[somehow, the idea that everyone didn't show up here was somehow worse. where did they go, then? what different hell were they facing? or was there something more arcane at work? he and sylvain had come from slightly different points on the timeline, and dimitri from another entirely. what if people took years to show up, and without a guarantee of when? in a few months, would he encounter a young rodrigue who died in a battle with sreng?

the possibility of his soul having been claimed by oblivium, or worse, made into someone's tool, was not to be considered. instead, he rolls sylvain's question over in his mind, wondering if he should even answer it to begin with. after a long silence, he looks off, eyes unfocused on the middle distance.]

He was always going to die for his king in some damn fool way.

[the drink is nearly completely gone from his system, now—just enough remaining to bring the words out.]

I could never have stopped that.

[but it still... stings. and a part of him can't shake that it all could have been avoided, if only he'd found dimitri after his imprisonment. if he had been there, maybe he wouldn't have lost himself. and if he hadn't lost himself, his father might still have been alive.

it's a foolish thought, and he brushes it away—but the unease remains.]

There's nothing to forgive the dead for. A corpse doesn't care about your feelings.