[ no give mem, only receive. but okay, a bunch of stardust explodes above them and cuts him off abruptly.
It has been 3 years since your 'execution.' The day when Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, last of the royal line, was killed for his trespasses.
And, well—you consider yourself a corpse, too. A prince executed for murdering his own uncle, the king regent, in a fit of rage. Some question it, but most don't, and you quickly figure out why they simply do not care: their lives are too saturated with their own suffering to care about royal affairs.
And you cannot blame them. You've lived in the poorest corners of Fhirdiad now, hiding under the enemy's nose in your own capitol city, and somehow completely out of view of the people who would kill you on sight. The citizens in the slums never knew what you looked like. They do not question why your eye is missing, or the reason behind your sour expressions, the haunted look that you wear so well now.
You see their suffering. The plight of the common people. You do not speak to anyone, have not in years, but you listen to them as they gripe outside of taverns or in the streets as they do their back-breaking work to earn mouthfuls of bread, not even a fistful of coins. And Faerghus nobility does not live a life of extravagance, but you realize how lucky you were, sometimes. Your thoughts turn distantly to fixing these things, the good you could do if you fought for your throne. The whole of your heart, soft and locked away, aches for them.
But.
For all that you listen, the voices of the dead are louder. They buzz in your ears until the noise makes your entire head ache to bursting. So great are their regrets that they claim your dreams, your waking moments, your idle and active thoughts both. They clamor for vengeance. Ask why you have yet to achieve it when you have lived for so much longer than they have, and why do you still draw breath? Why are you still here? At the height of your madness, you can see their shapes in both night and day, trapped in the twilight between worlds until you ease their suffering.
So instead of vying for the throne, you do this: you learn the forests and live off the land. You know exactly where you can catch a battalion of Empire troops on their way to another province. You take them by surprise and kill the soldiers to their very last, either with your bare hands or their own weapons; you catch a captain of the Imperial regiment with a lance through the gut after the rest of his men are dead, littering the dirt path in assorted, bloody pieces.
It takes time to die from a wound to the stomach, so you speak to him as he dies. Or mock him, really. You tell him of the atrocities that his armies have committed, the innocent lives they have ruined, the lands they have tainted with Edelgard's ambitions. When his pain is not enough for you, you twist the lance.
He has the strength to speak around a mouthful of blood and call you a hypocrite. A worse monster than they will ever be.
But you knew this already. And after he finally passes on, the voices in your head do not quiet at all. ]
she's pretty stoic, but this memory seems to knock her on her ass, make her feel untethered. the combination of the blood, the suffering observed, that feeling of unreality...]
[ he's just standing there, even paler than usual, eyes shut as he rubs his temples. he has plenty of upsetting memories, but this is one of the few that actually scares him. ]
I seem plagued with memories from... an older version of myself. The one from the campus.
...I'm sorry you had to witness such a monstrous thing.
[of course this would be frightening, especially if it depicts a future that is hard to square with this dimitri, someone so noble and gentle despite the obvious ways the events here strain him.]
Do not apologize. I'm sorry that you had to witness it. [...] Do you really believe that to be you?
[ this is such a specific and hateful piece of lore to have.
he doesn't really talk about this with anyone, and never has, so he's not sure what to say either. when he does speak, his voice is quieter than before, treading carefully. ]
Yes. Frankly, I am not certain how you deal with it.
[she doesn't like to talk about this, either, but it's come up so much already.]
I have always had to ensure I had one or two people around me who I could...trust, to a degree, though often it was their loyalty to my title I trusted in more than anything. And I would rely on them to tell me what was real and what wasn't.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That must be a great honor, especially for someone so young.
[ he's just imagining it like knighthood. ]
no subject
[also you can memshare me back if you want.]
no subject
[ no give mem, only receive. but okay, a bunch of stardust explodes above them and cuts him off abruptly.
And, well—you consider yourself a corpse, too. A prince executed for murdering his own uncle, the king regent, in a fit of rage. Some question it, but most don't, and you quickly figure out why they simply do not care: their lives are too saturated with their own suffering to care about royal affairs.
And you cannot blame them. You've lived in the poorest corners of Fhirdiad now, hiding under the enemy's nose in your own capitol city, and somehow completely out of view of the people who would kill you on sight. The citizens in the slums never knew what you looked like. They do not question why your eye is missing, or the reason behind your sour expressions, the haunted look that you wear so well now.
You see their suffering. The plight of the common people. You do not speak to anyone, have not in years, but you listen to them as they gripe outside of taverns or in the streets as they do their back-breaking work to earn mouthfuls of bread, not even a fistful of coins. And Faerghus nobility does not live a life of extravagance, but you realize how lucky you were, sometimes. Your thoughts turn distantly to fixing these things, the good you could do if you fought for your throne. The whole of your heart, soft and locked away, aches for them.
But.
For all that you listen, the voices of the dead are louder. They buzz in your ears until the noise makes your entire head ache to bursting. So great are their regrets that they claim your dreams, your waking moments, your idle and active thoughts both. They clamor for vengeance. Ask why you have yet to achieve it when you have lived for so much longer than they have, and why do you still draw breath? Why are you still here? At the height of your madness, you can see their shapes in both night and day, trapped in the twilight between worlds until you ease their suffering.
So instead of vying for the throne, you do this: you learn the forests and live off the land. You know exactly where you can catch a battalion of Empire troops on their way to another province. You take them by surprise and kill the soldiers to their very last, either with your bare hands or their own weapons; you catch a captain of the Imperial regiment with a lance through the gut after the rest of his men are dead, littering the dirt path in assorted, bloody pieces.
It takes time to die from a wound to the stomach, so you speak to him as he dies. Or mock him, really. You tell him of the atrocities that his armies have committed, the innocent lives they have ruined, the lands they have tainted with Edelgard's ambitions. When his pain is not enough for you, you twist the lance.
He has the strength to speak around a mouthful of blood and call you a hypocrite. A worse monster than they will ever be.
But you knew this already. And after he finally passes on, the voices in your head do not quiet at all. ]
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she's pretty stoic, but this memory seems to knock her on her ass, make her feel untethered. the combination of the blood, the suffering observed, that feeling of unreality...]
Dimitri?
no subject
I seem plagued with memories from... an older version of myself. The one from the campus.
...I'm sorry you had to witness such a monstrous thing.
no subject
Do not apologize. I'm sorry that you had to witness it. [...] Do you really believe that to be you?
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I have no doubt. People have met that man—that version of me—and he is as real as anything. I cannot say I'm surprised by who I amount to.
After all, you heard my thoughts for yourself.
[ he's a madman and a murderer. ]
no subject
[she stops herself before she mentions she heard he killed someone with a rap :( ]
...Yes. Well. [she has no idea what to say.] My thoughts are not always sensible, either.
no subject
he doesn't really talk about this with anyone, and never has, so he's not sure what to say either. when he does speak, his voice is quieter than before, treading carefully. ]
Yes. Frankly, I am not certain how you deal with it.
no subject
[she doesn't like to talk about this, either, but it's come up so much already.]
I have always had to ensure I had one or two people around me who I could...trust, to a degree, though often it was their loyalty to my title I trusted in more than anything. And I would rely on them to tell me what was real and what wasn't.