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"El," he says, and lets the ghost of her name linger in the air. He struggles to find the words to follow. The first few phrases that come to mind are easily discarded; "My forgiveness is freely given" or "This need not be the end" or even simply, "Come with me." Platitudes are less than worthless when it comes to Edelgard.
Her head is bowed but even if it weren't, he doubts he'd be able to read her expression. The quiet creeps on.
Perhaps he need not say anything more, that this old forgotten name will be enough?
No. Of all the flaws that they share (and there are a great many of those: pride, an unbearable authority, and the immovable stubbornness of a mountain in the face of a storm) clinging to the past had never been one of hers. Only his.
So he kneels, to match her, and with arm still extended he gives voice to the sad, stark truth. "There is much work yet to be done, Edelgard von Hresvelg. For both you and I."
The flames of war forge the strongest of soldiers, but if left unquenched the inferno will consume until there's nothing left to rule over but smoke and ash. A king's duty begins, rather than ends, with ceasefire; he suspects that the same is true of emperors.
Edelgard is silent for but a moment more. Then, slowly, and softly, and following a whisper of sad laughter: "Yes," she says, moving her hand away from her side, "More work than you know."
She takes his hand.
Her palm is papery, rough like vellum. Callus meets callus, scar meets scar. The story of their lives, thinks Dimitri.
When he pulls them both upright, her feet stutter, her breath shakes. In his memory and in life she had always been pale, ethereal, otherworldly; now she seems almost translucent, washed through by the thin light that streams into the throne room. Sweat beads on her brow still, as though simply standing is an effort.
But her grip, that remains unyielding as stone.
"You speak of work to be done, of duties unfulfilled," she says, in between labored breaths. "Then let me tell you of Those Who Slither in the Dark."