I think you'll find that as their loving general, I'm not going to let them fall to your lance. That honour, if it can be called as such, falls to me.
[ sylvain is strong, reliable on the battlefield as a capable general, but reckless, as always. his captains look at him, wincing at his words as he says them, because sylvain always fights like he's going to die the next day. his men deserve better, which is why he pushes them as hard as he can. but for himself? if he knew what self-preservation was like it had deserted him like a goddess in the ruins the way garreg mach stands now, a shell of its former self. and what are they if not that?
surrender, dimitri declares, and sylvain sighs. would that it was easier to do so, just to bend the knee and let him cut off his head the way he would want to. the way he probably deserves it, maybe. sylvain has very few regrets, and he can't really say past loves are one of them, but losing dimitri in this manner is enough to make a man pause about life. the promise of his life being spared is an attractive prospect. maybe if he were a better man, he would've taken the offer.
as it stands, he is no longer that man. whatever promises he'd made as a knight of faerghus to him, once upon a time, no longer applies here. all he has is sadness; but then again, all everyone has nowadays is sadness for currency. tragedy as a homecoming. the desire to kill him feels like miklan, feels like falling into a well and tasting rancid water in his mouth, winter in the cold mountains as all the numbness starts touching his fingers and toes and he contemplates of death.
the violence and vitriol feels like home. it is so palpable in the way dimitri talks that he can almost feel miklan's shadow. ]
As for being on my knees, well. I've got a lot of experience on that. You're just playing to my strengths here. [ the slightest tittering rumbles across his battalion, like crows in the fall. ] But I can't say I'm good at the 'surrendering' part at all.
no subject
[ sylvain is strong, reliable on the battlefield as a capable general, but reckless, as always. his captains look at him, wincing at his words as he says them, because sylvain always fights like he's going to die the next day. his men deserve better, which is why he pushes them as hard as he can. but for himself? if he knew what self-preservation was like it had deserted him like a goddess in the ruins the way garreg mach stands now, a shell of its former self. and what are they if not that?
surrender, dimitri declares, and sylvain sighs. would that it was easier to do so, just to bend the knee and let him cut off his head the way he would want to. the way he probably deserves it, maybe. sylvain has very few regrets, and he can't really say past loves are one of them, but losing dimitri in this manner is enough to make a man pause about life. the promise of his life being spared is an attractive prospect. maybe if he were a better man, he would've taken the offer.
as it stands, he is no longer that man. whatever promises he'd made as a knight of faerghus to him, once upon a time, no longer applies here. all he has is sadness; but then again, all everyone has nowadays is sadness for currency. tragedy as a homecoming. the desire to kill him feels like miklan, feels like falling into a well and tasting rancid water in his mouth, winter in the cold mountains as all the numbness starts touching his fingers and toes and he contemplates of death.
the violence and vitriol feels like home. it is so palpable in the way dimitri talks that he can almost feel miklan's shadow. ]
As for being on my knees, well. I've got a lot of experience on that. You're just playing to my strengths here. [ the slightest tittering rumbles across his battalion, like crows in the fall. ] But I can't say I'm good at the 'surrendering' part at all.
Can't we negotiate something else?