Sovereign's Guilt - A Dimitri Fanfic

2 - An Anticipated Bond

"There you are, Dedue!"

The two men had barely stepped into the bustle when already somebody demanded their attention. Approaching them came the familiar forms of Annette and Mercedes, both looking resplendent in their celebratory dresswear.

"Oh, hello again," said Dedue upon their appearance. The four had met up briefly earlier in the day upon reaching Garreg Mach; while the festival was being set up, some of the academy graduates had been asked to give brief lectures to current students. "I trust your lectures were a success?"

The women chuckled immediately. "Mine went well, thank you." Mercedes' voice was as light as usual, like a soft breeze one had to strain to hear over the rowdy celebrations. "As for Annette's..."

"Ohh, Mercie, you didn't have to mention that!" The woman began to pout. "It... It went fine! I'll leave it at that."

"I'm assuming it did not go fine." Dedue cracked a smile as he watched Annette bury her face in her hands in shame.

Dimitri looked past the chatting graduates out into the festival, seeing yet another familiar face. Ingrid Galatea stood waiting by a nearby food stall, golden hair tied into elaborate plaits. A fond memory rose from where it was entombed deep in Dimitri's mind; to soothe him before their battle at Ailell some years ago, the woman had played with Dimitri's hair.

Her words came flooding back to him. "You should really wash this more often..." A note of distaste had lined her voice - a voice that had felt simultaneously so familiar, and yet still so far away during that dark, hollowed time in Dimitri's life. Still, despite her aversion, Ingrid Galatea had woven her fingers through her King's hair, her fingertips somehow so soothing against his scalp. She'd pulled away the hair that fell in thick strands over his good eye and braided it back, into an elaborate twist that felt so delicate and gentle as Dimitri ran a hand over it. Something so small and fragile upon the man whose only goal was destruction... At the time, he'd felt he didn't deserve it.

Now, from where she stood, Ingrid raised her eyebrows at Dimitri in recognition. The King somehow managed a smile, giving a nod to her in return.

"There's a cooking competition going on at the soup stall!" Annette's voice filled his ears once again, drawing his attention back to the conversation he was half a part of.

"We could think of nobody more perfect to enter it than our dear Dedue," Mercedes finished.

"I was thinking of entering it, too!" Annette exclaimed.

"No, please... do not." Dedue's face looked queasy; on more than one occasion he'd mentioned trying to tutor the girl in their academy days, only resulting in disastrous attempts at meals that would sicken the stomachs of the other Lions. Dimitri could only feel its texture - having no sense of taste at the time - but even the mouthfeel of Annette's food had been amiss.

The two women began to coax Dedue into joining them in the soup competition, with claims it would "be fun", and his cooking was "fit for Sothis". Despite his protests and thrown looks of concern at Dimitri, the man eventually agreed once the King had given a nod of approval. He could manage a moment without his love, and if he couldn't, he would simply visit the soup stall.

"If you say so." Dedue placed one gloved hand upon Dimitri's shoulder. "Just... try to enjoy the festival," he said firmly, before being whisked away by an excited Annette and Mercedes.

Try to enjoy the festival...The words rattled hollowly around Dimitri's brain. How was he to do that? He looked around himself, suddenly feeling so alone despite being surrounded by people.

All at once, he became a stranger. Festival-goers turned their heads as they passed by, whispering in hushed voices as they stared at the man. "Is that the King!?", "King Blaiddyd...?", "No, it can't really be him..." Everybody knew him, and by the sounds of the festivities, everybody liked him - celebrated his victory. Yet, nobody approached. Nobody came to speak to him, to soothe him or congratulate him or share their tales with him. Instead, everybody took a good look - a good stare with wide, disbelieving eyes - and left. It made him feel estranged: unwelcome in his own Kingdom, at his own festival.

"Hey."

A familiar voice made Dimitri turn. Ingrid stood at his side, an aloof smile lighting up her eyes of emerald. She was holding something towards him - something that effused steam and the hot scent of fried food into the chilly evening air around them. A skewer stuffed with dumplings.

"Thanks." Dimitri took it, the wooden stick feeling like a shard of ice in his hands - so fragile he thought he might snap it. He took a bite, feeling with dismay that despite his progress - despite sensation slowly returning to his taste buds during his rehabilitation - tonight, he could feel nothing. The dumpling was hot - scorching the inside of his mouth - but that was all.

"Bet you're having a great time." Ingrid's dry tone was somehow so comforting. In those few simple words, she showed she understood. She'd had her fair share of pain many a time, just as Dimitri had - she, too, was haunted by the scars of war, of conflict, of death. No more needed to be said.

Just as Dimitri was about to give her his thanks once again, Ingrid grabbed his arm in a steel grip, causing the man to wheel around in panic. "What's the matter?" he whispered, his hiss cutting through the babble of the crowd behind them.

In one gloved hand, Dimitri clutched the wooden skewer hard, heat emanating from it and warming his cheek where he held it to his face. His other came up to the centre of Ingrid's back as he leaned in closer, quickly following those wide, virescent eyes to the mountains in the distance. The back of his neck had already begun to tingle, a sinking feeling of unease creeping through the pit of his stomach and threatening to make him sick. Something had to be wrong.

The cheers and roars of the surrounding festival-goers faded to nothingness. With only the chilly breeze whistling through Dimitri's ears, he could picture it now: the blood-red forms of Edelgard's military crashing down the mountain; the sounds of their sanguinary howls cutting through the evening air; their cold, unseeing eyes glowing through the snow as they came upon the monastery like a stampede. Adrenaline coursed throughout Dimitri's body at the thoughts, the images racking him until he quaked with anticipation. But, the army was dead. Edelgard was dead. He knew this - had tried to make peace with it for almost a year. The battle was over, the war was won, but never could Fódlan's new ruler feel at peace. Instead, he held his friend close in fear - in protection - and instinctively reached for the spear that usually sat upon his now-empty belt, scouring the horizon for signs of their enemy—

"No," Ingrid breathed. Her hand came up to Dimitri's face, holding his jaw and directing his focus lower down. Two figures stood almost obscured in the shadows of the back wall, just visible from behind the weapons stall, their silhouettes glinting red and gold as torches flickered around them. Were they Edelgard's soldiers? Perhaps spies sent by her phantom to find their reunited party? One was taller than the other, and they stood incredibly close: an informant sharing hushed secrets to their superior—?

The shorter of the two had dark hair, messily tied into a ponytail and glinting azure beneath the torchlight. Felix . Dimitri would recognise his short frame anywhere. The man was not whispering into an ear, but...

"Kissing!?" The word blurted from Dimitri's mouth without intention. He narrowed his eye, looking closer. Kissing ... "Sylvain!?"

Ingrid's lips were parted in shock, the scene shooting disbelief through her face and causing breath to catch in her lungs. Dimitri's face, however, broke into a grin, and he bared his teeth as a laugh rose inside him. He gripped at Ingrid's upper arm, and turned to face her. With a hearty giggle, Dimitri embraced his childhood friend, all pain and concern turning to dust and catching on the breeze as Ingrid's face pressed against his chest, bubbling over with elation. Felix and Sylvain had been so close for so long; everybody had expected something would come of their tension and teasing sooner or later. Apparently, it would be sooner. And it was about time.