[It is harder to ignore Byleth's physical presence at his side than it should be. Far worse than when he is at a distance somewhere on the grounds. After so long alone, with nothing but ghosts and regret for company, he's grown accustomed to the solitude, used to seeing his own shadow in the corners of his periphery at every turn—not another's, not the second pair of footfalls that follow him down the stairwell into heart of the monastery. He is caught between resentment at that fact and a darker, aching wonder at what is going on in the professor's mind. He looks no older than the day Dimitri thought him dead.
Where had he been? What had happened? Had he thought of him, even once, in those five years?
It seems he cannot help but think of him as the professor even now. Byleth. Calm, mysterious, concrete at his side—until he wasn't. Anger is a blister inside of him, but it comes second to the dragging sense of shame; Dimitri does not turn his head as they descend, route automatically carrying him toward the room near the dormitories where he's put a cache of supplies. The location is strategic, meant to make it difficult for bandits or thieves to find and ransack. He expects Byleth has already come across the hoard of food and medicinal supplies since his earlier exploration.
He hasn't asked why Byleth is wasting his time cleaning out other rooms. A single blue eye widens and flickers over at the suggestion, then darts again away.]
... That isn't necessary. I will not be sleeping. [So the heavy shadows of exhaustion and fatigue on his face have a plain culprit now.] The monastery must be guarded. The Cathedral is suitable enough for a short rest, should I find myself too tired. Don't bother with my room. It is not mine any longer.
[The Cathedral, which is huge and empty, where footsteps would alert him to anyone's presence on the glazed stone floor, where if he wakes up to the screams of nightmares he will not bother anyone else.]
[ Garreg Mach is a spacious place. Had the hoard been hidden somewhere else, such as one of the towering buildings or underground tunnels, he might not have spied it. Here, though. Here, he'd have trouble missing it.
Some part of him had not expected this level of clarity from Dimitri. The few times they've interacted since his resurgence, the prince has been little better than the beast Felix once thought him to be. Volatile, distant, and focused on a singular point his mind refused to deviate from. He'd feared his gentle friend had lost even the ability to care for himself, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Not entirely, at least.
Byleth eases into the room, his steps occasionally accompanied by the soft sound of rubble crunching under his boot. For the time being, he ignores them. Ignores the patches of dirt decorating the floor, the layers of dust settling on every surface, and the sharp stones littering the ground. Each makes resting here uncomfortable—and treating someone impossible. But right now, more than anything, he's happy to see he underestimated Dimitri.
He honestly thought this cache of supplies had been left by the Knights of Seiros after their last battle. His lips move before he can think to stop them. ]
I almost thought you'd been sustaining yourself on weeds. [ He'd caught the comments Dimitri would make to Dedue while they worked together, plucking them from the ground as they did their chores. At the time he'd agreed with Dimitri, but now... Now he doesn't want to imagine someone so gentle forced to live such a miserable life.
Byleth shakes his head slowly, drawing himself from his musings to concentrate on the man beside him. ] ... No, I suppose it isn't. I won't demand you stay there, even if I must insist you rest.
[ What a nostalgic conversation. Strange as it is to call it such when, to him, the last time they had this discussion was a few short weeks ago. ]
Garreg Mach was meant to be my responsibility. Tonight, I ask you leave it to me and allow yourself time to heal.
[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.
[ Halls that were once replete with life and noise are now deathly still. The silence, which is somehow much more unbearable than even the soundless void that surrounded the Goddess' throne, gnawed at him in the first few hours of his homecoming. Now, he's accustomed to it. So much so that it takes that small grunt—which feels far more human than the earlier crunch of pebbles beneath his boots—to remind him of the deafening quiet of the monastery. It reverberates in the enclosed space, or perhaps it only seems that way to his ears. Regardless, the noise attracts his gaze and he finds himself observing the set of Dimitri's jaw.
...has he said something strange? Try as he might, studying the man reveals nothing more. All it provides is a fleeting thought that the prince's features stand out even when bathed in shadow. It's only after Dimitri makes his "concession" that Byleth's eyes stray to the side.
It's a dissatisfying response for many reasons. The cathedral has seen the most decay of any space in the monastery—the dirt that envelops the room, the debris that have laid siege to the ground, and the exposed interior that allows every element within its walls. There are better choices for a respite and yet... What can he do save agree?
After all, this could be an expression of Dimitri's faith in the goddess. Though it seems more likely he is struggling to grab hold of a reason when reason no longer applies.
"There is no one here but the dead."
The statement brings a crease to his brows and, with it, a twinge of an emotion he has come to know but not yet fully grasped how to cope with. To ward the sentiment away, Byleth raises a hand to gently touch at his bangs. The gesture only lasts a moment before he shakes his head and collects the supplies he needs. Then, he heads to the door. ]
... You and I are here. [ And they are the only ones. That he hopes his students will return and reside within these halls again is foolish, sentimental, and selfish. Like Dimitri, they have surely grown and found new pursuits. They cannot, nor should they, stay students forever. Even knowing that, he cannot keep himself from wishing otherwise.
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Where had he been? What had happened? Had he thought of him, even once, in those five years?
It seems he cannot help but think of him as the professor even now. Byleth. Calm, mysterious, concrete at his side—until he wasn't. Anger is a blister inside of him, but it comes second to the dragging sense of shame; Dimitri does not turn his head as they descend, route automatically carrying him toward the room near the dormitories where he's put a cache of supplies. The location is strategic, meant to make it difficult for bandits or thieves to find and ransack. He expects Byleth has already come across the hoard of food and medicinal supplies since his earlier exploration.
He hasn't asked why Byleth is wasting his time cleaning out other rooms. A single blue eye widens and flickers over at the suggestion, then darts again away.]
... That isn't necessary. I will not be sleeping. [So the heavy shadows of exhaustion and fatigue on his face have a plain culprit now.] The monastery must be guarded. The Cathedral is suitable enough for a short rest, should I find myself too tired. Don't bother with my room. It is not mine any longer.
[The Cathedral, which is huge and empty, where footsteps would alert him to anyone's presence on the glazed stone floor, where if he wakes up to the screams of nightmares he will not bother anyone else.]
no subject
Some part of him had not expected this level of clarity from Dimitri. The few times they've interacted since his resurgence, the prince has been little better than the beast Felix once thought him to be. Volatile, distant, and focused on a singular point his mind refused to deviate from. He'd feared his gentle friend had lost even the ability to care for himself, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Not entirely, at least.
Byleth eases into the room, his steps occasionally accompanied by the soft sound of rubble crunching under his boot. For the time being, he ignores them. Ignores the patches of dirt decorating the floor, the layers of dust settling on every surface, and the sharp stones littering the ground. Each makes resting here uncomfortable—and treating someone impossible. But right now, more than anything, he's happy to see he underestimated Dimitri.
He honestly thought this cache of supplies had been left by the Knights of Seiros after their last battle. His lips move before he can think to stop them. ]
I almost thought you'd been sustaining yourself on weeds. [ He'd caught the comments Dimitri would make to Dedue while they worked together, plucking them from the ground as they did their chores. At the time he'd agreed with Dimitri, but now... Now he doesn't want to imagine someone so gentle forced to live such a miserable life.
Byleth shakes his head slowly, drawing himself from his musings to concentrate on the man beside him. ] ... No, I suppose it isn't. I won't demand you stay there, even if I must insist you rest.
[ What a nostalgic conversation. Strange as it is to call it such when, to him, the last time they had this discussion was a few short weeks ago. ]
Garreg Mach was meant to be my responsibility. Tonight, I ask you leave it to me and allow yourself time to heal.
a tag covered in cobwebs
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.
brings out a broom
...has he said something strange? Try as he might, studying the man reveals nothing more. All it provides is a fleeting thought that the prince's features stand out even when bathed in shadow. It's only after Dimitri makes his "concession" that Byleth's eyes stray to the side.
It's a dissatisfying response for many reasons. The cathedral has seen the most decay of any space in the monastery—the dirt that envelops the room, the debris that have laid siege to the ground, and the exposed interior that allows every element within its walls. There are better choices for a respite and yet... What can he do save agree?
After all, this could be an expression of Dimitri's faith in the goddess. Though it seems more likely he is struggling to grab hold of a reason when reason no longer applies.
"There is no one here but the dead."
The statement brings a crease to his brows and, with it, a twinge of an emotion he has come to know but not yet fully grasped how to cope with. To ward the sentiment away, Byleth raises a hand to gently touch at his bangs. The gesture only lasts a moment before he shakes his head and collects the supplies he needs. Then, he heads to the door. ]
... You and I are here. [ And they are the only ones. That he hopes his students will return and reside within these halls again is foolish, sentimental, and selfish. Like Dimitri, they have surely grown and found new pursuits. They cannot, nor should they, stay students forever. Even knowing that, he cannot keep himself from wishing otherwise.
He truly is a terrible teacher. ]
This will require fresh water.