He follows the length of the quiet corridor as the sound of the wedding reception fades behind him with every step. From the well-lit halls of the monastery, through the humid and dark stairwell leading to the third floor, to the quiet bedrooms reserved for him and the Archbishop, it all seem very momentous, as if he is navigating the dungeons beneath Enbarr once more.
Dimitri is unsure of what he will find when he turns the corner, but he replays Dedue's words. A nervous chill works its way up his spine.
"Your Majesty, Her Grace wishes to have a private word with you, before the festivities tonight." His vassal informed him. His cold monotone seemed even harsher when it comes to that woman.
The young king is plagued with merciless nerves and his heart hammers in his ears. Suddenly, all he can see, hear, and feel is the memory of her warmth, of her very presence against him. The enchanted fairy lights set throughout the monastery's gardens twinkle in front of him, shining through the slitted windows, left open to refresh and dry the air inside the buildings in preparation for the Summer season to come.
He tries to catch his breath. Dimitri tells himself at that moment he needs to capture the memory forever. When the sun shines over this place again, he will never have the opportunity to repeat this trek.
A nervous sweat begins to form on the palms of his hands and he clenches them in a poor effort to steady his breathing.
Dimitri swallows shakily. He suddenly feels exposed and an anxious breath ripples through him when Sylvain's aggressive words ring through his mind.
"You might fool everyone else here, you may even fool her… But you will never fool me." His sneer is clear in his mind. "You have my loyalty, Your Majesty, you shall have it forever, but there are things I will never sacrifice. My marriage included."
The margrave is right, of course. He would not, either. Yet, the monarch could not help but hold out to hope that the former skirt chaser has not abandoned completely his old ways, that he would make a mistake, that Byleth would reassess the situation and come to the realization that he is not worth the hassle.
Those are traitorous thoughts, no doubt, and Dimitri scolds himself for letting his emotions get the best of him. The times he has given in to the long-suffering looks makes him feel pathetic when he is alone at night. It frustrates him further when he gives into the feeling and plays the pitiful game of "What If?".
He wonders if Byleth knows, he wonders if she is not fooled by him, as Sylvain puts it, but there is no time to entertain the thought because the blond man peers into the terrace garden, where he was summoned by the Archbishop. He spots the bride sitting on a bench staring out into the night.
Byleth hears Dimitri's presence, her eyes, soft and wise eyes as they were, and lovely yet hardly expressive face light up at sight of him.
The pit of anguish in his chest yields for a fleeting second. The dreams of insatiable kisses under heavy wolf pelts engulfs him. Dimitri's hands pressing her into the cool stained glass of the cathedral's windows. His name on her lips once more.
A harsh jolt of reality that feels much like regret returns and Dimitri clears his throat.
"Oh good, you are here." Byleth gets up and quickly moves to stand in front of the king.
The Archbishop takes both his hands in hers and calmly leads him back to where she was seated. Thankfully, she was spared the fashionable crinoline and silver corset by Seteth, as it would be deemed profane for the religious authority. As such, they were able to sit side by side, and he could enjoy her presence in such proximity one last time.
"I was worried Dedue would not pass on the message. I have always felt he did not care too deeply about me ever since we encountered him on Myrddin." She muses, mostly to herself.
He, in all his unwarranted loyalty, resents you for not loving me as much as I love you. As much as you love Sylvain.
It was, however, all his own fault. He looks over to the Goddess Tower, standing tall above the complex, and is reminded of that Ethereal Moon night, when they talked on the stairs that led to the top, when he confessed his truthful feelings but took it all back in cowardice.
Had he stayed true to himself, he is certain that he would be able to have her with him. She was receptive to his attention before. Damn, if only he had managed to cling to his sanity those years that she spent asleep, she would not have a reason to bond with Sylvain for support, and he would still have a chance.
He even considers the right for prima noctis. While it would be a much-appreciated blessing for him, it was an outdated custom, and he is certain that neither the nobility, nor the Church would stand for it. Alas, he considered. He spent many, many shameful nights considering it. Considering how he would demand it of them, what he would do as the sun sets, and whether he would manage to convince her into an annulment.
The words die in his throat because he is too busy taking her in again in that white silk dress. Women in Faerghus wed wearing dyed furs or velvet skirts, never white silk, but then again, never has one of their noblemen marry an Archbishop, and the House of Gautier was more than willing to make any concessions necessary to placate the Cardinals.
Her hands are cold from the night air and he stops himself from warming them in his own.
A chilly breeze sweeps past the two and Byleth finds a seat. Dimitri shivers at the loss of contact and quietly finds his place next to her.
"What is it that I can do for the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros?" A kind smile blooms on his face and Byleth smiles back at him.
A pang of jealously rumbles deep inside. She is so full of light she practically illuminates the dark corner of the palace they occupy, but he is not sure what else he was expecting. It is the same Byleth he has always known.
The same Byleth, Dimitri admits to himself every night, he is still foolishly in love with.
"I am glad you have asked." She says.
Byleth fumbles with a box at the foot of the bench and presents it to Dimitri. Confused, his eyebrows knit as he slowly accepts it from her. Silver-coloured wrapping paper lines the box and a navy-blue ribbon ties into an elaborate bow at the top.
"I am not sure I understand." Dimitri holds the box delicately as if it at any moment it might crumble under his touch. His eyes flicker from the beautifully presented gift to Byleth.
"It is a gift…" She chews on her lower lip nervously, the smile on her face slowly faltering. "This is a gift for you, Dimitri."
"A gift?" He stares at the box and places it gingerly on his lap. "It is usually the bride and groom who receive gifts on their wedding."
The green-haired woman fidgets in her seat before clearing her throat.
"Yes." The confidence in her voice wavers. "I wanted to get you something to say thank you for, well, everything. Ever since we met, in Remire, you have been a constant in my life, and I wish for you to know how much I appreciate it."
A 'thank you' present.
The stab of jealousy inside him morphs into an uneasy sorrow that reminds him of mourning. It's as if the gift on his lap solidifies the role the former teacher and student, commander and soldier, should take.
An uncomfortable silence falls between them. Dimitri's fingers play with sides of his present. He cannot find the courage in him to look at her.
Byleth shifts closer to him and he tenses. The blond can feel the heat radiating off her body and he prays she cannot hear the hammering of his heart in his chest.
In one fluid motion, the monarch unravels the intricate bow and makes quick work of the wrapping paper. The woman watches anxiously from where she sits, lower lip still tucked between her teeth, observing carefully for his reaction.
Alas, in all its glory, standing in front of Dimitri is the very proof of his nightly worries. The doubts and anxieties that haunt him when he asks himself if he will ever love someone the way he came to love Byleth.
Would he ever have the chance to let someone know him as he did with Byleth.
Dimitri's eyes widen at the sight of the historical tome lying on the bed of tissue paper. Delicately, he picks it up and runs a finger down the spine.
"This is … Byleth, I am sincerely at a loss for words." He begins to gingerly flip through the pages.
"It is a manuscript of modern Faerghusi history. Your father and grandfather's reigns." She offers excitedly. Her eyes search his face hungrily for a reaction. "I am not sure you remember, but when your father was still alive, he hired a chronist to write about his life and reign. When he passed, Cordelia fired the man without pay, and he ended up selling his book to the Church. I came upon it by happenstance in the library, and I thought you would like to have it."
Dimitri smiles up at her. "This is truly remarkable. Thank you."
Byleth beams and shifts to close the distance between them, she turns her attention to the book and flips to the last section of the book.
"Look here at the final chapter." Byleth says and flicks through the last few pages, but he is finding it hard to focus.
The monarch is transfixed on how close they are. She stops on the page she was looking for.
"It is…" He looks at the empty pages. "…Blank?"
Byleth moves away slightly and her eyes lock with his for the first time that evening.
"The chronist never finish his book, but I think it says something deeper about you, about us." She smiles softly. "You should see it that the future of Fódlan is in your hands now, Dimitri. Its next chapter is yours to write."
The Archbishop's words sink in and the familiar dread of Duty and Desire resurface.
"Thank you, Byleth. Truly." He said, earnest. "I shall cherish this thoughtful present and I can only hope that I may fulfil its purpose."
Another span silence falls between the two, this time they welcome it as they settle into the bench. Another chilling breeze blows past them, ruffling the wrapping paper and tussling his hair.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the reality of his future without Byleth settles in his mind once more. Dimitri wants to focus on her happiness. Today is meant to be her day, but somewhere in the back of his mind as he watched her walk up that aisle, he wonders if there could have been a chance that it could have been their day.
The words are on the tip of his tongue. A rush of adrenaline courses through him when he entertains the idea of saying it to her, but he knows nothing good could come from it. What use would it do to hear the affirmation of his unrequited love?
"Is there something on your mind?" Byleth's voice is soft and cuts through his reverie.
Her brow is knitted and a small, brief surge of happiness fills him at her concern.
Dimitri offers her a weak smile. "I am just tired. It has been a long day for all of us."
"You are lying." She interjects with certainty.
Dimitri's chest swells. Byleth sees him and he would be a fool to think he could convince her differently.
He chuckles half-heartedly and shrugs his shoulders. "I should know by now it is pointless feigning anything around you."
Dimitri leans back into the metal bench and stares down at the delicate antique in his hands. The weight of the book unnerves him and it reminds him of the weight of his own responsibilities.
"It is really not something worth worrying yourself over." He dismissed her concerns. "Tonight, it is all about you and your future. Your happiness. You should not spend time on the troubles of some dejected king."
The heat works its way up his neck, past the suffocating collar of his formal military uniform, and warming candidly his face.
"You once told me, far back when we first met, that I helped you to think about the man you want to be, not the terrible circumstances that led you to the disastrous path you trailed for so long." Byleth's voice drops nearly to a confessional whisper. "I still often think about that conversation."
He shrugged, dejected. "Perhaps it is easier to not think of myself at times like these."
"What do you mean?" Her brow creases and his heart plunges.
"You might fool everyone else here, you may even fool her… But you will never fool me."
Stupid.
Foolish.
Dimitri knows he should watch his tongue and he knows better than to pull this stunt on her wedding day. He tries to say something, anything, that would relieve the tension that is slowly climbing.
However, the words he wants to say are threatening to burst free from his lips, wanting to take a life on their own. He meets her worried gaze.
"Byleth, I…"
He is interrupted by a boom of thunder rolling over the Oghma Mountains and both holders of the highest ruling authority in Fódlan snap their attention to the sky. Angry dark clouds have taken over and another clap of thunder follows.
At first, the monarch feels a cold drop land on his cheek and soon, faster than either one could expect, the night sky opens above them.
Quickly, Dimitri and Byleth rush indoors, the blond ushering the Archbishop in before closing the terrace door behind him. They stand in the corridor, shivering from the icy downpour of rain as a giggle escapes her.
Her teeth are chattering, her skin is marred with goosebumps and her hair is slightly matted to her face. He would not want to imagine what he looks like, what he resembles on that moment.
Dimitri chuckles, shaking his head and his prized gift safely clasped in his hands.
"You shall catch a cold this way, Byleth." He points out, concern seeping through his voice. "Best not stand around in a soaking gown."
The holy woman laughs, shaking her own head. "I really should. I remember that Annette has mentioned once or twice that rain on a wedding dress is bad luck. Here is to hoping that is all superstition."
Here is to hoping.
Dimitri clears his throat and shakes the ruthless thought away. Ashamed and disappointed in himself.
"Will you let them know I have gone to get changed?" She asks, softly.
Dimitri nods and, before he can tell what is happening, Byleth leans over and captures him in a warming hug that makes him forget the chill of the rain. She plants a chaste kiss on his cheek and smiles up at him. He relaxes under her embrace and regretfully feels her pull away.
"Save me a dance, Your Majesty?" The Archbishop requests, her expression earnest, and he is reminded of that fateful ball once again that evening.
He stands, watching her disappear around the corner of the corridor, with the book tightly clenched in his hands.
He exhales loudly. "For you? Anything, Your Grace."
Had it not been for the rain…
Dimitri shakes his head.
Maybe he had the rain to thank. Maybe he had the rain to blame.
If one thing was certain, it is that his list of late-night 'What If?' musings just got longer.