Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Sickness Deep Within
As winter arrived, cold waves swiftly swept across the northern lands. In Fhirdiad, where the air ran colder still, the snow atop the palace eaves grew heavier by the day. A thin layer of frost coated the long stone steps leading up to the royal halls. The hardy trees Dedue had planted on either side, meant to bloom even in cold climates, could no longer endure the winter’s bite. Their swaying white petals fell in delicate drifts, carpeting the stairs.
When the wind blew, snowflakes mingled with petals and skimmed along the ground, flowing like waves crashing upon the shore.
Rodrigue stepped out of King Dimitri’s bedchamber alongside the elderly royal physician. He looked up at the scene, a winter tableau carved in ice and snow, but had no heart to admire it. Instead, as Rodrigue steadied the old man and warned him of the slippery steps, he asked anxiously, “High Physician, how is His Majesty’s condition?”
Dimitri had fallen ill not long after the yellow leaves and red maples of early autumn had faded. At first, it was only an intermittent cough that broke through whenever he spoke. He would always pause, full of apology, and wait until the fit passed before continuing his conversation. But before long, the cough became a constant in his bedchamber, night after night, echoing with a sound that chilled the heart.
For that reason, that year’s autumn hunt, a long-standing tradition in Fhirdiad, was canceled. The king had begun running low-grade fevers on and off, and no amount of medicine could suppress them. The lingering illness dragged on into the depths of winter. Rodrigue, the former Duke of Fraldarius, could bear the reports no longer. Braving a heavy snowstorm, he rode through the night to the capital to see for himself how the young man he cherished was faring.
The royal physician stood in silence beneath the eaves for a moment, then sighed. “Lord Rodrigue.”
“Please, speak freely.”
“His Majesty has long suffered from old injuries. They were never truly cured, and his body has been pushed past its limits,” the physician said slowly. “What’s more, His Majesty works far too hard. He insists on handling state affairs and documents personally...”
Rodrigue replied, “I will urge His Majesty to take more rest. And if you require rare herbs or medicines, I will send my retainers across the continent to find them. Whatever it takes, so long as you can restore His Majesty to health...” Dimitri’s condition was far too troubling. Even a man who had once been in perfect health would have been weakened by such a long illness through autumn and winter. Let alone Dimitri, who had lived five years in exile and bore the scars of many wounds.
The royal physician shook his head. “It would certainly help if you could counsel His Majesty and bring back precious medicines, Lord Rodrigue. But the root of His Majesty’s illness does not lie in his body. It lies within his heart.”
“Within his heart?” Rodrigue’s eyes clouded with concern.
“Yes. There is too much shadow in His Majesty’s heart. That is what keeps his body from healing. I can cure the pain in his flesh, but unless the gloom within him lifts, the sickness of the heart will only wear him down day by day.”
The troubling conversation came to an end as Rodrigue watched the royal physician disappear down the palace steps, each one buried in snow and ice. Almost by instinct, he looked around, hoping to speak with his son, the current Duke of Fraldarius, about what the physician had said. Then he remembered: a month ago, a rebellion had broken out in the former Empire territories, and Felix had marched south with his troops to suppress the unrest.
The wars to reclaim their homeland had offered the father and son a chance to reconcile. After Dimitri’s formal coronation, Felix had officially inherited the ducal title. Things had seemed to be moving toward peace, toward healing. And yet, the hopeful image of a kingdom restored had been abruptly shattered by Dimitri’s deep and lingering illness.
Felix was in the south. Sylvain was guarding the northern frontier. Thankfully, Ingrid remained stationed in the capital. Rodrigue relayed the physician’s diagnosis to her, and the golden-haired knight lowered her gaze, sorrow flickering in her eyes. “If His Majesty could simply let go of the past,” she said quietly, “then he wouldn’t be who he is.”
In front of her, or in front of Mercedes and the others, Dimitri always appeared composed and clear-headed, so much so that it was hard to know how to comfort him. And when sad memories were mentioned, especially those concerning his own past, it was often Dimitri who offered comfort instead.
He would say softly that, after all the hardship and wandering, he was already blessed beyond measure to have reached this ending.
But was that truly how he felt?
Ingrid frowned. That morning, she had accompanied him to the royal training grounds. Dimitri had tried to take a lance from the weapons rack, eager to spar a few rounds with her. But the moment he gripped the shaft, the chill pierced his chest like a blade, dragging old wounds to the surface. He didn’t speak a word, only doubled over with a fierce, racking cough. Ingrid had seized the weapon from his hands, thrown a cloak around his shoulders, and guided him back into the warmth of the hall.
It was not something she dared to report to any of the elders, least of all Rodrigue. She had heard that the royal physician had been summoned again that afternoon, likely to speak with Rodrigue about what he had called “a sickness of the heart.”
In recent days, Ingrid’s worry had weighed too heavily to ignore. Even the visit of her old friends, Mercedes and Annette, couldn’t bring a smile to her face. The two mages had come from their respective territories to reunite in the capital, not only to see Ingrid, but also because His Majesty’s birthday during the Ethereal Moon was drawing near.
The princess of Morfis, from the distant eastern continent, was also set to visit Fódlan bearing gifts, hoping to establish a diplomatic relationship with the King of Faerghus.
The people of Morfis were known for their mastery of alchemy and magical theory. Before the war swept across Fódlan, their princess had once studied at the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery, forging a close bond with both Mercedes and Annette.
Because of her two friends, the princess's visit was now both diplomatic and personal: to meet with the King of Faerghus, and to reunite with her old classmates. At the gathering, she listened to the girls of the Blue Lions speak of Dimitri’s illness, and of the royal physician’s troubling words. After a moment of silence, she spoke.
“Annie, Mercie... you say His Majesty’s illness lingers because he’s haunted by painful memories?”
“That’s one way to put it...” Mercedes sighed. The memory of their late-night conversations in the cathedral still lingered in her heart. Dimitri’s deep self-loathing and guilt still brought an ache to her heart.
“I don’t know what kind of memories they are,” the princess said slowly, “but for them to weigh so heavily on him... they must be truly painful.”
“Yes.” Ingrid nodded. The Tragedy of Duscur had been years ago, and yet Dimitri lived each day as if its shadow still hung above him. Some wounds stayed for a lifetime, their pain repeating again and again, without end.
The princess paused in thought, then said, “I wonder if you’ve heard of it—a potion from Morfis. It’s said to make one forget their most painful memories. But the price is... forgetting the happiest ones as well.”
“There really is such a potion?” Annette’s eyes widened. “I read something like that in a rather obscure text on alchemy, but I always thought it was nothing more than legend.”
The princess nodded. “It exists. I’ve met the one who created the formula, and the first to test it.” That person, too, had memories they could not bear to keep.
The girls of the Blue Lions exchanged glances. In each other’s eyes, they saw the same quiet thought beginning to take shape.
Inside the royal palace of Fhirdiad, a generous fire burned in the hearth, filling the grand hall with gentle warmth. His Majesty the King of Faerghus greeted his old friends with a soft smile, treating the visiting princess of Morfis with all due courtesy. He was pretty, gracious, and composed, but the illness had clouded his only remaining eye in a pale haze, and his complexion was pale.
They had just begun to speak of diplomacy between their nations, the possibility of joint academies, and sea trade routes. The conversation was lively, when Dimitri began to speak, only to be wracked by a violent, rending cough.
The others rushed to his side at once. Mercedes frowned deeply and cast healing magic in steady waves of white light. Ingrid rubbed his back gently. Annette offered her handkerchief. Dedue, who had been standing guard at the door, stepped inside at once and handed over a steaming cup of tea.
Only after some time did Dimitri manage to suppress the waves of pain coursing through his chest. The princess of Morfis, witnessing the scene, could not help the flicker of pity in her eyes.
With quiet tact, she took her leave, receiving from the king a stream of apologies and his sincere thanks for the gifts she had brought.
To be surrounded by so many who cared for him so deeply... he must truly be a good, good man. Such a shame… She shook her head.
After returning to her quarters, the princess carefully transcribed the formula for the rare potion, and sent it to the city residence where Annette and Mercedes were staying.
The snow continued to fall the next day. Felix had spent most of his years away from the House Fraldarius territory. Thus Rodrigue, unable to remain away from his own territory for too long, had come to bid farewell to the king.
Dimitri was sitting at his desk, papers piled before him. At the news, he set his pen aside, offering his elder a warm blessing of safe travel. “Once the snow lets up, send a letter to Garreg Mach. Ask Archbishop Byleth if she might spare the time for a visit,” Dimitri added.
Ingrid asked, “Yes, Your Majesty. May I ask... what the purpose of this request is?”
Dimitri closed his eye. “There are matters I must entrust to her.”
At those words, the room fell still. Every face darkened slightly. Even Rodrigue paused mid-step. The tone… it sounded all too much like a final farewell.
Outside the window, a sudden gust of wind stirred the branches of the flowered trees, making them tremble in the falling snow.
“By the way,” Dimitri said, “when is Felix's return?”
“There’s been no word from the south.”
The king smiled faintly. “Perhaps I should lead a battalion from the capital to retrieve him myself.”
Rodrigue rebuked him gently, “Your Majesty, please don’t speak nonsense.” In this condition, where did he think he could possibly go?
Dimitri lowered his gaze to his own frail and trembling hands. A king may die in bed. But a warrior... a warrior should die on the battlefield.
The silence in the room grew too heavy to bear. It was Annette who finally broke it, unable to endure the weight. She brought up the potion offered by Morfis. Dimitri looked up at her, startled.
“I know it’s terribly presumptuous of me. I’m sorry,” the young mage said, wringing her hands nervously, her voice trembling. “But if there were a way to trade just a portion of Your Majesty’s happiest memories... to free you from the burden of the painful ones... perhaps your body might begin to heal.”
The old friends of the Blue Lions, joined by one elder statesman, spoke in hushed tones in the royal study for the rest of the afternoon. Dimitri’s first reaction was instinctive rejection. To him, the past was a penance he must bear. A sinner had no right to forget his suffering. He ought to spend the remainder of his life in atonement, thorns upon his skin, his every breath watched by the dead.
But in the end, it was Rodrigue who persuaded him.
Rodrigue said: As things stood, unrest still flared in parts of the Kingdom even under his rule. If His Majesty’s health continued to deteriorate—if he reached a point beyond saving—the land would surely fall into chaos once more. The people of Faerghus would be thrown back into the fires of war. Was His Majesty truly thinking of abandoning his responsibilities as king?
Responsibility. Of all things, that was the one word Dimitri could never bring himself to refuse.
Though the princess of Morfis was a close personal friend to both Annette and Mercedes, an unverified potion could not be administered to His Majesty without caution. The first to test the potion on his behalf was the royal physician. The elderly man, already fascinated by the healing arts and alchemy of the eastern continent, did not hesitate long before drinking it.
Surrounded by his family and apprentices, he carefully examined the recesses of his memory, and found that he had forgotten the day his wife passed away, as well as the moment he was appointed High Physician of the court.
The potion worked exactly as the Princess of Morfis had described. Without error.
The second to try it was Dedue. By then, there was much more confidence in the potion’s safety. Yet Dedue, ever fiercely protective of Dimitri, insisted on testing it himself. He too drank it, with the friends of the Blue Lions standing by. As the potion took hold, he realized he had forgotten the harrowing sight of his family’ deaths during the Tragedy of Duscur, but also the day he first called Dimitri by name.
But it was worth it. If Dimitri could live, there would still be more joyful memories between them to come.
At last, with all his friends by his side, His Majesty the King of Faerghus drank the potion from the distant east. Dimitri sank into a deep sleep. When he awoke, Mercedes approached him with great care, her words gentle and probing. Dimitri still remembered the fact of the late king and Glenn's deaths. But every detail of the Tragedy of Duscur was gone, cut cleanly from his memory.
The group felt a surge of hope. Now all that remained was to determine which joyful memory the king had lost in exchange. Compared to what had come before, this task seemed far less daunting.
His old friends gathered around him and tried to draw him out with conversation, offering memories and names, stories and jokes. But even after a long while, as fatigue crept back into Dimitri’s frame, they had yet to find the missing piece.
“Then that must mean His Majesty’s happiest memory wasn’t with any of us,” Mercedes said with a tender smile, the worry fading from her features. She even managed a small joke. “So who could it be? Shall we try guessing?”
Ingrid, too, gave a soft, relieved smile. “Could it be Sylvain? Or Felix? Neither of them is here today.”
“Should we invite Sylvain to the capital?” Mercedes asked. “Though Felix should be back in a few days, shouldn’t he?”
“Yes, there’s no rush,” Ingrid replied.
But in the midst of their lighthearted chatter, Dimitri lifted his head and quietly interrupted them. His voice was hesitant, tinged with confusion.
“Felix... Who is that?”
It was like a bucket of ice water thrown across a glowing hearth. The warmth in the chamber vanished in an instant. Silence fell like snow.
“Why? How could this happen?” Annette paced restlessly in her friend’s room. “The potion worked perfectly for everyone else—why would His Majesty forget someone completely?”
The princess of Morfis sat quietly nearby. “There is no flaw in the formula,” she said calmly. “For His Majesty to forget a person so completely, it can only mean one of two things: either all of his memories of that person were his most painful... or they were his happiest.”
Annette froze in place.
The princess continued, “And since you’ve already determined what his most painful memory was. Then it can only be the latter.”
Ingrid, Mercedes, and Annette exchanged glances. In each other’s eyes, they saw the same dawning realization, and a sense of helpless sorrow.
“You haven’t told me who His Majesty forgot,” the princess added softly. “But I can guess. That person must have been someone he cherished above all else. I’m sorry, but sometimes, this is the price.”
Mercedes took a deep breath. “Ingrid...”
But the golden-haired knight turned away, avoiding her friend’s gaze for the first time. “No. Please, don’t ask me to...”
On the day of the King of Faerghus’s birthday, news reached the capital of Duke Fraldarius’s triumphant return from the south, having crushed the last of the rebel forces.
Felix’s sharp features bore traces of fatigue from his long campaign. He dismounted in one fluid motion, brushing the cold snow from his cloak. When he saw Ingrid waiting by the gates, a flicker of surprise crossed his features.
“It’s freezing,” he said. “Why are you out here instead of waiting in the palace?”
He was headed there anyway, to find that boar and report on the situation in the south.
“I...” Ingrid hesitated.
“Hm?” Felix turned slightly, leading his horse by the reins. “Right—how’s the boar’s illness? He’d better not still be coughing three times for every word. It’s damn irritating to listen to.”
“He...” Ingrid’s expression darkened.
Seeing her face, a weight dropped like a stone in Felix’s chest. The shift in her expression was enough to unnerve him—he, who was rarely ever shaken. His voice sharpened at once. “What? The physician still hasn’t fixed him?”
“Felix, listen to me,” Ingrid said quietly, closing her eyes. “His Majesty has forgotten you.”
Felix didn’t seem to understand. For a moment, he assumed it was just another odd turn of phrase from his childhood friend. He kept walking, still heading for the palace, irritation creeping into his voice.
“I know I was away longer than expected. Is this that boar’s new way of whining for attention?”