Burn It Down || Caspar & Dimitri
Starter for @princeblaiddyd . Bad end Azure Moon AU. May be spoilered for violence later on.
—— You told me ‘yes’; you held me high; and I believed when you told that lie ——
“You know, Caspar, you’ve always impressed me. Dealt such a poor hand by modern society, yet still you never falter and even smile. Always treating others equally, no matter their station. I admire that. Why don’t you join me in the Blue Lions? Together we could make this world a better place—one where one’s Crest or station of birth, one’s lineage or faith, race or ideology, matter not. Where haves and have-nots learn to acknowledge the other’s strengths and respect each other based on personal merits. If we could just accept each other and make mutual concessions, one step at a time… Perhaps—!”
It’d brought a smile to his face to think that someone like him—crown prince, heir of a country!—admired him in turn. That someone so privileged could share his same dream of a world in which all were equal, no matter the cards they were dealt. Even though such a world would only diminish his standing, Dimitri put his all, his privilege and his power, into making that world a reality. He had the strength to enact real change in the world—and Caspar admired him for that. It hadn’t been an easy decision to come to, transferring houses, not with poor distraught Linhardt still standing by the Eagles nor with skeptical Hubert dogging his every move for a week from Edelgard’s side. But Caspar had done what he thought was right, as he was wont to do. He’d never thought he would find cause to regret his choice. But regret he did, that day in the Holy Tomb when he first saw the Faerghus prince’s mask crack, that chilling laugh, the savage way he’d dispensed of all who opposed him, be they aligned with the Flame Emperor or not. There for the first time, he who knew not the meaning of fear felt truly afraid. That was not the Dimitri he knew—but then, which was the real him, and which was the mask? Caspar didn’t know, and none of the other Lions seemed willing to tell him, not even as he worked closely with them in the years following Adrestia’s declaration of war on the continent of Fódlan, when they’d all thought Dimitri and Byleth were dead. Everyone had been so overjoyed when they discovered their king and professor were alive and alright… or at least one of them had been.
Alright. Hah. How naïve they’d been to hope that a murderous vagrant who’d finally shown his true colors could ever go back to the way he’d been before the Holy Tomb.
Where now have your dreams of equality gone? he wonders when he looks at him, raging and frothing at everything and nothing. The only such thing you offer now is death for all who stand in your way.
—— I played soldier; you played king; struck me down when I kissed that ring ——
He’d rejoined the Lions anyway in honor of what Dimitri once was; and besides, this was where his friends were now, not the Empire. He had little doubt in his mind that there was no longer a place for him there after the crimes his new house leader had committed against them in the interim, that he by mere absent unknowing had unwittingly condoned. Perhaps in another time and place, another world, he could have reconnected; but it was just as true that Caspar didn’t want to. Not after what Edelgard had done to Lady Rhea, to Dimitri her stepbrother. Yet looking at what the prince had become after that revelation, how his own childhood friends stood by in damnable silence… Could he truly say that he belonged here, either?
He’d been hoping it was all some kind of phase, some kind of twisted joke that would the sands of time be washed away. Then came the assault on Garreg Mach—led by Uncle Randolph, who was now no more.
He’d had it in his power to save him when they met alone on the ruined monastery grounds, opposing sides and mirrored stance. Seeing his own axe style turned against him hurt—he could scarce believe his uncle had chosen to side with an enemy who’d taken countless innocent lives for the sake of Edelgard’s wicked future. But even so, Caspar couldn’t bring himself to take the head of his uncle, his own blood, he who’d first taught him how to smile…
(A fat lot of good that had done him, in the end.)
Powerless. Weak. Incapable of more than looking on as the last living relative he knew was cut down right before his eyes. Some kind of hero he is—but then again, he knew that already. He has always been weak—too weak even to save his last living relatives from the eternal flames.
He remembers meeting them for the first time in Enbarr, both strong and kind in different ways. Uncle Randolph had traveled to Enbarr from Merceus to formally take his place as a colonel of the Imperial army, Aunt Fleche ever by his side. Though he hadn’t any time to chat, he remembers his uncle finding him after yet another ill-fated tutoring session, slinging an arm over his shoulder and tousling his hair. “A hero never falters!” he’d told him with a smile. “You’ll help no one moping around like that. Now up and at ‘em! That’s it!” He’d had every reason to hate Caspar and Julian, who through their father had stolen from him inheritance of their family’s coveted title. And yet, neither he nor Fleche had harbored Caspar any resentment at all. They’d offered him a glimpse into the kind of life he wanted to lead—treating others equally and always helping those in need.
Two very kind people, both ruined by war. Randolph had lost his life, and so too had Fleche, who’d journeyed alone into the lion’s den, pledging allegiance to her brother’s murderer whilst plotting revenge. He’d known the moment he saw her just what she was here for; yet still he’d held his tongue. For all his talk of justice, Dimitri had not spared any for Randolph the day he died—even delighted in it and dragged it out for nothing but sick joy! To him, Aunt Fleche had been fully justified in doing what she did in the aftermath of Gronder… Yet in the end, she too was slain, while the one at fault still lived.
What hurt most was not the names of they who’d done them in, nor of the ones who’d stood by. Nay, that honor fell to the one they did it for. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, oh-so-holy king of Faerghus. Laughable. That man was little more than an empty husk, a walking coffin filled with promises long dead, and Caspar knows not whether they’d died before the war or in between.
All he knows is that the man he’d once called friend is gone. He’d said as much himself, the day Randolph fell. “If you do not approve of what I have become, then kill me,” he’d proclaimed, with all the defiance of a man who knew that none who heard his demand would comply. “Lest I continue to use you and your friends until the very flesh falls from your bones.”
And what of justice? he thinks to himself. To where have your dreams of equality fled? I chose to follow you because your vision seemed best for people like me. But your vision is twisted, mangled, as surely as your true sight is beneath that patch. And now the only equality you offer is death for all who stand in your way… no matter what they are trying to protect. And now you’ve taken the only family I have left.
If even Byleth won’t rein you in, then I will. I won’t stand to be used for your twisted sense of justice anymore.
Armored boots snap upon the ground, swiftly, furiously—but even enraged as he is, he knows well to muffle his footfalls. Hubert had taught him as much, before… everything had happened. He doubts anyone is paying attention in these forlorn halls, but regardless—it is just as well that it is raining tonight, as it had been in the monastery every day since they’d come together as promised, and rediscovered Byleth, their old professor.
(It was supposed to be a happy occasion, a cause for triumph and reminisce. Why then did the goddess upon them still shed her tears?)
Before long, snaps give way to shuffles as he departs the monastery; tile transitions to grass as he makes for the fields of Gronder. His childhood home. There is little reason for he who abandoned his homeland to be here, but somehow Caspar knows this is exactly where he needs to be. Call it the fresh night air, untainted by the smog of Enbarr or the chill of the north. Call it… destiny. For there ahead of him, striding down the same dark path, is his target, tall and dark, almost blending with the night if not for the azure cape billowing behind him like a tempest lost.
Pale lips pull back to a wild grin upon sighting the target. Eyes shine with near-manic light.
He closes the distance, softly, silently. The rain hides his movements until it is almost too late.
—— You lost that right to hold that crown; I built you up, but you let me down ——
“YOU!!!” The word tears from his lips in a brutal roar; Caspar gives his foe no time to react as his axe whips about, razor edge screaming for his neck. Nothing more needs to be said. The boar prince should know full well why he is here.
—— So when you fall, I’ll take my turn and fan the flames as your blazes burn ——
