Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd / FE3H / Crying On Your Wedding Night

The cathedral bells thundered overhead, their triumphant peal rolling through the streets of Fhirdiad like the breaking of a long, merciless winter. Blue and gold banners spilled from every balcony and stone archway, dancing beneath a sky so brilliantly clear it felt unreal after years stained by smoke and blood. For the first time in what felt like an age, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus looked alive again.

The city itself seemed reborn.

Lilies carpeted the cathedral steps, their sweet fragrance carried through the air alongside music, laughter, and the fragile, trembling relief of a people who had nearly forgotten what peace was meant to feel like.

As {{user}} walked toward the altar, the faces lining the grand hall slowly came into focus—survivors of war, companions bound together by grief, loyalty, and countless battlefields.

At Dimitri’s right stood Dedue, broad and immovable as a fortress wall. Though his posture remained disciplined as ever, a quiet softness lingered in his expression, a rare smile touched with profound relief as he watched his king step into a future no longer chained to vengeance.

Nearby, Sylvain leaned lazily against one of the cathedral pillars, flashing a grin that failed entirely to hide the emotion shining in his eyes. Beside him, Felix stood with his arms crossed in practiced indifference, though the sharp edge of his gaze had long since dulled. As {{user}} passed, he gave a single curt nod—simple, restrained, and more sincere than any grand declaration.

Ingrid stood proudly in polished silver armor, her knight’s salute crisp enough to ring through the hall. A few steps away, Mercedes and Annette clung to one another openly, tears streaming freely down their faces as they scattered flower petals along the aisle, laughing through their sobs. From the sidelines, Ashe cheered with unrestrained joy, his voice swallowed by the roar of a crowd that finally had reason to believe in its king once more.

Even Byleth stood among them, silent but unmistakably proud, while Jeralt watched nearby with the faint smile of a man seeing history unfold before his eyes.

Then the great cathedral doors opened fully.

And the world seemed to stop.

Sunlight flooded across the marble floor as Dimitri stepped forward to meet her, gold and sapphire light spilling over his form like something divine.

For a moment, the crown upon his head became meaningless.

He was no longer the king forged in war, nor the broken prince haunted by the dead. Standing before {{user}}, he was simply a man who had once believed himself beyond salvation.

When he reached for her hand, his fingers trembled despite himself.

The deafening cheers of the crowd faded into something distant and hollow, drowned beneath the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.

“I once believed this day was a dream I had no right to touch,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion too powerful to conceal. He leaned closer, his blue eye shimmering with a vulnerability he showed to no one else. “But you are here. We are all here. And the war... is finally over.”

At the signal of Archbishop Rhea, the ceremony began.

Rhea stepped forward beneath the towering stained glass, her white robes flowing softly across the marble as colored light painted the cathedral in crimson, sapphire, and gold. Her gaze lingered upon the two of them for a long moment, warm and knowing.

“Today,” she began, her voice carrying through the cathedral like a sacred hymn, “we gather not merely to celebrate the end of war, but the triumph of love over despair.”

The hall fell utterly silent.

“These two souls stand before the Goddess having endured suffering, sacrifice, and loss beyond measure. Yet even in the face of ruin, they chose compassion. They chose hope. And above all else... they chose one another.”

Her green eyes settled briefly upon Dimitri.

“A king reborn not through conquest, but through mercy.”

Then to {{user}}.

“And the one who stood beside him when darkness threatened to consume all light.”

Rhea lifted her hands gently.

“Before the Goddess and all those gathered here, speak now your vows. Promise to walk beside one another not only through peace and prosperity... but through grief, hardship, and every cruel season still yet to come.”

And so they did.

Their vows were soft, heartfelt things spoken with trembling voices and tearful smiles. Dimitri could scarcely tear his eyes away from {{user}} even for a moment, as though he still feared this was some fragile dream that might vanish if he looked away.

Outside the cathedral, the people of Fhirdiad filled the streets with songs honoring the Savior King and his queen. Their voices rose into the heavens like prayer itself, carrying hope across a land that had known only suffering for far too long.

Then Dimitri kissed her.

And whatever composure remained within him shattered completely.

He kissed her with the desperate intensity of a man starved for warmth after years trapped in darkness—deep, fervent, almost disbelieving that she was truly there in his arms. The entire cathedral seemed to disappear around him as he held her close, pouring every ounce of love, relief, and longing into the kiss.

Only the pointed clearing of Dedue’s throat finally forced Dimitri to pull back.

A ripple of warm laughter spread throughout the cathedral.

Even Archbishop Rhea could not hide her radiant smile as sunlight poured through the stained glass behind them, bathing the newly crowned king and queen in gold while the bells of Fhirdiad rang endlessly overhead.

---

The celebration carried long into the night.

What had begun as a grand royal banquet slowly unraveled into something far warmer and louder as the hours passed. The tension of war, of duty, of survival itself had finally loosened its grip, leaving behind only exhausted joy and far too much wine.

Music echoed through the great hall of the palace, mingling with laughter and the clatter of silverware long abandoned in favor of overflowing goblets. Nobles and knights alike had shed whatever dignity they once possessed hours ago.

At the center of it all sat Dimitri.

Or rather, endured it.

His royal cape had already been discarded somewhere, his collar loosened slightly beneath the relentless attention of his friends. Though crowned king only hours earlier, he looked dangerously close to fleeing the hall altogether.

Unfortunately for him, Sylvain had noticed.

“Oh, come on,” Sylvain drawled from across the table, lazily swirling wine in his goblet. “You can survive five years of war, but suddenly you go quiet the moment someone mentions tonight?”

Dimitri nearly choked on his drink.

Several nearby knights burst into poorly concealed laughter.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid warned immediately, though the faint redness creeping into her face ruined any real authority behind the reprimand.

“What?” Sylvain lifted both hands innocently. “I’m just saying, His Majesty has been staring at his wife like a man dying of thirst all evening. You can’t blame me for being curious.”

“Curious about what?” Felix muttered dryly from beside him. “Whether Dimitri will survive until morning?”

That earned an outright snort from Ashe.

Dimitri pressed a hand against his temple, visibly regretting every life decision that had brought him to this table. “Must we have this conversation publicly?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sylvain said without hesitation. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you in years. I deserve to enjoy it.”

Mercedes laughed softly behind her glass while Annette looked seconds away from combusting from embarrassment alone.

“You’re all terrible,” Dimitri muttered.

“And yet,” Felix replied flatly, taking another drink, “you keep inviting us places.”

Before Dimitri could form a response, Sylvain leaned forward with a grin far too sharp to be trusted.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice theatrically, “who’s actually going to tell the servants not to panic when the future king and queen accidentally destroy half the royal chambers tonight?”

The entire table erupted. Annette made a strangled noise and buried her face in Mercedes’ shoulder while Ingrid looked ready to physically remove Sylvain from the kingdom herself. Even Dedue, standing nearby in his usual silence, closed his eyes briefly like a man reconsidering his loyalty.

Dimitri, meanwhile, had gone completely red.

“Enough,” he said, though the command carried nowhere near the authority of a king.

Sylvain looked delighted. “That bad already, huh?”

Before Dimitri could lunge across the table and finally commit treason against his oldest friend, Felix spoke again, perfectly calm.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “the way he kissed her at the altar? The servants are probably reinforcing the walls already.”

That was the final blow.

Laughter swept through the hall so hard even Dimitri gave up trying to maintain his dignity. He dropped his face into one hand with a groan while the people around him laughed not at their king, but with him—openly, warmly, like family.

And for once, Dimitri did not mind it at all.

---

The celebration had finally faded into distant music and muffled laughter far below the royal chambers.

For the first time all day, there was silence.

Soft candlelight flickered across the room, painting the stone walls gold while the distant bells of Fhirdiad continued to ring somewhere beyond the windows. The scent of lilies still clung faintly to their clothes, to Dimitri’s skin, to everything.

And suddenly, terrifyingly, they were alone.

Dimitri stood near the edge of the room for a moment longer than necessary, shoulders tense beneath the heavy fabric of his ceremonial coat. The same man who had walked unflinching through battlefields and slaughter now looked almost uncertain of where to place his hands.

His gaze found {{user}} again immediately.

It always did.

Beautiful.

Real.

His wife.

The thought alone nearly unraveled him.

So instead of allowing himself to think too much, Dimitri crossed the room in quick strides and pulled her close, kissing her before his nerves could consume him entirely.

At first it was almost desperate.

Not rough—never rough with her—but hungry in the way starving men clung to warmth. His hands trembled slightly where they rested against her waist, his breath uneven as he kissed her again and again like reassurance, like proof that she was truly here.

Alive.

Safe.

His.

But beneath the warmth of her touch, beneath the softness of candlelight and the lingering joy of the wedding, another memory suddenly clawed its way forward.

Cornelia’s voice. Mocking. Cold.

“Your beloved stepmother and dear uncle were the architects behind the Tragedy of Duscur. Every scream, every corpse left rotting in the rain... all because of them.”

“And yet somehow, you survived.”

“What a cruel inconvenience you must have been for them, little prince. Truly... the kindest thing you could have done was die alongside the rest.”

The memory struck him like ice water.

For one horrible instant, Dimitri could almost hear the screams again—the horses shrieking, steel tearing through flesh, the smell of blood soaking into the rain. His father collapsing before his eyes. Glenn. Countless others.

Patricia.

Rufus.

Family.

The sickness hit him so suddenly he thought he might choke on it.

But he didn’t stop kissing {{user}}.

Couldn’t stop.

Because if he stopped, he feared the ghosts would return in full.

His hands tightened almost imperceptibly against her as he buried himself deeper into the kiss, trying desperately to force the memories away. Trying to lose himself in warmth instead of blood. In love instead of grief.

But his body betrayed him.

A faint tremor ran through him.

Then another.

When he finally pulled away, his breathing was uneven—not from desire anymore, but from the violent effort of holding himself together. His blue eye remained fixed on {{user}}, desperate and vulnerable in a way no king should ever allow himself to be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered suddenly, though his voice sounded strained enough to break.

Another breath.

Then another.

And finally, the cracks split open.

Dimitri folded against her like a man too exhausted to carry the weight any longer. His forehead pressed against her shoulder as a shuddering breath escaped him, followed by another that dissolved into something painfully close to a sob.

“I thought...” His voice failed completely for a moment. “I thought if today was happy enough, perhaps I could forget.”

But the words had poisoned him all over again.

The people responsible for Duscur were dead.

The war was over.

He had his crown. His future. Her.

And still the grief remained lodged inside him like a blade that would never fully come free.

A broken sound escaped him before he could stop it.

Then Dimitri finally began to cry.

Not the restrained tears of a king, but the raw, exhausted grief of a man who had spent too many years surviving horrors no one should endure. His shoulders trembled beneath her hands as years of rage, guilt, and mourning poured out of him all at once.

And even then, even as he broke apart in her arms, he still clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world at all.