Dedue unwraps the parcel carefully, once he has taken it from Dimitri's trembling hands. Delicately, of course, as befits a treasured gift from his cherished prince. He expects a pot of some sort, just based off of the shape of it, though the truth of it is far more sentimental than that word could ever imply.
It is precious beyond measure. Dimitri has gained skill in his woodcarving hobby, but this is more than just the sum of his ability-- it's them. The two of them, their history, etched indelibly into the wood.
He turns the pot in his hands, to view the images in chronological order. Sees first the two of them, children clinging to each other in the aftermath of their terrible meeting, and gently caresses the yellow mop of carved hair, its shape a simple but nostalgic representation of the hairstyle that Dimitri once wore. He can recall Dimitri's face as it was then better than he can remember the faces of his own family anymore; the figures don't need to have features for him to know what they should look like. The next image, years later, of them in their monastery uniforms, Dedue standing vigilant as His Highness's shield. Aligned in purpose, in action, an inseparable pair.
It is the next two images, though, that strike his heart most keenly. Their reunion at Myrddin had not been quite so sweet as this depiction implies, but the soul of it is there-- of two halves of a single whole, brought together again. Everything that Dedue had to endure, the captivity under Cornelia and the long, arduous process of healing from his wounds, was worth it for that moment that he saw Dimitri again. Had Dedue's sense of duty been any less, he might have done exactly as this carving portrays and thrown down his weapon the moment that danger had passed to instead go to His Highness.
And the last. Love finally realized in its fullest. Something that could only exist in this peaceful world, united in a manner that would be scandalous in the very lands that Dimitri would one day rule.
Turn again, and back to the beginning. Endless.
"It is beautiful," he says, and there are holy relics that are not held so preciously as his hands hold this pot. "I adore it."
He reaches out with one hand to draw Dimitri in, then, to press a kiss to his beloved brow and to that unruly yellow hair. To hold him and press his face against the crown of his head, for lack of the words to describe how this gift has moved him.
no subject
It is precious beyond measure. Dimitri has gained skill in his woodcarving hobby, but this is more than just the sum of his ability-- it's them. The two of them, their history, etched indelibly into the wood.
He turns the pot in his hands, to view the images in chronological order. Sees first the two of them, children clinging to each other in the aftermath of their terrible meeting, and gently caresses the yellow mop of carved hair, its shape a simple but nostalgic representation of the hairstyle that Dimitri once wore. He can recall Dimitri's face as it was then better than he can remember the faces of his own family anymore; the figures don't need to have features for him to know what they should look like. The next image, years later, of them in their monastery uniforms, Dedue standing vigilant as His Highness's shield. Aligned in purpose, in action, an inseparable pair.
It is the next two images, though, that strike his heart most keenly. Their reunion at Myrddin had not been quite so sweet as this depiction implies, but the soul of it is there-- of two halves of a single whole, brought together again. Everything that Dedue had to endure, the captivity under Cornelia and the long, arduous process of healing from his wounds, was worth it for that moment that he saw Dimitri again. Had Dedue's sense of duty been any less, he might have done exactly as this carving portrays and thrown down his weapon the moment that danger had passed to instead go to His Highness.
And the last. Love finally realized in its fullest. Something that could only exist in this peaceful world, united in a manner that would be scandalous in the very lands that Dimitri would one day rule.
Turn again, and back to the beginning. Endless.
"It is beautiful," he says, and there are holy relics that are not held so preciously as his hands hold this pot. "I adore it."
He reaches out with one hand to draw Dimitri in, then, to press a kiss to his beloved brow and to that unruly yellow hair. To hold him and press his face against the crown of his head, for lack of the words to describe how this gift has moved him.