"I ... do. You'll see them, as well -- the shades operate most of the ship. They're real, though they don't usually speak. I'm not sure if that makes it better, or worse."

When he's calmer, Dimitri knows that the dead are dead, and it's not really their voices that haunt him -- but it's hard to remember, and easier to forget. Given what they learned last month, it's all too possible that the corpses at the diner and the shades in the mirrors really did belong to previous passengers. Dimitri shudders and casts off that thought before it can swallow him.

I believed I could not go back to you. That was the worst of all. The words lodge like a knife in Dimitri's heart. His hands flex uselessly on his lap. "I've missed you," he whispers, the admission torn like barbed wire from his chest. "And -- I prayed that you would never have to suffer this place. Even if it meant never seeing you again."

He sighs, wet and shaky; drags a hand down his face, and dares to lean into Dedue's side. "But you're here now. There's no changing that. It's a great deal to adjust to, but I will be with you as I always have been. As long as you want me." He's never been able to fathom Dedue's faith, his certainty. How can he be so comforting in the face of all this? So effortlessly steadying? "We will find a way out of this. It will take time, and it will take patience, but we will. I promise you."

("There he goes again, making promises he can't keep. The boy never learns.")