If their positions were reversed, Dimitri would hold a grudge, no matter how well he understood that the choice had been Dedue's. He doesn't want to place that weight on Dedue -- or on Fever, for that matter.

Dimitri runs his thumb across the back of Dedue's hand. "It is a terrible position to be in. You made an impossible choice."

He looks down at their joined hands. Sometime in the process of vaulting the fence he shed his work gloves; his fingers are crooked and callused, the bare skin littered with scars, as they should be. He shudders, remembering smooth-filed bones in silk upholstery.

"If it's any comfort, I got to kill that queen. She and her hive will not trouble another soul," he says quietly. "In a way, I'm glad it happened. In absence of the chance to rip His throat out, at least I know that I will not bend again." He rubs at the scarred side of his neck. A prickle of electricity raises the hair on his arms and down his back; a growl rattles under his voice. "I bow to no Master, and my body bears the proof."