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On really bad days, her husband wakes up screaming another man’s name.
Dimitri is violent in his nightmares, thrashing and yelling; it’s nearly impossible to sleep in the same bed as him, and after a particularly bad night where he nearly broke her nose, she’s slept in the Queen’s chambers ever since. But they are connected to the King’s room, and so on nights when he wakes up yelling she inevitably wakes, too, rushing to his side. Perhaps she hopes that one day, it will be her he wants to see.
Their marriage bed is not big enough for three, but the ghost of Felix Fraldarius will not leave Dimitri alone.
She learned the hard way not to touch him until he’s more aware of where he is, when near the beginning she lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and he turned on her. It’s the only time she’s ever been afraid of him, and when he came back to himself and saw it was her he turned away from her in disgust at himself. She had run her fingers through his sweaty hair and told him she knew that he would never hurt her as long as he was in his right mind. So now when he wakes screaming she rushes into the room but she doesn’t touch him until she sees recognition spark in his eye, and then she will sit beside him on the bed and hold him as he cries into her breast, grieving for a man he will always love more than her.
It’s not that Dimitri doesn’t love her; he does. She’s just always been greedy, always dreamed of a marriage where their hearts belonged to each other instead of to a corpse buried in the ground.
She doesn’t ask what the nightmares are about, and Dimitri does not tell her. The only clues she has are his pale face, scared eye, and the name he screams over and over: Felix, Felix, Felix.
She searches out Dedue early in their marriage to ask about Felix Hugo Fraldarius. Dedue looks sad almost immediately; he brews them tea and then sits down with her and says, with the blunt simplicity she has grown to appreciate from him, “He died with Dimitri’s heart.”
She had expected that, but it still stings nonetheless. “How did he die?”
Dedue takes a sip of his tea and then stares at nothing. It’s a habit she’s noticed from all those who fought in the war, from Dimitri and Dedue, from Sylvain or Ingrid when they visit, from Ashe or Annette or Mercedes. She wonders what they’re seeing and hopes she never finds out.
“It was the last battle against the Empire,” Dedue says slowly. “He took a spear to the gut that was meant for His Majesty. It pierced him through. There was nothing anyone could do.”
She feels a little sick. She swallows down her bile and says, “Were they lovers?”
Dedue examines her closely, perhaps seeking her intentions. She’s not sure what he sees, but after a minute he nods. “Yes.”
She can’t decide if this makes things better or worse. Dedue watches her with kind eyes, and she finds herself asking, comforted by him, “Do you think he will ever love me?”
He takes his time to think about it, which she appreciates. She is thankful that he didn’t speak immediately and untruthfully. She wants the truth, not a comforting lie.
“Dimitri has a lot of love in his heart,” Dedue says slowly. “It is part of what makes him such a good king. I have no doubt that he loves you dearly, and that he will love your children and strive to be the best possible father. But you will never have his whole heart. He has given you what he can, but he has suffered such loss, burying a piece of his heart with each person who has left him. Felix took the biggest piece.”
She sits back and sips her tea, and then she says, “Tell me about him.”
And Dedue does.
On bad days, when she is burning with jealousy, when she is cursing a dead man and doubting each gentle touch from her husband, she wonders if Dimitri had chosen her to be a replacement. Of all the women clamouring to be queen, she wonders if he chose her because of her long dark hair or her eyes, her too thin frame and lack of curves, wonders if he squints enough so he can pretend she’s the man he loves instead of a shoddy copy. She wonders what he thinks about when they make love, wonders if he ever runs his fingers through her hair and imagines he is with someone else, if he comes with Felix Fraldarius’ name on his lips. On bad days she hates them both; Felix for leaving and taking Dimitri’s heart with him, and Dimitri for trying so hard to give it to her anyway. His eye and his smile are soft and filled with love but when she places a hand on his chest, she knows his heart does not beat for her.
She only brings it up once, during her first pregnancy, when her emotions are wild and unstoppable and she doesn’t stop to think about consequences until after the fact. Dimitri is brushing her hair, clumsy fingers pulling at the knots, and she watches him in the mirror, face screwed up in concentration, and she says, “Will you tell me about him?”
He stops immediately. He pulls the brush gently away from her hair, sets it down on the vanity, and says, softly but firmly, “I can’t.” Then he spins on his heel and leaves, and when she picks the brush up there is a crack down the handle from the strength of his grip.
Later he knocks on her door, and when she lets him in he gathers her up in his arms and presses kisses to her skin. “I love you,” he says, before putting a big hand on her stomach. “And I will love our child. With everything I have.”
It’s not enough. It’s not enough.
Dimitri is an excellent father, and any doubts that he might find it hard to love his children are wiped from her brain the minute their son is born, blue eyed and blond and beautiful, and Dimitri scoops him up in his big arms and holds him like the most precious thing in the world. Dimitri dotes on their children, skips meetings to be with them, runs around the castle with their son on his shoulders and their daughter dangling from one of his biceps, not even slowing him down a little. When he sees her he smiles, and her children cling to her skirts and tell her about the day they had with their father, and this is everything she’s ever dreamed about, and she should be happy. But out of the corner of her eye she sees a swordsman, short and surly looking with his arms crossed, a cruel smile on his face. Dimitri kisses her cheek and Felix Fraldarius sneers and says, he’ll always be mine.
She knows she isn’t being fair to him. Felix Fraldarius died a hero, died so she could be here standing next to her husband, died to give Dimitri a life and Fodlan a future. She should be thankful. Should pray each night for his soul. Instead she falls asleep thinking about all the secrets she'll never know.
Dimitri wakes up screaming.
She rushes into the room; he is sitting up, head buried in his hands, chest heaving. She says his name quietly and he looks up at her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, brokenly, but she doesn’t know what for. There are so many things he could be apologizing for, but she doesn’t want them. All she’s ever wanted was his love.
She crawls into bed beside him and he buries his head in her neck; she doesn’t mention the tears that splash onto her skin. She leans back onto the bed, running a hand through his hair and singing softly as he shakes, a song her mother used to sing to her when she was small. She used to sing it to their children when they were younger, but they are older, now, so the song belongs only to Dimitri. She knows it can never fully comfort him, can never heal the scars she can’t see, the cracks in his heart.
She is older now, too. She holds no resentment for Felix Fraldarius, buried beneath the soil. Only deep sadness for the life he couldn’t live and the love that he died for.
“I love you,” Dimitri says into her neck. It sounds like an apology.