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[It's hard to believe that it's been five years since everything fell apart, sometimes the time feels like it's floated by like some kind of bad dream, and other times it feels like it's dragged, like every day was longer than the last, bloodier, harder.
They approach the anniversary of a promise made in an entirely different world, and there's no guarantee anyone will be around to honor it. Their professor disappeared, no word of them since that fateful day at Garreg Mach. Their king may very well be dead. That's what they've all been told. That's what they've all been lead to believe. But there's doubt around the fact that there's no body. And maybe it's stupid and childish to cling to that doubt, but he knows he's not the only one. That as he, Sylvain, and Ingrid make the trek from the battle-weary roads of Faerghus towards a broken monastery, they're all holding out this desperate hope that Dimitri will be there. Maybe they've all been clinging to this day, like some dues ex machina that will shift the losing tides they can all feel lapping at their feet.
It's a possibility that hangs heavy on his shoulders, and the conversation is shallow at best, like they're all scared to speak of the fate that awaits them once they've passed this moment. It makes him almost grateful for Sylvain's suggestion that they leave early, that they get a few rooms at an inn close to the remains of their academy the night before they're supposed to meet whatever is left of the Blue Lions House. He's tired when they finally arrive, and they all make a beeline to their respective rooms with the promise to meet Sylvain later for dinner.
Dinner comes and passes and Ingrid, having eaten more than her fair share, excuses herself to sleep off her meat coma and that leaves him alone with Sylvain. It's not the first time he's seen Sylvain in the past five years, of course, but most visits are harried, one or the other being called out to fight to keep their lands from Edelgard's forces. Their conversations heavily leaning towards battles, strategies, supplies. There's been little need for anything else.
Or...maybe that's where he's wrong. Maybe he's missed their more casual conversations during their academy days. Where they could eat a meal with nothing more important to talk about than Sylvain's lackadaisical stance towards training, or the occasional, usually Sylvain prompted, childhood story. Maybe that's partially the cause of the empty feeling in his chest. Sylvain wasn't lost, not like Byleth, not like Dimitri, but that distance they had slowly chipped away at during their time at the academy felt as if it had widened again.
He should call it a night. Goddess knew what awaited them the next day, but here he was, sitting with his arms folded over his chest across from Sylvain, waiting for their waitress to bring them the first of who knew how many rounds of drinks.]
One drink. I have no interest in staying around until you get into some stupid drunken antic.
[A lie. They probably both know it. But it cuts the silence.]
They approach the anniversary of a promise made in an entirely different world, and there's no guarantee anyone will be around to honor it. Their professor disappeared, no word of them since that fateful day at Garreg Mach. Their king may very well be dead. That's what they've all been told. That's what they've all been lead to believe. But there's doubt around the fact that there's no body. And maybe it's stupid and childish to cling to that doubt, but he knows he's not the only one. That as he, Sylvain, and Ingrid make the trek from the battle-weary roads of Faerghus towards a broken monastery, they're all holding out this desperate hope that Dimitri will be there. Maybe they've all been clinging to this day, like some dues ex machina that will shift the losing tides they can all feel lapping at their feet.
It's a possibility that hangs heavy on his shoulders, and the conversation is shallow at best, like they're all scared to speak of the fate that awaits them once they've passed this moment. It makes him almost grateful for Sylvain's suggestion that they leave early, that they get a few rooms at an inn close to the remains of their academy the night before they're supposed to meet whatever is left of the Blue Lions House. He's tired when they finally arrive, and they all make a beeline to their respective rooms with the promise to meet Sylvain later for dinner.
Dinner comes and passes and Ingrid, having eaten more than her fair share, excuses herself to sleep off her meat coma and that leaves him alone with Sylvain. It's not the first time he's seen Sylvain in the past five years, of course, but most visits are harried, one or the other being called out to fight to keep their lands from Edelgard's forces. Their conversations heavily leaning towards battles, strategies, supplies. There's been little need for anything else.
Or...maybe that's where he's wrong. Maybe he's missed their more casual conversations during their academy days. Where they could eat a meal with nothing more important to talk about than Sylvain's lackadaisical stance towards training, or the occasional, usually Sylvain prompted, childhood story. Maybe that's partially the cause of the empty feeling in his chest. Sylvain wasn't lost, not like Byleth, not like Dimitri, but that distance they had slowly chipped away at during their time at the academy felt as if it had widened again.
He should call it a night. Goddess knew what awaited them the next day, but here he was, sitting with his arms folded over his chest across from Sylvain, waiting for their waitress to bring them the first of who knew how many rounds of drinks.]
One drink. I have no interest in staying around until you get into some stupid drunken antic.
[A lie. They probably both know it. But it cuts the silence.]
