It's Over
Ship: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Byleth Eisner (male)
Summary: After the final blow is given to the Immaculate One, Byleth collapses. The strange flutters of his heart are the proof of his impending death.
His time is limited.
Written for @dimilethfever's Trick or Treat event, 2025 edition!
Warnings: MAIN CHARACTER DEATH (Dimitri's a ghost, Byleth's on his way there) and ANGST. Just a bit, though.
Rating: Teens & Up
The moment the Immaculate One’s monstrous green blood oozed out, Byleth felt a sudden weakness that gripped him and pulled him into a scalding darkness. And from that scalding darkness came a sudden, nameless sensation, starting from somewhere deep inside him and filling him entire body with… something. Was this death? It had to be. What else could it be? This wasn’t the feeling of the Divine Pulse, nor the sensation he got when he was struck by some kind of soon-to-be-fatal wound. This sensation was not the cold, slow encroaching touch of death he had felt glimpses of before. It was different and strange.
And then, the darkness gave way to red. Red flame, and red cloth. Amidst such a riot of crimson, Edelgard looked at him with relief in her eyes. She seemed to be serene, despite the heat of all of the fire around them. Byleth gasped, trying to take a relieving gulpful of air to breathe, even if only smoke filled his lungs.
“My teacher…” she smiled, and hugged him. “It’s over. Finally, it’s all over…”
“My chest…” Byleth coughed, gripping Edelgard’s dress where his fingers could sink into. “S-something is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Edelgard reassured him, her voice soft with a smile. “You’re… you’re alive.”
Was this life? It didn’t feel like it. This strange, heavy thing thrumming inside him felt like a clock ticking, winding down to an eventual stop. But unlike a clock’s steady rhythm, this thing’s rhythm was an erratic skip and crawl, too fast, too slow, for a moment just fine, only to run too fast, painfully fast—
“I-it’s hurts…” Byleth cried. Pain had seldom brought a tear to his eyes, but now it was so blinding and absolute, he could only lie there and feel it irradiating from his chest. “My chest…”
The next thing he knew, he was lying in the war camp’s sick bay. Manuela spoke to Edelgard, her voice muttering something incomprehensible to his ears. Byleth tried to say something, but instead he slipped back into the darkness.
Byleth was dying.
Edelgard had tried to soften the news by inviting him to tea, letting him eat all of her precious sugar butter cookies, and a long winding conversation about their year at the Academy before getting to the heart of the matter. Byleth wanted to appreciate it. But he couldn't help but feel that all of this was given to him because he was dying. If Byleth had been healthy, he knew he could have expected some hospitality from his former student, now friend. But Edelgard would never allow anyone to indulge for too long in neither sweets nor idleness when there were too many things to do, least of all herself.
“Manuela says that the small magical implant delivers regular lightning magic pulses that could make your heart beat regularly,” Edelgard had said with a smile, as if she genuinely believed Byleth could eke out a long, meaningful life that way. “So long as you don’t exert yourself, you could…”
“Thank you,” Byleth dunked one last sugar cookie into his tea and put it in his mouth. It tasted like sawdust. “I’m sorry. It looks like I can’t help with Shambala’s infiltration after all.”
“Don’t worry: you helped us prepare the preliminary plan after they dropped that javelin on Arianrhod. Hubert and I can handle it. You stay here in Fhirdiad with Manuela and prepare for the surgery.”
Edelgard had probably meant that was a kind gesture to a sick and dying man. Byleth felt like a damaged old weapon being discarded. In his mind, he understood. If he had to make a similar choice, he’d recommend leaving the sick person behind so they wouldn’t get in the way of the mission. Byleth was proud of his ex-student making the best tactical choice… even if being discarded hurt in ways he couldn’t fully describe.
He wasn’t foolish enough to try to resist her orders, nor insist on fighting until his dying breath. Byleth had lost all of the advantages he had used to win the war against the church. He had no Divine Pulse, his once masterful control over the strings of time had been cut off since the death of the Immaculate One. Trying to hold Sword of the Creator was an agony that made his fingers feel like they were about to melt. Edelgard had given him Rhea’s— Seiros’s sword. The magic imbued on the blade offered some minor healing, enough for Byleth to dare to exert himself just a little to take care of any threats that came to him, but not enough for him to seek out Shambala and empty that rat’s nest. Not without guaranteeing his immediate demise afterwards.
Byleth knew that he was about as useful as a warhorse with a broken leg. But Edelgard was too kind to admit that yet.
That was why…
Byleth snuck out of the castle at Fhirdiad before the day of the surgery, wearing a modest rough-spun woolen cloak to conceal his face. He left the southern gate and walked, at a leisurely pace. Not hurried enough to catch anyone’s attention. He was in no hurry to arrive anywhere. There was nowhere for him to go to, anyway. Byleth had just chosen to go out and meet his death, in whatever shape or form it took. He fully expected for people to notice his absence when they would try to get him for the surgery. Which meant he had until midday to put as much distance from Fhirdiad as possible. Running would have guaranteed that a search party sent out might not catch up with him. But his useless heart was already doing its irregular beating and fluttering with just a constant, gentle walk. Byleth kept his eyes on the ground. The only thing he had to focus on, was on taking one more step. And then another and then another.
“Professor.”
Byleth stopped. A part of him knew getting caught was likely. But… that voice. He didn’t expect to hear that voice ever again. When he rose his eyes, he saw him right in front of him. A tall figure with eyes that were as cold as the winter skies framed by long, golden hair.
“You’re dead,” Byleth huffed, and tried to sidestep him to take one more step to continue his mindless walk— when he realized that one step would have sent him down a ravine.
“So would you be, had I not stopped you now,” the specter said. His feet were not touching the ground, or what should have been ground. He was floating just off the edge of the ravine. Looking at him with that same look he had in his eyes when he volunteered to be Jeralt’s pallbearer.
“Your kindness is wasted,” Byleth quipped, turning from the ravine and instead opting for another path to continue. “I’m already dying.”
“It’s your heart, isn’t it?” The specter asked, keeping its pace next to him.
Byleth tried to sprint to shake him off. But after four hurried steps, his chest burned with exertion and he fell to his knees. The specter, however, remained at his side, looking down at him. Byleth gripped at the budding springtime grass, hating it for growing and thriving whilst he died. This grass beneath his fingers would have outlived him, had he not ripped it out of the ground and ended its nascent life.
A wordless cry escaped his throat, and tears tumbled out of his eyes. He didn’t know what else he could say or do. This was just like with Jeralt’s death. When he was just a useless thing that could only cry and scream as the world around him spun and spun and threw him off-balance.
A sudden warm embrace enveloped him.
Byleth tried to push Dimitri off him, but his weakened body was no match for his preternatural, steady strength. He hit his chest, wishing that his fist somehow phased through his form. But instead it was met with an inherent resistance of his form.
“Don’t do this,” Byleth begged. “You know I don’t deserve this.”
“You do,” Dimitri’s breath on his ear felt as real and as warm as it would have been, had he truly been there.
“I killed you! I killed Dedue—!”
“You killed him before he used that crest stone,” Dimitri said. “After the battle, you called a Duscur soothsayer to cover his eyes and sent for his ashes to be spread on the flower fields of his home.”
“But he deserved to live,” Byleth shook his head. “You deserved to live—”
“You tried four times to use the Goddess’s power to avert his fate.”
“You shouldn’t know that! You can’t know that!” Byleth screamed, his voice straining from the effort. “I was just being selfish. I couldn’t bear the guilt of what I forced him to do…!”
“Dedue chose that, Professor,” Dimitri said, as steadfast as ever. “He is at peace now.”
“Then what about you? Why are you haunting me now? Are you at peace?”
“I made a vow to you—”
“To be ‘together forever’?” Byleth felt his cheeks burn with rage. His stupid flesh pump erratically thumped in his chest as he remembered the humiliation of that encounter. Byleth had always found Dimitri to be mildly pleasant, the way one finds a small piece of bread to dip in soup pleasant. Byleth enjoyed giving lessons to the orphans of the monastery alongside him. He was always studious and serious, so when he invited him to the Goddess Tower, that made Byleth feel... happy? Nervous? Excited? It didn't matter. Whatever Byleth had imagined between them during those minutes between being invited and getting to the top of the tower had just been in his head.
“I thought I'd regret my cowardice back then until the day I died,” Dimitri pulled back from his hug. He was crying. "But it turns out, I regret it even now in death. But no, that's not the vow I'm referring to...”
Dimitri looked just like he did when he begged Byleth to abandon Edelgard and her cause. Back then, he had been tempted. But he was smarter than to accept the honeyed lies of the enemy. Now that the war was won, why would Dimitri lie to him again? Why spend his afterlife keeping him company? Why make such a needless vow? He should've just let him walk off the cliff. Byleth had already died falling of a cliff. To die again like that would have been fitting.
“I vowed, for five years, that if you ever managed to return...” Dimitri caressed his face. “That I would stay by your side when your time came.”
“Why would you do that?” Byleth gaped at him with disbelief. “I’m—you— we were nothing, Dimitri.” But when he said that, it felt like a lie. What lingered between them was too much to not be something. Whether that was kinship, or rivalry or—
“When I first took that vow, I had meant it in the sense that either we’d live together until old age or that I’d be the one to claim your life,” Dimitri smiled. “When my head was severed from my shoulders, I had hoped that I wouldn’t see you again for many years... But without the Crest Stone inside you, your heart won’t last long like this.”
“Crest Stone?” Byleth felt his heart pitter patter with dread. “That’s impossible…! If I had a Crest Stone inside me, I would have turned into a Demonic Beast years ago.”
“It will all make sense after you pass,” Dimitri rested his forehead against his. “Don't worry about it. For now, I’m here for you.”
And now that the finality of it all struck Byleth, he felt his entire being tremble with tears. He raged and cried and screamed, until he was too tired to do any of that anymore.
Dimitri remained steadfast at his side through it all. Always firm, but gentle.
“I thought I was ready to die when I left Fhirdiad. But I’m not… I’m scared.” Byleth confessed.
“That’s normal. But there’s nothing to fear. Death can be… very gentle.”
“Gentle? How?”
“Like falling asleep in a field of flowers. Like being hugged by a loved one,” Dimitri’s hand took his. And squeezed. “Like reuniting with all those that you thought gone.”
“Like… you?” Byleth dared to ask.
“Like you,” Dimitri smiled. “Are you ready?”
When Byleth nodded, Dimitri gently helped him stand up. All of his fatigue seemingly vanished in the instant Byleth left behind his sluggish, sickly body.