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In a thousand alternate worlds, Dimitri does not escape unscathed. Felix knows this as surely as he knows how the sun rises and falls—and not just because he’d received a letter mere hours after the news had reached him, detailing their original plans. It pays to be friends with a man of Duscur, he supposes, or at least it has in this case; Dedue had summoned his countrymen to free the both of them from the Dukedom's schemes , and—against all reason—they had answered the call.
So Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is free of the grasp of Cornelia, and all of Fódlan knows it. The Faerghus Dukedom’s power has dipped, its legitimacy questionable at best, and the lords who know the righteousness of the man who would be their king fight on in his defense.
Felix still cannot reach him.
As it turns out, it matters very little that Dimitri lives—at least to some nobles, who are all too happy to fight in Cornelia’s name for the territory she has promised them. If it hadn’t meant that they were treasonous assholes, Felix might have understood; the precarious balance of Dimitri’s mental health had nearly tipped over the edge these past few moons. Even so, as a Fraldarius—as Felix Fraldarius—he is ready to kill in the name of his king.
Rodrigue is eager to open Fraldarius doors to their hunted monarch, but even as Felix scolds him for his transparent stupidity, he wishes for the same. Fate is cruel; even with half the nobility and the majority of the people on the side of their rightful king, it’s still Cornelia who holds all the power. It doesn’t matter that Felix misses him, that he wishes they didn’t have to waste more time. There’s no room for such sentiments in the land of today.
There are still ways, however, that allow Felix to keep in touch.
The first letter Felix gets in the king’s own hand comes two weeks after the one Dedue had posted to the former Lions. It finds him only hours from setting out to stifle a contingent of Dukedom soldiers—even still, he drops all pretense of preparation just to whisk it up to his room.
Felix,
Forgive me for not writing to you earlier. Contrary to the report Dedue sent out, I was injured escaping from Fhirdiad. He did not wish to spread the news before my recovery was certain to go one way or another, and the nature of the injury made penning a letter quite the arduous task, even when its destination was you. Fortunately, my eye was spared, so all I have to contend with is my vanity. I’m sure you will mock the unsightliness of this scar; I look forward to hearing whatever chastisement you are no doubt already preparing.
I must keep this brief: there are few places in Faerghus that will provide me adequate sanctuary so long as Cornelia and her benefactors are hunting me. That being said, I am unsure how long I will have to continue running, and though you might have been glad to be rid of me, I confess that I would finally take that last step into the pits of madness were I to be deprived of even the company of your words. I expect you have better things to do than write to me, but should you ever be willing and able to write back, you need only send a messenger to the remnants of Garreg Mach. I will take care of the rest.
I pray that you will be able to send even a scribble, but even should you not have the time or inclination, know that I will be thinking of you and holding your memory close. You are, after all, my dearest friend.
Yours,
Dimitri
Felix is not late setting out to quell the traitorous contingent along his borders, but it is a near thing. He grips the paper so hard that it nearly crumples; only panic saves it from wrinkling.
He sets out with the letter folded along the same creases Dimitri must have made, tucked securely in a pocket. This is war, and Felix is not one for sentiment anyway, but no one can deny him comfort where he can take it.
Dimitri,
No one would expect you to prioritize writing to an old classmate over recovering a vital sense. I’d blind you myself if you had dared to do otherwise. It’s fortunate, then, that you managed to scrape together some sense.
Your face will be no uglier than it was the last time I saw it. You’re right; it’s a foolish and vain sentiment that you’re clinging to. Don’t expect me to go out of my way to comment upon a new scar. You won’t be the only one who has them.
You shouldn’t rely on me to stem the tides of your beastly behavior; it’s long been a losing battle. Still, if I must, I’ll write you back whenever I hear from you. I hope the men you entrust to this task are capable. I won’t have you crying to me because some squire or another lost my letter.
You call me your dearest friend, but I won’t have that sort of talk from you until you’re standing before me, and I can judge whether you deserve to claim me as such. Hurry back to Fhirdiad, boar. I won’t be kept waiting.
Felix
Felix,
I must apologize once more for yet another delayed message. Unlike what you’d thought—though perhaps it is still what you’d expected—the fault is mine. Your letter was safely delivered, but Dedue and I had not realized House Rowe had succumbed to pressure from the Dukedom. We have been of two minds on where to shelter next, though I fear I cannot even tell you what our plans are. With communication so fragmented all across the Kingdom, it is taking all our effort just to stay alive; I’m afraid we haven’t made much progress on uniting those still loyal to either me or the Blaiddyd name. You have asked me to hurry, though, so you can be assured that there is no greater motivator. I wish to hear your insults in person, masochist though that may make me.
I am glad to hear that you are not bothered by the idea of my scar, though I will confess that I am nervous nonetheless. You counsel me wisely, but your good opinion means much to me.
After all, what else do I have— What could entice— I want you to look—Regardless of any further thoughts on that matter, however, you are right in that there are more important matters to concern myself with. I am still sound in both mind and body—at least, I am as well as I could be, under the circumstances—and Dedue and I are pursuing rumors of an archer that resigned from House Rowe’s service; I suspect you know of whom I speak. If we can secure his aid, my journey to retake Fhirdiad will be far swifter.
How fares your father? I have not written to him, so I worry he feels slighted, though I hope he is comforted that you are my closest confidant. Fraldarius seems to be holding strong against the battering tides of the Dukedom, but that is only to be expected. Your family has always been the best of this country; this is more than evident of you.
If I cannot call you my dearest friend, no matter how truthful those words may be, I hope you will consent to something else instead. Without being able to give voice to your name, I fear you would miss the nuances of my feelings toward you. Shall I call you my guiding light instead? Or do you think I go too far?
Most sincerely yours,
Dimitri
Hands frozen by the cold, Felix Fraldarius tries desperately to pretend that it is only this which leaves them shaking. Those of his men that have fought with him the longest—nearly a year of war, yet there is no end in sight—whisper among themselves, laughing at the idea of their stubborn, recalcitrant lordling having a sweetheart, though they are not bold enough to tease him to his face.
So much the better, for as always, it is only ever Dimitri. No matter the painful earnestness of his words or the scratchings Felix could make out if only he tried, it is just him, reporting on the war effort to a man who could never betray him.
Still, he folds it and tucks it next to the first, now soft and worn with age. He wouldn’t want Blaiddyd correspondence to fall into Dukedom hands.
Dimitri,
You must not be doing too poorly if you still have writing to me kept among your priorities. Dedue likely thinks you mad or stupid for risking this, though he is too blinded by loyalty to say. I’d apologize for the delay of my own letter, but I suppose I’m just paying you back for all of yours. Perhaps you should spend more time working and less time perfecting your abysmal penmanship, though I suppose I can spare a few seconds until you come to your senses.
I hear you managed to secure the abdicator’s services after all. Greet him for me and tell him he’s like some storybook hero or another; you always knew them better than I.
My father is well enough. He doesn’t begrudge your lack of correspondence, though I would in his place. A duke’s son makes far less tactical sense than the duke himself, after all.
Perhaps instead of coming up with embarrassing new nicknames for me, you should reassess the truthfulness of your words. Your “closest confidant” travels beside you; even you can’t be stupid enough to miss that. Your estimation of me is
flattering gratifyingnice, though.If you’re still hunting down allies, I suggest you check the hamlets around Fhirdiad, if you can get close enough. I hear there’s a talented mage in the area, though she’s grown quite fearsome in martial arenas as well.
As for your last question, the answer is no. Take that as you will.
Good luck,
Felix
“Worried about him?”
Rodrigue’s voice is a nuisance as much as it is a surprise, but Felix does his best not to flinch. Neither of them is home much these days, but it’s a good sign for the security of their borders that they’ve both made it here.
“Just writing to him. Making sure that the boar doesn’t finally lose it is just as vital as swordplay, unfortunately.”
“I hope you’re being kind to him.”
Automatically, Felix bristles at that—forced to accommodate the better son once again, it seems—but the note of melancholy in his father’s voice kills the insult halfway up his throat. “As much as I can.”
Rodrigue smiles, though it does not reach his eyes. “Good. It will help more than you know. And…”
“And?”
The dignity with which his father carries himself crumbles into age as Felix watches, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “You never know which words will be your last.”
Felix,
Even were I dying, you must know that my final words would be for you. Still, you aren’t wrong. I am confident enough in our position that I can freely state that Ashe has joined us. Annette too, thanks to you—she sends her love, by the way. Ashe is also flattered by the comparison, though I dredged up a hero I fear you have long forgotten; there is only one Kyphon to my Loog, after all—our childhood games of pretend attest to that.
It is not surprising that you would assume I write to you for tactical reasons, but really, Felix. If it were not doing something for me that could not be replicated by your father, don’t you think I would have switched?
Don’t answer that. Much as I’m fond of your jabs. I’d really rather not know where my mind stands in your estimation. Yours, however, has fallen in mine if you cannot truly see how badly I wish you were here beside me. Perhaps I should consult a minstrel for the proper words?
Thank you for your closing. It heartened me more than you could possibly know.
Yours in admiration,
Dimitri
Dimitri,
I can’t write long. Fraldarius is secure enough for now, but Galatea is struggling. I’m off to support Ingrid until the tides turn, one way or another. I don’t expect your mailboy to be able to navigate her lands with quite as much ease, so don’t write if you can’t. I’d ask you not to be stupid, but that’s a losing battle when your idiotic compassion is thrown into the mix, so I’ll leave it there.
Wish me well in my fight, even if it’s only to yourself. Things have a way of working out for you, and I don’t mind superstition so long as this is the only time we bring it up.
Besides, your words do something for me, too.
It may be months before I receive another one of your letters, so until then, be well, boar. If you die, I’ll kill you myself.
Sincerely,
Felix
When he gets Dimitri’s next letter, it’s nearly another year after the first. This is a good thing, Felix thinks, because it means the boar is finally starting to listen to him.
(If he childishly wonders why he had to start listening now, then that’s fine. In war, he’s allowed a few harmless weaknesses.)
It’s one of Ingrid’s soldiers who delivers it; the two of them have settled in for another night of pretending Galatea isn’t all but ready to fall, and only her top lieutenant would dare disturb them now. Her brow arches at the unmarked letter, but something in Felix’s face must tell her to keep her mouth shut, because she turns her gaze back to her drink without another word uttered.
Felix,
Despite my best intentions, it seems the war has gotten the better of our correspondence after all. I tried to write, but there was never a way to get through to you until now. The number of unsent letters meant for you that I have kept is nothing short of embarrassing, but if you don’t mind—and perhaps even if you do—I’ll keep them a little longer. They make for a good record of our efforts here in the west.
Mercedes joined us several moons ago; counting the three of you under siege in the east, our entire class is now accounted for. I admit, it does my heart well to know that the students, at least, have survived.
My friend, you know me well: religion has never been my strong suit, though I attend Church services regularly. For you, however, I have prostrated myself before the Goddess in the hopes that She might have mercy and keep you among the living. You are not a sentimental man, but I will state this for truth: Land can be regained, but your life, once lost, is forfeit forever. Relay this to Ingrid, too; I refuse to bury you.
We are winning hearts and minds, Felix. Nothing brings me more regret than not being able to fight by your side, but, Saints willing, Rowe will be ours soon enough.
I pray that you’ll be able to return this drivel with your own letter soon.
Restlessly yours,
Dimitri
“Was it a good letter?” Ingrid asks when he finally sets it down.
“Good enough,” he replies. “Good enough.”
Dimitri,
I’m surprised you aren’t dead. Good to know that it’s only losing battles that are keeping your words from me. You’re right; it is embarrassing that you’ve kept all the letters that didn’t make it to me. You’ll have to keep them safe so I can read them and gather more material.
Galatea is nearly done for; don’t look for me here. Ingrid and I will retreat soon, much to my chagrin. Who knows, maybe she’ll join you in Rowe. It’s back to Fraldarius for me, though. We bled them nearly dry, boar. I think you would be proud of our efforts.
I don’t plan on becoming another way for you to torture yourself. You refuse to bury me; I refuse to be a burden. Don’t go throwing your life away either. Gautier and Fraldarius are holding strong. The only duke Faerghus should know is my father—he’s the less irritating of the two.
I don’t pray for much. I don’t see the point in it. But if you’re feeling lonely, you can picture me offering up a few words, if you’d like.
Seize Rowe quickly. You’ve already failed to keep this war short and come back to me. Think what you will, but I almost miss your childish ideals.
Waiting,
Felix
Gautier is icy even when the rest of Fódlan is warm; here, at the beginning of the fifth year of war, even Ailell would freeze over in these temperatures.
The letter that Dimitri’s messenger hands over has been through a lot, it seems: its edges are torn, and its paper is discolored by frost. Still, the message beneath seems to be intact, so Felix sends the messenger on his way with a brisk nod.
“Is that a message from His Highness?” Sylvain asks. His tone is light, teasing, like they’re living two doors down from each other at the monastery again instead of huddling in the same tent for warmth, freshly dressed wounds numbing in the cold. “ Someone’s got a crush.”
“Shut up , Sylvain.”
Sylvain spreads his arms as wide as he can without jostling them, a gesture of submission. “I wasn’t talking about you ! Though, if you’re getting so touchy, maybe I should be.”
He’s already red from the cold, but if anything, Felix can only flush more. “I hate you so fucking much.”
“Just open it, yeah? I’ll even look the other way if that will make the atmosphere more romantic.”
Felix,
Five years is far too long. You may have been glad of the distance once, but selfishly, I’m happy that my absence has begun to wear on you as it has for me. Gautier is cold; I hope you’re keeping warm. I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m not there to fuss. I’ve picked up many a habit from Dedue, it seems, and I’ve given you enough to mock me for already.
Ingrid did join us in Rowe, and she’s been a boon; it’s a wonder that Galatea was lost with the two of you there. Selfishly, though, I must ask for you and Sylvain to leave your territories.
Do you remember the promise that all of us made once, the reunion we swore to have? Well, there is a reason even greater than that awaiting us at Garreg Mach, or so I have heard. We would be incomplete without the two of you. I would be incomplete without you.
I’ll come back to you, Felix, I swear it. In every way possible, in mind, body, and soul, I will be yours, so long as you want me—and perhaps even if you don’t. All I ask is that you meet me halfway, at least physically.
I won’t forget the promise I made to you, either.
Always yours,
Dimitri
When he finishes reading, Felix is blinking back tears from the freezing air. Sylvain won’t say anything, but just in case… “Odd that he doesn’t send all his letters at the same time. He seems like an unnecessary waste of manpower.”
Sylvain looks up from where he has been dutifully staring at nothing, an incredulous look on his face. “Sorry, you think Dimitri has written to anyone else?”
Heat melts the snow gathering at the base of his spine. “To you and Ingrid, at least.”
“Oh Felix, what would you do without me?” Sylvain slumps into Felix further, batting his lashes mockingly. “It’s quite the liability to send any personal correspondence out, you know, so His Highness picked the most important letters to send. Could this be true love?”
“You’re the worst person I know,” Felix says, but he’s smiling all the same.
Dimitri,
We’ll be there.
You better not have forgotten.
Earnestly,
Felix
That first letter of the war was not the first to dwell in Felix’s pocket, tucked close to his heart.
Felix,
You and I have not seen eye to eye in many years, I know. The fault for this lies solely with me. I have shown many faces to you over the time we have known each other; every iteration of me has been witnessed by you. I cannot remember a life without you in it; I do not want to try.
Saying this, then, I hope you will accept the burden of having to see just one more facet of me. On the night of the ball, should you be willing, I ask that you meet me in the Goddess Tower. There is a promise I’d like to make to you that I do not yet have the courage to put to ink and paper.
Seeing you, I think, would strengthen my resolve.
Ever yours,
Dimitri
There is much to celebrate as the Blue Lions reunite for the first time since war broke out, not least of which is the fact that they are all miraculously alive. Even the professor is hale and hearty, five years gone but not nearly as distraught as Felix would be in such a situation.
There’s much to celebrate, but all Felix can think about is how glad he is that Dimitri is alive.
Maybe it isn’t so surprising that Dimitri feels the same; Felix has been mulling over Sylvain’s words for moons now, and the look in Dimitri’s eyes all but confirms it.
“Felix,” Dimitri says, hesitating to hug him like he has with no one else. Even so, how can a name be so full of meaning? “It is good to see you.”
“Shut up, boar,” Felix grumbles, barreling into his arms like he’s wanted to do for years. “It’s good to see you too.”
And when the teasing has stopped and the greetings have finished—at least until they all remember how lucky they are to still have each other—Felix drags Dimitri away from the others and into the Goddess Tower, the stone echoing with their footsteps.
“Well?” Felix asks when they have made it as far as he can stand. He tries to look at Dimitri—can only make his gaze go as far as his shoulder. His eyes are too bright, his hair—long enough now to be bound—makes Felix’s fingertips ache with want. “Are you a man of your word?”
Even off-center, Dimitri’s smile is bright enough to illuminate Felix’s hollow bones. “Of course I am,” he says, breathless.
He tilts Felix’s chin up with careful fingers, then—softly, tentatively, as if Felix might break—he brushes his lips against Felix’s like the touch of butterfly wings.
“Properly, you bastard,” Felix swears, tears gathering at his lashes, and he loops an arm around Dimitri’s neck so he can fit their mouths together with passion five years—five lifetimes—in the making.