Chapter Text
Dimitri had wanted a simple coronation. To quietly step into his role without the grandeur, the festivities, the celebration. He feebly argued it would not be practical, with the strained resources they already had. And did not everyone, even the former Alliance and Adrestian leaders, already refer to him as “Your Majesty”?
But his true words remained buried in the hollow of his stomach. Dimitri wanted a simple coronation because he felt he did not deserve it. As he thought about it further, he wondered: how does a beast parade himself in front of the masses, pretending to be the worthy descendant of a hundred holy kings? How could the people around him not gag at his horrid sight? Not smell the festering blood on his crooked hands? Hear the crunch of bones in every heavy footstep?
But it was Felix, with a sharp sword and even sharper words, who gruffly reminded him that the people desperately needed a morale boost during their time in the training ground.
“They’re not soldiers, Felix,” Dimitri protested, learning on his lance in the training grounds. His breath clouded the frigid air.
“No,” Felix sheathed his sword, “But they need something to believe in. To hope for. Denying them at least some form of revelry after years of war would be cruel.”
Dimitri sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement. He looked at Felix, watching a few inky strands fall out of his ponytail to frame his face in waves. The fog of his breath passed through his visage, and for a moment, Dimitri thought Rodrigue was speaking to him.
But Felix raised his hands to fix his hair, shaking away the illusion. He was here. He was real, steering Dimitri to the right course in what seemed like, at times, the empty ocean of their future. He was a far cry from the small child who clung to Dimitri’s and Sylvain’s cloak with tears in his eyes.
Felix snapped the last button on his cloak and said his goodbye, attaching a half hearted “boar” at the end. Dimitri did not mind the name. He could reconcile with that better than “Your Majesty.”
“Besides,” Felix called, turning the corner, “Not everything will be out of your control.”
With those words circling in his mind, Dimitri made up his mind and sought out Dedue with an idea.
He was initially met with resistance. “Dimitri, I do not believe an earring will ease your transition into kingship.”
Dimitri could not even relish at the sound of his name, “I know. There is a long, hard battle ahead of us, my friend. One that will last our entire lives,” he fixed his eye on Dedue, “But if I must have a coronation, then I want to show the people that I will build a Kingdom that accepts all. Even if I must do so symbolically for now. Please, Dedue. Let the earring serve as a reminder of the promise that I made to you, to the people of Fodlan.”
Faerghan men, particularly the nobles, did not pierce their ears; to serve honorably was to keep the body whole. Dimitri already heard the whispers behind his back. The black eyepatch was a sign of his mistakes at best, and the sanctity of his honor defiled at worst. But both he and Dedue well knew that “honor” was a flimsy excuse to visually establish a hierarchy between Faerghan men from those of Duscur.
“Honor” was a tool of power to be dismantled in the new world. To have the king’s ear pierced was merely the beginning of an exhumation; to unearth a history of hate and expose a painful system that Dimitri and Dedue were all too conscious of.
When Dedue finally relented, a mix of hope and love swelled in both of their hearts.
Mercedes cheerfully offered her needles for the piercing, as long as she could watch. She and Byleth stood on Dimitri’s right side, peering curiously in the candlelight. Dedue carefully heated a thin needle and pressed it into Dimitri’s left ear. The light burst of pain felt all too familiar; Dimitri concentrated on it before exhaling, releasing its hold upon him.
Mercedes approached, her hand glowing with a healing spell, but Dimitri quickly declined, wanting to remember this. She and Byleth exchanged a look and quietly left the room together.
Dedue fastened his own gold earring from their school days upon Dimitri’s lobe with nimble fingers. Once secure, Dedue and Dimitri stared at their reflections in the mirror. Dedue gingerly placed his scarred hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and squeezed. In Duscur, Dimitri suddenly recalled, earrings were exchanged between family members. This earring held a gravity that suspended them both at a loss for words. How far they had come from such pain and terror as a prince and his vassal, and how far they had yet to go as friends.
The following night during the coronation procession, many of the Faerghan nobles who weedled their way out of the war, but into attending the ceremony, had gawked at the new king, pointing fingers at his pierced ear. Their living voices mingled with those of the dead, and Dimitri’s head felt heavier with every step. But as he entered the cathedral, his path cut by the angular moonlight filtering through the stained glass windows, they sullenly bled into the background. They were voices - nothing more.
Dimitri kneeled upon a large blue cushion to await the Anointment. He was dressed in a plain white suit, but would be soon clothed in the attire of kings. He would become simply more than a man. Or a beast, his mind idly offered. Dimitri’s left ear still ached, freshly pierced and weighed down by the heavy earring.
Behind Dimitri, the former Blue Lions took their places in ornamental suits. Although typically delegated to traditional knights, Dimitri would not have any others stand by his side. Each held ceremonial daggers of the Faerghan orders in one hand and a long candle in the other. Their skirts and shoes gently scraped against the stone floor, and he watched their shadows surround his, flickering slightly in the candlelight.
He closed his eye, thinking briefly of their reunion for the Millennium. He never had intended to fulfill that promise, much less expected the others to do so. But here they all were, by his side. Although he did not know where their paths would now take them, Dimitri felt deliriously sated that no one had been unjustly taken away from him. He had the goddess to thank for fulfilling his wishes that night long ago.
As a shadow began to materialize in the veiled apse, growing stronger in his vision, Dimitri wanted to shout praises, to worship through his rotten lips.
Shamir lifted a translucent curtain, and Byleth approached in her blue and gold regalia, her hair laced with pink ribbons and white flowers. Her path was lit by hundreds of candles, illuminating the dark space. Her robes trailed in a large lunette behind her.
Dimitri marveled at her with absolute adoration. While the inner circle knew about the king and the archbishop's engagement, the public had yet to know. Later during the feast, some would praise the new king’s reverence for the archbishop, while others would mutter under their breaths that he stared a little too unabashedly.
Dimitri watched Byleth’s lips curl into a small smile before intoning a few lines for the Anointment. Her hair seemed to glow from the moonlight pouring in from the windows behind her, constrasting with the warm flames casting dancing shadows on her skin. He listened to the inflections of her voice, strong enough to deploy commands on a battlefield, but gentle enough to coax him into a peaceful sleep.
After the brief prayer, Gustave emerged from the apse carrying a set of pauldrons on a cushion. It was Lambert’s ceremonial armor, or what was left of it. Dimitri swallowed, briefly longing to see his father, physically beside him, rather than a ghost who flitted in his waking moments. What would he have said if he were here? The choir began to chant in low prayer as Dimitri lifted his arms and Gustave gently strapped the pauldrons onto his shoulders with a quick efficiency.
The white pauldrons were slightly large upon Dimitri’s shoulders, which Gustave had noticed during the ceremony rehearsal. Dimitri kept his gaze downcast, discomforted by the gaping space he would have to fulfill. But in his usual stoic demeanor, Gustave had quietly noted, “I have awaited this day since the first day of my tutelage. These pauldrons may not properly fit, but they were never meant to.” Gustave finished buckling a strap, “Your father’s legacy will not haunt you. Nor will the other holy kings of Faerghus. You will create your own path as king.”
Gustave disappeared, signaling Alois to emerge with a rich, blue cloak lined with dark fur. Delicate embroidery in gold thread covered the canvas of the cloth. Alois circled around to Dimitri, draped the heavy cloth upon his shoulders. The warmth immediately sank into his bones, buoying him in the blue canvas of cushion beneath his knees. The cloak trailed behind Dimitri in a half moon. Facing Byleth, they looked like two celestial bodies glowing in the night sky, in constant orbit of each other.
Alois shot him a quick wink and Dimitri stifled a grin, thinking of their procession together to the cathedral. Walking behind him, Alois had whispered rather loudly, gesturing at Dimitri’s thick hair, “Look at your wonderful braid! Your Majesty will not have to worry about a receding heir line…” Gustave had given an exasperated sigh, while Alois forcefully subsided his chortles, but Dimitri could not help but release a few huffs of laughter, lowering his face to hide from the crowd.
Seteth arrived with the final object, approaching in quick, dignified steps. With his long hands, he unraveled a scarf decorated with thin interlocking chains, signaling the unity of the new kingdom. He wrapped it twice around Dimitri’s neck, circumambulating carefully. Thin tendrils of chains dangled upon Dimitri’s chest, oscillating with every rise of his chest.
Seteth did not have much to say to Dimitri before the ceremony, other than a gruff reminder that if anything were to happen to Byleth, Dimitri would have much to account for. Seteth had left without giving a chance to Dimitri to respond, but his answer was always clear: he would endure thousands of more ghosts if it meant keeping her safe.
Seteth took his position behind Byleth, gesturing for the choir to transition into the next verse. Dimitri raised his hands, his palms raised upwards. Each finger was adorned with a prayer ring, blessed by the archbishop herself, save for a ring on his left hand, which gleamed with purple stones.
Shamir deposited a vial of holy water into Byleth’s hands. She uncorked the bottle with a small pop and poured the cool liquid over his hands, which ran into a bowl below. Their hands mirrored each other, both littered with countless scars that ran deep in their intertwined history. Byleth dried his hands with a white cloth, and he could feel her faint warmth through the fabric, each wipe a lingering heat.
Once dry, Byleth placed a blue dagger upon his right palm, her own, Dimitri recognized, and a white lily in the other, their fingers brushing together. As they parted, his hands twitched upwards, as if it were reflexive, natural, to hold her hands.
Flayn then emerged at Byleth’s side, holding yet another cushion. Upon it rested the crown. It was a rather simple, but heavy band, decorated with a few shards of blue-green stones. The original crown of the divine kings had, unfortunately, been lost to war; Cornelia had taken more than just lives with her. The entire royal suite had been sold to unknown hands and hidden away in distant places. One day, Dimitri intended to find his family’s legacy. But in this new world, the importance of his reclamations dispersed when his family surrounded him now in the cathedral, in the flesh.
Byleth delicately held the crown like a halo above Dimitri’s head. She lowered it, and Dimitri felt the cold metal encircle his head. Byleth withdrew her hands, gently swiping across the falling strands of his hair. He shivered, watching her hands clasp together above her ribs.
“With the blessing of the beloved goddess, may Victory guide your lance, and Honor lead your heart.” Byleth paused. She then spoke with a carefully neutral face. “May your hands, ever full of strength, remain steady. May your eye, full of light, see clearly. Above all, may your heart grow even fuller with every heartbeat. May you pave the future you hope to seek.”
Next to Byleth, Seteth shifted slightly at the altered words. Dimitri resisted yet another smile, hearing his beloved’s improvisations. As the recently appointed archbishop, there was little time to restore a Kingdom ravaged by war and also memorize the endless pages of prayers, chants, and rites for daily devotions, much less for the coronation ceremony. During the late nights they spent together, Byleth had constantly muttered the rites under her breath as they drifted to and from sleep. At this point, Dimitri could recite the Coronation prayers as well.
“Rise, King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the Savior King of Faerghus.”
The small orchestra in a side chapel began to play as Dimitri raised himself. The pressure lifted from his knees, and the blood rushed down his legs. Dimitri and Byleth shared a smile with each other in the cathedral, believing for a moment that it was just the two of them. Dimitri wanted to reach for her hand, to walk together into the moonlight, but after a lingering look, he turned to face his friends and his people sequested in the aisles.
The crowds began to chant their new king’s name. Dimitri walked through the nave, following the rhythm of the music. Behind him, Dedue led the way, followed by Felix and Sylvain, Ingrid and Ashe, and Annette and Mercedes.
Dimitri wanted to look back, to return Byleth’s gaze from afar, but as he stepped outside, the moonlight greeted his face in a cool embrace and clung to the surface of the chains. King Dimitri stopped at the entrance of the cathedral, raising a hand to the clusters below, shouting his name and waving little arcs of candles in the dark. Overwhelmed, he tried to look at every face, searing the lines and forms into his memory. He could never let himself forget this sight.
He continued to walk along the path of flower petals, turned blue in the night, and waved at the swarming crowds, knowing Byleth too was with every step that he took.
The people would later say the Savior King was a vision to be remembered. Glowing and shimmering with every step, he appeared truly beloved by the goddess.