished from his sight who knows how long ago.

It is the dearlybelovedsavior Professor, the same expression frozen in time gone, eyes wide and teary, breath and voice coming from their lips as some divine blessing he is unworthy of. Their voice, unheard for so long, seems like the remnant of a dream he might have had, had he still been able to dream instead of seeing dripping blood and dismembered bodies behind his lids whenever he sleeps.

Yet they are here.

He reaches a hand to their face, accidentally leaving a smear of blood on their skin. They are solid, warm, and when he pulls them in his arms in an embrace he can feel the lazy pulse under their skin. They are here, physical illusion or not, and he wants to feel them whole.

He does not deserve them. Not now, not before, maybe not ever. Maybe if he can one day find redemption he will be able to confess his sins to them, mayhaps they will accept his hand once more, but now…

Now, he wants to enjoy this.

Come morning he will think this through, but for now, he wraps his furs around them, tucks them besides himself, and sleeps.

(Their voice is soft, a constant stream of words he can barely make sense of. As he sleeps, they speak into his ear, warm breath sending shivers down his spine and pleasant thoughts into his subconscious.

Five years, they say. Five years and you are here still, Dimitri, what happened to you, what happened to us, help us understand.

He cannot reply, as he is still lost in the void that is his cursed sight; even if he were awake, he would still not be able to reply in words out loud.

His voice has been silent for so long, all he can do is pray.)

The Professor is still there when he drags himself back to awareness. They are still physically in his arms, head resting against his shoulder as if he deserves touching them at all, their hand brushing his messy dirty bloodied hair as they hum some ancient lullaby long lost to history.

He should let them go, but he cannot.

Instead he raises to his feet, waking Dedue and the dozing crows perched around them as he does so. His companion nudges his leg and leaps atop the rubble, a sharp howl the only sound he makes as every morning. Around them, the others stir awake, shaking the sleep off their bones and fur before they follow their leader wherever is it they go hunt for their first meal.

“Dimitri?” The Professor’s voice sounds tired and wary, but he just shakes his head. They are so small in his arms, so light, he can probably hold them up with a single hand; instead he cradles them in one arm, as the other is for his lance.

He has to be careful. Most days he would be running along his pack, hoisting himself up to broken walls and half roofs, inspecting his domain for anything out of place.

Today, he walks.

Down the stairs he goes, his precious charge held above ground. There are bodies still on the ground from their latest hunt: he had lured some Imperials to their home, letting them fall as prey to his pack as he had been too tired to do it himself. He will have to bring them outside later and get rid of this mess, but he can probably be excused for now.

The Professor is more important. The Professor is of most importance to them, and if they are here, present in reality, then surely they must have needs. Food. Water. He wonders if the cats will allow him to get some fish today -they don’t often do, as he has other means of getting food, after all.

Glenn perches on his shoulder, pecking his head for attention. The crow has a branch in his beak, which he drops on the Professor’s hand before flying off. Is that berries? It is probably berries.

Their trip to the Cathedral is silent. Midways there, Dedue joins them with some members of their pack, who are very annoying in trying to greet the Professor. They walk too closely, which would be fine if he was on his own, but he is trying to not drop the Professor, so their constant nudging and nosing at his arm is unwanted and unnecessary right now. There is a cat trying to climb up his leg, and another clinging to his cloak, and kicking them away becomes more tempting by the second.

The Cathedral looks the same as always. There are owls perched on rubble, crows fighting with some kittens over the same dead rat, and a group of dogs laying in the sun. It is a familiar enough sight that he smiles at it, even when Glenn flies back in to bother the wolves around him from his perch on his head.

He seats Byleth atop the remains of the Goddess’s statue and tells Dedue to stand guard next to them. The Professor is the most precious of all of them, after all.

They reach for him when he tries to move away, hand grasping at his cloak fast enough it almost makes him strike back. For a second, he stills, because he almost attacked Byleth, but then he drops his lance and kneels before them, as if they were still back in the Tomb.

Dearly beloved Byleth tugs him closer, so he follows. Their hands go back to his hair, his face, his neck, gentle touch so unlike everything else in his life it is almost unbearable. Glenn tries to peck at their hands, so he carefully takes him from his shoulder and puts him next to the Professor; he hops onto the Sword’s handle right away, pecking at the dirt on it instead.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Their voice is still hesitant, but it is not as rough as earlier. He wants to apologize, because he cannot tell them anything they want to know; Glenn laughs at him from above, cawing echoing through the building.

He shakes his head instead.

“Can- Can you speak at all?”

He thinks for a few seconds. He can speak, in a way: he talks to his pack often enough, but he doubts Byleth will understand anything he means. Dedue understands what he is asking from them well enough, as does Glenn even if he never listens, but he hasn’t had to use words in so long…

He tries. Byleth’s name scratches at his throat almost painfully, and from how they react he does not think it worked as well as he wanted. He feels the warm notes of a healing spell wash over him, and he shakes his head again.

Byleth’s arms wrap around him. It is comfortable, and that is that.

As is everything in his life, peace does not last long. All it takes is a howl, coming from his destroyed husk of a town, for him to bundle up Byleth in his arms and rush towards the intruders. One of Glenn (all crows are Glenn, every single one of them) flies ahead of him, and another returns to peck his hand exactly three times.

Fifteen that way. He has dealt with worse, fifteen is not precisely a great number, but- But now he has Byleth with him too, and he does not know if five years in Divinity-induced coma have been enough to dull his dearlybeloved professor’s blade.

A spell crashes behind him, and he spares a second to look over at the screaming thief. Dedue paws at it, sending it crashing against a broken wall, so he ignores it and continues running, glad he does not have to worry about professordearByleth being a- a burden.

He has to put them down when they find the other rats, and Byleth immediately readies their hands —still dirty and scratched from wherever they had to get out from after awakening— for another spell. There aren’t many thieves, but he also knows very well that Byleth needs to feel useful, no matter what they are doing.

They are perfect, so it is not important to him. Byleth could stay behind and not fight if that is what they so desire, but they want to, want to support him, and be by his side, and-

“Your Highness!”

That, however, is important.

He gives a short whistle and Mercedes the owl dives down from where she was stationed, distracting one of the thieves so he can look at the voice. Gustav, for some reason, Ashe, with Annette on his horse and Mercedes -human Mercedes- are over there, making their way to them. He does not quite know how to react to this, so he doesn’t-

...but Dedue appears before him, baring his fangs at them.

Gustav and Ashe ready their weapons, Mercedes her staff… and Anette yells as she almost falls off the horse when it suddenly swerves to the right. She practically falls off the horse in her hurry to get off, but the movement makes Dedue react badly. The wolf growls, low and threatening, crouching low on bloody paws.

Annette looks two seconds away from petting him. To pet a wolf, a warwolf at that, surely she cannot be so stupid? Then again, the Blue Lions —family, friends, brothers and sisters of the battlefield— were never known for being particularly smart when it came to certain things.

He doesn’t want them to die.

But he doesn’t want to let them approach, either. He feels alright with Byleth, because they are hissaviorGoddessbeloved the Professor, but anyone else? The idea of it makes his hair and nerves stand on end, some feral hiss breaking past his lips even as he puts a hand on Dedue’s neck.

(Crouching, the wolf almost reaches his shoulder. Was he always this tall, or is this another thing he has forgotten? He remembers when he was small, just a tiny beast that roamed the land, few years back, back when he still had the armour of steel and bone and could still bite the head off their enemies with no trouble at all.

Was he always this big?)

“Your Highness, this is-“

“Fight now, talk later,” Byleth appears at his other side, and he fights back an urge to jump, to hide, to go back to the nest he has made his own. It is just Byleth, just the Professor.

They are right. They have to fight. He can already hear Glenn cawing at him from wherever they are, a murder of crows leading the way, and he takes one look at them before he makes his decision.

Blue Lions, not important. They are probably hallucinations, or here for Byleth —not him, never him, he is not worth it, so he can throw himself back into the battle without a care for his life.

With Mercedes the owl perched on his shoulder and Dedue at his side, he whistles. It is a high, sharp sound, his own voice and command, and within seconds he hears the answering howl. Two beats. Eight, maybe ten more intruders. Another beat of silence, and another howl, lower and shorter and questioning: allies?

They have no allies. He growls and, followed by his pack, joins the fray.

They have no allies. None at all. They have not had allies in years, only Dedue and the wolves and Glenn and his Father screaming whenever one of the dogs —usually Sylvain— stole their meal. When that happened, Mercedes and Ashe would watch from the side, sharing a single mouse, while Annette pecked at Felix’s fur to wake him up.

The people in front of him are not quite the Blue Lions he remembers. They do not walk on four legs, or fly around with bloody wings, or feast alongside himself when he goes out to hunt. They do not crowd him the few nights he can sleep, offering comfort as only animals could, or drag him by his furs whenever they believe he has been indoors for too long.

They also aren’t the Blue Lions he remembers from when he was still hiding in his own skin, back from the days of classes and training and laughter and dust-flavored sweets. They are… smaller, somehow. Some of them were already small back then, but Sylvain shrunk. Or maybe he himself grew? How weird would it be, that a corpse would age the way normal humans do.

He does not ask. He cannot look at them for long, not at their hopeful faces, at their smiles, at their desire to please and be helpful.

“So, the boar has finally become the beast he was meant to be,” Felix (he is so small?) says, hands on his hips, some glare in his face that does not feel as intent as it looks. He cannot deny it, though: he is a beast, born of and for war, and that is what he has always been.

He presses his right pointer finger against his left palm and slices down with it, then up to his thumb. He remembers how to speak, if only a few words; he remembers how to he human, if only just barely.

As expected, Felix just glares, points two fingers at him and then to the ground. Yes, that makes sense, except it does not make sense at all. He is not dead just yet, somehow, even if he is a walking corpse. Felix rarely makes sense, because he cannot see most people he himself can see.

A Glenn lands on his head, a strip of red in its beak, and he takes that chance to leave with Dedue at his heels and Byleth in his arms. Dearest little brother, brother mine, Glenn’s voice says, singing like a taunt as he has always done. The crow swallows its meal. Bloody living brother, here he is, kill him, kill-

He whistles towards the sky, and a howl echoes back. There are no more intruders today, except for the ones that claim to be allies.

He needs to think, and plan, and go back to his hunt, and-

“Dimitri?”

Byleth’s voice is quiet, but they are eerily still. He shifts his hold, presses a hand against their chest —no heartbeat, as always, no sign of life.

Byleth is one like him.

“We- We should talk to the others,” they say, voice cracking, and for once he cannot just agree with what they say.

He needs to go back to his hunt.