It wasn't like Dimitri hadn't seen him before. He had, in fact, seen him plenty of times, more than he'd liked to to be honest, but only from the peaceful painting decorating the largest drawing room and the not-so-peaceful monthly, sometimes weekly, nightmares he'd wake up from ever since the tragedy had happened. But this time, it was different.

First, Dimitri had seen him just in the periphery, mistaking him for a servant disturbing his and Dedue's chat to perhaps deliver a message, but as he had turned his head to see him better, he froze in his seat. Staring in disbelief, Dimitri couldn't tear his eyes away from the broken figure standing by the wall. Dedue's words faded into silent whispers and became less important than his father's bruised body, a body that shouldn't be there but looked as real as the day Dimitri had seen him die. He blinked, but the late King remained on the same spot and the look he had in his eyes made his son forget how to breathe.

Blood rushed through his ears, his lungs stung in protest and Dimitri wasn't sure if he was frightened by his father's unnatural presence or perplexed. Perhaps both. He didn't dare staring directly into the late King's eyes, but something, someone, made him feel like he had come for a reason, so Dimitri shifted his stare slightly more upwards, to his face. He could see his jaw move. The lips were parted, dry and cracked with blood, and Dimitri waited for him to tell him what he had come to say.

"Your Highness?"

It didn't sound like his father's voice.

"Is something wrong?"

It sounded like Dedue's.

"Hush, Dedue, let him speak," Dimitri replied once he remembered how to breathe in.

A moment of silence passed before the Duscan spoke again. "Your Highness?" Dimitri didn't dare using his voice in case he'd interrupt his father's message. "Your Highness, there's no one there."

Dimitri turned his head to look at his companion. "Don't be ridiculous, Dedue, he's right…" Dimitri turned to face his father again. "… there." Dedue stayed silent while they both stared into a wall generously decorated with tapestries and framed paintings. "He's gone," Dimitri finally spoke.

"Who is?"

Dimitri swallowed and forced himself to pay attention to Dedue again. "I'm certain I saw my father standing right by that wall, as if he wanted to tell me something."

Dedue said nothing at first. "The King of Faerghus is dead," he reminded. "Are you feeling alright, your Highness? You look a bit pale."

"Yes, I'm… I'm fine, Dedue, thank you. Perhaps my mind is just playing tricks with me from lack of sleep."

"Please, allow me help you to your chambers if you need more rest. What we discussed can continue another time."

"No, please, that's not necessary," Dimitri protested.

"Are you sure, your Highness? I wouldn't mind."

"… Yes…" Dimitri answered, not sounding very convincing.

What Dimitri wanted to tell him was how real his father's presence had felt like, how his broken frame had been more convincing than his voice he sometimes heard coming from behind, that he now worried if his and Dedue's conversation was just another dream. But he knew how ridiculous that must sound like, so he remained silent and told him nothing. Instead, he did something he didn't do often; Dimitri reached for Dedue's arm and held it. It felt solid. It felt real. But how could he know for sure?

"Dedue, I'm not dreaming am I? Please tell me if I am."

Dimitri hated how uncertain his voice sounded like and felt the Duscan's concerned land look on him. "No, you're not dreaming."

Dimitri let go off his arm after a moment's hesitation.

"Good."