Chapter Text
The rebellion had been a small one, but it didn't look that way, judging by the number of corpses left to rot in what was once a wheat field. Whichever noble had won--whoever now owned this reeking stretch of land--would harvest only mean, bitter crops for the next few years. Too much blood, too much iron, would ruin the delicate nature of the soil. And winter was always hard enough to survive in the frigid north.
But those were the thoughts of someone else. Someone raised from the cradle to consider such things. Someone who sought peace before war. Someone who valued the living.
Someone who had been dead for quite some time now.
Dimitri didn't pick his way across the battlefield: he strode across it with purpose, heedless of the crunching underfoot. One day, he, too, would fall and be no more than meat and bone on a frozen battlefield. But until that day, he had a mission to carry out. A sacred mission given to him by the dead. The taste of failure was still fetid on his tongue and only by achieving his goal--his vengeance--would that taste finally fade.
But he wasn’t simply crossing this battlefield to cross it. He was searching for someone.
Where was he? The mercenary of myth. The warrior of legend. The ashen demon said to have slaughtered legions for little more than a pocketful of gold. He had to be here: Dimitri had come chasing the rumors. But then again, he'd chased rumors before and arrived too late. Was he, perhaps, too late again?
The bloody, war-torn battlefield stretched on for miles in every direction, the view unbroken by trees or brush, only peppered with a few shattered siege weapons, and the broken-down wagons carrying weapons and supplies. It seemed the carnage here was too fresh for bandits to have gotten to it yet, but enough time had passed for the warring armies to retreat.
If there had been anyone left to retreat.
Despite the clear line of sight in all directions, Dimitri's vision was still impaired by the fog that had plagued him ever since...that day. He used to see the world in colors: blue, silver, red, gold, yellow, green, orange. But ever since the incident, he could only see the world through a haze of gray. Someone--he couldn't remember who--had told him that it was only his grief. They told him that one day color would return to him, just as taste and emotion would return. Dimitri wasn't certain of that. Four years had passed and he still could not see color, still could not taste anything other than failure. Emotion, though...yes, he had that. Rage, fury and a relentless urge to kill, to seek vengeance, yes that he had in spades. And so long as he had that, he would continue on his mission. If the rage and fury ever left him as empty as he'd felt the day he stood between his parents' graves...
No. He couldn't think of that now. Not now when he was so close to finding the means of his vengeance. So close to finding the one who could help him achieve his goals.
Something moved on the battlefield: it almost looked as if a corpse had risen from the ground. Dimitri didn't startle, he just fell still, freezing mid-step, his hand clenching around the haft of his spear. He feared no man, living or dead. If that shambling corpse wished to die a second time, Dimitri would gladly grant its wish.
The gray figure in the distance turned towards Dimitri, a threatening aura rolling outward like the herald of death. A long, strangely shaped sword was held down at their side, their dark armor splashed with blood that didn't appear to be their own, yet their face seemed clean as if it had been freshly washed. But it was the eyes that caught and held Dimitri hostage: they held a hunger, a threat, an icy cruelty that Dimitri could only aspire to. But even more powerful than the feelings those eyes evoked was the fact that they were blue. Piercing blue. Dimitri hadn't seen the color blue in...how long had it been? How long had he been seeking vengeance on his own and failing before deciding he needed a retainer? How long had it been since he decided that retainer had to be the ashen demon himself?
"Are you lost, boy?" the demon in human flesh asked, voice flat, lacking the depths that his eyes held. "Or are you looking for someone? The rot hasn't set in yet, but once it does one corpse looks a lot like a another."
"I know what you say to be true," Dimitri replied, still holding his frozen stance, fingers numb on his spear. "I have been searching the battlefields of the kingdom chasing a rumor for some time now. Tell me: are you the mercenary known as the ashen demon?"
Those piercing blue eyes bored into Dimitri's, as if they wished to pull out his soul and peruse it as reading material. Dimitri would let him, if he so desired, though he would warn him that it wasn't a pleasant story.
"I have been called that." The mercenary turned his sword, light flashing off it brighter than normal steel. "I don't know what brought you out here to this battlefield, but there is nothing for you here. I know the nobles of this kingdom think they understand war, but their understanding is colored by notions of glory and honor. There is no glory or honor to be found here, boy. Go back to your sterile training grounds and your soft noble keep if you wish to become a knight. There is nothing here but death."
"I am well aware of that fact," Dimitri said, feeling the words like a growl in the back of his throat. "This is not the first battlefield I have stood upon, nor is it the cruelest. I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and I am no boy. I am a man seeking vengeance and I am here to buy your services."
"My services?" The mercenary took a step, his cloak fluttering in the wind to reveal the small mound of bodies behind him. Soldiers he had killed? Or had the mercenary simply been sitting atop the corpses as one might sit upon a chair? Such a thought might once have chilled Dimitri to the bone, but now he only regarded it as a slightly odd thing to do. He flicked his gaze back up to the mercenary's pitiless eyes, the only spark of color in his otherwise gray world. "How old are you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus?"
That took a moment to answer. Mostly because Dimitri had lost track of time while first chasing his vengeance and failing, then searching the wastelands of battlefields in search of this very mercenary, the man who could supposedly make his vengeance a reality. How many years had passed? How many months? What was the date?
"Eighteen," Dimitri finally said, remembering the passing of midwinter. He hadn't celebrated, of course, but he'd heard the celebrations of others in his travels. There had been a lull in the noble uprisings, which had given him the chance to catch up to the last known battlefield where this mercenary had been rumored to be.
"Eighteen," the mercenary echoed. "Old enough to claim your birthright as king, as I understand it. Why not ascend the throne and simply command your armies to seek your justice for you? You don’t need my help."
"My uncle will not allow me to ascend as I am now. And I do not blame him. I have no wish to ascend to the throne while the dead demand justice. And how could they rest until their murderers are held accountable for their crimes?" There it was again: the taste of blood inside Dimitri's mouth. His spear trembled in his grip. He longed to plunge it through someone's heart and watch the life drain from their eyes. Such an action would bring neither him nor the dead any peace, but there was a catharsis in it, as Dimitri imagined doing the same to the person or people who had masterminded the attack on the royal family that tragic day in Duscur. "I have been seeking my vengeance on my own, but after all this time alone and failing, I must concede that I require some assistance. I have heard your name spoken on the battlefield with both respect and fear: you are as honorable as your price and you have yet to disappoint a contract. And I came prepared."
Dimitri reached behind his back, unhooking the bag from his belt. It was less a purse than a satchel--the type a mail carrier might wear to carry letters and packages to the next posthouse. It was heavy enough that Dimitri had fastened it around his belt four times to keep the weight of it from snapping a buckle. Once free, he tossed it at the mercenary's feet. It crashed heavily to the frozen mud, the front flap falling open to reveal brilliant golden coins, a treasury's worth of them. The mercenary barely glanced down at it before returning his gaze to Dimitri.
"I can get more if you need it," Dimitri said. "Money is no obstacle."
The mercenary stared long and hard at Dimitri. Dimitri stared right back. He was long past flinching at certain death. He almost thought he might welcome the sweet relief of death, if not for the blood price that the dead demanded of him. He would find no rest, alive or dead, until he had laid those souls to rest. After long, silent moments and a strong, cold wind, the mercenary kicked the flap of the satchel closed over the gold coins.
"It's not a question of money." Something crunched as the mercenary set his foot down. "I follow the code of a soldier: I do my killing on the battlefield. Revenge is a personal matter. I doubt you'll find any satisfaction in it anyway, but you'd take even less if I were to kill someone on your behalf."
"I do not seek vengeance for personal satisfaction!" Dimitri snapped, striding forward as the mercenary moved to step away. "I seek vengeance because the dead demand it! They do not let me sleep. They do not let me eat. They have taken everything from me that they lost when their lives were cut unexpectedly short. I am willing to give them what they demand, but I cannot do it alone and my birthright will not help me. You are a mercenary, are you not? Name your price and I will see it paid."
Blue eyes looked back, searing Dimitri's soul like fat on a fire.
"It is not about the price in gold, nor any other commodity," the mercenary intoned flatly. "Revenge never works the way you expect it will. Trust me on this. Take your time to grieve for your dead properly, then let them go. That's the only way to move on with your life and bring back the sensations you've lost."
"You do not understand!" Dimitri lunged, one foot nearly slipping on the gold coins spilled from the satchel as he grabbed at the mercenary's collar. The man called the ashen demon was startlingly shorter than Dimitri had expected, yet when he tried to yank the other man forward, he remained stalwart and unmoved. "This is not about peace for myself! I will gladly walk myself down into the eternal flames and laugh at my torment for all the ages to come, but before that happens, I must put the dead to rest! They do not deserve to linger in agony as they are right now. I care nothing for my own life, I care for nothing at all but putting their souls to rest. You may kill me yourself once this deed is done, if that is an acceptable price for you. But I will not rest until the souls of the dead know peace. With you, or without you."
Dimitri saw death inside those ice-blue eyes and challenged it. He had yet to retreat from battle, had yet to find anyone who could match him and his bloodlust. Doubtless the ashen demon was strong, but if it took a fight to get what Dimitri wanted, he would welcome the challenge. His only regret would be killing the mercenary too quickly.
The blue eyes never wavered, but after long, pent minutes passed, they tracked slowly down, glaring at Dimitri's hand on his collar. "It does seem as if you have little regard for your own life or well-being."
"I cast my own life aside the day I lost my family," Dimitri growled.
"And you seem to believe you are truly willing to pay any price."
"Name it," Dimitri breathed.
"Fine," the mercenary said calmly, coldly. "A test, then. If I asked you to kneel before me, what would you do?"
Dimitri didn't even think to question the order. If kneeling was what was required, then he would kneel. He unclenched his fingers from the mercenary's collar and braced the butt of his spear on the ground, lowering himself to both knees, heedless of the mud, blood and bone on the ground beneath him. He kept his face tilted up, challenging the mercenary to ask him for something harder.
"Toss your spear aside."
That was a much more difficult command to follow. The spear was a good one, taken from an over-turned weapons wagon on a previous battlefield. Dimitri always had need of good spears: every time he entered combat, his spear ended up breaking. But he could kill with his fists if he had to--and he had had to. So Dimitri swept his spear point-down, then cast it aside. Still, he glared up, defiantly.
"Was that difficult?" the demon asked, seemingly considering Dimitri's hesitance.
"I can always stand up again. I can always find a new spear," Dimitri replied simply. "Asking me to give up on the vengeance for the dead: that is the only thing I cannot do."
"Is that so? Or do you only think that is so?" The mercenary stepped forward, into Dimitri's space. He placed a hand on Dimitri's head: Dimitri refused to flinch at the touch. "What if my price was something you were unwilling to give?" His fingers trailed down the side of Dimitri's face, his thumb tracing the shape of Dimitri's lower lip. "What if, in exchange for my service, I requested your services?"
"I will give you whatever you ask of me." Dimitri's gaze didn't waver and neither did his resolve. "If you want my body, you can have it. I no longer feel pleasure or pain, so I have no need to refuse you anything."
"And what about your reputation? You are to be king one day, are you not? What would your subjects say if they knew you had paid such a price?"
"I already told you," Dimitri growled. "I have no intention of taking the throne. I care nothing for my reputation. Take me in the center of the city square in Fhirdiad if you wish, on a festival day so all the realm will know. I care nothing of it, so long as you assist me in completing my mission."
"Hm." The mercenary's eyes were darker now, like storm clouds carrying thunder. "I wonder if that is true. Talk is cheap, after all."
Talk was cheap; Dimitri knew that to be true. So many people had told him that his grief would pass in time, that his fury would dull, that his rage would quiet. It had not. In the four years that had passed since that tragic day, Dimitri's torment had only grown. At first, he had only seen their faces in his dreams, but then he began to see them each time he closed his eyes. And now, he saw them always: bloodied and broken, demanding that he find their murderers--their true murderers, not the innocents who bore the brunt of the civilians' outrage. If the dead could not know peace, then how could Dimitri ever think himself worthy of it? This price that was asked of him: it was far less than the torment he suffered day after day. He could endure it. He would.
Dimitri reached out, brushing aside the blood-stained tunic that fell almost to the mercenary's knees. He would not be so bold as to remove a warrior's weapons belt without express leave, but that didn't stop him from seeking out the laces on the front of the mercenary's pants. Dimitri felt no warmth, no body heat from the mercenary, but then it had been far too long since he had been this close to another person without trying to kill them and all he felt anymore was cold. The only scent in his nose was of old blood, the only emotion he felt was tempered rage. The laces came free, one after another, as Dimitri efficiently tugged them loose. He worked mostly blind, with the heavy winter battle tunic hiding his hands from sight, but it was easy enough to find the opening and pull the fabric back, to reach inside and pull out what he sought.
Dimitri never let his eyes leave the mercenary's, not even as he began to stroke the semi-interested bulge with his hand. He felt no nerves, no trepidation, no shame. If this was the price of vengeance, it was a far easier one than he had anticipated. When the mercenary gave no order either way, Dimitri lifted the tunic aside and leaned forward on his knees. Watching those stormy blue eyes, Dimitri opened his mouth, holding the aroused organ steady in his opposite hand.
"That's enough." The mercenary didn't touch him, but his voice carried the ring of authority. "You've proven you're as good as your word. Stand up. We need to discuss your terms."
Dimitri nodded, releasing his grip and standing up at once. He didn't bother dithering over whether or not to lace up the mercenary's pants: if that was what he had wanted, he would have given it as an order. He waited patiently as the mercenary calmly and deliberately put his clothing back in order, eyes just as sharp as they had been while Dimitri was on his knees.
"We have much to discuss," Dimitri said, standing at wary attention. "You do not appear to be from around here. How much do you know about the Tragedy of Duscur?"
"I did not mean to discuss this here." The mercenary turned sharply away. "Come. I know a place nearby."
Dimitri moved to follow, then halted, his eye drawn downward. The gold coins from the satchel he'd thrown down earlier had spilled out, sliding under his feet. No doubt battlefield scavengers would find them if they were left behind. But as Dimitri hesitated, the distance between him and the mercenary grew larger and larger. Finally, he stooped and retrieved his spear. Without a single glance backwards, he followed after the ashen demon.
The wheat-field-turned-battlefield seemed to roll on and on endlessly until suddenly the textured crunch beneath Dimitri's boot sounded altogether different. He glanced down, finding the low, brown scrub grass that somehow managed to survive most Faerghus winters. Or it should be brown. The color registered in his mind though Dimitri's eyes only saw it as gray. They weren't headed towards any village that Dimitri knew, and after walking the kingdom several times over in the years following the Tragedy of Duscur, he knew most of it pretty well. Not that he'd spent any time in the villages and cities: he'd been purposefully avoiding them whenever possible.
Thick forest loomed ahead, the type of dense pine and solid oak that the Faerghus kingdom was famous for. The oak were all dormant now, of course, but the pines were good at keeping the snow off. Dimitri knew that well enough by now. At least there wasn't any snow on the ground. Not that Dimitri minded the cold, but he hated the damp getting into his clothes and slowing him down. And now that he finally had the assistance he required, his patience was even thinner than usual: he strained at the bit to go and follow through on his vengeance.
But the mercenary's steady, purposeful stride was not to be hurried. The trees slowly closed in around them and still the mercenary marched on, direction never faltering. Dimitri pushed on behind him, blood rage-hot in his veins. Soon. Very soon, now, he would finally be able to move forward on his plans.
"Here." Dimitri stopped abruptly as the mercenary halted outside a log cabin in the center of the forest. There was no path, no clearing around it, as if the cabin had grown here as naturally as the trees. As they stepped inside, Dimitri recognized it as a fur trapper's cabin, mostly by its lack of furnishings. Most such cabins were empty in the winters, but were utilized in the summer and fall, when pelts were plentiful and people were looking to store up meat and fur for the winter. The only two features of this cabin were the wood-plank table pushed up against the far wall, too large to fit through the door without breaking, and a stone fireplace set in one of the side walls with a modest pile of dried wood stacked nearby. Dimitri had spent the night in more than one such empty house during his travels whenever he stumbled across one. It seemed he had something in common with this mercenary: the desire to be alone.
The mercenary strode across the hollow, wooden floorboards and leaned against the far wall of the cabin, arms crossed over his chest. Dimitri closed the door behind himself as he stepped inside. The cabin was small, but it seemed larger with nothing to take up space within it, aside from the two men. Dimitri met the icy gaze from across the room and held it, waiting. If the mercenary wanted to talk terms, then he could start the conversation.
And if he wanted his full payment, well, Dimitri was willing to do that, too.
The first question wasn't what Dimitri expected it to be: "What do they call you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus? You should know that I have no intention of addressing you as highness."
"Nor should you," Dimitri replied. "Call me Dimitri."
The mercenary dipped his chin. "You can call me Byleth."
Dimitri was almost surprised, if he could feel such an emotion. In all the rumors of this mysterious swordsman, he had never once heard a name spoken. Somehow, he had come to the belief that the man had no name.
"How is it that you are out and about in the world, Dimitri?" Byleth asked, tone even, without a hint of curiosity. "The locals I have spoken with here seem to think you've been training in seclusion ever since the deaths of your parents."
"My uncle put that story out." Dimitri didn't feel anything as he explained it. "There was a token force that attempted to stop me from leaving the castle, but that was all. I'm certain my uncle is attempting to replace me with an heir of his own, though in order to claim the throne he requires an heir that bears a Crest. Specifically, the Crest of Blaiddyd." Dimitri held up his hand and called upon the power of his Crest, manifesting the tiny symbol above his palm. "Dating back to when the Kingdom first broke away from the Empire, every ruling monarch has possessed the Crest of Blaiddyd. The citizens all think he is neglecting the Kingdom with his womanizing, but in fact it's a desperate attempt for him to cling to power."
"And that doesn't bother you?" The mercenary--Byleth--asked. "That your uncle is attempting to usurp your throne?"
"No," Dimitri replied. "I told you. I have only one goal in this life. As long as I achieve it, I care not for anything else."
Byleth stared at him over his crossed arms, long and hard. "I understand your wish for vengeance, just by the little I have heard of the Tragedy of Duscur. But hasn't that already been carried out? From what I hear, the kingdom that was Duscur is no more. Your own army marched in and laid waste to the people as well as the land. If your desire is to hunt down every last man, woman and child bearing Duscarian blood to satisfy your vengeance, I will strike you down here and now."
Dimitri's hands curled into fists that trembled. "You would be right to do so, if that were the case. What so few people seem to know--what everyone gets wrong--is that the perpetrators of my family's murder were not Duscarian at all."
Byleth's eyes sharpened, glinting dangerously. "What proof do you have of that?"
"I was there." Dimitri's own voice rang hollow in his ears. His gaze was drawn downwards, dragged down by crushing memories. "I was there that day in Duscur. I was wounded and left for dead, but I managed to survive the carnage of that day. I saw the people who murdered my parents and they were not of Duscur."
"Did you tell anyone?" Byleth asked. "Did you even try to stop the massacre that followed?"
"I did try!" Dimitri slammed his fist back against the wall behind him, feeling the shiver of the timbers. "I was young and I had been gravely injured. No one believed me! I had to fight to make it to Duscur during the rampaging, the destruction, the massacre. I commanded the people to stop! I begged them to stop! No one wanted to listen to a fourteen-year-old boy!"
Dimitri’s blood was racing, roaring in his ears until it was all he could hear. He wasn't in that empty log cabin in the middle of the woods anymore. No. He was standing in the middle of a ruined street of the Duscur nation, watching soldiers wearing the colors of the Kingdom drag innocent people out into the street and murder them. Brutally. And then laugh about it. The rage tinted his gray-colored world with red, the fury made his limbs shake, the helplessness churned his stomach sickly. Lucky he hadn't eaten anything of substance in the past few days.
"I tried to make them listen." Dimitri's throat felt tight, as if a hand were pressed against it. "I tried to make them stop. But nothing I said made any difference. So I left the castle. I left the path of reason. Those murderers will beg for their lives at my feet. And then...then the dead and I will be at peace."
Dimitri's hand ached. It took long moments for him to realize it was bleeding: he'd been clenching his fist too tight and his nails had pierced the skin. Blood oozed between his fingers, ran down his wrist then dripped to the floor. Dimitri blinked and looked up, distantly surprised to find himself surrounded by four walls and a pair of icy eyes still fixed on him. He eased his hand open slowly, muscle and bone resisting the command. He let his hand drop to his side.
"I have grown strong," Dimitri told the mercenary in a slightly calmer tone. "And there is blood on my hands. More than I care to admit. But in all the years I have been searching, I have gotten no closer to my revenge. I need to find the perpetrators behind the Tragedy of Duscur. Not just the ones who held the blades that day, but the ones who plotted it as well. I will cast each and every one of them down into the eternal flames personally. But I require the assistance of someone who can keep up with me, someone who's mind is as sharp as their sword. I have heard it said that you are the man for the job."
Dimitri met the silent gaze head-on and waited. For someone known as the ashen demon, he seemed to have more of a conscience than the average mercenary. And he had left the gold sitting in the field of death and despair. If all of that meant something deeper, Dimitri couldn't decipher it. All that mattered was his vengeance, and his ability to see it through. Even if this mercenary did no more than simply keep Dimitri alive long enough to complete his mission, then that would be enough. And if he could do more--if he had contacts or knowledge that would assist in finding the culprits--then so much the better.
Byleth shifted, his sword scraping the wooden timbers behind him. "Revenge often leads its follower down dark paths. You say there is blood on your hands, but have you ever killed someone you’ve known? Or their family? Or their reason for standing in opposition to you?"
"There have not been many," Dimitri admitted. "But there were some few. I cut them down, just as I cut down the others."
Byleth made no acknowledgement of that. "Have you considered the possibility that the person who orchestrated the Tragedy of Duscur might be someone close to you? Your uncle, for instance. He certainly benefited from your father's death the most."
"My uncle is opportunistic, but also a sniveling coward," Dimitri spat. "Even so, I did search through his hidden papers, his personal accounts, his histories of meetings. I do not think him a suspect, but if I am proven wrong, I would happily murder him as I would anyone else."
"Who else benefited from the Tragedy?" Byleth asked. "I'm not from around here, so I don't know all the noble families, nor their allegiances. All I know is that this is the bloodiest part of Fodlan right now."
"It surely is," Dimitri said with something akin to grim humor. "With my uncle distracted by his women and his need for an heir with a Crest, the nobles all think it high time to settle old grudges, or make grabs for larger territory. Few have actually succeeded, though many have died in the attempts. If there was one house that has truly risen at all since the Tragedy, it would have to be House Kleiman. They used to be nothing more than a minor house, but as their lands were located nearest to Duscur, they were the quickest to retaliate after the Tragedy. By the time I recovered from my own injuries, they were already knee-deep in Duscarian blood. For that, my uncle granted them the title of viscount and granted them the land of Duscur. It's a large jump up the chain of nobility for them, but it isn't entirely unprecedented. I cannot say as to whether the Kleiman family knew about the Tragedy ahead of time, or if they merely took advantage of it, but they certainly did profit from the subjugation of Duscur."
"I see you have put some thought into this." Byleth nodded once. "So you aren't simply a mindless beast trampling everything in your path. But why hire a retainer? What do you need me for?"
"There are places I need to go, but can't. I am too recognizable, even though the people have not seen their prince in years." Dimitri glanced down at himself, his rough clothes, his worn boots. His cloak was a wolfskin he'd never bothered to cut down, his clothing had been taken from dead soldiers on various battlefields as he traveled. He knew his hair was overgrown and at some point after leaving the castle, he'd begun growing stubble on his chin. He no longer looked himself, yet soldiers still recognized him as Prince Dimitri. "Noble houses may still open their doors to me, but they speak to me as if I am a child or a simpleton. And commoners fear me. They bow, but they do not speak. A trusted retainer might be able to get noble lords or their servants to speak more freely, or approach commoners without instilling fear in them. And as a mercenary, I would trust you to keep me alive and help me see that my vengeance is carried out. And also..."
Dimitri hesitated, feeling the sensation of being choked again.
"I am...not always able to trust myself," Dimitri confessed, haltingly. "At times, I am able to think clearly, as I am now. But others...I sometimes blink and don't know where I am or whose blood I'm covered in. I know that I lose control easily, that when I become triggered, there is no satiating my bloodlust. I have heard that among mercenaries, you are not only the most honorable, but also the strongest. The best. Part of your duties would be to reign me in when I become...unhinged."
A heavy silence, and then: "That may be the wisest thing you have said to me yet."
A hollow footstep made Dimitri look up. Byleth was crossing the room with a slow yet steady pace.
"I have my own requirements. If you wish me to accept this contract, you will agree to each and every one of them with no reservations."
Byleth took another step and suddenly Dimitri felt something he hadn't felt in years: fear.
Why? Why should he fear a man shorter than him, slighter in build and almost the same age as himself? Byleth was only a man and Dimitri had slain bigger men, stronger men, while often outnumbered. So why? Why did those blue eyes set off some primal urge to run? To hide? To roll over and bare his throat in submission?
"I am listening," Dimitri replied, holding himself tightly in check. He needed Byleth: he knew of no other that could do as he required.
"Good. First." Another step. "You will obey my every order. I don't care if your blade is inches from the throat of one you thought to be your parents' murderer, if I say hold, you will hold."
Dimitri bristled, his thirst for revenge balking. "When my mind is my own, I can agree to that. But there will be times when I am not in control of myself. When that happens, you will have to stop me."
"That brings me to my second point." Step. "If I have to physically restrain you after ordering you to stop, I will exact a payment from you." Cool fingers cupped Dimitri's chin, drawing it down until they were eye to eye. "Most likely from your body. Do you understand me?"
"I understand." Nothing Byleth could do to him mattered anyway. This body was only the shell necessary to carry out his vengeance; he had no other need for it.
Byleth studied Dimitri's face, standing close enough that Dimitri could feel his breath on his face. "And when I am taking my payment from you, you will do everything I say exactly as I say it. You will not refuse me anything. Do you understand?"
"I do." If Dimitri felt anything, it was impatience. If Byleth wanted to fuck him raw, why not just get on with it? The sooner they finished here, the sooner they could begin searching for the mastermind behind the Tragedy of Duscur.
"Good." Byleth released Dimitri's face and took a single step back. "Let's start with a test, then. Remove your clothes. Now."
Somehow, it felt less intimate to kneel before this man in a corpse-strewn battlefield than it was to completely disrobe in the privacy of a hidden wooden cabin, but Dimitri complied. The hardest part was leaning his spear against the wall and letting go of it: he didn't mind being naked so much as he minded being weaponless. But he had cast aside his weapon once before already, which made it slightly easier to release it now. His cloak went next, such as it was: a wolf skin tied with dried sinew punched through jagged, uneven holes Dimitri had made with a dagger. The sinew crackled as he tore it open to let the cloak drop. He would likely have to replace it soon. A quilted leather vest came next, a small treasure found in an overturned supply wagon from a previous battlefield, still new enough that it only bore a few scratches and signs of hard living. Next was a woolen high-collared shirt stolen off a dead man who seemed to have bled out from a leg wound, leaving the shirt relatively unscathed. Beneath that was a padded shirt, for both warmth and protection. Dimitri couldn't remember how long he'd had it, he just knew it wasn't the one he'd left the castle with. In fact, he only had two remaining articles of clothing from home: his belt and his boots, both made of thick, well-formed leather. Only those had seemed up to the task of years in the elements, slogging through mud in the spring and the frosts in the fall. He tugged his belt loose first, then crouched to a knee to unlace his boots. The leather was cracked and pliable now, but otherwise it held. He wondered when he'd last removed his boots?
Byleth stood close by, a silent presence, eyes sharp as they watched Dimitri disrobe. Dimitri knew what he was seeing: scars from badly healed wounds, bruises and scabs from more recent injuries, ribs stark against his skin, jagged and broken fingernails. He knew because he'd lived it. There was no glamour in seeking vengeance, but if Byleth desired this body, then it was his to do what he would with it.
Dimitri removed the layers of pants he wore, noting the holes and stains on each layer, knowing he needed to replace them soon. Finding pants was tricky: though there was no shortage of dead bodies, few soldiers were as tall as Dimitri, and the ones that were tended to be quite a bit larger around the middle, so it was hard to find any good fits. The leather leggings over top the padded ones had already been significantly broken-in before Dimitri took them--likely by someone who did a lot of horseback riding, based on the faded and stretched portions of leather. The padded pants beneath were stained by old sweat and blood, only some of it Dimitri's. In more than one place, the padding had been shredded by the point of a blade. Yes, he would need to replace those. He'd start keeping an eye out for soldiers that fit his build on the next battlefield he chanced across.
Dimitri straightened after removing his final layer of clothing, lifting his eyes to meet Byleth's. He didn't attempt to cover himself, didn't try to hide as those pitiless eyes swept his form from head to toe. The only challenge Dimitri faced was not immediately reaching for his spear. Not to defend himself, no, but a sturdy polearm felt much like an extension of his body and he simply felt off balance without one. He clenched his hands into fists to remind himself not to reach out and take up the weapon.
Byleth only eyed Dimitri coolly from that short distance, then said "Turn around."
Dimitri complied, feeling the shift of loose floorboards beneath his bare feet. He waited patiently for the next order, feeling neither interest nor shame. Whatever happened was all in his pursuit of justice for the dead. He heard a step behind him and braced himself to be touched. It had been so long since he'd been touched at all by anything other than bladed steel that his skin still tingled where Byleth had cupped his face. He thought he could accept whatever this mercenary--this ashen demon--might want of him, but the hard part would be in not reacting defensively. Once, years ago when he still ate at taverns, he had broken a waitress's arm when she tapped his shoulder to ask if he wanted a refill of his ale. He'd taken her to the closest healer and left enough money for her to buy a noble title for herself, but it was a guilt he still carried as a burden. Not quite as heavy as the burden he carried from that day in Duscur, but one he'd been careful enough not to repeat.
Concentrating on not reacting to a touch, it took Dimitri a moment to realize the footsteps he heard were not coming towards him, but rather walking away. Dimitri turned his head, careful not to move his feet as he hadn't been ordered to turn back around yet. Byleth crouched in front of the empty fireplace, stacking the cut logs of wood inside. As Dimitri watched, a small flame leapt from Byleth's fingers onto the logs, slowly catching and burning.
"You are a mage?" Dimitri asked, feeling something akin to surprise. No one had mentioned that before.
"I know some magic, but not enough to call myself a mage," Byleth replied. "Most of my strengths center upon the sword, though I can use most common weapons if I have the need." Dimitri felt his gut clench as Byleth reached up and unfastened his own black cloak from around his shoulders; how strange that he reacted more strongly to someone else taking their own clothes off than he removing his own before a stranger. Byleth shook his cloak out and laid it down before the fireplace. "Come sit here, Dimitri."
Ah, he'd been preparing a place for them to lay together. That made a bit of sense. Dimitri obeyed, dropping to his knees in the center of the cloak. The fire was close, yet he felt no warmth from it. But neither was he cold. A benefit, perhaps, of feeling nothing.
Byleth set a hand on Dimitri's cheek and Dimitri kept himself from reacting at all. He sought those bright eyes, the sole point of color in his world. This wouldn't be bad. It would be nothing and then it would be over. And then he would have the companion he required to continue on his path.
"You agreed to do anything I told you. Right?" Byleth asked, voice soft.
"Anything," Dimitri intoned.
"Good." Byleth's thumb stroked Dimitri's cheekbone. "Then first, I am going to place a healing on you."
Dimitri nearly pulled away, but stopped himself at the last moment. "Alright."
"And then, I am going to leave you here."
At that, Dimitri reeled backwards, pulling away from Byleth's touch. "That was not the deal!"
"It is the deal." Blue eyes flashed like ice cracking over a dark, deadly lake. "You will comply with everything I say. Without question."
"But you said--"
"I will return," Byleth said, voice even, calm. "You will trust that I will do as I say. This path you are taking me down will be a long one, I have no doubt. We will both need to trust each other to the extent that we are able. Do you agree?"
Dimitri ground his teeth together so hard that it hurt to force it open for speech. "I will trust you to keep me alive in battle."
"Then you can trust me when I say I will return," Byleth replied, tone clipped. "In the meantime." Byleth unhooked a pouch from his belt and dropped it in front of Dimitri. "Use that to clean yourself. I don't have much water, so use it sparingly." He unhooked a waterskin from his belt and held it out, waiting until Dimitri took it with both hands.
Dimitri stared down at the water, then looked up again. "I don't understand."
"You are a filthy wastrel in desperate need of a full bath and a several large meals," Byleth explained. "I'd get no pleasure from having you as you are. Clean yourself and keep the fire going. When I get back, we'll eat. Your hand." Byleth held his own out expectantly. Dimitri reached out hesitantly. He'd been fine with allowing Byleth to have his way with his body, but something about being told to wash was just...jarringly unexpected.
At the touch of their hands, Dimitri felt healing magic wash over him. It used to feel like a warm light, back when he used to accept healings after strenuous training sessions. Now it just felt like a puff of air blowing through him, neither warm nor cold. He did notice a difference in the weight on his skin, as if the freshly healed bruises and cuts had been heavy rather than painful.
"Good. Now get to cleaning yourself," Byleth instructed, already striding away. Dimitri uncorked the waterskin, then heard strange movement behind him. He looked back in time to see Byleth gathering up the clothes Dimitri had left in a heap by the door.
"You are taking my clothing?" Dimitri asked, knowing better than to challenge the mercenary.
"Yes," Byleth said shortly, draping the ragged clothes over his arm. "Don't worry. I'll leave you the spear."
That was actually a comfort. After the door pulled closed behind Byleth, Dimitri waited a beat, then got up and retrieved his spear. After lying it beside the black cloak, he sat back down and began to wash, as instructed. The pouch Byleth left behind contained all the things a soldier normally carried for personal hygiene: a block of soap, a small mirror, a razor, a tiny knife for trimming nails, drying powder, scented oil and a washcloth. Dimitri wet the cloth with the waterskin, then started by scrubbing at his face.
It wasn't that he didn't wash himself, it was just that washing in winter could be deadly. The calmer lakes and streams were frozen over and the quick-running rivers could numb a body in seconds, then drown him when he tried to swim for shore. So mostly he waited to wash in summer, when the water was gentler and the weather kinder. But now that it had been brought to his attention, he understood how his presence might be offensive to those who were able to bathe regularly all the year round.
There wasn't much water in the skin, and with the fire crackling merrily, what little there was dried quickly. Dimitri didn't shiver once as he continued his ablutions, scrubbing his entire body, running damp hands through his overgrown hair and even trimming his toenails. His fingernails were already worn-down flush to the skin, some chipped or broken, but none long enough to cut. He noted with little interest that he'd had sores on his feet, likely from wearing wet boots for far too long, but Byleth's healing had restored most of the skin there. It seemed he'd chosen his companion well for more reasons than one. After using up all the water, Dimitri set the block of soap on top of the washcloth and set both near the fire to dry. He added another log to keep the fire going, then considered the mirror and the razor. The stubble on his face was uneven and tawny in color, a child's first growth rather than a man's. He wouldn't have minded growing in a full beard, especially in winter, but his facial hair didn't comply with his wishes. The hair was useless as it was, but though he understood the mechanics of shaving, he'd never been properly taught. After long minutes of silent contemplation, Dimitri set both the mirror and the razor back inside the pouch. Byleth hadn't specifically ordered him to shave, so it must not be too important to him.
After that, all there was to do was wait. And wait. And wait.
Dimitri had half a thought to take up his spear and do a practice drill in the middle of the empty cabin, but abstained. He did stand up and walk absently around the cabin, feeling a little odd with no clothes on, but not uncomfortable. It seemed that Byleth had left a few things behind when he'd gathered up Dimitri's clothes: the wolf pelt, the boots and the belt all sat near the door, just where Dimitri had left them. More out of idleness than anything else, Dimitri picked up his boots and took them back to the cloak spread out in front of the fire. He used the soap and washcloth to clean the cracked leather, then wrung the waterskin out as much as possible to rinse the washcloth before setting it to dry again. Once that task was finished, he began walking circles around the cabin again.
It felt so strange to be idle, aimless. He'd been driven to the point of madness ever since leaving the castle. Every moment not seeking information to lead him to his revenge had been spent hunting or fishing in order to eat, finding safe shelter to sleep in, or pulling clothes and weapons off of corpses. He'd expected that after retaining the ashen demon, they would be off hunting down rumors and slaying those who opposed them; he'd never thought to be standing naked and listless in the center of a fur trapper's cabin in the middle of nowhere. It was a little...disorienting.
Doubt began to creep in as Dimitri paced the length of the cabin one time too many. What if Byleth really had taken Dimitri's clothes and simply left for good? It would have been so easy for him to return to the spot where they met in the battlefield and retrieve the satchel of gold coins and just never return here. How long did Dimitri wait before hunting him down? If that mercenary thought Dimitri would be deterred from vengeance by his nudity, then he was dead wrong. But Dimitri would hate to have to track down and murder the mercenary, if only because it would take time away from his search for the perpetrators behind the Tragedy of Duscur. So he waited and continued to pace, trying to find it in himself to trust that Byleth would return.
The cabin's windows were boarded up for the winter, as glass was too precious a commodity for most commoners, let alone seasonal cabins, but Dimitri registered the setting of the sun in the silence of the woodland creatures and the dropping of the temperature. Not that he felt the cold on his skin, he just noticed the difference when standing next to the fire versus standing across the cabin from it. He didn't shiver or consider putting on his wolf pelt. His only concern was Byleth's return.
It happened on about the hundred and twentieth circuit around the cabin. Dimitri rounded the corner by the door and looked up towards the fireplace to find one of his tormentors standing there, wounds still bleeding, eyes empty and lifeless, but accusing all the same.
"Soon," Dimitri said, his voice croaking and rough. "Soon, my friend. I made a contract today for the assistance I needed. Soon I will crush the skulls of the ones who did this to you."
The figure's head tipped precariously to the side, the motion sickening to watch as it widened the gash across its throat. The ghostly image said nothing, but continued to stare challengingly at him.
"I know I have made you wait," Dimitri went on, pleading. "But I swear to you, it's close now. Now that I have the means to ask questions of those who know--of those who will tell--"
A cold too sharp to be real ghosted up Dimitri's spine, making him turn on his heel. His father stood behind him, holding his own head in both hands. Though his eyes were empty and his mouth slack and dribbling blood, his expression was one of disappointment and regret, as if he never should have charged Dimitri with this task in the first place.
"I have been trying!" Dimitri protested, defensive. "I have been looking for a way and now I have found it! Please, it will only be a matter of time before--"
A hollow scraping sound like nails on bone had Dimitri spinning around. There, in a distant corner to the cabin, was his stepmother, crouched on her knees and weeping into her hands. She bore no injuries, though her dress was tattered, ragged and filthy. Dimitri used to think it was a blessing that he hadn't seen her body that day, only the rear of her carriage disappearing as it was chased off the road, but in all the years since she had kept her face hidden from him, only weeping endlessly. And somehow that hurt more than the accusing stares, the broken limbs, the dripping wounds. Dimitri felt his heart break as he staggered towards her.
"Mother...Mother." His heart in anguish, he silently begged for her to look up at him. "I will find them, I swear it! Bear it only a little longer, please. When I lay their head at your feet, will you show me your smile once more? Please, Mother, I--"
The patter of running bare feet stopped Dimitri cold. His stomach clenched and he fought the urge to retch.
"Please," he moaned. "Please, not you, too. I can't--I can't bear it! Please!"
A shadow flickered in the corner of his eye, calling for him to turn. Dimitri tried to resist, knowing what he would see and how it would break him. How it broke him even now, without even turning to look fully.
"I tried to save you," Dimitri said, covering his face with his hands. "I tried! I could do nothing for the others, but you—you, I tried...and I failed."
He tried resisting the urge to look, but the dead were demanding and Dimitri was helpless before them. He turned, slowly, the last of his strength giving out as he dropped to his knees. A Duscarian child hid in the shadows, dead eyes wide and pleading. Dimitri felt his gorge rise, his eyes burned though he knew from experience that no tears would fall.
"I know! You're right! You're right!" Dimitri was on the floor now, choking on the lump in his throat. "I should never have interfered! I should have left you alone! If I hadn't tried to save you--if I hadn't tried to be a hero, then maybe--maybe you wouldn't be--you wouldn't--"
The acid in his stomach surged up his throat and Dimitri was powerless to stop it. His vision went white with pain, his entire body shaking as if struck by lightning. His grief was as tangible as a storm, raging inside him and tearing down what little there was left of him. Death was his only release from his pain, but to seek that before vengeance would be selfish. No, he owed it to these suffering dead to end their torment before he ended his own.
But still, the pain...
Dimitri shut his eyes, willing the dead to go away. He didn't need to see them to know they were there, to know what they wanted from him, to know that every moment he delayed, their suffering grew and grew. But he saw them still, even with his eyes closed, even when he ground the heels of his hands against his eyelids. He raked at his face, blunt nails tearing at thin skin and wiry hairs. If he tore his eyes out, would that be enough? He could still seek vengeance as a blind man, couldn't he?
"Dimitri."
"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" Dimitri roared, mad with grief and with pain. "Do the dead now speak? Why must you torment me so!"
"Dimitri!" Hands grabbed his wrists and Dimitri fought on instinct, throwing his weight backwards, then whipping his head forward to butt his attacker. Neither tactic worked and that put him into a panic. Was his attacker actually stronger than he was? No one had ever been stronger than Dimitri before. How would he ever finish the revenge of the dead if he met his end here?
"Open your eyes!" Dimitri was being shaken, hard. "You vowed to follow my every order, remember? Now open your eyes, Dimitri!"
That's right, he had vowed, hadn't he? But to whom, and for what? Where was he right now? What had he been doing?
Awareness came back slowly, as if waking from a dream. Dimitri was on his knees in the center of the empty cabin, naked and gasping, with every breath tasting like blood and the scent of fetid death in his nose. His wrists were held in a painfully tight grip, blue eyes sharp as icicles piercing his own.
Ah yes, I remember now, Dimitri thought, coming back to himself. The mercenary. The one I hired. Byleth. He's returned.
Dimitri tried to speak, but it came out as a cough.
"Breathe," Byleth commanded. "Focus only on breathing. Nothing more."
It seemed such a simple order, yet so difficult to carry out. Dimitri held each in-drawn breath, then released it slowly, trying to think of that action and nothing more. Slowly, the taste of blood left his mouth, the stench of death dissipated. How merciful it felt to go back to tasting, smelling and feeling nothing. Nothing was so much better than reliving past horrors.
"Are you with me, Dimitri?"
"Yes." His voice still scratched at his throat like an animal trying to escape, but it didn't hurt. Nor did the grip on his wrists, which hadn't relaxed a single iota. "Yes, Byleth, I am here with you."
"Good." Byleth slowly let Dimitri's arms go. He saw the red marks on his skin but felt nothing at the release. "Stay still a moment."
Dimitri started to ask "what", then stopped himself as Byleth set a hand on his forehead. He felt the familiar flash of healing magic run through him. Curiously, he touched his face and was surprised to find blood on his fingertips.
"Does this happen often?" Byleth asked, his tone low and reasonable as he used a handkerchief to clean Dimitri's face.
"Often enough," Dimitri answered, holding still though he longed to wipe his own face. "I can't always recall afterwards."
Byleth nodded as if he'd expected as much. He sat back on his heels and tucked the handkerchief away. "I'm sorry that took longer than expected and your clothes are still too wet to wear. I did bring back dinner, however. We should eat it before it gets cold."
"Dinner?" Dimitri repeated. "And why are my clothes wet?"
Byleth stood and walked to the corner where the cabin's table was. He dragged it across the floor towards the fire as he spoke. "There is a farmhouse not far from here. I paid them to launder your clothes, but I couldn't wait for them to dry fully. They insisted on sending me away with some dinner. It's humble fare, your princeliness, but somehow I think you'll manage."
"Why?" Dimitri asked, watching as Byleth hefted a tied sack dropped in the doorway over to the table. A covered basket also sat by the door, the covering cloth steaming faintly. "Why wash my clothes? Why bring me food?"
"Because your clothes were disgusting. Probably doing more to make you ill than keep you warm." Byleth was draping Dimitri's clothes over the table as one might hang clothes on a line to dry. "As for the food, you are clearly starving. Go and help yourself. I'll eat whatever you leave. And remember: you vowed to follow my every order."
Dimitri bit back a protest by physically biting his lip. He stomped over to the basket and carried it to the black cloak by the fire. He'd thought the bargain with Byleth was in regards to following his orders on the battlefield, or in giving him his body. He hadn't considered Byleth might order other things, like "Wait here with no clothes" and "eat what I bring you." This was probably better, or at least healthier, but Dimitri still balked at it. He sat down in the middle of the cloak and pulled the cloth off the basket of food.
Steam burst upwards in a fog. The basket held a seasoned roast chicken, the skin evenly cooked and crackling. To the sides were bread rolls, cooked potatoes and even a small bottle of milk. There were no plates or utensils, so Dimitri simply ripped a leg off the chicken with his hand. He watched Byleth finish laying out his clothes to dry as he ripped the meat off the bone with his teeth.
"I also bartered for a sewing kit," Byleth said, frowning over Dimitri's patched and torn padded leggings. "If I thought we might find a more suitable pair of these for you elsewhere, I'd replace them, but your size is a hard one to match and I don't want you to catch cold. Now." Byleth sat down opposite Dimitri on the cloak, the basket of food between them. "What, exactly, is your next move?"
"My next move?" Dimitri repeated. He'd been hunting for this mercenary for so long he'd almost forgotten the next step of his plan. He tossed the chicken bone into the fire and tore a chunk of breast meat off the bird. "Duscur. I want to go back to Duscur."
Byleth studied his face for a moment before reaching into the basket and taking a bread roll that steamed. "What do you hope to find in Duscur?"
"Survivors." The word tasted like hope. "The Kleiman family is rumored to have stamped out all who once lived there, but Duscur is not so small a nation as most people seem to think. And I have heard of pockets of survivors living in the hills and caves of what was once their land."
"If you did find survivors, then what?" Byleth asked.
"I want to find anyone alive who was there that day of tragedy," Dimitri explained tonelessly. "I want to know what they saw. Among the ones who attacked the royal procession, there were a few Duscarians, but most of the assassins were north men, men of the Kingdom. Or of Fodlan, at least. If I can find any of the Duscarian dissidents who attacked us, I need to know who paid them, who told them when to attack and who to target. Barring that, I would ask any other witnesses if they saw any house sigils, either on rings or pendants, or even on sword hilts. I need to know what families were there that day, the ones who came for blood. I need to find a connection, a link in the chain, so I can follow it back to the mastermind."
Byleth plucked his roll apart, eating it piece by piece. "Do you recall seeing any house sigils yourself? You said you were there that day."
"My memory of that day is...selective." Dimitri shook his head. All he remembered were the bodies of his family, his friends, his protectors. "I have tried to recall faces, names, colors and symbols, but I cannot. It is all lost in a bloody fog."
Byleth nodded. "Why go back now? Why didn't you go back before?"
"I could not." Dimitri's fingers felt greasy. He reached for a roasted potato and tore it in half in his hands before biting into it. "The Kleiman family knows my face and they guard the passage into Duscur. My uncle has asked them to return me to the castle if they find me attempting to slip into Duscur. I need help getting past the guards."
"Hm." Byleth finished his roll and leaned back on one hand. "How does your uncle maintain the illusion that you are safely at home, training to be king one day when at least one noble family knows you to be...this?" Byleth waved his hand in Dimitri's direction.
"A handful of noble families know," Dimitri replied, not at all offended by Byleth's implication. "It's all an illusion for the common folk. And it won't matter anyway. My uncle will one day sire the heir he needs and the realm will forget all about me. That is the way it is meant to be."
"Do you feel no obligation to your people?" Byleth asked. "You are their rightful king, Dimitri."
"I have no right to that throne," Dimitri responded, feeling the darkness close in on his vision once again. "I did nothing to save the life of my father, my stepmother, no one. I was powerless. And the powerless do not deserve to rule."
Silence followed, broken only by the popping of the fire. Then: "Why did you not shave earlier?"
"What?" Dimitri asked, taken aback. He touched his jaw, noting the rough stubble beneath his fingers. "I...do not know how. I didn't think it mattered."
Those blue eyes were deep, assessing. "Would you like to learn?"
"Does it matter?" Dimitri asked. "I fail to see how it aids in my search to find the one who ordered the Tragedy of Duscur."
"I thought you might be more comfortable after a clean shave," Byleth said, shrugging. "But it is winter, so keep it as you will." Byleth stretched widely, then checked a sleeve draped off the edge of the table. "Still damp. I'm afraid you'll have to sleep in the nude, Dimitri."
"I assumed as much," Dimitri replied, cleaning his fingers on the cloth from the basket. The food was all gone, though Dimitri didn't recall seeing Byleth eat more than a single bread roll. Even the jar of milk was empty. "Will you take your payment from me now? What would you have of me?"
"Not tonight, I think," Byleth said, covering a yawn. "I'm far too full for such activity. But go and fetch that sorry pelt you call a cloak, will you? It can at least serve as a blanket for tonight."
"Fine," Dimitri said rising from Byleth's cloak. He grabbed the wolf pelt and dragged it back, waiting as Byleth packed away the basket and the items left out from his cleaning pouch from earlier. The pelt wasn't big enough to cover the both of them--wasn't even enough to cover Dimitri completely--but it seemed Byleth intended to sleep close to the fire, so it wasn't entirely necessary. Byleth patted the spot beside himself and Dimitri took a seat.
"Do you often have nightmares?" Byleth asked. He didn't undress, he merely set his sword down beside Dimitri's spear before tossing a few more logs onto the fire.
"Only when I fall asleep," Dimitri replied, watching the flames dance and flicker.
He flinched when Byleth looped an arm around his waist and pulled him down to lie next to him.
"Not tonight, you won't," Byleth vowed. "Not tonight."