Chapter Text
It starts like this: a single black rose, petals full and lush, placed on the altar of his shrine among the swords and axes. Morning dew still drips from the leaves as Dimitri takes the flower carefully in his hand, its sweet, heady scent filling the air like incense. Velvet soft, the blossom glows only brighter as he lifts it away from the altar, away from the dried black pools of animal blood, and cradles it gently in his palms. He’s seen the god of springtime at the height of his power, has seen his gardens upon gardens of lavender and marigolds and irises and carnations.
But none of Dedue’s creations are as beautiful as the rose.
Its deep green leaves are trimmed with silver, shimmering in the low-light of the shrine, and across the petals, flecks of brilliant color dance like stars—vermillion, sapphire, violet, mauve—gone just as quickly as they wink into being.
It starts like this: something so beautiful, so priceless, gifted to the young god of bloodlust and war, fairly shining with divine magic.
As the handiwork of a god, the rose would be coveted among mortal families for generations—far too precious to devote to the god of war in a time of peace, better kept for Ashe, the god of merchants, or Lysithea, the goddess of knowledge. But neither could the rose be the gift of a god—few ever acknowledged, let alone paid tribute, to the younger deities. Too childish, they would say. Too unlearned, too careless with their powers, always losing followers with their foolhardy actions.
Neither the gift of a god nor mortal then, though that leaves only a scant few, and something so lovely could never belong to the monsters that slither through the dark cracks of the world.
Dimitri stares at the rose, gazing at its starry petals, but the gift tells nothing of its giver. “Strange,” he says, voice rough from disuse. In the spaces between wars, his energy ebbs and fades, eaten away slowly with no source to restore it. Even this visit to the shrine has left him breathing quicker, winded by such a simple use of divine travel. He has not the strength to search for his strange benefactor, nor for the reason behind their gift.
Something settles in his chest like a stone at the thought, but Dimitri just shakes his head, vanishing the rose to his rooms in Garreg Mach, the home of the gods.
Who would give flowers to the god of war and bloodlust?
Be it from mortal or deity, the gift was a mistake, and nothing more.
——
Once is brushed off as coincidence easily enough. But twice? Twice is much more difficult.
“You cannot be meant for me,” Dimitri insists.
The shell-pink, pearl-studded cake on the altar gives no response.
Dimitri presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, eyepatch shifting with the movement. For all Felix’s petty jabs and Sylvain’s smug taunts, Dimitri isn’t an idiot—he knows what these sort of gifts suggest. Sweets, flowers… Dimitri has never pursued someone, but he’s seen Sylvain, the amorous god of love, do it enough that he recognizes the signs.
Sighing, Dimitri lowers his hands enough to peer at the confection with his one good eye. For such things, there can only be one answer. Someone, likely one of the younger, more reactive gods, has clearly mistaken his shrine for someone else’s. Perhaps Caspar, who’s constantly putting his foot in his mouth with his quick temper, or Lorenz, who lavishes gifts and praises on any he deems a potential spouse.
Who the gifts are intended for, he can’t be certain. But, he thinks, summoning the rose and setting it beside the confection, with luck, he can return them. The note he leaves is simple, to the point without being overly direct—Shrine of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, god of war—because, doubtless, the deity will want to forget all about their unfortunate misstep, as all the divine beings conveniently seem to do.
(The image of a burning field flickers to the front of his mind, of a hand pressed to his head. A saccharine voice, only inches from his ear, purrs, Our mistake, child, but your family wouldn’t have lasted forever. Duscur may have burned, but I can make it so you never will—you and that boy beside you. I can make you like me. I can give you an eternity.
After all, we always pay back our debts.)
Bile rises at the back of his throat, and Dimitri turns, allowing himself one last breath of the rose’s scent before pulling his cloak closer against his shoulders. The note, pinned to the altar by a rusted dagger, flutters with the movement of the heavy fabric, falling still as he steps out from the worn stone walls and into the sunlight.
——
Dimitri returns to the shrine two days later.
Fresh blood has been spilled over the altar, seeping into the brickwork and staining the gathered blades vermillion. The scent is metallic, the air sharp and stinging, and Dimitri must allow himself a moment to look away—pathetic that a god of war has grown sick of the sight of blood—before turning back to search the offerings. It’s clear even from a quick glance that the rose, in all its night-sky beauty, has disappeared. A strange sort of weight settles again at the pit of his stomach, but Dimitri pushes it away all the same. He’s the god of war, not some child sulking over lost sweets.
Shaking his head, he focuses with renewed vigor on the task at hand, taking in each object with a quick glance. Dagger, axe, sword, tome, scythe, lance, knife—
Dimitri pauses, gaze settling on one of the weapons near the back, furthest from the rivulets of blood. There, hidden from prying human eyes by the mound of long-obsolete weapons, lies a blade yet unstained by blood and rust. Tugging the hilt free of the pile, Dimitri feels his breath catch in his throat, blue eye widening in shock, because this—
This is very clearly meant for him.
The blade of the lance gleams ivory, carved from the bone of some ancient magical beast, and along its edge, Dimitri can make out the glow of faint silvery lettering. Areadbhar. Slaughterer. He runs his fingers across the word, marveling at the way the blade seems to hum beneath his touch, resonating with the power that burns brightest through his blood in times of war.
This—this goes beyond a mere courting gift.
And as it’s intended for him…
Dimitri falls silent for a long moment, fingers skimming over the blade. Despite being the god of love, Sylvain would be perhaps the least helpful of his friends. Ashe would try, but given that all his romantic knowledge comes from bards’ tales, would be ultimately useless. Felix—Felix isn’t even worth considering for this. Dimitri knows well enough that would end in tragedy, and likely some minor natural disaster.
(Why the god of the hunting insists on being so temperamental around Dimitri is beyond him.)
Raising his head, Dimitri sighs. There was really only one choice from the start. The only difficulty will be finding which garden he’s sequestered himself in for the winter months. Wrapping his cloak tighter around him, Dimitri takes a deep breath, weapon flaring in his hand as his power burns through him, bright and hot.
A flash of crimson light, and he vanishes—borne southward by the wind goddess Bernadetta to the god of spring.
——
Not an hour later, and Dimitri is beginning to question why he’d thought to ask any of his friends for advice.
“If someone is making unwanted advances, it’s within your rights to poison them,” Dedue says bluntly, making Dimitri choke on his tea. The daisies in the flower crowns the god of spring is weaving give cheerful little nods of assent, one reaching out a leaf to pat Dimitri’s hand almost maternally as he splutters.
Coughing into one fist, Dimitri subtly edges his hand away from the concerned flora. “I don’t even know who they are. It’d be rude to just, just—”
“Lace their tea with poisonous nightshade?” Dedue says.
“Yes!”
The nightshade bush at the corner of the terrace, which had been blooming fuller with anticipation, visibly droops, purple flowers shriveling at the edges as it sulks.
“If what you suspect is true, that they are divine, the nightshade wouldn’t kill them,” Dedue points out mildly.
“It’s—it’s the principle of it.” Dimitri stares down at his cup of chamomile, swishing it about the delicately painted china. The design, a sapphire lion and onyx eagle, chase each other about the rim, lion baring its fangs in a roar as it lunges at its foe. “They’ve given me all these lovely things, and to poison them in return… It’s ungrateful, don’t you think?”
Dedue ties another daisy into the crown. “Do you intend to accept their advances?”
Dimitri flushes, gaze darting askance. “That’s not important,” he mumbles.
“It is,” the god of spring says evenly. “Gods are never generous without reason. To wait for that reason to unveil itself could prove unwise. Even if you choose not to reject the gifts, or the one behind them, it would at least benefit you to find out who the giver is. Then, you will better know what your next step is.” Dedue pauses, fingers stilling as he fixes Dimitri with an unreadable stare. “You are curious, aren’t you, Your Highness?”
“We’re gods now, Dedue, there’s no reason to call me that.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
Dimitri frowns, unable to protest the claim. “I suppose,” he says slowly, reluctantly, “that I’m a little curious…”
Dedue sits quietly, an ode to patience as he watches Dimitri’s resolve break down bit by bit. In his hands, the daisies tie the last knot, completing the flower crown.
Dimitri fidgets with the handle of his tea cup, gazing down at the painted scene with a furrowed brow as though he might find his answers in its fine make. “… I should like to ask around a bit,” he says at last.
Dedue leans forward to set the daisy crown on Dimitri’s head, giving the war god the faintest hint of a smile. “Then that, Your Highness, is what we shall do.”
——
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Dedue doesn’t even bother to turn to face Dimitri as he strolls down the halls of the Garreg Mach living quarters, doesn’t dignify the statement with anything beyond an unsympathetic, “Oh?”
“I don’t care anymore,” Dimitri says, blue eye wide and frantic as he scrambles to drag Dedue right back down the hall, limbs flailing in a way that, under any other circumstance, would be comical. “I’ll just poison them with nightshade like you said, and that’ll be that. No more admirer, no more courting gifts, and we can just turn right back around and have tea again in your winter gardens. What do you think?”
“I think,” Dedue says, glancing over his shoulder to where Dimitri has a stranglehold on his bicep, “that if you really wanted me to stop, Your Highness—”
“Dimitri.”
“—I wouldn’t be able to take a step further.”
Dimitri gives him an unamused look, glancing pointedly to where he’s latched onto the god of spring’s arm, straining to hold him back even as they speak.
Dedue sighs, slowing at last to a halt. Gracious to a fault, he waits patiently for Dimitri to unlatch himself, the god of war at having the decency to at least look ashamed for his newfound clinginess as he clears his throat and steps back. For all his towering height, the god of war seems small as he folds in on himself, shoulders hunched and long black cloak drawn tight around him. Anxious—scared, even, strange as the thought is.
Perhaps a new tact is needed.
“What I mean,” Dedue says, meeting Dimitri’s gaze evenly, “is that, though we may both be gods, the fact remains that you are the god of war. By our own strength, perhaps we would be equals, or perhaps I would even prove stronger. But, while my powers are nature-bound, your powers augment your physical strength—in any such contest, you may win, if you so desire.” Dedue pauses, Dimitri fidgeting under his gaze. “Thus, if you lose…”
“… I don’t really want to win,” Dimitri finishes quietly, sighing. Shaking his head, he looks away, looking almost impossibly smaller as he pulls tighter into himself. “I still want to know, just maybe not this badly.”
“Felix is an expert with weapons,” Dedue says.
“Yes, but he hates me.”
“And how would you know?”
“He’s told me.” Dimitri pauses, before adding, “On multiple occasions.”
Dedue frowns, crossing his arms. “I’m sure he’s over it by now.”
“No one holds a grudge like Felix.”
The god of spring arches a brow.
Dimitri flushes, adding, “A-and me, of course, but that’s not important here. What is important is that Felix will never agree to help me.”
“I think you’d be surprised.”
“Felix rarely surprises anyone.”
“He’s a god,” Dedue insists. “He’s born to be ever-changing and capricious.”
Dimitri frowns. “Not when it comes to me, he’s not,” he says, though the words come out far too petulant for his liking.
Dedue raises a brow, and takes the last few steps down the hall, coming to stand before an innocuous oakwood door. “Surely it wouldn’t hurt to find out,” he says.
And curling his hand into a fist, he knocks three times, each hit ringing out like a death knell.
——
“Go away, Boar,” Felix tells Dimitri the second he opens the door because, bless his soul, the god of hunting’s vitriol is nothing short of predictable when it comes to the god of war.
Dedue pointedly ignores Dimitri’s look of righteous vindication, instead choosing to politely step forward and say, “We have a weapon we’d like you to appraise.”
Felix scoffs, crossing his arms and fixing the god of spring with a sharp glare. “What, someone finally gave the Boar a half-decent offering? Thought he only accepted the garbage even humanity can’t find any use for.”
Dedue, unmoved, simply gestures to Dimitri, gaze still locked with Felix. “If you would please show him the lance—I think that, once you see it, Felix, you’ll be quite interested.”
The god of hunting arches a brow. “Oh? May I hold you to that?” Turning to face Dimitri, he frowns, tapping his fingers against his elbow. “Well, just show me the weapon already so I can reject it, and we can all put an end to this scintillating conversation.”
Dimitri frowns, but upon receiving a pointed look from Dedue, complies quickly enough. Reaching out a hand, he feels the familiar burn of divine power flare through him, ivory lance appearing in a flash of crimson light.
A sharp inhale, and two gloved hands snatch the lance from him before he can even blink.
“How by all the deities did a beast like you get his filthy claws on a weapon like this?” Felix hisses, eyes wide with disbelief as he sweeps his gaze up and down the length of the lance.
“So you recognize it?” Dedue asks, arching a brow. Beside him, Dimitri stares blankly at his hands where the lance had rested not moments before, already missing its steady weight.
Felix scoffs and shakes his head. “Recognize it?” he says disbelievingly. “This weapon is made from the bones of a god. Only two beings in all of existence are capable of forging something like this.”
Dedue takes a step closer to the god of hunting, even as Dimitri stumbles a step back, blue eye widening with shock as he raises them slowly from the lance. “And those would be—”
“Sothis and Byleth,” Felix says, shaking his head. “The Beginning and the End."