[Dimitri scoffs, believing none of that farce for even a moment. He no longer has the luxury of hope or longing. This is his world now: pain, death, solitude. So when Sylvain looks at him, giving his mount a gentle show of affection—Dimitri turns away quickly, as though he can't stand the sight of it. How stupid.

Sensing his weakness, the ghosts at the rim of his awareness—forever there, if not always so visible—mock him for allowing Sylvain to get under his skin. Stupid, and pathetic, and weak, and there is no way he'll ever reach Edelgard if he can't handle this. Perhaps that is the trial he's meant to endure.

His shoulder burns when he switches his lance into the other hand, then reaches for Sylvain's arm to haul him roughly from the horse's saddle with no warning.]

Get down. If you believe this is enough to kill me, then you underestimate my will.

[Yes, he needs to do something about the wound. And he will. But it will not be at Sylvain's insistence, in some parody of care and concern. Dimitri maintains his grip on the other man's arm and begins to drag him inside. Sylvain is prisoner here; he must make that position clear.]

Is silence too much to ask of you, or will I be forced toward more extreme measures?