[ what an inauspicious day to be a sentimentalist. if sylvain had any sense he'd be kicking his own teeth in in an effort to stay away from unlucky things - old friends, family, the monastery in its empty, rat-infested glory. vermin littered it from wall to wall, the memories he's had of the place vanishing on sight as it towers over them like a beast. it has more in common with conand in terms of importance than anything else. he shouldn't have taken this tasking, and yet here he is. stuck in a place he'd rather not be.
his captains tell him: the townspeople are worried about the demon in the walls. sylvain had only shrugged, frowning at the report. in the absence of gods, men more desperate than he is have constructed false ones. perhaps that was inevitable, too.
in the dark, his men fall one by one as if hunted down. death doesn't bother him, at least not anymore, but when it's his battalion he starts to worry. he calls the search off; orders his captains to pull together the soldiers towards him in a close formation, ready to attack as a whole instead of scattered to the winds like easy prey.
he'd learned a few things, here and there. the empire not being charitable to his background considering the privilege (hah) he'd enjoyed as a friend and supposed confidante of dimitri, they have decided not to trust him; which is wise, really, though it means that sylvain has to prove himself twice as hard in battle because nothing else is riding on his name. more than that, the rumours about him continue to circulate: if he can betray his prince, what more for the emperor? nevermind the fact that he'd fought his father and everyone else to get here. that hubert keeps him on a tight leash. that felix is likely honing a sword's edge with his name on it. he had wanted freedom; he had obtained it at a cost; and while he does not regret his decision, sylvain being too jaded now to believe in nothing else short of the ground being razed to make room for a new fodlan. here, in the empire, he's just a general. one with his vices, but then again, who isn't?
such as this, for example. learning a taste for heartbreak is one of his tragedies. the familiar lance - and that is all where it stops. dimitri, as he is in a way that he doesn't remember. blue eyes that he could lose himself in his depths, blond hair so soft in his hands. that boy is long gone. shut up against the armour like it was his own prison, covered in blood, reeking of death. his horse whinnies, feels tense at his approach. sylvain's armor, black and red, well-used in war, looks pristine compared to his armor, well-worn, battle-tested. a threat.
how should he address him? he was your highness for most of his life; dimitri in the quiet of his bedroom which is now a memory he can never bring up lest he betray him even more. who is this man? faerghus' king? they don't even know he's alive.
his captains look to him in response.
sylvain is quiet, his horse impatiently pawing the ground, aching to fight. ]
... you're a little too good at making a guy's heart all a-flutter.
[ edelgard would want him alive. hubert will have his head if he doesn't comply. there is nothing for him to return to - gautier has denounced him, fraldarius will quarter him when its interim duke finds him. nothing but the empire, now, and edelgard's lovely hand, snow white, reaching out to him. come with me. ]
I know you're probably aching to stab me, but is there any chance you can make room for talks? Over tea, perhaps? [ sylvain smiles. he is a chameleon, wearing his old face, nice and warm and loving. his voice soft and affectionate. it fits him like a glove. there you go, your highness. i've been waiting for you. ] I recall you loved chamomile a lot, though I think you have different tastes now.
no subject
his captains tell him: the townspeople are worried about the demon in the walls. sylvain had only shrugged, frowning at the report. in the absence of gods, men more desperate than he is have constructed false ones. perhaps that was inevitable, too.
in the dark, his men fall one by one as if hunted down. death doesn't bother him, at least not anymore, but when it's his battalion he starts to worry. he calls the search off; orders his captains to pull together the soldiers towards him in a close formation, ready to attack as a whole instead of scattered to the winds like easy prey.
he'd learned a few things, here and there. the empire not being charitable to his background considering the privilege (hah) he'd enjoyed as a friend and supposed confidante of dimitri, they have decided not to trust him; which is wise, really, though it means that sylvain has to prove himself twice as hard in battle because nothing else is riding on his name. more than that, the rumours about him continue to circulate: if he can betray his prince, what more for the emperor? nevermind the fact that he'd fought his father and everyone else to get here. that hubert keeps him on a tight leash. that felix is likely honing a sword's edge with his name on it. he had wanted freedom; he had obtained it at a cost; and while he does not regret his decision, sylvain being too jaded now to believe in nothing else short of the ground being razed to make room for a new fodlan. here, in the empire, he's just a general. one with his vices, but then again, who isn't?
such as this, for example. learning a taste for heartbreak is one of his tragedies. the familiar lance - and that is all where it stops. dimitri, as he is in a way that he doesn't remember. blue eyes that he could lose himself in his depths, blond hair so soft in his hands. that boy is long gone. shut up against the armour like it was his own prison, covered in blood, reeking of death. his horse whinnies, feels tense at his approach. sylvain's armor, black and red, well-used in war, looks pristine compared to his armor, well-worn, battle-tested. a threat.
how should he address him? he was your highness for most of his life; dimitri in the quiet of his bedroom which is now a memory he can never bring up lest he betray him even more. who is this man? faerghus' king? they don't even know he's alive.
his captains look to him in response.
sylvain is quiet, his horse impatiently pawing the ground, aching to fight. ]
... you're a little too good at making a guy's heart all a-flutter.
[ edelgard would want him alive. hubert will have his head if he doesn't comply. there is nothing for him to return to - gautier has denounced him, fraldarius will quarter him when its interim duke finds him. nothing but the empire, now, and edelgard's lovely hand, snow white, reaching out to him. come with me. ]
I know you're probably aching to stab me, but is there any chance you can make room for talks? Over tea, perhaps? [ sylvain smiles. he is a chameleon, wearing his old face, nice and warm and loving. his voice soft and affectionate. it fits him like a glove. there you go, your highness. i've been waiting for you. ] I recall you loved chamomile a lot, though I think you have different tastes now.