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~~
Evening finds Dimitri feeling bored, unsettled and unprincelike, sprawled on his front over several couch cushions for the sake of his still-healing back. It's much improved, but he still treats it gingerly yet. Barred (sensibly) from strenuous exercise or combat training yet, he thumbs through a book of logic and rhetoric, determined to arm his mind if not his body, but he can't focus, thoughts skittering erratically. Formal dinner with the court tomorrow- Felix still isn't speaking to him- effected through the speech itself when we have proved a truth or an apparent truth - goddess, he wants to hit something-
Then there's a knock at his chamber door, and his mood immediately lifts.
"Come in!" he invites, vainly trying to smooth his disordered hair down somewhat. Briefly considers sitting up, but quickly decides that if Dedue's been near him while he was shirtless and bleeding, he damned well doesn't care if he's seen rumpled and reading.
He won't pretend to be able to recognize anyone at the door in this way, but the castle's staff and his- the other people who could pass the guards outside the royal wing, they all have a formality, a regularity to their taps or knocks as smooth and practiced as their court manners. He hadn't really noticed it until Dedue's arrival, the hesitancy and uncertainty he brought with him as he seeks the rules of an alien culture.
Speaking of rules - "Dimitri." The prince hides a small smile in his sleeve as he turns his head to face the doorway. Sooner or later, someone is going to take one or both of them to task for the informality, the impropriety, and then he'll have to have another serious argument with the staff or Uncle Rufus (Lord Regent, rather, made official by another interminable ceremony the last week) about Dedue, again, and he's not at all sure he'll win that one. For now, enjoys the warm/guilty tickle of illicit familiarity down his spine, looks inquiringly up at the visitor addressing him. "Do you have a knife I can borrow? -Only for tonight."
Faerghus's heir closes his book immediately, as pleased by the request as he is irked that even after a couple of weeks to settle in, Dedue still lacks such a basic item as his own blade. "Of course- half a moment-" Dimitri carefully levers himself up with his arms alone, keeping the pain in his back to a dull throb, and walks over to the section of his chambers given over to impressive-looking weapons displays on the wall, ornate and ceremonial, nothing that any thirteen-year-old should probably lay a hand on, however royal.
(a shape in the corner laughs at him, bitter and ragged.)
The cabinet below holds more modest options, and after a moment's consideration he selects a fairly simple, straight dagger in a blue sheath, copper-hilted, probably a bit small for Dedue but close enough, one without any sentimental value that he can bring to mind. Thinks of Edelgard, briefly, gut twisting- has the news of what happened to her mother made it to Enbarr yet?- What unfortunate scribe got the duty of putting that to paper, and did they keep it mercifully free of detail or honestly describe the-
wood splintering, cries of men and animals dying, smoke all around, sudden fire down his back in ragged slashes-
No. His chambers are silent, the air cold, even his fireplace unlit. He grits his teeth so hard it hurts, deliberately turns on a heel to leave the shades behind, approach the quiet young man inside his door and offer the knife with (he hopes) a passable smile.
About to tell Dedue that he can keep it, something in the taller youth's face, in the grave, deliberate way he accepts the small blade and briefly tests the edge makes the offer die in Dimitri's throat. The young man is not, he is quite sure, asking for something to pare an apple with.
He swallows instead, mind unhelpfully and graphically supplying an image of the knife buried in someone's throat, maybe the next guard who curses him for a Duscur dog or loudly comments on the near-extermination of his people. Immediately feels guilty; Dedue hasn't yet raised a hand to anyone, however provoked. However extremely provoked, no matter how much Dimitri tries to shut that sort of talk and petty revenges down. He's more likely to attack someone, black fear and rage boiling out at the lightest touch since- in the last few weeks.
A thousand more prudent questions or platitudes come to mind, but somehow what comes out- "Is- are you all right, Dedue?"
And goddess, how he immediately despises that it had to be that . He pulled Dedue from his country's ashes, brought him to the capital of the kingdom that burned it, away from Duscur's icy evergreen forests to install him in a stone room in a stone castle where every man, woman and child despises him on sight, at best tolerating him- or offering the appearance of tolerance- only because their prince demands it of them. The question here and now is thoughtless, tactless, bordering on as carelessly cruel as the Blaiddyd staff Dimitri caught trying to cajole Dedue early in their journey to Fhirdiad, asking him if he was sure he wouldn't rather leave off trailing after their exalted, bereaved prince to be with his people…
Yet Dedue seems to pick up on what Dimitri intended to really ask, somehow. Or at least does not scorn him for his mangled attempt at it.
"I." A brief, ragged pause. "Tonight is- I need to-" He's struggling, either for Fódlan words he doesn't have, or to speak at all. The light on the edge of the gleaming blue sheath quivers slightly with the tremor in his hands, and contrition immediately grips Dimitri hard.
"-You don't have to say!" he cuts in, breaking courtesy into several awkward pieces. "But-" no don't ask if he's all right again "-do you need anything else? Even just company?"
Dedue looks up, and Dimitri is startled to see that he has succeeded in startling him.
"You do not need to-" he begins, but it's reflex, they both recognize it at the same moment- "I…yes. That would be appreciated. If you wish."
Dimitri only just manages to suppress a ragged quirk of a smile at that. He'd learned young that variations on 'yes, if you wish' often mean ' I can't actually refuse the crown prince but I can hope very hard that he'd piss off'.
But Dedue has never been anything but sincere with him.
So there's no question.
~~
The prince trails half a pace behind Dedue in a reversal of their usual walking pattern, uncertain what he's agreed to be present for or assist with, but very certain that he's not going to leave, not with that alien, invisible weight between the young man’s shoulders, like a giant's hand pressing down.
It's not long before he sees they're heading to Dedue's rooms. Lodging his new companion had been another series of arguments and diplomacy with Uncle Rufus and the palace staff, who would as soon have put the Duscur youth in a broom cupboard if they could get away with it. The eventual result was a room within the royal wing, though a fair walk away from any other occupied rooms- the architects who built the castle however many decades ago had been… optimistic about how many children the royal family might spawn in any given generation, clearly. In any case, the rooms were likely meant for a retainer or perhaps nurse needed to remain closer on hand in the event of enough Blaiddyd children and relations to warrant close oversight. Certainly they hadn't been used since before Dimitri's father's generation, at the least.
Dedue lets them both inside. It's as heartlessly plain and empty to Dimitri's eyes as the last time he'd been in here; scarcely looking lived-in at all except for the lit lamps and the slate and books that he'd acquired for Dedue to practice with neatly stacked beside the bed. But they have their own small fireplace and a window, so he'd finally capitulated, because he was sick of discussing Dedue like he was a stick of furniture to be arranged as much as anything else.
His fire's unlit as well, the rooms even colder than Dimitri's, but Dedue seems not to notice, even though he's wearing just a short-sleeved dark tunic compared to the prince's fine woolen doublet and trousers. The small oil lamps provide a hazy orange illumination, and the window- the window stands open onto a yawning, dark view of Fhirdiad and the great river far below as it flows northwest towards the sea. And the sky-
It was nightfall when they decided it was safe to move their wounded prince carefully to a modified half-carriage, half sick-cart, a task made more difficult by the fact that he will not relinquish his death grip on the Duscur's wrist, completely certain that if he does, the man will simply crumble into ash on the spot. It's nonetheless managed between the careful assistance of the man- despite being almost certainly injured himself, silver hair smutched with black, green eyes stunned and haunted-looking yet- and the pointed forbearance of the healers who dare not risk Dimitri lashing out again if they attempt to remove the unwanted addition to their party.
Catches a glimpse of the sky before it turns to painted wood and canvas- cloudless, but no stars, of course not, not with the smoke, but the moon still hangs stark above-
~~
The moon looks the same.
It is one month since they met.
Dimitri doesn't know if he's made a sound, or what the look on his face must be, but something must alert Dedue, because the taciturn youth turns away almost sharply from where he's just moved several items to a small table by the windowsill, crosses to the door in a couple strides and- whether intentionally or not- obstructs the prince's view of the window and sky beyond it.
He blinks and tries to focus on Dedue's face, his features still exotic among the sea of Kingdom men and women he's surrounded with every day. Eye-catching, easy to use as a quick distraction from his megrims. But- his eyes are green-grey like Duscur's frosted pines, the orange glow of the lamplight setting them ablaze, and Dimitri cannot bear it, lets his own gaze drop away.
Warmth on his upper arm through his shirt- Dedue's hand, resting only lightly, hesitant. "Dimitri-" he says, voice low and anxious, and oh, he can tell without looking that the grim composure that Dedue's been maintaining tonight is a fragile thing, and shaken- "-I'm sorry, let us return to your rooms. This is not worth distressing-"
But the slightest hint of unfairness stirs Dimitri at once, makes him forestall the worried youth. "Dedue… this is important, right?"
The young man looks away- no, looks towards the moonlit window, briefly- and nods, as Dimitri knew he must.
So he straightens, catches Dedue's eye and this time sees no burning trees, only a tall young man raw and hollow with loss and… so very isolated. "Then I want to be here. Please."
Does not say - I don't want to be alone. I don't want you to be alone.
Dedue searches his face, and whatever he sees makes him nod a second time, mouth set with renewed conviction. He walks again to the windowsill, after gesturing vaguely to indicate that Dimitri can sit or stand where he likes. The crown prince checks the door- knows without being told that this is not something to risk being walked in on by a nosy palace staff member- then stands a pace away on Dedue's right, opting to view his profile mostly and allow only a slice of the outside view to be visible from his own position.
When he's more or less settled, Dedue's fingertips are splayed on the small table, shoulders and head sagging, that hidden weight more intense than before- but then he glances right to where Dimitri waits, and his posture eases, straightens up once more- then reaches for the knife and tugs it free, quietly setting the sheath down.
He lifts the blade, so close to his face, his right eye- Dimitri's nails dig hard into his palms- but no, he merely cuts free one of the slim braids hanging to his jaw from his otherwise short hair, leaving it a twist of moonlit silver hanging in his darker hand. Another pause, as he rubs a calloused thumb over the fine strands, before looking up and out towards the sky.
Then, he begins to speak.
It's the Duscurian language, of course, alien and incomprehensible to the crown prince's ears, the sounds hard but… somehow not harsh, like stones covered in snowfall. At first it sounds like he's praying, almost- words learned by rote or remembered well- but it's punctuated by hesitations and almost-pauses uncharacteristic of the quiet young man. At times his voice turns almost ragged in a way that makes Dimitri's heart clench briefly, but he always manages to continue.
Almost, the Faerghus heir begins to relax, but- Dedue opens his hand slightly, letting the braid roll to his fingertips instead, and drags the knifepoint down from the pad of his left thumb through the base, into his palm. Does not flinch nor stop speaking as blood immediately ripples out and Dimitri bites the inside of his mouth briefly, but just rubs his thumb over the strands again, this time leaving a streak of crimson in its trail.
And still not quite done; he carefully brings one end to the small lamp he placed on the table in advance, lets the oil half-soak it before touching it to the wick and then raising it back to the window, letting it burn in his palm, but he will not let it fall.
The plait goes alight steadily but slowly, aided by the oil, hindered by the drying blood- black smoke, loose silver glinting with red flecks, bright orange sparks, the brief scent of burning; all pulled out and away in a twisting stream.
The awareness of Dedue's trust is a sudden weight, if a warm one. They are neither of them fools; both are by now keenly aware of what anyone else in the castle- commoner, priest, noble alike- would make of a Duscur rite involving a blade and blood, flame and wind, words spoken in a language no one here understands and to which they could assign any meaning they cared to-
-there among the soft foreign tongue he suddenly hears the word Molinaro, once-
With comprehension comes again the sudden attack of black, nauseating fury deep in Dimitri's gut, so bad his vision darkens for a moment and it's a struggle to stand motionless. That Dedue should stand here, alone- or nearly alone- mourning his family brutally murdered by Kingdom men for a crime that wasn't theirs, was probably the fault of no Duscur at all, while the true killers walked away with their bloody blades-
Monstrous. Unjust. One day he will see them brought before the law, or failing that the point of a lance-
Silence startles him out of thoughts of vengeance; Dedue has stopped speaking, and his hand is empty except for a black smudge of ash and tacky blood. A pause, long enough that the prince almost stirs-
But Dedue moves first, reaches up and cuts the second braid away with the clean side of the dagger.
Of course, thinks a distantly hysterical part of Dimitri- three braids for-
But he cannot complete that thought without losing his composure, so he does not.
~~
Dedue finally falls silent for the third time, watching the night breeze tug the last of the ash and hair from his open hand. For a moment he is still- and there is a new, just-perceptible layer to his stillness now, without the braids to follow the movement of his head or the breeze from the window- then his shoulders sag very slightly and he stoops to pick up the small cloth, meticulously buffs the trace of red off the edge of the knife, sheathes it again before balling the rag inside his bloody hand and offering the blade with the other, all while Dimitri stands motionless, stricken.
When he makes no move to reclaim the small blade over the course of a long moment, Dedue reaches down and takes Dimitri's hand gently with his clean one, folds his fingers over the hilt.
"If not for you, there would be no one to mourn them at all." A faint, wintry smile, turned inwards. "Or me."
Dimitri takes the knife back.
~~
One month and a lifetime ago, a prince had feared to release his grip on a nameless youth from Duscur, lest he shiver to pieces and vanish, gone to ash and char along with his people. Homeland. Family.
Now he fears the same will happen if he so much as touches Dedue now, that he will burn and be gone through the window like all the rest, though he suddenly, desperately wants to embrace his companion, to repay him in some wise for the comfort he's given unstintingly in the last moon since they met. He's sat by Dimitri's side faithfully while he tries to get some fitful sleep, woken him from the grip of nightmares, let the prince cling to him like a man drowning when needed -all while bearing the burden of his own loss and grief in silence.
(and who are you, that others should set aside their own pain to ease yours? snarls a shadow at the wall)
So he leaves that gap unbridged, for now. "That should be washed off, at least." the prince says instead, softly, nodding towards Dedue's hand. "Unless you'd rather see a healer… come back to my rooms?"
~~
Later in the small hours, the voices like black acid trickling and spitting between his thoughts return.
( You should be dead. He should be dead. How could you keep him from his family?)
No. Life has to be better. It must. Lives are worth saving- I had to do something-
(And now he is bound to you. Cruel, thoughtless child-)
Dimitri's knuckles whiten where he holds the book he is not reading, bereft of a response. If he cannot restore what Dedue has lost, and he won't cast him out to scrabble for a living alone… then what is left for him?
So: he will lie wakeful on his couch and watch Dedue's even breathing as he lies half-curled up and asleep in one of Dimitri's armchairs, hand clean and bandaged.
Better this than to think of burning evergreens, and what little remains of Duscur to mourn tonight.