Work Text:
He didn't remember much about that day. He felt as if perhaps he should - the images haunted his dreams more often than not, yet they were indistinct. Much like the smoke. The smoke, he did remeber. And that he couldn't breathe. And the heat, that it was hot, and the ash, and that he couldn't breathe, and the fire, it hurt, and the blood, the red, and the fear, and that he couldn't breathe.
And that father, mother, sister were there and then they weren't. And the neighbourhood baker who'd sneak him recipes, the kindly old woman with the garden, the older boy he stopped from hitting birds with slingshots - they were all there, and then they weren't. Not just in that moment, it's as if everything they ever were was gone, as if he remembered their faces and voices and then he didn't and they were gone. Gone into the smoke and the heat and the ash and the fire and the blood and the red.
There is one scene he remembers. They were soldiers. Blue on silver. He can remember their faces, too, if he tries. How cruel, that the faces of the killed fade away yet the killers' are never forgotten. Though he supposes it's hard to forget your last sight in this world.
The blades have been pointed at him, his world was torn asunder so what did it even matter and yet he hadn't wanted to die, he remembered crying, though he didn't beg or scream, and he remembered putting his hands up in feeble resistance. He could have closed his eyes, but he was compelled to look. It was his last sight in this world.
No. Not the last. There was a flash of steel, of the reaper, but then there was the warmth of a body and the soft fabric and soft hair. And then there was the sickening sound of steel slashing flesh and a scream and the tightening of arms.
There was a commotion. The steel disappeared from his vision, replaced by the smoke and fire and red. He barely registered it though. His mind was filled with the feeling of being held. But who was holding him? They were shaking. And the scream, did it come from him, or-
Suddenly, the embrace was lifted. He instinctively tried to hold on, but his hands recoiled from something wet and sticky on the back of the soft material. Then the view of the living hell around him was blocked by a face.
It was covered in soot, blood and tangled knots of hair that might have once been spun gold. He was in blue. The eyes he met reflected the horror all around them. They were watery and there was pain in the crinkles around them. Yet the grime on his cheeks parted for a smile.
"Are you okay?" A hoarse, yet boyish voice.
He doesn't think he answered. Not that it mattered, the boy collapsed soon afterwards and Dedue's vision was once again filled with red at the sight of his back. It was all a blur again afterwards.
But you never forget the face blocking what would be your last sight. If everything else burned, he'd forget all of it. But he'd never forget Dimitri.