Ah— “dreaming, too?” [Dimitri, for a moment, looks equally struck, unprepared for the rhetoric that throws the entirety of this dream into a different context. Suddenly, this isn't a space that belongs to him alone; a sort of self-consciousness blooms in his chest, recognizing the situation in all its oddity (and perhaps accepting it only as one in dream might), that this might be a shared experience.
Would that explain why the ghosts have not come to haunt him as he wandered the monastery’s halls? Why fire doesn’t burn beyond the panes of tall glass, why his academy uniform is spotless, unstained by blood and ash? Perhaps so, but how—? And why?
Compelled, he steps forward. The young man is a strangely magnetizing presence, a pivot point in which he feels drawn to, like the space between them is too vast for these curious revelations unfurling between them.]
This is Garreg Mach Monastery, or some bastardization of it. And you… you are supposed to be a figment of my own mind. I thought that you were. Are you saying that isn't the case?
[His eyes linger on the horns, before snapping back to his face, remembering himself.]
[ Dimitri’s gaze snaps from horns to a pair of eyes the color of blood, each with a luminous ring around the deep red iris, vibrant against sclera the color of night. An inhuman gaze if there ever was one, but there is intelligence there, curiosity, and perhaps, something a little like loneliness.
As the prince moves closer, Oz straightens, moving to sling his blade across his back – presumably where he keeps it sheathed, though it simply dissolves away into the nothing as which it began. There’s a strange effect when he moves sometimes, like an afterimage. A deep shadow, formless and featureless save for holding the same basic shape as Oz, almost as if there is two of him instead of one. It’s only there for a second every now and again, difficult to catch if one is not looking for it. ]
I’m nobody’s figment.
[ He seems almost indignant at the implication, a frown tugging at lips that seem to be made exclusively for frowning. ]
I thought this was my dream, but now I don’t think it is. I think it’s yours. I don’t know how I got here.
[He says, an awkward uptick to his features that would reveal it as the ill-timed joke it is. Dimitri seems to recognize this moments after the fact — as he often does where wayward humor is concerned — and clears his throat, shaking his head. Blond strands of hair nearly sweep across bright blue eyes.]
Forgive me, I don’t mean to jest. It’s just that this is... highly unusual, to say the least. There is nothing to say that I will not awaken and think this all for what it is — a dream, as you said.
[He moves forward, steadily but consciously, and though his lance remains gripped in one hand, it remains at rest, hung loosely at his side.]
Even so, I see no reason to dismiss it as one might a normal dream; if this is a break in the usual routine, I would like to know why. Er, might I have your name?
[ That joke, or at least the attempt at one, earns Dimitri a flat stare, but there’s no hiding the slight uptick to one corner of Oz’s mouth. True, it wasn’t good by any means, but Oz apparently found humor in it anyway. ]
It doesn’t feel like a normal dream.
[ Oz remains rooted to the spot, watching Dimirti’s approach. Even though he himself doesn’t move, he feels drawn all the same, like the other boy is caught at the end of a string, slowly being reeled in his direction. That strange pull alone doesn’t feel like any dream Oz has ever experienced before. ]
Oz. [ A beat, as if he expects a follow up. Whether he gets one or not, habit compels him to add, ] Just Oz.
[Very rarely does Dimitri feel truly balanced, any sense of stability having slipped from his grasp that day in Duscur, collapsing in on itself and leaving a void in his heart and mind. Even here, in the nonsensical surrealism of a dream, it eludes him completely, as though it knows (as well as him) that he’s undeserving.
But there is a quietude that overcomes him when he draws near, like he is supposed to shear away at the proximity between himself and this stranger, that resembles it more than ever before. Another step or two, and a thin veil slips between him and the rest of what life has wrought — the whispers of the dead, thoughts ravaged by anger, a storm behind his eyes, now gone distant.
He looks at this strange young man, who appears unlike anyone he’s seen before, and he’s granted a sort of clarity that he cannot help but chase after — to be curious about.
Dimitri hasn’t scared him away with his fumbling sense of humor, at least. At this, he offers Oz a grin that reaches the corners of his eyes, bright and sincere, a degree of princely restraint hemmed away.]
I see. Just Oz. I already told you my name, but a proper introduction is in order. [He presses his free hand to his chest, barely inclining his head.]
My name is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. And this— [That same hand then sweeps at the empty space between them, indicating their surroundings.] —is Garreg Mach, as I stated. It’s a military academy of sorts where I’m from, but... well. Obviously some things are not quite right here.
[Eyes lift to the gaping hole in the ceiling, where the stars glitter, alien-bright. Something plucked from a dream, indeed.]
[ Perhaps it is not Dimitri caught on the end of some string and slowly being tugged in Oz's direction - perhaps it is both of them caught on the same string and being drawn together. It seems to fit, though he couldn't begin to explain why this distinction is more apt than any other. The closer Dimitri gets, the more a sense of calm washes over him, like the sea stilling after a storm. Even in its strangeness, the feeling is a comfort.
Oz normally isn't one to feel at ease around other people, much preferring the company of his shadow, but this young man is different. Wherever he is, Oz wants to be there, and he can't even begin to say why, ]
Is that your whole name? [ He asks, deadpan gaze ruined by the remaining echoes of his earlier amusement. ] I'll stick with Dimitri.
[ He doesn't like unnecessary words, and unnecessary names are certainly a part of that.
He follows Dimitri's gaze. A school for learning how to be in the military sounds like a very Garlean thing, but his experience with Garleans is few and far between, and his knowledge of their provinces is extremely lacking to say the least. ] Never heard of Faerghus. Is that in Eorzea?
[Titles and names that indicate lineage are irreplaceable in his world, a importance placed upon them so heavy that some might call it a burden. Much like his Crest, in which society encircled those who showed even the smallest traces of that power in their blood, placing an influence in their empty hands where they would have wielded none before. It is an outdated and classist way of thinking (a naive, simplistic, and too-idealistic stance for someone of royal blood to take; but he had always been too quixotic for his own good), in need of fundamental reform, and to hear Oz dismiss his family name is less an offense than it is an unshackling freedom.]
Dimitri is fine, then. I'm not one for pomp and circumstance, nor lengthy titles, anyhow.
[Eorzea, however, is not a name he is familiar with, and he sounds it in his mind, pretending to roll it off his tongue as practice.]
Sorry, but I've never heard of Eorzea. I-- [The logic of this dream is hazy but simultaneously allows for quick understanding of the situation. The suspension of disbelief does wonders for accepting an odd new reality.] If you've never heard of Faerghus, have you heard of Fódlan? I would suspect not, given that I have never seen anyone of your... Er.
[ It's true that this dream does wonders for the fluidity of one's thought process, because Oz seems to understand as well. ] No, I don't know any of those places. I could name more, but you wouldn't know them either.
[ And just like that, they've concluded that wherever they're both from, the distance between them is very great indeed. Perhaps even worlds away, which makes the closeness they share now feel precious somehow. Oz doesn't stop to think about how he could go walking in the dreams of someone so distant. It doesn't seem like it matters, now. ]
I am Au Ra. There aren't many of us outside the Steppe, I don't think.
[Once more, his eyes flick back up to Oz's horns, as though mention of his race (Au Ra, he is quick to commit that to memory, too) gives him permission to be more obvious about his curiosity. Imposing, grandiose. He hardly knows what to think of them, other than it lends Oz a fierceness that would be enviable to most warriors on the battlefield. He assumes the talent is not beyond him, of course, not with a hefty sword like that.]
There certainly aren't any of your kind in Fódlan. Those horns are remarkable and difficult to miss...
[He feels the need to continue, like the information between them should be shared equally, as comfortable as he's already fallen into this exchange. His smile remains on his features, polite and considerate enough for someone flinging more questions his way.]
Do you all possess them? They look a bit like a dragon's. And I do mean that as a compliment. I’m merely human, myself.
[ Auri are probably not as uncommon in the land so near their home of the Azim Steppe, but they are still a rarity to some degree. Dimitri's curious gaze hardly bothers him - he's seen its like before - and frankly the comparison to a dragon is sort of flattering. ]
We all have them, but everyone's horns look different. They're how we hear.
[ Among other things. Oz has only vague recollections of an affectionate bump of a horn against his own, or a nuzzle on top of his head. Presumably such things came from his family, but he hardly remembers them and is content to forget. ]
[How they hear? How interesting, and further reason why he should smother the want to reach out and touch them, to feel those ridges along the curve of those horns. Dimitri is too well-mannered to fall to that impulse, after all, and he’d die of embarrassment if he knew they were also used to show affection, besides.
So instead, he keeps his arms at his sides, and the lance dissipates into nothing as he speaks — unaware of its departure.]
Are there many of us “Hyur”, too?
[Dimitri blinks, remembering himself yet again.]
Forgive me, you probably didn’t expect to answer a hundred questions when you arrived here, did you? I suspect this dream version of Garreg Mach might prove more interesting to you than my blathering on.
[A little self-conscious huff.]
We can walk and continue this conversation, if you like.
[ The lands Oz has traveled since leaving the Steppe are full of Hyur. Many of them are content to give Oz a wide berth, and he lets them. The less he lets people close, the less he has to worry about what their intentions are - though Dimitri seems to be an exception to this rule. ]
It's fine, I don't mind.
[ His tail might not be terribly expressive, it doesn't wag when he's happy or anything, but there might be something contented in the sway of it. ]
[It would be rude to stare at the tail he spies swaying just behind Oz, he tells himself, keeping his eyes trained on his face with stalwart resolution. Dimitri doesn’t know that to be true, of course, but he assumes that it must be, the same way it would be tactless to stare at any stranger’s appendage overlong. So he notes it, but elects to ignore it, and Oz’s comment about company elicits a small chuckle.]
I’m not sure if I can provide very riveting company, but I can at least try to be hospitable. Allow me to show you what I know of the monastery, and maybe some of this mystery will unveil itself for us.
[He turns, motioning for Oz to follow (how he would hate to draw so much space between them now that they’re comfortably close, for that would be as disquieting as stretching a tendon so far as to snap) before he walks too far ahead. Dimitri opts to move away from the front of the cathedral, footsteps echoing.]
Do you not entertain company very often? Dreams notwithstanding.
[ He's not so keen to put distance between them either. Only the shadowy presence that has ever lived at the back of his mind has made him feel this at ease before, a hint of warmth when or the spark of anger when he most needs it. Dimitri is different from that nameless, formless friend, but the feeling he elicits is the same.
He walks along after his new... friend? Acquaintance? Perhaps titles are not important here. In any case, he keeps pace easily enough. ]
I don't really like people. [ Ah, but that might give the wrong impression, so he adds, ] You're okay, though.
[Dimitri glances sidelong at his new walking companion, ambling through a shared dream like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The trek to the mouth of the cathedral is long and unhurried, the stonework cavernous, cool, and looming like all religious places inlaid with undertones of worship and reverence. He forgets about the rubble behind them, for the rest of the monastery looks quite solid and pristine, if not exactly arranged as it should be.
Which becomes clear the moment they near the sprawling corridor connecting the space — plants hanging from the ceiling, the greenhouse rooted to the top but missing its own roof, allowing clear a view to glimpse the floral and fragrant interior.
To say that it isn’t usually like that is perhaps a too-obvious statement, but Dimitri is nothing but blunt.]
That is not usually there. In fact, it should be outdoors.
[He pauses, inclining his head upwards, but not neglecting what had been just said—]
You wouldn’t like this place very much. It’s filled with students and faculty in reality. [Learning, refining the violent art of warfare, gathering up the knowledge and tools to be thrown out into a fiercely wretched world.] ...Do you live alone?
[ There are shrines and the like all over Othard, but such western concepts as churches and monasteries are completely alien to him. The whole place seems grand and imposing in a way he can't quantify, even if twisted by the dream. He'd been entertaining the idea of leaving Othard and heading west to Eorzea, perhaps he might see such a structure himself one day.
His eyes turn upward again, and amused snort slipping out before he can stop it. ]
I didn't figure you kept your plants on the ceiling.
[ So he does have a sense of humor after all. ]
Mm, not really. There are others - I'm a mercenary - but I know they just keep me around because of how I look.
[A hidden sense of humor, indeed. He would appreciate it more, perhaps, if not distracted by the comment following.]
A mercenary?
[Dimitri blinks at him, his expression flickering with uncertainty, the line of his brow slanting. He cannot say that he thinks very highly of the profession, for those motivated solely by what brings in the most coin are often less concerned about moral restriction. He has known mercenaries to carry out dishonorable work, uncaring if the pay swells the lining of their pockets, and brag about their conquests as though it was something to be proud about.
But he also cannot neglect those of the opposite disposition — those who are vigorous on the battlefield and adhere to decency, all the same. He thinks of Jeralt, a once-knight of Seiros both renowned and respected. He thinks of his Professor, someone whose advice he treats as remarkably affecting, their prowess in battle defined by a terrifying grace, sword wielded by a hand that might cleave the heavens in two as much as it would kindly guide them. Both mercenaries once; both good people.
Maybe, then, it would simply be more prudent to give Oz the benefit of the doubt. The strange magnetism he experiences in his vicinity practically requires it.]
I see. That must be strenuous work.
[He says, as though he is not already aware of what the lifestyle is usually like — on Fódlan, at least.]
Why do you say they only keep you around for your appearance?
[ Dimitri gets a simple nod in response. Oz has no great love for the profession, but he wanted to learn to fight and it's been great for that. He could do without the money grubbing and a great many of the jobs they take, but he has to eat. To live. And it is certainly a living. ]
Why wouldn't they? Look at me.
[ He spreads his hands as if to emphasize his point. ]
They always want me to go in and scare people. I hate it.
[At that, the young prince doesn’t bother hiding his frown. He keeps them walking again, gliding beneath the loam-scented structure of the greenhouse above, unafraid of its precarious positioning.]
Then refuse to do so. It’s understandable to hate it.
[Using appearances to instill fear based on what he assumes is a cursory sort of bias. Unflattering and unfair, and he feels a twinge of offense for Oz’s sake, despite only having just met him.
And realizes his hypocrisy only moments later.]
...I shouldn’t have judged so quickly when I saw you, summoning my weapon as I did. I know now that there’s nothing to fear; and I should have known that appearances are merely surface-level.
I want to, but I need the money. I've been thinking of leaving Othard, that's the continent I'm on, but passage to Eorzea isn't easy to come by.
[ "Not easy" is an understatement. Merchant ships still come through to the port town of Kugane, but most are not keen on taking people back to Eorzea with them. Oz doesn't feel he's in the right place to barter his way onboard, but perhaps in a couple more years with a bit more experience under his belt. ]
It's okay. I'm a stranger in your dream, and I did the same thing, remember?
[ Still, he doesn't think he's ever had someone apologize to him for judging him based on his appearance before. It's like a weight has suddenly lifted from his chest, and even that shadowy presence in the back of his head has stopped being so wary of this other boy. ]
[He doesn’t know of any land named Othard, either, but at this rate it’s hardly surprising. More importantly is the sense of relief trickling through him as his potential offense is waved away, as though Oz has given him leave to forgive himself of this assumption.
After all, who is he to brandish a lance against another simply because they possess horns, or are defined by the harsh contour lines of a not-quite human shape? Dimitri, who is all princely mien with a blood-starved beast raking at his heart within, should know better.
The gratitude feels undeserved, but he is glad to have earned it. Strange how it sparks something almost-giddy in him, enough to make him laugh lightly.]
I am glad for it, but you don’t need to thank me for misjudging you. Maybe you were right to turn your sword on me.
[He almost shrugs, though, dismissing the whole ordeal. The corridor becomes bathed in light as they leave the ceiling-greenhouse behind, the long stretch of a stone bridge unveiling itself before them, the sky yawning overhead and just beyond. All of it cast beneath the gloom of night.]
At any rate, with enough fortune and luck, I hope you can buy that passage you’re seeking. What do you plan to do if you reach Eorzea?
[ At the end of the day, adventurer and mercenary might not be so different, but there is an air of freedom that comes with the former that Oz lacks now. He has only ever wanted to be his own person.
They continue to follow the hall, no real destination in mind except for together, and stepping onto the stone bridge feels a bit like breaking the surface of water, passing from one reality to the other. Before them is a massive plain of rolling, green hills. A great stone structure sits in the midst of it, an impossibly large bowl carved out of rock up on which sits what can only be described as a castle, though certainly more Eastern in design than anything found in Fodlan. Massive banners of brightly woven cloth drape from the sides of the structure to the ground below, smaller similar standards cascade from stone pillars scattered throughout the plain, though whether they're man made or natural, it's difficult to tell.
Beyond that, the green tapers out into distant desert, or distant mountains, depending upon which way one looks. Above them, an endless sea of stars, impossibly bright in a sea of black. Oz stops walking, startled at first, but turning around reveals the monastery, silently looming behind them. He breathes out a quiet, almost relieved sigh. ]
[All his life, the expectation to rule has hung above him, grown weightier with import after his family had died. Even the secondary (primary) path of vengeance, slowly opening up to him after that fateful day, was still just that: a path to follow, to tread in-line perfectly so that the end result would be satisfactory, his purpose fulfilled. Dimitri does not consider the boundless potential of something like freedom, and unlike Oz, he does not seek it.
But he can still imagine it, to wander a great and open land, endless variety to every moment in every day. What is it like, to not know what awaits you the next day, or to have no goal carved out for yourself that you must stringently follow? He cannot fathom it, and he does not think he would ever be tempted by it, but it’s a tantalizing thought. Novel in its impossibility.
For him, at least. For Oz, he hopes he can find it. Unshackle himself from a mercenary lifestyle, to that of a grand and glorious role of adventurer.
He would say as much, at least, but suddenly the world opens up beneath the myriad of stars, a foreign vista that silences him into shock. He has never seen a building like the one in the distance, its silhouette strange to his eyes. This is not the land surrounding Garreg Mach, not with its undulating hills and intermittent pillars jutting up from the earth. The split of desert and mountains, depending on which direction he looks.
Dimitri glances behind him, and the monastery is still there, quiet as a sentinel.]
This is— your home?
[He looks at Oz, wide-eyed, the moonlight adding a pale luster to Dimitri’s skin.]
[ It probably is a magnificent sight to those who have never seen it before. The Steppe is rarely welcoming to outsiders, and even then their business does not extend beyond the trading hub near the outskirts of of the Steppe proper. They have arrived at the heart of the land, the Monastery sitting on a ledge that overlooks everything for malms. The only points higher are the distant mountains, and the Dawn Throne set upon the stone structure in the center.
For Oz, the sight elicits a different feeling, one of bitter anger that sits heavy in the bottom of his heart. ]
No. This is where I was born. It isn't my home.
[ And it never will be, if he has his way. ]
I only visit this place in dreams. Usually nightmares.
[The discontent from Oz becomes obvious, from both his words and subtle weight of bitterness in the them. Dimitri disparages himself a second time for leaping to conclusions, gnawing briefly at the inside of his lower lip.
He affords their view another assessment. It’s truly a beautiful sight, not something one would consider potential to twist into a nightmare, but he is lacking context and experience with this place — both of which Oz possesses.]
Nightmares... [He wallows through those often enough, knowing how sobering it can be to realize one might be upon you.] What happened here?
[ For whatever it might be worth, Oz doesn't sound offended. He just seems the type to use as few words as possible and says what's on his mind - Dimitri wouldn't know anyone like that, would he? But in any case, despite the air of familiarity hanging between them, they are still strangers, and Oz doesn't expect Dimitri to know everything about him. Sometimes people come to the wrong conclusions, it's fine. ]
... It's a long story. You don't mind?
[ Oz doesn't often speak about his past - he has no one to speak about it to - but somehow he doesn't mind sharing now. ]
[He wants to know. He wishes to fill in the gaps to his knowledge with this young man, to close the space between them as strangers and perhaps skew like something closer to friends. It’s reasonable, he thinks — he can allow for it in this dream, to lose himself in someone else.]
[ Oz's tail twitches a time or two, as he considers where best to start. He has truly never told this story before, least of all to someone who seems wholly unfamiliar with his world, but by some blessing the dream seems to give him the words. A gentle, guiding hand to help him tread this new path he so deeply wishes to tread.
He gives a small nod, resuming their walk along the bridge, heading for where it sinks into the grass of the Steppe and leaves nothing but green, rolling hills before them. ]
The Azim Steppe. Many tribes of Au Ra live here; most of them migrate, never staying in one place for long. Once a year, a sacred battle is held: The Nadaam. The tribes war with each other and the victor earns the right to rule over the Steppe as khagan.
Every tribe prepares for the Nadaam in different ways, but strength and numbers are what they all want more than anything.
[Dimitri follows, his bootsteps a soft and steady tempo against the burnished stone of the monastery’s bridge, a familiar structure which eventually transitions into the soil of the Steppe. Normally, he would find it difficult to keep his eyes wrenched away from the stars hanging above, or the faraway cut of the mountains beyond, but Oz steals away all of his attention without trying. His assessment is pinned to him, noting every small change in his features as he begins to give context to this place — this dream, born of memory.
The explanation brings up the only parallel in his mind, perhaps colored brightly in recollection due to how recently it transpired: the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, stretched across Gronder’s Field. Each house pitted against the other to see which would be victorious, which banner might snap in the wind with pride while the others bore their defeat. But Dimitri has enough sense to avoid saying as much, knowing that was only a mock battle; tradition, yes, and an important day in the minds of young students looking to quell a bit of competition in their hearts. But nothing sacred, nothing that would determine leadership or in which direction the scales of influence would tip.]
Strength and numbers are often all that it takes to win a battle, especially if every side is of the same mind. [Brute force, charging forward with heat and determination. Dimitri can appreciate it in his own way; his fingers flex.] Did you participate, too?
[ He half expects something to happen the instant his boots touch grass, but nothing does aside from the soft crunch of earth beneath his feet. The ground does not open and swallow him whole, his fellow Xaela do not spring up from nowhere with rope and empty promises of glory. ]
I don't really remember my parents. The only things I recall are hunger and fear wile I wandered the plains. A child, alone.
[ He might never know the reason for his abandonment. It could have been an accident, but no one ever came for him. ]
Another tribe found me and took me in. Fed me, clothed me. But as was their tradition, children were not considered members of the tribe, weren't even given names, until they succeeded in a rite of passage when they reached their tenth summer. Then their worth as a warrior would be proven.
I was with them for only a few summers, but for all the children I saw succeed, there were those that I never saw again, and I was terrified.
That’s terrible. [—he says, before his usual filter can stop the words from being spoken.] To not even be given names, or to be treated as a true individual, until “proving” themselves through some kind of… dangerous trial?
[Faerghus was a land of knights, of honor in and out of the battlefield. Children learned to use a sword long before they could properly read and write, and Dimitri was no exception to that rule. He still remembers the days where he would train, as a child, running through the woods in heavy armor to build up his strength. Or when his own father would take time out of the day to show him how to properly wield a lance, where to place his feet, how to strike the enemy.
But that is different than what Oz is telling him; the unfair expectations of children to all be so strong, when he knows that humanity is weak and fallible at its core. Perhaps it’s unfair to apply his own cultural beliefs to one a world away, but he cannot help see it as unfair, as wrong. Individuals should not have to prove the right to exist by way of being a warrior.]
[ Perhaps if a different clan had found him in the wilds, things would have been different. Had he stumbled upon kindness and warmth instead, he might just be another Xaela of the Steppe, a warrior for the sake of being a warrior with no real purpose to guide him. ]
I didn’t think I had a choice. When my tenth summer came, I took my turn.
[ He extends a hand, indicating a lone tree in the far distance, still green and strong despite the sharp angle the winds of the Steppe have lent to its trunk. ]
They bound me to a tree, leaving me as the clan packed up its things to migrate to their next home. Children who free themselves and return to the clan are welcomed with open arms. Children who do not… just weren’t strong enough.
[It isn't surprising how easily anger flares in his gut any longer. It’s like a beast that sleeps within him, rising like a storm when met with unfairness and injustice, or circumstances that prey upon the innocent, or the memory of those he had lost and those who stole them from him. He's accepted it, now, that ugly part that heats his nerves and sets his fingers twitching once more for the point of his lance. And to hear this story from Oz, it’s no surprise that it twists inside of him again — angry for his sake, for a world (even worlds away) that would accept this as right, that would leave innocent children to die because they did not achieve an impossible standard of “strength” that made them worthy of living.
It shows on his face. For the first time, it truly informs the downward turn of his lips. A deep churning in blue eyes, an intensity fixed upon his new friend.]
They were wrong to do so. And they should be made to realize it; left tied up an alone and unable to move, let the wildlife encroach upon them thinking they are an easy meal.
[Let nature tear out and gnaw at their insides, and allow them to feel as weak as they make others.
[ Oz honestly cannot remember a time when anyone apart from himself was so outraged on his behalf. There is a storm of righteous fury brewing in Dimitri's blue eyes, and Oz is weirdly touched by the gesture. Even if his new friend can do nothing from a world away, that he even wants to seek justice in the first place means more to Oz than even he probably realizes.
In any case, Dimitri has easily endeared himself to the shadowy presence in the back of Oz's mind, the only other friend he has in the world.
Speaking of... ]
I was cut free.
[ His glance turns hesitant for a moment, as if he is not sure how to accurately describe what transpired, or even if he should. What if Dimitri thinks him mad?
Crimson eyes sweep over the prince's face, searching for the seed of betrayal, but he sees only the flash of hot anger on Oz's behalf, and decides it's worth the risk. ]
I heard a voice, someone telling me we didn't have to accept it as fair. We didn't have to play by their rules. And my ropes were cut. I didn't see who it was, just a glimpse of shadow, but I think... no, I know that presence is still with me. It feels like a friend.
[The anger has made its home on the young prince’s face, and it will not fade so quickly in the wake of Oz’s explanation. But one word halts his step for a moment, makes him pause before remembering himself to tread at the same pace of his new friend else he lags behind.
The words escapes him before he can give it more thought.]
A voice?
[It isn’t disbelief; it is so far from that. But it’s unexpected, makes him think of his own chorus of the dead that have hushed for this exchange, but now whisper and writhe in the back of his skull.]
What kind— of voice? A stranger’s?
[Not like his, surely— not loved ones eaten by flames, died in the throes of pain, limbs broken and heads severed from body—]
No... not a stranger's. Like I said, it's a friend.
[ Oz slows, watching his new companion while his own expression makes clear that he wishes he could properly explain this thing, this part of him that whispers to him in quiet anger where only he can hear, that bristles over the injustice they suffer on a daily basis and lends Oz a shadowy power to his sword strikes.
The dream once again intervenes on their behalf, trying to lend clarity to the unclear. Oz pulls to a slow stop, and for the first time since meeting Dimitri, that dark afterimage that seems to follow Oz around splits away from him. A shadow black as the blackest night, formless but for a pair of bright blue pinpricks where there should be eyes, peers at the prince from its place next to Oz. Its gaze is intense, unwavering, but not distrusting.
Whether Oz has noticed this or not is unclear as he still muddles for the right words. ]
I don't know if we're one person, or two people, but I don't think it really matters. He helps me.
[He is soon to learn that Oz speaks quite literally when he says a friend; impossible to deny it when that shadowy figure appears, pulling itself away from the other young man as though he is a part of him, and Dimitri supposes that isn’t too far from the truth. But it is still surprising, to be met with those pinpricks of intense lights acting as eyes, never mind if this is a dream where logic is malleable at best. Dimitri stops, jaw hardening not in distrust but in reflected scrutinization, seeking words even as his new friend begins speaking.]
Him, you mean?
[A sweep of a hand to indicate the shadow.]
Can he speak to me?
[He wonders, and then he wonders if it’s rude to ask in the presence of the “person” he is referring to — but he wonders all the same.]
[ Oz turns his head to look, just as the shadow cants what would be considered its head at Dimitri. For whatever it might be worth, Oz looks just as surprised as his new friend – the shade that lives in the back of his head is always there, but it never keeps a form long enough for Oz to look at it. ]
… I do.
[ What else could he possibly mean?
At Dimitri’s prompting, the shade does not speak, but it does move. Its shapeless form shifts, a tendril of dark reaching to span the place between them – a hand, extended to the waiting prince. ]
[This seems like imagery straight out of a cautionary tale told to children at night. That one should never feasibly reach out towards a shadow residing(?) in another, because a shade always represents something to be leery of, something dangerous, doesn’t it?
In this instance, Dimitri feels nothing of the sort. There is already trust placed in Oz, inexplicably — as a result, there is a newfound trust in his friend that saved him, this figure that he cannot quite make out the finer edges to.
Besides, who is he to judge when it comes to ghosts that reside within? At least this one seems amicable.]
Er—
[He hardly knows what to say, though. Dimitri reaches out, and—]
[ Fluid semblances of shadowy fingers close around Dimitri's hand, and oddly he will find that the shadow's touch truly is nothing to fear. It's warm. A comfort.
A friend.
The same feeling that presumably lives in the back of Oz's mind. The shadow has the capability to be his fury, his anger and sadness and resentment made manifest in a way that begs Oz to pay attention to his own feelings, but here in the dream, there is no cause for such fiery emotions. Only gentle warmth.
Those pinpricks of light angle, the shade canting its head in response to the prince's greeting, but it does not speak. Perhaps it doesn't know how to outside of Oz's own thoughts. Perhaps it's a moment, perhaps it's a lifetime, but eventually the shadow withdraws its hand, sliding back into Oz's being with a bow of its head. ]
[In his dreams, hands always reach for him. The dead grasp at his ankles, tear as his cloak, place their fingers around his neck and eyes and whisper in his ear that he isn’t doing enough — when will he do more? Dimitri should be more wary, then, of shadowy things that reach for him more, maybe fall on the instinct to recoil his fingers an inch or two in hesitation.
But no such hesitation comes. He doesn’t understand why, nor is he prone to questioning it, but slotting his touch against Oz’s companion’s is as easy as breathing, like he is reaching out to an old friend of many years. It's centering, correct, so much that it’s oddly distracting, and Dimitri has to blink and reorient himself in the moment when their contact is finally severed.
He flexes his hand out of habit, gives Oz an almost bashful-sounding laugh in reply.]
I’m glad to have made such a positive first impression.
[He drops his arm to his side finally, and the bright grin on his face fades into something softer.]
It is hard to explain why, but I feel as though… I have known the both of you all my life. I know that isn’t the case, but it’s strange, isn’t it? That I should call you my friend so readily and so soon.
[ Oz can't help but smile, a shy but amused expression that crosses his face. He knows, somehow without question, that Dimitri would be the only one to so readily accept that part of him, the shadowy thing that lives in his heart of hearts. Most others would fail to understand it, perhaps find it frightening. That simple, fumbling laugh lightens Oz's heart so much, he feels he might float away. ]
It's not strange. I feel it too.
[ Something is connecting them, a bridge between world and hearts linking them together. Dimitri is at once Oz's first friend and his oldest friend, and he can scarce explain how those two things can exist at the same time, in the same person, but he doesn't have to. Dimitri knows.
Quietly, and much in the same way his shadow had, Oz extends a hand to the prince. ]
[Without hesitation, without the self-awareness inherent in a young man born of royal blood and polite obligation, Dimitri reaches out to link his fingers with Oz’s. The connection feels solid and real, as though this were not a dream at all, a warmth where their bodies touch that makes him feel—
Secure, safe. Present and clear, in a way so very rarely granted to him.
He smiles, sincere and his eyes bright.]
Would it be selfish of me to hope that this dream doesn’t fade quite yet? That it might last an age.
[It cannot, he knows. Perhaps even as he says it, the edges of this place begin to haze and blur, like the brushstrokes of a watercolor painting.]
[ The second Dimitri’s fingers curl around his own it feels like… like a burst of sunlight over the horizon, a cool breeze bushing past his face that makes him feel at ease and refreshed and, oddly, safe. Oz has never known such a feeling in all his life, and he leans into it wholeheartedly. ]
Not selfish at all.
[ There’s a smile on Oz’s face, a gentle sort of thing that he doesn’t even think about. It’s just there. ]
I feel the same.
[ Oh, how he longs to stay like this, connected and yet somehow freer for it, but he can see the edges of this world beginning to fade. A world away, a hand alights on his shoulder, a gruff voice calling for him to wake up. Oz fights it a moment longer, his grip on Dimitri’s hand tightening. ]
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finalflight2020-07-12 03:12 pm
no subject
Would that explain why the ghosts have not come to haunt him as he wandered the monastery’s halls? Why fire doesn’t burn beyond the panes of tall glass, why his academy uniform is spotless, unstained by blood and ash? Perhaps so, but how—? And why?
Compelled, he steps forward. The young man is a strangely magnetizing presence, a pivot point in which he feels drawn to, like the space between them is too vast for these curious revelations unfurling between them.]
This is Garreg Mach Monastery, or some bastardization of it. And you… you are supposed to be a figment of my own mind. I thought that you were. Are you saying that isn't the case?
[His eyes linger on the horns, before snapping back to his face, remembering himself.]
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As the prince moves closer, Oz straightens, moving to sling his blade across his back – presumably where he keeps it sheathed, though it simply dissolves away into the nothing as which it began. There’s a strange effect when he moves sometimes, like an afterimage. A deep shadow, formless and featureless save for holding the same basic shape as Oz, almost as if there is two of him instead of one. It’s only there for a second every now and again, difficult to catch if one is not looking for it. ]
I’m nobody’s figment.
[ He seems almost indignant at the implication, a frown tugging at lips that seem to be made exclusively for frowning. ]
I thought this was my dream, but now I don’t think it is. I think it’s yours. I don’t know how I got here.
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[He says, an awkward uptick to his features that would reveal it as the ill-timed joke it is. Dimitri seems to recognize this moments after the fact — as he often does where wayward humor is concerned — and clears his throat, shaking his head. Blond strands of hair nearly sweep across bright blue eyes.]
Forgive me, I don’t mean to jest. It’s just that this is... highly unusual, to say the least. There is nothing to say that I will not awaken and think this all for what it is — a dream, as you said.
[He moves forward, steadily but consciously, and though his lance remains gripped in one hand, it remains at rest, hung loosely at his side.]
Even so, I see no reason to dismiss it as one might a normal dream; if this is a break in the usual routine, I would like to know why. Er, might I have your name?
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It doesn’t feel like a normal dream.
[ Oz remains rooted to the spot, watching Dimirti’s approach. Even though he himself doesn’t move, he feels drawn all the same, like the other boy is caught at the end of a string, slowly being reeled in his direction. That strange pull alone doesn’t feel like any dream Oz has ever experienced before. ]
Oz. [ A beat, as if he expects a follow up. Whether he gets one or not, habit compels him to add, ] Just Oz.
I’d like to know what’s going on here, too.
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But there is a quietude that overcomes him when he draws near, like he is supposed to shear away at the proximity between himself and this stranger, that resembles it more than ever before. Another step or two, and a thin veil slips between him and the rest of what life has wrought — the whispers of the dead, thoughts ravaged by anger, a storm behind his eyes, now gone distant.
He looks at this strange young man, who appears unlike anyone he’s seen before, and he’s granted a sort of clarity that he cannot help but chase after — to be curious about.
Dimitri hasn’t scared him away with his fumbling sense of humor, at least. At this, he offers Oz a grin that reaches the corners of his eyes, bright and sincere, a degree of princely restraint hemmed away.]
I see. Just Oz. I already told you my name, but a proper introduction is in order. [He presses his free hand to his chest, barely inclining his head.]
My name is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. And this— [That same hand then sweeps at the empty space between them, indicating their surroundings.] —is Garreg Mach, as I stated. It’s a military academy of sorts where I’m from, but... well. Obviously some things are not quite right here.
[Eyes lift to the gaping hole in the ceiling, where the stars glitter, alien-bright. Something plucked from a dream, indeed.]
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Oz normally isn't one to feel at ease around other people, much preferring the company of his shadow, but this young man is different. Wherever he is, Oz wants to be there, and he can't even begin to say why, ]
Is that your whole name? [ He asks, deadpan gaze ruined by the remaining echoes of his earlier amusement. ] I'll stick with Dimitri.
[ He doesn't like unnecessary words, and unnecessary names are certainly a part of that.
He follows Dimitri's gaze. A school for learning how to be in the military sounds like a very Garlean thing, but his experience with Garleans is few and far between, and his knowledge of their provinces is extremely lacking to say the least. ] Never heard of Faerghus. Is that in Eorzea?
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Dimitri is fine, then. I'm not one for pomp and circumstance, nor lengthy titles, anyhow.
[Eorzea, however, is not a name he is familiar with, and he sounds it in his mind, pretending to roll it off his tongue as practice.]
Sorry, but I've never heard of Eorzea. I-- [The logic of this dream is hazy but simultaneously allows for quick understanding of the situation. The suspension of disbelief does wonders for accepting an odd new reality.] If you've never heard of Faerghus, have you heard of Fódlan? I would suspect not, given that I have never seen anyone of your... Er.
[Hm.]
...physique before.
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[ And just like that, they've concluded that wherever they're both from, the distance between them is very great indeed. Perhaps even worlds away, which makes the closeness they share now feel precious somehow. Oz doesn't stop to think about how he could go walking in the dreams of someone so distant. It doesn't seem like it matters, now. ]
I am Au Ra. There aren't many of us outside the Steppe, I don't think.
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There certainly aren't any of your kind in Fódlan. Those horns are remarkable and difficult to miss...
[He feels the need to continue, like the information between them should be shared equally, as comfortable as he's already fallen into this exchange. His smile remains on his features, polite and considerate enough for someone flinging more questions his way.]
Do you all possess them? They look a bit like a dragon's. And I do mean that as a compliment. I’m merely human, myself.
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We all have them, but everyone's horns look different. They're how we hear.
[ Among other things. Oz has only vague recollections of an affectionate bump of a horn against his own, or a nuzzle on top of his head. Presumably such things came from his family, but he hardly remembers them and is content to forget. ]
Where I come from, we'd call you Hyur.
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So instead, he keeps his arms at his sides, and the lance dissipates into nothing as he speaks — unaware of its departure.]
Are there many of us “Hyur”, too?
[Dimitri blinks, remembering himself yet again.]
Forgive me, you probably didn’t expect to answer a hundred questions when you arrived here, did you? I suspect this dream version of Garreg Mach might prove more interesting to you than my blathering on.
[A little self-conscious huff.]
We can walk and continue this conversation, if you like.
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[ The lands Oz has traveled since leaving the Steppe are full of Hyur. Many of them are content to give Oz a wide berth, and he lets them. The less he lets people close, the less he has to worry about what their intentions are - though Dimitri seems to be an exception to this rule. ]
It's fine, I don't mind.
[ His tail might not be terribly expressive, it doesn't wag when he's happy or anything, but there might be something contented in the sway of it. ]
It's... nice to have company.
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I’m not sure if I can provide very riveting company, but I can at least try to be hospitable. Allow me to show you what I know of the monastery, and maybe some of this mystery will unveil itself for us.
[He turns, motioning for Oz to follow (how he would hate to draw so much space between them now that they’re comfortably close, for that would be as disquieting as stretching a tendon so far as to snap) before he walks too far ahead. Dimitri opts to move away from the front of the cathedral, footsteps echoing.]
Do you not entertain company very often? Dreams notwithstanding.
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He walks along after his new... friend? Acquaintance? Perhaps titles are not important here. In any case, he keeps pace easily enough. ]
I don't really like people. [ Ah, but that might give the wrong impression, so he adds, ] You're okay, though.
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Which becomes clear the moment they near the sprawling corridor connecting the space — plants hanging from the ceiling, the greenhouse rooted to the top but missing its own roof, allowing clear a view to glimpse the floral and fragrant interior.
To say that it isn’t usually like that is perhaps a too-obvious statement, but Dimitri is nothing but blunt.]
That is not usually there. In fact, it should be outdoors.
[He pauses, inclining his head upwards, but not neglecting what had been just said—]
You wouldn’t like this place very much. It’s filled with students and faculty in reality. [Learning, refining the violent art of warfare, gathering up the knowledge and tools to be thrown out into a fiercely wretched world.] ...Do you live alone?
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His eyes turn upward again, and amused snort slipping out before he can stop it. ]
I didn't figure you kept your plants on the ceiling.
[ So he does have a sense of humor after all. ]
Mm, not really. There are others - I'm a mercenary - but I know they just keep me around because of how I look.
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A mercenary?
[Dimitri blinks at him, his expression flickering with uncertainty, the line of his brow slanting. He cannot say that he thinks very highly of the profession, for those motivated solely by what brings in the most coin are often less concerned about moral restriction. He has known mercenaries to carry out dishonorable work, uncaring if the pay swells the lining of their pockets, and brag about their conquests as though it was something to be proud about.
But he also cannot neglect those of the opposite disposition — those who are vigorous on the battlefield and adhere to decency, all the same. He thinks of Jeralt, a once-knight of Seiros both renowned and respected. He thinks of his Professor, someone whose advice he treats as remarkably affecting, their prowess in battle defined by a terrifying grace, sword wielded by a hand that might cleave the heavens in two as much as it would kindly guide them. Both mercenaries once; both good people.
Maybe, then, it would simply be more prudent to give Oz the benefit of the doubt. The strange magnetism he experiences in his vicinity practically requires it.]
I see. That must be strenuous work.
[He says, as though he is not already aware of what the lifestyle is usually like — on Fódlan, at least.]
Why do you say they only keep you around for your appearance?
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Why wouldn't they? Look at me.
[ He spreads his hands as if to emphasize his point. ]
They always want me to go in and scare people. I hate it.
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Then refuse to do so. It’s understandable to hate it.
[Using appearances to instill fear based on what he assumes is a cursory sort of bias. Unflattering and unfair, and he feels a twinge of offense for Oz’s sake, despite only having just met him.
And realizes his hypocrisy only moments later.]
...I shouldn’t have judged so quickly when I saw you, summoning my weapon as I did. I know now that there’s nothing to fear; and I should have known that appearances are merely surface-level.
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[ "Not easy" is an understatement. Merchant ships still come through to the port town of Kugane, but most are not keen on taking people back to Eorzea with them. Oz doesn't feel he's in the right place to barter his way onboard, but perhaps in a couple more years with a bit more experience under his belt. ]
It's okay. I'm a stranger in your dream, and I did the same thing, remember?
[ Still, he doesn't think he's ever had someone apologize to him for judging him based on his appearance before. It's like a weight has suddenly lifted from his chest, and even that shadowy presence in the back of his head has stopped being so wary of this other boy. ]
... Thank you, Dimitri. That means a lot to me.
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After all, who is he to brandish a lance against another simply because they possess horns, or are defined by the harsh contour lines of a not-quite human shape? Dimitri, who is all princely mien with a blood-starved beast raking at his heart within, should know better.
The gratitude feels undeserved, but he is glad to have earned it. Strange how it sparks something almost-giddy in him, enough to make him laugh lightly.]
I am glad for it, but you don’t need to thank me for misjudging you. Maybe you were right to turn your sword on me.
[He almost shrugs, though, dismissing the whole ordeal. The corridor becomes bathed in light as they leave the ceiling-greenhouse behind, the long stretch of a stone bridge unveiling itself before them, the sky yawning overhead and just beyond. All of it cast beneath the gloom of night.]
At any rate, with enough fortune and luck, I hope you can buy that passage you’re seeking. What do you plan to do if you reach Eorzea?
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[ At the end of the day, adventurer and mercenary might not be so different, but there is an air of freedom that comes with the former that Oz lacks now. He has only ever wanted to be his own person.
They continue to follow the hall, no real destination in mind except for together, and stepping onto the stone bridge feels a bit like breaking the surface of water, passing from one reality to the other. Before them is a massive plain of rolling, green hills. A great stone structure sits in the midst of it, an impossibly large bowl carved out of rock up on which sits what can only be described as a castle, though certainly more Eastern in design than anything found in Fodlan. Massive banners of brightly woven cloth drape from the sides of the structure to the ground below, smaller similar standards cascade from stone pillars scattered throughout the plain, though whether they're man made or natural, it's difficult to tell.
Beyond that, the green tapers out into distant desert, or distant mountains, depending upon which way one looks. Above them, an endless sea of stars, impossibly bright in a sea of black. Oz stops walking, startled at first, but turning around reveals the monastery, silently looming behind them. He breathes out a quiet, almost relieved sigh. ]
It looks like this is my dream, too.
no subject
But he can still imagine it, to wander a great and open land, endless variety to every moment in every day. What is it like, to not know what awaits you the next day, or to have no goal carved out for yourself that you must stringently follow? He cannot fathom it, and he does not think he would ever be tempted by it, but it’s a tantalizing thought. Novel in its impossibility.
For him, at least. For Oz, he hopes he can find it. Unshackle himself from a mercenary lifestyle, to that of a grand and glorious role of adventurer.
He would say as much, at least, but suddenly the world opens up beneath the myriad of stars, a foreign vista that silences him into shock. He has never seen a building like the one in the distance, its silhouette strange to his eyes. This is not the land surrounding Garreg Mach, not with its undulating hills and intermittent pillars jutting up from the earth. The split of desert and mountains, depending on which direction he looks.
Dimitri glances behind him, and the monastery is still there, quiet as a sentinel.]
This is— your home?
[He looks at Oz, wide-eyed, the moonlight adding a pale luster to Dimitri’s skin.]
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For Oz, the sight elicits a different feeling, one of bitter anger that sits heavy in the bottom of his heart. ]
No. This is where I was born. It isn't my home.
[ And it never will be, if he has his way. ]
I only visit this place in dreams. Usually nightmares.
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He affords their view another assessment. It’s truly a beautiful sight, not something one would consider potential to twist into a nightmare, but he is lacking context and experience with this place — both of which Oz possesses.]
Nightmares... [He wallows through those often enough, knowing how sobering it can be to realize one might be upon you.] What happened here?
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... It's a long story. You don't mind?
[ Oz doesn't often speak about his past - he has no one to speak about it to - but somehow he doesn't mind sharing now. ]
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[He wants to know. He wishes to fill in the gaps to his knowledge with this young man, to close the space between them as strangers and perhaps skew like something closer to friends. It’s reasonable, he thinks — he can allow for it in this dream, to lose himself in someone else.]
Please tell me, if you like.
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He gives a small nod, resuming their walk along the bridge, heading for where it sinks into the grass of the Steppe and leaves nothing but green, rolling hills before them. ]
The Azim Steppe. Many tribes of Au Ra live here; most of them migrate, never staying in one place for long. Once a year, a sacred battle is held: The Nadaam. The tribes war with each other and the victor earns the right to rule over the Steppe as khagan.
Every tribe prepares for the Nadaam in different ways, but strength and numbers are what they all want more than anything.
no subject
The explanation brings up the only parallel in his mind, perhaps colored brightly in recollection due to how recently it transpired: the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, stretched across Gronder’s Field. Each house pitted against the other to see which would be victorious, which banner might snap in the wind with pride while the others bore their defeat. But Dimitri has enough sense to avoid saying as much, knowing that was only a mock battle; tradition, yes, and an important day in the minds of young students looking to quell a bit of competition in their hearts. But nothing sacred, nothing that would determine leadership or in which direction the scales of influence would tip.]
Strength and numbers are often all that it takes to win a battle, especially if every side is of the same mind. [Brute force, charging forward with heat and determination. Dimitri can appreciate it in his own way; his fingers flex.] Did you participate, too?
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[ He half expects something to happen the instant his boots touch grass, but nothing does aside from the soft crunch of earth beneath his feet. The ground does not open and swallow him whole, his fellow Xaela do not spring up from nowhere with rope and empty promises of glory. ]
I don't really remember my parents. The only things I recall are hunger and fear wile I wandered the plains. A child, alone.
[ He might never know the reason for his abandonment. It could have been an accident, but no one ever came for him. ]
Another tribe found me and took me in. Fed me, clothed me. But as was their tradition, children were not considered members of the tribe, weren't even given names, until they succeeded in a rite of passage when they reached their tenth summer. Then their worth as a warrior would be proven.
I was with them for only a few summers, but for all the children I saw succeed, there were those that I never saw again, and I was terrified.
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[Faerghus was a land of knights, of honor in and out of the battlefield. Children learned to use a sword long before they could properly read and write, and Dimitri was no exception to that rule. He still remembers the days where he would train, as a child, running through the woods in heavy armor to build up his strength. Or when his own father would take time out of the day to show him how to properly wield a lance, where to place his feet, how to strike the enemy.
But that is different than what Oz is telling him; the unfair expectations of children to all be so strong, when he knows that humanity is weak and fallible at its core. Perhaps it’s unfair to apply his own cultural beliefs to one a world away, but he cannot help see it as unfair, as wrong. Individuals should not have to prove the right to exist by way of being a warrior.]
What did you do?
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I didn’t think I had a choice. When my tenth summer came, I took my turn.
[ He extends a hand, indicating a lone tree in the far distance, still green and strong despite the sharp angle the winds of the Steppe have lent to its trunk. ]
They bound me to a tree, leaving me as the clan packed up its things to migrate to their next home. Children who free themselves and return to the clan are welcomed with open arms. Children who do not… just weren’t strong enough.
Twice in just ten summers, I was abandoned.
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It shows on his face. For the first time, it truly informs the downward turn of his lips. A deep churning in blue eyes, an intensity fixed upon his new friend.]
They were wrong to do so. And they should be made to realize it; left tied up an alone and unable to move, let the wildlife encroach upon them thinking they are an easy meal.
[Let nature tear out and gnaw at their insides, and allow them to feel as weak as they make others.
Dimitri lets out a shuddering breath.]
How did you escape? You must have?
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In any case, Dimitri has easily endeared himself to the shadowy presence in the back of Oz's mind, the only other friend he has in the world.
Speaking of... ]
I was cut free.
[ His glance turns hesitant for a moment, as if he is not sure how to accurately describe what transpired, or even if he should. What if Dimitri thinks him mad?
Crimson eyes sweep over the prince's face, searching for the seed of betrayal, but he sees only the flash of hot anger on Oz's behalf, and decides it's worth the risk. ]
I heard a voice, someone telling me we didn't have to accept it as fair. We didn't have to play by their rules. And my ropes were cut. I didn't see who it was, just a glimpse of shadow, but I think... no, I know that presence is still with me. It feels like a friend.
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The words escapes him before he can give it more thought.]
A voice?
[It isn’t disbelief; it is so far from that. But it’s unexpected, makes him think of his own chorus of the dead that have hushed for this exchange, but now whisper and writhe in the back of his skull.]
What kind— of voice? A stranger’s?
[Not like his, surely— not loved ones eaten by flames, died in the throes of pain, limbs broken and heads severed from body—]
What does it tell you? Why did it free you?
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[ Oz slows, watching his new companion while his own expression makes clear that he wishes he could properly explain this thing, this part of him that whispers to him in quiet anger where only he can hear, that bristles over the injustice they suffer on a daily basis and lends Oz a shadowy power to his sword strikes.
The dream once again intervenes on their behalf, trying to lend clarity to the unclear. Oz pulls to a slow stop, and for the first time since meeting Dimitri, that dark afterimage that seems to follow Oz around splits away from him. A shadow black as the blackest night, formless but for a pair of bright blue pinpricks where there should be eyes, peers at the prince from its place next to Oz. Its gaze is intense, unwavering, but not distrusting.
Whether Oz has noticed this or not is unclear as he still muddles for the right words. ]
I don't know if we're one person, or two people, but I don't think it really matters. He helps me.
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Him, you mean?
[A sweep of a hand to indicate the shadow.]
Can he speak to me?
[He wonders, and then he wonders if it’s rude to ask in the presence of the “person” he is referring to — but he wonders all the same.]
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… I do.
[ What else could he possibly mean?
At Dimitri’s prompting, the shade does not speak, but it does move. Its shapeless form shifts, a tendril of dark reaching to span the place between them – a hand, extended to the waiting prince. ]
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In this instance, Dimitri feels nothing of the sort. There is already trust placed in Oz, inexplicably — as a result, there is a newfound trust in his friend that saved him, this figure that he cannot quite make out the finer edges to.
Besides, who is he to judge when it comes to ghosts that reside within? At least this one seems amicable.]
Er—
[He hardly knows what to say, though. Dimitri reaches out, and—]
Hello.
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A friend.
The same feeling that presumably lives in the back of Oz's mind. The shadow has the capability to be his fury, his anger and sadness and resentment made manifest in a way that begs Oz to pay attention to his own feelings, but here in the dream, there is no cause for such fiery emotions. Only gentle warmth.
Those pinpricks of light angle, the shade canting its head in response to the prince's greeting, but it does not speak. Perhaps it doesn't know how to outside of Oz's own thoughts. Perhaps it's a moment, perhaps it's a lifetime, but eventually the shadow withdraws its hand, sliding back into Oz's being with a bow of its head. ]
... I think he likes you.
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But no such hesitation comes. He doesn’t understand why, nor is he prone to questioning it, but slotting his touch against Oz’s companion’s is as easy as breathing, like he is reaching out to an old friend of many years. It's centering, correct, so much that it’s oddly distracting, and Dimitri has to blink and reorient himself in the moment when their contact is finally severed.
He flexes his hand out of habit, gives Oz an almost bashful-sounding laugh in reply.]
I’m glad to have made such a positive first impression.
[He drops his arm to his side finally, and the bright grin on his face fades into something softer.]
It is hard to explain why, but I feel as though… I have known the both of you all my life. I know that isn’t the case, but it’s strange, isn’t it? That I should call you my friend so readily and so soon.
[Ever earnest, he says it as he feels it.]
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It's not strange. I feel it too.
[ Something is connecting them, a bridge between world and hearts linking them together. Dimitri is at once Oz's first friend and his oldest friend, and he can scarce explain how those two things can exist at the same time, in the same person, but he doesn't have to. Dimitri knows.
Quietly, and much in the same way his shadow had, Oz extends a hand to the prince. ]
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Secure, safe. Present and clear, in a way so very rarely granted to him.
He smiles, sincere and his eyes bright.]
Would it be selfish of me to hope that this dream doesn’t fade quite yet? That it might last an age.
[It cannot, he knows. Perhaps even as he says it, the edges of this place begin to haze and blur, like the brushstrokes of a watercolor painting.]
no subject
Not selfish at all.
[ There’s a smile on Oz’s face, a gentle sort of thing that he doesn’t even think about. It’s just there. ]
I feel the same.
[ Oh, how he longs to stay like this, connected and yet somehow freer for it, but he can see the edges of this world beginning to fade. A world away, a hand alights on his shoulder, a gruff voice calling for him to wake up. Oz fights it a moment longer, his grip on Dimitri’s hand tightening. ]
I’ll find you again. I promise.