Chapter Text
Edelgard blinked her eyes open slowly, and found herself looking at the ceiling of her dorm room. She groaned at the sight, and turned over to throw a pillow back over her head. There was an ache behind her eyes, pounding incessantly.
Riegan’s a dead man, Edelgard thought.
She took a few more breaths, but there was still a noxious taste in her mouth. Forcing herself to sit up with her eyes firmly shut against the sun coming in through her window, Edelgard rubbed at her nose. She couldn’t quite smell the aftereffects of Claude’s poison, but her nostrils were burning.
There was also an uncomfortable, crawling sear in the pit of her stomach. But that Edelgard couldn’t blame on Claude. She knew that pain came from dark magic, from Solon’s stupid orb.
Edelgard groaned again, just imagining the reactions of her uncle and his toady when they learned she’d broken it. Her only consolation was that maybe Solon would finally stop being friendly with Claude, and murder him in retribution for its destruction. After he made her life miserable first, but…
Solon could hang for all she cared. It was his damn fault Edelgard had been transporting the dark orb in the first place, and Claude’s fault for dropping his damn poison and drugging them all, and it was Dimitri’s fault for startling Claude. And the professor. It was technically the professor’s fault for tripping Edelgard and compromising her grip on the orb.
But Edelgard was far more comfortable blaming Riegan and Blaiddyd. So she would.
Edelgard rubbed at her eyes and her stomach, trying to disregard the discomfort. If the orb and whatever it did had affected her too badly, surely she wouldn’t be back in her room. Hubert wouldn’t have allowed it, not without a trip to the infirmary first. And since she was not with the healers, he was likely the one who carried her back to her room. The last place she remembered being was on the ground outside. In fact, Edelgard’s last memory before falling unconscious was of the professor, a bright flash of green… and some sigils. Did the professor cast a spell?
Edelgard didn’t know. She threw her feet off the bed and decided it likely didn’t matter.
Carefully, Edelgard breathed in and out to stave off the nausea. Dark magic tended not to agree with anyone, but she… It was purely psychological. Any and all adverse reactions to the sickeningly familiar crackling in her limbs was in her head. You are greater than this, Edelgard reminded herself as she fumbled and reached for the hairbrush at her bedside.
She was greater than any pain or discomfort this world had to offer. She was in control. All Edelgard needed was something to steady herself, which was why she breathed in time with the strokes of her brush running through her hair. Slowly but surely, the repetition helped cull the rolling tide of her stomach and head.
Edelgard fluttered her eyes open as she pulled the rest of her hair from behind her neck and over her shoulder. The world had stopped spinning, and now she could go about properly grooming herself and then investigating.
Ask Hubert about what transpired after the accident, Edelgard thought, turning to look at the particularly troublesome knot she couldn’t tug out, and then words need to be had with Solon—
Edelgard screamed.
The choked, slightly hysterical shriek that fell out of her mouth startled Edelgard to her feet. The hairbrush tumbled out of her hands and hair, clattering to the floor, and her steps pounded against the carpet as she ran to her vanity. Edelgard stared back at herself in the mirror, but her fingers were shoved into and tugging at brown locks.
Brown hair, ashy brown hair, the exact color she’d so despised as a child, thinking it ugly, thinking she’d be much happier being blonde like her sisters. Brown hair, long and straight and Edelgard’s hair, the hair she chopped off when it went white and cried for and hated and hated and mourned and hated and—
Why was her hair brown?
Edelgard was shaking, and breathing too hard, and one of her hands was now tapping softly at the mirror to make sure it was real.
It was good that her door slammed open in that instant. Otherwise, Edelgard didn’t know what she would have done with herself.
A girl tumbled into Edelgard’s room looking half-wild. As Edelgard turned to look at her, the girl with the great mass of wavy, black hair brandished a knife in one hand and a small fire in the other. She flicked her eyes around the room before landing on Edelgard, and they were green eyes, the likes of which Edelgard had only seen in one family.
“Carmilla?” Edelgard blurted out, at the exact moment the girl cried, “Lady Edelgard, are you okay?”
“Carmilla?” Edelgard asked again, shriller this time, still tugging at her own hair. The world was growing dizzy again, but at least she had something to focus on, someone to act for. “Carmilla, what are you doing here?”
“Ensuring your wellbeing,” Carmilla von Vestra snapped, sounding for all the world like it was a great inconvenience. “Now, are you well? Edelgard, you screamed.”
“I—” Edelgard stuttered, and she blinked at Hubert’s little sister.
Why was Carmilla at Garreg Mach Monastery and not in Enbarr? Where was Hubert?
Before Edeglard could demand answers, though— or stop the world from spinning or stop ripping out her hair— a great force shoved Carmilla out of the doorway. She stumbled and hit the ground, knife clattering away and spell thankfully extinguishing. Edelgard leaped across the room to help Carmilla, moving on instinct.
“Edelgard, are you well?” the new intruder called, and she looked up to see it was Dimitri.
“I’m fine,” she sneered at him on instinct, as Carmilla stumbled to her feet at her side. Their arms were linked together.
“The situation is under control, Your Highness,” Carmilla scoffed, her nose turned up and a scowl sketched on her face. But she was ignored.
“Edelgard, your hair,” Dimitri yelped, and Edelgard’s hand went right back to fisting her fingers in the curtain of brown that hung next to her face.
Her hair, indeed.
But Carmilla simply snapped, “And what of it? You know ladies don’t just wake up with their hair brushed, Your Highness. I think you can forgive Lady Edelgard for not being perfectly put together to your standards at dawn.”
“What? No!” Dimitri cried in confusion, bringing his hands up to his face as if he expected Carmilla to strike him. It wasn’t a wholly foolish reaction, as Carmilla had leaned forward and brought her hand up to threaten Dimitri, dragging Edelgard with her.
“Then what precisely do you mean by ‘your hair’? Lady Edelgard’s hair is perfectly lovely, I’ll have you know. Why don’t you know it? Your Highness, that isn’t any way to speak to your—”
“Woah, woah, are we really insulting ladies this early in the morning?” another voice called from the hallway.
It was Riegan, and when he tucked his head in through the doorway, his gaze instantly found Edelgard. His eyes widened at the sight of her hair, as well. But he didn’t fuss or shout. Instead, Claude simply wrapped his fingers around the still sputtering Dimitri’s bicep and pulled.
“You know, I don’t think we should be here, staring at a pair of underdressed ladies. Not really proper, is it, Dimitri?”
“That wasn’t my intention! But Edelgard—”
“Is fine,” Edelgard said, not taking her gaze off of Claude’s artificial grin or shifty eyes. Something was wrong here. He knew it, and she knew it, and Dimitri in his own inconspicuous way knew it. But Carmilla von Vestra stood at Edelgard’s side, and she was an unknown. They would have to proceed with caution. Edelgard would have to proceed with caution.
“Now, please, leave my bedroom,” she snapped.
Claude mercifully pulled Dimitri away, no complaints from either of them. Carmilla slammed the door shut in their wake.
“I never!” Carmilla huffed, and then she turned to look expectantly at Edelgard.
But Edelgard didn’t know what Carmilla wanted from her.
She’d not spoken to this girl in years, not since they were children. She’d certainly not seen Carmilla looking so… womanly and familiar in tandem. As little girls, they’d dressed and bathed together, and slept in the same bed, but that was… a decade ago. Now, Carmilla was grown, and in a state of undress. She wore only a nightgown, with her hair half-brushed and half-tied up, and what looked like… make-up. There was a dramatic streak of eyeliner marring the left side of her face, as if Carmilla had rushed from her chair at the sound of Edelgard’s distress while putting it on.
And yet, the vain sister that Hubert complained about didn’t seem concerned that she was disheveled in the company of the Heir of the Adrestian Empire. Carmilla made a dramatic and annoyed face at Edelgard like they were in on some joke together. Like they were still friends.
Not even Hubert was so informal with her, and here was Carmilla… waltzing around Edelgard’s bedroom with only a quarter of her makeup on as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Edelgard bite back the yell of frustration and hysteria that was bubbling in her chest Instead, she opened her mouth and said the first thing that came to mind that wouldn't utterly compromise her.
“Is that blue eyeshadow?”
Carmilla blinked back at her, and finally looked a little confused at this situation. She brought her fingers up to touch at the corner of her eye, and stood up a bit straighter.
“Oh, um, yes. Do you not like it?”
Edelgard laughed, just a bit of an edge in her voice that was probably panic. What is happening?
“It suits you,” she said instead.
And Carmilla smiled. A lopsided grin spread across her harsh and angular face, and Edelgard’s breath caught. She’d forgotten… how Carmilla smiled. She’d forgotten that for all Hubert and Carmilla looked like one another, the sister was far more unabashed with her emotions. Mostly, Edelgard had forgotten that anyone from her life before the Insurrection— and Uncle, and Fhridiad, and crests and blood and screaming— could still smile like that.
Edelgard whirled away from Carmilla, and turned back to the mirror.
Her hair was still brown.
Steps hurried towards Edelgard’s back. She felt a warm hand with thin, long fingers squeeze her shoulder, and it wasn’t Hubert’s. It wasn’t Hubert, it was Carmilla. Carmilla was here, and Edelgard’s hair was brown, and something, something had happened, something strange and wrong was going on.
“El?” Carmilla von Vestra asked, and Edelgard shuddered. Had she given Carmilla permission to call her that? A lifetime ago, had Carmilla called her ‘El’ like Edelgard’s family had? She could no longer remember.
“Are you okay, El? You look… ill, should I call for Professor Manuela?”
“No,” Edelgard snapped, tone definitive. She didn’t know what was happening, but she didn’t need a physician looking at her body.
“No, I’m fine. Just a little on edge. I had a nightmare is all. It shook me pretty badly, I guess.”
Edelgard kept her eyes firmly set on the mirror, on her own forehead and her brown hair. What a nightmare to wake up from, she thought, watching Carmilla shift behind her. Edelgard had to fight the urge to scratch at her wrists, but she couldn’t stop how her hands were shaking. Carmilla surely noticed; if she was even half as observation as her older brother, she noticed.
But that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? Carmilla wasn’t as observant as her brother, and she had bought her father’s and Arundel’s and Aegir’s lies hook, line, and sinker. Everything was fine in Carmilla’s life and world, there was no grand conspiracy or experimentiation or sanctioned murder. Carmilla couldn’t be trusted; she was one of them. That’s why they weren’t friends anymore, Edelgard suddenly remembered.
Carmilla said, “A nightmare?” so softly, though. Concern was etched into the lines of her creasing forehead, and she bit her thin, pale lip. She didn’t take her hand from Edelgard’s shoulder, but rather squeezed tighter.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Edelgard replied coldly, “I just want some time to myself, to reorient. And make myself presentable. Fix my hair.”
Carmilla didn’t laugh. Instead, she just looked more concerned, and Edelgard cursed herself. She’d miscalculated in her attempt to put Carmilla at ease.
“You’re stressed,” Carmilla declared, “and worried, aren’t you? Listen, El, I know I promised to help you with this little affair, but if you’re already having regrets, I can just as easily—”
“Enough, Carmilla!” Edelgard all but yelled, turning around to level her harshest glare at the girl. Carmilla looked shocked and disapproving at Edelgard’s outburst, and that was her weakness. She wasn’t like her brother, Carmilla flinched. Hubert was taller than her, and harsher than her, and meaner than Carmilla, and emotionless and blooded and tested, and he didn’t even blink at Edelgard’s worst mood. It was why he could be trusted. It was why Carmilla couldn’t.
This little girl didn’t scare Edelgard. But the idea that Carmilla of all people might know about the Flame Emperor…
Marquis Vestra could keep her on a leash, and Arundel had the Marquis’ leash. Edelgard could contain this. She could.
Where is Hubert?
“Just go,” Edelgard said, this time more contained.
“I’ll fetch you for breakfast in an hour,” Carmilla said at length, and Edelgard nodded. She’d give her this concession. If Carmilla fancied herself Edelgard’s vassal for the time being… Well, Edelgard didn’t like it, nor any potential way this could have come to be, but she could deal with it. It would be better to keep Carmilla close.
With one last miserable look back, Carmilla left Edelgard’s room, closing the door firmly and quietly behind her. That was when Edelgard’s knees went out and her breath rattled in her chest.
Hand clenched firmly on her vanity, she slowly lowered herself to the ground. Edelgard was breathing too fast and her hands were shaking like leaves in the wind. But she pulled herself together long enough to gather her courage. She forced her eyes open long enough to look at the sight she’d been avoiding since she noticed the color of her hair.
Edelgard slowly pulled up the sleeves of her nightgown. She gazed, long and hard, at her wrists and forearms. Then Edelgard finally let herself start to cry. Because her skin was smooth and clear and, and, and… Not scarless. But there was no bundles of overlapping scar tissue hiding her veins. She could see her veins.
She cried harder.
Edelgard pulled her arms up to her chest, where her heart was beating and banging against her ribcage, and the blood it was pumping… Her blood was no longer tainted, was it?
Her hair was brown, her arms were clear, and her blood was her own.
For the first time in years, the parts that made up Edelgard were just… El. Just El.
Edelgard cried, as quietly as she could, trying to stop and pull herself together. But the tears just kept coming and she wasn’t sure why. They just continued to fall, as Edelgard hugged herself and wondered if she’d finally woken up from a long nightmare.
_______________________________________
Claude’s day had started weird, and it was only getting weirder.
As he pulled the prince away from the princess’s room, a smile plastered on his face for the small crowd that had gathered, a hundred scenarios were running through his head. He was trying to add up all the wrongs that had plagued his morning. There was his own bedroom and everything in there, there was the scream, the unknown girl that Edelgard was dealing with, and then there was— as Dimitri so eloquently put it— her hair. But before Claude could address that, he had to figure out who could be trusted.
“But Claude,” Dimitri implored, bumbling his way right into exoneration, “Edelgard’s hair, it’s not— Just yesterday! It was white wasn’t it?”
“Your Highness!” a thoroughly scandalized voice piped up. It was Ferdinand von Aegir, standing in a robe with his cheeks puffed out.
“Edelgard has always had perfectly lovely brown hair. Now, while it is true that some of her royal siblings are in possession of hair like spun white gold, Edelgard’s visage is largely inherited from Her Majesty, Lady Patricia, who has hair even darker than her daughter. I should expect you of all people to know this, Your Highness! It does not do for a nobleman to be so unobservant, especially in regards to—”
“Yes, thank you, Ferdinand!” Claude chimed in, straining to still sound friendly and inviting. There was always something about Ferdinand that reminded Claude strongly of Lorenz, which ignited his flight or fight response. This nobleman simply didn’t do it for Claude, especially when he was being delusional.
Or were Claude and Dimitri the delusional ones?
It certainly seemed that way.
Though they had stuck their heads in the hallway, Marianne and Hilda had already retreated back to their rooms, and Sylvain was nowhere to be found. Caspar von Bergliez, though, was still standing next to Ferdinand and looking at Dimitri with utter bewilderment.
“White hair? Can people’s hair change color that quickly?” he asked.
“Not without damaging it,” Lorenz scoffed from down the hall, leaning in his own doorway, “The substances involved would have to be potent to make it white.”
“Or magic,” Felix said, similarly half in and half out, “Annette says there are some spells that do that.”
Lorenz hummed, and Claude watched him smile slightly in amusement.
“Yes, she’s correct,” he said, and there was something… off about Lorenz’s whole demeanor. “But, and forgive me again if I am mistaken, I do not believe that Lady Carmilla would use such techniques to change Her Highness’s hair white and back so quickly and cavalierly. Even if it was to… ahem, confuse His Highness.”
“She would not!” Ferdinand declared helpfully.
“Your Highness,” Ingrid finally interjected, looking bereaved. “Are you well? You’re not sick are you?”
“You better not be!” Felix called.
“No,” Dimitri implored, but he now looked dangerously unsure of himself. Claude tightened his grip on his arm.
“I think our dear prince might have been a bit deep in his cups last night, or something of the like.”
“What? No! Ingrid, no, I wasn’t—”
“I’m just going to take him back to bed! Don’t worry, I’ll settle him.”
Claude angled back towards Dimitri’s room, and tried to pull the miserable prince along. The Black Eagle boys took this as a queue to leave, and Lorenz returned to his room after shooting Claude another odd look. Ingrid lingered, though, and Felix pushed out of his doorway to come and stand in Claude and Dimitri’s way.
He reached up to grasp at Dimitri’s chin, and tugged his head down.
“Felix—” Dimitri choked in shock as the man Claude knew to be little more than a disgruntled and distant swordsman studied Dimitri’s pallor and eyes. Felix squeezed Dimitri’s chin, and, though a scowl twisted his mouth, there was blatant concern around his eyes.
“You don’t look ill,” Felix declared, “but watch yourself, Dima.”
In Claude’s grasp, Dimitri gasped. He straightened and tensed, like an arrow bolt had hit his spin. Dimitri’s mouth gaped as his breathing stuttered, and his muscles wound up, tight as a wire. The prince’s fists curled up like he was about to hit something. Oh gods, Claude hoped not.
As Dimitri waffled dramatically, though, Felix simply turned away, paying neither of them any mind. He went back to his room, and from the sound of a door closing down the hall, Claude would guess that Ingrid had returned to her morning routine, as well.
Claude took advantage of Dimitri’s state of complete shock, and walked them both back to the prince’s room. He unceremoniously shoved Dimitri through the doorway, and closed the door behind them. Claude leaned against the door and let his shoulders sag, just a little.
He closed his eyes and opened them again just a quickly. Claude swept his gaze around the flustered prince’s room. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary, nothing too odd. But Claude didn’t exactly have a reference for what Dimitri’s room looked like yesterday, so that meant nothing.
Unfortunately, that meant that the only thing left to do was jump right in.
“So, we’re both in agreement that Edelgard’s hair was white yesterday, right?”
Dimitri’s attention whipped around to Claude, from where he’d been studying his own desk.
“Yes,” he implored, “Yes, oh, Goddess, her hair was white! I’m not— I’ve not—”
“Gone insane? No. Or, well, maybe, but then we both went insane at the exact same time. And Edelgard, too, I think.”
Claude had been given no more than ten seconds of observation of her this morning, but the way Edelgard kept her hand up near her hair, the drawn look on her face, how tense she was next to that stranger, the scream… It meant something. Not to mention, Edelgard was one of the three other people who were there during the last thing Claude remembered. Which aligned perfectly with Dimitri, another culprit, also losing his mind over the color of a girl’s hair.
“I think we need to find Teach,” Claude said. The air of relief around Dimitri was palpable, and he opened his mouth. But Claude held up his hand.
“But before that, we need to get our facts aligned. Something is… something is wrong. And everybody in that hallway seemed to be in on the joke, except you, me, and maybe Edelgard. But have you noticed anything else? Some of this could be explained away as a prank…”
A series of very elaborate pranks, that ranged from the nonsensical to the dangerous.
Claude carefully closed his eyes again, in order to get a grasp on his bubbling panic and mounting fury. Neither would do him any good, not yet. But if this all was a deliberate act on someone’s part, if Claude’s identity had been compromised… Someone must know. Why else would someone go to the trouble of decorating Claude’s dorm room like it belonged to an Almyran prince?
The only logical reason someone would do that was if they were trying to expose and ruin him all in one fell swoop.
The hitch in that theory, that potential conspiracy, was Dimitri and Edelgard. What would dying Edelgard’s hair brown reveal? Had anything gone wrong for Dimitri this morning? Who would be aiming for all three of them?
Where was Teach, and were they experiencing anything like this?
Which brought Claude right back to the accident in the courtyard yesterday. Potentially that collision— that mess— could have been someone else’s fault, but such a mishap was too… chaotic to be really helpful to any schemer. There were easier ways to knock someone unconscious if you wanted to remove them for a few hours. Not to mention, a grand, outside conspiracy didn't really account for the effects of the magic Claude could still feel buzzing in the pit of his stomach.
What spell had Teach cast? What was that orb Edelgard dropped, and what kind of magic was the noxious cloud it released?
Could that have… caused all this?
Claude opened his eyes again to see Dimitri staring at him intently. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were sharp, and he might have been thinking as intently as Claude. Dimitri let out a long sigh.
“I… This morning, I have noticed something wrong. Or just different, I suppose, but I’m not sure how this could have transpired. My body is different.”
Claude pressed his lips tightly together.
“Uh, what precisely do you mean by that?” he asked, trying desperately not to look down at His Royal Highness, Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Heir Apparent of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus’s crotch.
Dimitri hesitated just long enough that Claude did flick his eyes down, but then the prince spoke.
“The scars on my body are gone. Many of them, at least. The most prominent ones.”
For a moment, Dimitri’s face scrunched, eyes squeezed shut and nose flared and teeth bared. His fingers grasped at the fabric of his nightshirt in front on his chest, and Claude could hear it ripping. It occured to Claude that he had never seen Dimitri without his gauntlets on, but now the prince’s hands were on full display. And that there wasn’t anything obviously wrong with them.
“All my scars from the Tragedy of Duscur and— and the aftermath have disappeared from my body. As has the pain that accompanied them, as if the injuries were never there at all.”
Claude bit his tongue, and considered what to say.
“Dimitri,” he mumbled, “I’m so…” but ‘sorry’ didn’t seem right. “Are you okay?”
Dimitri didn’t answer, anguish written all over his face. He lowered his hand from his torn shirt, but his fingers wouldn’t uncurl from a fist.
“That’s not all,” he whispered. With heavy but careful steps, Dimitri lumbered over to his desk, which was strewn with papers and quills, wax and a candle and a bottle of expensive blue ink. Dimitri ignored most of it, instead grabbing an envelope. He held up the paper, and Claude saw that the letter had been opened and the wax seal was broken. But the crest and the griffin were still recognizable.
“This is my house’s seal,” Dimitri said, sounding distant and miserable, “The royal seal of House Blaiddyd. No one can use it except... Except for the royal family. It could be my uncle, of course, but I don’t— Claude, my uncle never writes; never. And I don’t remember opening any letters from him. Why is the seal broken?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, Dimitri, but…” Claude paused, and took a long, deep breath. What did that broken seal mean, indeed. What did the tapestry on Claude’s dorm room wall mean, the one depicting the sigil of his father’s house, the Almyran royal dynasty’s symbol, the brand Claude had worn his whole life until he buried it under the sand and crossed the border… What did that mean?
“Are you going to read it and find out?” Claude asked, because that would really be the only way to start finding answers.
But Dimitri just grimaced and held the letter tighter.
“Claude…” he said, “if my scars from the Tragedy of Duscur are gone— Could, could the other injuries from that day, also, have been undone?”
Claude’s breath caught in his throat.
No… He can’t be suggesting—
“Dimitri—”
“Felix was so nice to me!” Dimitri exclaimed, a wild, nervous look in his eyes, “and he hasn’t called me- not since Glenn died, Felix hasn’t—”
Dimitri collapsed in the chair next to his desk. He doubled over and shoved his head between his knees. The letter was still grasped in his hand, wrinkled and mandhandle, and Dimitri was banging that fist against his head.
This is getting hard to watch, Claude thought. He briefly considered running to find a Blue Lion, before immediately remembering that none of them could be trusted yet; they might not even know what Dimitri was talking about anymore than they knew Edelgard had white hair. But Claude didn’t know what else to do. He hardly knew Dimitri! They weren’t friends, not allies, they were barely even classmates most days. Claude wasn’t equipped to handle the prince’s grief. He didn’t have anything more than a foreigner’s perspective on the Tragedy of Duscur, and could only guess at who Glenn was.
Claude’s heart rate was speeding up, and he could basically feel this situation slipping out of his grasp.
“Do you want me to read it for you?” Claude whispered, just barely inching forward. It was the only comfort he could offer.
Dimitri just shook his head wildly in response, and gasped out, “What if it’s signed by my father?”
Dimitri lurched in the chair, and looked at Claude like a man begging for a divine revelation. And Claude just felt like he was drowning. He’d never felt this out of his depth, had not wanted to go running home like this in years. He silently begged, Mother, what do I do?
But Claude was beginning to fear that his mother might be a little farther away than Almyra. Because if a dead king was alive, and Edelgard was a brunette, and all of Claude’s school papers were signed, ‘Khalid Claude ibn Hisham al-Aziz’...
“What sort of twisted joke is this?” Dimitri asked.
And Claude had no answer for him.
When the silence stretched on too long, Dimitri bolted from his seat. He began to pace. Claude remained huddled next to the door as Dimitri walked a hole in the carpet. He found himself shaking, so Claude pulled his arms around his stomach and tried to seem small. Funny how, just three months ago, he arrived at the seat of a religion he didn’t believe in, with no familiar faces or familiar comforts in sight, wearing a name that made him feel like a child playing pretend… And Claude had thought that was as alone as he could ever feel.
“And if it’s real!” Dimitri suddenly yelped, startling Claude and ripping his gaze up from the patch of rug he’d been trying to burn with his stare.
“What then? What does that mean? How could this be possible?” Dimitri hissed. The detached part of Claude— the part that never stopped spinning like a miller’s wheel and warning him of every danger— was grateful that Dimitri was at least keeping his voice somewhat down. They didn’t need any neighbors to hear this conversation.
Claude and Dimitri stared at each other for a few moments. Eventually, though, the wet look in Dimitri’s eyes and the oppressive silence broke Claude.
“I don’t know. I don’t know, Dimitri. We have to figure it out, or we— Or we’ll never know how to fix it.”
Dimitri drew in a harsh gasp. He closed his eyes, as if steeling himself. And then— quick as a whip— Dimitri ripped the letter open. He tossed aside a whole handful of papers in order to get to the last, to the page where the signature would be written.
Then the last page fell gently from his grasp.
Dimitri collapse, his knees buckling and shoulders sagging. Claude lunged forward to grab him, trying to make sure Dimitri hit the bed rather than the floor. Pulling and shifting, Claude was able to settle the two of them, his arm around Dimitri’s shoulders. Dimitri’s hands were cradling his head, and he was rocking himself back and forth. The were both still shaking, and breathing harshly.
But under the gasps for air and his own heartbeat, Claude could hear mumbling. It took him a few seconds to parse out what Dimitri was saying.
“But how? I can still hear them. I hear you, I’m listening. How is this possible?”
A miserable laugh was startled from Claude chest. That didn’t sound good. Gods, what a secret. At any other point in time, the nonsense Dimitri was spewing might actually be interesting. But as it was, Claude just wanted to cry.
Just loud enough to be heard, Claude whispered, “We need to find Teach.”
_______________________________________
After Claude left him alone— after he had stopped crying, and Claude promised they would meet later when he had more information— Dimitri was ashamed of himself. It was wrong of him to place his emotional burdens on Claude, wrong of him to breakdown so spectacularly. If only Felix could see him…
But Felix was not quite Felix right now. He’d been curt and concerned and physical with Dimitri. He could still feel his chin burning from Felix’s hand; he hadn’t touched Dimitri in well-over a year. No one touched him much these days, except for Dedue— mostly when duty called for such things— and Sylvain— which meant little, as he was intensely physical with everyone. That Felix of all people held Dimitri…
What would this… this version, perhaps, of Felix say to him about his red eyes and wet cheeks? About how he couldn’t stop shaking, how his hands clenched with barely restrained violence, how everything inside him was mounting to the point where Dimitri wanted to—
Dimitri stood. In a frantic rush, he dressed, draping his cape sloppily and pinching his fingers in the claps of his gauntlets because of his haste. But Dimitri was still thrumming, and being delicate right now seemed impossible. Despite that, despite his sensibilities and better judgement and desire to disregard, he paid special mind to not step on the discarded papers of his father’s— of the letter. As he stumbled towards the door, Dimitri couldn't help but bending down to snatch up the last page.
He pocketed his father’s signature, the one that said, With all my love, Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd.
Had his father always been so informal? Dimitri could no longer remember.
He quickened his steps as the urge to release built.
The sun had risen, but just barely, when Dimitri arrived at the training grounds. There were a smattering of people about, but none of the usual faces. No Felix, Caspar, or Leonie, nor Catherine and Shamir. Just Dimitri and a host of people he didn’t recognize.
Maybe that’s for the best, Dimitri thought as he chose a practice lance and found a space to start his drills.
Claude had said, “If our classmates think that Edelgard’s hair is brown and that girl is a student here, who knows what else they think.” Dimitri interpreted that as ‘if you’re being written to by a man who claims to be your father, these people might believe that he is your father’. And that was not a conversation Dimitri was prepared to have. Not while the word ‘imposter’ was slithering in his ear and the accompanying anger was simmering in his blood.
No, Dimitri needed to go through his forms and strikes and exercises until he burned with physical strain, rather than anything else. His head needed to clear, before breakfast and people and Claude and Edelgard. Before he had to look at the signature in his pocket again, and feel the anger and… hope battling.
He gave a particularly nasty strike to the straw dummy.
There was no hope. There hadn’t been in years.
Dimitri whittled away at himself and the time until the first bells for food sounded. By then, he was thoroughly exhausted. It was only as he wiped at his brow and put away the practice spear that Dimitri realized that he hadn’t seen Dedue all morning.
His body froze where it stood.
Where was Dedue?
He always came to Dimitri before breakfast, whether they met at the training grounds or the dorms. Such a commotion as the one this morning would have surely gotten back to Dedue by now, he would have gone searching in the aftermath. Now that Dimitri’s head was clearer— not so many voices were clamoring for his attention— it seemed inconceivable that Dedue hadn’t knocked upon his door shortly after the fiasco with Edelgard.
Edelgard, who had brown hair and was attended to by an unknown woman. One who was decidedly not her vassal, Hubert.
Where was Dimitri’s vassal?
Where were the scars on his body from the lashing in Duscur?
A shudder ran up Dimitri’s spine, and he swiftly turned around to hurry towards the dorms.
In all his concern about his father’s signature and words and being alive, it hadn’t crossed Dimitri’s mind. But if there were no scars… If there had been no regicide… There might be a blacksmith’s village in Duscur right now where a happy family still lived. Duscur might still live, Dimitri realized as his feet pounded against the stones.
He took a sharp turn towards the commoner dorms.
If Dimitri’s father still lived, he might have traded him for—
“Ashe!” Dimitri shouted as he caught sight of the boy exiting his dorm room. Only as he slid to a stop in front of Ashe— who looked very startled— did Dimitri realize he had been running. But he could not stop now.
Dimitri pointed to the room besides Ashe’s, Dedue’s room.
“Who’s room is that?” he asked.
Ashe glances back and floundered for a moment. But he recovered quickly.
“Oh, uh, well, that’s Cyril’s room! Why do you need to know, Your Highness? If it’s not rude to ask! I don’t mean to pry!”
“It’s not rude,” Dimitri muttered absently, staring at Cyril’s room. Who was Cyril?
Dedue wasn’t here. Dedue wasn’t at Garreg Mach, and Dimitri didn’t have scars, and Father was alive. That must all mean… Dedue must be happy. He must be back in Duscur, everything Dedue had ever wanted was back in Duscur and it was probably all still there in this fever dream Dimitri had woken to.
Everything was well.
So why did Dimitri suddenly feel so empty?
What was Dimitri supposed to do without Dedue? Without Dedue, there were no late night chats in the library, or stupidly intricate, wasteful breakfasts, or training sessions without judgement. Dimitri stood alone in his grief without Dedue, and he stood alone against the voices of the dead.
Dimitri felt a sudden rush of anger at the stranger occupying his friend’s space, at whoever his vassal was in Dedue’s place. He hated the coldness at his shoulder and the quiet air where Dedue usually stood. For a brief moment, Dimitri was angry at Dedue, who had abandoned him now of all times, in his moment of need.
But the anger flickered out just as fast, and all that was left was grief and fear and loneliness.
I need Dedue, Dimitri thought, then rapidly shook his head.
How selfish a thought!
Dedue was home. Safe. Loved. He must be in Duscur with his family, as Dimitri somehow had his family…
But Father hissed, Avenge me, and the fantasy crumbled just a quickly as it had started to take root.
None of this was real.
It’s not real, Dimitri tried to remind himself. But he wasn’t sure what he was talking about, which sense he was scolding: his sight or his hearing.
“Your Highness?” Ashe asked, thankfully shaking Dimitri from his thoughts. Ashe looked so concerned, and Dimitri felt another stab of shame that he was worrying everyone this morning. But everyone and this situation was worrying him, so Dimitri couldn’t be as contrite as he would be normally.
“Ashe, may I ask you another question?”
“Of course, Your Highness!”
Dimitri took a breath, and asked, “Do you know where the other members of our house are this morning? Not Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix, I spoke to them earlier, but— but the girls and—”
And who? Cyril? Dimitri might be willing to take that chance, but that girl who stood in Hubert’s place… Maybe Claude’s vassal had been replaced as well. Dimitri could not guess.
Luckily, Ashe gave a slight smile, as if Dimitri hadn’t said anything too odd; just a little odd.
“And me?” Ashe chirped, “Well, I’m about to head to breakfast. I imagine the girls will all be there already, unless Mercedes got distracted. Or Annette got distracted. But Namine should be there! Would you like me to fetch the girls? Are we having a meeting?”
“Maybe,” Dimitri said distractedly, already walking away, “I must speak with Claude and Edelgard first. Thank you, Ashe.”
Namine. Dimitri had never heard that name before.
But today, for some reason, she was in his house; she was one of his people.
She had replaced Dedue, and for that Dimitri wanted to hate her. But she wasn’t real, he reminded himself. There was no need for hated, for anger or resentment. Whoever— whatever— this Namine was, she was a Blue Lion today.
Dimitri needed to identify the girl, so as not to offend her later should they run into each other, or to tip the others off that Dimitri’s view of the world was different from theirs. Then he needed to find Edelgard and Claude. And then they needed to find the professor. And then…
One problem at a time. Dimitri had to approach this day one step at a time, or his heart might just beat out of his chest. First was Namine.
The dining hall was teeming, as was typical for this time of the morning, before class and chores. Dimitri’s eyes swept through the hall, catching sight of familiar faces and cataloging names. He could not guess who else might be missing or how.
There was the princess of Brigid and one of the other Black Eagle girls. Claude’s vassal was still present. Lady Hilda Valentine Goneril was easy to spot because of her bright hair, but there was an unfamiliar boy seated next to her, in the Officer’s Academy uniform. Cyril, perhaps? The people surrounding them were all familiar, though, all Golden Deer. Ingrid and Sylvain were bickering in line for food, and at a table in the corner sat Annette, Mercedes… and a girl who must be Namine.
She was from Duscur. That was the first thing Dimitri noticed, her dark skin and grey hair.
For a moment, a rush of fear shivered down Dimitri’s spine, the fear that something horrible had still happened. That this time, it was just a different Duscurian alone in the world and forced to go to Faerghus. But no! It didn’t take but a few more moments of evaluation for that scenario to start to not make sense.
Namine wore golden earrings, not dissimilar to Dedue’s. But her earrings were larger, and decorated with shining green gems. Her hair was tied back with a gold clasp, also encrusted with jewels and ostentatious and expensive. Bracelets adorned her wrists, a grand pendant rested on her chest, and there was a finely spun, thin scarf dangling from her shoulders.
This girl was noble. There was no other way she could be dressed so lavishly, whether she be Duscurian, Faerghusi, or Dagdese. Nobility and wealth were the same all over, in Dimitri’s experience, as were the symptoms of poverty and misfortune.
Victims of massacre couldn’t dress that way.
Dimitri didn’t remember much about the actual political ins and outs of his father’s negotiations with Duscur prior to the Tragedy. But as he stared at Namine, all he could think was, There is peace. Father did it.
Was Namine their princess? The daughter of some other noble, or a specifically chosen champion, an ambassador? What was her goal at Garreg Mach, why had her people sent her here? Were she and Dimitri friends?
He didn’t know, he didn’t know. But he wanted to.
Maybe Namine knew Dedue.
Slaughtered!
The shout came from Glenn, and it was so defeating it made Dimitri flinch.
Of course, Dimitri thought as he watched Namine laugh at something Annette said. This girl was dead. Or probably dead. Deposed and destitute and maybe dead.
Dimitri turned away and stalked back into the hallway, heart banging against his chest. He rubbed at his eyes, and tried to draw breath into his shuddering lungs. The paper in his pocket was suddenly burning.
What a strange illusion this all was. How intricate and sweet and compelling. Were it not for the guilt clawing at his heart, the reminder in his ears… Dimitri might just sink into it.
But no. Dedue wasn’t here. And that was wrong. Wrong and insidious and concerning. It was a stab through Dimitri’s chest, because to think! He’d almost let himself trade Dedue from some gentle promises and pretty lies.
The shame of it made a strangled cry get stuck in his throat.
His father was dead and the girl named Namine wasn’t real. She wasn’t dead nor here, because she had never existed. She was just some kind of illusion, a dream, a trap, or maybe just a symptom of Dimitri’s finally ruined mind.
Lady Patricia was whispering in his ear, soft, soothing words that said, They don’t matter, darling, none of them are there. We matter, we’re waiting for you, dear. Release us, save us, avenge us. Dimitri. Dimitri, “Dimitri,” his stepmother said.
He was shaking.
“Dimitri!”
“I’m trying,” he whispered to the woman who was his mother in all ways that mattered. “But they won’t go away, the vision won’t go away.”
“Your Highness!” a shrill voice shrieked, and Dimitri jerked at the new voice. It was coming from outside.
He looked up, and for a moment, Lady Patricia stood before him. But the swirling colors drained from the world, and in the place of his stepmother stood Edelgard. Her hair was still brown. Had she always looked so much like her mother?
Oh no, Dimitri thought.
Beside her, the tall girl from this morning loomed. She glared at him from thin, narrow eyes, and then she hissed, “Where are your manners this morning, Your Highness? Are you ill?”
The stranger stepped closer, and Dimitri lurched back. But she wouldn’t allow it, and the girl grabbed him by the cape to jerk Dimitri forward. She then placed her other hand on his forehead. Dimitri shot a fearful look at Edelgard, who seemed just as shocked and confused. Neither of them could do more than stand helplessly.
Then a shiver ran down Dimitri’s spine.
But the sensation was not cold. Rather it was warm and soft, and originated from his forehead. A calm descended upon Dimitri, as his limbs stopped shaking and his heart rate slowed. The sensation reminded him strongly of… Mercedes.
“Oh,” Dimitri muttered, flicking his eyes up to look at the girl’s hand, which was glowing with a faint, white light. “I was unaware Faith magic could have such effects.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“Which is why you don’t study Faith, obviously. Magic can stitch open gaping wounds and stop you from feeling that your arm is missing. I can calm your muscles and nerves with no hassle at all. You’re thinking of infections, infections, Your Highness. Bacteria can’t be healed by Faith magic, because it’s an outside factor, separate from the body. Ask Martritz about the phenomenon, if you’re curious. Or if you need some help not making yourself so sick. If you feel that way again, you’re going to ask one of us, understood?”
Dimitri watched the stranger pull her hand away, and— though her scowl was disgruntled— her eyes were gentle. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for an answer.
“Understood,” he said softly, moved. “Thank you. For your concern and help, I… Thank you.”
“Of course,” she snorted, turning so as not to look Dimitri in the eyes. “Really, how could I let you suffer? You’re practically a member of House Hresvelg.”
A sharp exhalation from behind the girl’s shoulder drew their attention back to Edelgard. Dimitri watched as instant understanding and regret came upon the girl’s face at the sight Edelgard’s confused and affronted expression. But she merely shifted her weight and turned to face them both with a hand on her hip.
“Lady Edelgard,” she said in a low, exhausted voice, “we have to keep some veneer, don’t we? Even Prince Dimitri deserves that much respect. No offense, Your Highness.”
“Oh, um, none taken.”
Edelgard gave a cough, and a nod.
“Of course, Carmilla,” she said, voice smooth, though her head was tilted up and her eyes were looking away, “I’m simply still… not at my best this morning. Regardless, forgive me, Dimitri.”
“No need for forgiveness!” Dimitri said, silently thanking Edelgard for giving him the girl’s name. “I’m not entirely well this morning either, as you have seen.”
“Honestly, do I have to drag you both to the infirmary?” Carmilla groaned. She reached out to rest a hand on Edelgard’s shoulder, which Edelgard suffered with a soft pinch between her brows. After a moment, though, Dimitri was forced to watch how Edelgard stepped callously away from them both, and Carmilla’s face fell, hurt blossoming across her features. Edelgard stalked towards the dining hall without a glance back.
“I’m fine. I simply haven’t had breakfast yet. Are you two coming?”
Dimitri and Carmilla followed her, dodging students, and weaving between chairs and tables. Everyone around them was chatting in what coalesced into a dull roar, and Dimitri could feel eyes on him. Odd, how Garreg Mach’s dining hall almost felt like enemy territory.
“Have you seen Claude since this morning?” Edelgard asked as they settled in line for food. Dimitri shook his head.
“Not for a few hours, but he said he would be at breakfast.”
Carmilla scoffed, and nudged Edelgard’s shoulder to direct her attention.
“Speak of demons,” she hissed towards them, the words carrying so much vitriol that Dimitri turned to look at Carmilla in surprise. She was glaring at the doorway that led to the pond courtyard, wherein Claude stood chatting to Leonie Pinelli.
He caught sight of their stares, and waved.
“Ugh,” Carmilla muttered. She turned away, while Edelgard merely hummed and beckoned Claude over.
He jogged up towards their spot in line, Leonie following after them.
“Good timing!” Claude said, “I was just about to tell Leonie about how we all need to talk to Teach.”
Edelgard nodded and crossed her arms, then turned to Leonie and said, “Quite. So? Do you know where the professor is?”
Dimitri watched Leonie’s face pinch with what could only be described as utter confusion.
“Uh, which professor?” she said, causing Dimitri to suck in a breath and look towards Edelgard and Claude. Both of their expressions were closed off, blank and then quickly schooled into something affable. Neither of them spoke, despite Dimitri’s looks and silent begging.
Instead, it was left to Dimitri to say, “The professor, surely you understand.”
There was only one who deserved such a title after all, whose presence was so grand that they hardly needed a name. But from Leonie’s grimace, she didn’t understand. She didn’t know who Dimitri was talking about.
“Sorry, it’s still no ringing any bells. Is this some kind of joke? What does it have to do with Captain Jeralt?”
Claude gave a soft, breathy laugh, and he opened his mouth to speak. But before he could, Edelgard interjected.
“He means Byleth.”
“Oh!” Leonie exclaimed, “If you meant the captain’s kid, why didn’t you just say so? Wait, are they going to be a professor or something? I wouldn’t mind having them instead of Professor Hanneman.”
“Uh, no,” Claude said, smiling just a little too rigidly. “At least, not to my knowledge. I think Dimitri was just trying to be a bit too respectful. Probably a habit from the extra lessons Byleth gives on occasion.”
“I get it now. Do you think—”
“Leonie. Do you know where Byleth is?” Claude said forcefully, causing Leonie and Carmilla to look at him oddly. But no one questioned him on it.
Instead, Leonie cautiously said, “I think they’re on a mission with the other knights.”
“The Knights of Seiros,” Dimitri whispered dimly, but he was ignored.
“Where?” Claude all but hissed.
“I don’t know,” Leonie cried, looking bereaved, “Go ask Sitri! Or Jeralt! They’ll probably know where their kid is.”
“Who’s Si—” Dimitri started, but then stopped at the feeling of a grip on his arm. He glanced down, and Edelgard’s gloved hand was grasping his bicep so tightly that even through his armor, Dimitri could feel her fingernails. Despite her intense warning to Dimitri, though, Edelgard’s face was perfectly amiable and clear.
“Thank you, Leonie,” she said, “We’ll take the search from here, you’ve been most helpful.”
“If you’re sure,” Leonie muttered as she walked away, but Dimitri could barely hear her over the buzzing in his own ears.
No. No, things could not be this wrong.
Edelgard’s hair was brown, Father’s signature burned in his pocket, Dedue was gone, strangers walked the halls of Garreg Mach. And the professor was out of their reach.
Each lost in their own thoughts and worries, Dimitri shared a miserable look with Edelgard and Claude. He could not guess what conclusions they were drawing. As the world and people shifted into sinister shapes around him, all Dimitri could think was, Where are we, Professor?