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Dimitri glances at himself in the mirror, feeling stiff in the constricting formal wear. Layers upon layers of different types of fabric are cloaked on his person. His hair has been washed and then tied and braided back. He’s acutely aware of the pang of vulnerability that he feels without his armor on.
He shouldn’t be so nervous . He has known that this day would come since he was young. And yet… he can’t help the pounding of his heart in his chest.
He remembers the crowd of citizens cheering his name, welcoming his return. Yet, Dimitri still feels undeserving. All the lives he’s taken, the blood he’s split… He still remembers the lock of gold hair encased inside the locket of the soldier he had killed all those years ago. It had haunted him throughout his youth, but as he grew older, killed more, lost even more of his humanity, he’d pushed it to the back of his mind. Though, each time his lance pierced through the chest of an Imperial soldier, he couldn’t help but think of a little child like him, losing their parents.
He still thinks of the little girl who killed Rodrigue. In his desire for revenge, did he tear apart families? Did he create himself again, in the form of a little girl wanted to kill the monster who killed her brother?
Dimitri is so lost inside his own mind that his ears neglect the soft creak of the old wooden door of his dorm opening and the faint clanking of armor that follows.
“Your Highness, it is time.”
The sound of Dedue’s deep voice shakes Dimitri from the entanglements of his mind, as he turns to face the taller man. Dimitri numbly nods in acknowledgment, still plagued by the fear of rejection and overwhelming guilt.
You’ll never be worthy.
“Dedue,” he responds with a quick smile, which soon melts away with a sigh.
“You are troubled,” Dedue notes, glancing at him.
“You know me too well,” Dimitri responds, falling silent for a few moments. “...I suppose I am nervous. To see everyone… to be King.”
Dedue’s hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder, understanding in a way beyond what Dimitri could ever ask.
“You will be a worthy king, I am sure,” Dedue says. “They will be happy to see you… Dimitri.”
Instantly, Dimitri smiles at the sound of his name on the other male’s lips. Dedue is still rather shy about saying Dimitri’s name, but he will at least say it. It is something Dimitri cherishes each time he hears it.
“I suppose I should go now,” Dimitri says. “Thank you, Dedue.”
After Dedue’s departure, Dimitri glances at himself in the mirror one last time, licking a finger to press against a flyaway strand of blonde at the top of his head.
It’s time.
Dimitri is escorted to the cathedral by numerous knights, both of the Church and of Faerghus. People line the halls of his former school, cheering loudly as he passes by. They’re packed onto the bridge to the cathedral like a school of fish. Children ride on the shoulders of adults or elder siblings. He spots a small child alone in the crowd, grubby thumb stuck into their mouth, staring at him wide-eyed. He makes sure to offer them a smile as he passes.
The tall doors to the Cathedral swing open, whipping the wind against him for a brief moment as he steps inside. The church choir sings loud as ever, echoing throughout the Cathedral’s tall roofs. With the war over, the pile of rubble has been cleared and the altar repaired. He strides forward, along the pews, until he reaches the front.
At last, Dimitri pauses at the altar. He can feel the gazes of his former classmates—his friends—on his back as he kneels below the person already standing at the altar. He lifts his head, peering up into the green eyes of Byleth, who nods at him.
Byleth had been made the Archbishop only a few moons after the war had ended, followed shortly by Rhea once again vanishing, though this time on her own will. Byleth begins the introduction to the ceremony, their cool voice calming his nerves a considerable amount.
Dimitri swears oaths upon oaths to the people of not only Faerghus, but of Fodlan. He thinks of the Empire and the Alliance, which are now also placed delicately in his care. He will not fail them, not again. He’s already spent many nights staying up late, researching everything he can about the two countries. Dimitri had to stop after his eye started to water and he felt a migraine coming on.
“... And thus, I, Archbishop Byleth Eisner, crown Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd as the first King of Fodlan.”
Byleth takes the crown sitting upon the altar. It’s not his father’s, as Dimitri had refused to wear it. He felt it should stay unworn, especially after Cornelia, the witch, had stolen it when he was imprisoned.
Instead, this crown is medium-sized, silver and adorned with the coat of arms of all three nations, among other symbols and jewels. It’s certainly not something Dimitri will probably ever wear outside of ceremonies. He has always felt that crowns were unnecessary symbols and tokens of power.
The crown is placed gently onto his head, and with that Dimitri rises to his feet, and turns to the crowd. The mass of people rise and cheer, and he takes note of his friends in the first row of pews. Even Felix is standing and clapping, and Dimitri notes the small and soft, yet Felix-like smile adorning his friend’s face.
Among the crowd, he hears someone shout. “Long live the Savior King!”
Almost immediately, the crowd starts to echo it. Savior King . It’s almost as hard to believe as the day they took Fhirdiad back from Cornelia. They cheer for Dimitri, whose hands are stained with the blood of countless people. Dimitri, who is still haunted by ghosts of loved ones dead long enough to turn their faces into something angry and twisted by hatred.
“You’re not fit to rule Faerghus, much less all of Fodlan.”
The smiles of the crowd melt into scowls, their cheers turn into something angry and fowl. He spots the mangled bodies from Duscar scattered throughout the pews.
A beast ruling over Fodlan.
What a joke.
Savior King? He couldn’t even save us.
“Dimitri,” Byleth hisses into his ear, placing a firm hand onto his shoulder. Dimitri shakes his head, watching as the ghosts melt away and their anger turns back into joy.
He slowly raises a hand, indicating that he wishes to speak. Slowly, the cheers turn into meer chatter, which in turn becomes quiet whispering.
“To be standing here, among people from not just the Kingdom, but the Empire and Alliance as well, is truly something I never expected, much less a King,” he starts. “I have so much to do and so much to make up for. I know we have just concluded a war, and tensions are still high. But I assure you, no matter where you are from, your voices will be heard. I have much to do, and I will start as soon as I can. I hope I do not fail you.”
So much to do indeed. Duscar, crests, corrupt nobility, the Empire. He has his work cut out for him.
The celebrations continue throughout Garreg Mach, but inside the Dining Hall, Dimitri sits among the former Blue Lions and Byleth. Things have changed so much. Most of the class adorns new titles or positions, and yet the dynamic hasn’t changed all that much.
“So, Your Majesty, I’m sure you’ll have girls jumping all over you now that you’re king,” Sylvain says, with a wink. They’ve all downed a few drinks at this point, yet Dimitri is absolutely sure that Sylvain would have said that if he was fully sober.
“Sylvain,” he sighs. Felix kicks the orange-haired man in the shin, which is followed up by a slap from Ingrid.
Ashe, Dedue, and Mercedes all helped prepare food for the occasion, and while Dimitri cannot taste it himself, he’s sure it’s delicious.
It’s a scary future for him. He’s leading a continent coming off a five-year-long war. Yet, knowing he has his friends there beside him is the best assurance there is.
Fhirdiad, Imperial Year 1203
Dimitri, only 41 years young, lays on his sickbed, breath coming out as faint wheezes. They had rushed to find a cure to his illness, but Dimitri spent five years throwing himself recklessly into battle, eating meager meals, and letting wounds fester. And now, that has taken its toll.
Dimitri is dying, and he knows this. While his reign may not have been long, he has accomplished much. There’s still more to do, but he has no time left.
Dedue and Mercedes stay at his side, tending to him. The rest of the Blue Lions come to visit him, they give him wishes of “get well soon,” though he’s sure they all know he is not getting better.
Byleth seems to be the only one who truly understands what this means. His former Professor pushes his hair back soothingly and tells him gentle words for the harsh truth that looms over them.
He spends his few waking moments trying to finish business, only to get pushed back into bed by Dedue or Mercedes. Normally, he would be able to resist somewhat, but he feels so weak. Now, he resides to raspily telling a transcriber what to put down onto paper.
He thinks of his parents, and of Glenn. Of all the knights and soldiers he knew. Edelgard.
Will he seem them again?
Many years ago, Dimitri had accepted that his death would come after he finished his business with Edelgard. Once he had freed the ghosts from their lingering desire and will for vengeance, then it would matter not whether he withered away slowly or fell victim to the end of a sharp weapon.
Now, he isn’t so sure he wants to leave everyone behind.
Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the first King of United Fodlan, dies a day later, succumbing to illness caused by numerous health problems resulting from his exile and imprisonment.
The continent mourns their King.
The Blue Lions mourn their friend.
Yet, there a small comfort in knowing that, when the time comes where they too pass on, Dimitri, their King, and their friend, will be waiting for them.