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Dimitri has returned to the monastery.
No, that’s not quite right — something has returned to the monastery, something wearing the battered mask of a man Felix had once known. The shell of an empty body that had wandered Fodlan for five years had made its way back to Garreg Mach somehow, jerking along on vengeful puppet strings with lance at the ready.
How many times must Felix accept the death of his former friend? Dimitri had died once during the Tragedy of Duscur, then again standing before Edelgard at the tomb of the goddess, the Flame Emperor's broken mask crushed under the weight of his anguish. He had allegedly been executed in Faerghus, and Felix had accepted that the man’s physical vessel had finally ceased its frenzied, violent dance along with the rest of his mind. Yet somehow Dimitri’s remains had clawed from the gutter to find their way back here, and Felix is forced to witness yet another impermanent death, ripping open the same scab on his conscience that he had desperately willed to heal so many times before.
Dimitri is hunched at the front of the ruined cathedral, his shoulders bowed with the weight of burdens only he knows. Why Felix is here watching this he’s not quite sure; he had been at the training grounds all day and all evening practicing his swordplay, each jab directed at the ghostly image of Dimitri in his mind as he steeled himself for a future in which he may be forced to put down the manic beast. And yet now instead of returning to the dormitory to rest, Felix finds himself instead in this desecrated holy place, repulsed by the man in front of him even as he continues to approach like a starving dog begging to be thrown some last scraps of his friend’s humanity.
“Every day we grow closer to ending her,” Dimitri mutters to the pile of rubble at his feet, head bowed and voice gravelly. “I promise. Father, Mother, Glenn… I will bring it to you. Her head…”
The small space separating the two of them is a vast expanse, but Felix pushes forward step by step, even as the oppressively desolate aura threatens to suffocate him. “I see you’re frittering your life away as usual. Always looking back, always mourning for those who can’t hear you. Are you not aware of how absolutely pathetic you seem?”
There’s no response from Dimitri, not a flinch of his shoulders or twitch of his hands; his silhouette is still as the corpses to which he speaks.
“They can’t hear you, boar prince,” Felix sneers through gritted teeth. “No amount of bloodshed returns the dead to the living.”
No response. No flinch.
“You think you know what my brother would want? That he’d want her head?”
“He talks to me,” Dimitri says. “He’s in anguish… I’m the only one who can help him. And Mother, and Father, and…”
“He talks to you? Please,” Felix practically shouts. There’s no one else in the cathedral this time of night, and Felix’s voice bounces off every wall, surrounding Dimitri like a barrage of arrows. “Your delusions are the egotistical ramblings of a madman. Fighting for those who have already died is the same as fighting for yourself.”
In one moment Dimitri is utterly still, unmoving as the statues of the four saints in the cathedral; in the next he has lunged forward and grasped Felix’s neck between his fingers. Felix is too shocked to register fear and remember that Dimitri is entirely capable of snapping his neck with a flick of his fingers — hell, he’d seen the man do it before, far more times than he wishes to recall. Felix has no idea which part of his barrage of scorn had triggered the boar’s rabid instinct, but he grins wildly as his breathing grows ragged, selfishly triumphant that he had been right about the prince’s savage nature all along.
Not that anyone is around to hear his fading coughs.
Dimitri begins a shuddering tirade, bits and pieces of his words swelling in and out of Felix's fading consciousness — how dare — I am not — for them — you’ve always — and Felix hears the accusatory tone even as the drumbeat of his frantic pulse in his ears grows louder by the moment. Dimitri’s fingers tighten slightly and it finally sinks in that after everything, after five years of war, Felix is about to be killed by the shell of a man wearing the face of who had once been his dearest friend.
Felix himself is nothing but Glenn’s shadow, Dimitri a walking corpse — it’s fitting that the two of them would eat each other alive.They are both so much of nothing, the path of their blades defined by the people they couldn’t protect with them.
With his left leg Felix kicks out, then another attempt with his right. The second strike connects with something — perhaps Dimitri’s shin or torso, it’s hard to tell as his vision begins to black out — and the heavy pressure around his windpipe dissipates as he is dropped to the floor. Instinctively he should spring to his feet and crawl away, but instead Felix remains crouched at Dimitri’s feet in a crumpled heap, waiting for another strike that never comes.
Dimitri has returned to his former state of stony silence, the hand outstretched to empty air dropping back at his side, and Felix staggers to his feet without a speck of dignity as his breath hitches in his throbbing throat. “So that’s it, then?” Felix chuckles, a wheezing sound that stutters in his chest as his pulse regains its rhythm. “I knew you had become unrecognizable, but really? Now you’re killing your comrades too? Have you truly no regard for the living, boar prince? Only the dead? The dead, who can’t hear you?”
“Felix.”
A shiver passes down his spine at the sound of his own name uttered in Dimitri’s guttural voice, and the silence that stretches after chokes him tighter than any closed fist could. Felix says nothing, and Dimitri offers no more.
“You’re not here to pay respects.”
Dimitri knows better than to ask it as a question, which irks Felix. He scoffs. “You’re astute as ever.” His eyes trail down to the undignified mound of dirt under which Rodrigue had been unceremoniously buried. A fitting end for his father, Felix thinks. The same man who had said Glenn died like a true knight had instead died an equally pointless martyr’s death saving a man outside their family.
Felix looks at Dimitri now, whose wide shoulders are hunched with some mixture of shock and grief and whatever weakness has bogged him down. A glance to the mound of dirt, a glance back up at Dimitri. The prince’s eyes are dull with a soft sadness now, an expression Felix thought he’d never see again, and he wonders if perhaps his father’s death hadn’t been so pointless after all.
“I’m— ”
“Don’t say sorry,” Felix snaps. “That man was a damned idealistic fool to the end. He was happy to throw his life away to protect you.”
“I wasn’t going to say sorry,” Dimitri says quietly. “I just — I suppose I was going to ask why you felt that way. About your father.”
A wave of bile rises in Felix’s throat as he remembers Rodrigue’s cheerful face, his constant justifying and re-justifying of Glenn’s death, making him out to be a hero when he’d only left grief and emptiness in his wake.
“You can only do it once,” Felix mutters finally.
“What?”
“Die for someone,” Felix clarifies, inexplicable tendrils of burning shame curling around his conscience. “Glenn died for a cause. My father died for a cause. And the cause moves on, and those who are dead can never protect their cause a second time. Because they’re dead. They sacrificed themselves to fuel their own pitiful egos and were too cowardly to stick around to see their sacrifice through, to see if it even made an impact. Once you’re dead, you’re useless to any cause.”
He watches Dimitri’s hands as he speaks, wonders if the man will lash out at him again. Felix doesn’t step back, fully prepared to accept the brunt of the prince’s violent reaction to his tactless words. But those hands that had wrapped around his throat some weeks before are only trembling now. “I can’t deny that,” Dimitri says, voice frayed.
“If you throw away your life like he did, I’ll never forgive you.”
Dimitri turns away from the shoddy grave to face him then, and there’s sadness etched there on his features, though he doesn’t seem to be consumed by it anymore. “I could say the same to you.” Dimitri’s voice is so quiet, as though the words are for his ears alone even as he maintains eye contact with Felix.
“Well, don’t,” Felix snarls.
The two stand together in silence before the grave of the man who had set the rest of their lives into motion with his sacrifice, and Felix wonders why it had to be him, why it had to be his father of all people who had rescued Dimitri from the darkness.
Why it had been his sacrifice.
Felix hates it. Sacrifices should never be celebrated.
And yet.
They’re celebrating the defeat of Edelgard at Garreg Mach for the overly-sentimental purpose of nostalgic closure. Dedue and Ashe are overseeing the dinner at their request, and Mercedes and Annette are furiously baking desserts to share with the rest of the army and clergy. Even with limited supplies Sylvain had found his way to a bottle of liquor and is sharing it raucously with Alois as Ingrid desperately tries to mediate the situation.
Felix isn’t much for parties, so he moves to the rooftop on the third floor of the reception hall to get some peace and quiet away from the laughter and empty celebration. He’s not the only one to have the idea; Dimitri stands at the edge of the balcony, regarding the sky wordlessly as the fur of his cloak rustles quietly in the breeze.
“So, you had the resolve to kill her after all.”
Dimitri flinches, then turns with a curt nod. “Ah, Felix. Yes… yes I did.”
Not even Felix is so cruel as to continue this line of questioning, instead giving a soft huff of acknowledgement.
The prince — no, the king — tilts his head. “May I ask for your honest opinion?”
Felix’s eyes had already begun rolling halfway through the question. “You’re hardly worth buttering up with pretty lies,” he says coolly, which isn’t a no.
The sound that Dimitri makes is somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “Do you believe me fit to rule?”
He’s honestly not certain. “What does it matter if I believe it or not?” Felix challenges. “You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Dimitri says. “It’s my repentance for those lives lost, after all.” When Felix scowls, he hastily adds, “and duty to those counting on me now, of course.”
“Then you’ll be fit to rule,” Felix says, “because you’ll have to be. My opinion on the matter makes no difference.”
“It does,” Dimitri insists, and when Felix hears the pout in his voice he is reminded of that twelve year old Dimitri he had once admired with starry eyes before everything came crashing down.
“You wish for my honest opinion?”
“Yes, I do.”
Felix sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits, folding his arms across his chest. “Of course I don’t. Do you seriously expect me to know whether you will do a good job as king? Only you can know that. How pathetic.”
“I did not ask whether you knew,” Dimitri says, slightly exasperated. “I asked whether you believed. But if you do not wish to answer, I suppose I will not press the issue.”
He’s acting vulnerable, Felix realizes, and the thought sickens him more than he can comprehend. Cheeks burning with a shame he doesn’t quite understand, Felix looks towards the floor, the sky, anywhere but directly at Dimitri, until his gaze finally settles on his own hands across his chest.
All this time Felix had scolded Dimitri for not putting stock in the opinions of the living over those of the dead. But he hadn’t expected the living person Dimitri turned to would be him, that Dimitri would see him as a reliable source of guidance or, gods forbid, even comfort. Now that Dimitri is looking his way, Felix wants nothing more than to grip the hilt of his blade and vanish from Dimitri’s sight, vanish from the kingdom, vanish from the responsibility suddenly thrust upon his shoulders.
Would Dimitri have asked Glenn these same questions?
Dimitri leans forward so imperceptibly that Felix thinks nothing of it and doesn’t move, continuing to inspect his fingernails until suddenly the hulking man has swooped across his vision and there’s no time for him to duck away from the shadow. Whatever is going on doesn’t register at first; Felix feels the heat radiating from Dimitri’s cheeks brush against his own and leans in from some repulsive curiosity, body consenting to kiss the king before his mind does. Everything’s numb, devoid of thought as the distance he had kept so long is ripped away from him. In this battle Dimitri has wrenched away his armor and speared him through the chest, and Felix is somewhere else for a moment, toppling from his sturdy fortress as the walls crumble around him.
Dimitri is emboldened by his lack of movement and brushes one hand across Felix’s hip, and that’s when Felix's body lashes out, shoving away from Dimitri with a shuddering gasp. Dimitri jolts, his gentle hand retracting as though burned, and the movement instinctively morphs into a swing.
Felix has no time to register the blow before Dimitri smashes him across the face, and his vision explodes in white from the impact. The swordsman had never considered himself a particularly pious individual, but in that moment he feels a bit closer to reaching the realm of the goddess.
When the bright explosion of pain clears moments later, the entire lower half of Felix’s face is soaked from the blood gushing from his nose as Dimitri looks on in horror. “I am so — Felix, I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. My body reacted like — like we were in combat, and I —”
“What was that? ” It’s difficult to keep his voice steady as the metallic blood pools between his lips and teeth. But Felix manages somehow, choking a bit down his throat like the rest of his words. “Is that any way for a king to act?”
A cruel question, evident by the spark of hurt in Dimitri’s eye. “Of course not.”
The complete lack of resistance gives Felix pause. He scowls. “Disgraceful. Do you have something to remedy this?”
“Remedy what?” Dimitri echoes, then his face contorts with horror. “Oh — the blood. Of course, of course.”
Felix regards Dimitri as he rummages through his cloak for a handkerchief, watching the man who hadn’t even registered he was bleeding because the sight had become so commonplace for the both of them. “If you are truly that oblivious, then no, I do not believe you are fit for anything, much less to rule.” He takes the sorry scrap of cloth Dimitri extends to him and presses it to his face in a vain attempt to mop up the blood, though he can still feel the sticky residue on his skin. “Though I suppose it’s some consolation to see your reflexes haven’t dulled.”
Felix feels nauseous. He doesn’t know why. And he does know why.
“We ought to spar again sometime,” Dimitri says in a strangled voice, eyes darting away from the bloody cloth in Felix’s hand. “When we’re… armed.”
“I’ll need to get a healer to fix this,” Felix replies, wincing as he gingerly touches the swelling bridge of his nose. “You’re still an incorrigible brute, aren’t you, Dimitri?”
“I understand why you pushed me. My reaction, ah… I must temper that, in the future.”
They’re having nearly two separate conversations, Felix thinks, both blades angled towards the other but slashing only empty air.
“Dimitri.”
“Y-yes?”
That stammer. “I believe you… would not be the worst choice to lead Fodlan.”
Dimitri laughs lightly, a sound Felix hasn’t heard for years. “Coming from you, that is practically a —”
“Don’t finish that thought,” Felix growls. “Just — don’t.”
Dimitri is still smiling, and Felix absently runs his tongue across his own lower lip while staring at the king’s grin, grimacing at the taste of iron on his skin. It hits Felix then that bantering like children while blood gushes down his face is absurd and frankly undignified. And yet it’s to be expected, as dysfunctional as they’ve always been.
It would almost even be funny, if they hadn’t just ki—
A rumination for another day.
“You’ll need people keeping you in line, boar king,” Felix says as he turns to leave, “if you wish to be a halfway decent leader.”
“People?” Dimitri echoes. “Do you include yourself amongst those people?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He leaves Dimitri behind on balcony as he retreats downstairs to find Mercedes, who gently cleans his face with a damp handkerchief and smiles at him with irritating knowing as she uses her magic to temper his wound.
Felix returns to skulking about the celebration, but even with the blood cleansed from his face, his cheeks remain red.