Dimitri's explained it before. But ... that had been in Fódlan, where everyone had a passing familiarity with the Tragedy of Duscur; Dimitri had only needed to fill in the gaps. Darcy has none of that context. Here on the Serena Eterna, Dimitri had hoped ... hoped, however vainly, that it might not have to define him.

Foolish of him. Faithless. In the end, he can't escape being himself.

He settles himself on the couch, squares his shoulders and straightens his spine; fixes his gaze somewhere dead ahead, in the middle distance, and draws a deep breath.

"My father was murdered," he says dully. "We were travelling. Our convoy was attacked. My father, and my best friend at the time ... others ... t-they died protecting me. It's only because of them that I survived." His hands bunch in the fabric of his pants, crooked knuckles white and trembling. He does not look at Darcy. "Only I survived."

Now it gets tricky, but to be honest, he's already thought about how to explain this without giving away more than he needs to. If he hesitates, let Darcy think it's because the memories are difficult -- which they are. "The attack was blamed on the people living nearby. There was ... retaliation. I was a witness -- I knew the truth -- but no one would listen. I could do nothing. I -- "

He shakes his head, shoulders bunched, fists balled on his knees. "In Faerghus," he goes on more steadily, a little hoarse, "those who are killed unjustly, whose deaths go unavenged ... their souls are trapped in a frozen, lightless realm beneath the earth, unable to move on, unable to find peace. I'm the only one left. The only one who can save them. So when they called out to me from the mirror -- " Finally, he turns to Darcy, pleading for ... something. Understanding. Mercy. Judgement. " -- I had to try."