prince_of_beasts (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prince_of_beasts) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2023-12-11 02:36 am
prince_of_beasts) wrote in come_sailaway2023-12-11 02:36 am
where have all the flowers gone? [open]
WHO: Dimitri & you
WHAT: Where IS everyone?!
WHERE: Around the ship
WHEN: December
WARNINGS: the usual for stressed Dimitri
When Dimitri was a child, he saw a cougar in a noble's menagerie: a miserable animal, ribs showing through its mangy, matted coat, its eyes dull and dead. It had walked the edge of its cage, around, and around, and around, and around, and around. Dimitri -- he couldn't have been more than seven -- had been caught trying to break open its cage, and he'd cried for hours after his father pulled him away.
He walks his route again and again, covering every shift that's been vacated. It keeps him from thinking.
Or, repeat until some faultline slips, and Dimitri loses an hour. When he opens the oven, he chokes on an eruption of smoke and soot. Coughing, he grabs for the bread-pans. His gloves shield him from the worst of the heat, but panic amplifies his tremors; his hands slip, and the glass pan shatters on the floor, along with the blackened brick of its contents.
Instinct takes over. He shuts the oven door, and turns it off. Sets the fan running. Almost slams his fist on the counter. Doesn't. Punches his own thigh, instead, and shouts a string of curses so vehement they skip translation.
Stands in the middle of the kitchen, aware that he should do something about the broken glass, unable to move himself from the spot.
The Crest of Blaiddyd crackles. Dimitri's training saber hits impact foam and snaps. The broken end flies off into the shadows. The dummy isn't even scratched. Something in Dimitri's mind slips, then catches. He hurls himself at the dummy with a scream.
...
When he's exhausted himself, he slides to the floor, shaking, sobbing, spent. The dummy remains untouched.
a.
Dimitri sits in its ring of light, arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth. His eyes are open, unblinking, their red nightshine glassy. His lips move silently, frantically.
b.
Come closer, and there's a large yellow cat hunched beside the memorial. Its ears slant back. Its tail wraps tight around its haunches, tip twitching. It does not move.
A large yellow cat sits by the door to cabin 121. Sometimes it paces. Sometimes it curls into a ball, tail over its nose, shoulders and spine bunched too tightly for rest. Sometimes it paces up and down the hall, sniffing, pawing at the doors of other cabins. 108. 128. 130. 134. 137. 123 and 140, vainly. But mostly, it sits by cabin 121.
It waits. It waits. It waits.
b. the cottage
The garden still blooms; the trees still rustle in Autumn colors. Dimitri tries to find that reassuring. If Ossie and Giles were dead or gone, surely the cottage would vanish, too? If nothing else, surely their imprint upon the place would vanish? It blunts, or at least lays a thin muffling sheet over, the growing certainty that they're never coming back and Dimitri's been abandoned to watch the place crumble without its rightful owners.
He spends most of his time as a cat. The lonely quiet feels worse on two feet, where he's so used to the fussing of his hosts. On four, he paces the grounds and the cottage interior (though never the kitchen), slipping beneath the thorns of the rosebushes, batting at the tassels of the curtains, curling up to sleep beneath a chair or on the doorstep.
The first time he finds his own stray orange hairs on a cushion, he bolts out to the garden and huddles under a rosebush, shaking, hackles raised, until the sun sinks behind the trees.
bird#1312, or DM me here!
WHAT: Where IS everyone?!
WHERE: Around the ship
WHEN: December
WARNINGS: the usual for stressed Dimitri
1. gone to children, every one (promenade, day)Dimitri patrols. It's just him and Dedue left, of the usual crew. It's the only thing he can do that feels useful.
When Dimitri was a child, he saw a cougar in a noble's menagerie: a miserable animal, ribs showing through its mangy, matted coat, its eyes dull and dead. It had walked the edge of its cage, around, and around, and around, and around, and around. Dimitri -- he couldn't have been more than seven -- had been caught trying to break open its cage, and he'd cried for hours after his father pulled him away.
He walks his route again and again, covering every shift that's been vacated. It keeps him from thinking.
2. gone to husbands, every one (kitchen, day)Dimitri practices his baking. It's a change. It's stress relief. He can't cook, but bread is nice, isn't it? When they get back, there'll be fresh bread, and -- and maybe that will help. At least they'll know he cared. At least he'll have done something. He can burn four to eight hours a day in the kitchen, tearing all his helplessness and frustration and terror into raw dough: put a batch in the oven, run a patrol loop or a set of training exercises, come back, take the loaves out. (He's running out of places to put them.) Repeat as many times as it takes.
Or, repeat until some faultline slips, and Dimitri loses an hour. When he opens the oven, he chokes on an eruption of smoke and soot. Coughing, he grabs for the bread-pans. His gloves shield him from the worst of the heat, but panic amplifies his tremors; his hands slip, and the glass pan shatters on the floor, along with the blackened brick of its contents.
Instinct takes over. He shuts the oven door, and turns it off. Sets the fan running. Almost slams his fist on the counter. Doesn't. Punches his own thigh, instead, and shouts a string of curses so vehement they skip translation.
Stands in the middle of the kitchen, aware that he should do something about the broken glass, unable to move himself from the spot.
3. gone to soldiers, every one (sports deck, early December)Training has never let Dimitri down before, and it won't now. At any hour of the night through morning, he's on the sports deck, running drills or running laps. He misses Darcy. He misses Ruby. He misses Erin. Nobody comes to fight club. Hacking at the training dummy relieves a little stress, but it can't substitute for a real partner. Everyone's gone --
The Crest of Blaiddyd crackles. Dimitri's training saber hits impact foam and snaps. The broken end flies off into the shadows. The dummy isn't even scratched. Something in Dimitri's mind slips, then catches. He hurls himself at the dummy with a scream.
...
When he's exhausted himself, he slides to the floor, shaking, sobbing, spent. The dummy remains untouched.
4. gone to graveyards, every one (sports deck, night, late December)A pool of yellow light suffuses the memorial. It flickers from an old lantern, set beside but apart from the collection of belongings.
a.
Dimitri sits in its ring of light, arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth. His eyes are open, unblinking, their red nightshine glassy. His lips move silently, frantically.
b.
Come closer, and there's a large yellow cat hunched beside the memorial. Its ears slant back. Its tail wraps tight around its haunches, tip twitching. It does not move.
5. gone to flowers, every one (meta)a. the cabins
A large yellow cat sits by the door to cabin 121. Sometimes it paces. Sometimes it curls into a ball, tail over its nose, shoulders and spine bunched too tightly for rest. Sometimes it paces up and down the hall, sniffing, pawing at the doors of other cabins. 108. 128. 130. 134. 137. 123 and 140, vainly. But mostly, it sits by cabin 121.
It waits. It waits. It waits.
b. the cottage
The garden still blooms; the trees still rustle in Autumn colors. Dimitri tries to find that reassuring. If Ossie and Giles were dead or gone, surely the cottage would vanish, too? If nothing else, surely their imprint upon the place would vanish? It blunts, or at least lays a thin muffling sheet over, the growing certainty that they're never coming back and Dimitri's been abandoned to watch the place crumble without its rightful owners.
He spends most of his time as a cat. The lonely quiet feels worse on two feet, where he's so used to the fussing of his hosts. On four, he paces the grounds and the cottage interior (though never the kitchen), slipping beneath the thorns of the rosebushes, batting at the tassels of the curtains, curling up to sleep beneath a chair or on the doorstep.
The first time he finds his own stray orange hairs on a cushion, he bolts out to the garden and huddles under a rosebush, shaking, hackles raised, until the sun sinks behind the trees.
oh, when will they ever learn? (wildcard)As usual, find me on Discord
bird#1312, or DM me here!
no subject
"Crop reports," he says, still breathless. "And, and tax records. Since," he flips through the stack, "oh, since the month I was t-taken from. Oh." He wipes at his eyes. "A-and the funniest part is, I really, honestly love it."
no subject
Still, something Dimitri said catches his attention, and he tries to hide the uneasy feeling in his gut with an unreadable expression as he asks, “How long do they go on for?”
no subject
For once, he's distracted enough to miss Dedue's unease as he pulls out the last volume and begins flipping through it.
The pace of his flipping slows. His expression drops into a frown. "Dedue," he asks, "why am I seeing war levies?"
no subject
no subject
no subject
He mumbles, “...There is a war. In my time.”
A pause.
“I did not want to tell you,” he adds, looking away.
no subject
Actually he can't think about that right now.
He pages further through the volume, then reaches for the one before it. His frown deepens. "Civil war? The Eastern lords aren't reporting, but I'm not seeing the tithes to the Church either ... I suppose you wouldn't know about anything that happened. After."
no subject
“There could be no tithes to the Church,” he mumbles, looking away. “Garreg Mach is no more.”
no subject
"What?"
no subject
“You should not ask any more,” he shakes his head. “That knowledge... there is no good that can come of it. We can do nothing from here. It would just cause you pain.”
no subject
From the dregs of his lungs, he gasps, "Then don't tell me."
no subject
He stands in silence for some time.
He feels terrible. He had been hiding all of this from Dimitri when Dimitri trusted him and would’ve trusted if Dedue told him the information would be painful. He could’ve just said that, instead of shutting off a part of himself.
Then again, Dimitri had kept things from him too. They both had been hiding huge parts of their lives from each other. To protect each other. And now they knew how much it hurt to be on the receiving end of that.
“I apologize,” he sighs. “I should have trusted you to make your own choice.”
no subject
no subject
“I will keep it safe,” he whispers. “I will only tell you when you are ready to hear it,” he promises him.
cw abstract self-harm
"I want to know," he croaks. "I h-have to know, because they -- " He flinches -- "I'm sorry they need me to hurt I'm sorry but I can't, I won't ask you to hurt me. T-that's the one thing they please that they can't ask me to do."
If he suffers enough, maybe it will bring them back. If he feels enough pain to compensate for everything all of them have suffered, if he can even the scales, they'll be able to return. But he can't ask Dedue to do that for him.
no subject
“Then I will say only one thing more,” Dedue tells him firmly. “When Garreg Mach was attacked, our peers remained unharmed. When last I saw them, they were safe.”
He can’t bring himself to tell Dimitri about Byleth. He won’t add to that list of the dead.
no subject
He buries his face in Dedue's shoulder. "If I needed to know. You'd tell me," he says, against the shrieks that he's betraying his people, shirking his duty, that even if there's nothing he can do he must witness. Especially if there's nothing else he can do. "I-if I needed -- sorry. I'm sorry. P-please, I need -- "
no subject
He holds Dimitri close, and his arms attempt to form a barrier against the ghosts’ fury.