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Chapter Text

Dimitri sprints as quickly as his broken body can carry him. His right ankle protests with every step. It's sprained at the very least, maybe even broken, but it doesn't matter. His lungs heave as he pushes himself faster. He isn't able to get enough oxygen, but he can't stop, can't catch his breath...not yet at least.

Edelgard is here, mere paces away from him. But like the coward she is, she has chosen to flee instead of facing his fury. He can't allow it. He has to kill her now, has to please the spirits of the dead so he can finally rest. Just a few more feet and he can catch her.

She glances back in his direction, her ridiculous horns tangling in her snow white hair as she tries to outrun him. He is faster though, his legs longer. She has no chance once he is within striking distance.

Suddenly, her retinue halts their retreat. There are only a few of them, maybe fifteen at most. Dimitri has killed far more on his own, but they form a line as if they can hope to stop him.

"Protect the emperor!" one of them cries, and the rest of them take up the chant.

Dimitri would laugh if he had any breath left, but he uses his remaining energy to crash into the hastily formed defense. Areadbhar pulses in his grip as he strikes the first man down, his wail of agony smothered by the rush of blood thundering in Dimitri's ears.

He tries his best to keep his single eye on Edelgard as he fells his attackers with relative ease. She is faltering now, her chest heaving as she turns around and watches him kill her loyal soldiers. Their gazes lock for a mere moment, her purple irises dilating as Dimitri howls in fury.

"Face me, you witch!" he bellows, his muscles shrieking in protest as he tears his lance out of another man's throat. He's so exhausted, it is all he can do to keep a grip on his weapon, but he cannot falter. Not now.

Edelgard looks...sad almost, which only fuels Dimitri's anger. He does not need her pity. He needs her head.

He surges forward, desperate for her blood, when his ankle gives underneath him. He falls ingloriously to the grassy floor, his body refusing to cooperate as all the air is knocked out of him in a sudden rush.

He tries to regain his feet, but he puts too much weight on his damaged foot and he feels something snap. He fights through the hot rush of agony, clutching to Areadbhar's haft as if it were a cane and not a legendary weapon.

An explosion of violent pain pierces his side. He screams, tearing at the lance that has managed to find the seam of his armor, but his fingers slip on the torrent of blood streaming out of him, and he cannot free himself before the next attack.

Another weapon stabs through his thigh into the ground. He is panicking now. He can't move, can't see. Where is Edelgard? Has she already escaped?

He lays eyes on her again, a few feet in front of him, a sheen of tears misting her lavender gaze. Hubert is beside her now, his mouth moving as he lifts a hand in the air.

"No...NO!" Dimitri wails as he watches them both disappear in a flash of pink light. He lunges forward desperately, the lances pinning him to the ground snapping underneath his strength. But he is too late. Edelgard is out of his reach.

A third—or is it a fourth—lance pushes against his armor. Dimitri reaches out blindly, his gloved hand crushing the arm wielding the weapon, but he isn't fast enough. More blades pierce his stomach, forcing him to his knees as a wave of bright agony overtakes him.

"Pathetic," Glenn spits at him, his bloody visage staring down at Dimitri in disgust. "You swore to avenge us, but here you are, dying at the hands of a few nameless soldiers." The slit in his throat oozes crimson as he speaks.

"I am sorry," Dimitri wails. He curls around the blade protruding out of his abdomen, his stomach heaving as he tries to stand once more. He makes it into a kneeling position before he's impaled again.

"You are a disgrace," his father joins Glenn, his severed head leering at him from the crook of his elbow. "You were so close, but you failed. We trusted you with our revenge, you promised us, and now look at you."

"We should never have put our faith in him," his stepmother scoffs as she appears behind his father. Her burnt visage somehow sneers, the blackened flesh pulling at the corners of her mouth as she glares at him.

Dimitri wants to reply, but when he opens his mouth, he chokes on a bubble of blood. He can't speak anymore, can hardly breathe. This is it. He is dying. And Edelgard still lives. His ghosts are right. He has failed them. But he has nothing left to give.

He whimpers brokenly as another lance pierces through his shoulder. The pain is overwhelming. He has no strength left in his damaged limbs. Every struggle rewards him with another fissure of pure fire. He slumps forward, his hands frantically pressing at his wounds as if he can somehow hold himself together for a moment longer.

"Hey..didn't anyone tell you to fight fair?" an unfamiliar voice breaks through the fog seeping into Dimitri's mind.

He tries to lift his head to see who has spoken, but the effort is too much for his body. He falls forward, impaling himself further on one of the lances. A weak whimper escapes past the blood dribbling from his lips. Goddess—why can't he just die already so the pain can end?

A loud roar fills the air. He tries to lift his arms to cover his ears, but he can't move. It seems his hearing is the only sense left to him, that and the never-ending agony. But there is someone here, and they are fighting the remaining Imperial soldiers.

Dimitri tries to call for help, but all that comes out is a wet cough that tears at his lungs. More blood fills his mouth as he wheezes. There is so much blood. He can feel it puddling around his knees, the warmth taunting him as he shivers in the cold air.

"Your Highness!"

Dimitri jolts in place, his wound protesting with another wave of suffering as he jostles them. But he knows that voice...Dedue. He can't let him see him like this. But he is lost already.

His grip on consciousness fades away as the agony drags him under. His lungs collapse and his heart struggles to beat as his throat fills with blood and despair. His last whispered "I'm sorry" isn't audible, but he means it all the same.

~~~

Dedue skids to a halt as he takes in the scene before him. His Highness's fallen form fills his vision, his body pierced with a multitude of lances, a growing blood stain swelling around him. Dedue's heart stutters in his chest. He's paralyzed; his lungs seize, his mind shatters.

Blink.

Dedue forces himself to take a lurching step forward.

Inhale.

He manages another step. 

Go to him

Dimitri's lips move around silent syllables. He's still alive.

All is not lost yet.

Dedue belatedly realizes that there is a woman dressed in varying shades of garish pink that matches her hair, wielding a wicked axe like it is an extension of her arm. She's engaged with the few remaining Imperial soldiers who are surrounding the fallen prince.

Hilda, his brain supplies a name. She was at the academy with them in the Golden Deer class. Dedue barely interacted with her, but he does recall an axe seminar he attended where she had walked out halfway through, claiming she was too delicate to handle such a heavy weapon. That is not the case now apparently.

She lashes out with her double-bladed axe, separating heads from shoulders with an ease that Dedue is envious of. A large wyvern is at her side, clawing at any soldier that she misses, roaring its fury when anyone dares to get within striking range of its sharp talons.

Dedue stumbles on slick grass as he attempts to join the fray, but Hilda has already routed the last few soldiers that are still attempting to put up a fight. He changes course and falls to his knees when he reaches Dimitri's side, his chest aching as he takes stock of the prince's multiple wounds.

"Dimitri," Dedue whispers, his hand shaking as he gently pushes his dirty blond hair off his forehead. The prince is still breathing, although each inhale is shallow and ragged. But he is not dead...not yet. Which means Dedue cannot give up yet either.

Dedue gathers him in his arms, careful of the numerous weapons that still impale him. His first instinct is to pull them out, but without a healer nearby to staunch the blood flow, that will be more detrimental than anything else.

"Oh no...is he dead?" Hilda asks as she hurries over to them. She's splattered with blood and gore, her impractical dress clinging to her busty frame in a way that can only be described as scandalous.

"No...not yet at least," Dedue grimaces. "But he needs a healer now."

"We can take him to the Alliance camp. It's just over there beyond the trees. I was scouting the perimeter for Claude when I saw him..."

Dedue wants to protest. They had just been fighting the Alliance alongside the Empire. He saw Claude shoot Ingrid out of the sky not an hour ago. Surely he will not welcome them with open arms. But he has no other option. The Kingdom army is mostly destroyed, and if any healers are left, he doesn't know where to find them.

"I—yes, please help him."

"Here, get him on my wyvern. He doesn't bite, I promise."

Dedue worries his lower lip between his teeth as Hilda jumps onto the wyvern's saddle, holding her hand out to him as he clutches Dimitri close to his body. He is wary of the giant beast, but anything that can get his highness to help faster is a good thing. He awkwardly mounts behind Hilda, maneuvering Dimitri as carefully as he can to avoid any further injury.

"Hang on!" Hilda commands as the wyvern beats its wings and launches them into the air. Dedue thinks he's going to be sick as he watches the ground disappear beneath them. He presses his face into Dimitri's hair and tries not to vomit as Hilda directs the wyvern toward the distant yellow tents.

Chapter Text

Sooner than Dedue expects, the wyvern lands and Hilda scoots down its scaled leg. Dedue struggles to dismount while keeping his hold on the prince, his stomach roiling in protest. And he thought he hated riding—flying is so much worse.

Dimitri groans weakly when Dedue hits the ground, and as much as the pained noise tears at something in Dedue's chest, it also means he's still alive. Dedue rearranges the prince in his arms, pushing away his airsickness and fatigue so he can follow behind Hilda's quick footsteps.

"Ah, Hilda, you picked up some stragglers, I see," a familiar voice cuts through the air.

Claude approaches them, flanked by Professor Byleth, well...not professor anymore, Dedue supposes. He's surprised to see her. Last he heard, she had perished when Garreg Mach was invaded. Perhaps that was another lie concocted by the Empire. Yet she looks...exactly the same as she did five years ago in a manner that is uncanny.

Claude, however, has changed. Dedue's memory of him is a boy eager to prove himself, kind, but wary, and now he is a man. He carries himself the way Dimitri used to, sure of his position and the power he wields. He's much shorter than Dedue, but in this moment, Dedue feels as if he's looking up to him.

Dedue angles Dimitri away from Claude as he strides toward them. He's not sure why; they are completely at the Alliance leader's mercy, but if he were Claude, he would not be kind to them. Dimitri had killed indiscriminately, and many alliance soldiers had died by his hand.

"Oh, Claude, I couldn't just leave them out there. And Dimitri's really hurt..." Hilda explains once they are within earshot. She twists back and forth bashfully in a way that reminds Dedue of a child asking for forgiveness instead of permission.

"This coming from the girl who swore up and down that she wouldn't rescue any of us if we were in danger." Claude laughs before he turns his full attention to Dedue and the prince. "But he is in bad shape. The first tent on the left is where the worst of the wounded are. Manuela and Marianne should be in there."

"I—thank you." Some of the tightness in Dedue's chest unfurls; they are not going to be turned away. He inclines his head before hurrying in the direction Claude indicated.

He doesn't understand why Claude is so willing to offer them amnesty, but it doesn't matter right now. Not as long as he can get Dimitri some help. Just as Claude said, the large tent toward the front of the camp is filled with cots, most of them occupied by wounded Alliance soldiers.

"Oh dear, is that Prince Dimitri?" Manuela approaches Dedue with her arms crossed as he hesitates in the doorway.

"Please, can you save him?" Dedue begs. He doesn't know Manuela well. She had been a teacher for the Black Eagles class before the war, and he has no idea how she ended up helping the Alliance, but she was also one of the best healers at Garreg Mach. If anyone can heal Dimitri, it's her.

"Bring him to the back. Marianne is there, and this is going to be a two-person job at least." She motions to an area cordoned off by a low-hanging flap.

Dedue complies and follows Manuela into the smaller space filled mostly by a low table covered in vulneraries and concoctions. Marianne jolts when they enter, her eyes widening almost comically as she takes them in.

"Um...Manuela-"

"Don't worry, child, Claude already knows." Manuela waves off whatever concerns Marianne had been about to voice. "But we have to hurry. Go get Lysithea, please. We will need her help as well."

"Yes...um...okay." Marianne gets to her feet as Manuela quickly opens a spare cot. Dedue tilts Dimitri onto it, taking as much care as he can to try and avoid causing the prince any more pain, but Dimitri still whimpers at the shift in position.

"Dedue, you will have to help as well. When I tell you to, pull out the weapon in his stomach. That one is bleeding the most. It has to be closed up quickly. Can you do that?"

"Yes." Dedue swallows nervously. He has treated wounds before, but not something this serious, and definitely not this many. He almost died from an injury similar to this when he rescued the prince from prison—gods, how is Dimitri still breathing?

"It's a javelin, so the blade is flat. You can pull it back toward you, but make sure to keep it straight so you don't widen the wound any further. I will heal it the second the weapon is free."

"Ready."

Dedue grimaces as he tries to get a grip on the javelin. It's slick with blood and hard to grasp, but he manages to find a purchase point. Before he can think too deeply about what he's doing, he tugs the weapon free when Manuela nods at him.

Dimitri screams.

Something fractures inside Dedue as Dimitri wails in agony. Manuela is already closing the wound, pressing her hand to the front and back of it to heal from both ends at the same time, but Dimitri keeps keening.

The fine hairs on Dedue's arm stand on end as the room fills with white magic, the glow of the sigils lighting the small space brighter than any lamp. He drops the javelin, his grip going lax as his ears fill with Dimitri's cries. He has failed him, his prince is hurt, dying, and he can do nothing but wound him further. Bile rises in his throat, heavy and thick with the taste of defeat.

"Hold him still!" Manuela commands, her sharp voice cutting through the despair currently rendering Dedue helpless.

Dedue forces himself to react to Manuela's command. He shifts further up the cot until he can grasp the prince by his undamaged shoulder. Dimitri settles minutely, but he's still gasping in pain, his eye fluttering open briefly before it squeezes shut again.

"Dimitri," Dedue chokes out, his tearline stinging as he swallows back his hollow hopelessness, his free hand pressing against the prince's forehead, trying to calm him without using any more force.

"Gah," Dimitri groans, the corners of his mouth filling with blood. He gags on the viscous fluid, so Dedue gently pushes his head down so he doesn't choke. Rivulets of crimson drop onto the cot, and Dimitri seems to breathe easier for the moment. "Hurts," he spits out once his coughing eases.

It's the first coherent word he's uttered since Dedue found him. Perhaps he can pull through this after all. His single blue eye is clouded with suffering, but when he locks gazes with Dedue, it gives him a much-needed blossom of hope in his aching chest.

"I know, I am so sorry, but it has to be done," Dedue whispers. "Can we give him anything for the pain?" he questions Manuela when she straightens up.

"Nothing that would kick in quickly enough, and we can't wait. He's losing too much blood."

"I can prepare something for him," Marianne speaks, her soft voice startling Dedue since he hadn't noticed her reappearance. Lysithea is behind her, her shrewd gaze assessing the situation.

"His ankle is broken too, and his wrist," Lysithea adds, although how she can tell that with just a look, Dedue has no idea. "I can heal those next if you want."

"No...let's get these main wounds closed first. The broken bones won't kill him, but he's in real danger of bleeding to death. Lysithea, I need you to use Wind to shave down the rest of these lances. They've got barbed tips, so we can't pull them out as easily."

"On it." She stalks closer to Dedue, who feels so incredibly impotent in this room full of powerful healers. He shuffles closer to the head of the cot, his hand never leaving Dimitri's flushed skin. "Don't let him move while I do this," she commands.

Dedue nods. Dimitri seems to be calming down, or perhaps he's finally passed out. Dedue can't be sure, but he makes sure to keep a steadying grip on his shoulder as Lysithea gets to work shortening the handles of the weapons sticking out of him. Marianne removes them when prompted by Lysithea, and Manuela heals each gaping hole the moment the steel is gone.

Dimitri gasps wetly every time a weapon is pulled out of him, but he doesn't scream like before. Dedue kneels and presses their foreheads together, whispering under his breath as quietly as he can, praying to every god and goddess of Duscur and Fódlan and Almyra and Brigid and beyond that Dimitri will survive this.

He doesn't understand how the prince is still alive, how his heart is still beating. The cot is slick with blood. It covers Dimitri from head to toe, and the floor is stained red as well. But he's still conscious, although it might be better for him if he weren't.

His single eye is clouded, but open. His left hand spasms briefly, and Dedue threads their fingers together. Dimitri grips back tightly, another groan of pain falling from his lips.

"I am here," Dedue swears.

He is unsure if Dimitri can hear him, much less comprehend his words, but each time he speaks, it seems as if the prince turns his head in his direction, so Dedue keeps murmuring to him, promising Dimitri that he is not alone, that he will survive this, that Dedue will never leave him, even in death.

Chapter Text

Dedue has no idea how much time passes before Manuela stands, her blood-stained knuckles pressing against the small of her back. Dedue's muscles cramp in sympathy. He can barely unfold himself from his hunched position over the prince, his spine twinges in pain as he straightens. Dimitri is silent, his chest rising and falling slowly, but his grip on Dedue's hand is crushing, so he knows he's still awake.

"Well...I think we've done all we can for now," Manuela says in a tired voice. She looks even more exhausted than she sounds.

Dedue is unfamiliar with the finer semantics of magic. Still, he knows healing typically uses energy from both the wielder and the recipient, but the prince had so little to give that Manuela must have expended most of her energy in such a long session.

"Will he live?" Dedue dares to ask. His voice is like gravel in his throat, his tongue lying heavy and thick with misuse. He feels groggy and disoriented, like his mind is one step behind the current proceedings.

He glances toward the open tent flap and is shocked to see the sun sinking beyond the horizon. They must have been in here for hours. Had he passed out as well?

Dimitri is out of his armor, only his stained underclothes cover his skeletal form. Dedue doesn't remember that happening, doesn't remember anything besides counting Dimitri's ragged exhales and the pressure of the prince's fingers against his own.

"I hope so," Manuela sighs, "but it's up to him now. If he makes it through the night, we can perform more intricate healing on him tomorrow. I am not sure how much damage there is to his internal organs, but his body is at its brink. We can't do much else, the magic won't take anymore, but I dosed him with as much pain medicine as he could swallow, so it should help a bit."

"Thank you," Dedue whispers.

He has no words for how grateful he is; he's too exhausted to express himself properly. His own body is at its breaking point. His highness has pressed them all to their limit to reach Gronder field in time to face the Empire, and it's finally catching up to him. Dedue aches, both his muscles and his mind.

"Thank Claude, he's the one who told us to harbor any Kingdom soldiers who were willing to surrender peacefully. His fight was never with you."

She's right. The Kingdom soldiers were the ones to attack the Alliance unprompted. And for what? None of it made any sense. If they had taken only a moment to plan, to assess the battle before blindly plunging into the fray, Dimitri might be unharmed, their army would be intact...they might have been able to take down Edelgard if they had worked together with the Alliance.

Dedue swore to follow Dimitri to the end, but now, faced with the prospect of losing him forever, he regrets his blind obedience. Dimitri was in no condition to battle today, none of them were...and now, Dimitri is on the brink of death. Dedue thinks Ingrid and Annette are dead as well; he saw them fall at least. He glimpsed Ashe briefly before chasing after His Highness. He was being helped off the field by Mercedes, but he has no idea where either of them are now.

Dedue had dropped everything when he realized Dimitri was no longer in his field of vision. It was so difficult to keep up with him on the battlefield. Dimitri had been like liquid fire, darting from one enemy to the next. Dedue had shadowed him the best he could, but it had only taken a blink of an eye for Dimitri to disappear after Edelgard once she sounded a retreat.

This entire attack had been useless, idiotic, pure folly, but none of them had been brave enough to stand up to Dimitri. To talk him out of his insane need to kill Edelgard. Dedue doesn't understand why the prince has channeled all his hatred into her. In fact, he doubts she has anything to do with the Tragedy of Duscur at all, but Dimitri wouldn't listen, or perhaps Dedue didn't try hard enough to stop him.

"I...I'm sorry," Dedue stammers, for what he's not sure. For everything, really, for Dimitri's madness, for his own foolishness, for burdening them when they have their own people to care for. "I will find a way to repay you for your kindness, you and Claude."

"Well, I'm flattered, but for now, you need rest. You both do. I can get you fresh cots and you could sleep back here...but I think it might be best to keep Dimitri away from the others for now, just in case." Her unspoken meaning rings in the air as loud as if she had yelled it.

Just in case someone attempts to get revenge on him for killing their brethren, their friends, maybe even their family.

Dimitri has made so many enemies, and they are in an unfamiliar camp. Many of the wounded in the other room might even have been struck down by the prince. Dedue knows this, but for some reason, it makes his heart ache even more. Will Dimitri ever be safe?

"I apologize for the imposition. We had tents and supplies...but I don't know what happened to them."

"Don't worry about that, sweetheart, we have plenty to spare. I'm more worried about making sure you both are safe. You're worn out, and I don't want someone sneaking up on you in the night. I could ask Sylvain to keep watch, or Felix perhaps."

Dedue grits his teeth when she mentions those names. Traitors. They had abandoned His Highness, the entire Kingdom, to join up with the Alliance.

They had left the Blue Lions class for the Golden Deer during their days at Garreg Mach, so it shouldn't be such a surprise that their loyalties shifted. And they thought Dimitri was dead, the Kingdom lost to the Empire, but they hadn't even looked for him. They left Dimitri alone to fend for himself when Dedue could not be with him. He can't forgive them for that.

"I will not sleep, I must keep watch over His Highness."

"Ugh, of course. You knights are all the same," Manuela sighs.

"I am not a knight, merely a vassal," Dedue corrects her automatically.

Dedue releases Dimitri's hand that he's been holding for who knows how long as his own words remind him of his position. He's been behaving inappropriately, but his defenses are down, and he is so deathly afraid that this might be the last time he can feel Dimitri's warmth, even if Manuela is watching him shrewdly.

"Well, whatever you are, you're exhausted. I will let you get settled, but I'll send a healer to check on you in an hour or so. If you're asleep, then I will find someone to watch the tent for you."

"Fine," Dedue acquiesces. It's pointless to argue. He will not let his guard down, but he does want to rest, if he can find any peace with Dimitri still so close to death.

"Can you carry him, or shall I get a stretcher?"

Dedue answers by gently slipping his arms under Dimitri's torso, cradling the prince to his chest. Without his cape and armor, he feels so small in his hold. His head lolls against Dedue's shoulder, his single eye focusing for a moment before it flutters shut again.

"This way, please," Marianne motions.

Dedue starts at her voice. He had not realized she was still in the room; he must be more tired than he thought. She leads them out the back of the tent instead of through the main entrance. Manuela stays behind, but Dedue can feel her gaze boring holes into his back as they walk away. She frightens him, but he does not think she means him or Dimitri any harm, and he is indebted to her for working as hard as she did to save the prince.

The blue-haired healer leads them to a small tent not far from the infirmary. Its position is strategic, easy for the healers to access but also hard for them to escape unnoticed if they tried, not that Dimitri will be going anywhere under his own power in the near future. He would do the same if he were Claude.

"Thank you for your help," Dedue says to Marianne when she pauses. "You did not have to assist us, but I am grateful."

"I wanted to," Marianne whispers. "Dimitri was kind to me while we were in school. I don't know what he's been through, but he doesn't deserve this."

"No, he doesn't," Dedue agrees. Dimitri's suffering seems to be never-ending; he wonders if he will ever be at peace. "I wish things were different."

"So do I," Marianne agrees. "I hate killing our old friends. It's just awful."

"It is," Dedue agrees, a yawn cracking his jaws before he can swallow it back.

"I am so sorry, you need your rest," Marianne exclaims. "And please let me know if Dimitri's condition gets worse. It would also be good to try to get some fluids in him. Water or even broth if he'll stomach it. I'll make sure food is sent over for you both."

"Thank you again." It's all Dedue can say. He's not sure how he will ever be able to repay the debt he owes everyone.

Marianne nods and hurries off with her head down. Dedue shoulders open the tent flap. It's very similar to the setup he's been sleeping in the past few weeks. Small but secure, the canvas material keeping out the worst of the cold. There are a few bedrolls laid out on the floor and a bucket of water next to some folded towels. Dedue briefly wonders who slept here before the battle, if they are now in the medical tent, or if they are rotting on Gronder field. Not that it matters.

Dedue lowers Dimitri onto the bedding furthest from the door. The prince makes no sound, only the slow rise and fall of his chest reassures Dedue that he still lives. Dedue quickly removes his armor, not bothering to clean it like he usually would, but it can wait.

He dips a towel in the bucket of water, wringing out the excess before returning to Dimitri's side. One of the healers must have cleaned him slightly. He's not quite as filthy as he was before, but Dedue still takes the time to gently wipe away as much of the blood and grime from his skin as he can, avoiding the recently healed wounds. Messy, star-shaped indents mark the points where he was impaled. The skin around them is puckered, thin and pink, and surely painful to the touch, but his torso is littered with other injuries, both large and small.

Tendrils of despair threaten to choke Dedue's lungs like invisible vines as he rubs the cloth over Dimitri's abused body. He's so thin, Dedue can feel each rib clearly. His hip bones jut out so far that it seems they will break through the parchment-thin skin at any moment. Dedue knew Dimitri was not caring for himself, but this...this is so much worse than he imagined.

Dedue goes through all of the linens before he's satisfied that Dimitri is as clean as he can get without a proper bath. He uses the least stained towel to attempt to wipe himself down. He submerges his hand in the already murky water, scrubbing at his skin in an effort to remove the blood from underneath his nails. There is so much of it, almost all of it belonging to his prince. He has to get it off...has to erase it, he has to remove the physical reminder of his failure to protect Dimitri.

He gives up on the fruitless task when someone pushes a tray of food through the tent flap. Dedue gets up to retrieve it. He sticks his head out to thank whoever left it, but they are already gone. He carries it back to Dimitri's side, unsure if he should try and wake him up or let him rest. Dimitri makes the decision for him, though. His eye flutters open, a grimace pulling his face into lines of pain.

"Your Highness," Dedue heaves out a sigh of relief. His stomach swoops, and he feels like weeping, but he pushes his emotions down into the space where he buries everything he cannot feel yet. "Do you think you can try to stomach some broth for me?"

Dimitri does not respond, his gaze darting around as if he's seeing things that are not there, which he most likely is. Dimitri shudders and flinches when Dedue moves closer to him, but then he blinks and seems to come out of whatever place he goes to when the ghosts torment him.

"Dedue?" His voice is raw and weak, but he's speaking, he's recognizing him, which are all very good signs.

Dedue doesn't remember much of his actions after he was grievously wounded rescuing Dimitri from prison, but he recalls being unable to form coherent words for ages after his initial injury. It had been difficult to breathe through the pain, much less speak. He was not lucky enough to be healed by magic, though. Duscur blood is not prone to it; they treat wounds with herbs and remedies for the most part. Perhaps if Dedue had been able to find a faith healer, he could have reunited with Dimitri sooner, he could have...

"Yes, I'm here. I am going to help you sip this." Dedue forces himself to stop dwelling on the things he cannot change and focuses on what he can do now. He maneuvers the prince's long limbs until Dimitri is propped up in his lap, lifting his head just enough so he can tip some of the broth into his mouth. Dimitri swallows a few spoonfuls before pushing away from Dedue weakly.

"We..." Dimitri trails off, his chest heaving as he struggles to find words, "...lost," he chokes out, his despair filling the tent and pressing heavily on Dedue. "El got away."

Dedue doesn't answer, and Dimitri doesn't seem to want him to. They sit there in silence until Dimitri's shoulders begin shaking, his body shuddering with silent tears.

Mindful of his wounds, Dedue cradles him in his lap when Dimitri pushes his face into his tunic, whispering soothing words against the crown of his head as Dimitri weeps. Dedue lets himself shed a few tears too, his heart breaking as his prince shatters in his arms.

Have they fallen so far? Is this all that they are now? Weeping husks of the people they were meant to be? Dimitri should be ruling nations, Dedue should be tending a garden in Duscur, yet they are here, broken, bleeding, beaten down with nothing but each other to cling to.

Without thinking of what he is doing, Dedue starts humming an old Duscur lullaby he used to sing to Dimitri when he could not sleep back when they first met. His mother taught it to him, she said it would keep away the bad dreams and protect him while he slept.

And Dedue believed her until his first night alone in the Kingdom, when he was so very afraid, so very alone, and no matter how loudly he sang, the terror did not abate. But Dimitri had crawled into his lap, his bandaged torso aligning with Dedue's heaving chest, and they had wept together until the fading notes of the melody were replaced by sobs.

He holds Dimitri close to his heart and rocks him back and forth, feeling more like a child in this moment than he had when he was fifteen. Eventually, Dimitri falls quiet, his breathing evening out and his tears drying up. Not wanting to disturb him, Dedue eats the remaining meal, which has already gone cold, with Dimitri still held in one arm, his soft exhales pressing against his skin.

When he's done with the food, he pushes the tray behind him and shifts their position until they are lying down. He wraps his fingers around Dimitri's unbroken wrist, feeling his fluttering pulse point as he lets his eyes close for a brief moment.

Chapter Text

Dimitri aches. Everything hurts. His muscles are on fire and his chest burns. Even his tongue feels raw and too large inside his mouth. But his head is the worst. It's splitting in two. He tries to cradle it in his hands, but his arms won't cooperate.

He opens his eye but is met with only blackness, unnatural and heavy. He struggles to get up, but just as before, his limbs don't respond and he can't move.

"Look at the once mighty prince," a disembodied voice mocks him from somewhere in the oppressive darkness. "He came all this way just to kill me, and he almost died instead. How poetic." Is that El?

"He should have died," Glenn's voice replies, although he can't see him either. He sounds so much like Felix at this moment, spitting vitriol and hate just like he deserves.

"He probably will soon." That is his stepmother, but why can't he see any of them? "He's so weak, he won't make it through the night."

"Please, stop," Dimitri cuts in. Their voices are like knives piercing his already overstimulated brain matter. The pain in his head grows with every word until he thinks he might be sick with it.

"You're right," his father's voice joins the cacophony. "Why did we ever trust him with our revenge? Look at him. Weak, pathetic, unworthy of the Blaiddyd name."

"I tried," Dimitri tries to explain, but they talk straight over him, a new tone chimes in with every passing second. Felix, Ashe, Mercedes, Ingrid, even Dedue. Both the dead and the living taunt him. Unless they are all dead as well, he doesn't know anymore.

"Leave me alone!" Dimitri screams, the sound ripping at his abused throat, but no matter how loud he is, the voices are louder.

A sudden blast of light flares, bathing the scene in a lurid crimson glow. Flames lick at the feet of his already burned stepmother, they swirl around Glenn's boots, the shadows they cast flicker across his father's severed head. Now he can see everything, everyone. El is here, her dress blending in with the scarlet flames, but so is seemingly everyone he's ever known. Gustave, Rodrigue, Sylvain, Mercedes, Annette, Ingrid...the list goes on and on. It's Dedue's face that hurts the most though.

His scarred visage is splattered in blood, although Dimitri can't see any visible wounds on him. But it's his expression, the blatant hatred brimming behind his sage green eyes, that cuts Dimitri to the core. He can't face him, can't face anyone, because they are right. He is a failure.

He buries his head in his hands and weeps as the crowd pushes in closer, demanding his death in retribution, commanding him to get up, to die, to live, to avenge them.

It's too much.

Dimitri screams as one of them grabs onto his wrist. It sears through his nerves like the fire consuming them all. He tries to jerk away, but the ghosts are too strong. No matter how he twists, he can't escape. Edelgard's face hovers before his own, her expression twisted into that same, sad, pitiful look she had given him before on the battlefield.

Dimitri snarls at her, but she ignores him. Her small hand pushes him down, pressing against his chest with so much pressure that his sternum shatters under her touch. He wails as she keeps shoving, her fingers dipping into the tears made by the bone shards. He screeches in agony, but she only widens the wound, her short nails scratching against his beating heart.

She holds the organ in her palm. He can feel her caressing the muscle as it trembles. Then, in one sudden move, she rips it from his chest. He can't even scream; the agony is too intense. All he can do is watch as she crushes the red mass between her fingers.

The pain becomes too strong for Dimitri to bear. He's burning now too, his lungs turning to ash as he's held down and forced to face the flames...just as he should have nine years ago. He was meant to die in Duscur; the ghosts are only finishing the job.

~~~

Dedue jolts awake to the sound of Dimitri's hoarse cries. He hadn't meant to actually fall asleep, but it seems as if his body had other plans. He sits up so quickly that he gets vertigo, his head spinning and his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to adjust to the darkness.

Dimitri is twisting on his bedroll, hoarse screams falling from his lips as he writhes back and forth. Dedue is used to this. Dimitri wakes up in the grip of a night terror more often than not, if he even sleeps that is.

Dedue sits up, his eyes noticing the growing blossom of blood staining Dimitri's already filthy shirt. In a panic, he grasps Dimitri's shoulders, trying to stop him from further aggravating his wounds.

"Your Highness," he huffs, trying to get Dimitri to wake, but he just cries out again.

The tent flap is pushed open suddenly, and a familiar red mop of hair appears that can only belong to Sylvain invades their privacy. Manuela must have placed him as a guard after all, which is fair since Dedue had fallen asleep.

"What's happening?" Sylvain barks out, the Lance of Ruin held high as he pushes a lantern into the small space with his other hand.

"Just a nightmare," Dedue grits out.

"Can I help?"

You could have. If you had kept the faith. If you had been there for Dimitri five years ago. If you had bothered to look for him instead of abandoning him like everyone else.

"Get a healer, he's torn open one of his wounds."

"I'll be right back." Sylvain nods before disappearing into the night.

"Dimitri," Dedue turns his full attention back to his prince. "Please wake up."

Dimitri is usually easy to awaken; he sleeps so lightly at the best of times. But he does not rouse even when Dedue speaks directly in his ear. Perhaps he's too exhausted to escape the dream, or maybe the pain medicine Manula had given had muddled him. Dimitri always refused sleeping draughts when he was offered them in the past, saying they made things worse instead of better, and it seems like this may have had the same effect.

Dimitri retches suddenly. Dedue barely has time to tilt his head down before he's vomiting. By the light of the lantern Sylvain had left, it looks as if Dimitri is bringing up blood. Dedue tries not to think on what that means; the implications are too much to bear.

All at once, the tent is crowded with people. Dedue can't process them all. Lysithea is the only one he recognizes, but the rest must be healers as well. They are all speaking over each other. One of them tries to take Dimitri from him and Dedue makes a sound he's never heard himself produce before, something akin to a growl.

"Dedue." Sylvain's voice breaks through the miasma coating his brain, the familiarity of it calming him and allowing him to release his hold on the prince. "It will be easier for them to heal him if you let them work."

Dedue nods shakily and shifts himself away from Dimitri. It feels so viscerally wrong to leave him, but Sylvain is right. He's only in the way.

"I—apologies." Dedue flushes when he joins Sylvain outside. It's raining, a soft drizzle that cools the panic searing Dedue's insides as it soaks his overheated skin.

Sylvain stares at him with a look filled with so many emotions, Dedue fails to decipher them all: pity, sorrow, shame? A mix of all of them, most likely.

"They will help him," Sylvain finally says, not voicing any of the thoughts that Dedue saw in his hazel eyes.

One of the healers exits the tent suddenly without a word to either of them. Dedue glances inside. Dimitri is lying on his back while Lysithea traces sigils in the air. He's not crying out anymore, but that does not mean that he is all right.

"Why?" Dedue asks without further clarification, trying to distract himself from what is happening to Dimitri. He can't articulate the rest of his sentence; the words get crowded on his tongue and render him silent.

Why is the Alliance helping the enemy prince? Why is Sylvain pretending that he cares about him now? Why did he leave the Kingdom? Why is he here? 

There are too many questions weighing Dedue down. And the answers don't truly matter, but he still wants to know.

Sylvain simply shrugs. A response, if not a valid one, but Dedue's query was not clear either. He slumps to the ground, his hair falling over his eyes so Dedue can no longer attempt to read his hidden thoughts.

"I don't know what you think of me, and I don't care," Sylvain speaks up just when Dedue has resigned himself to the silence. "But I did try to save Dimitri. When news of his pending execution went out, Felix and I rode to Fhridiad, but we were too late. Or so we thought."

"And you accepted that without seeing the body, without knowing for sure that he was dead?" Dedue scoffs. He knows he would never have trusted Cornelia's announcement. Even if he had not arrived in time to save the prince, he would not have stopped until he viewed Dimitri's corpse with his own eyes.

"Yes! We had no idea he had escaped...hell—I thought you were dead too. How could we have known? You think I don't beat myself up every day for not questioning why Cornelia didn't display his body, why she didn't make the execution public? But I didn't think...didn't even guess that Dimitri was alive. It seemed impossible. And then the Empire invaded, and it was all I could do to make it through one day at a time."

Dedue hates that his heart twinges for Sylvain. His words ring true, but he cannot forgive him, or else he will have to forgive himself for failing as well.

"And now you are with the Alliance," Dedue huffs instead. That choice, at least, was just that—a voluntary betrayal of his homeland.

"We promised...the Golden Deer, that we would meet back up in five years, no matter what was going on in our lives. Felix was determined to be there no matter what, and I couldn't let him go alone. And then the professor was there, and Claude... He's an amazing guy. He doesn't care about crests or power. He just wants to make this fucked up world a better place. And I want that too."

"You would choose him over Dimitri?"

"Right now? Yeah, I would. I love Dimitri, I always will. But that guy I saw on the battlefield isn't my friend, isn't a king I want to follow. If he asks for my support again in the future, I'm not saying I won't give it, but I think what Fódlan needs is change. That's what Claude is trying to do. We just need to stop the Empire first."

Dedue swallows down the last few sparks of his dwindling anger. Sylvain is being honest with him. He deserves respect, even if Dedue cannot agree with him.

"If he lives..." Dedue whispers, melancholy rising out of the ashes of his fury, its dark tendrils taking root in his tired mind.

"He will. If there is one thing I know about Dimitri, it's that he's strong. He'll pull through."

"I-I..." Dedue's words shudder to a halt when he realizes he's about to cry. His body shakes with the need to sob, but he suppresses it. He cannot break down, not here.

"It's okay to let it out. I'm not gonna judge you," Sylvain offers.

Dedue breathes heavily through his nose, refusing to allow himself to show such weakness. He has to be strong. Dimitri needs him. He can't break. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"We are going to move Dimitri back to the medical tent." Lysithea's head pops out of the tent flat. Dedue gets to his feet in a rush. "He's stable for now, but I think the internal damage is worse than we thought, and I want him under observation for the next few hours."

"I can carry him there," Dedue offers. He wipes at his eyes hurriedly, forcing the tears back now that he's needed again.

Lysithea nods. The rest of the healers filter out of the tent, giving Dedue space to return to the prince's side. Dimitri is still and limp. His stomach wound is closed again, but he looks worse than before. His skin is sallow, and his breathing is heavy and uneven.

Dedue forces himself to swallow back the rising panic in his chest and makes himself pick Dimitri up. He cannot shatter. He has to be Dimitri's pillar of strength.