#dimibert

The body slept soundly across his chest, back rising and falling with gentle snores, face obscured in a mop of dirty, unkempt blonde that he twirled between his fingers as he observed. It was a curious sort of observation, not unlike watching a rat in a cage, but there wasn’t a hypothesis to it- because there was no meaning behind it. It simply was, and Hubert would let it be, taking comfort in the weight encompassing him and the soft feeling of breath against his bare skin. One of his hands, as decrepit and stained by dark magic as the other, was held down and claimed by his sleeping companion in a firm grip under the blankets, the other now slowly moving out of the grip of hair he had given himself, fingers trailing lightly along the other man’s spine in a delicate feather touch, as far as he could reach, before moving his hand back in the opposite direction, slowly, watching for any reactions or signs of stirring. There were none. Hubert continued.

The night before had been long and arduous, taxing and resulting in far too many casualties. Those Who Slither In The Dark were becoming craftier, now that their numbers were starting to thin out, meaning that ambushes and outlandish manoeuvres were plenty. This mission had been particularly strenuous, with losses on their side counting up rapidly. Still, among the battlefield, he had remained standing- thanks in no small part to the man now fast asleep and half crushing him under the weight of the world he carried. Dimitri fought as though he would give his dying breath for the cause, which was a curious thought for sure, considering where they had once stood- on opposite sides of the conflict, and of history. Now, they lay in the same bed, barely undressed and still covered in grime and blood from the fight they had endured.

Somewhere between the capture of Fhirdiad and the establishment of a United Fódlan under the ever-watchful rule of Lady Edelgard, the decision to not kill the former King of Faerghus had been made. He was to be kept under lock and chain, with his crest suppressed by wards and seals underneath the castle of Enbarr- imprisoned, questioned and tortured before his eventual execution in the streets. Hubert had been assigned to such a task, and had seen it through to almost perfection. In getting the man to come to heel, perhaps he had broken him too much; the once ferocious, snarling beast instead watching him, with one (only one; his other eye had been injured before his capture, and neglected until it became infected and almost rotted out of his skull entirely) glimmering blue eye underneath swathes of golden hair, like the moon amidst the treeline, other scars and blemishes across Dimitri’s skin like the stars in the otherwise blank expanse, just as his expression was. Blank, unfeeling, but still somehow wanting. Like the moon, his eyes illuminated that- a desire, a need. It hadn’t been until months ago that Hubert figured out just what that need had been. 

He had never been uncomfortable with the idea of losing a prisoner before. When the well of information had dried up, it was time to end the farce- Hubert did not consider himself to be overtly cruel, especially to those who didn’t deserve it, nameless and rankless soldiers and those on the wrong side of history being the majority of them. The Imperial army had taken capture of more than a few enemy soldiers in their time, to analyse movements and strategies, and once they had what they wanted, he had given them mercy. Direct enemies to Her Majesty, however, did not get that same mercy. Their treatment was, well, torturous, long and taxing until they were begging for an end. Hubert liked to hear them beg. But Dimitri never gave him that. All he gave him anger, and rage, until all that was left was a husk with a faraway stare, like he wasn’t even looking at him but off into some alternate future where the war had been his to win, or into what he hoped would be his fate- the darkness of the other side. It was then that the marquis made a realisation, to make use of what otherwise would be a waste of resources in the dungeons, and to capitalise on what had always been Dimitri’s best qualities- his strength, his ruthlessness. His loyalty. All it would take was a little more twisting in the right direction, to steer him away from the lost cause of a fallen Kingdom, and towards the Empire. Perhaps, more selfishly, towards House Vestra alone. 

So then came a new plan, one in direct opposition to what had originally been proposed. The plan was risky, terribly risky and perhaps even stupid, but it was one he had more than a modicum of faith in, and one he held on a tight leash- if the dog bit at his master, as diseased and mauled as he was, he would simply be put down. A kamikaze soldier sent out to fight Those Who Slither In The Dark alongside Hubert and the rest of his agents. Dimitri, however, had been surprisingly well-behaved- a hulking phantom in the Vestra estate, stalking through halls and standing in doorways, scaring the poor staff half to death with a forlorn stare. He had never turned his strength on these parties, however. They had been spared from his ire, or lack thereof, as he did little more than… stand, and watch from a distance, like a beast far outside a human society. Which is exactly what he was, for the time. Dimitri had never been told who he was killing- he had simply been commanded. And, just as he’d expected, the dog obeyed his master without question. 

Dimitri fought, and killed with something akin to joy (a joyless sort of joy, the light lost from his eyes but his grin splitting his face in two with a cackle and a war cry), but he was far from tender, or even receptive to any sort of touch- not that he was ever due the kindness, being the prisoner that he was, but even still, an attempt was made. It had taken months upon months to get the hound to stop flinching or shaking at a hand near him, long enough attempt to brush his hair before a majority of it had to be cut away entirely to salvage it, the rest of it matted and stained with his own blood that he had been rolling in, sleeping on the stone floor of the dungeons- or, more than likely, not sleeping, but simply waiting to die. It took even longer for the beast to allow himself to be handled through hand feeding, an action that Hubert had undertaken the training for himself. Like the crunching of bones, and the screams of the damned and the dying, he remembered the moment all too well, like a flash of lightning in the depth of a stormy night. He remembered way he’d pressed a grape to Dimitri’s lips, sitting in the study on either side of the disorganised desk, full of contracts and letters and declarations that Hubert could not get to before he had done this simple action. He remembered the way he’d watched as the beast had accepted the gift, tongue wrapping around the small fruit before biting down, eye never leaving Hubert the entire time- a fragment of moonlight still illuminated with a feeling. He remembered the way he could almost see his reflection in the brightness of the blue, as he pulled his hand away, watching greedy lips being licked, as if asking for more. As if affirming that Dimitri was his to command.

He remembered realising that was what the moon was lighting the way to. Dimitri was his.

Perhaps indulging in this was unwise of him. Aside from it being nothing short of coercion, the manipulation of a toy he hadn't grown bored of yet, Hubert knew this was a compromise to his position in this future that he and the rest of the Strike Force had fought so hard for- the same future that they had fought against Dimitri for, through the wind and the rain and the dead of night. And yet, despite this, the beast that had once stood against them was somehow satiated, fast asleep against the only thing he seemed to care about anymore, breath coming out hot against Hubert’s chest where he comfortably slumbered, one hand cushioning his face against the bony surface he had taken and the other still intertwined with one of the mage’s he’d claimed as his bed, both hands weathered and scarred from years upon years of lance work. Always fighting. Hubert looked down to the hand he held onto, carefully lifting it up from beneath their covers just enough to watch himself brush his thumb along Dimitri’s knuckles, feeling the way one of them popped out just wrong from when his hand had been broken and not healed correctly. He remembered that incident well; the crunch under his boot still echoed in the dungeons, sometimes. The screams, too, and the snarls of threats through gritted teeth. The crest of Blaiddyd, as minor as it may have been, had made Dimitri a hard man to break. But he soon fell silent. And that silence had almost been disconcerting, replacing the hatred and the anger that ran in the blood of the fallen king with complacency. Acceptance of his death. Hubert squeezed his hand at the thought, when he first knew Dimitri had been ready to die down the depths of the dungeons, either by the Marquis’ hand or even his own, somehow. But he was still here. 

As if rattled by too loud thinking, there was a gentle stirring just below him, a groan that snapped Hubert out of his thoughts, and his once idle free hand went to run through the rivers of gold pooling across his chest.

“Shh, down boy, it’s alright.” Like consoling a dog, he was gentle, watching the head lift and look up at him, chin resting where the cheek once had been. The moon was in Dimitri’s eyes again. Yearning, wanting. “You fought well last night, my pet. You deserve a reward.”

There was a slow blink in return, the half-asleep mind of a broken soldier struggling to catch up with the words being spoken to him, as if waiting for an order, or command, even now, as exhausted as he was. There was still blood stained on his cheek, right underneath the eyepatch he still wore to hide the ugly scar the war had given him. 

Hubert couldn’t help but chuckle, something low and rumbling, and dangerously tender, moving his hand from within the other man’s hair to cup his at his cheek, his thumb rubbing at the dried blood until it flaked away underneath his grip. It was difficult to not take note of just how quickly the weight shifted to lean against his palm. “Rest, Dimitri. I will not ask again.”

At the issue of a command, like the dog he was, Dimitri looked up at his master more intensely, as if trying the memorise his features, before exhaling a held breath as he again came to rest on Hubert’s chest. The hand that had once been his cushion moved under the blankets to place itself on Hubert’s hipbone, fingering curling in ever so slightly as if to signal possession, but he, however, did not move in response. Once again, the mage began twirling golden hair between his fingers as he watched the dog settle down again, taking note of all the dirt and blood still in the locks that had only just started to grow back. The hound should be bathed and cleaned as soon as possible- by the master’s hand, of course, for the hand that feeds does not risk being bitten. After that, perhaps he could invest in a hair tie- the same blue of the old tattered cloak the man refused to part with, perhaps? Or a deep red, like the colours of the empire, and the blood Dimitri so joyously shed in the name of House Vestra? Hubert smiled at the thought, flashing teeth to no one as he brushed away some golden locks to kiss at Dimitri’s forehead, feather-light and gentle.