"How is he?"
Felix gives his father a withering look and pointedly returns his attention back to the man training, alone, below. Gilbert is putting him through his paces at the moment, and then it'll go to Ingrid and Sylvain to do the same. Separately at first, and then together, in order to maximize the would-be king's awareness with that damned eyepatch of his. It's also a test to see just how much of the prince is left and how much of him is lost to the madness they try desperately to pretend doesn't exist.
Rodrigue takes his place beside his son and watches alongside him. Dimitri's just as cunning with a spear as ever, practice blade or not, and he's well aware of the growing pile of broken training weapons stacking up on the young lord's side of the 'field'. He is their future King, the hope and light of Faerghus. His gentle spirit and heart has no place in these war times; that must come when they can afford to be compassionate and kind. These past years have given him an edge that they'd seen in the midst of battle before and refined him into a uniquely deadly weapon.
Deadly to everyone around him; his allies and especially himself included.
"He hasn't started shouting about the dead and vengeance, if that's what you're asking. And he's broken seven less practice blades than the last time you decided to see if you could turn a wild animal into a man."
"Felix." A warning within his tone. The rift between them has only grown wider since Glenn's death. Nothing he seems to say or do satisfies his heir to the Fraldarius dukedom; not about his personal accomplishments, those of his friends, and particularly in regards to Dimitri.
A warning Felix, as always, chooses to ignore. "Next time think again before asking questions you don't want the answers to."
"Prince Dimitri has been through much the last several years," Rodrigue begins the same circular argument they have every time the subject of Felix's childhood friend comes up.
Felix lets out a bark of laughter. "As though the rest of us haven't? In case you've forgotten, old man, we all lost something in the Tragedy of Duscur and when Garreg Mach fell to the Empire; not just His Royal Beastliness."
Felix's face is a mask of fury in and of itself. "Unlike you and the boar, some of us are choosing to do what we can since we're alive instead of shackling ourselves to the dead."
It's a particularly cutting statement that fills him with guilt. He knows he's failed his youngest son, Ingrid, Sylvain, and yes, especially Dimitri. But there is nothing to be done about it; the good of the Kingdom must come first- no matter who or what it may sacrifice in the long run. The Kingdom must survive, and with it, the Blaiddyd family line. He knows Gilbert too is filled with guilt after the Tragedy of Duscur and has punished himself more severely than any of them for that failure.
Even still, he is the father and Felix is his son; such disrespect cannot be allowed to show itself publically- even if he understands his son's anger and resentment keenly. "Felix."
"Enough." For a moment, Rodrigue is surprised at just how similar to both Glenn and himself Felix sounds.
His youngest looks away from the training bout long enough to give him a thorough disgusted look- an expression he's well accustomed to by now- and vaults the last few feet down the stairs to the ground below. There is something beneath the disgust and the disappointment, a frustration Rodrigue wishes he understood and would never be able to get his son to speak to him properly about. Helpless to do but watch or reprimand him further, Rodrigue watches as the bitter child he's failed whistles sharply to get Dimitri's attention.
It works. Dimitri's head turns to Felix, a flash of surprise on his face as Felix sets his blade against the wall and picks up a practice blade as well as a new spear..
"You two, take your positions. Gilbert, get out of the way or get into position yourself." Felix tosses Dimitri the spear. "Try not to snap it in half, will you? We don't have the money to keep replacing everything you mindlessly destroy."
"Felix!" Ingrid's tone carries a warning. Rodrigue is sorry that Glenn is no longer around to see how lovely and strong his former fiancee has become- and how much like him she sounds when she gets that particular tone in her voice. He wonders how much of his oldest's habits that Ingrid, as well as Felix, have adapted into their lives to keep a part of his spirit with them.
He wonders how Glenn would have responded to the current state of affairs.
Felix settles himself to Dimitri's right and studies the faces of the three in front of him.. "Two against three then. Try and keep your wits about you, boar, or I'll cut you down for getting in my way."
Rodrigue watches the brief annoyance cross the Prince's expression. He says something Rodrigue can't quite catch and Felix's mouth quirks into a smirk for all of a moment before the two of them settle into place. Gilbert, Ingrid, and Sylvain get into position as well- the latter most of them complaining that Felix and Dimitri as a team is about as unfair as one can get- and the mock battle begins.
As caustic as Felix's words and attitude have become, Rodrigue is genuinely proud of just how far his swordsmanship and battle prowess has grown in the last five years. His son moves like lightning; ducking and weaving beneath the blows of his enemies to strike fast and strike hard in a way that would disable less competent fighters. If only the years had soothed that temper of his even a little, Felix might have made an excellent knight like Glenn.
No, not like Glenn. Rodrigue's smile fades. Felix will never live up to his brother's name or his feats. They are not the same person, no matter how similar their demeanors have become over time. Glenn always fought for honor, for the glory of knighthood and for his kingdom. His duty was of utmost importance to him and he gave his life proudly in service.
Felix does not carry that sense of chivalry or calling to his country and people the way Glenn once had and the way Dimitri so painfully does. He fights in the brutal manner of an animal backed into a corner would; to survive and to kill as quickly as possible before moving on to the next threat. He fights the way a baseborn mercenary or outlaw might and has no qualms about using dirty tricks to end the battle.
A father should never compare his children, and yet…
At least Felix has taken, however reluctantly, the duty of protecting Dimitri somewhat seriously.
He is drowning beneath the weight of their hopes and ambitions..
The longer he spends back in the Kingdom, the worse the itch beneath his skin becomes and the louder the voices of the dead scream at night. Dimitri pretends not to see the looks of hope and despair mingled in the faces of those around him. Hope that his existence means the Blaiddyd line still remains, that their Kingdom will be restored once in time and all will be as it was before. Fear that he is nothing more than a madman masquerading as King and will drag them all to the eternal flames with him.
Felix, at least, is the same as he has ever been. Maybe a little more bitter, a little angrier than before, but he at least is not treating him as though he will disappear if more than a raised voice is directed his way. The rest of them look at him as though they see nothing more than a shadow, a broken shell of a man who'd once been the hope of the Kingdom and are uncertain as to whether or not they should follow him regardless… or look for his replacement.
His solace comes in three forms; the skirmishes those who foolishly choose to throw their lives under his banner participate in, the letters from the Professor (and Claude, though he has said nothing of the latter to anyone) sent along with just enough of his favorite tea to see him through to the next letter's delivery, and the knowledge that the war they fight will soon end. He cannot taste the tea, regardless of however it's prepared, but the scent of it is enough to invoke memories of less painful times. Dare he even say happier memories.
He drinks the tea with a side of guilt to wash it down.
He does not deserve the peace that comes from those stolen moments alone, not with so many left unavenged and awaiting salvation grasping him with their cold, cold hands. He does not deserve much around him and knows full well the only place that awaits him after death is the cold, dark hell itself with the number of regrets he will take to his grave. But he cannot die here, as much as he wishes he could to satisfy the haunting choir that accompanies him wherever he goes.
New information has come into his possession, courtesy of a captured Imperialist spy, and he has sent word of it to Claude to see what the Alliance leader makes of it. He has been unnaturally quiet during the first week of the Pegasus Moon; only a few letters and those even scant of anything he'd normally expect from the schemer.
Edelgard's return to the Empire did not invoke the fury of betrayal that he, and likely Claude and the Professor, had anticipated. His reaction to the news, courtesy of Claude, had scared those around him as he'd grown quiet and thoughtful. He had spoken moments after that with a simple "I see." and had turned to order Felix, Ingrid, Mercedes, and Sylvain to return back to the Kingdom's forces with him.
Claude had asked him to wait and, his ears burn at the memory of it, said there'd been a message for him that he'd been instructed to deliver- just in case, of course- from the Professor. Sylvain still hadn't ceased tormenting him over it- and even Felix had joined in at one point by stating in his typically insulting manner that he sure as Hell was cold refused to run any 'messages' on his behalf.
He hadn't figured out how he was going to retaliate for the embarrassment, but he would find a suitable means of doing so and Claude would, in fact, be shot as the messenger as well for his deliberate sense of timing.
Five years, wasn't it?
Dimitri shrugs the heavy fur back into place across his shoulders and heads out into the frigid night. A storm howls around the dukedom and he stares in the direction of the Empire, of Garreg Mach, as he has every night since his return. Five years… so long when each day crawls by so slowly, yet so short when one looks to the future.
Were he in that position with a finite amount of time left, how would he conduct himself? Where would his loyalties, his priorities lie?
He shakes his head to clear those thoughts. He has not the time nor energy to dive down that particular fox hole of what-ifs and maybes; not with so much left to prepare for. The wind bites and tears at exposed skin, numbing it before long, and he allows the screams of the dead to mingle, blending in with the howl of the blizzard until one cannot be distinguished from the other.
The moment it comes to an end, they will need to make their move and make it quickly. Their time to prepare is short and the time to act shorter still. The spy had been killed, of course, and another sent in his place to report back. Another pair of lives who would join him in their accusations and blame, but a necessary sacrifice for what has yet to unfold. More would join him before this war would come to its end, and he can do nothing but bear it as his burden and his alone.
Dimitri looks to where the moon should be at this time of night and wonders how the other three are faring.