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Dedue returns to the monastery the same way he left it: Sore. Exhausted. Clothes stiff with bloody mud, and a brain buzzing with the thrum of unprocessed thoughts.
He’s long been secretly grateful to have his dorm positioned with the rest of the commoners. The distance from Dimitri was a flaw in his post that disturbed him in his academy days, but the ease of falling into bed post-battle without needing to scale a flight of stairs had become a welcome pleasure.
Now, five years later and a lifetime away, he doesn’t know what to expect when he opens the same door to the same room. Something empty perhaps. A disappearance of his past self in the same manner that he, too, had vanished years prior. What he doesn’t expect is to see it mostly undisturbed. A layer of dust coats the furniture, and he resists the urge to sweep a finger through the film on his desk.
He removes his armor and leaves it at the side of his bed. Something fresh and new in the abandoned past of the space, even if it’s dented and tarnished, is still something new.
He had thought he would sleep upon his return, but now, presented with the opportunity, he struggles to take refuge in bed. There’s a nagging fear in the back of his mind, the irrational idea that if he closes his eyes and rests–truly, actually rests –that he’ll awaken somewhere else. That Garreg Mach will fade away into a dream and his place within the monastery as well.
Dedue leaves his armor at the side of his bed, but otherwise leaves his room undisturbed.
Impractical. That’s the word that comes to mind as he walks away from the dormitory. The impracticality of allowing his room to remain without change in his absence, when it could have fared better as storage or another soldier’s bunker. Anything other than the abandoned cell of a ghost.
The greenhouse, at the very least, hadn’t been left to rot. Relief surges through him as he enters the space, feels the warmth of the area melt into his body in a misty haze as the smell of turned soil and greenery floods his senses.
There are some differences here. The plants are ordered in a way that is slightly off. The tools have been moved to the other side. He can see the benefits behind the move, but it’s a move that makes his skin itch regardless.
Near the very back, he finds the plants of Duscur origin. They’ve been maintained. A clear consideration had been paid to their care, attentive and watchful; they have not been left to fend for themselves in the sprawl of vegetation.
He tries not to muddle his appreciation with criticism. He’ll need to come back and transplant them to another area. The lighting in this plot is too bright, they’ll never bloom in these conditions -- but it’s not reasonable to expect others to know that.
“I thought you’d be here,” a small voice chimes behind him.
He turns and finds Annette. She stands fiddling with the hem of her dress where a strand of thread hangs loose. She doesn’t look at him directly; her eyes stay to the ground, and there’s familiarity in someone refusing to meet his gaze, but not from Annette. It takes him a moment to remember that it’s just Annette. That he doesn’t need to worry.
“The greenhouse most likely,” she continues. “Here or the kitchen or…” Her voice trails off.
“Or what?” Dedue asks.
“Gone again, I guess.” This time she does look up at him, and when she does, her eyes are red-rimmed and watery.
“I am here,” Dedue tells her. “I wanted to check on the plants.”
Annette smiles. “That seems like you. Cyril’s been taking care of them.”
Dedue nods. “I will need to give him my thanks later.”
He squats down to examine the plants closer, and Annette stands at his side, still only managing to come up to his shoulder.
“He keeps getting frustrated because he says they’re not doing as good as when you were here,” she explains. “He’s right, but I think they still look nice.”
Dedue runs his thumb over the one of the leaves. “It is the sunlight. These ones from Duscur are particular: they prefer the shade, but still need direct light for an hour or two each day. I can transplant them to another area here. They will prefer facing east.”
Annette nods as she commits his words to memory. “Don’t do it now though. Cyril will want to help, too. He tried really hard with them. He even asked Seteth to see if the library had any books about them.”
“It does not,” Dedue says.
She frowns. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”
“The herbs are doing well.” Dedue focuses on the positive and feels relief when Annette’s expression softens. “I will harvest some. For the kitchen.”
“Are you cooking? You just got back, shouldn’t you rest?” Annette asks, but even in her scolding, a hint of excitement plays on her tongue.
“Perhaps something simple. The tomatoes are ripe, and they won’t be as good tomorrow.”
“Well, if you insist…” Annette attempts to sound nonchalant and is thwarted by the way she wiggles eagerly.
He works on cultivation. Trims a few sprigs of rosemary and thyme, as well as a vine of bright red cherry tomatoes that promise to be sweet. He works quietly. He doesn’t have much to say and never felt the need to narrate his actions, but with Annette watching him, he can’t help but feel the air stiffen with silence.
“You are staring,” he states.
Annette stutters and turns away, her cheeks flushed as colorful as the fruit Dedue has picked. “S-sorry,” she says, embarrassed.
“It is fine,” he says. “Is there something you would like to discuss?”
Annette shakes her head. “No, that’s not it. I’m just…I’m just really glad you’re back. It makes everything feel like it’ll be okay.”
Now it’s Dedue’s turn to feel embarrassed. “This war will not last forever,” he assures her. “His Highness will–”
“I’m happy you are here, Dedue,” she says with firm finality.
Dedue doesn’t know how to respond. He says nothing, even as she throws her small arms around his waist and squeezes him in a quick hug.
By the time she’s gone, he still has not thought of a response. He gathers the last of the supplies he needs. The emphasis on the you still plays in his head on repeat.
Since returning to the monastery, Dedue has been observing. He’s aware of the tentative steps everyone takes while near Dimitri. The held breaths and anxious glances. He understands that there is a preciousness here, that everyone is spinning spools of delicate glass, waiting for someone to shatter them.
He understands that the someone is Dimitri.
Even knowing this, Dedue still thinks of the you . The appreciation for his presence. It doesn’t connect. It doesn’t feel possible or, at the very least, deserved.
He’s still contemplating the you as he walks to the kitchen and hears Sylvain call his name.
For the most part, Sylvain seems the same, but not completely. He’s grown broader over the years. There’s an obvious amount of time spent on the battlefield, a hardness in his voice that reflects an unexpected hidden maturity.
“Dedue! Are you cooking?” Sylvain asks with a salivating grin.
Dedue shrugs. “I am not sure. I don’t want to disrupt the dining hall schedule.”
“Please disrupt the dining hall schedule. It’s the knights’ turn to make dinner. Save us.”
Dedue tries to laugh, but it comes out an exhausted huff of breath instead. “I will see what I can do,” he assures him. He turns to leave, not much left to say, but is stopped by a hand on his arm.
“It’s good to see you,” Sylvain tells him.
“I am grateful to see that you are also well, Sylvain.”
Sylvain rolls his eyes at the descriptor, and Dedue can see why. Up close, it’s easier to make out the tired expression hidden under Sylvain’s signature charm. It’s creased into crow’s feet and sleep-deprived bruising. His familiar grin is less laid-back than Dedue remembers. The corners of his mouth pull up in jagged edges; half-hearted teasing that threatens to slip into a frown. Battle-weary exhaustion. Maybe something more.
“All this shit is happening. It’s not the same as when you left.” When Sylvain speaks, it sounds like a warning. Not a threat, nothing of the sort, but a disclaimer for Dedue’s own well-being. He looks forward as he talks, not meeting Dedue’s eye, and staring past him at nothing in particular. “People are dying. Everything’s a mess. And then Dimitri–I mean Dimitri is–”
“I am aware. I understand things are bad, but–” Dedue tries to shake off the worry tinting his voice, but Sylvain holds fast.
“I just… I just need you to understand how things are right now. It’s been bad. That’s all. It’s been real bad and Dimitri …” he falters at the end. Dimitri’s name trails off, drifting and sinking like the bitter remains of coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup. It’s a far cry from the brotherly familiarity Dedue had grown accustomed to witnessing from Sylvain in their academy days.
“I am sorry,” Dedue says and is unsure if he’s apologizing for Dimitri or for not understanding what Sylvain is trying to express.
“It’s cool,” Sylvain tells him in a way that expresses exactly how uncool it is. He smiles at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his teeth flashing bright and white. A grin that evokes honeycomb sweetness with all the same hidden sting. “I’m glad you didn’t die for him, Dedue. I would’ve hated it if you’d died for him.”
Sylvain is the one who walks away this time, patting him on the arm as he goes and making Dedue swear to keep his promise to serve up something delicious tonight.
He stays still as Sylvain’s figure slips away into the dormitories, presumably to catch up on the sleep Dedue himself had forfeited.
Guilt clenches in a throbbing hold in his throat, flushing his skin hot with shame and embarrassment as Sylvain’s well-wishes bury themselves at Dedue’s feet.
Dedue did try. Dedue did try to die for Dimitri. He tried, and he didn’t succeed.
He tried, and he knew that he would try again.
Inside Garreg Mach’s kitchen, Dedue finds comfort. Even his time in the greenhouse pales in comparison to the ease he feels sliding behind the stove. He had decided on a tomato confit for dinner. As a dish its ingredients were simple, but he knew that with a slow, tender roast he could elevate it into something of elegance.
At times he felt that the only gracefulness he could channel was through food. It was a point of pride. Elation, really. That even someone like him could craft delicacy with the slice of a knife; could entice decadence through licks of fire.
He crushes garlic under the blunt side of the knife. It’s an act of violence, though a necessary one. When broiled in a bed of olive oil its body will become sweet and subtle, its acridness and bite washed away.
He dashes the oil into a pan and lays the tomatoes into it with the vines still attached. The oil is a gift from one of the Morfis merchants in town. She had heard of his return and sent her regards. It’s too much–too much kindness. Too much regard–but the least he can do is honor the present by turning it into something for all to enjoy.
Around him, and throughout the monastery as a whole, others work to clean the wreckage left by years of disuse and abandonment. War, bandits, absence–whatever the reason, it has left gaping holes where walls once were. They are being stitched back together, but not with enthusiasm. Dedue can see the lethargy that plagues the soldiers’ movements as they perform chores they don’t believe have a real purpose.
The kitchen itself is in a similar state as the greenhouse. Similar enough for it to be recognizable, but with one too many changes for him to lose himself to the feeling of nostalgia.
The stares he’s been on the receiving end of work in the same manner. Almost familiar, but not quite. He can feel the way iris-shaped burns are left against the expanse of his back. Where once was animosity and fear–and make no mistake, the fear does still linger–there is now the foreign weight of expectation. The expectation to piece things together once more, to slide his classmates into place the same way one may insert brick against brick, and rebuild a foundation of trust.
Dedue thinks that he may prefer the hatred over this. It doesn’t feel as heavy.
Dedue cannot fix a war. He cannot wash away the terror and uneasiness that follows his classmates in specters of the unknown, nor can he offer anything of substance to ease the pain of his liege. His classmate. His friend. Dimitri.
There is something Dedue can do, however. He can cook. Simple ingredients, but filling ones nevertheless. There’s day-old bread that he can turn into something crispy and substantial to carry the confit. If he sneaks a pinch of salt. If he pieces together the meal in just the right way.
In the absence of answers, there was always food. It’s been like that since he was a child. The same care he remembers his mother offering to him on a plate.