[He had known, all along, war would never be an easy path. It makes the reality no more bearable. Dimitri isn't naive enough to believe they're nearing the end of it, even if the thought is a tempting dream and the others might wonder at his understanding of the situation. The truth is, Dimitri has not expected an easy way out. Since the Tragedy, he's become familiar with violence beyond the scope of the ordinary; he comprehends the harsh landscape of war far better than most, than those who might have grown up sheltered away from cruelty and betrayal. He never expected the decision to go against the Empire to be the way of kindness or mercy. Yes, he had wished he might change Edelgard's heart, but even this hope he recognized—in some deep corner of his mind where rage is painted bright red—it would be impossible.
So here they are. Edelgard is dead, and her closest advisor and retainer is sitting in a dungeon, in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, where they once were dear childhood friends.
Dimitri had never told anyone about the Hubert of his childhood memory. He suspects Edelgard must have known, given their relationship to one another; surely they have discussed Dimitri back to front to further their own strategic ambitions. Not that they had seemed to gain anything of it. He hadn't seen Hubert during the war until the end, even if the other man's influence hung like a pall over every battlefield Dimitri entered against the Empire. Sinister, clever, ruthless. Hubert is a sharp blade where he is only a blunt instrument. Yet both of them know violence. Sad, that it has come to this.
His footsteps are heavy over stone as he descends beneath the castle, a cool draft reaching him from the shadowed corridors winding within this place. He doesn't visit it often, but it is not because he means to turn a blind eye to what is down here. None of his prisoners are treated poorly. They are fed, kept warm and healthy—only in chains. Hubert is no exception, no matter his deception and ingenuity on the Empire's side.
Arriving at the cell, Dimitri looks in through the barred window at its front, taking in the sight of the man who was once a precious part of his early life. The boy who taught him to play chess, to dance, who practiced little feats of magic to Dimitri's amazement, who made him think.
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hubert
So here they are. Edelgard is dead, and her closest advisor and retainer is sitting in a dungeon, in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, where they once were dear childhood friends.
Dimitri had never told anyone about the Hubert of his childhood memory. He suspects Edelgard must have known, given their relationship to one another; surely they have discussed Dimitri back to front to further their own strategic ambitions. Not that they had seemed to gain anything of it. He hadn't seen Hubert during the war until the end, even if the other man's influence hung like a pall over every battlefield Dimitri entered against the Empire. Sinister, clever, ruthless. Hubert is a sharp blade where he is only a blunt instrument. Yet both of them know violence. Sad, that it has come to this.
His footsteps are heavy over stone as he descends beneath the castle, a cool draft reaching him from the shadowed corridors winding within this place. He doesn't visit it often, but it is not because he means to turn a blind eye to what is down here. None of his prisoners are treated poorly. They are fed, kept warm and healthy—only in chains. Hubert is no exception, no matter his deception and ingenuity on the Empire's side.
Arriving at the cell, Dimitri looks in through the barred window at its front, taking in the sight of the man who was once a precious part of his early life. The boy who taught him to play chess, to dance, who practiced little feats of magic to Dimitri's amazement, who made him think.
He takes in a breath, steeling himself.]
Are you ready to speak?