Imperial Year 1181

Felix walked through the capitol palace halls with a feeling of uneasy apprehension growing in his stomach. Their army had just deployed troops to escort the archbishop and other church authorities to the capitol for safeguarding.

The recent peace they had won from dissolving civil conflict over the throne's succession was, evidently, not to last. The imperial princess's ascent to her throne and declaration of war on the church hadn't left time for it.

The church wasn't synonymous with Faerghus, not really — but by the way other noble lords had spoken of the ensuring conflict, it might as well have been. Felix hadn't fully understood everything that was said during the meeting in which the boar king had officially decreed that the Kingdom would safeguard the church. But he supposed it made sense — Sylvain's father, along with a few others, had pressed the idea that war would be upon them no matter what. Felix conceded that it was likely true.

But the boar had seemed to teeter far too much on the side of personal frustrations for Felix's liking. The beast was clearly letting his aggravation at having never pieced together the strange happenings back at Garreg Mach get to him. Even if the emperor had something to do with those events at the monastery, Felix saw little point in speculating further on the idea.

The Empire likely just wanted more land and subjects to tax, that sort of thing, he thought to himself as he rounded a corner. Felix had always considered himself to be the sort that was only useful during times of conflict, so the thought of throwing himself into war wasn't what bothered him.

No, it was what his old man had done that irked him.

The old fool had up and left his territory to the watch of Felix's uncle and asserted that he wanted to join their army — to fight alongside them.

There had been a lingering pit in his stomach ever since his father had announced that he hadn't simply stopped by for a short correspondence with their forces. As of late, his father had seemed to be pushing more and more responsibilities onto Felix in preparation for 'a future role as the governing duke.'

He didn't want to believe he knew what the old man was planning … but he feared he did.

Felix didn't know what he was going to say to his father this time upon finding him. His previous attempts at insulting the man's combat abilities or intelligence had proved useless. Felix suspected there was little he could do to dissuade the man from being on the battlefield, but he would at least get a few more choice words in, if he was able.

"Are you in there, old man?" Felix called out as he lightly knocked on the door to the room his father had been staying in. He waited for a moment, and then another, hearing nothing. He was turning to look elsewhere when the silence was suddenly broken by the muffled sound of movement on the other side of the door.

"Ugh, can you hear me? Or have your ears withered away right alongside your mind?" Felix asked harshly as he turned the handle, swinging the door open abruptly. "Honestly, you'd think I-"

He halted in surprise at seeing not his father before him, but the boar.

The beast's eyes came up to meet his own, widening slightly in surprise — he quickly stood from his position of kneeling over an open bag. Felix noted with some suspicion that he appeared to have picked up a sheathed sword from within.

"Ah, Felix," the beast said stiffly, brushing a loose strand of blond hair back from his tired, sunken eyes. The boar looked to be even more of a mess than the last time Felix had seen him — when he had angrily stormed off in response to the old fool urging him to get some much-needed rest. Felix had to admit it had been strange, and somewhat unnerving, to see the boar come close to something resembling aggressive behavior with his father. The beast had always idolized the old man in the past, after all … not that Felix was keen on seeing either attitude on display.

"I presume I may … not have been who you were looking for," the boar said as he fidgeted with the sheathed sword in his hands.

"No, you weren't," Felix answered evenly as he paced into the room, eyeing the blade. "Just what do you think you're doing in here rummaging through my old man's belongings?"

"Oh, come now. There's little need for such audacious accusations," replied the boar, sighing the words with an air of light annoyance. "Rodrigue simply informed me that he possessed an old sword of my father's … he mentioned Margrave Gautier had borrowed it ages ago, and…" He trailed off, eyes darting toward Felix, who was still glaring up at him. "Well, I suppose there's little need to bore you with details, but he expressed that he wanted me to have it again. Once he remembered to retrieve it from his bags, that is."

"And so the boar goes straight to sifting through items that don't belong to him," Felix noted as a grimace formed on the boar's brow. "So, what was it? Is the task of exchanging words to get what he wants too much to ask of his beastliness these days?"

"Hmph," the boar scoffed. "Might I ask— what exactly is it that you want from me at present?" he asked tiredly. "I have every bit of confidence that Rodrigue would have little qualms with me retrieving a sword already promised to me."

"Oh please, there's no slight in the world you could level at him that he'd actually hold against you," Felix countered as he watched the boar's expression sour further. "I'd wager you could run a blade through the old fool, and he'd likely apologize for daring to dirty your sw-"

Felix's words were cut off by the loud bang of the boar bringing his fist to crash against a nearby dresser. The furniture rattled and sent a satchel tumbling to the floor, letting loose papers and other items scatter on the ground between them.

Felix stared, startled, at where the strike had hit before his gaze drifted back up to the boar's scowl. He took a step back, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

"… Not another word," the boar growled out.

"Psh, whatever. I was just on my way out," Felix attempted to say dismissively, his pulse slightly quickening. "It's not like I make a habit of idly chatting with beasts,"

He quickly turned to leave.

𓆩 𓆪

The king watched as Felix closed the door behind him with a rather aggressive slam. Dimitri's eyes slowly fell to the scattered belongings on the floor.

Dimitri heaved a great sigh as he set the sword on the bed nearby and looked down at the mess he had created. He hesitated for a moment before he began picking up the scattered items, feeling a tad guilty. However, he still carried a lingering sense of annoyance.

Rudeness was something he had come to expect from Glenn's younger brother. He tried not to pay the man's development of an overly sharp tongue much heed — after all, Glenn had also favored a dry, sarcastic way of speaking. But the longer this had gone on, the more he found himself believing all those insults Felix hurled at him were said in earnest.

Dimitri attempted to shrug off these thoughts as he picked up the last remaining bits of parchment and tucked them back into the satchel. He usually didn't take Felix too seriously, but he had to admit, the remark must have gotten under his skin quite effectively if it had caused this mess.

He just … didn't wish to face Rodrigue after how he had lashed out at him earlier. The man was only showing concern for his well-being, after all. Dimitri had done nothing to reward his concern — or eternal patience — other than spit it back in his face.

He really ought to get a better grasp on his temper. It seemed this type of behavior was spilling out from him more often, and without his consent. His thoughts would only return to him afterward and, inevitably, engulf him in a cold sense of shame.

At least Felix likely wouldn't be the sort to feel wounded by his most recent outburst, Dimitri thought to himself assuredly. Felix seemed to despise him, and his attitude was nothing but cold indifference as of late.

Dimitri picked up the sword again, thinking back on the story Rodrigue had told of how it had ended up in the Margrave's hands. The anecdote had turned into reassurance of his decision to shelter the church, and the king appreciated that greatly. Dimitri stood by his choice for many reasons, but … it was good to know his father would have likely made a similar call, in his position.

He owed the late king this, and even more.

It wasn't enough to simply punish any and all who bore responsibility for the murder of his father, Glenn, and his stepmother. Leaving the academy a few months early to assume the throne, and dismantling the fair share of nobles who supported Rufus's claim, had unearthed conspirators — now dead by Dimitri's hand.

But it still wasn't enough.

He had to find all of those responsible, Dimitri thought with deep conviction as he ran a hand along the blue hilt of the sword. Conspirators were still at large, and he would find them, every one of them … no matter how bloodied his path became.

Dimitri brushed a strand of loose hair from his face angrily, attempting to shake the sudden feeling of rage that threatened to boil over — as it often did when he let himself stew too long in his own head.

He was preparing to leave when he stopped, noticing one remaining sheet of parchment that had found its way under the bed.

Dimitri stooped, straining his arm to reach the paper. Once he had it in his hand, he glanced down with passive interest at what appeared to be an old note. He was beginning to return the paper to the satchel when he suddenly paused. His eyes scanned the words written on the note, now reading it in its entirety.

He read it again … then again - feeling, at first, only a deep sense of confusion as he attempted to will some other understanding out from the words. The note wasn't something Rodrigue had written, nor was it addressed to him. The recipient was the late Viscount Elidure, a man Rodrigue had helped to expose as a conspirator months ago. No … it was the supposed identity of the sender that was entirely nonsensical.

There was a distant sound of a sword falling from his hand and crashing to the floor. He gripped the note with both hands, feeling his heart beat rapidly and intensely through his whole body.

The realization began to seep through him with a painful, numbing effect. The king didn't need to see her neatly printed signature at the end of the note to recognize who the writer was. He knew this handwriting, knew the familiar arch of the way she had always drawn each letter.

The king stared aghast at the familiar curve of her penmanship. His mind slowly attempted to connect the writer to the actions she spoke of — and to the people she so easily agreed to do away with.

Dimitri paused for a moment before he felt himself fall to his knees. His eyes never broke contact with the note as he sank to the floor, staying frozen for what felt like mere minutes, but could have been hours.

He felt his eyes drift downward to once again read the words near the bottom of the page. And he felt hollowness slowly being replaced with something else. His teeth clenched tightly, his hands gripping the note with such intensity that the nails on his fingers tore through the edges of the paper and bled the palms of his hands.

Dimitri's gaze became fixed at the lines where his stepmother had spoken of wanting to run back to the Empire …

Her sole reason for agreeing to conspiracy had all been to return back.

Back to her true child … to Edelgard.