Dimitri felt his love's hand upon his shoulder, tapping slightly in a prompt. Understanding at once, Dimitri lowered himself, and sat delicately upon the top step, Dedue joining him. That hand remained on his shoulder, his arm wrapped comfortingly around the King, as they felt each other's warmth.

"It's been a whole year. But, I know it still plagues you." Dedue's voice was rough, but somehow so smooth. Deep, but somehow so light. "Relive it. Tell me what happened - what you saw."

Could he, though? Was that possible? Reliving that moment had only ever ended in panic. He'd already panicked once tonight - felt fear and madness flood him once again as memories of war and loss had rattled him. He didn't want that.

"Keeping it inside of you will only make you rot."

Yes. He'd been rotting away for too long already. The King inhaled and his eyelids closed, allowing dust to fill his mind's eye and blacken his vision before dissipating: settling to reveal the Imperial Palace - the heart of Enbarr - that he'd stood in exactly one year ago.

She'd been opposite him. Once, Dimitri knew his sister would have stood so proudly - powerfully - as she always had in her youth. Back when her hair had been its warm, chestnut colour, and her eyes had been smiling to see him, she would have stood with broad shoulders and an inflated chest, confident and poised.

She couldn't have looked more different in that moment. The monster before him had disintegrated, the gnarled black armour ebbing away until the fierce red of her garb had threatened to sear Dimitri's eye with its vibrancy - almost glowing beneath the sunlight. Her hair had been like the sheets of snow that enveloped Fhirdiad, her eyes just as cold. With pinprick pupils, she'd knelt upon the floor, shoulders hunched and chest heaving. Almost hungrily, she'd looked up into Dimitri's eyes, as though spurring him onwards - daring him to kill her.

He wasn't about to do that.

He stretched out a hand to his sister and opened his palm wide, silently asking her to take it. He'd tried to reconcile with her once before, and he was not capable of letting her simply die.

"El."

Something had stirred behind her eyes at his voice - something unplaceable. She'd looked almost touched by an epiphany as her eyelids had widened, her pupils dilating slightly. Dimitri's lips had parted as he'd locked eyes with her, but no words had come out. No words were needed. The King and the Emperor had exchanged words before - had tried desperately to reconcile - but they were just too different. Their ideals incompatible: their worlds opposed. Any words the King could have spoken would have fallen flat, he knew; it was better to say nothing, but to silently beg her to reconsider.

Now that Dimitri stood over her - now that she had slumped, weaponless, to the ground, truly at her match - Dimitri had thought she'd understand. He'd thought she would come to her senses: would finally reach out her hand and take his, and they could try one more time to reconnect.

Once he'd seen her hand shoot out, however - once he'd seen the sun glint off the sliver of steel - his battle instincts had kicked in. One second ago, he'd felt so calm - his heart scarcely daring to beat as he mentally pleaded Edelgard to join him - but in an instant, adrenaline had blinded his good eye and made his muscles jerk. Her dagger had cut through the air, whistling as it sliced its path towards him, but he'd moved aside just slightly, feeling it bite through his armour to plunge into the soft, fragile skin beneath. Pain had blossomed in his shoulder immediately, and his other arm had shot forward. He'd heard fabric tear, and then the all-too familiar noise of skin parting to make way for his weapon had filled his ears. The sound of blood being drawn, of Areadbhar scraping against bone.

When his vision had swum back to him, and his lips had tightened in realisation, Dimitri Blaiddyd had suddenly felt as though he were made from stone: every muscle weakening and threatening to collapse under his weight. His spear through her chest. Life had faded from Edelgard's eyes: the passionate spark waning until her soul had parted, leaving her irises a dull, muted purple, like the petals of dead lilac. With one shaky breath, Dimitri had pulled Areadbhar back towards him, heard blood spurt from her open wound to drench her already-scarlet clothes, and had watched his sister fall, lifeless, to the ground.

The dagger that had impaled his shoulder had been his own - one he'd last laid hands upon years ago, in their childhood. He'd inhaled shakily. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted it to come to this.

As he remembered, sitting with Dedue with his eyes shut tight, all the emotions he'd felt in that moment - fear and regret, anger and confusion, betrayal and sorrow, guilt and pain - refused to come back to the King.

He'd felt them thousands of times before. They'd chased him, unrelenting - had mocked him and howled at him and beaten him into the ground as he'd tried desperately to push them away. He'd cried himself to sleep over them - had screamed and collapsed and covered his ears to block them out - but now? The King felt nothing.

It was done. Dedue was right - as always. Edelgard had refused his offer: had accepted death rather than accept a compromise, and had died doing what she believed in.

Dimitri supposed it could only ever have ended that way. That was how she'd been in her youth. In her academy days. And in death. Edelgard had died as herself. He knew that was how she'd be happiest.

His eyes fluttered open once again, feeling his eyelashes dry for once, and feeling his heart beating with ease. The King missed his sister dearly, but for the sake of Fódlan - for his friends and his subjects - her rule could not have lasted. They could not have compromised, for the risk of putting the land in peril of collapse and conflict. In the end, he had fought for what he'd believed in, and for what would be best, and that was all he could have done. His troops had been stronger. He had won. His sister would have killed him, and he was lucky to have his life. While he still had it, he would focus on correcting everything that went wrong, and on making Fódlan better for everyone.

It would take time to finally forgive himself, of course, but Dimitri was getting there. He rested his head upon Dedue's shoulder, felt the man plant a kiss in his hair, and they looked out upon the celebrations that Dimitri finally felt at peace with.