[The noise Dimitri makes at the first comment is a dry and humorless grunt, the shape of laugh that never materializes. Weeds alone wouldn't sustain his body in combat against his enemies. What was once a creative thought to survival is really just pathetic, boyish fantasy. He does not say this.

Time to heal, this ghost of a man tells him. As if it would be so easy to mend the injuries of his spirit. His body, perhaps, but those hurts are only a reminder that he's still alive, that he can still fight. What would he be without that? Even now the wound in his chest burns, throbbing with heat equal to his fever, a constant distraction luring him away from his murky thoughts.]

I will go to the Cathedral after this.

[This is as far as Dimitri appears willing to relent. He does not look in Byleth's direction as he drops his collected garments—armor, a tattered shirt, the heavy burden of his cloak—onto the ground at his feet like a pile of trash, an afterthought, then seats himself on a crate beside the collected supplies. His wound is exposed on the center of his chest: a nasty furl of flesh, jagged where the end of an enemy's spear punctured the skin and clipped off to the side of his shoulder. His breastplate saved him from death, but the surrounding area is mottled badly by deep, purple bruising, and the cut itself is bright pink with stinging infection. He is obedient, still and tense like a ready bow.]

This place is only a memory. You have no responsibility to it now. There is no one here but the dead.