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It is the same dream, tonight.
"His Highness, Dimitri, has been counted among the dead." The soldier bows his head, iron-clad shoulders tense as he reports to her. The words barely make it past his lips and she feels as though she has been struck through the chest with a blade of cold steel.
Dead. How?
Sorrow is no longer a stranger to her. And yet, she mourns.
She recalls, numbly, inviting him to afternoon tea for the first time (though several years had passed by, it had hardly been a few months, to her).
His expression had oft been a curious mixture of uncertainty and eagerness, perhaps overly conscious of her attention. And yet even then, when he thought himself in solitude, she'd catch a strange flickering of something haunted, darkening his youthful countenance.
The look in his eyes reminded her of the young wyvern she'd once come upon as a child, wandering a little ways from camp before dinner, with fishing rod in hand.
It could have been a beautiful and noble creature, with its newly shed scales of gleaming obsidian and fangs thousands of times sharper than a whetted sword. But this wyvern's eyes were glazed. Its marred jaw curled up into a weak snarl as it warily assessed her approach. Its limbs were bent at unnatural angles beyond repair, and and countless wounds (from bows, she thinks) had shredded the membranes of its wings like a dagger cutting through spiderwebs. The smell of rust and metal hung in the air. She'd run back to camp to retrieve her father, seeking his guidance.
"We must be able to help it," She prompted, tugging Jeralt's arm along until they'd arrived. At the time, she had not been privy to the looks her father had shared with the other mercenaries - only the one he'd given her, and she hadn't yet understood what it meant.
It was grief; she knows now.
But whatever the expression on Dimitri's face was caused by, it had been softened (only temporarily, something at the back of her mind whispers before she pushes it away) by the chamomile tea she'd recently procured.
He had been so delighted with the brew, must have finished at least three cups of it before she was called away to the training grounds (she had since then amassed a large stock of chamomile to always have on hand should the need arise).
She blinks.
Byleth wonders exactly when, during her rumination, she has made it to the gardens at the outer city. The sunset drapes a bloody hue upon the time-worn cobbled walls, and the air feels stagnant upon her skin.
A voice, familiar, calls to her. She turns around, heart twisting.
"I thought you were dead," she murmurs in wonder. Relief warms her up to her fingertips. The soldier was wrong, the young woman thinks. Dimitri is here. He's still alive. Taller, older - but alive.
He stands a short distance away. A few more steps and she could reach out and take his hand to make sure he was truly here. She takes a long stride, and another. And another. But for some inexplicable reason, despite the numerous steps she takes (and much to her growing frustration and worry), the gap between them does not lessen.
"Professor," he says again, tone subdued. His voice, once so youthful, is now roughened and hoarse. But there is a deathly softness in his words that stills her movements. She is fearful at the way he says it. It's almost as though - as though he's giving her a farewell.
She looks up, peers at his face. It is worn with fatigue; haphazard locks of dulled and tangled blond are scattered across his forehead. His lips, pressed together, are chapped and pale. He's lost one of his eyes, she notes with a mixture of horror and melancholy. His remaining eye is almost looking through her as though she is naught but a ghost.
The man standing before her is a shadow of his former self. No, she corrects herself. Perhaps this had been him all along, and she had only caught glimpses of it, seeping through the cracks of a thin facade.
He continues to speak. "I came here to explain my decision."
Decision? What decision? She wonders. A sense of foreboding clings to her.
He looks searchingly at her now, really looks; his gaze takes all of her in. The unconcealed longing and desperation and hopeless in his visage very nearly crushes her new heart. And as she opens her mouth to speak, to tell him something, anything to take away that expression upon his face - he looks down and away from her.
"I have no resources to take back the Kingdom capital, much less to defeat the Empire." His words are weighed with defeat. "And that is why-"
She jolts awake, heart thundering and ill-at-ease. The same dream has unfailingly haunted her each and every night since she'd woken up five years later.
The young woman takes a deep and shaky breath. Just a bad dream, nothing more. She pulls the blanket over herself again, shuts her eyes tightly, and wills the advent of dreamless sleep. But her thoughts pull her to other directions. To him.
------
She had approached Dimitri only yesterday, by the cathedral ruins. He is here, she tells herself.
But is he, truly? A niggling voice, sounding uncannily like Sothis scolds her, and the young woman's eyes snap open again. While she would like to argue with her subconscious otherwise, she finds she cannot.
He may stand at the monastery, but his mind had long been chained down to the past. Any and all attempts (which, she admits, were limited to her more outgoing students and herself) to interact with him were met with silence and scathing glares.
This was of even more concern to her, for ever since she had woken up, she had not seen him eat or sleep. At all. She'd been trying to bring him food each day; it seemed he was loathe to step foot inside the lively and bustling dining hall.
One day she'd brought him a bowl of still melting cheese gratin. Another day she had stopped by with a bone-warming fish stew (cooked to flaking perfection with assistance from Dedue).
But each time, the tray she had set near him remained untouched upon her return (except for the monastery's stray cats, who rather enjoyed taking a nibble here and there, particularly with any fish dishes).
Yesterday had been much of the same.
"Leave the boar be," Felix had scoffed when he had caught sight of her on her way to the prince yet again, balancing in her hands a new tray of food. The menu for the day included freshly baked and sugar-powdered sweet rolls, courtesy of the concerned head chef whom she had befriended during the year.
He had liked these, she remembered.
But as with all the other days prior, Dimitri had taken a single fleeting glance at the tray in her hands as she neared, then turned his back to leave before she had even got in a word.
"Stubborn beast. Are you so blinded, you cannot even tell friend from foe?" Felix snapped. His voice resounded against the stone ruins. He had been on his way back from the training grounds, and perhaps some adrenaline was still coursing in his blood for there was a challenging gleam in his eyes. The swordsman's arms were crossed, his eyebrows knit together.
He tensed as Dimitri paused mid-step.
Ashe, in the middle of rereading a well-worn copy of Loog and the Maiden of Wind at a nearby pew, had winced and raised the book up to his face, as if to shield himself from further conflict. Soldiers murmured nearby.
But Dimitri, after a tense moment, had simply left. His childhood friend had remained there, fist clenched, disappointment and frustration palpable on his stern features.
She encountered neither hide nor hair of Dimitri since then. Though, some of Byleth's tension had been allayed when she received no reports of note from the monastery guards. And so she busied herself in paperwork and training routines, hoping to distract her mind from both dreams and reality.
Both Gilbert and Seteth, assisting her with administrative responsibilities right after her encounter with Dimitri that day, had given her a sort of reproachful look when she set before herself yet another stack of papers that required her immediate attention. It distinctly reminded her of her own father's expression when he disapproved of her doing something potentially questionable.
She wondered if the look was an inherited skill from being a parent. Not to mention -
"Professor," Seteth began, clearing his throat. There it was. The start of a lecture, scolding and worried all at once. "I would recommend you take some time to recover, going by the state of your penmanship."
She looked down at the paper she had been signing. She'd missed the space for her signature by at least five lines, and the trail of her pen had been making a diagonal beeline towards the upper right corner of the page.
"Ah," she said aloud. And cleared her throat for good measure. "Perhaps you're right." With these words and as she stood up to stretch, both men exchanged glances of relief.
------
Perhaps word had passed around about her current state, for her students had all come up to her today for one reason or another.
Mercedes and Annette had stopped by her room for breakfast with a tea blend of chamomile and carefully wrapped honeycakes (smothered in clotted cream). They'd chatted for a while and it seemed to Byleth that both her students were deeply concerned for her.
"Are you sure you're resting enough, professor? You must take a break every now and then." There was a slight frown on Mercedes' face, and Annette took the time to slip another helping of cake onto Byleth's plate in the meantime.
After the particularly long morning seminar, she had only made it a few meters outside of the classroom before Sylvain had caught up to her and pressed a bouquet of lavender into her arms (as well as an invitation to dinner out in the city, which she dryly declined).
When she asked why, he shrugged in his light-hearted manner.
"I heard from a little bird," here he looked to Ingrid, who shoved him in the stomach, making him wince in pain, "that these types of flowers help with sleep," he said. With a more genuine smile he opened his mouth again, only to be cut off.
"Professor, we hope you feel better soon," Ingrid had said promptly. She took off to the training grounds with a discontented Sylvain in tow.
When she was partaking in lunch with Ashe, he had rummaged around in his knapsack and extricated a hefty book (about whimsical fairy tales, fantastical adventures).
"Please read these right before you sleep, for good dreams," he suggested. His green eyes were bright with insistence. "You do so much for us, professor. We want to do something in return."
Felix, sitting nearby, had grumbled his agreement through a mouthful of fried pheasant.
Even the ever-stoic Dedue had insisted she spend some time gardening with him in the greenhouse. And so she spent the remainder of her afternoon to nighttime pulling up weeds and planting seeds. It was rather good, she acknowledged, to take a break. Perhaps she had needed this.
------
But now it is nighttime and she is still in the boundary between slumber and wakefulness.
As the young woman lies in bed, far from the embrace of sleep, she continues to sift through tumultuous thoughts. With Dimitri, it was not a matter of having patience, but a matter of compassion and of -
She pauses, not yet daring to give the stirring in her heart a name.
Many matters of the heart were still new to her. However, she knew for certain that the young man she believed to be both her student and friend was far from the monster he had proclaimed himself to be.
His ability to feel so greatly, she thinks in sorrow, has been both a boon and a tragic curse.
And with this turmoil in her mind, she finds herself wandering through the monastery. It must be well past midnight, for even the comforting ballads of crickets are subdued.
The crisp nighttime air against her skin and the smile of pine ease her soul just a little. And although the air is refreshing, it is also incomparably chilly. It is nearly spring but frost crystals still cling stubbornly to the blades of grass beneath her feet, and she can still see her breath suspended in the air.
Part of her regrets not bringing her coat along. Goosebumps are already beginning to form on her arms and legs. She is in her sleeping garb, and comfortable though the outfit may be, pajamas are not the most insulating of clothes for venturing into the cold outdoors.
The monastery itself is in shambles now; a shadow of what it had been. A place of learning, the beacon of light holding Fódlan together. Her students - most of them still call her by her academic title, she thinks with fondness. But much innocence of their youth had been lost to the war between the Imperial Empire and the Church of Seiros.
Had she been there to guide and protect them, had she awoken sooner, had she only realized before it had been too late - maybe all of this would not have come to pass. But even the power of a goddess cannot turn time back that far. If only.
But it would not do to think this way, she chides herself. It was already a great blessing she had not lost any of her student's lives to this ceaseless conflict.
As her mind wanders, so do her steps. She takes an aimless turn here, up the unfamiliar set of stairs there, around the corner, left through the hallway, a few rights, up another set of spiraling stairs.
And.
Byleth pauses. She's not entirely sure where she is now. While she had came upon many of the rooms in the monastery during her time as a professor at Garreg Mach, there were some places she had never really needed to go.
This abandoned room must have been one of them, she thinks.
It is vast; any semblance of a ceiling has been deteriorated by war and age. There's rubble on the ground. Her footsteps are light (she's always been rather dexterous), and she makes her way ever so cautiously to the center of the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a flash of navy briefly illuminated by the waning moon. She'd recognize that shade of blue anywhere.
It's Dimitri.
He is still clad in war-worn armor and swathed in his fur-lined cape, as he leans against the room's corner, lance of sharp silver still in hand. He somehow manages to be imposing while seated. His shoulders are tensed, his arms crossed, as if he is bearing the entire weight of Fodlan upon himself.
She steps closer and wonders if she should call out to him to announce her presence, to make sure he does not lunge at her with lance in hand. Her voice catches in her throat.
He is asleep.
Byleth wonders if he's been sleeping like this for the past several years. Without dropping his guard, back against the wall, ready to attack at the drop of a pin.
His breathing is somewhat erratic, eyebrows knit together, as if in consternation, and there is a slight frown set upon his lips as he murmurs to himself. With the fur-lined cloak upon on his shoulders, the scene before her brings to mind a slumbering lion.
Any sudden movements and he would awaken.
He probably would not be pleased with her being here, she thinks to herself. And yet despite this, she feels only genuine relief. The nervousness tugging at her slowly dissipates into the nighttime air.
He has not been killed on the battlefield nor has he taken his own life. Rather, he is here, sleeping before her.
And in the next few brief seconds, Byleth resolves to take watch while he sleeps.
It is something she wishes, without pause, she could have done for him those long five years.
She could easily imagine him wandering alone during that time, once he had escaped. Him tearing almost desperately through battlefields and foe alike with nary a single friend who could shield him from harm or guide his path. Something in her chest tightens, painful in its intensity. If only she could have been there for him, then.
Part of her debates returning to her room, just to retrieve her coat and equipment - but she realizes she might not even be able to find her way back. To him. Besides, she reasons to herself, if anything did happen, she was quite adept at magic.
So she sits a little distance away from him (daringly, within his arm's reach) and he does not stir. The stone, she winces, is cold against her back, and draws another set of goosebumps to her neck and arms.
When she was a child, she remembers in amusement, she had jumped into frigid waters to catch a particularly rare fish (its scales gleamed of crystal). She'd ended up (fish-less) with pneumonia, and a fretting Jeralt hovering above her.
This wasn't too bad. A little cold never hurt anyone. She watches the entryway, the sky. All is at peace for tonight, save for the occasional crickets. Even the prince, in his slumber, has somehow quieted. The only movement she sees is the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. She tears her gaze away, and watches the sky.
The stars twinkle gently overhead.
He slumbers beside her as she keeps awake, wondering what the future will bring.
------
A robin, red and bright-eyed, chirps in her ear. Byleth stirs, wondering why it feels like she's been sleeping on bedrock instead of a cottoned mattress. She takes a moment to remember where she is. Right. She'd taken a walk around last night and decided to take vigil, next to -
She shoots up from where she is lying, curled up, on the cobbled ground. Or at least, she tries to. There's a heavy and warm weight insulating her like a thousand blankets, and she takes a glance. It's a cape that has been draped over her. A cape lined with fur, navy blue, and most certainly his.
The surprise is dulled by her sleepiness. How long had it been, since she'd been able to rest so well? And when had she even fallen asleep?
As she sits up and tries to recollect herself, she catches sight of him. He's...still there. Another feeling of relief washes like a wave over her, and there's something else tugging at her heart. That feeling again.
He's leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, looking away from her. Without the cape, he seems a little less imposing. A little more human.
"Why did you come here?" His voice is rough but quiet. As if he is also hesitant to shatter the peace of the early morning. As he speaks, he still does not look her way. But the fact that he is addressing her without any prompting is a tiny balm.
Byleth answers him without reservations. She had always been straightforward, after all.
"I was wandering the monastery at night and found you here. I thought to keep watch while you slept," she says honestly (at least she'd tried to, she thinks a little sheepishly; she hadn't expected to fall asleep on the job).
His visible eye widens in shock as he finally turns to look at her, before his expression turns cold once more.
"Do not waste your efforts on me," he snaps, his mouth twisting into a frown. But perhaps it's the thought of the cape being considerately draped over her, or how real her dream had felt last night - she continues.
"It is not a waste," her voice is firm. "It will never be. Not on you."
He huffs and strides past her, making to leave. There's something changed in his eyes though, something that feels less harsh.
"Wait," she pulls the cape off of herself. "This is yours."
She extends her hand towards him, cape in her grasp (it is really quite heavy, she thinks - her arm is already sore from holding it for a few moments). As he reaches outwards to take it from her, his gloves brush against her fingertips and she feels the fleeting sensation of a warm touch.
He freezes.
Then he swiftly takes hold of the cape and turns away.
"We will begin to march for Enbarr soon," He speaks up. She cannot see the expression on his face, but somehow his voice sounds a little shaken. "Be ready."
"Dimitri," her voice is soft. Her fingertips are still tingling from the brief contact. "Thank you for the cape."
He is still for a moment. And then - ever so slightly - he inclines his head.
------
The rest of the Blue Lions wonder a little at how much their professor seems to have recovered from her fatigue.
"I'm telling you, it's the lavender," Sylvain insists (rather loudly; Byleth can hear him from where she's currently waiting for food) at the dining table over lunchtime, and looks affronted as he catches both Ingrid and Felix rolling their eyes.
Dedue inclines his head. "Lavender has been thought to improve sleep quality," he offers, and Ashe, after swallowing a spoonful of fish and bean soup, nods.
"I think chamomile does the same thing," the archer ponders, and at this Mercedes and Annette both look quite delighted. They continue to deliberate what exactly it is that has helped their professor so much, and it is around this time Byleth makes her way to where they are seated.
"I have all of you to thank," she says genuinely, sitting down next to Annette. She feels a warmth in her chest. The feeling of gratitude, she knows.
Perhaps there is something on her face, because all of them gape at her, some more conspicuously than others. She wonders if something is wrong, and voices her concern to the group.
"It's nothing, professor." Ingrid gives her a warm and welcoming smile. "Anyways, now we all know how you feel when you come to return our lost possessions without fail." They all share a laugh at this. As lunchtime progresses she is constantly reminded of how much she has been blessed to know her students.
------
The meal has long finished and they're all cleaning up.
"All of you, go on ahead and wait for me in the reception hall," she encourages them. "I will catch up, in a little while."
Most of her students make to leave, except Felix. He watches her put together a neat but hefty tray of pastries, sauteed jerky, and stew - all dishes they both know are for the lone prince, most likely standing by the cathedral remains.
"You're sure about doing this." His words are lined with concern for her.
She looks to the entrance and just barely catches the brief flutter of a navy blue cape.
Something in her heart tugs again - she knows now, what feeling it is.
"I'm sure," she says.