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theprototypes2020-03-12 09:41 pm
incontrast) wrote in theprototypes2020-03-12 09:41 pm
A cornerstone to start with
Title: A cornerstone to start with
Series: Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Rating: G
Pairings: light Dimitri/Byleth, as if I write anything else
Genre: Friendship, hurt/comfort
Word count: 3015
Spoilers: Yes
Summary: “I told you,” he says quietly, sadly, “you can’t hold yourself responsible for our fates. There are some things… some people that even you can’t fix, Professor.”
Byleth swipes her thumb thoughtfully over his sleeve. “I don’t think people need fixing.”
* * *
“Did Dedue send you?”
Dimitri’s voice is so flat that the phrase hardly sounds like a question. He doesn’t look over from where he stands with feet spread and back straight and hands clutched tight around his lance—his actual lance, Byleth notes, not a training prop—but takes a swing and two swift jabs at an invisible foe before returning to his starting position.
Even from here, in the dark, she can see sweat glistening on his face and staining the back of his shirt.
“No. I had a feeling you’d be out here.”
His eyes might flicker in her direction for a split-second. Then he’s moving again, a quick lunge and a low sweeping blow that changes hands at the end of its arc as he pivots in place. The spearhead whistles as it cuts the empty air.
The execution is nearly flawless－but Byleth notices the light tremble in his right arm, the sound of his breath escaping harshly between his teeth, the way he jerks to keep his balance when he throws too much strength into the thrust.
“Good,” she comments. “But your form is lacking. It’s obvious you’re exhausted.”
Dimitri straightens up again. His movements are a beat slower than usual. “I can’t stop in the middle of a battle just because I’m tired.”
“No, but pacing yourself can mean the difference between victory and getting killed.”
Now he does look at her. For an instant his eyes are cold and piercing, but then Byleth blinks and he just looks tired, distracted.
“The Empire hasn’t reached us yet,” he intones quietly. The creak of his lance straining in his fist is loud in the silence. “There’s still time. Time best used by improving as much as I possibly can. That, Professor, can make all the difference.”
“It can.” She crosses her arms over her stomach. “But even you have limits. Pushing yourself until you collapse is going to catch up with you sooner or later.”
“Then I hope it’s later.”
He turns his back on her and resumes practicing. Byleth watches him silently, unmoved.
When next Dimitri whirls around, slashing hard at the air at neck-height, Byleth is there. She ducks under the swing and comes back up an instant later, using the momentum of her ascent to drive her shoulder into his chest. What she lacks in strength against him, she makes up in surprise and by slipping a leg between his to kick her heel into the back of his knee.
Dimitri lands hard on his back without resistance, his breath knocked from him in a grunt. With their legs tangled Byleth has no choice but to fall with him, but she’s already snatched the lance from his stunned fingers and uses it to catch herself by driving the flat end into the ground beside his head.
Subtle reactions flicker over his face as he stares up at her—alarm, confusion, realization, the beginnings of irritation—but he stays down, chest rising and falling harshly.
“You’re dead,” she tells him. “If a simple maneuver like that kills you this easily, you’re in no condition to be fighting. Considering our allies tend to look to you as one of their commanders, in this state you’re a danger to the mission and a liability to those around you.”
Her blunt words are tempered by her matter-of-fact tone, the same one she’s used to correct and instruct him before. It’s constructive criticism, not an insult.
Dimitri’s eyes narrow as he turns his head away, but Byleth can see his expression softening, his unnaturally aggressive hackles receding. His mood swings are much more abrupt lately, going both ways.
She stands up and offers him a hand, which he takes. Once on his feet, Dimitri still doesn’t quite meet her gaze.
“Training is all about conditioning yourself for a real battle,” Byleth tells him, a little more gently. “If you get into the mindset that you can just keep charging blindly until you drop, it will become a habit. Do that, and an enemy soldier could take you out as quickly as I did just now.”
She can almost hear his brain working as he considers that, but it’s only so comforting. It’s unlikely he’s rethinking the danger to his life; rather, he’s probably considering the risk of dying before he reaches Edelgard.
“You’re right,” he concedes finally. “Thank you, Professor.”
There’s a hint of his usual warmth there, but it’s cold compared to what she’s used to. Byleth rolls the lance in her hands thoughtfully for a moment, and then offers it back.
“Take a break and rest for a bit,” she proposes, “and I’ll show you how you could have countered my attack. Deal?”
After a short pause he nods once, briefly. “I accept.”
They sit against the wall opposite the doors, side-by-side and a little closer than arm’s length. Even without looking at Dimitri directly, Byleth can tell he’s struggling to hide his fatigue in the way he lowers himself with forced casualness and tries to slow his heavy breathing. He pulls one knee up and props his lance against his shoulder, his vacant gaze fixed forward and his mouth a flat line.
She isn’t sure what to tell him. He’s been distant and dismissive ever since the Holy Tomb, as though he exists in a different world than everyone else. She’s caught him staring at nothing and talking to himself, sometimes at the same time. She barely sees him outside of the training grounds and most of the time he ignores her—ignores everyone—unless bothered. When he speaks to her, as rare as it is, she sees his simmering darkness much more often than the gentle demeanor she’s come to know so well.
She wants to ask what he’ll do when the fighting starts, if he’ll be able to keep his temper in check and think clearly, whether he really thinks Edelgard could be guilty of his assumptions—but she’s sure Dimitri obsesses over thoughts of that nature already, without her help. She wants him to get some much needed rest, not agitate him further.
“I remember the first time you and I trained together,” she muses. Lacing her fingers over her knee, she tilts her head back against the cool stone. “You held back a lot more then.”
When he doesn’t immediately answer, she starts to think he’s ignoring her. Then,
“I’ve always held back when training. Perhaps more than I needed to at times.”
Byleth nods, thinking back. “I thought you seemed uncomfortable at first. Almost like you didn’t trust yourself.” She looks at him, but his gaze is fixed on the ground between his legs. “You’ve come a long way. Your movements are more natural. More confident. You break less equipment than before,” she adds with a slight smirk.
She can’t tell if a ghost of a smile touches his face or she’s just seeing things in the shadows.
“Thanks to you,” he admits.
“I just gave you some tips. You’re the one who put them into practice and did the work.”
“I would say that’s what the best teachers do—teach their students to improve themselves.”
“Hmm. That’s reassuring.”
Dimitri glances at her. “Do you doubt yourself, Professor?”
For a moment Byleth says nothing, considering that. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how well my lessons help you all in the real world.”
When they’re with her, she can protect them. Either by her own strength or with the hands of time, she can make sure they live another day, but they won’t always be her students. Eventually—perhaps with the start of this war—they’ll have to rely on their own abilities and she’ll have to hope she did her part.
“You shouldn’t hold yourself accountable for our fates.” Dimitri’s voice is firm, but there’s something gentle in it, too. “Especially once we leave the monastery. We all came here to learn to be soldiers. That includes learning to be responsible for ourselves.”
“Maybe so.” Even to herself, Byleth doesn’t sound convinced.
“However,” Dimitri says slowly, “I am sure I would feel the same in your position. Avoiding that sort of guilt… It’s no simple matter, whatever we try to tell ourselves.”
There’s something dark and distant in his downward gaze, but this time it seems sad rather than angry.
Byleth hums softly, a solemn sound of agreement. How often does she still think back to the day of her father’s death and regret that she didn’t do something differently? Sothis called it fate, but even if Byleth was convinced that was true, her feelings would remain unchanged. She would still think he could have been saved somehow, if only.
“Maybe that’s what we should be teaching,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Not just how to take action, but how to deal with the consequences, too.”
How many people would benefit from Dimitri’s kind words to her before, about taking time to grieve and having the strength to depend on others? Would her students have slept more soundly after their first mission killing bandits, had they been warned beforehand and offered a supportive ear afterwards? Would Ashe’s face stop paling every time Lonato’s name is mentioned?
Part of her wants to think that’s the monastery’s intention—exposing students to the horrors of battle so they’re less likely to flinch later—but she doubts it. Rhea has always seemed more concerned with reiterating the church’s absolute authority.
Lost in her thoughts, it takes Byleth a long moment to realize Dimitri’s staring at her.
“What do you mean, exactly?” he asks.
She cocks her head, considering how best to phrase it. “I mean… every time our class has a mission that involves killing enemies, I notice things. Grades slip. Morale drops. Some of the students are less focused, or have a hard time staying awake during class. They seem tired and distracted.”
Dimitri’s expression softens, a look of understanding.
“It’s not surprising,” she goes on. “Some of my father’s mercenaries were the same, especially the younger ones. For some people, I think the strain that battle puts on their minds never gets easier. But students are expected to pull through all that for the sake of graduating, even though they might not have anyone to confide in when it causes them to suffer. Even if they do have friends and comrades, they might think it’s cowardly to complain.”
She hesitates, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. It just seems… odd, that we teach you how to care for wounds on the battlefield, but not the strain it can all cause once you’re off of it.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Dimitri sounds almost wary, but the gruff shade to his tone is gone for the first time in a week.
“Well… I doubt anyone else is eager to make that part of the curriculum, but…” She shrugs again with a sad smile. “If I was Archbishop, it’d be a different story. As equally unlikely as that is.”
She hopes the half-joke will provoke a hint of something positive in Dimitri’s expression, but to her surprise he’s staring at her intensely, considerately.
“Dimitri?”
He blinks, frowning as he seems to shake himself back to reality. He looks more like himself than he has in weeks. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking that… with all due respect to Lady Rhea, perhaps the church could benefit from a different way of thinking. One like yours.”
That prompts a slight smirk. “I doubt a wandering mercenary raised without religion could say anything about the church that would be taken seriously.”
“Maybe not. And maybe it just depends on who hears you.”
The two of them exchange thoughtful looks. It’s clear the subject means a lot to him—and that alone solidifies Byleth’s brief musing as something worth pursuing.
“Maybe I can pull some sway with Rhea, then. Once… when I’m able.”
“If anyone could convince her, I’ve no doubt it would be you.”
Byleth gives a distracted nod. This is all assuming there will still be a Garreg Mach standing after the battle to come.
“I would like to hold you to that, Professor,” Dimitri says after a moment. He’s staring forward again. “So, please… whatever happens, do all that you can to stay alive.”
Something in her chest tightens as she watches him. Neither of them is a fool; the knights haven’t done well hiding their unease, and it’s simple common sense that the Empire’s army will be both larger and better prepared.
Byleth doesn’t know what will happen in a week’s time. All she does know is that she’ll do everything she can to keep everyone alive, or die trying.
“As the teacher, I should be saying that to you,” she points out. Her playful tone falls short and solemn.
“No.” Dimitri shakes his head with a rueful smile that Byleth doesn’t like. “Your ideals are noble ones. You don’t need me by your side to fulfill them.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But I want you there all the same.”
He seems to go unnaturally still for a moment. She thinks he’s going to object or brush her off, but in the end he says nothing, his eyes narrowing with some unspoken thought and a low, sharp exhale.
She’s not sure how to interpret it, so she just speaks her mind.
“You told me that you couldn’t promise your future to anyone. I understand that way of thinking.” She doesn’t like it, but she understands. “So… instead, why don’t we promise to walk side-by-side for as long as we can? Even if we part ways sometimes, there’s still a chance we’ll find our way back together again.”
After a few more beats of stillness, Dimitri runs his hand along the shaft of his lance in a distracted, thoughtful motion.
“That sounds like a mercenary’s logic,” he muses. His movements slow to a stop. “If you find that you still want anything to do with me in the future… then yes. I would like to walk beside you for as long as you’ll have me.”
When he turns to her again, it’s the Dimitri she knows—the usual warm attentiveness, the eager admiration, the almost timid sense of hope as he hangs on her words.
It gives Byleth some hope, as well. If she can give him something to look forward to besides vengeance—if she can get him to talk about his future in a way that doesn’t sound as though it only goes that far—maybe she hasn’t failed him, after all.
She starts to set her hand on his shoulder, but then rethinks it and touches the crook of his elbow instead. No armor there, just cloth and the warmth of his body underneath to say he’s here, safe and within reach.
“If there ever comes a time when I refuse, that’s my fault. Not yours,” she tells him firmly.
Dimitri stares at her hand, his own loosening around his lance for a moment before tightening again.
“I told you,” he says quietly, sadly, “you can’t hold yourself responsible for our fates. There are some things… some people that even you can’t fix, Professor.”
Byleth swipes her thumb thoughtfully over his sleeve. “I don’t think people need fixing.”
Her father didn’t try to fix her by raising her and teaching her the way he did. He loved her despite her oddities.
Dimitri didn’t try to fix her with his gentle words after her father died.
Sothis didn’t fix her when she gave Byleth a fighting chance by surrendering her power.
It was never about fixing her, as though she needed improving—as though she were some broken thing that could be patched back together, or a wound that needed stitching. She’s come to realize that humans are more complicated than that.
“I think,” she says slowly, “people just need help sometimes.”
A kind word, an outstretched hand.
The simple reassurance that it’s okay to hurt, okay to cry, okay to feel.
“As you said, that includes helping them help themselves.” She gives his arm a light squeeze before letting go. “You helped me learn that.”
Dimitri’s stare is a surprised one. Byleth holds it, honest and earnest, until he finally looks away again. “I’m… I’m happy to hear that.”
Coming from anyone else, that remark might sound dismissive or detached, but she believes him. She’s had the impression that he wasn’t totally honest with her in the past, but he doesn’t seem to lie about his emotions. Perhaps he can’t, given how openly he tends to wear them.
She decides she’s probably said enough and lets the silence linger. Originally, she hoped she could trick him into some sleep by getting him to sit down like this—but even as late as it is, as heavy as his shoulders look, and as peaceful as the silence continues to be, she sees the restlessness in his small movements and the alertness in his posture. He’s tired, but whether through his own stubborn will or something else entirely, rest isn’t coming for him.
Disappointed but determined, Byleth finally stands up and offers him her hand once more. “A deal’s a deal,” she tells him when he stares up at her. “I’ll give you some pointers.”
As she helps him to his feet, she adds pointedly, “The information will stick better if you get some sleep. Forcing too much on yourself without rest is a good way to forget things.”
She doesn’t wait for his answer—she doubts he’ll give one—but retrieves a lance from the weapon rack and rejoins him, commenting on his posture.
It isn’t the help she wanted to give, but she won’t force the matter. Until Dimitri wants to help himself, there’s only so much she can do for him. She can support him, protect him, but what’s been broken inside him isn’t meant to be fixed like clockwork, and certainly not by force.
For now, Byleth decides, she’ll walk beside him as promised and help hold his remaining pieces together.
Series: Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Rating: G
Pairings: light Dimitri/Byleth, as if I write anything else
Genre: Friendship, hurt/comfort
Word count: 3015
Spoilers: Yes
Summary: “I told you,” he says quietly, sadly, “you can’t hold yourself responsible for our fates. There are some things… some people that even you can’t fix, Professor.”
Byleth swipes her thumb thoughtfully over his sleeve. “I don’t think people need fixing.”
“Did Dedue send you?”
Dimitri’s voice is so flat that the phrase hardly sounds like a question. He doesn’t look over from where he stands with feet spread and back straight and hands clutched tight around his lance—his actual lance, Byleth notes, not a training prop—but takes a swing and two swift jabs at an invisible foe before returning to his starting position.
Even from here, in the dark, she can see sweat glistening on his face and staining the back of his shirt.
“No. I had a feeling you’d be out here.”
His eyes might flicker in her direction for a split-second. Then he’s moving again, a quick lunge and a low sweeping blow that changes hands at the end of its arc as he pivots in place. The spearhead whistles as it cuts the empty air.
The execution is nearly flawless－but Byleth notices the light tremble in his right arm, the sound of his breath escaping harshly between his teeth, the way he jerks to keep his balance when he throws too much strength into the thrust.
“Good,” she comments. “But your form is lacking. It’s obvious you’re exhausted.”
Dimitri straightens up again. His movements are a beat slower than usual. “I can’t stop in the middle of a battle just because I’m tired.”
“No, but pacing yourself can mean the difference between victory and getting killed.”
Now he does look at her. For an instant his eyes are cold and piercing, but then Byleth blinks and he just looks tired, distracted.
“The Empire hasn’t reached us yet,” he intones quietly. The creak of his lance straining in his fist is loud in the silence. “There’s still time. Time best used by improving as much as I possibly can. That, Professor, can make all the difference.”
“It can.” She crosses her arms over her stomach. “But even you have limits. Pushing yourself until you collapse is going to catch up with you sooner or later.”
“Then I hope it’s later.”
He turns his back on her and resumes practicing. Byleth watches him silently, unmoved.
When next Dimitri whirls around, slashing hard at the air at neck-height, Byleth is there. She ducks under the swing and comes back up an instant later, using the momentum of her ascent to drive her shoulder into his chest. What she lacks in strength against him, she makes up in surprise and by slipping a leg between his to kick her heel into the back of his knee.
Dimitri lands hard on his back without resistance, his breath knocked from him in a grunt. With their legs tangled Byleth has no choice but to fall with him, but she’s already snatched the lance from his stunned fingers and uses it to catch herself by driving the flat end into the ground beside his head.
Subtle reactions flicker over his face as he stares up at her—alarm, confusion, realization, the beginnings of irritation—but he stays down, chest rising and falling harshly.
“You’re dead,” she tells him. “If a simple maneuver like that kills you this easily, you’re in no condition to be fighting. Considering our allies tend to look to you as one of their commanders, in this state you’re a danger to the mission and a liability to those around you.”
Her blunt words are tempered by her matter-of-fact tone, the same one she’s used to correct and instruct him before. It’s constructive criticism, not an insult.
Dimitri’s eyes narrow as he turns his head away, but Byleth can see his expression softening, his unnaturally aggressive hackles receding. His mood swings are much more abrupt lately, going both ways.
She stands up and offers him a hand, which he takes. Once on his feet, Dimitri still doesn’t quite meet her gaze.
“Training is all about conditioning yourself for a real battle,” Byleth tells him, a little more gently. “If you get into the mindset that you can just keep charging blindly until you drop, it will become a habit. Do that, and an enemy soldier could take you out as quickly as I did just now.”
She can almost hear his brain working as he considers that, but it’s only so comforting. It’s unlikely he’s rethinking the danger to his life; rather, he’s probably considering the risk of dying before he reaches Edelgard.
“You’re right,” he concedes finally. “Thank you, Professor.”
There’s a hint of his usual warmth there, but it’s cold compared to what she’s used to. Byleth rolls the lance in her hands thoughtfully for a moment, and then offers it back.
“Take a break and rest for a bit,” she proposes, “and I’ll show you how you could have countered my attack. Deal?”
After a short pause he nods once, briefly. “I accept.”
They sit against the wall opposite the doors, side-by-side and a little closer than arm’s length. Even without looking at Dimitri directly, Byleth can tell he’s struggling to hide his fatigue in the way he lowers himself with forced casualness and tries to slow his heavy breathing. He pulls one knee up and props his lance against his shoulder, his vacant gaze fixed forward and his mouth a flat line.
She isn’t sure what to tell him. He’s been distant and dismissive ever since the Holy Tomb, as though he exists in a different world than everyone else. She’s caught him staring at nothing and talking to himself, sometimes at the same time. She barely sees him outside of the training grounds and most of the time he ignores her—ignores everyone—unless bothered. When he speaks to her, as rare as it is, she sees his simmering darkness much more often than the gentle demeanor she’s come to know so well.
She wants to ask what he’ll do when the fighting starts, if he’ll be able to keep his temper in check and think clearly, whether he really thinks Edelgard could be guilty of his assumptions—but she’s sure Dimitri obsesses over thoughts of that nature already, without her help. She wants him to get some much needed rest, not agitate him further.
“I remember the first time you and I trained together,” she muses. Lacing her fingers over her knee, she tilts her head back against the cool stone. “You held back a lot more then.”
When he doesn’t immediately answer, she starts to think he’s ignoring her. Then,
“I’ve always held back when training. Perhaps more than I needed to at times.”
Byleth nods, thinking back. “I thought you seemed uncomfortable at first. Almost like you didn’t trust yourself.” She looks at him, but his gaze is fixed on the ground between his legs. “You’ve come a long way. Your movements are more natural. More confident. You break less equipment than before,” she adds with a slight smirk.
She can’t tell if a ghost of a smile touches his face or she’s just seeing things in the shadows.
“Thanks to you,” he admits.
“I just gave you some tips. You’re the one who put them into practice and did the work.”
“I would say that’s what the best teachers do—teach their students to improve themselves.”
“Hmm. That’s reassuring.”
Dimitri glances at her. “Do you doubt yourself, Professor?”
For a moment Byleth says nothing, considering that. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how well my lessons help you all in the real world.”
When they’re with her, she can protect them. Either by her own strength or with the hands of time, she can make sure they live another day, but they won’t always be her students. Eventually—perhaps with the start of this war—they’ll have to rely on their own abilities and she’ll have to hope she did her part.
“You shouldn’t hold yourself accountable for our fates.” Dimitri’s voice is firm, but there’s something gentle in it, too. “Especially once we leave the monastery. We all came here to learn to be soldiers. That includes learning to be responsible for ourselves.”
“Maybe so.” Even to herself, Byleth doesn’t sound convinced.
“However,” Dimitri says slowly, “I am sure I would feel the same in your position. Avoiding that sort of guilt… It’s no simple matter, whatever we try to tell ourselves.”
There’s something dark and distant in his downward gaze, but this time it seems sad rather than angry.
Byleth hums softly, a solemn sound of agreement. How often does she still think back to the day of her father’s death and regret that she didn’t do something differently? Sothis called it fate, but even if Byleth was convinced that was true, her feelings would remain unchanged. She would still think he could have been saved somehow, if only.
“Maybe that’s what we should be teaching,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Not just how to take action, but how to deal with the consequences, too.”
How many people would benefit from Dimitri’s kind words to her before, about taking time to grieve and having the strength to depend on others? Would her students have slept more soundly after their first mission killing bandits, had they been warned beforehand and offered a supportive ear afterwards? Would Ashe’s face stop paling every time Lonato’s name is mentioned?
Part of her wants to think that’s the monastery’s intention—exposing students to the horrors of battle so they’re less likely to flinch later—but she doubts it. Rhea has always seemed more concerned with reiterating the church’s absolute authority.
Lost in her thoughts, it takes Byleth a long moment to realize Dimitri’s staring at her.
“What do you mean, exactly?” he asks.
She cocks her head, considering how best to phrase it. “I mean… every time our class has a mission that involves killing enemies, I notice things. Grades slip. Morale drops. Some of the students are less focused, or have a hard time staying awake during class. They seem tired and distracted.”
Dimitri’s expression softens, a look of understanding.
“It’s not surprising,” she goes on. “Some of my father’s mercenaries were the same, especially the younger ones. For some people, I think the strain that battle puts on their minds never gets easier. But students are expected to pull through all that for the sake of graduating, even though they might not have anyone to confide in when it causes them to suffer. Even if they do have friends and comrades, they might think it’s cowardly to complain.”
She hesitates, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. It just seems… odd, that we teach you how to care for wounds on the battlefield, but not the strain it can all cause once you’re off of it.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Dimitri sounds almost wary, but the gruff shade to his tone is gone for the first time in a week.
“Well… I doubt anyone else is eager to make that part of the curriculum, but…” She shrugs again with a sad smile. “If I was Archbishop, it’d be a different story. As equally unlikely as that is.”
She hopes the half-joke will provoke a hint of something positive in Dimitri’s expression, but to her surprise he’s staring at her intensely, considerately.
“Dimitri?”
He blinks, frowning as he seems to shake himself back to reality. He looks more like himself than he has in weeks. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking that… with all due respect to Lady Rhea, perhaps the church could benefit from a different way of thinking. One like yours.”
That prompts a slight smirk. “I doubt a wandering mercenary raised without religion could say anything about the church that would be taken seriously.”
“Maybe not. And maybe it just depends on who hears you.”
The two of them exchange thoughtful looks. It’s clear the subject means a lot to him—and that alone solidifies Byleth’s brief musing as something worth pursuing.
“Maybe I can pull some sway with Rhea, then. Once… when I’m able.”
“If anyone could convince her, I’ve no doubt it would be you.”
Byleth gives a distracted nod. This is all assuming there will still be a Garreg Mach standing after the battle to come.
“I would like to hold you to that, Professor,” Dimitri says after a moment. He’s staring forward again. “So, please… whatever happens, do all that you can to stay alive.”
Something in her chest tightens as she watches him. Neither of them is a fool; the knights haven’t done well hiding their unease, and it’s simple common sense that the Empire’s army will be both larger and better prepared.
Byleth doesn’t know what will happen in a week’s time. All she does know is that she’ll do everything she can to keep everyone alive, or die trying.
“As the teacher, I should be saying that to you,” she points out. Her playful tone falls short and solemn.
“No.” Dimitri shakes his head with a rueful smile that Byleth doesn’t like. “Your ideals are noble ones. You don’t need me by your side to fulfill them.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But I want you there all the same.”
He seems to go unnaturally still for a moment. She thinks he’s going to object or brush her off, but in the end he says nothing, his eyes narrowing with some unspoken thought and a low, sharp exhale.
She’s not sure how to interpret it, so she just speaks her mind.
“You told me that you couldn’t promise your future to anyone. I understand that way of thinking.” She doesn’t like it, but she understands. “So… instead, why don’t we promise to walk side-by-side for as long as we can? Even if we part ways sometimes, there’s still a chance we’ll find our way back together again.”
After a few more beats of stillness, Dimitri runs his hand along the shaft of his lance in a distracted, thoughtful motion.
“That sounds like a mercenary’s logic,” he muses. His movements slow to a stop. “If you find that you still want anything to do with me in the future… then yes. I would like to walk beside you for as long as you’ll have me.”
When he turns to her again, it’s the Dimitri she knows—the usual warm attentiveness, the eager admiration, the almost timid sense of hope as he hangs on her words.
It gives Byleth some hope, as well. If she can give him something to look forward to besides vengeance—if she can get him to talk about his future in a way that doesn’t sound as though it only goes that far—maybe she hasn’t failed him, after all.
She starts to set her hand on his shoulder, but then rethinks it and touches the crook of his elbow instead. No armor there, just cloth and the warmth of his body underneath to say he’s here, safe and within reach.
“If there ever comes a time when I refuse, that’s my fault. Not yours,” she tells him firmly.
Dimitri stares at her hand, his own loosening around his lance for a moment before tightening again.
“I told you,” he says quietly, sadly, “you can’t hold yourself responsible for our fates. There are some things… some people that even you can’t fix, Professor.”
Byleth swipes her thumb thoughtfully over his sleeve. “I don’t think people need fixing.”
Her father didn’t try to fix her by raising her and teaching her the way he did. He loved her despite her oddities.
Dimitri didn’t try to fix her with his gentle words after her father died.
Sothis didn’t fix her when she gave Byleth a fighting chance by surrendering her power.
It was never about fixing her, as though she needed improving—as though she were some broken thing that could be patched back together, or a wound that needed stitching. She’s come to realize that humans are more complicated than that.
“I think,” she says slowly, “people just need help sometimes.”
A kind word, an outstretched hand.
The simple reassurance that it’s okay to hurt, okay to cry, okay to feel.
“As you said, that includes helping them help themselves.” She gives his arm a light squeeze before letting go. “You helped me learn that.”
Dimitri’s stare is a surprised one. Byleth holds it, honest and earnest, until he finally looks away again. “I’m… I’m happy to hear that.”
Coming from anyone else, that remark might sound dismissive or detached, but she believes him. She’s had the impression that he wasn’t totally honest with her in the past, but he doesn’t seem to lie about his emotions. Perhaps he can’t, given how openly he tends to wear them.
She decides she’s probably said enough and lets the silence linger. Originally, she hoped she could trick him into some sleep by getting him to sit down like this—but even as late as it is, as heavy as his shoulders look, and as peaceful as the silence continues to be, she sees the restlessness in his small movements and the alertness in his posture. He’s tired, but whether through his own stubborn will or something else entirely, rest isn’t coming for him.
Disappointed but determined, Byleth finally stands up and offers him her hand once more. “A deal’s a deal,” she tells him when he stares up at her. “I’ll give you some pointers.”
As she helps him to his feet, she adds pointedly, “The information will stick better if you get some sleep. Forcing too much on yourself without rest is a good way to forget things.”
She doesn’t wait for his answer—she doubts he’ll give one—but retrieves a lance from the weapon rack and rejoins him, commenting on his posture.
It isn’t the help she wanted to give, but she won’t force the matter. Until Dimitri wants to help himself, there’s only so much she can do for him. She can support him, protect him, but what’s been broken inside him isn’t meant to be fixed like clockwork, and certainly not by force.
For now, Byleth decides, she’ll walk beside him as promised and help hold his remaining pieces together.