To his credit, His Highness had been furious when the summons had arrived. You haven’t done anything wrong, he’d protested. They have no evidence! Had they taken the chance to know you, they would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is simply no chance you were involved. But Dedue had only bowed his head and agreed to the interrogation. The crime of regicide hangs above his head at every moment–bitterly, he thinks that conspiracy to assassinate the archbishop may as well rest upon his shoulders too. The Knights of Seiros would never care to know him, a man of Duscur, and they will likely never see him as anything more than a threat ( is that better or worse than being thought a monster, he wonders idly ).
He stands, arms resting neutrally at his sides, face carefully blank throughout it all. The knights’ questions grow increasingly ludicrous, but he does not say so, knowing that one wrong step spells his doom. He answers each question patiently, politely, even when some far-off part of him wants to shout at the unfairness of it all ( how long has it been since he has allowed himself such a feeling? too long, no doubt, but he pushes it away with practiced ease ). Unbidden, he thinks of Cyril. The archbishop’s assistant, still a child but looking even scrawnier in the baggy hand-me-downs he wears.
They both know why they are here, and yet, neither of them can acknowledge it out loud.
But at last it is over, and Dedue allows himself a measured exhale as he steps out of the tent. To his surprise, Cyril is still there, waiting. For him? It seems unlikely–they have never spoken, careful to keep their distance so as not to frighten those around them. And yet, there is no other reason for the boy to have stayed.
Slowly, Dedue inclines his head in…well. It isn’t quite a greeting. Acknowledgement, more like, and perhaps relief. Relief that they have both made it through this moment, that neither of them will suffer for a crime they did not commit.
he stands quickly the moment the fabric making the door of the tent is pushed aside --- as though waiting for a verdict . he’s been careful in this , keeping himself far away enough where it wouldn’t be obvious he’d been waiting for dedue . duscur ... he knew little about such a place ; only that oftentimes he and dedue’s name were lumped together , and that almyran and duscurian often carried the same negative tone in description . it was why he’d kept a distance ; it was why he was careful .
what would he have to say to dedue , anyway ? dedue , noble , decorated , strong . dedue , who served as the right hand to a prince , and cyril , who lived by the notion that cleanliness likened godliness , that his value and purpose depended on such a rule . they should be nothing to each other .
but here he stood regardless , amber eyes fixing upon the stoic look mirroring the tight , apprehensive expression in his own . cyril’s hands wring together in embarrassment and he starts off in what seems to be another direction , only for it to be revealed he’s taken a route perpendicular to dedue’s and cut him off behind the silo . cyril is a young man who would argue he was never seen , but here is one of the many places he knows he isn’t in view , either .
❛ ------ what did they say to you . ❜ impulsive , maybe , but he needs to know .
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