[ they rush to defend him, bless his men by the cruel goddess that watches over this rotten country, and sylvain raises an arm to stop them. his answer is to comply: they take his lance, silver and gleaming in the moonlight, and his sword. sylvain's second-in-command nods at his command, and the men leave. the taunting words of the prince matter very little to them: they are adrestian men and women, and as far as they're concerned he has lost control of himself long ago. what they are looking at is the former shell of dimitri alexandre blaiddyd.
sylvain thinks to all the times felix has called him a boar and thinks he must feel vindicated now, in a bitter way, that all of his nightmares have come to pass.
he is guided by dimitri on his horse, uneasy by the way someone else other than his owner has seized the reins. sylvain hushes it, running his hands comfortingly on the animal's powerful neck. he can't deny the unease, too. dimitri may be calm now, but he's one of the many intelligent beasts of fodlan. and sylvain has spent enough time in this country to know that nothing here gets done without violence. he is an unwilling captive with a bestial prince, and the image would've been hilarious if it weren't so serious. turning himself over to dimitri given the state of things is a dangerous gamble.
in the dark, he watches his form. his hair long and matted on the sides of his face, the pelt of his over his armour ferocious and big like a dead animal, his armour covered in blood and grime. dimitri has filled out to his height, none of the softness the boy he knew had. that one, he thinks, he'll have to keep for his memories from now on. this one refuses to be recalled, resists the notion that he was somehow that person long ago.
in any case sylvain makes for a poor hostage, because he can never keep his mouth shut, and this time is no exception. ]
We thought you were dead, [ he murmurs softly. ] I would've tried harder if I'd known you were waiting for me.
[ another lesson sylvain is good at, to the detriment of all who knew him: words, the body, the slightest gesture or look - they are all weapons in the hand of a deft artist. there are many ways to wage a war, yes, but there are also many ways to wear down an opponent's defense, and if dimitri will insist being his captor, then he will be the patient whetstone until the role doesn't suit him anymore. on the chessboard, it would be similar to sacrificing a pawn to promote a knight; but dimitri doesn't play chess.
so he speaks to him like he has a right to do so: like this were another tryst, and there is a body to get lost in at the end of it. it is much of fatalistic sentimentality as it is the reckless attraction to death that has guided most of his life. the gautier crest, after all, fits its lance in that it can only bring ruin. ]
https://i.imgur.com/kg1hlSp.png
sylvain thinks to all the times felix has called him a boar and thinks he must feel vindicated now, in a bitter way, that all of his nightmares have come to pass.
he is guided by dimitri on his horse, uneasy by the way someone else other than his owner has seized the reins. sylvain hushes it, running his hands comfortingly on the animal's powerful neck. he can't deny the unease, too. dimitri may be calm now, but he's one of the many intelligent beasts of fodlan. and sylvain has spent enough time in this country to know that nothing here gets done without violence. he is an unwilling captive with a bestial prince, and the image would've been hilarious if it weren't so serious. turning himself over to dimitri given the state of things is a dangerous gamble.
in the dark, he watches his form. his hair long and matted on the sides of his face, the pelt of his over his armour ferocious and big like a dead animal, his armour covered in blood and grime. dimitri has filled out to his height, none of the softness the boy he knew had. that one, he thinks, he'll have to keep for his memories from now on. this one refuses to be recalled, resists the notion that he was somehow that person long ago.
in any case sylvain makes for a poor hostage, because he can never keep his mouth shut, and this time is no exception. ]
We thought you were dead, [ he murmurs softly. ] I would've tried harder if I'd known you were waiting for me.
[ another lesson sylvain is good at, to the detriment of all who knew him: words, the body, the slightest gesture or look - they are all weapons in the hand of a deft artist. there are many ways to wage a war, yes, but there are also many ways to wear down an opponent's defense, and if dimitri will insist being his captor, then he will be the patient whetstone until the role doesn't suit him anymore. on the chessboard, it would be similar to sacrificing a pawn to promote a knight; but dimitri doesn't play chess.
so he speaks to him like he has a right to do so: like this were another tryst, and there is a body to get lost in at the end of it. it is much of fatalistic sentimentality as it is the reckless attraction to death that has guided most of his life. the gautier crest, after all, fits its lance in that it can only bring ruin. ]