Chapter Text
The man looking out the windows of Fhirdiad’s royal palace was an old man now.
Sixty long years had passed since that fateful day. Since the day the Oath of the Dagger was broken, and with it, his sister’s life. Adrestia was now part of the Kingdom - All of Fodlan was. In his elder years, he had seen Faerghus flourish. It was a land of merit and respect, not of Crests and bloodshed. He and his allies had made sure of that. He found some comfort in hoping the sister he had slain would have approved.
Felix had left them the year prior. His wife, Bernadetta, followed him by the end of the season. Just two months earlier, he had had to attend Sylvain and Ingrid’s funeral - the two of them dying on the same day, such was their bond. Dedue had been claimed by sickness mere weeks after the reconstruction of Duscur had been completed - years of defending him before and during the war finally taking their toll and leading to an untimely, if peaceful, end.
Mercedes, peacefully dead on the bedside of the last man she had miraculously healed with the dying embers of her White Magic. Annette, remembered fondly by a bust in the Royal School of Sorcery. Ashe’s final words engraved on the back of his final book - a dramatic retelling of the War that unified Fodlan, revised and approved by the King himself. A beautiful painting of the royal family, painted and signed by Ignatz, hung just above his beloved fireplace. Caspar, Leonie, Dorothea… they, too, had left.
Once again, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was alone. Sat on what he was certain would be his resting place. And once again, a certain figure would emerge in response to this - though this time, it was not to haunt him.
The King of Faerghus smiled brightly at that sight. They were the one to pull him out of the dark - and now they were there to ease him into eternal sleep.
“Professor…” even in his old age, Dimitri’s voice had no stutter, or sign of faltering. Though quieter than ever, it still had that air of nobility. One he had more than earned.
“Your Majesty.” Byleth responded, bowing curtly. It had been some time since they had stepped down from the position of Archbishop, serving House Blaiddyd as their private chaplain instead. It raised less suspicion, they reasoned, in regards to their ageless form. At their response, Dimitri conjured what strength he had left and raised a hand.
“Please. My end is nigh, isn’t it? On this final day, let me be remembered only as Dimitri.”
Byleth smirked.
“It has been quite some time since I walked with you through the doors of Garreg Mach.” They commented, memories still fresh; “On that day, I never thought we’d… end up like this.”
A chuckle came from the aged king. “Neither did I. Our lives intertwined in a spiral of peace and turmoil, war and prosperity. It’s been quite the ride… and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
He stopped to cough. As amazing as the king’s strength was, time was cruel to all - and even someone as supernaturally gifted as Dimitri could forestall its advance for so long.
“I do not have much time left, do I…?” He asked, knowing the answer. All Byleth could muster was a somber nod.
Suppressing another fit of coughing, the King of Faerghus smirked once more.
“We… had a good run, didn’t we…? Professor?”
Byleth’s hand reached out, grabbing Dimitri’s. One hand was perfectly immaculate - untouched by time. The other was bony, wrinkled - scarred by battles and age alike.
“We did.” Byleth assented.
“And that is why it shall not so easily end.”
Dimitri’s sole eye widened. As if Byleth’s words had restored to him a shard of stolen youth. He was bewildered, confused - what did his teacher mean?
“Professor…?” He exclaimed - the cough conquering his throat soon after.
“Yours is a soul that exemplifies virtue, Dimitri. Yours is a soul that gives men the strength to stand up to insurmountable odds. You shall not die here.”
The King stared in shock at his teacher as they held his hand tight.
“There are other lands out there. Lands seeded by beings not unlike the Goddess Sothis - lands that need leaders. Champions. Heroes. Lands that need you, for they approach a time of turmoil. And I - or, well, her - have been petitioned to send forth our own heroes to aid in saving it. And in all of Fodlan, no greater hero remains than you.”
Dimitri struggled to believe it. More than just other continents, but entire lands with their own Gods and Goddesses? Had he not witnessed the impossible in his time on the front lines, he would have laughed it off as an impossibility.
But he had seen Byleth’s sincerity. And he would never so easily doubt that.
“Heh. If I did not respond to the call of Gods… would I be worthy to be called the King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus?” he responded, with a pinch of irony. Byleth was rather shocked.
“...You took to the idea rather quickly.” That response earned them yet another smile from their former pupil.
“Had anyone else been the one to tell me, I would have called them mad.” Another fit of coughing. “B-but… you? You have never lied about saving people. And if the-”
Yet another fit. Byleth’s hands and arms rose to embrace Dimitri. The end was nearing - they did not have much time.
“If the Goddess… compels me to take action? Then I shall gladly answer… even if…” He clenched his teeth, fighting off another fit. “Even if… all I can provide is the wisdom of a dying old man.”
Now it was Byleth’s turn to smirk.
“No, Dimitri.” They raised one of their hands. The sensation of Divine Pulse was familiar to them, but this? This was different. It was reaching out through time and space both - an art utterly divine.
“Old age has taken enough of a toll. It shall not follow you where you are headed.”
Dimitri looked down to see his legs fading from under the blanket. A small stream of green motes was escaping from him. His time had come - but not in the way he thought.
“Professor?” He asked. Byleth looked at him with… a hint of sadness. If they ever saw each other again, it would be in a far, far future.
“Thank you. For everything.”
Dimitri. The man they had seen seek death for all and for himself. The man they had seen scream out to his troops to slaughter every last one of their enemies. The man they had pulled out of the darkness…
Now he was comforting them.
Byleth could not be prouder.
“No. Thank you, Dimitri.” They responded. “For being the greatest King Fodlan has ever seen.”
The two exchanged a look. A final smile. And then, Dimitri faded in the torrent of motes.
Byleth held back a tear as they looked at the now empty bed - the crown of Faerghus falling off the now nonexistent head of its wearer and gently falling onto the bed. The once-Archbishop caught it in their hand, and somberly walked out of the room.
As much as it pained them… they had to spread the news. King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd had finally passed.
But some comfort came to them in knowing it was just a simple white lie. For Dimitri was headed not to the underworld, but to a new world. A new purpose. A new land.
A land… called Faerûn.