Perhaps this festival would not be so bad after all.

Years of solitude had transformed the King. When one had nobody but the ghosts of their trauma for company, it was easy to forget the bonds of friendship that had once been forged. It was easy to forget how much they could warm the heart - restore feeling to the chest and light to the eyes.

Since his victory, Dimitri's road to recovery had been slow. It had only been a year since the conflict had perished at his hand, and Dedue had warned the man that rehabilitation was not a straight road, but still it felt so… tedious. Unbearable. Frustrating. It was over. Everybody could move on. The world was being rebuilt; wounds healed; heartbreak mended. So, why could he not find peace?

As a child, recovering from the death of his parents had not felt nearly so hard. Of course, he'd mourned them dearly - he still did - but perhaps his innocence and youth had made the healing process that much easier. Perhaps it helped that he was not their murderer. Perhaps it helped that he was not responsible for leaving their bodies soulless shells. He had watched them die, heard his father's last words, but had been cradled to sleep at night not by the guilt of his actions, but by the dreams of revenge.

Now that he'd had revenge, it had not tasted nearly so sweet. Once, Dimitri had anticipated to taste once more when achieving vengeance - feel sweet, rich magnificence spreading across his tongue, so good it would make saghert and cream taste like gruel. In actuality, it had made him want to vomit. He'd felt regret. He'd felt bitterness. The only flavour in his mouth had been one of tar - sticking to the roof of his mouth and filling his throat in a solid, sharp lump - unmoving. Choking him.

It would be hard to bury that feeling. Having the love of his life by his side had already been an immense help: Dedue was not only a fantastic vassal, but the most calming presence he'd ever been around. Until last night - until a couple of minutes ago - Dimitri had felt as though he and Dedue were alone against the world. Now, in the arms of his childhood friend, watching the love shared by two men so dear to his heart… Perhaps the King was not so forsaken. He may have rejected the company of others in the past, but Dimitri could - and had tried to - make amends. Perhaps now he could recover with the company of old friends.

Amidst the war, when the Blue Lions had reunited once again, battered and broken with spirits of gloom, Dimitri would have laughed at the concept of accompanying a friend. He'd considered himself a war machine: his only communication with others to be to give orders and bark directions. When he'd felt too awful to even bathe, let alone speak to any of the people he once held so close, he wouldn't dream of sharing what he was enduring. The only forms of sharing would come in outbursts - when recounting his war plans, or when pushed to snapping after being pestered one too many times. Instead, he would fester in his tenebrosity - his vision red and seething - and would spend his days looking upon the destruction of Garreg Mach and listening to his ghosts.

"My Lord, we're all here for you, you know…" The little voice of Ashe Ubert had filtered in amongst the whispers one day - a voice so familiar and small echoing through the cathedral they'd stood in.

Dimitri had turned, towering above the boy who positively cowered beneath him. A memory had struck him like a knife in the back: their academy days - the youthful Dimitri assuring young Ashe that they were friends, not a lord and a subject. He'd watched Lonato's half-son become more confident in his company: having the first word, sharing his tales, and even calling Dimitri by his first name.

That had disappeared.

In that moment, Ashe had looked frightened. Eyes such a striking chartreuse looking fearful - as though he were in the presence of a beast. Dimitri had seen his own shadow engulfing the boy's form and drowning the tiles at their feet in darkness - a hulking, brutish silhouette that could easily have been the Hegemon Husk, shooting fear through the face of the boy he'd once considered a friend.

In a short, sharp moment of realisation - a single pang of guilt snapping through his core - Dimitri had felt so wrong. Something that was once a friendship, now tarnished. In ruins, like the cathedral around them. What had he done? What had he become-?

"W-We're all your friends. You can talk to us."

In those few simple words, though, the guilt had dissipated. Dimitri's vision had clouded once more. "I do not have friends anymore," he'd simply growled, and had turned away from Ashe Ubert.

Now, that guilt had returned tenfold. Dimitri removed himself from Ingrid's grasp, the festival coming back to life around them as the woman smiled at him in the aftermath of their happiness. For the first time in a long, long time, Dimitri had felt childish joy again. It was possible. Despite it being soon replaced with a bubbling pool of acidic penitence for his past actions against those he loved, that was an achievement in the eyes of Dimitri Blaiddyd.

"Ingrid, I…" he started, locking eyes with her. "I'm so sorry. For who I became during the war."

Surprising him, Ingrid merely laughed. He'd expected her face to sour - expected her to frown and look away and grimace remembering his lamentable acts. Instead, her eyes lit up. "You already apologised, Your Highness," she chuckled. "No need to be so formal. What's done is done."

Those few simple words made his eyes begin to well up, stinging the damaged one he hid from the world. "You don't… resent me?"

Ingrid Galatea placed her hands upon her hips. "No. You apologised once before, and you're forgiven."

"An apology doesn't feel like enough," Dimitri said, looking back out at the festivities around him. Felix and Sylvain had pulled away from each other in the distance, and were now simply talking. "It feels weak. Meaningless."

"You won this war for us. You thanked us for our service, you apologised for your actions, and you changed who you were. You became like your old self again. And you've started to repair the nation that she sought to destroy. Dimitri, what else could you want?"

Her words stung. Dimitri couldn't have felt further from his old self. He'd tried to repair the war-torn nation, but sometimes he could still see the remorse upon the faces of those he passed; the suffering they'd endured - the loss they'd seen. All because of something that could have been prevented. Dimitri could never repair that. He was powerless to that.

… the nation that she sought to destroy… Those words stung the most. Right at the end, when the cataclysm had hung in his fingertips - the woman on her knees and his hand outstretched towards her - Dimitri had seen the anguish in Edelgard's eyes. Seen the fear as her utopia had slipped away from her, everything she'd strived for crumbling in his grasp. Edelgard von Hresvelg had never sought to destroy Fódlan. She'd aimed to improve it - to create it anew in an image she had deemed perfect. It had been wrong - it had been forged from death and destruction - but all she had strived for was a better world.
Just as Dimitri had.

He closed his good eye and took a breath.

"You feel like your apology wasn't enough for us? For the Lions?" Ingrid said, a little gentler this time. Dimitri nodded in response. "So, why don't you? I'll come with you."

The King took in the view of his world once more - red and orange and yellow celebrations all around him, and a glimmering sky. "I'd like that."