[Garreg Mach Monastery carries another reputation in these years, no longer the holy sanctuary of academic learning it once was. Now, it is a graveyard, its still-standing stone foundation the haunted tomb where the dead remain unburied. Only the most desperate would try their chances raiding this territory on rumor the Monastery might yet contain valuables—or, for the truly destitute, caches of food enough to feed an army. Those who trespass do not return, except on the rarest occasion of luck; such survivors carry fanatical reports of a one-eyed demon at the heart of the premises, some deranged creature half-animal and half-man and as bloodthirsty as both.
The reality is much less fantastical, but not any kinder.
Dimitri is unmoved when he sees the colored banners of the Imperial army breach the forested edge of the territory from one of the Monastery's higher battlements. It is not the first time they've sought to investigate this area, out of ignorance or otherwise, and he suspects it will not be the last. This suits him fine. As many as must be killed, he will kill, drenching the soil in their rotten blood until the stench drives even the smallest animals in the brush further away.
He waits for the cover of night, after the sun has burned its pale warmth out of sight, then descends the fortified castle into the wilderness surrounding it, no more than a black shape passing into the trees. Perhaps the stealth is unnecessary; he'd counted nine heads from his vantage earlier, an amount that might have daunted a normal warrior but less than he has confronted on his own by now. Still, Imperial soldiers are better trained than bandits and petty criminals. And he must live yet, even against his own will.
Picking off the men individually—sometimes two, three at once—and driving them into a confused scatter, Dimitri's assault begins and ends in the dark. He saves the general for last. And he is dully impressed, because he has been stabbed once in the shoulder and heavily battered through his blood-painted armor by the retaliation. The soldiers are led well.
Perhaps it is no real surprise, then, to see Sylvain when he comes to finish it, his childhood friend mounted on horseback, regal and proud, red hair a bright spot in the shadow. Dimitri slows to a stop. He plants Areadbhar in the dirt, and leans on the shaft, glaring levelly, as numb to the steady pain in his shoulder as he is to the sick twist of his stomach. His voice rasps with disuse.]
[The ruins of Garreg Mach Monastery are cold on this night, as they are often, a fact he has embraced for its blessing. At present it is more useful than usual: Dimitri is running a fever. A consequence of some battle wound ill attended, most likely, and less out of an explicit desire to die—he can't, not yet—than a willful negligence and lack of proper treatment. The Monastery has fortunately maintained many of its stores of food and supplies over the years of its neglect, and he has found most of them in the cellars and storage closets. Still, it is no replacement for a trained healer. And if he is a bit brusque with dressing his own wounds, then it is only because of fumbling hands and a personal disregard for his own pain.
It has been two days since the reappearance of his professor and dear friend. In that interim, Dimitri has not yet decided how to handle it. At first—despite proof of the corporeality of Byleth's presence—he'd treated him as no more than an apparition on the fringes of his awareness, something to be ignored until it went away on its own, or until he satisfied it to absolution. Just like the others.
Yet as the hours wear on, and Byleth does not leave or otherwise state his demands, Dimitri's brittle composure begins to chafe. The man is like the raw, infected wound beneath his breastplate. His existence is sore and vivid in every corner that he turns. So Dimitri can do nothing but attempt to avoid him, which is how he's found himself up on the battlements in the middle of the night, facing the distant cliffs where Byleth was last seen on that battlefield. He can remember it to a painful clarity: that bitter, sinking pit in his stomach upon realizing Byleth was gone forever. He'd searched through the rubble until Dedue was forced to haul him away, hands bloodied, screaming.
In contrast to the weight of the memory, the night is crystallized with silence. He sits with his back against stone, armor and upper clothing stripped off, baring the mottled scars healed badly on his skin. The worst of those wounds is high on the right side of his chest. Exposed to the elements, the cold wind scything at feverish skin is a relief.
Naturally it is short lived. At the sound of footsteps, Dimitri doesn't lift his head, but his low voice carries like a growl.] You should leave this place. Why you continue to linger is beyond my understanding, except that perhaps you intend to drive me further into madness out of spite alone. There is nothing for you here.
[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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@diq
The reality is much less fantastical, but not any kinder.
Dimitri is unmoved when he sees the colored banners of the Imperial army breach the forested edge of the territory from one of the Monastery's higher battlements. It is not the first time they've sought to investigate this area, out of ignorance or otherwise, and he suspects it will not be the last. This suits him fine. As many as must be killed, he will kill, drenching the soil in their rotten blood until the stench drives even the smallest animals in the brush further away.
He waits for the cover of night, after the sun has burned its pale warmth out of sight, then descends the fortified castle into the wilderness surrounding it, no more than a black shape passing into the trees. Perhaps the stealth is unnecessary; he'd counted nine heads from his vantage earlier, an amount that might have daunted a normal warrior but less than he has confronted on his own by now. Still, Imperial soldiers are better trained than bandits and petty criminals. And he must live yet, even against his own will.
Picking off the men individually—sometimes two, three at once—and driving them into a confused scatter, Dimitri's assault begins and ends in the dark. He saves the general for last. And he is dully impressed, because he has been stabbed once in the shoulder and heavily battered through his blood-painted armor by the retaliation. The soldiers are led well.
Perhaps it is no real surprise, then, to see Sylvain when he comes to finish it, his childhood friend mounted on horseback, regal and proud, red hair a bright spot in the shadow. Dimitri slows to a stop. He plants Areadbhar in the dirt, and leans on the shaft, glaring levelly, as numb to the steady pain in his shoulder as he is to the sick twist of his stomach. His voice rasps with disuse.]
So our reunion arrives at last.
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https://i.imgur.com/kg1hlSp.png
PLEASE LMAO...... it's too accurate
heh
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a crusty awful tag
not awful!!!
@vocitus
It has been two days since the reappearance of his professor and dear friend. In that interim, Dimitri has not yet decided how to handle it. At first—despite proof of the corporeality of Byleth's presence—he'd treated him as no more than an apparition on the fringes of his awareness, something to be ignored until it went away on its own, or until he satisfied it to absolution. Just like the others.
Yet as the hours wear on, and Byleth does not leave or otherwise state his demands, Dimitri's brittle composure begins to chafe. The man is like the raw, infected wound beneath his breastplate. His existence is sore and vivid in every corner that he turns. So Dimitri can do nothing but attempt to avoid him, which is how he's found himself up on the battlements in the middle of the night, facing the distant cliffs where Byleth was last seen on that battlefield. He can remember it to a painful clarity: that bitter, sinking pit in his stomach upon realizing Byleth was gone forever. He'd searched through the rubble until Dedue was forced to haul him away, hands bloodied, screaming.
In contrast to the weight of the memory, the night is crystallized with silence. He sits with his back against stone, armor and upper clothing stripped off, baring the mottled scars healed badly on his skin. The worst of those wounds is high on the right side of his chest. Exposed to the elements, the cold wind scything at feverish skin is a relief.
Naturally it is short lived. At the sound of footsteps, Dimitri doesn't lift his head, but his low voice carries like a growl.] You should leave this place. Why you continue to linger is beyond my understanding, except that perhaps you intend to drive me further into madness out of spite alone. There is nothing for you here.
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a tag covered in cobwebs
brings out a broom
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?