Chapter Text
I.
On his way south to Conand Tower, Sylvain stopped in the town Gwalchmei for the evening. It sat a few miles from the Tailtean plains, on the cusp of Blaiddyd and Galatea. Dimitri had paved a road straight through it just a year ago. Like a child stumbling headfirst into puberty, it had bulged and bloated into a respectable trading town, one with real feathers in their mattresses and real alcohol in their storerooms.
At the inn, he procured a room, a bath, and a meal, in that order; he took the latter down at the tavern, keeping light and friendly conversation with the barkeeper and other amicable parties. Like many, they may have been drawn to his courtliness, his nobility; or else his reputation as a knight of Dimitri’s court, and the scent of his adventure.
Or more likely, they were drawn to his reputation as the rake of the Round Table—a real secular, bonafide scoundrel.
He was knee-deep in one of his best stories, a tale of his confrontation with a serpent down in Gideon which resulted in a passionate affair with some vassal’s wife, when the door opened. Sylvain heard the creak cut through the din. His body unfolded to the sound, though he had no way of knowing who it was before he turned.
Then he did.
“You’re here,” said Felix. He was scowling. His eyes narrowed. “Sylvain.”
II.
“Felix,” said Sylvain. He rose from his seat and crossed the room, dazed; for some reason he felt it paramount to touch him, to have some bodily proof of his realness. The room hushed. The next words fell out of his mouth without his permission: “I heard you went to Brécheliant and got married.”
If possible, Felix scowled harder. He accepted Sylvain’s half-hug with the same rigid, bristling restlessness he’d possessed since age fourteen. Underneath his leathers, he smelled like a cold wind, a little earth and sharp pine, a waft of acidic sweat. His neck was smooth and pale, dimpled where it met his jaw.
“I didn’t,” he said shortly. “You need to stop listening to the gossipmongers. When have they have ever been right about me?”
“I don’t know,” said Sylvain. “They’re always onto something with me.”
Felix sighed in a way that said, Because you’re always giving them something to be right about. But then his gaze moved past him, sweeping over the room, most of which had begun to stare openly at them: the noble scions of House Gautier and Fraldarius reunited at last. His mouth slashed harshly down.
That was how Sylvain knew his evening of socializing was over. He called for another bath, another meal to be brought up, crowded Felix into his room, and shut the door.
“Okay,” Sylvain said. Felix had divested himself of his layers; naked and still unhappy, he slunk into the steaming bath, “You’re not married.”
“No,” said Felix. Then, grudgingly at Sylvain’s pointed silence, he continued, “I did go to Brécheliant. After we split up, I heard word that Areadbhar was being kept there by a fairy king. I went. We fought. I killed him.”
“And married his wife?” Sylvain hedged.
Felix threw him a baleful look over the rim of the wooden tub. He had his arm, corded with lean muscle and scar tissue, thrown casually across the edge, dripping wet.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said.
“You killed his wife too,” suggested Sylvain.
“I told you. You need to stop listening to every gossip-monger in Faerghus,” Felix grouched. He moved to tuck a strand of dark hair behind his ear. The water rippled; the muscles of his shoulder did too. Sylvain tracked the movement guiltily. He couldn’t help it. It stirred something magnetic inside him.
“So what I’m hearing is, you never listen to any tales of mine,” said Sylvain, toying with the fabric of his pants.
“All yours are romances,” Felix muttered. “What’s there to listen to. It’s the same thing every moon anyway. Hardly any of it’s true.”
But he sank down in the tub, turning his face away.
“So you do!” crowed Sylvain. “I hear there’s some good ones going around lately, you’ll have to catch me up. I’ve been locked up in His Majesty’s tournaments, I haven’t heard any in a while.”
There was a pause as Felix evidently weighed the most effective options to strike Sylvain dead right then and there The water rippled.
Then Felix said, “I met Ingrid in Arianrhod a moon ago. She’d come down from Fhirdiad.”
“Sure, I saw her,” said Sylvain. “She beat me black and blue at the tournament this year. Surely she’s not the one informing you about my sex life?”
“No,” said Felix. He brooded for a long moment, and then said, “She told me you’re seeking the Lance of Ruin.”
Sylvain chuckled reflexively. Then he processed what Felix had said, and his stomach plummeted.
It had occurred to him briefly that Felix might have sought him out because of his promise—any number of them, in any combination—though it had seemed self-aggrandizing, near egotistical to presume so. They had only been children, and besides his most recent promise…nobody could know about that.
“Maybe I am,” he said slowly, trying to work out what Felix knew, and to what extent he knew it. He shouldn’t have let anything slip to Ingrid. But he had been drunk; the deadline was drawing near. He could feel it breathing down his neck. His feelings had spilled over. “So what? It’s the Lance of Ruin. I have the Crest of Gautier in my blood. Felix, it’s practically my responsibility.”
“As if you would know anything about that,” Felix scoffed. “Responsibility.”
Sylvain almost smiled at that.
“You as well, Felix,” he said lightly. “That’s why we make such a good pair, right?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Felix snapped. “But no. That’s what makes you an idiot. After all we went through looking for Areadbhar, you want to go through this again? On your own? If you’re not ever going to take responsibility, definitely don’t start now.”
So Felix didn’t know anything. Sylvain blew out a long breath.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You managed pretty well by yourself, with Areadbhar.”
Felix laughed. “Is this what this is about? I never took you for someone with an inferiority complex, Sylvain. I thought that was more Miklan’s style.”
“Goddess,” Sylvain groaned. “Felix, please. What’s there to fight about? The Lance of Ruin is Gautier’s. I’m a Gautier. Don’t you remember when the Heroes’ Relics first reappeared in Fódlan? Before we knew you needed a Crest to wield them? I’m just trying to make sure more people don’t die in the name of adventure. Is that such a crime?”
“Ingrid is worried you’re going to get yourself killed,” Felix said, which meant in his prickly, roundabout way that he was worried too.
“Felix,” said Sylvain, touched.
“Whatever,” Felix said aggressively. He visibly struggled with his next words, though he didn’t need to. Sylvain knew. But he said it anyway, grim and resigned to his own vulnerability: “Let me come with you.”
Sylvain raised an eyebrow. “Because that worked so well last time.”
A muscle in Felix’s jaw contracted. How unfair that he looked beautiful, even like this. “You don’t get a choice in this.”
“You can’t.”
“Your quest hardly stipulates that you have to go alone.”
“You know I have to,” Sylvain said helplessly. “Listen, Felix. You of all people know I’m not the greatest knight in Faerghus. Far from it. But because I am a knight of Dimitri’s court, and I am the crested son of Gautier—it’s my duty.”
“I don’t know anything about anything,” said Felix, with a brusque determination, plowing right past everything else. His eyes bore holes in Sylvain’s face. “Sylvain. I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t actually be serious.”.
“I’ll fall on my sword first, if you need proof,” said Felix. He flicked at the surface of the water. “Whether you die now or later, you’ll die in the end, and you’ll die alone. And then where will I be.”
“Is this about our childhood promise?” Sylvain said, surprised. It would be lying to say that it hadn’t occurred to him; he’d thought about it often. It had often kept him alive. But… “Felix, I thought it was obvious. I release you from your obligations. This takes precedence, obviously, so I’d never make you—”
Felix made a deep, aggravated sound in the back of his throat. “Don’t be stupid.”
Sylvain went silent. Felix wouldn’t drop it. He knew he wouldn’t. He had caught onto the scent like a hound. He’d die before he let go. The old anxiety, the old dread battered inside of him. He couldn’t mark where it split: Felix staying, Felix leaving. The blackwater swirled and swelled against his skull.
And Felix. What would it mean to him? To watch someone else he loved ride away. To know they had died far from him.
“You know…” he said, mouth dry. “Miklan…”
But he could hardly go on.
In the low light, something almost soft slunk over Felix’s face, like a thief sneaking in under the guise of darkness.
Sylvain closed his eyes, saw the dull glow of the fire flickering still.
“Okay,” he said, breathing out. “Yeah. Okay. Come with me.”
II.
The Heroes’ Relics had arrived in Fódlan three years ago, when spring was on the cusp of tumbling into summer. They were legendary weapons, capable of being wielded only by the strongest and most capable of all warriors, or so it was said; artifacts of the Ten Elites, which had disappeared a thousand years ago, reappearing now. Dimitri had put out a call to find and claim them; the whole of Faerghus shivered to attention.
It was a deadly series of quests. Knights died in droves fighting demonic monsters, fighting bandits, fighting other knights; or else they emerged from all that bloodshed alive, got their hands on a Relic, turned into demonic monsters, and then died. Longer route, same destination.
Ingrid, ever pragmatic, had foregone what seemed like certain death for a time to remain in Fhirdiad, to see how things played out. Dimitri was king: he remained in Fhirdiad to govern. Felix put no stock in such legends, so he remained with Dimitri. And Sylvain was a coward at heart, so he remained with Felix.
Then Sir Byleth had ridden into court, stone-faced and wielding the Sword of the Creator, and all hell had broken loose.
At dawn, Sylvain shook Felix awake. The air outside was crisp and cold. Felix bartered for a horse. In a genuine feat of emotional tournament, the horse looked more miserable at the prospect of Felix riding it than Felix did at the prospect of riding a horse. Small wonders.
On the road, Sylvain said, “You would have been in Fhirdiad, if you found Areadbhar. We must have just missed each other.”
Felix was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I didn’t go to Fhirdiad.”
“You didn’t?” said Sylvain, so surprised he nearly dropped his reins. “But Dimitri—”
“I gave it to the old man,” Felix said gruffly. His mouth tightened. “He’ll make sure he gets it. I don’t want to see the boar’s face. He has enough weapons of destruction around him already. Who’s to say what kind of havoc he’ll wreak with this.”
His face ran through a complicated set of exercises, all unhappy.
“Besides,” he added reticently, his neck flushing red. “I had somewhere to be. Whatever.”
Sylvain tried not to break out into a full-on grin.
“Brécheliant, then,” he said, happy to change the subject. “The enchanted forest. How was it. Horrifying? I’ve always wanted to go. They say there’s a fountain there which can summon storms.”
“It’s not that exciting,” said Felix. Grudgingly, he added, “It’s more of a spring. You can’t drink from it. I had to fight another knight in the rain.”
Fascinated, Sylvain said, “A fairy knight?”
“A normal knight,” said Felix. Then, nearly accusingly: “I thought you’d met fairies before. People are always going on about, ah—” he flushed, turning his head away. His knee jerked in the reins, reflexively angry with his own body’s reactions. “Your lemman. The fairy.”
“Aw, Felix, you weren’t joking about keeping up with my stories,” Sylvain said. He put a hand to his heart; Felix glared at him, and urged his horse faster. “Felix—wait, Felix! Felix, I’m just joking. I don’t have any fairy sweetheart. It’s just, I mean…you know how I am.”
“Do I?” said Felix. Sylvain smiled.
“You do,” he said, growing more confident. He spurred his horse to cross the distance between them. “Last I met one was, I think, in Charon a few moons ago. We had sex! Very good sex, she—Felix, wait, slow down, come on, Felix. That’s all there is to it. I promise. It’s just, it, it makes a good tale, you know?”
Felix considered this.
“Human ones, then. Lady Arnault?” he asked. Sylvain opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “Don’t say she’s married.”
Abashed, Sylvain said, “I’m only following the principles of courtliness, Felix. Not everyone can afford to reject it wholesale. Sometimes you have to flirt with married women—not that that’s what happened with Dorothea, Felix, really…”
“It doesn’t matter to me anyway,” said Felix, with a tsk. “I just wanted to know who to inform, once you’re dead. You can do what you like.”
“I will!” said Sylvain. He was growing increasingly confused with the direction this conversation was taking. But still: nearly a year apart and here they were again, falling into the same paces. It was positively nostalgic. “Anyway Felix, if I did have a partner, surely they’d already know.”
“About your selfish nature?” Felix sneered, but he softened the end of his words bluntly, like he grew ashamed halfway through speaking them.
“Well, yes,” Sylvain admitted. “But I mean, my, uh—that I, I’m going after the Lance.”
“You never tell anyone anything important,” Felix replied, very nearly accusingly.
“That’s—” Sylvain floundered. It was true, more than Felix knew, though he wasn’t about to admit that. He settled for saying, like a child, “You knew.”
“Because Ingrid told me,” said Felix.
“Well,” Sylvain said, “forget I said anything then. Don’t be mad again, Felix. If I had a partner, I’m sure they wouldn’t know any of this. So really, you have a leg up.”
Felix didn’t respond to this. Sylvain stared straight ahead at the horizon-line. It was a cold, frosty morning. The sky was pale blue, iced over with cloud cover. It was a nice day, all things considered. One of the last few nice days of his life, if he was so lucky.
A year ago, on Saint Cichol Day, Dimitri had held a lavish feast in Fhirdiad. A few Relics had been retrieved at this point, by the worthiest of knights, yes, who as it so happened, were also almost exclusively nobility. Sir Byleth was the exception, of course; and Sir Catherine of the Knights of Seiros, though she had been nobility-born. Regardless, a clear pattern had emerged: only those with Crests could wield the Relics, and only a synchronized Crest-Relic set could unlock their full might.
Political tensions had been fraught then, and to an extent still were. There were rumors that the Emperor of Adrestia was accumulating military might, though for what reason no one could say for sure. War, certainly, but with who, and for what? And anyway, unease was growing like a tumor in the streets of Faerghus too. Questions about Dimitri’s ascension, following the death of Rufus Blaiddyd three years ago, had bubbled beneath the surface for the past two years, strangely perpetuated and fed. Conspiracy abounded.
Sylvain and Felix had departed together in order to seek out Areadbhar in Dimitri’s place, reasoning that having a Relic—the Blaiddyd Relic, no less—would serve as a symbol to confirm his position as King of Faerghus, and prevent further unrest. At that point, they’d been unsuccessful in pinning it down, and so returned to Fhirdiad empty-handed.
Felix, as he was wont to do, skipped straight out of the great hall at first sight of Dimitri’s face. Whether it was Dimitri’s boarishness or the general air of merriment that repulsed him, Sylvain sincerely could not say.
“Will you go after him?” asked Sir Byleth, hushed and just outside the hall.
“I don’t really know if you want me to be the one…” Sylvain trailed off. Byleth’s expression was blank as ever, though it was always unnerving to stand under her full attention. It made him feel as if he was being flayed open with surgical precision.
Out here, he could hear Dimitri begin to give his address—the usual, royal speech thanking those in attendance for their presence, a few platitudes about strength and unity.
“I apologize for making all of you wait much longer to eat—I myself have been anticipating this moment all day,” he said grandly, to some scattered laughter, “but in the tradition of those mythical kings of Faerghus, and in the spirit of this Saint Cichol Day, I must pledge to take no portion from my plate on such a day until a story is told, or some grand aventure occurs…”
Byleth said nothing, but she inclined her head towards the grand hall’s direction.
“I’ll see if I can find him,” Sylvain promised, and then ducked out.
On his jaunt towards the training yard, he heard a clamor in the hall, a smattering of applause as someone no doubt began to recant some tale of heroics, or else Annette and Mercedes worked a miracle for the audience’s ooh-ing and aah-ing. Then, as he moved deeper into the castle, the noise began to fall away, until the only sound he could hear was the clomp-clomp of his own footfall.
He turned the corner, and saw the chapel there. The evening light streamed in through stained glass windows, spilling out into the hallway. Oddly enough, despite the green panels, the light burned red—a deep, saturated scarlet that poured over the pews, flowed into the aisle.
Sylvain stopped. A figure stood in the center of the chapel, back facing him. His steel-plated armor glowed like an ember. He held a chittering lance, bone-yellow, with a dull red gem sunk in the center. Sylvain knew at once, even without ever seeing it before, that it was his. It was the Lance of Ruin.
The Red Knight turned around then, a slow and clanking motion. He lifted his bloody visor.
Sylvain said, hoarsely, “Miklan?”
“Hey little brother,” Miklan said, low and amused. “I heard the king calling. Want to have an adventure?”
IV.
“Why are you here?” Sylvain demanded. He felt cold all over, frozen in place. It felt as if reality bent and shivered around him. There was no way it could be Miklan. There was no way Miklan could be here. The last time he’d seen him, Miklan had been riding away, disinherited and shamed—his broad back hunched and disappearing over a hill. “The Lance—”
“This thing?” said Miklan, holding it up. The Lance clicked and wriggled in his hand. The corner of his mouth folded up. “I told you. I heard the King calling for an adventure. It’s Saint Cichol Day—a time of youthfulness. I came to lay down a challenge.”
“Miklan,” said Sylvain, helplessly. A bucketful of emotions flopped around in his stomach like dying fish.
“I thought I’d put a game before the court, but here is fine too,” said Miklan. “If you’re not too coward to accept it.”
There was so much Sylvain wanted to say to his older brother, but couldn’t. Where have you been? Have you been well? But also, strangely, Do you remember me? Do you? Six years ago, he had missed Miklan fiercely and been shamefully relieved at his absence. Now it returned to him. How it felt to be helpless. How it felt to be Miklan’s younger brother.
“Tell me,” he said, numb.
Miklan said, “I’ll trade you a blow for a blow, brother. If you are big or bold or red blooded enough, I will give you this Lance, and it will be yours to handle as you like. I’ll kneel and bare my neck and take the first blow. What do you say?”
“What’s your trick?” said Sylvain suspiciously.
“No trick,” said Miklan, with the same easy charisma that he’d possessed since they were young—magnetic. “Just that in one year, you’ll seek me out at Conand Tower, and I will return your blow. That’s all.”
He inclined his head. “Why can’t you trust me, Sylvain? I came here peacefully. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done so already.”
Sylvain hesitated. Miklan held the Lance of Ruin out. The gem pulsated dimly between them in the hushed chapel, like a moth beating its wings.
Slowly, Sylvain reached out and took it.
“That’s it,” said Miklan, very softly. “Good. Promise me, whatever happens after, you’ll come find me in twelve months’ time—one year and one day—and be struck in return.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Miklan,” Sylvain said, equally quietly, feeling young and frightened again—nine years old, in the cold, in the dark. The Lance of Ruin vibrated warm in his hand. His heart was a rush of boots on the stairs. “Even after everything, you’re still…”
But he couldn’t finish. The sun slunk behind a set of clouds. Sylvain’s breath caught. The dim, remaining light backlit Miklan’s face, then fell away. He looked like the perfect, round opening of a well sliding shut.
“Sylvain,” said Miklan. “Swear your oath.”
Sylvain looked down at the Lance’s shaft.
“I promise,” he said quietly.
“In one year and a day—”
“No matter what happens, I will find you in a year and a day, and receive the blow I serve you today upon me,” said Sylvain, white-knuckling the chittering Lance.
“Do you wish I was dead?” said Miklan. “Be honest, little brother.”
Sylvain sucked in a breath. His heart thundered through his ears.
But he shook his head no.
Miklan grinned, then threw back his head to laugh; first a dry chuckle, then full blown chortle. “You always have been a glutton for punishment, haven’t you? I guess you were born that way, or I beat it into you. Suppose it’s one thing you could learn, one thing not given to you by blood. Alright. You’re a knight, aren’t you?” He tapped the side of his neck. “And you’re a Gautier. Do it once. Make it count. Maybe then, you won’t have to suffer the receiving blow, huh?”
“I’m not on horseback,” Sylvain said weakly. “The lance—”
Then there it was: knock-knock, Miklan rapping his knuckles against the wooden floor. Quit it. Hurry up. It wasn’t—it didn’t sound exactly the same. Barely similar at all. As the well lid. His two knocks after he dragged the heavy wood, scraping against the stone, self-satisfied as anything. Back then it had meant nothing. Just a job well done. But it was dark now; and Sylvain could hear his own breath starkly in the quiet chapel, ragged and desperate.
I don’t want to do this, he wanted to say, but found he couldn’t. He’d heard a tale of Felix once, a while ago, in some backwater tavern, Sir Felix Fraldarius. That he’d married an unnamed lady of great beauty and great renown in her hour of need, head over heels in love—and left still to whet his sword in tournaments, to prove his manliness in combat, promising to return after a year to defend her House from those would seek it harm in it’s lord’s absence. Of course, he hadn’t made it back in time. Of course, in the tale, the lady hadn’t forgiven him until he’d performed sufficient chivalry to prove his worth—but what chivalry he’d done! Slaying dragons and giants, befriending lions, tangling with wodwos, killing deer and eating them raw.
It had been so patently absurd it made him laugh to recall it. Felix, who didn’t do anything unless he wanted to, much less prove anything or win any tournaments in any spectacle. Felix, who loved the sword, the road more than any adventure, more than any woman.
But he had proven himself in aventure, hadn’t he? He had merited that much for himself. Sylvain had no true tales that would survive him, had never set any ambition for himself either, other than to die young, and to do so quickly and ingloriously. Instinct had guided his hand this far. It had taken him here.
Now it was up to him.
He gripped the Lance. Miklan’s eyes, which were his father’s eyes, which were Sylvain’s too, followed the point hungrily. On foot, the lance was awkward, heavy and unwieldy in his sweaty, white-knuckled hold. Or perhaps that was merely Sylvain’s imagination.
Sylvain lifted the Lance of Ruin. He jerked it forward. The point pierced Miklan’s throat. A gurgle, a splatter of blood; Miklan’s mouth struggled into a smile. His body slumped. The gem flashed brightly; then Sylvain felt as his Crest triggered, a hot rush in his veins—and the Lance jerked and arced in his hand. Jugular spray of blood. Jagged hack through skin and tendon and bone. The Lance clattered to the ground.
Then a moment later, thump as Miklan’s head fell to the chapel floor.
There was a long, silent moment. Time yawned out, thinned into a point. Sylvain stumbled a step weakly backwards.
Suddenly—suddenly! A long, whining groan like a door opening. Miklan’s steel-plated body creaked, jerked. It forced itself up. It fumbled stiffly around the pews for a handful of seconds; then, grasping at its head in the shadowed chapel, it cradled it beneath one arm and groaned upright.
“Remember our promise, little brother,” said Miklan’s disembodied head. The visor had fallen over his face. Blood still dripped from the ugly slash of his neck; Sylvain could see a sliver of white bone. He made a choked, cut-off sound like he was dying himself. But Miklan persisted. “The Lance is yours. A year and a day, at Conand Tower. I look forward to our appointment.”
The last light disappeared from the horizon. The winter night closed on Fhirdiad like a fist. Then it was gone, it was done. Another year had fled, and Sylvain set out on his journey south, towards the end.
V.
When it came down to it, Sylvain and Felix got things done. On the road, they tangled with wolves and bandits, saved at least five damsels from distress—though two of them happened to be the same person—and Sylvain, in a moment that made Felix sigh with relief, turned down the prospect of running away with a married woman. They crossed mountains, forded rivers, slew bandits; in short, chivalry.
It was night time then. Felix was sharpening his sword across the fire; his hair undone. A year ago, Sylvain had buried the Lance in the training yard in Fhirdiad, like a dog hides a bone. Now he rode further and further away from it. Now the clock was ticking down on his life.
Sylvain cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said. The fire crackled, popped. “You wouldn’t really do it, right?”
“Do what?” said Felix, dryly. “You have to be more specific.”
“Our promise,” said Sylvain. It had been bothering him for some time—ever since Felix had invoked it. He looked up. “If I died…”
Felix was silent for a long moment. Then warily, verging on the brink of angry, he said, “What are you saying.”
“I’m saying we were children,” Sylvain told him. “I was serious, you know. When I said I’m releasing you from your obligation to me. We don’t need to uphold a—a death pact we made when we were like, eight.”
“I was eight,” said Felix. “You were ten. Anyway, I don’t see what the point is. Since we’re both going to stay alive.”
“But if I happened to die,” Sylvain persisted. “If a, a rock fell on my head and I died. Suddenly. Out of nowhere. Blam. Dead. You wouldn’t follow through. Right?”
Felix’s mouth curled up in distaste. He jutted his chin out defiantly.
“Maybe I would,” he said. “So what?”
Sylvain splayed his hands out helplessly. “You want to live. I’m saying that you’re allowed to.”
Felix said, “Don’t you?”
“Want to live? Felix, you know…” Sylvain had to wet his lips. His heartbeat struggled against his ribs like a bird. “You know I don’t want to leave you.”
Felix’s eyes narrowed into golden pinpricks. What expression he saw in Sylvain’s face, he didn’t know. Abruptly, he said, “I didn’t go looking for Areadbhar.”
“Huh?” said Sylvain, thrown by the change in topic. “Yes you did. I was there?”
“After,” said Felix. “When you left Fhirdiad last year. Without me. I wasn’t looking for Areadbhar.”
“Huh,” said Sylvain again. Then the realization struck him. “But you hate Aegis.”
Felix stood up. In the night, his body was a lean shadow, sharp-edged and full of feeling.
“I hate Aegis,” he agreed evenly, and turned away. “Use your brain and think about that for a while, Sylvain. I’m going to check our perimeter.”
He went away. Sylvain dragged his hands down his face. He felt unmoored, drifting away from himself. He had to rework his estimate—how much did Felix know? How long had he known it? Certainly, now he would be suspicious. Sylvain had blundered his way through the conversation like he really…like he wanted to live. Like despite everything, he’d been searching for a way out.
They’d been foolish as children, not really understanding what death meant, or how it felt to face it. Sylvain had touched it—Sylvain was walking steadily towards it with every passing day.
He’d told Miklan, he’d promised. But he’d promised Felix his life too.
Sylvain slept fitfully through the night. In the morning, as they were packing up camp, he touched Felix’s shoulder. It’s not like I want to die, he wanted to say, but found the words escaped him. Felix looked at him, brow creased with worry or anger or both.
“I’m sorry about last night,” said Sylvain. “The journey’s been taking a toll on me. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“Why are you looking for the Lance?” said Felix. “Be honest.”
Sylvain blew out a long breath.
“Miklan has it,” he said—not honest, but inching closer towards the terrible truth. “At Conand. Or he knows where it is. I’m trying to—reason with him, I guess. You know, I’m not really sure myself. Isn’t that just…” he sighed again. “I’m sorry. It’s all just more Gautier nonsense. Family drama. You shouldn’t have been swept up in it.”
“You want him to come home,” Felix surmised.
“Not really,” said Sylvain. He considered it. “Maybe. No.”
The truth was that he owed Miklan something—had been born owing Miklan, or Miklan had inflicted a debt upon him that he could never escape; and Miklan, in some strange, other sense, owed Sylvain too.
In that way, the game was the fairest exchange of their brotherhood. Sylvain had taken his blow. Now it was Miklan’s turn to raise the spear.
He knew what Felix would say about that: that nobody owed anyone anything, much less Sylvain to Miklan. But Felix had no idea what it was like. Felix had always been born to survive.
Felix said, proving he had mind-reading powers, “You don’t owe anyone anything. You know that, right?”
“Ha,” said Sylvain. He moved to swing up on his horse; Felix followed with an eyeroll. “You say the nicest things to me, Felix.”
“I’m serious.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” Sylvain replied breezily. Today’s weather was fair, though he could smell the storm coming in. It ran through the wind. The electric scent. He spurred his horse forward, again onto the long and lonely road.
They’d reach Conand in a few days. And Felix was here. It would be a good rest of his life, if he died. Failing that—it would at least make a good tale.