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The mood in Fhirdiad is black; the Savior King is dead.
Hundreds of miles away, Felix Hugo Fraldarius steps on to the balcony of the Fraldarius estate, and considers the valley of dark rocks below with a certain sense of longing.
A discreet, swift messenger arrives at Fraldarius; and on his heels, Ingrid and Sylvain, comfortingly familiar even with faces drawn dark with grief. Felix loathes to imagine it, a deathly-ill, bed-ridden Dimitri dutifully planning the delivery of the news of his death, the thoughtful choreography of it.
Dimitri treats Felix with careful hands, even in death. But Felix does not take the news gently.
It hurts – something hurts unbearably in his chest. The breaths come sporadic, painful, like needles going down, acid coming up and – “Felix, Felix, please look at me.” – someone’s crying, wailing. What’s that awful noise, make it stop make it stop!
Blue eyes – no, green; no, aqua; no, crisp blue like ice, like the cold of Faerghus itself. Blue so deep you could swim in, and – it’s me. The realization is like a splash of that cold northern rain. Seiros, it’s me making that horrible noise.
It’s the monastery bells tolling, wailers at a funeral. It’s the sound his father makes as they bury Glenn, a tight, rehearsed half-sob. And then, it’s the sound his father makes that same night, in the privacy of his room, an anguished moan that reaches through the cold cobblestone walls to Felix’s room. It’s Felix, crying and snotting and sobbing into his pillow, so many tears he was sure he would drown. He feels like that kid again – thirteen years old and flying off the edge of a cliff. It’s the welcoming black abyss below.
“Look at me, okay – Felix, hey!”
Sylvain is the stronger one, so Sylvain is the one to hold him. He’s big, and warm from the many layers he’s just shed, not as broad as Dimitri, not as warm as Dimitri – this is wrong, this is wrong, this is not right this is – Sylvain prevails, and holds Felix firm, back to chest, even as the smaller man scratches at his forearms, hard enough to draw blood, to come away with bits of his friend buried under his fingernails. On his neck, Felix feels something – tears. Sylvain is crying too.
The warmth of it almost shocks Felix out of his body. Fingertips bloody, he touches his own face, leaving red fingerprints on his cheeks, a macabre flush. His own tears are hot too, and when did I even start crying? When the messenger arrived? When Sylvain and Ingrid arrived? Just now? Felix remembers wandering the estate for what felt like hours, considering each room, each stone, each rock he wished he could tear out with his bare hands, to bring the building down upon him. But it couldn’t have been long, could it?
Was there ever a messenger? Had Sylvain and Ingrid been tasked with delivering the news? News that was sent to them first, at the Galatea estate, where Dimitri knew they were spending the winter, away from Gautier’s unforgiving cold.
Felix was the last to know. He wasn’t there. And he was the last to know.
Was I? Why wasn’t I there? Why was I here? Why was I last? Why would he leave? Why now?
Fhirdiad is grieving. The period of public mourning is set; black flags raised at the castle; sublime, all-white mourning garments set out for the Queen.
Hundreds of miles away, Felix screams himself to sleep.
+
“You should be celebrating with the others.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not quite king yet, boar.”
“Just a coronation away.”
“Well, I brought champagne. To celebrate with you. Is that good enough, Your Royal Highness?”
“Hm, I will have to make an exception. For my future Right Hand and Royal Advisor, of course.”
“Ugh. Please, spare me.”
“I won’t make such a promise. I value your insight.”
“You want an excuse to have me in Fhirdiad.”
“I won’t deny my ulterior motives. But I meant what I said, about valuing your counsel.”
“I know. Dimitri.”
“How surreal. After all this time, to hear you call my name again.”
“You prefer to be a beast again?”
“No, no. I enjoy the feeling. Being close to you again is…”
“I know. Please don’t get sappy after just a sip of champagne.”
“I told you I was going to stop living in the past, stop chasing after shadows. I have to start making up for lost time.”
“… Me too.”
“Would you like to start right now?”
“I would.”
+
The Imperial Year is 1207. Twenty-two years after the unification of Fodlan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the Savior King and Unifier of Fodlan, falls to a mysterious illness. He is 45 years old, survived by his Queen, his daughter, and a kingdom of adoring subjects. History books will remember this. History books will forget certain details.
When Dimitri knocks on Felix’s door the night before the march to Enbarr all those years ago, few words are exchanged. Too many words have already been said, been wielded more deftly than any hero’s relic, sheared and shaved at their true intentions. The space between them, narrowing, says enough.
Felix has loved Dimitri all 44 years of his life, it’s only a matter of degrees. Twenty-two years spent denying it, twenty-two years spent making up for that lost time. And if he counts down the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds – and of course he does – the balance tips to the wrong edge of the knife’s edge.
Every decision, every word, every movement he made before he decided to love Dimitri with his whole heart – what was it all for?
“The illness came on very suddenly.” It’s clear Dedue’s words are meant to comfort himself as much as they are to comfort Felix. “We… You would never have been able to make it in time.”
Dedue arrives in Fhirdiad from Duscur the day after Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain ride in from Fraldarius. The trip is a blank space in Felix’s memory. If he tries hard enough, a collage of images surface – white, giving way to brown, giving way to white once more; the scabs on his own skin, where did that bruise come from? I did that? Why would I – Sylvain fidgets, gripping Felix’s thigh with white knuckles. Don’t forget our promise, Felix, please don’t forget.
Ingrid is the calmest among them. Felix remembers sleeping beside her as a kid, during hunting trips where the children would be all huddled together in a tent. She was so peaceful, slept like the dead—
“Dedue,” Felix gasps out. “Thank you for your service to the King all these years.”
He is here in a formal capacity. He is the Right Hand of the King. The open secret of their relationship is not enough to obscure duty. It is not his duty to grieve – it is his duty to greet the parade of dignitaries and advisors that arrive for the state funeral.
I wish my father was here to hear me talk about duty. And, less charitably, I wish my father was here to take this duty away from me.
“It is my pleasure to serve,” Dedue’s voice is thick, and he bows too curtly. Felix knows he’s in pain, but to fathom anyone else’s pain right now – it’s a task for a better man. A less selfish man.
He wasn’t there.
The door to Dimitri’s suite is locked – an unfamiliar sensation, grasping the familiar handle and finding it stiff, immovable. He had always been given free reign of the residential wing. No one questioned the amount of time he spent in Fhirdiad, the comings and goings to the King’s private suite. No one questioned why Dimitri wore two wedding bands – one on his left hand, one on a chain around his neck.
But Felix has never been blind to the realities of their situation.
He cannot deliver an heir. He cannot deliver alliances, or badly-needed resources, or the gold necessary to rebuild after years of war. He can only love Dimitri. He can only keep his promise, his oath. He can only make up for lost time.
“That is enough. That has always been more than enough,” is what Dimitri says, lovesick fool that he is.
But there are things even the Savior King cannot control.
+
The new Queen-to-be arrives on a rainy afternoon. And for all of Felix’s talk, all of his encouragements and planning and platitudes, speeches delivered to Dimitri with his new practiced diplomacy, he does not take to her at first. Do you ever get along with new people? Ingrid points out, laughing. Easy enough for her to say; she and the Queen get along famously.
The Queen is stubborn, tactless, straightforward. Her hair is dark brown, almost black, kept in a neat ponytail. Foreign dignitaries and negotiators all speak of her eyes, a piercing honey brown, a look that can silence even the most egotistical among them during council meetings.
“She reminds me of… you, actually, Felix.” Sylvain gets a quick jab to his gut with the pommel of Felix’s training sword for that.
He loathes her. He loathes himself for loathing her. He loathes Dimitri for letting himself be talked into this, and he loathes the ancient rules of engagement they all feel bound to. After all his little rebellions, Felix still finds a streak of Fraldarius duty inside him, an inch wide and a mile deep.
Our arrangement, is what she calls it, her overly polite timbre echoing in the cavernous hallways, the exact opposite of surreptitious.
The one where I fuck your husband? Felix thinks, That arrangement?
But the queen has boundaries like Felix has never seen, walls up so tight he can’t help but admire the clinical tone with which she says, “I will occupy a separate room when you are visiting. If you wish to surprise Dimitri, please confirm with me first, and I can help.”
“You can… help?”
She nods, “Dimitri’s told me much about you. I don’t need to tell you he speaks quite fondly of you, of course. I know you occasionally surprise him with a visit. Contact me first, and I can clear his schedule.”
“Okay,” Felix’s mouth is dry.
“I noticed a lot of women in Fhirdiad wear pants,” she switches topics awkwardly, clumsy in her small talk. “I’m so used to dresses.”
Felix nods dumbly, “Ingrid can… Ingrid has a good tailor. She might be able to help you.”
“Wonderful. I think I’m liking it here,” the queen smiles, genuine, eyes crinkling. “Can I… call on you, if I have a question? He hasn’t said as much, but I think it would please Dimitri if we get along. At least a bit.” She hedges, not wanting to push. But Felix knows she’s correct, thinking ahead in a way she must have always done, two steps ahead for the sake of her own survival.
He gives her a small bow, and returns the smile, “Please do. I can warn you which dishes to avoid in the dining room.”
“You know what… I think I would appreciate that most of all.”
The wedding ceremony is beautiful. Professor – or, the Archbishop – marries them. In the morning food, building materials, and gold will arrive; a key condition of the new alliance. But for now, there are just two young people, looking toward the future with bright eyes. Felix watches, and feels at peace with that. The queen passes him as they walk through the crowd and gives him a wink.
There’s a small part of Dimitri, Felix thinks, that can’t help falling a bit in love with her; in those moments most Felix ponders their similarities. He could leave – could let Dimitri have a normal love, a normal family, a perfect painted vision of a Royal Family.
But Felix’s claws are stuck so deep in Dimitri he wouldn’t know how to leave, even if he wanted to.
+
“Do you have any idea what time it is, boar?”
“Late.”
“Wonderfully astute, you are. Why are you—hey! I didn’t say you could come in!”
“Felix.”
“You’ll need to string together more than two words if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders. What are you doing here? Finally tired of skulking around the cathedral at all hours?”
“You weren’t there.”
“… What?”
“I felt you. Watching. Tonight you were gone.”
“I was—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Fuck that hurts, let go, I thought—since Dedue returned—I don’t need to explain myself to you! You don’t get to own every waking and sleeping second of my life. I can recognize a lost cause when I see one.”
“I wonder. Can you?”
“You need to leave.”
“But, you—”
“Sleep next door, your old dorm. If it bothers you so much to—just, tell me you haven’t forgotten how to sleep in a bed like a human.”
“I have not.”
“Great. Then go.”
“Goodnight Felix.”
“Goodnight Dimitri.”
+
There are reasons the massive bedframe in Dimitri’s suite is built to withstand Blaiddyd strength. And, despite Sylvain’s persistent comments, they are not pleasant or pleasurable reasons. Felix would need five extra arms to count on his fingers the number of times he’s been woken by Dimitri snapping a bedpost in half with his hands, delirious and screaming from night terrors, the pupil in his good eye blown wide, darting around the room like a trapped animal.
I fear one night I will hurt you. Dimitri pleads with him. But Felix took his life in his own hands the moment he fell in love with the beast.
“You started sleeping in the other bedroom even when I’m not here.” Not a question, or an accusation. Just a statement. Felix forgets, one night, to tell the Queen of one of his surprise visits. But he finds Dimitri alone in bed all the same.
“It was Dimitri’s request. It’s easier.” Felix can imagine how the conversation went, Dimitri pinning her with a serious gaze, telling her being around him is dangerous, even after all these years, even after all the healing. There are still wounds so deep in him they will never close.
The Queen is lovely. She’s astute and calm and kind. But she is not Felix. He reminds her of this, in his crueler moments. “So, you leave him to suffer. Alone.”
But the Queen can be cruel too, when she needs to. “You were the first to leave. You could remain in Fhirdiad year-round if you truly wanted.”
The sense of duty that calls Felix back to Fraldarius is like a brand on his skin – loud and angry and painful. There should be no reason for him not to delegate his responsibilities, or to forsake his Dukedom all together. But he looks out on the snowy-capped fortress and sees Glenn. He sees his father.
It takes effort – a significant amount, for that matter – for Felix to admit to the Queen that he wants her to care for Dimitri, wants her to be the calming hand he can’t be while he is away. And it takes an even greater effort on the part of the Queen to finally refuse; to admit, in a voice whisper soft, “I’m sorry Felix. I can’t help him. I can’t reach him.”
But few can. Mercedes, sometimes. Dedue, more often. Felix, always. Felix, the one so intimately familiar with the specters that haunt cobwebbed corners of Dimitri’s mind, the bleached white skeletons in his closet. Felix becomes a ghost himself, a nightmare of loss that Dimitri turns over and over in his mind – Felix, don’t leave me, don’t let me lose you, don’t let me hurt you.
The first time Dimitri dies, alone in that tower, Felix cuts off all his hair, hacks at it with the dull edge of a rusty blade. By the time Dimitri returns – alive, he’s alive, he was alive all this time and I still couldn’t find him – it’s grown back, just enough to pull into a stubby ponytail. It’s a stupid thought, but Felix is embarrassed by it. He thinks of a moment from their childhood, Dimitri smiling at him in his guileless way. Your hair is so beautiful, Felix.
Felix has already lost Dimitri once. And maybe he was too grateful, too happy, too in love. He spends so much time soothing Dimitri’s demons, a calm steady voice ensuring I won’t leave, I’m not leaving you – Felix almost forgets to consider the forgone alternative.
I wasn’t there when he died. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I—
“Felix.”
He is still lingering outside Dimitri’s room when she finds him. The delicate lace and embroidery of her mourning white gown seems garish paired with the purple bags under her eyes. Felix thinks the two of them may well match.
The Queen is handing him something, her gloved hands outstretched and trembling. A key.
The room has been cleaned. Still, the stench of death lingers. It’s how Felix knows he’s truly gone soft; it’s been so long since he’s faced death and slaughter on a battlefield that just the faint smell of blood and decay send his head spinning. He collapses on the bed, face-first.
Here is where Dimitri kissed him until he saw stars; where they made love after a private wedding ceremony of their own creation; where Dimitri would wake, screaming at shadows until Felix’s cool palms carried him back down to solid ground; where they would read to Dimitri’s daughter, her eyes bright and curious; where Dimitri would climb into bed after late nights in his study, Felix pretending to be asleep so Dimitri would kiss the nape of his neck, feather soft.
Here is where Dimitri died. Here is where Felix wasn’t.
There is a point when you run out of tears. A body can only hurt so much. To feel so much is to feel nothing; it knocks you nearly unconscious. And Felix, who despite all stern reputations has never once felt numb, has always felt so deeply, so intensely – he finally lets himself fall. He sucks in a harsh, shuddering breath and, upon exhale, feels the air around him thicken, fingertips going cold.
The Queen mourns – of course she does. Dimitri was her King, her husband, the father of her daughter. A man who helped revitalize her homeland, who cared for her when she was sick, who made space for her in this unorthodox and complicated and joyful life.
But a Queen has a kingdom to run.
For Felix, for now, there is only the eerie feeling that, after scolding Dimitri for doing the same, he is stringing another gravestone around his neck.
At the foot of the bed, through glazed eyes, Felix spots a package. It’s a plain thing, wrapped in brown paper, topped with a scroll. He drags himself across the bed – pathetic, pathetic, pathetic – and touches it carefully, like it might crumble to dust at any moment.
My Beloved, it begins.
+
The funeral is a daylong affair. The Queen stands at the apex of the cathedral, shaking the hand of every well-wishing dignitary and ambassador. The Princess, hair as golden as Dimitri’s, falls asleep in Felix’s lap.
There is no public viewing. Such a thing is crass, as far as Felix is concerned, and he says as much, crashing the planning meeting, arms folded across his chest and tone terse. He sounds almost like himself again.
Who are you to decide what the King would have wanted? One of the Bishops says, spluttering, giving the Queen a desperate look. Surely, she will step in, preserve some semblance of tradition.
“Felix speaks for me,” the Queen nods. “And for Dimitri.”
There is one tradition that perseveres, an old Faerghus mourning custom: The Queen will always wear all-white, for the full period of mourning. Impractical as it is, garish though the outfit itself may be, and even as the original meaning is lost to time – representing the purity of love, I believe, Dimitri writes.
“There’s a crowd gathering outside.” The Queen finds him after the mass finishes. It’s still difficult for Felix to meet her eyes, the whole of him feeling like a raw nerve. But he manages, and finds her smiling; she strokes her daughter’s hair, tucking it behind her ear while she still sleeps soundly. “Will you walk out with me? To greet them?”
“I can’t.”
She’s as stubborn as Dimitri. “It’s just for a moment.”
A moment could mean anything. To Dimitri, Felix had promised forever. But forever can be finite, and a moment can stretch on for ages.
Like this: the moment Felix meets Dimitri, uncomplicated and new; the first time they kiss, clumsy and angry on the Garreg Mach training grounds; the night of their twentieth anniversary, promises and platitudes flowing as easy and as sweet as wine. The moment Felix opens the package he finds at the foot of Dimitri’s death bed, and a delicate silk cape trimmed with fur tumbles out – pure white. Mourning white.
And so, it wouldn’t be proper for Felix to join the Queen, to give away the game. Even if she asks; even if Dimitri would have wanted it, even if he had said just as much in his final missive to Felix. The dead aren’t owed anything – hasn’t that been what Felix always believed?
“I’ll come,” Felix whispers. “But you’ll have to be the one to wake the sleeping Princess.”
“Deal.”
The mood in Fhirdiad is black. Crowds gather under the cathedral’s balcony, straining to catch sight of the Queen and the Princess – and the King’s Right Hand beside them. The sun is high, sky a familiar blue. The world they built together keeps turning, impossible though it seems.
Felix steps outside and greets the living.
+
“Dima! Dimitri, I give up, please come out!”
“Felix, it’s just a game of hide and find, I’m not really gone.”
“I know that, but…”
“You can’t give up right away if you don’t find me.”
“But you make it too hard!”
“I… I don’t mean to.”
“I don’t like it. Can we play a different game?”
“Of course, Felix. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“You look scared.”
“Stop making fun of me, just don’t leave me again. I don’t like when I can’t find you.”
“I promise, I promise.”
“Promise you won’t leave me?”
“Promise you can always find me.”