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childhood
Edelgard does not remember much of her childhood. Reminiscing her memories is like looking into a fractured kaleidoscope and attempting to parse what the broken colors used to be.
She remembers her siblings, their little fingers and matching eyes. She remembers their burials, their miniature coffins, and the way their funerals seemed to blur into each other. She remembers their little faces wrapped in angel white gauze— their bodies too destroyed and scared to be viewed even at death.
She remembers their names, stamped into her skull, and the way each of her brothers and sisters would call out her name.
She remembers wrath, the burning in her throat, the simmering bile, that she forces back down to brew at the base of her gut.
Her brain refuses to be merciful, to provide even a sliver of give, as her siblings' broken bodies (so similar to her own) haunt her whenever she sleeps.
(the image of the barbwire scars on their tiny little bodies is marred behind her eyelids and she will never forget how they are mirrored on her own flesh)
Edelgard does not remember the warmth of her mother’s hand, if Anselma’s fingers were manicured and dainty— or if they were alike to Edelgard’s: stubby, mutilated, and rough. Edelgard knows her violet eyes came from her mother, as her uncle Lord Arundel shares the same hue. However, she often wonders if she had inherited anything else from Anselma. Did her petite stature come from her mother? What about her round cheeks? Her straight nose? Her ivory skin?
There are no portraits of the Emperor’s former consort to answer any of her questions.
She only remembers the experiments at night, when the dark sky has absorbed all leftover light. It is like watching a busted film you cannot turn away from— she can still hear the slicing of skin, the tearing of flesh, the silent screaming— and the scenes skip over and over and over.
Surprisingly, inspite how shot her memory is, how unreliable, and how terrifying the remains of her memories are, she remembers him.
Small, feminine, too innocent for the future coming to them— Dimitri.
Blonde, with crystal blue doe eyes, with hands that were warm, tender, and felt like the softest place to land.
She does not remember that it is his dagger she wears strapped at her waist. She does not remember that those precious words she holds dear were his: to forge her own path and not be allowed to be dragged by others.
She will remember her first love was a noble boy, but it is not until she meets him again does she realize that it was always him.
the officer’s academy
Edelgard does not sleep.
Whether it is the illness of insomnia that plagues her, with her restless tossing and turning, or her mind that races and churns and spins with anxious thoughts. Her consciousness does not allow for any peace, so she settles on her side with a dagger in one fist, and her eyes trained to the door of her bedroom.
It is late, she guesses, from how the moon is still high and its light is still silver. The dorm room windows are lit with the moon’s reflection, keeping her room from being submerged in complete darkness.
Edelgard assumes it has probably been hours since she tried to lay for rest, but no matter how deeply she breathes, or how much she relaxes her limbs— her body refuses to cooperate.
With a forlorn sign, she moves to sit up from her bed, already missing the warmth of her sheets.
Edelgard stands in front of the small mirror that hangs against the wall opposite to where her bed sits. She dares to catch a peek of her reflection— her sunken eyes, smudged with darkness around their rims, her cracked lips, the scars peek out from where her neck meets her collarbone, thick bubbled skin with deep colored tissue.
She averts her gaze quickly, it is never easy to look at the way her body has become.
Edelgard quickly ties her hair up, shoving her arms into a thick knitted sweater that covers the entirety of her neck, shoulders, and arms. Before exiting her dorm room, she slips on her satin white gloves, secures a silver dagger to her thigh, and steps into some charcoal leather boots.
She cracks open her door slowly, mindful of the classmates that are sleeping beside her. Once she is able to peacefully click he door shut she heads to the only place she can think to relax— the only place she knows where no one will disturb her.
______
When Edelgard finally steps into the meadow, the moonlight has lit the clearing perfectly, allowing her to still see the details of what makes this place so magical.
The expanse between the forest is eerily quiet, with just the gentle rustling of wind pushing through the overgrown grasses, and the crickets that joyously whistle. Her special place in the forest isn’t too far from the academy, close enough to make it easy for her frequent midnight rendezvous, but far enough to keep outsiders from disturbing her solitude.
The weather is warm enough for Edelgard to enjoy how the ground still holds the heat from the day sun. So, when she sinks into the earth, her cheek pressed against the grass, she lets out a sigh she does not know she is holding.
It is then, that she is finally able to relax: she does not think of the dagger heavy against her thigh, the outside world, her looming responsibilities, her classmates, the church, her professors, the blonde prince whose eyes follow her in a way that leaves her breathless and heavy and wanting—
“El?” A rich baritone calls from behind her, the tone curious and wondering.
The familiar voice startles her, however before her brain can even attempt to recognize the intruder, her instincts flashes to fight. So in a moment's notice, she is on her feet unsheathing her dagger and lunging at the target.
Before Edelgard acknowledges his golden locks and his bulking shoulders, she stumbles into Dimitri Blaiddyd, the house leader of the Blue Lions. He is quick to knock the dagger out of her grip.
While Dimitri is able to defend against her weapon, is unable to stop her fall. They collapse into each other, falling onto the cushioned earth, with his arms bracketed around her to protect her from the impact.
Once they land in a mess of limbs, he grunts, his arms tight around her waist. Where their skin is fused, Edelgard feels how his skin is impossibly hot. Even through their layers of clothing, and it makes her tremble as he holds her still.
His closeness is terrifying— it makes her dizzy with want.
A moment passes, and she pretends time has stopped. Her cheek is pressed against his racing heart, she can smell his scent of chamomile and skin, an overpowering combination.
“I guess, I should have expected that.” Dimitri weakly chuckles, even as she clings to his chest.
His joking tone breaks her out of her reverie. She quickly scrambles off of him, fumbling behind her to create some space between them. She finally settles a foot or so away from him, cross legged, facing where he still lays against the grass.
Edelgard hopes there is not enough light for him to see how flustered he has made her. She wills a neutral expression as she watches him scoot up onto his elbows to sit up from his previous position.
She cannot help but take in his appearance: his fairytale princely features: cerulean eyes encased in blonde lashes, neatly cropped fringe hanging against his forehead, his angled jaw, too giant hands, his enormous frame that still towers over her while sitting.
When Dimitri meets her gaze, he offers her genuine smile, and her frozen heart squeezes in an attempt to dethaw.
The silence is killing her, so she says: “Did you follow me?”
Dimitri has the gall to look guilty, as his eyebrows furrow. “I’m sorry,” he admits, “I am normally up at this time, so when I saw you wandering I could not help my curiosity.”
Edelgard rubs at her template, suddenly feeling the lack of sleep catch up to her. Her irritation builds and she tries to keep it from bubbling up to the surface. She will need to calmly excuse herself, not bother with idle chatter, even if with how her heart beats, going back to her bed would not be an option. Frustrated, Edelgard realizes she will never feel safe enough to come back to this meadow, without fear of being followed—
“So, you still have this?” Dimitri asks. Her silver dagger reflects the moon’s white light in his palms. His focus is on the handle, as his finger traces cobalt stone forged into the core of its bolster.
“It was a momento given to me when I was small.” Edelgard finds herself answering honestly. She cannot help but continue, the words spilling out “It was given to me by someone very dear to me.”
Dimitri finally matches her gaze, eyes intense and filled with intrigue. “Someone very dear to you? Do you not remember who gave you this dagger?” His voice is confused, but not accusatory.
His upturned hand offers the dagger back, almost waiting for her hand to lay upon his.
“Yes… it was a gift from a very cherished friend. Someone who gave it to me without knowing how much I needed it.” Her voice is now above a whisper, as the admission leaves her feeling open, and vulnerable.
She does not say the noble who gifted her the dagger was her first love. She does not dare mention that the noble’s face, from her memories, is blurred and his voice distorted.
In response to her words, Dimitri transforms. A beautiful blush settles on his cheeks, as he averts his gaze back to the dagger clasped in his outturned hand. He ducks his chin into his chest in embarrassment as if her words were too much to bear.
Edelgard watches his reactions, marveled by how her honest words could fluster him. “Dimitri? Have I said something to offend you?” Her palm reaches to cover his, her dagger resting between their two palms, her satin lined fingers clutching at his.
His gaze does not lift to match hers and he continues to regard the way their hands have joined.
“Dima?” The nickname slips out, something she has not called him in more than a decade. She normally hates informalities, but somehow she cannot help but want him to look back at her.
She doesn’t want him to be embarrassed by her words.
Dimitri finally flickers his attention back to Edelgard. His eyes are soft, crinkled and smiling— her reaction is instantaneous: her palms sweat, her chest tightens, her breath catches.
His plush lips are pink, they curve into a beaming grin, and she is wrecked .
“You must not remember, then,” He starts, as he leans closer so their knees touch. “I gave this dagger to you before you left Fhirdiad all those years ago.”
At the admission, her mind reels, as her consciousness strives to find the memory.
It was given to me by someone very dear to me
Her own words echo back to her, as she realizes what the admission means, why Dimitri grew confused, and then flustered once she had affirmed what she meant.
“I-I— Dimitri—“ She stammers, unable to recover. She can feel her burning cheeks, the heat at her neck, how disoriented her body is.
He touches her cheek, his smile still sure and reassuring, that it causes her to freeze. The palm is massive, hardened and calloused, but he is too gentle as he caresses the fine hair that grows from the contour of her cheek. When his thumb brushes against the corner of her lip, her eyes flutter.
“I gave you this dagger with impure intentions, for you had bewitched me the moment we had met.” Another drag of his thumb against her lip, and she leans in further into his touch. “If I had known your feelings— if I had known you had kept the dagger this whole time, then I probably would not have stayed away for as long as I have.”
She breaks against her instincts to run, and she leans further into his touch.
As her eyes flutter shut, she soaks his fever into her pores, like a thirsty desert desperate for rain showers. If he is the angry storm, and she is the desolate sand tundra, then she waits for the impossible: for them to collide without causality.
Perhaps, if Edelgard was not exhausted, if she had more sleep, if she was not so deprived of tenderness, if she was so afraid, then she could reject his eager honesty and push away his affections. If she was not so tired , then perhaps she could ignore how his earnestness breaks down the borders of her walls. Makes it impossible for her not to melt at the way he held her face like she was sculpted of glass.
Her alabaster lashes lay flush against the tops of her cheek; she cannot see him. However, when he breaks the way their hands are joined to tuck her dagger back onto her thigh, she gasps. Lavender eyes blink open and lock with azure ones.
“El?”
“Dimitri, I am a fool.” She is still breathless as the admission slips out.
With both hands free, she cradles his face in return, and closes the distance between their lips.
It is easy, simple, and perfect. It burns passion in her gut, and spreads liquid fire into her limbs. It is gentle for their lips only touch, but it is also dangerous because it makes Edelgard believe she can want more than just legacy, more than just duty, more than just justice.
She kisses him with her eyes open, and prays, perhaps to a goddess she does not believe in, that she won’t lose him too.
The goddess has taken everything else, either way.