Work Text:
Ghosts danced around him, whirling wisps, white-faced wraiths scratching his face and tangling in his hair with their long-fingered claws. Caught in the maelstrom, Dimitri could no longer see or hear anything else.
The world came back in jagged, unconnected pieces:
first came the cold, a vicious chill that spread through his entire body, leaving him weakened, vulnerable —
the coppery smell of fury and blood, the damp earth under his knees, his hands as he struggled to get back on his feet —
and, through the haze that surrounded him, a blinding light that pierced straight through his skull. Fire. Flames. Something was burning nearby. A tent, a carriage, a horse — but then, where were the screams? Where were the calls for help or revenge? All he could hear was his pulse, beating in his ears, and his ghosts, almost reassuring in their familiar rage. His face was numbed, his vision blurred by tears and sweat.
In the confusion, a hand landed on his shoulder. Acting on pure, animal instinct, Dimitri caught it by the wrist and pulled, his right hand already grasping for a lance, a sword, a dagger — and finding none finally coming up to at least shield his body against —
Against —
“ — ness. Your Highness!”
The voice cut through the din, louder than any ghost, and rang in his skull like the bells of Garreg Mach in the great vault of the cathedral. Despite himself, Dimitri let go and fell forward, folded in on himself to escape the noise and pain.
Gradually, the vise around his skull loosened enough that he could move again. Tired and breathless, he leaned on both hands and, slowly, painfully, pushed himself up until he was sitting on his knees.
“Your Highness?”
One voice, two, warm and familiar. Dimitri blinked. Amid the fog-shrouded shadows, two figures slowly came into focus. Annette, kneeling before him, hands half-raised in an aborted gesture; Ashe, standing behind her, torch in hand, a bright beacon in the dissipating mist. There was a cut on his chin; Annette, hair and collar undone, was covered head to toe in the dirt and dust raised by her own spells, and though they seemed otherwise unhurt, the fear and worry written plainly on both their faces was enough to put Dimitri on his guard. Something had happened. Something was happening still. They were in danger, he could feel it in the heavy, painful beat of his heart, in the taste of iron in the back of his throat, in his own pulse buzzing in his ears — they were in danger — they were —
The world lurched.
When Dimitri resurfaced, Annette's hand had closed around his wrist, taking his pulse.
“ — slow. He should be fine, but magic gets weird sometimes, especially dark magic, I'll feel better once we find Mercie and the others.”
“Annette,” Dimitri said. The words came to him with such difficulty, he had to make an effort to keep going. “Ashe. What happened?”
His face was still numb, his jaw stiff with pain, and the roughness of his voice surprised him. His throat felt raw, like he’d been screaming. He didn’t remember screaming.
(His father was screaming. His severed head, caught in the maelstrom, screamed. Dimitri set it aside for now, forced himself to focus on his surroundings.)
Bit by bit, Ashe and Annette helped him put the pieces back together. That mission near lake Teutates — they had been surrounded, cut off from the rest of their class by the flow of battle and a thicket of ash trees, and then — the memories came back all at once, and with them a jolt of fear — there was a mage, a tall figure in black robes and a long iron mask, hidden in the mist like in Magdred Way, and then — a flash of black light as he took aim, a bolt of crackling pain at the very moment the javelin left his hand, and then — and then — and then the cold, the maelstrom, the whirling lights of a spell he had, in his confusion, mistaken for ghosts.
“There was a mage,” he said.
“He’s dead,” Ashe answered solemnly, gesturing toward a dark shape lying on the ground, partially concealed by the thick undergrowth. “The rest immediately turned and ran. Whatever they were searching for, I don’t think they found it.”
Another ghost left in Dimitri’s wake. At least this one might consider his vengeance already satisfied, spilled blood for blood spilled. Dimitri briefly closed his eyes in prayer, though he knew the gesture to be empty.
When he opened them again Ashe had moved closer. Annette — she had let go of his wrist to take his hand in hers — when had she...? Dimitri could not remember — looked on the verge of tears. Dimitri dragged himself back to the present moment.
“We need to find the others,” he said.
Were his words as slurred and sluggish as they sounded to him? The fog that had muddled his thoughts was starting to lift; still he felt like he was floating, far above his body and the rest of the world, tethered only by the pain in his chest and the cold touch of the dead who yet clung to him.
Ashe — he’d put out his torch — when had he...? Dimitri could not remember — took his free arm and helped him stand. When he made as if to step back Dimitri clutched his shoulder in a desperate reflex. The world was cold and unsteady, his vision still blurry, his legs shaking under his own weight. In that ocean of ice, two points of warmth remained, and though the shame stung him Dimitri could not stand the thought of losing one of them. (Coward. Weakling. Are you truly so fragile?) Moments passed; Ashe hovered, hesitant; then he smiled and squeezed Dimitri’s arm, let him lean some of his weight on him.
“The others can’t be far,” he said, his voice a pale imitation of his usual cheer. “I’m sure we’ll find them in no time! Don’t worry, Your Highness. We won’t let you down.”
“Right, you can count on us!” Annette chimed in. Under the grim, her cheeks were bloodless; still she was smiling, putting on a brave face for him. Too tired to do the same, Dimitri let his shoulder rest against hers for a moment. Then he did his best to straighten.
Slowly, carefully, with Dimitri leaning on Ashe on one side and Annette on the other, they made their way through the woods.
The woods were deathly still. The rush of battle had receded, leaving nothing behind but a weariness of body and mind, a sensation of drifting, unmoored, through time and space. He was walking through the woods, he was walking through the dry plains of Duscur, his clothes weighed down by blood and ashes, he was walking away from Felix, his lance still dripping with the blood of his first kill. He was walking, and the shadows of the past walked alongside him, Felix, Glenn, Gustave. The world was a blur, all things melting into the same gray mist — or maybe that was just him, one step removed from his own body, unable to feel anything but the earth under his boots and the pain in his chest that flared with every breath.
On either side of him, Ashe and Annette kept a conversation he only heard pieces of, guiding him back with gentle hands whenever he strayed too far from them. At times, he almost wanted to shake off their hands, let himself drift away for good, alone in this vast emptiness where nothing and no-one could reach him. (Coward. Craven. You would leave us to rot in this hell?) At times —
“Your Highness?”
They’d stopped — why had they stopped? Ashe and Annette were looking at him in concern — Glenn was looking at him in accusation. Dimitri wanted to reassure them, to put back on the mask he wore every day, the pretense of liveliness he had learned to keep up in public, but his body was no longer responding to him. Something was rising in his head, a tidal wave of dread he could feel coming but was helpless to stop. It swallowed everything, the past and the present, the living and the dead. It was his blood mixing with Duscur’s ashes, it was the shadows of the dead that lingered always at the periphery of his vision, it was the horror in Felix’s eyes and the cries of the damned in his ears, it was his own pounding heart, it was the cold of the grave seeping through his bones and the wind rustling through the trees, whispering to him how easy it would be, how restful, to finally lay down his arms and let the earth swallow him, it was it wa sitw a —
The world lurched.
When Dimitri resurfaced he was bent almost in half, clinging to Ashe’s wrist with an iron grip. The archer’s other hand had closed around his shoulder and was holding on tight. Behind him, Annette was desperately looking around for help that was not there, hands opening and closing, opening and closing.
“All right,” said Ashe, sounding far more scared than Dimitri had ever heard him. “We're all right, we’re almost there.”
Dimitri’s heart was thundering. Every breath felt like he was inhaling shards of glass. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his hand on Ashe’s wrist. Could not understand how Ashe wasn’t screaming in agony when he felt like he was putting all of his strength into it — wasn’t he? But when he finally managed to make himself let go, far too late to do any good, Ashe immediately moved to hold him back. He and Annette were saying something — to him? — he could not make sense of their words, he could not —
The world lurched.
When Dimitri resurfaced, Ashe’s hands were gone. For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Dimitri was floating. Then gravity came back in force — he was falling, he was going to fall — like a dreamer startled awake he flailed, panicked, grasping for anything to hang on to —
His hand met a solid mass. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, a hand closed around his forearm, and he was pulled, almost effortlessly, until he was upright again, all his weight resting against somebody’s chest. In a last, frenzied effort, he tried to free himself.
“It’s only me, Your Highness.”
The voice was a rumble, deep and familiar. The name escaped his lungs in a raw whisper:
“Dedue.”
So they had found the others, or the others had found them. Dimitri blinked the fog out of his eyes. Bit by bit, the world took form again. Dedue was keeping him upright, a rock, an anchor. Between Ashe and Annette, holding her horse by the bridle, Ingrid was looking at him with a deep worry he immediately wished he could erase.
“It's fine, I'm fine,” he said.
No-one seemed inclined to agree, but Dimitri had no strength left to argue. Leaving Ashe and Annette to explain the situation in hushed tones, he closed his eyes and let their voices carry him a while. So surrounded by his classmates, with Dedue at his back, the pain was not so terrible, the cold not so frightful.
“I should, I need to,” he mumbled. Dedue’s arm tightened around his shoulders, strong and steadfast.
“You must rest, Your Highness,” he said. “We will see you to safety.”
And because there did not exist a world where Dedue would lie to him, Dimitri finally stopped struggling and let himself sink.
When Dimitri next woke, he was lying on a cot under the canvas canopy of the infirmary tent. Someone had removed his gauntlets, his boots, his cuirass, and in the clean-scented silence he felt oddly light, almost weightless. The pain that had torn through his chest with every breath was gone, but his body was still sore, his mind reeling from the confusion and fear. Disoriented, he looked around, trying to pick up from where his memory left off: the fight, the woods, the cold —
Sitting at his bedside, a basket of laundry at her feet, Mercedes was darning a shirt. Dimitri watched her work, a bit stunned, unable to wrap his head around such a domestic scene when his entire body was still reeling from fight and flight. Finally, he found his voice again:
“Mercedes?”
She lifted her head. Upon seeing him awake, a relieved smile broke on her face.
“It’s good to see you awake, Dimitri,” she said and, with the slow consideration she put into everything, she set her mending aside and leaned over to put a hand on his forehead.
“I, I don’t —” Dimitri swallowed painfully. His throat was dry, his voice scraped raw. “What happened?”
“You were poisoned by a spell,” Mercedes explained calmly. “You gave us quite the scare, but you’re going to be all right now.”
“The others... ”
“No-one else was hurt. We were just worried for you.”
“I see. My apologies.”
Mercedes frowned. Mechanically, she brushed the hair away from his forehead, a familiar, familial gesture Dimitri had not experienced since his stepmother had walked away from him and into the flames of Duscur. The memory burned bright and painful. Dimitri let his eyelids slide shut against it.
From outside the tent, he could hear voices: men, shouting and laughing, backed by the sounds of hoofbeats and of metal clanging; the hearty song of any roadside camp, unmistakable to those who knew it. For a second, he was ten years old again and his father’s voice rose above all the others, firm and strong, regal even in kindness. But his father was dead, and Dimitri was no longer a child. He should have been up already; he should have gone to help, now that he was awake; but in the white noise of his scattered thoughts, it was hard to remember why his help was so important right now, why he couldn’t allow himself just a moment of respite.
He was tired. For once, his thoughts were calm, his ghosts at peace. Surely it would be fine, to stay like this for a while, in this quiet stillness where nothing mattered.
A black-gloved hand pulled aside the tent’s door, and Byleth walked in. Caught half-dozing, Dimitri woke with a start. Suddenly keenly aware of his disarrayed state, he made a valiant effort to rally; but Byleth barely spared him a glance, turning instead to Mercedes to ask:
“How is he?”
“I am well,” he assured her, but Byleth, stone-faced and merciless, waited for Mercedes to answer in his stead: “Hmm... He’s not in any danger now. But he really should rest more.”
Byleth nodded with a seriousness that seemed to Dimitri a bit out of proportion. When she finally turned her gaze on him her face was as blank as ever, but Dimitri who was starting to know her was surprised by the concern that shone through her eyes.
“Rest, then,” she said in the exact same tone she used to lead them on the battlefield. He could feel his spine straighten, a soldier's reflex.
“I’m not so weakened,” he protested anyway. “The others — I should...”
But when he tried to sit up his whole body seized in protest, and try as he might he could not repress a pained groan. Byleth, gentle but unyielding, put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down.
“The others are okay,” she said. “The mission is over. There is nothing here that needs your immediate attention, except yourself. So take care of yourself. Rest.”
And before Dimitri could plead his cause further, she had already turned her back on him, walking away from any appeal he might have made. As soon as she left, Dedue came in. From the steely determination in his eyes, Dimitri knew he had heard every word and would not let Dimitri escape his enforced rest so easily; and in this quiet moment, under the watchful eye of his classmates, he couldn’t find it in him to argue.
Outside, their professor was greeted by familiar voices: Sylvain, casually irreverent, immediately scolded by Ingrid and Felix in unison; Ashe, conciliatory; Annette, cheerful. Inside, Mercedes moved her chair to make room for Dedue, told him something Dimitri could not hear.
Lulled by the voices of his friends, he was already asleep.