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It starts like this:
“This smells good. I wonder how it tastes.”
Byleth doesn’t catch it at first. Dimitri is surely commenting on the strength of the tea, right? After all, Dimitri had off-handedly mentioned to Byleth that his favorite tea was chamomile, which is what the two of them are drinking now under the cool shade of the gazebo.
Byleth takes a sip of the tea, allowing the taste to linger on their tongue. Far too strong. Byleth shakes their head lightly and puts their cup back down.
“How does the tea taste, Dimitri?” Byleth asks, more out of genuine curiosity than suspicion. They note the way his eyes darken for just long enough that Byleth can see.
“It tastes lovely, Professor,” Dimitri says, perfect smile on his face.
It’s not overly concerning that Dimitri doesn’t notice the strength. After all, it is chamomile, which was never very strong in the first place.
The rest of their tea time is spent chatting about training and weapons. That is, until—
“What’s your favorite food, Dimitri?”
“Hmm. I suppose I don’t really have one.”
“Oh?”
“Well,” Dimitri says, hesitating. “I suppose it’s just hard to choose. I don’t care about food that much.”
Byleth files that away for later.
This is what Dimitri remembers:
Burns, scraps, and freely-bleeding wounds. It is the most pain he’s ever felt in his life, but it’s not enough to stop him from jumping in front of the swords that are about to connect with the other boy’s face. He remembers the searing pain climbing up his back as the soldiers shout in horror at having cut down their prince.
He remembers being picked up, barely conscious but refusing to become unaware of the world around him, for whenever he does, the soldiers try to pull the boy away from him. He only passes out when Rodrigue arrives, entrusting that Rodrigue will not try to tear them apart.
Dimitri wakes up in bed, and the boy—Dedue—is beside him.
Later on, some servant brings in a tray piled with food. Gautier Cheese Gratin, among other things that the palace cooks know the prince enjoys.
When he eats it, he tastes ash and smoke. A few days later, he can no longer taste anything at all.
He hides it. Among the many things Dimitri brings back from Duscar, there are ghosts, wounds, bodies, and nightmares. Among the things he leaves behind are his sense of taste. Dedue knows about the nightmares, about the ghosts, but Dimitri doesn’t tell him about how eating food is more of a chore than a task he actually finds pleasant.
He doesn’t mourn the loss, because how ungrateful of him would it be to be sad over his sense of taste when his father screams for revenge? To mourn something so pathetic when family and loved ones mourn the burnt armor of soldiers that he saw fall in his place?
Dimitri after Duscar has shattered pieces of himself sticking out every which way. So, he cuts them away, because he is the prince of Faerghus. He hides what cracks remain.
When Dedue cooks, he eats it and mourns the fact he cannot taste the food of his friend’s homeland.
“It’s really good,” he would tell Dedue. It is sincere, in some ways. The smell of spice is heavenly, even though Dimitri has never been particularly spice tolerant.
“I am glad,” Dedue would say back.
And that was that. Dimitri eats and pretends to enjoy his meals. Dimitri screams in his sleep and pretends not to see the individual looks that Sylvain and Felix give him the next morning. Dimitri gets splitting headaches during lessons and grits his teeth as he continues taking notes.
So, when the Professor asks, “How does the tea taste, Dimitri?”
The response, “It tastes lovely, Professor,” rolls off his tongue naturally.
During the Hunting Festival, he eats in the dining hall with Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix. The three of them (but mostly Ingrid) tear apart their food with vigor.
“Is something wrong?” Felix asks, tone hostile, but not necessarily mean. “You’re eating like you hate the food.”
“I don’t hate it,” is what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say “I like it,” either.
Instead; “That wasn’t my intention. Apologies, Felix.”
Ingrid pokes his cheek. “He’s right. You used to love this kind of food.”
Dimitri smiles. “I suppose I’m just not very hungry then.”
When he isn’t looking, Sylvain takes his fork and empties half of his plate onto Dimitri’s. Dimitri takes another bite or so and spends the rest of the meal picking at his food.
Then, war:
Dimitri is sinking. Or has he already sunk? He is not quite sure of anything anymore. The pounding of his head is amplified even more by the screeching voices in his ear, begging him to avenge them.
He can’t feel the right side of his face. The wound has festered for days now, and he’s holed up in an alleyway corner of the Fhirdiad slums, with no water in sight. Dimitri tears a strip off the cloak that conceals his face to wrap around his head and eye.
He’s starving.
The Fhirdiad slums will not house him for much longer, he’s sure that Cornelia and her men are tearing the city apart in pursuit of him.
Dedue is gone. Dimitri is here.
Shivers run up his body as the cold chill of Faerghus settles upon the land. If he doesn’t starve, he will most likely freeze.
“Hello, Mister,” a small voice rings out. A tiny girl stands before him. “Are you hungry?”
Dimitri opens his mouth. Closes it. He finds that he cannot bring words to his mouth. Just then, a taller, yet far too skinny boy runs over to the little girl, pulling her back by the arm.
“Besse! You know not to talk to strangers,” the boy cries. “Come on, now.”
He notices that they have holes in their shoes and dirt on their faces. It is a contrast to the world he grew up in, where such things would result in a lecture. He clenches his hands until his untrimmed nails leave crescent-shaped marks in his palms.
The girl comes back later that night.
“I know I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she says. “But your hair reminds me of the Prince!”
She sets down something on the cobblestone near him, before scurrying off. When he finally goes to look, he finds two small, bruised apples.
It isn’t much, but he eats one and goes to sleep. When morning comes, he wakes to the sound of wailing in the streets.
The girl who gave him food clutches her brother’s hands, as they cry over a crumpled and sick body. A parent perhaps. A friend, sibling, it matters not. Cornelia may have claimed to improve Faerghus’ infrastructure, yet the slums are full of people who are starved and sickened.
Dimitri growls. At what, he isn’t sure. But he doesn’t have time to think on it before he sees two soldiers rush past, before backtracking to inspect the alleyway he resides in. As soon as they go to point their lances at him, he grabs right below the blade and yanks them forward, crushing one of their windpipes with his bare hands. He uses one of the lances he grabbed to pierce the other one through the throat.
Monster.
He pants, letting the lance drop to the floor. He has to move, and soon. Upon looking through their bags, he finds some meager rations. It will do. He takes the lance.
Just as he’s about to leave, he catches a familiar bright royal blue in the corner of his eye. A rumpled Faerghan banner hangs from the rusty hooks above a boarded-shut door. Dimitri grabs it, running the tips of his fingers over the fibers.
He wraps it around the lance. It will be useful for keeping the biting cold at bay later on.
Dimitri lives like this:
He’s barely aware of where he is. Sometimes, he will happen upon a small village or town. Most of the time, he is alone under the thick foliage that blocks the sun out overhead.
To eat, he forages and takes what scraps he can. Once, he came upon a village where a merchant was tossing out rotten and bruised produce. He takes what he can, contesting with the crows and starving rodents that have started to dig in. It smells putrid, but he pinches his nose in between his fingers and chokes it down, tasting nothing.
“You even eat like a rabid animal,” Glenn sneers, arms crossed .
“It matters not how I eat. As long as I am able to bring you her head,” he protests.
“You are failing at that as well,” his father says, the warmth of his deep voice gone in death. “We have waited for years.”
“Do you want us to continue suffering, Dimitri?” his stepmother accuses. He barely remembers her voice, yet her words still ring loudly in his ears.
“No! I—”
“Hurry and bring us her head. Avenge us.”
“Pft. He’s too weak.”
“No, I—I will kill her, I swear it,” Dimitri pleads with the choir of voices. “Please, give me more time! I won’t fail you, I promise.”
And so his days are spent scrounging for food, slaughtering what Imperial troops he happens upon, and pleading to the waspish voices of his loved ones.
Dimitri now is no stronger than Dimitri back in the academy. The only difference is that now he no longer has to hold back. He chokes down what parts of himself he used to value, and becomes a monster.
He lives for the whims of the ghosts in his head.
When he returns to the Monastery, Dimitri finds the irony in seeing the building where he spent idyllic days in shambles. Walls have collapsed, windows have shattered or are coated in grime, and the furniture has been overturned.
It is quite similar to himself, in some ways.
He slaughters what Imperial soldiers catch wind of his whereabouts and come his way.
The Blue Lions come back. The Professor does, too.
In between battles, he sits among his audience of ghosts near the pile of crumbled stone at the altar of the cathedral. He listens to their taunts and allows their degrading words to pierce through him.
Sometime after the reunion, someone brings him a meal. Dimitri does not pay enough attention to see who, but the smell of chamomile is strong enough to make him spare a glance at whatever is brought. Some meaningless thick brownish stew and a slice of bread. Alongside it, in a chipped teacup, there is the chamomile. The Professor, then.
He doesn’t touch it.
When he reunites with Dedue at Myrddin, Dimitri feels more human than he has in years, trying to choke down the emotions that well up in his throat and threaten to spill over, emotions unfitting of a monster like himself.
Dedue takes his place beside Dimitri when they return to the cathedral after the battle.
Dimitri ignores the sweet, relaxing aroma of chamomile mixed with honey when they continue to bring it to him.
When he was younger, chamomile would help him fall asleep on his more restless nights. There is no rest for him anymore. The will of the dead still lingers and Dimitri allows himself to become a tool for their revenge.
Rodrigue dies.
Dimitri slips further. He sits in front of the rubble, listening to his ghosts.
“Another one of us dead, because of you.”
He isn’t sure when he works up the resolve, but the next thing he knows, he’s smuggled a few day’s worth of rations from the dining hall and heads to the stables.
Dimitri is tired of playing this game. So, he prepares for Enbarr. Part of him is ready to take Edelgard’s head, no matter the cost. The other part of him prepares to die on a surely futile mission.
At this point, he doesn’t see a problem with either outcome.
Then, there is Byleth:
“Live for what you believe in.”
The world blurs and the only thing he feels is the warmth of the Professor’s hand amidst the chill of rain. Are they walking? He is not quite sure.
At some point, he gains some sense of awareness, enough to tell he has been led to his old dorm room.
“I’m going to take off your armor now,” says Byleth, who he cannot seem to find.
Eventually, he is stripped down to his tunic and trousers which are incredibly dirty and stained.
“I’ll be right back,” Byleth tells him, squeezing his hand and letting go. “I’ll only take a minute or so.”
Byleth is true to their word and comes back soon enough. They wait in silence for a few moments before he feels warm porcelain against his lips.
“Drink.”
Dimitri obeys, sipping the warm tea. The smell of chamomile infiltrates his senses, calming him as he breathes it in.
“May I brush your hair?” Byleth asks, voice free of judgment or pity. Dimitri nods.
At some point, he feels himself becoming drowsy as he relaxes against the small, relaxing movements of the Professor as they brush his hair.
When had he last slept? Dimitri has truthfully become used to sleeping only when his body demands him to. His eye throbs from the strain of staying open, so he gently closes it. He drifts.
The voices of the dead are still there, clawing at him as he rests. However, their once crisp voices feel fuzzy. For the first time in years, he tunes them out.
Byleth gives the Gatekeeper a farewell and a wave as they turn to head down the stairs into the lively marketplace. The sound of people chatting amongst themselves and dogs barking sets the animated atmosphere.
They flit around the market stands, greeting the familiar merchants as they go, until they stop upon a merchant selling chamomile tea leaves. Byleth is pretty sure they are receiving quite a few stares as they bring the bag of tea leaves up to their nose to sniff.
Eventually, Byleth finds the one they want. The chamomile gives off a pleasant aroma. Byleth hands the merchant the gold to pay for the tea and then rushes off.
They arrive at Dimitri’s door and knock gently on the old wood. After a few moments, the door creaks open, revealing Dimitri, noticeably more well-rested, rubbing his left eye with the back of his hand.
“Oh. Hello, Professor,” he says, voice slurred slightly with sleep.
“Hello to you too, Dimitri,” Byleth says, smiling genuinely. “Would you like to join me for tea?”