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Watching Dimitri charm Garreg Mach makes Felix sick.
The house leader of the Blue Lions acts every inch the prince he should be; his manner is measured and courtly; he is always well-arrayed; and he excels in his schoolwork. On the training field, he wins with grace, and takes his losses with equal equanimity. If he is more distant than the companion of Felix’s childhood, isn’t that the natural order of things? He is a prince in mere formality, after all; in a year’s time, he will be king, and carry the fate of the whole land on his person.
Sometimes Dimitri plays the part well enough to make Felix doubt his memories; those red-soaked moments at Dimitri’s side as they faced the southern rebels, and the wild keen of the Boar Prince’s voice as he rode down their foes, spilling Fhirdiad blood against the stones of the rebel’s city.
After, His Highness had taken pains to avoid him for the remainder of the campaign; whether that had been shame or courtesy, Felix could not say.
But now, Dimitri seems to have every intention of smoothing the matter over.
It would be easier if Dimitri were honest. Honest cruelty , Felix could stomach. It’s something in the way he sweeps the others under his wing that gets under Felix’s skin; that regal, self-effacing manner that invites trust. In the span of weeks, Felix has seen him take Sylvain back into his confidence, coax bashful Ashe into familiarity, charm Annette, endear Mercedes, letting none see what Felix had seen.
Dimitri has even managed to draw a laugh from still, cold Professor Byleth.
Only Ingrid remains cool with him, and the little common ground Felix could have found is treacherous with a yawning grief neither of them cares to share. Seeing Ingrid get misty-eyed and radiant over Glenn, making a saint-statue idol of his brother’s noble death feels like being slowly throttled.
One cold spring morning, the Blue Lions rise early, woken from their beds by the steady rap of Professor Byleth’s hand and their measured voice calling their class to muster. They dress and pack in the dark, and ride out into the murky predawn, to chase a cadre of bandits in the forests to the north of Garreg Mach, a handful of Western Church deserters who had taken to attacking merchant caravans and pilgrims’ convoys.
The route is a long ride, taking them along the banks of the river and then up into the cliffs above it; by the time Garreg Mach has disappeared into the trees, the sun has climbed up over the cliffs, and shines down on them intermittently, still shaded by spring-heavy clouds.
En route, Dimitri circulates easily through the Blue Lions, sharing a few words or a pointer with one before flitting to the next with a smile. He carries himself with an air of quiet gravity he’s mastered in the two years since Felix last saw him; Felix’s teeth ache just looking at him. The prince resembles nothing so much as some carefully-contrived puppeteer’s creation, a facsimile of restraint and chivalry over the creature beneath.
Dedue rides beside him, as always. Dedue on horseback always brings to mind Glenn, and how he took to riding as he took to every skill of chivalry — like a fish to water. Bulwark that he is on the ground, a chevalier he is not.
“Felix,” Dimitri calls to him. “I look forward to seeing your new sword in action.”
The sword, fine Almyrian craftsmanship, had come to Felix via courier, a gift from his father; the same courier had brought letters for Dimitri bearing Rodrigue’s seal, no doubt more endless talk of politicking, and perhaps Dimitri’s crowning, which had been delayed only by his education. The sword had been Rodrigue’s only message to his son; the lord of Fraldarius had learned that no letter would be answered.
That suited Felix in the same measure that it stung. Rodrigue’s words are useless; let him pour them in Dimitri’s ears as much as he wishes.
Felix meets those guileless blue eyes with flat disdain. He’s aware of the others’ eyes on him; Dedue disapproving, Sylvain already braced to diffuse whatever situation might come about.
“Go away,” Felix says. “I don’t have time to talk to animals.”
Sylvain winces audibly; Dedue glares.
There’s a flicker of something in Dimitri’s eyes, but he merely smiles. “Whatever pleases you,” he says, flippant, and spurs his horse into a trot, reining in alongside Byleth.
Felix watches Dimitri chat idly with the professor, watches as he runs a hand through his hair, and gives Byleth that self-effacing smile as he gestures to the sword they wear at their hip. Byleth’s lips twitch in what might be a smile.
“Felix,” Sylvain murmurs.
“Don’t start,” Felix snaps. “We have a job to do. There’s no time for talk.”
“Sure,” Sylvain says easily. “I get it. He scared you, then.” — No, you don’t, Felix thinks — “But all’s well now, right?” When Felix doesn’t say anything, Sylvain adds — “He’s nothing like —“
“Miklan, I know. One man can be different than another, and still be a beast.”
Sylvain blows a out a breath. “You’re going to have to figure out how to deal with him, sooner rather than later. He’s our prince.” There’s something of warning in his voice; and Felix gets the idea he might have said more, if they weren’t riding out in the open.
“He’s our prince. Everyone else looks at him like he puts the sun in the sky,” Felix says. “He’ll survive it.”
Sylvain rolls his eyes to that, and changes the subject, beginning to prattle of some girl he had met down in the town, and escapades involving her brother’s disapproval.
Still, Felix watches the prince.
One day, this man will be king. And the fools here will pledge him their lives with no compunction, and hold to those vows regardless of what price they would pay.
Had the Saints ever invented a concept quite so damned as honor?
Desperation, perhaps. The kind of desperation that made Rodrigue willfully ignorant to the creature his king’s son had become, because Dimitri is the last.
As the morning stretches on, the ground beneath their horses’ feet grows rocky and steep; they leave the riverbank they had been tracing, to ride up into the cliffs. The roar of the water fills the narrow canyon below, drowning the Blue Lions’ voices and offering a blessed end to conversation.
Still, it’s a relief when the fight starts. They have a split-second warning; Byleth suddenly sitting straighter in the saddle, their gaze snapping to the trees. “Ambush!” they call.
The Blue Lions scramble to their positions.
“Felix!” Byleth cries, motioning for him and Dimitri to move to the front of their column. Felix jumps from his horse; he’s more comfortable fighting on foot, whatever the knight’s manuals say. After a moment, Dimitri is beside him, lance in hand, and they charge the deserters emerging from the underbrush as one.
When Byleth requires them to spar on the training grounds, fighting Dimitri feels like fighting a man half-chained — no, a dog, who has not been given his head to bite.
Stop holding back , Felix would snarl, and Dimitri would only smile.
Here, Dimitri is anything but restrained. He fights in a poorly-contained whirlwind of violence, with blows of his lance that sweep opponents off their feet and break bone with their sheer force.
The glow of his Crest flickers to life in the sinews of his body and he strikes down an opponent, then seizes their companion’s lance and throws the man across the clearing with a flick of his wrist.
Directly into Felix’s path. He has to scramble backwards, off-balance, fending off strikes from his own opponents with clumsy batting that almost knocks his own sword from his hand, and he has to step backwards to give himself a moment’s reprieve.
For a moment, Felix and Dimitri are back-to-back; Dimtri’s shoulder brushes Felix’s back, and he starts so badly he almost lets a blow past his guard.
“Careful!” Dimitri calls.
“Watch it!” Felix hisses, stepping around the bandit’s guard to deliver a swift final blow to his chest.
A swordswoman emerges from the underbrush, with a head of cropped bluejay-black hair and the tattered uniform of a holy knight. She moves with the confident prowl of a true warrior.
Mine. Felix surges forward, without heed, confident in Dimitri’s ability to hold his own.
They fight, the roar of the river below accompaniment to the clash of blade on blade.
The rhythm of the fight hums through him; each time his opponent’s blade flashes out, he’s no longer there. He’s untouchable, he’s dancing through the volley of blades without any of them touching his skin, he’s —
Walking into an ambush. He sees it, as soon as his opponent’s sword wavers, disengaging and retreating back with a glance back. They’ve maneuvered him out of the underbrush, and onto the cliffs.
Felix spins, to find three bandits behind him, with axes ready, and no allies in sight.
Wolves , he thinks, snarling a curse. They were no match for the full strength of the Blue Lions; so they had separated them, and drawn him away, baiting him with his own confidence. It’s a simple trick, and he should have spotted it earlier.
Behind him, a long fall to the river; in front, the wall of blades.
Felix lets his weight fall on his back foot, his Crest burning in his blood, his eyes flickering from the pale eyes of his attackers to the blades in their hands. There’s no way out but through.
He has steeled himself to pyrrhic victory when Dimitri bursts in like a terrible, avenging saint; he cuts through the bandits’ line in a single strike of his lance and welter of gore, Crest-magic burning brand-like in his wake.
He’s beautiful; he’s a force in and of itself, unstoppable, and it seems inevitable that they’ll win.
Then, a javelin connects with a sickening crack that sends Dimitri stumbling backwards, droplets of blood spilling across the earth. His shoulder knocks into Felix, and Felix stumbles backwards.
Before Felix can even think, he’s falling. The world fractures to a handful of impressions; a hand catching desperately at his shirt, his foot slipping, and the whole world tilting on its axis, the rushing black water taking the place of the spring-gray sky.
No , he thinks, as Dimitri goes over the edge with him.
Felix surfaces, coughing and choking and cursing His Highness’s name, pure panic white-hot in his veins.
A flash of blue in the water catches his eye; Dimitri, facedown in the current, the dark water blooming red around him.
Dimitri is a beast, but even beasts can bleed.
Felix claws his way through the water, struggling to keep sight of Dimitri’s cloak and the wan blonde of his hair. The silt-taste of river water is thick on his tongue, in his nose, in his eyes, choking and blinding him, but he fights through the current with single-minded purpose until, at last, his fingers brush fabric that must be Dimitri’s cloak.
He grabs it and clings to it, even as the river dashes him against stones and through snarled tangles of branches. The moments stretch long, until the whole world is the horrible cataclysmic rush of the water and the struggle to gasp for air.
In a lull, he manages to wrap an arm around Dimitri and pull him upwards, until both their heads break water and he is finally able to get his feet under him.
They’ve been swept downstream; how far, he can’t tell. The world is a sick, dizzying blur of blues and grays. The cold of the river threatens to sweep over and drown him, even as his head bobs at the surface.
Felix drags Dimitri towards the shore. Wisps of blood bloom in his wake, incarnadine blossoms across the surface of the water.
He staggers to the edge of the water, Dimitri a dead weight, and pulls the prince from the river.
In Fhirdiad, they would have died in the cold, dark water, and that would have been that; two noble houses cut to the roots in a fight against glorified bandits.
The waters of Garreg Mach are far more merciful. Felix collapses to his hands and knees, choking on river water, choking on laughter, teetering on the edge of hysteria. The prince is pale and still beneath his hands, the smudge of blood from the gash at his temple the only color to his body. He’s not breathing.
“Stupid,” Felix snarls, grabbing at Dimitri’s shoulder to roll him onto his side. His fingers are half-numb, slow to obey. “That was stupid. Who do you think you are?” He strikes the prince in back, once, twice.
Finally, Dimitri coughs, and chokes up water, then takes a desperate, blessed breath. His pupils are pin-pricks; his eyes fall shut as soon as he’s through coughing, and he slumps back against Felix.
“No you don’t, Boar,” Felix snarls, yanking at Dimitri’s shoulder to keep him upright. His eyes flutter, but slip closed again. “Are you really so much of a coward?”
How long before the others find them? Surely not long before the Prince’s absence is noted; and Sylvain will be the first to look for Felix. But he can still hear the clash of weapons and the sizzle and crack of magic in the distance; the fight sounds far from won.
They are on their own, then, until the fight ends or he can make a run for a healer. Dimitri is trembling under his hands, limp and deathly pale. Blood runs down his face, from the nasty gash on his temple, too bright in the gray world around them.
Felix eases him back to lying down, and tears a strip from the edge of his own shirt to staunch the bleeding. The wound is jagged and ugly. “How could you be so stupid?” Felix pulls a vulnary from his belt, uncorking it with his still-stiff hands, and raising it to Dimitri’s lips.
“Felix,” Dimitri slurs.
“I would have been fine .” Felix avoids his gaze; the prince is glassy-eyed and weak, his mask of propriety cracked. That is easier to deal with when it’s the other Dimitri beneath, the creature of violence. “Drink,” he commands.
Dimitri’s eyes flutter again; he manages a swallow, and then another, before he coughs and starts to choke again. Panicked, Felix scrabbles to haul him back up to sitting, and holds him steady as he pitches forward and chokes up the potion along with more river water.
Glenn had protected the Boar in the midst of a violence so great no one will ever describe it to Felix; if he dies now, to a river and a foolish bunch of unskilled cowards, it would be a waste.
Beads of hot blood drip down Dimitri’s brow, wetting Felix’s fingertips in slick red. The magic of the potion had no time to take effect. As soon as Dimitri stops coughing, Felix brings the vulnary flask to his lips again. Dimitri shuts his eyes, trying to turn his face away. “Glenn died for you,” Felix hisses, ruthless. “You don’t get to throw that away.”
Dimitri hisses a few garbled syllables that might have been a curse, but turns his head back to drink.
Felix’s rhetoric does not prove persuasive enough to stop Dimitri from miserably retching it up a few moments later, with more river water. Blood is still dripping down his face, diluted silvery pink amidst the water, and he swoons, almost slipping from Felix’s arms. Panic flutters against Felix’s breastbone, wild as a wasp-stung horse; Sylvain should be here. Or Mercedes. Or Byleth. Or anyone else.
“Your Highness! Felix!” a familiar voice calls, uncharacteristic worry bleeding into every syllable.
“Dedue,” Felix says, too quietly. The Goddess has a funny way of answering his prayers. He swallows the thorn-tangle of shame and pride lodged in his throat. “Dedue! Here!”
The prince’s second appears from the trees, looking as if he has just torn through half the forest. Of course, he wouldn’t be far from Dimitri’s side. He never is, these days. His gambeson is scuffed and sweat-stained, but he looks unhurt; that, at least, bodes well for the state of the battle, Felix notes dully.
“What happened ?” Dedue is at Dimitri’s side in a flash, kneeling beside them. He takes the vulnary from Felix’s numb fingers before he can protest. “Are you trying to drown him?” He presses two fingers to Dimitri’s throat, pursing his lips as he counts the beats of his pulse.
“I’d like to see you do better,” Felix hisses. “You’re just as useless as me, unless you’ve discovered faith recently.”
The lines of Dedue’s face go tight in anger, but he doesn’t acknowledge the insult. “What happened ?” he asks again. He’s not looking at Felix, his eyes still fixed on the rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest. “I saw you go over the edge.”
Felix burns at his tone, at everything implied there. That it is inconceivable that His Highness could have come to such harm, without ill intent or idiocy on Felix’s part. And the worst part of it is it isn’t wrong. “I had them, but the Boar took a hit for me,” Felix says.
“Hm.” Dedue says.
“I know ,” Felix spits. “He’s a fool.”
Dedue looks down at Dimitri, and takes a long breath. “You should not have let him be wounded on your watch.”
“I’m not his keeper. Where were you ?” Felix says, sensing weakness. “Since you fancy yourself his sword and shield .”
Frustration runs raw through Dedue’s voice. “He slipped away to save you from running yourself into an ambush.”
“You should have yanked him back, then!” Felix snaps. “You know,” he hisses. “You know he’s — he’s— a beast.”
“You call me a dog,” Dedue says, still cold. “I suppose then in your eyes, we are a matched set.”
Felix bares his teeth in frustration. “You’re not — you’re — yourself,” he bites out at last. “You choose to make yourself his dog.”
That finally makes Dedue lift his head, and for a moment, Felix thinks they’re about to come to blows; he can feel the fight singing through his blood, invigorating, lighting and burning away the sickening pall of shame as fuel. A fight is something he can face.
But then Dedue’s face shutters, something like pity replacing the brief flash of anger before his attention shifts entirely back to Dimitri. “This is foolish.”
Felix could still hit him. Until Dimitri coughs. “Dedue?” he rasps. They both turn to him, like damn puppets.
And of course, it’s Dedue’s name on his lips. His right hand. That had been Glenn’s place, by right. The shield of Faerghus. Felix’s right, now, not that he cares for such things.
“Your Highness,” Dedue says, going to Dimitri’s side. He presses a hand to his chest, gently keeping him from sitting up. “Lie still. You’re wounded.”
“Felix—” Dimitri says, and coughs. “Felix, he was —” He tries to push himself upright, but has to curl over, pressing a hand to his head with a gasp.
“Felix is here,” Dedue says, his voice carefully neutral.
“I’m fine, idiot,” Felix says. “You didn’t do anything but make a fool of yourself with that stunt.” He wraps his arms around himself, ignoring the cold-trickle of revulsion and something worse, something bitter that Dimitri’s concern brings. It feels like kicking a dog, and seeing it whine and then run back to your hand.
Dimitri has the gaul to smile, with that puppyish, vacant expression of his, as if he’s forgotten each time what lies between them, as if he expects one day Felix will just forget too and greet him once more as a friend. “Good,” he says, and then the animation seems to drain from him; that was all the strength he had. “I am sorry, I…” He brings a hand to his head, as he slumps against Dedue.
Dedue is ready, with a vulnary of his own.
Maybe it’s some cold, bitter comfort that Dedue can’t get Dimitri to keep the potion down either; he chokes it up a minute after he’s swallowed it, and this time it can’t just be the after-effects of half-drowning,
“Something’s wrong ,” Felix says, hating how petulantly helpless his voice sounds, even to his own ears. He’s seen this before; once, during a practice tilt when they were young, Sylvain had taken a blow badly, fallen from his horse, and hit his head so badly that he had been dizzy and sick for days.
Dedue meets his eyes, and jerks his head in a nod, a worried grimace crossing his features. “Yes. I don’t think we’ll be able to remedy it without magic.” He rests a hand on Dimitri’s back as he coughs; when Dimitri’s done, he collapses back against Dedue’s chest, with no seeming care to who saw him.
Dedue, who can touch Dimitri without cringing.
Felix can’t tell if it’s the river water he swallowed, or the idea of touching the Boar that makes giddy nausea sweep over him. The rush of combat, the fear of the prince dying beneath his hands has gone, leaving him cold and trembling.
Dedue lifts the blood-soaked wad cloth once more to Dimitri’s head, to staunch the fresh flow of blood. Despite himself, Felix can’t look away, can’t pull his eyes away from the gentle way Dedue touches Dimitri. That’s how he always is; with the prince and with his plants. He never touches anyone else, outside of sparring or snatching Ashe or Annette from the jaws of harm.
Sylvain can do that too, can make himself soft and kind in the face of pain. It always just makes Felix want to break things.
“He’s too cold,” Dedue says, breaking Felix’s reverie. “We need to warm him.” He shoots Felix a suspicious look, and Felix looks away, flushing. “I will gather wood. You will watch him.”
“I can gather wood,” Felix says, half-hearted, as he watches Dedue unclasp Dimitri’s sodden cloak, and then his jacket. How had he hauled the prince to shore, with so much heavy fabric?
“No. You are in shock,” Dedue says, as he pulls off his own cloak to wrap around Dimitri’s shoulders. “If you stand up, you will fall over, and you are in no condition to fight if anyone comes down from the cliffs.” He presses the cloth into Felix’s hands. “Staunch the bleeding. Keep him alive. I trust you are able to follow simple instructions, even given your hatred of him.”
“I don’t — whatever. I can do it,” Felix says, snatching the cloth and pressing it to the wound on Dimitri’s brow. “Go.”
Dedue does, with no more fussing. Why he trusts Felix to watch over his precious prince, Felix can’t fathom.
The minutes crawl by, as Felix watches the rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest, and the little shivers that run through him. He shifts closer, tucking Dedue’s cloak more tightly around Dimitri, and lifting the vulnary once more to his lips; he’s careful this time, pouring only a little, and resting his fingers on the chill skin of Dimitri’s throat to coax him into swallowing. He can feel the slow beat of Dimitri’s pulse beneath his fingers, the rasping rhythm of his breath.
I could kill him. The thought crawls thick and aching through Felix’s mind, in time with the frantic beat of his heart and the twinges of pain from his limbs and ribs that are beginning to break through the focus of battle. Dedue would kill him, of course, but maybe that would be for the best —
Felix recoils, and stumbles to his feet, clapping his hands over his own mouth. Bile surges in the back of his throat; he can’t help the strangled sound that escapes him. All he can think of is putting distance between himself and the prince.
He finds himself a few paces away, bent over, breathing hard.
“Felix?” Dimitri’s voice reaches his ears. Weak. Laced with concern. Affection, even.
Felix closes his eyes. Dimitri sounds like his friend. The boy who had been the first to take him seriously, who had greeted him with an open hand and a ready smile and a seat at the table of his childhood schemes.
“Felix!”
Dimitri rouses, surging upwards and half-clawing himself free of Dedue’s cloak. Even weakened, he’s monstrously strong; he’s bent over and clutching his head before Felix can fully turn around.
“Felix!” Dimitri says, panicked.
“I’m here,” Felix manages.
“”Good,” Dimitri says. “What — what’s happened?”
“You were hurt,” Felix says, making himself turn and start walking back to Dimitri.
“Lie down,” Felix snaps, pulling at Dimitri’s shoulder. Dimitri is still shaking under his hands.
That calms Dimitri, though he’s drawn and gray with pain. “Good,” he says, again. “Felix, I —“
Whatever stilted outpouring of emotion that might begin, Felix doesn’t want to hear it. “Be quiet,” he says. “You’re just going to hurt yourself.”
Dimitri shudders, glaring at Felix through slotted eyes and trying to pull the cloak around himself with shaking fingers. When Felix leans forward to pull the fabric around him again, his hand brushes Dimitri’s shoulder; Dimitri leans into the touch, and as he goes to lie back down, his head comes to rest in Felix’s lap.
Felix freezes, half-sick with fear. If he moves, he’ll hurt Dimitri; if he touches him, the hurt will be inevitable. He’s not like Dedue, with his great, foolish reserve of gentleness.
“Felix,” Dimitri whispers, just like he would when they were children, and were the last ones awake. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“For what ?” Felix snarls.
“I… “ Dimitri begins, and then closes his eyes. His brows draw together, as he grimaces in pain and frustration. “It’s so cold.”
Fear is cold and sharp in the back of Felix’s throat. It sinks through his flesh to reach his bones, winding his muscles with frustrated energy. His fingers itch for something to hit. “Don’t think of it,” he snaps. “Just lie still.” He awkwardly pulls Dimitri closer, slipping an arm into Dedue’s cloak, so they’re skin-to-skin; he’s half-frozen himself, but at least he hasn’t bled so much, and that must count for something.
Dimitri reaches a hand up, and clasps it around Feli’s wrist. His thumb rests against the pad of Felix’s palm, almost holding hands.
It takes all of Felix’s will to remain still.
At last, Dedue re-emerges, with an armful of firewood.
“How is he?”
Felix opens his mouth to speak, but coughs instead. “Still breathing,” he manages at last. “No different.”
Dedue hums, the worry evident in the lines of tension in his body. He builds a fire with brusque efficiency, as Felix sits there and shivers, afraid to shift Dimitri. Stupid, to be shaking in the spring chill.
Once the fire is producing more heat than smoke, Dedue and Felix move Dimitri closer, using Dedue’s cloak as a makeshift stretcher and doing their best not to jostle his head more. They don’t speak, as Dedue piles more logs onto the fire, building it up to a roaring blaze.
“They’ll see this from the cliffs,” Felix says.
“Let them. If any stragglers make it this far, I’ll deal with them.”
Felix concedes that Dedue is more than capable of that. He’s yet to see the other boy take a significant wound; ensconced in his armor, he’s a fortress unto himself. It’s almost enough to make Felix want to take up heavy armor.
“You do care for His Highness,” Dedue observes.
“He’s the prince,” Felix says. “If he died —” He bites his tongue, before his father’s words can come out of his mouth. “I don’t want the fuss.” He thrusts the cloth back to Dedue.
Dedue takes it, and daubs at Dimitri’s brow, before beginning to bind his head properly. “And yet, you do everything you can to make him your enemy.”
Felix closes his eyes. It seems that the pounding of Dimitri’s pulse has wormed its way into his head; and the chill of the river has made its way into his bones. He feels weak and sick and cowardly.
“When I first met you both, you were friends.” He doesn’t ask the question, but Felix feels the urge to justify himself all the same. “His Highness still speaks of you fondly,” Dedue says, in a tone that makes it clear he doubts the sense of this.
“He’s not the prince I knew,” Felix mumbles. “He’s a beast.”
“You’re the one who acts like a beast,” Dedue says. He keeps his voice low, almost beneath the crackle of the fire, but his words are relentless. “You are cruel to your allies, dismissive to your friends; you antagonize even those you have every reason to trust, and drive away even those who are willing to overlook your flaws.”
“I speak plainly,” Felix hisses. “I don't dissemble like the Boar.”
“He will be your king,” Dedue says. “And yet you are determined to cut away any kind feeling he might feel for you. Those are the actions of a rabid animal.”
“Because there's something wrong ! Why does nobody see it?” The words tear from Felix, against his will, from the thing always pulling at him. The sick desire to close his eyes, to do as his father commanded; trust his prince, trust his king, know his place at Dimitri’s right hand like his brother had. Give himself over to the chain of chivalry. In it, there is no place for a knight to question his lord; no place for a lord to question his king. Burn your village, kill your brother, kill your father, spill whatever blood your king commands, and let all the blame rest on his soul.
Dedue and Lord Rodrigue might get along, if Dedue were not from Duscur.
Dedue holds his gaze. “Perhaps you are not a beast. You are a child. No, he is not the boy you knew — why do you expect him to be? You are far from the kind boy the prince speaks of you as, are you not?”
“You didn’t know him before .”
“You were not at Duscur,” Dedue says.
Felix flushes, looking away. “When him and I were sent south, to quell the rebellion — we were fighting our own people, spilling their blood because their lord decided to take advantage of the vacant throne. The Boar carved through them like they were nothing, and there was — nothing behind his eyes. I expected to be fighting alongside my friend, and there was no one there. Only a beast, thrilled by the killing, and empty of anything else.” He looks back to Dedue. “You know. You help him hide it.”
“You will forgive me if I don't find the spilling of Faerghus blood evocative. He fought his own people to save me, too,” Dedue says. “I do not care how he felt when he did it; he saved me. He saved you today, too.”
“How can you trust him?” Felix says. “When you’ve seen who he truly is?”
“Do not speak to me as if you can understand, Felix of House Fraldarious.” The hate in Dedue’s voice brings Felix to a standstill; Dedue has never let him hear it so plain. “You know what your father did to my people.”
Felix is still, watching the flames. He has no rebuttal for that, and the chill of the river has worked its way down to his soul. “My father is…” He lets the words trail off; there’s nothing he can say, to match the naked blade of grief in Dedue’s eyes. He turns his eyes from it, before that yawning pain, looking to Dimitri.
Limmed in the firelight, Dimitri looks like a creature woven from straw and cloth-of-gold; all of one color, a statue waiting for a painter’s brush. Once, Felix had known him; now, the pieces of the prince are fractured. The boy who had always greeted him with a smile, who had seated him at his right hand and made him his partner in all his schemes and games; the squire he sweated alongside, who did not know his own strength, who won more than he lost but accepted every loss with grace still alien to Felix; the creature he had met on the battlefields of the south, bloodspattered and empty.
And somewhere between those pieces, the boy who had stood between Dedue and the mob, and been wounded so badly he might have died.
“He has my loyalty,” Felix says, with venom. “He has it by blood, and he knows it. I am, by whatever dastard piece of luck, the Shield of Faerghus.” He must. “I have no choice in the matter, unlike you. I hold hope, however small, that I may serve a king worthy of his crown.”
Dedue studies him. “Dimitri sees my people as human. Dimitri is the only chance we have of —” He laughs, a terrible, bleak sound. “Survival, if it can be called that. Does that make my loyalty easier for you to swallow, Fraldarius?”
Before he can say anything, movement in the trees catches both their attention.
Dedue’s hand goes to his axe, and Felix catches up Dimitri’s sword. He lurches to his feet, adrenaline beating a weary tempo in his body; the trees spin dizzily around him, branches stretching over branches as darkness crowds his vision. Every bit of will he has, he bends to not dropping the sword; and he would have fallen, if there hadn’t suddenly been a hand at his arm.
Dedue. His eyes are turned to the trees, but his hand is on Felix’s arm, steadying him.
Before Felix can wrench himself away, Byleth’s voice rings out. “Dedue! Felix!” Somewhere, he hears Mercedes give a relieved exclamation, and Sylvain echo his name.
Dedue relaxes, and Felix slips from his grasp, to sink to his knees in the dirt beside Dimitri.
Byleth appears before him, melting from the shadows; they look as ashen as their moniker when they see Dimitri lying there, and call for Mercedes. And then, the finer details slip away from Felix.
Later, on the long ride back to Garreg Mach, when Felix has somehow summoned the strength to ride — the vulnary Sylvain slipped him helped — he finds himself riding beside Dedue. It feels like there’s a fever brewing in his head and chest; moments are still disconnected, one to the next. But Dedue is here, which means Dimitri must be safe.
“You are afforded a great deal of leeway, in your grief,” Dedue says. “I think you should consider that there will be an end to that, one day, before you make things irreparable.”
From anyone in the court of Fhirdiad, it would have been a bare-faced threat. But Felix thinks he understands enough of Dedue to read more into it.
Still, he laughs. “Save your concern,” he says. “The Boar can’t be rid of me. That blade cuts both ways.”
Dedue blinks, looking suddenly uncertain; and they speak no more until they reach Garreg Mach.
“I suppose I owe you thanks,” Felix says. Better he says it now, when everyone’s attention is still elsewhere.
Dedue glances his way. “I don’t need thanks from you.”
“You have it,” Felix says, and spurs his horse on faster, to put an end to conversation.