[ He's like her—they've always shared similar values—and he so wants to believe that. Still, after two of these games, his answer is more sluggish than he'd like. ]
If that's the case, we're both foolish.
[ Haven't they been from the very beginning? ]
I want to believe that in kinder circumstances, anyone can be a better person. And in cruel ones... people turn to this.
[ In Flayn's case, he understands especially that she had to do this. That if she could have done any differently, she would have. He still trusts in that kindness of hers, practically endless, no matter how much of herself she's poured out for the sake of everyone here. ]
Even so, this is the world we've lived in. [ They can hypothesize about something better, but this is reality. ] I don't expect to forget everything that's happened.
[ He's not the type to let these things go, no matter how much he's worked it out in his mind. People can say it's behind them, that everything is absolved because they may just achieve a good ending, but that's not how these things work. So what, then? He looks to her, then away. ]
I think... the most we can do is try to help people heal.
[...or to forgive it. She'd said it best to Majima - if anyone did choose to forgive her, knowing everything, it would make her happy, but if they chose not to, it would be fair. What's important is that they knew enough to be able to make that choice.
But expecting anyone's forgiveness, or even hoping for it - that's beyond her, at this point. If it happens, she'll count herself as luckier than she deserves.
If it doesn't, then that is that. It's not for her to determine what anyone who suffered here ought to do. She took so many choices away from people, doing what she did; now, what she needs to do is follow their lead.
So when Dimitri looks away, she does, too.]
In some cases, healing can only happen if one takes care not to aggravate an existing wound.
[She wonders, is reaching out to him now aggravating his wounds? Would approaching the others to try to help them only hurt, in the end? So many of the things she had tried to do to help others had turned out harmful, in her time here.
It's a little frightening, to not know how to help.
...should she have left him be? But, no - he'd said he wanted to speak with her. They only have so much time left. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Even if it does turn out well - if Pandora accepts the gifts they've been given - will they ever see each other again? Likely not, but.
She doesn't want to leave him with only this.
She falls silent, trying to figure out what to say. It's not that she can't speak, as she couldn't before - it's that she doesn't know how to.]
...I wish I knew how to be a better friend to you.
[ He wants to forget it, but he won't. Isn't that a fitting curse for this place? That even after everything is resolved, they'll both still remember all it cost them to get here. He isn't sure how anyone can be happy when the wounds are so fresh.
He feels farther from Flayn than ever. ]
I was never able to support you. I saw you struggle, week by week, but...
[ Their words hadn't landed the way they needed to, because they couldn't speak at all anyway. From what he's heard, her involvement in his death was fairly obvious, but even that wouldn't come to light.
How cruel it was, for her to suffer that. If he were in her position, he knows he would've chased death—what was it like, to always be the one who survives? For his part, he should've figured it out. He should've asked, and realized why they kept having to lie. ]
I was never a friend to you.
[ Maybe if he was, things might have turned out differently. Maybe that's why they can't find the right words.
He stalls for a moment, wondering if he should leave it at that—a darker, broken part of him wonders how close they ever were, even if he knows better. He finds the question he hadn't bothered to ask, the night before. ]
It isn't precisely what he's saying, but it makes Flayn flinch anyway, because it's what it feels like. And - it's not entirely wrong, is it? If she were really his friend, she never would have allowed him to be killed. She should have protected him as fiercely as she possibly could.
(But there really hadn't been any better alternative.)
She owes him the truth, so she buries the hurt deep and tries to keep her voice level. She isn't entirely successful, but - she's trying.]
...the short answer is because I trusted you. [...] That sounds awful. I am sorry.
[Flayn has to figure out how to explain this to him.]
We - we did not want to... simply ambush someone, and take their life. We wanted to try to explain what we were doing, as best we could, within the limitations that were imposed on us. For that, we needed someone we could trust to listen. Someone who... someone we could rely on to do what was necessary, whether that meant allowing us to kill them, or taking one of our lives instead.
[...there had been a part of Flayn that had truly hoped that at least one of them would have chosen her, that night. But the chances of that were always going to be low.]
We needed someone we could trust in, and rely on. And... to me, you have always been that person. [Her voice breaks, despite herself, and she brings a hand up to her mouth. Steady. Steady. It takes her a moment, but she manages to speak again.] There was so much I could not say to you, but... you were there. Even when I could not be honest with you.
[He might have felt like he couldn't support her, but - he had. And in turn...]
...I repaid your kindness with cruelty.
[That's the worst of this, she thinks. Dimitri had deserved so much better, but... he hadn't gotten it.]
[ She's struggling. He can see why—it's a difficult question to answer. Her explanation makes perfect sense even if the circumstances are twisted beyond repair... but the ugly, spiteful side of him wonders if she's really telling the truth. Did she pick him because they were close, or was he so disposable to her that she didn't fight it? Did their promise mean so little? It's a petty thought when he'd loathe for anyone to be killed instead of him, but it burns in the back of his mind, anyway.
His thoughts had always been so clear with Flayn, unburdened by distrust and dislike, and now—now, they're this. He really... is a rotten friend. ]
I haven't so much kindness in me anyway.
[ He's quiet a moment, pensive. ]
You can be honest with me now, right? [ They haven't been able to have a straight conversation in weeks now. ] Will you tell me what it is you've been through?
[ The feelings she's held back, whether by necessity or guilt—the things she's been unable to confess to and that they'd never caught her for.
He thinks he can ask her to be honest, at least. (If nothing else, he can listen.) ]
[Flayn looks up, shocked at the very idea. Dimitri is... she knows, he's told her, that his thoughts can tend toward darkness. She's seen for herself, how he's struggled here, when people he cares for have been in danger and died. But she's also seen for herself how he had been willing to listen, and to work for the needs of the many above his own needs.
That takes kindness and strength together, she thinks.]
...you really think that of yourself...?
[it slips out, small and disbelieving, before she can stop herself from voicing it.]
There is no magic forcing her to keep her silence, now. She can speak freely. If she wants to, she can tell him everything. How much it hurt, how many times she had tried to just say something, how badly she had hoped that someone would recognize what she was up to and stop her.
Would that help him at all, knowing that she had suffered? Or would it sound like she was making excuses for what she had done, or trying to imply that she had hurt anywhere near as much as the people she had hurt?
...but if it's what he wants...]
I can tell you. [...] I will tell you, if... if you truly wish to hear it.
[I want to be as honest with you as I can, she'd said, the night he died.
[ Dimitri isn't kind, or this encounter wouldn't be as strained and painful as it is. He isn't strong either, or he'd have been able to do something for her besides die.
But he is honest, and now, she can be too. If everything else is failing them, at least they have that to talk about: the truth. He doesn't know if it'll help or hinder them, but it's someplace to start. ]
I already know what you've done, for the most part.
[ Not the minutiae, but he's not really interested in the gritty details, and he's sure she doesn't want to recall them. ]
[There's been so much she's wanted to tell him but couldn't, that she really doesn't know where to start.
What she's done has been a big part of it, though. He knows the deaths she played a part in - she doesn't need to confess to that all over again. That had been part of the reason they had confessed publicly; the dead had told them they could see what was done and said out in public, and there had been so much more that needed to be said than they could possibly have fit on a letter. There had been no way for them to look any of the victims in the eye and said I did this to you, but they could, at the very least, ensure that they were not left out of learning the truth at the same moment the living did.
If, somehow, he had missed that part - if the dead hadn't been able to see it, she would have confessed it to him, no matter how much it pains her to say the words. She owes him that much.
Much of the rest... well, she knows what the most important thing she hasn't been able to say to him is.]
I am so sorry. [She's been able to say the words, but she's never been able to explain them, or explain why she was trying to apologize. Her voice wavers, and her brow furrows; she brings a hand up to her throat as if she can force herself to keep her voice steady with contact alone.] I—
[Her voice doesn't sound steady at all.
But she owes him this. She owes him honesty, so she tilts her head downward, so he can't see her face as clearly (if she does cry, he shouldn't have to see her tears; that's not what's important here) and forges on.]
I never wanted to lose you. More than anything, that week, I wanted— I wanted to find a way to end this before... before it came to your death. [...] I was not strong enough to, and you paid the price for it, and I—
[...she's crying. Gods damn it all, she owes him answers, not sorrow, but she's crying and the tears hit the ground at her feet. She brings both hands up to her eyes as if she can force them to stop, but of course it doesn't work. That's never how it works.]
...it never should have been you. I am sorry. I know I do not deserve to even think of asking for your forgiveness, so I— I cannot, I will not ask for it, but even so, I—
[ Her reaction rattles something in him; she may have had to lie before, but her heartache now feels so genuine, grieved and open. Was it her guilt that he'd wanted? It doesn't feel that way, his heart squeezed like a fist. He knew she'd blame herself, and yet... something about this shakes him awake.
He searches for a response, and it comes out quiet. Softly spoken, but steady. ]
Flayn, you don't need to ask for my forgiveness for my death—you already have it.
[ It'd affected him, and it still does, but of all the deaths, his was the simplest to absolve. ]
I appreciate that you didn't try to wash your hands of your responsibility, but... it wasn't your fault that we all needed more time. Besides, the knife was quick, and I agreed to it. You know it'd have been wrong to pick someone who couldn't even defend themselves. [ Imagine asking Anaido, crippled as he was that week. ] And frankly, I have my own crimes to pay for.
[ It was... karmic, in a way. He'd killed to end a game before, so isn't it right that he paid for it? In that regard, he'd been happy. At least his death was equalizing. At least in a situation where there'd never been any goodness or justice, it felt fair. ] I know there are no right choices here, but I was certainly the best one.
[ Logically, they must both recognize as much. But she's crying, sorrow drenched through her words, and he feels something coiled and tight in his chest, trying to dislodge it from his lungs with a shuddering puff of laughter, mirthless. ]
Though that doesn't... make it feel any better, does it?
[ Despite all, why is she acting like she'd betrayed him? Why does he feel betrayed? ]
[She looks up at that, stricken. She already has it? How can he possibly forgive her—?
He'd trusted her long enough to listen, for him to be convinced that there wasn't any better choice, and he'd died for it. The fact that their friendship (if indeed they were ever friends at tall) was used to make him agree - is worse than if she'd simply stabbed him in the back, she thinks.]
It does not. It does not make it feel any better at all.
[Her voice comes out in an unsteady whisper. She realizes, with her head up, that he can see her tears, and she turns her head to the side. This isn't about her. He's the one who was most wronged here.]
...I wanted to protect you. But instead, I...
[Well.
They both knew exactly what she'd done.]
This place has never been about what any of us wants.
[ What would've happened if she wasn't there, or if they weren't friends at all? He'd probably have attacked Taako and Tonbo on sight, to kill or be killed. She had to be there, and... that's the cruel part for both of them, isn't it? That she was the cornerstone of his death.
He's able to meet her gaze when she lifts her head, and the sight of her tears shining down her face—he'd forgive her again, if he could. Even with all that's happened, the sight of her makes his heart ache. ]
...No, it hasn't been.
[ It's been cruel from the beginning.
But now they're at the end, and she keeps closing off from him, looking away and shuttering down, even when he's the one inviting her to speak and to feel. It's enough that he finally steps forward, at a loss for what else he can even do, and the gap between them finally closes as he reaches out thoughtlessly.
On the island, he might've tried to snap her neck. Here, his hand just goes to her face, gently turning it back to meet his eyes. There's nothing hidden in his expression, because he's never been any good at masks: it's hurt, and it's lost, not quite crying but from this close his eyes are wet, and altogether it's just her misery reflected back at her. ]
[For what it's worth, she doesn't flinch from his hand. When he turns her head back to him, she meets his gaze. It hurts, to see the misery in his eyes. They're a matched pair like this, lost and hurting and unsure of what to say or how to make this better.
...is there a way to make this better? Can it be repaired at all?]
That...
[She doesn't want to hide from him. But everything she has ever tried to do since they arrived him has, ultimately, only turned out to hurt him. And she doesn't want to hurt him anymore.
Above all else, she doesn't want to hurt him.
She's terrified that anything she says or does now will. But wouldn't it be worse, to keep hiding? Would that hurt him, too? Wanting to stay near wars with her terror of messing this up somehow, of hurting him, of letting him down again, on her face.]
...I do not want to hide from you. I - I just do not know... what to do. I do not want to hurt you again.
[ What a sad sight they are. Their last ending wasn't happier, but they hadn't been forced against each other like this—things hadn't felt so broken between them. She's afraid of hurting him, and maybe he's afraid of the same. ]
...
[ Looking over who had perpetrated what, it seemed clear to him that they had all avoided murdering those they truly cared for. Because that was the one benefit to being a killer, wasn't it? The choice to protect someone they loved, in exchange for someone they didn't. However foolish, he'd thought that was the truth behind Flayn's choice: that he was someone she was willing to let go.
So, dying was harder than he'd expected but still easy enough, and so was forgiveness. She had granted him the same on the island. It's friendship that's harder. But he thinks back weeks and weeks ago, to waking up on the sand, blood still fresh on his hands from the execution, and what she'd really offered him then, and how it had saved him.
In return, he... tries. He drops his hand, but leaves it extended for her. It's her choice to take it or not. ]
We've all hurt each other. And perhaps you aren't ready to forgive yourself for that. [ He knows what it's like; making amends is a lifelong effort, and killing can linger in the soul, like grit. ] But if you're afraid of trying... if you let your regrets hold you back, you'll lose yourself to this place. I do not want to see that happen.
[ ...it is true that I wish all of that could have happened differently, but...
His voice drops, ragged and low with emotion, tentative. Even if it's unrequited, even if it's only caused them more pain than not— ]
[You are my dearest friend here, he says, and there's a moment or two where Flayn feels like she can't breathe. How badly she wants to believe it is obvious - there's a spark of hope in her eyes, and her breath catches in a gasp. His hand hangs between them.
She starts to reach for it, and then remembers -
I was never a friend to you.
...which is the truth? Can they both be true? Why would he say this, now, if it wasn't? But why would he have said that if he hadn't believed it, too?
It's all mixed up and awful, but she wants, so badly, to believe that they are friends. That she can, somehow, just this once, not let him down. That she can do something right by him, and take the first step toward repairing the harm she's caused him.
She takes his hand, and he'll feel it - her hand is shaking. But she doesn't let go.]
As you are mine.
[It's the truth. It's the absolute truth, and she doesn't know how to prove it, but - he is.]
...I do not want to lose you, Dimitri.
[Even if - should tomorrow end in something other than all their deaths, or in their being trapped here forever - they might return to their own versions of Fódlan, and never see each other again. She doesn't want to lose him.
She doesn't want this to be the end of their story.]
[ Of all things, he braces himself for rejection. Because it's true—he really hadn't been a friend to her. He'd let her die. He'd let her kill. He hadn't caught her when she'd been doing something she hated so much. He'd doubted how much she cared for him, he'd lost faith in their promise, when for so long it'd kept him going. Even now, all the hurt between them isn't gone.
Wouldn't it make sense, then, for her to leave him behind? There's that bright moment in her eyes, but he thinks his heart might break in that second of hesitation after. Is this how they'd lose each other?
...He could fall apart with relief when he feels her shaking hand reach for him. He squeezes back, fingers trembling where he weaves them between hers. ]
I—
[ The doubtful, whispery voices in his own mind call him an idiot, but he wants so badly to believe her again, so he tries not to listen. ]
You won't. Not to this.
[ They've already had so many casualties to this place, and for at least tonight they're both alive and there's time to talk, so he finds all the things he had no voice for earlier, like a dam's broken. ]
I'm sorry—I'm sorry I thought so cruelly of you... [ He'd trusted in her enough to believe she'd save him, but at his lowest, he'd forgotten how kind she was. ] I should've made it easier for you. We should have spoken more that night, I'd wanted to, but... I'm sorry.
[Flayn clings tightly to his hand as he laces his fingers together, like she's afraid he'll change his mind and pull away, and that she can stop it from happening if she holds on tightly enough. That he's willing to even speak with her, that he's willing to try to salvage this, makes her feel like she's luckier than she deserves.
She feels her heart sink when he apologizes, though, and shakes her head.]
Dimitri, no... that is not something you need to apologize for. You do not owe me any apologies at all.
[However cruelly he may have thought of her - she had earned that. She'd earned every bit of his distrust. Actions have consequences, and though for the most part she's not had to face any consequences aside from her own sick, guilty feelings - the shattering of her friendship with Dimitri is one of them.
She just hopes they'll be able to piece it back together.]
...that night... I asked so much of you. If— if you wanted to talk more that night, I wish that we could have, but... you were already doing so much, just by being willing to... hear us out. To ask anything more of you than that would have been much more cruel than I already was to you.
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fishingforcompliments) wrote2020-06-06 10:49 pm
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If that's the case, we're both foolish.
[ Haven't they been from the very beginning? ]
I want to believe that in kinder circumstances, anyone can be a better person. And in cruel ones... people turn to this.
[ In Flayn's case, he understands especially that she had to do this. That if she could have done any differently, she would have. He still trusts in that kindness of hers, practically endless, no matter how much of herself she's poured out for the sake of everyone here. ]
Even so, this is the world we've lived in. [ They can hypothesize about something better, but this is reality. ] I don't expect to forget everything that's happened.
[ He's not the type to let these things go, no matter how much he's worked it out in his mind. People can say it's behind them, that everything is absolved because they may just achieve a good ending, but that's not how these things work. So what, then? He looks to her, then away. ]
I think... the most we can do is try to help people heal.
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[...or to forgive it. She'd said it best to Majima - if anyone did choose to forgive her, knowing everything, it would make her happy, but if they chose not to, it would be fair. What's important is that they knew enough to be able to make that choice.
But expecting anyone's forgiveness, or even hoping for it - that's beyond her, at this point. If it happens, she'll count herself as luckier than she deserves.
If it doesn't, then that is that. It's not for her to determine what anyone who suffered here ought to do. She took so many choices away from people, doing what she did; now, what she needs to do is follow their lead.
So when Dimitri looks away, she does, too.]
In some cases, healing can only happen if one takes care not to aggravate an existing wound.
[She wonders, is reaching out to him now aggravating his wounds? Would approaching the others to try to help them only hurt, in the end? So many of the things she had tried to do to help others had turned out harmful, in her time here.
It's a little frightening, to not know how to help.
...should she have left him be? But, no - he'd said he wanted to speak with her. They only have so much time left. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Even if it does turn out well - if Pandora accepts the gifts they've been given - will they ever see each other again? Likely not, but.
She doesn't want to leave him with only this.
She falls silent, trying to figure out what to say. It's not that she can't speak, as she couldn't before - it's that she doesn't know how to.]
...I wish I knew how to be a better friend to you.
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He feels farther from Flayn than ever. ]
I was never able to support you. I saw you struggle, week by week, but...
[ Their words hadn't landed the way they needed to, because they couldn't speak at all anyway. From what he's heard, her involvement in his death was fairly obvious, but even that wouldn't come to light.
How cruel it was, for her to suffer that. If he were in her position, he knows he would've chased death—what was it like, to always be the one who survives? For his part, he should've figured it out. He should've asked, and realized why they kept having to lie. ]
I was never a friend to you.
[ Maybe if he was, things might have turned out differently. Maybe that's why they can't find the right words.
He stalls for a moment, wondering if he should leave it at that—a darker, broken part of him wonders how close they ever were, even if he knows better. He finds the question he hadn't bothered to ask, the night before. ]
Will you tell me why you chose me?
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It isn't precisely what he's saying, but it makes Flayn flinch anyway, because it's what it feels like. And - it's not entirely wrong, is it? If she were really his friend, she never would have allowed him to be killed. She should have protected him as fiercely as she possibly could.
(But there really hadn't been any better alternative.)
She owes him the truth, so she buries the hurt deep and tries to keep her voice level. She isn't entirely successful, but - she's trying.]
...the short answer is because I trusted you. [...] That sounds awful. I am sorry.
[Flayn has to figure out how to explain this to him.]
We - we did not want to... simply ambush someone, and take their life. We wanted to try to explain what we were doing, as best we could, within the limitations that were imposed on us. For that, we needed someone we could trust to listen. Someone who... someone we could rely on to do what was necessary, whether that meant allowing us to kill them, or taking one of our lives instead.
[...there had been a part of Flayn that had truly hoped that at least one of them would have chosen her, that night. But the chances of that were always going to be low.]
We needed someone we could trust in, and rely on. And... to me, you have always been that person. [Her voice breaks, despite herself, and she brings a hand up to her mouth. Steady. Steady. It takes her a moment, but she manages to speak again.] There was so much I could not say to you, but... you were there. Even when I could not be honest with you.
[He might have felt like he couldn't support her, but - he had. And in turn...]
...I repaid your kindness with cruelty.
[That's the worst of this, she thinks. Dimitri had deserved so much better, but... he hadn't gotten it.]
no subject
His thoughts had always been so clear with Flayn, unburdened by distrust and dislike, and now—now, they're this. He really... is a rotten friend. ]
I haven't so much kindness in me anyway.
[ He's quiet a moment, pensive. ]
You can be honest with me now, right? [ They haven't been able to have a straight conversation in weeks now. ] Will you tell me what it is you've been through?
[ The feelings she's held back, whether by necessity or guilt—the things she's been unable to confess to and that they'd never caught her for.
He thinks he can ask her to be honest, at least. (If nothing else, he can listen.) ]
1/2
That takes kindness and strength together, she thinks.]
...you really think that of yourself...?
[it slips out, small and disbelieving, before she can stop herself from voicing it.]
2/2
There is no magic forcing her to keep her silence, now. She can speak freely. If she wants to, she can tell him everything. How much it hurt, how many times she had tried to just say something, how badly she had hoped that someone would recognize what she was up to and stop her.
Would that help him at all, knowing that she had suffered? Or would it sound like she was making excuses for what she had done, or trying to imply that she had hurt anywhere near as much as the people she had hurt?
...but if it's what he wants...]
I can tell you. [...] I will tell you, if... if you truly wish to hear it.
[I want to be as honest with you as I can, she'd said, the night he died.
She can be fully honest with him now.]
What do you want to know first...?
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But he is honest, and now, she can be too. If everything else is failing them, at least they have that to talk about: the truth. He doesn't know if it'll help or hinder them, but it's someplace to start. ]
I already know what you've done, for the most part.
[ Not the minutiae, but he's not really interested in the gritty details, and he's sure she doesn't want to recall them. ]
So I suppose what I'm asking is...
[ ... ]
What have you wanted to tell me, but could not?
[ If anything. ]
no subject
What she's done has been a big part of it, though. He knows the deaths she played a part in - she doesn't need to confess to that all over again. That had been part of the reason they had confessed publicly; the dead had told them they could see what was done and said out in public, and there had been so much more that needed to be said than they could possibly have fit on a letter. There had been no way for them to look any of the victims in the eye and said I did this to you, but they could, at the very least, ensure that they were not left out of learning the truth at the same moment the living did.
If, somehow, he had missed that part - if the dead hadn't been able to see it, she would have confessed it to him, no matter how much it pains her to say the words. She owes him that much.
Much of the rest... well, she knows what the most important thing she hasn't been able to say to him is.]
I am so sorry. [She's been able to say the words, but she's never been able to explain them, or explain why she was trying to apologize. Her voice wavers, and her brow furrows; she brings a hand up to her throat as if she can force herself to keep her voice steady with contact alone.] I—
[Her voice doesn't sound steady at all.
But she owes him this. She owes him honesty, so she tilts her head downward, so he can't see her face as clearly (if she does cry, he shouldn't have to see her tears; that's not what's important here) and forges on.]
I never wanted to lose you. More than anything, that week, I wanted— I wanted to find a way to end this before... before it came to your death. [...] I was not strong enough to, and you paid the price for it, and I—
[...she's crying. Gods damn it all, she owes him answers, not sorrow, but she's crying and the tears hit the ground at her feet. She brings both hands up to her eyes as if she can force them to stop, but of course it doesn't work. That's never how it works.]
...it never should have been you. I am sorry. I know I do not deserve to even think of asking for your forgiveness, so I— I cannot, I will not ask for it, but even so, I—
[This is a mess.]
no subject
He searches for a response, and it comes out quiet. Softly spoken, but steady. ]
Flayn, you don't need to ask for my forgiveness for my death—you already have it.
[ It'd affected him, and it still does, but of all the deaths, his was the simplest to absolve. ]
I appreciate that you didn't try to wash your hands of your responsibility, but... it wasn't your fault that we all needed more time. Besides, the knife was quick, and I agreed to it. You know it'd have been wrong to pick someone who couldn't even defend themselves. [ Imagine asking Anaido, crippled as he was that week. ] And frankly, I have my own crimes to pay for.
[ It was... karmic, in a way. He'd killed to end a game before, so isn't it right that he paid for it? In that regard, he'd been happy. At least his death was equalizing. At least in a situation where there'd never been any goodness or justice, it felt fair. ] I know there are no right choices here, but I was certainly the best one.
[ Logically, they must both recognize as much. But she's crying, sorrow drenched through her words, and he feels something coiled and tight in his chest, trying to dislodge it from his lungs with a shuddering puff of laughter, mirthless. ]
Though that doesn't... make it feel any better, does it?
[ Despite all, why is she acting like she'd betrayed him? Why does he feel betrayed? ]
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He'd trusted her long enough to listen, for him to be convinced that there wasn't any better choice, and he'd died for it. The fact that their friendship (if indeed they were ever friends at tall) was used to make him agree - is worse than if she'd simply stabbed him in the back, she thinks.]
It does not. It does not make it feel any better at all.
[Her voice comes out in an unsteady whisper. She realizes, with her head up, that he can see her tears, and she turns her head to the side. This isn't about her. He's the one who was most wronged here.]
...I wanted to protect you. But instead, I...
[Well.
They both knew exactly what she'd done.]
This place has never been about what any of us wants.
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He's able to meet her gaze when she lifts her head, and the sight of her tears shining down her face—he'd forgive her again, if he could. Even with all that's happened, the sight of her makes his heart ache. ]
...No, it hasn't been.
[ It's been cruel from the beginning.
But now they're at the end, and she keeps closing off from him, looking away and shuttering down, even when he's the one inviting her to speak and to feel. It's enough that he finally steps forward, at a loss for what else he can even do, and the gap between them finally closes as he reaches out thoughtlessly.
On the island, he might've tried to snap her neck. Here, his hand just goes to her face, gently turning it back to meet his eyes. There's nothing hidden in his expression, because he's never been any good at masks: it's hurt, and it's lost, not quite crying but from this close his eyes are wet, and altogether it's just her misery reflected back at her. ]
...Do you still feel the need to hide from me?
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...is there a way to make this better? Can it be repaired at all?]
That...
[She doesn't want to hide from him. But everything she has ever tried to do since they arrived him has, ultimately, only turned out to hurt him. And she doesn't want to hurt him anymore.
Above all else, she doesn't want to hurt him.
She's terrified that anything she says or does now will. But wouldn't it be worse, to keep hiding? Would that hurt him, too? Wanting to stay near wars with her terror of messing this up somehow, of hurting him, of letting him down again, on her face.]
...I do not want to hide from you. I - I just do not know... what to do. I do not want to hurt you again.
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...
[ Looking over who had perpetrated what, it seemed clear to him that they had all avoided murdering those they truly cared for. Because that was the one benefit to being a killer, wasn't it? The choice to protect someone they loved, in exchange for someone they didn't. However foolish, he'd thought that was the truth behind Flayn's choice: that he was someone she was willing to let go.
So, dying was harder than he'd expected but still easy enough, and so was forgiveness. She had granted him the same on the island. It's friendship that's harder. But he thinks back weeks and weeks ago, to waking up on the sand, blood still fresh on his hands from the execution, and what she'd really offered him then, and how it had saved him.
In return, he... tries. He drops his hand, but leaves it extended for her. It's her choice to take it or not. ]
We've all hurt each other. And perhaps you aren't ready to forgive yourself for that. [ He knows what it's like; making amends is a lifelong effort, and killing can linger in the soul, like grit. ] But if you're afraid of trying... if you let your regrets hold you back, you'll lose yourself to this place. I do not want to see that happen.
[ ...it is true that I wish all of that could have happened differently, but...
His voice drops, ragged and low with emotion, tentative. Even if it's unrequited, even if it's only caused them more pain than not— ]
Because you... are my dearest friend here.
[ ...that does not make you any less my friend. ]
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She starts to reach for it, and then remembers -
I was never a friend to you.
...which is the truth? Can they both be true? Why would he say this, now, if it wasn't? But why would he have said that if he hadn't believed it, too?
It's all mixed up and awful, but she wants, so badly, to believe that they are friends. That she can, somehow, just this once, not let him down. That she can do something right by him, and take the first step toward repairing the harm she's caused him.
She takes his hand, and he'll feel it - her hand is shaking. But she doesn't let go.]
As you are mine.
[It's the truth. It's the absolute truth, and she doesn't know how to prove it, but - he is.]
...I do not want to lose you, Dimitri.
[Even if - should tomorrow end in something other than all their deaths, or in their being trapped here forever - they might return to their own versions of Fódlan, and never see each other again. She doesn't want to lose him.
She doesn't want this to be the end of their story.]
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Wouldn't it make sense, then, for her to leave him behind? There's that bright moment in her eyes, but he thinks his heart might break in that second of hesitation after. Is this how they'd lose each other?
...He could fall apart with relief when he feels her shaking hand reach for him. He squeezes back, fingers trembling where he weaves them between hers. ]
I—
[ The doubtful, whispery voices in his own mind call him an idiot, but he wants so badly to believe her again, so he tries not to listen. ]
You won't. Not to this.
[ They've already had so many casualties to this place, and for at least tonight they're both alive and there's time to talk, so he finds all the things he had no voice for earlier, like a dam's broken. ]
I'm sorry—I'm sorry I thought so cruelly of you... [ He'd trusted in her enough to believe she'd save him, but at his lowest, he'd forgotten how kind she was. ] I should've made it easier for you. We should have spoken more that night, I'd wanted to, but... I'm sorry.
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She feels her heart sink when he apologizes, though, and shakes her head.]
Dimitri, no... that is not something you need to apologize for. You do not owe me any apologies at all.
[However cruelly he may have thought of her - she had earned that. She'd earned every bit of his distrust. Actions have consequences, and though for the most part she's not had to face any consequences aside from her own sick, guilty feelings - the shattering of her friendship with Dimitri is one of them.
She just hopes they'll be able to piece it back together.]
...that night... I asked so much of you. If— if you wanted to talk more that night, I wish that we could have, but... you were already doing so much, just by being willing to... hear us out. To ask anything more of you than that would have been much more cruel than I already was to you.