Chapter Text
Imperial Year 1180
Sylvain’s hand slid along the silky skin of the girl’s bare thigh. Her hot breath caressed the side of his face, and the smell of mint and sweat that curled into his nostrils was cloying. She moaned against his neck, shuddering with a pleasure he pretended to feel.
He didn’t even know who she was.
His hands gripped her legs, and he sneered with triumph when she wrapped them behind his naked back.
In the darkness of his room, he could only see the girl’s rocking silhouette. The shine of desire in her eyes. Her horrible, disgusting eyes. The curl of her full lips as they opened and shut, her dark hair slipping out of its overly intricate knot. A groan, a whisper—he could not tell. Not that it mattered.
The mattress creaked beneath them. Thump, thump, thump—the rhythmic beat of flesh on flesh. Slick against the coarse sheets the Officer’s Academy provided them. One would think they’d offer something more suitable for someone born of a noble house, at least. But everyone was equal here under the eyes of the Archbishop.
And anyway, Sylvain was not one to linger on such petty thoughts. He did not care much about the uncomfortable material of the sheets. In fact, thicker, rougher, or more crude fabrics tended to serve as better shock absorbers. A stupid fact he had to learn, but a necessary one.
The girl’s nails clawed into his back, and he was sharply pulled out of his thoughts. She finished, straining between his legs like a pathetic worm wriggling in the baking sun. Her ankles loosened, and the rest of her collapsed.
Sylvain tried to hide his disappointment behind a decent enough smile. The frown that threatened to pull at the ends of his lips almost won. His cock was barely hard, and he didn’t want to admit that it was rather limp. He would have to end this little tryst with not even an inkling of enjoyment taken from it. He chose to fall onto the bed next to her, and he forced his face into a mask of quiet bliss.
The morning sun broke through the crack in his curtain, and a line of light divided the room in half.
“Sylvain,” the girl murmured, her voice breathless with the high from their intimacy. “That was so—”
Sylvain pushed himself up into a sitting position, dragging his legs off the mattress until his feet touched the floor.
“Great sex, yeah,” he agreed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But if you don’t mind, it’s almost time for class, and I’d rather not make the Professor angry with me on my first day as her student.”
The girl sputtered. “But—”
He stood, then grabbed onto the girl’s clothes that were flung over his desk chair. “It’s time for you to get going,” he said, throwing them back at her.
She caught them, her eyes so wide that they caught the sliver of sun running into the room.
“I’m sure your father sees me as a great catch.”
In minutes, the girl was scurrying outside with her hair tousled in the most undignified way possible. He would not be surprised if the other idiot nobles after his Crest would cause a stir about it again. “The Gautier heir, always a womanizer,” he imagined they would say with scornful snickers. “At least the Margrave won’t have to worry about continuing the bloodline with such fertile soil to till.” Yet behind closed doors, they would plot and connive, hoping that one of their daughters was the next one in Sylvain’s bed.
The door clicked shut. He wiped himself off with a spare towel and slipped into his uniform. He was knocking on Felix’s door soon after.
Felix answered, and he looked as annoyed as ever. His amber eyes flashed with something indescribable. “You were up early this morning,” he snapped.
Sylvain grinned, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish sigh. “That loud, huh?”
Felix shoved his sword back into its scabbard. Sylvain had not noticed that he had it out.
“Louder than the boar,” Felix snarled. “He paces in the hall at night. Mutters to himself.” His friend stepped out of his room, tossing his head toward Dimitri’s quarters. “It’s pitiful, really.”
Something writhed in Sylvain’s gut at that moment. The way Felix did not stop looking at Dimitri’s door for the next few minutes was not lost on him. The prince may have been their mutual childhood friend, but their relationships could not have been more different. An invisible string tugged at his soul, and he couldn’t tell whether it was pulling them closer—or dragging them further apart.
The memory of the taste of ash lingered in Sylvain’s mouth, a sticky nausea clawing grooves into the sides of his throat so that the dry tang of burned flesh could not escape.
Dimitri’s roaring words rang in his ears like the shrill echo of a bell: “Are they the ones responsible for this madness? If so…it’s clear what must be done. Kill them all. Don’t let a single one of them escape. Sever their limbs and crush their wicked skulls!”
Even after the battle at Remire Village, peace was a distant memory.
It was also the day that Felix decided he would leave the Blue Lions class for the Black Eagles.
“Are you sure about this?” Sylvain asked now, his gaze never leaving Felix’s face.
“I’m sure.”
“You’ll be leaving everyone behind.”
“I need to do this,” Felix snarled. Every word was biting, a harsh reminder that Sylvain could no longer fathom the chasm that Felix had created between himself and the rest of the Blue Lions. “The Professor is strong, far stronger than the boar. I can see it. If anyone can train me, it’s her. I’m sure of it.”
But the more the cracks widened, the more Sylvain saw that this rift may have separated his friend from the others, but now the ghosts of his past clung to Felix tighter. Their invisible hands clawed at his throat, choking.
“Besides,” Felix continued, “I won’t be leaving you behind.” He locked eyes with Sylvain, and something he could not see consumed the space between them.
Sylvain stepped back, far away from this flickering flame. “Of course not,” he said, “We made a promise back then. I won’t be the first to break it.”
Felix smirked. “Then I won’t break it either.”
Side-by-side, they walked outside of the dormitories, but Felix kept glancing back.
⟡
Imperial Year 1181
The blizzard thrashed through the forest, the leaning trees weighed down, heavy with ice and jagged blades of snow. Frost crystallized on Sylvain’s eyelashes, making it more difficult to see past his own hand, and the biting wind lambasted its fervent anger on the skin of his exposed face.
Blood dripped down his injured arm, freezing at the ends of every drop like some form of twisted dark magic. The deep wound that cut across his shoulder both burned and numbed with cold. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight as he tried to control his annoyance.
“You could have died out there! Are you stupid?” roared Felix. His friend was covered in furs, the badge on his chest that clasped his thick cloak together the only indication that he was an officer in the Empire’s army. The shimmering black eagle looked out of place, especially now when they stood at the crossroads of the Adrestian Empire’s land and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.
Sylvain whipped his head to face him. “Are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not the one who decided to charge out there to intercept Kingdom soldiers without the rest of the Strike Force’s input!”
He stomped on the ground, his boot now digging into the gathering piles of snow on the slope they stood on. “Their archers had an eye on us! If I hadn’t pushed you out of the way and distracted them, we would have had more casualties today. My actions saved us!”
Felix huffed. “We would have retaliated—”
“And lost the element of surprise?” Sylvain paused, his chest heaving with exertion. “Empire soldiers don’t know how to attack in the snow, not like Kingdom Knights. You should know that. The only advantage we had here was to catch them unawares.”
Felix glared at him, his mouth pinched into a scrunched line.
“Hitting this area without a solid advantage was a mistake. Dimitri is king now, and no matter what you think of him, he’s no fool.”
His friend growled. Felix leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart. His breath clouded in front of him, escaping in furious puffs. “And you think I am?”
The snow lessened, slowing now to a steady fall. Further away, he could hear the neighing of distressed horses and clanking armor. Perhaps Caspar had notified the others that it was time to break down camp. It would not do to remain there, not when the enemy was aware of their position. They would have to retreat.
Sylvain latched onto Felix’s arm, the one that swung loosely at his side. As soon as Sylvain’s glove touched his friend’s sleeve, they both seemed to deflate.
Sounds ebbed away and frosted wind made eddying circles into the snowfall. The glow that arose from the white snow illuminated Felix’s face, making him appear as unsure and as diminutive as he had been as a child.
Sylvain let go, his fingers dragging on the fabric of his friend’s clothing. “Felix,” he whispered. “Who are you even fighting for?”
Felix said nothing. He glanced away and, with a quiet grunt, let the gentle glow of faith magic gather in his hands. The light was soft and solemn, like a prayer left unspoken.
Sylvain glanced at his injured shoulder as soon as the healing sting blossomed across his wound. The magic ate away the damage, wiping the grime away too.
Drops of red still stained the snow when they left.
Felix’s back turned on him, and he walked in the direction of the camp. On his back, the legendary Fraldarius Relic—the Aegis Shield. Somehow, compared to his sword, it was left unmarred by the battle they had just survived.
As if Felix had not allowed anyone else to touch it.
In the way Felix walked away, Sylvain glimpsed the shadow of Glenn Fraldarius, with each step a quiet echo of the older brother Felix once had. Then Sylvain joined him, and the specter dissolved, leaving only absence behind, and the Shield of Faerghus but a distant thought.
⟡
Imperial Year 1185
The years had not been good to them.
Blood soaked the churned earth of the Tailtean Plains, changing mud to crimson sludge beneath shattered shields and lifeless limbs, and a storm of corpses roiled with the turmoil before them. The air was thick with iron and smoke, the stench of sweat and burning flesh choking Sylvain’s every breath.
Screams rose and fell like a cursed symphony—horses shrieking, men crying out for a goddess who had long stopped listening. Blades clashed with bone-jarring force, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground was a relentless chorus.
Arrows rained from above, blackening the sky like a swarm of locusts, and when they ripped toward the ground, they did not miss. Somewhere amid the chaos, a Kingdom Knight impaled on a broken spear Sylvain was sure was his own spare, still twitched, lips mouthing a desperate plea no one would hear. Magic crackled through the carnage, and poison purple flames consumed ranks of soldiers, eerie light a beacon briefly parting the rain’s constant drizzle like the break of dawn before vanishing again into shadow. This battle was not glory, but ruin made reality.
“You betrayed us!” bellowed Dimitri. “You killed your friends, your own father!”
Not far away, Dedue was dead. Who had put him out of his misery when he had transformed into a beast on his liege’s behalf? Sylvain could not know for sure. But the body that was left behind was not even human anymore.
Felix yelled, his sword swinging in a nasty arc.
Edelgard lingered nearby, ready for action. Her axe was raised, her violet eyes ready for the kill.
Felix blocked Dimitri’s path, yet Dimitri strained to reach Edelgard. His eyes were only for the woman he sought to kill.
“ARGH!” Dimitri roared, and the king was a raging lion covered in the blood of his prey. “I will kill you! Edelgard!”
Sylvain ran, his own Lance of Ruin swinging at his side. “Dimitri!” he called.
He did not know why he tried to get his attention, for what would it do but make this all worse? His words stung. Because Felix was not the only one who had betrayed his friends and his father.
Yet, Sylvain had made his choice. It was too late to back down now.
Felix lunged forward. “Look at me, boar! It’s me you’ll fight today!”
The king hesitated—just a moment, just long enough for his glacial eyes to cut toward Felix, cold and dead. “Why do this, traitor? To sharpen your blade? For glory? It’s certainly not for honor!” Areadbhar’s mighty shaft quaked as he swung, the weapon screaming through the air. “Today, I’ll take your head too!”
Felix met the blow with a cry torn from his chest. His blade clashed against Areadbhar, the Relic pulsing with unnatural force. “Shut up!” he snarled, his arms trembling with the strain. Steel scraped against sacred bone, harsh and unrelenting. “You betrayed me first!”
Sylvain froze behind Felix. The breath caught in his throat.
Felix hadn’t said us, but me.
Sylvain leveled his weapon at his old friend—his once-prince, his once-king. Red bled into his vision, hot and blinding, a rage so raw it drowned out everything else.
And in that single shattering millisecond of pure, unadulterated terror, Dimitri stumbled backward. It was as if the weight of the past came crashing down around him.
Edelgard lunged, seizing the opening, the Professor close behind. But Felix met Sylvain’s eyes at the same moment—a look so desperate that it tore through the very seams of the world—and there was nothing else Sylvain could do but listen. “Kill him,” those eyes begged, “Please end it, or I will have to.”
In the end, he’d do anything for Felix, and he’d do anything to save Dimitri from himself.
The fire inside him returned. Sylvain leapt forward, his weapon steady, though his hands shivered with betrayal and grief. Though only seconds, every step toward Dimitri felt like a step deeper into a grave neither of them had meant to dig, a grave Sylvain was only just realizing he had helped deepen.
"You left us," Sylvain said, voice hoarse. Dimitri’s rage-filled screams echoed in his mind, a version of the king who had started to crumble all those years ago, who had forgotten everything but his ghosts and his revenge. Who had made their friendship into a travesty, who had made Felix—he stopped himself from thinking it. "You broke us.”
There was no response, only silence thick with guilt and bloodshed. And Sylvain raised his weapon to end what should never have begun.
All for the man who pleaded with him to end it for them…all for Felix.
King Dimitri died screaming the words of a man who thought nothing of his death but a means to an end, Sylvain’s blade buried to the hilt in his stomach and tinged with dark magic. Blood poured in hot, ragged waves, coating Sylvain’s hands as he drove his lance in deeper, twisting until he felt the resistance give. Bones cracked. Flesh tore.
Dimitri gasped—a wet, gurgling sound—and then collapsed, limbs twitching before going still. His eyes, once wild with fury and pain, stared up at nothing, glassy and dull. Blood amalgamated around them in a steaming pool of sick. Sylvain knelt there, soaked in it, heart hammering. And as the silence pressed in, he told himself—lied to himself—that maybe now, finally, his old friend could rest.
Edelgard halted at the fallen king’s feet, the weight of Aymr rising above her like a harbinger of death. With a fierce, fluid motion, she brought the axe down, cleaving through flesh and sinew with a sickening crack. The king’s head rolled on the ground with a hollow thud, and the rest of his body fell over.
Listless, Felix rose, and Sylvain was there to grab hold of him. Neither of them looked away from Hubert as his own bloodied hands snatched onto Dimitri’s blond tresses, raising the head above for the entire army to see.
And so, when finally, the Empire’s Strike Force met its last battle in Fhirdiad, it was as if Sylvain waded through a nightmarish truth.
The Immaculate One’s body was a steaming heap at the steps of the castle, a place both Sylvain and Felix had once frequented. The dead dragon’s silver scales scattered through the rubble, shining like tiny mirrors reflecting the carnage.
“Who are you even fighting for?”
Until the moment the war ended with the destruction of their childhood home, Sylvain had not known the answer to that himself.
Ashes from Fhirdiad’s skeleton drifted down around them like snow, silent and remorseless.
“Felix!” screamed Sylvain. His throat was raw, and it was with great surprise that he found that some profound sound came out of it.
His friend lingered just around the bend, a distant figure, separated from the rest of the Black Eagles who reveled in their newfound victory as they doused the remnants of flames. Felix’s hand trembled on the hilt of his blood-soaked blade.
Sylvain had to say what he needed to this time, now that it was all over. Because if he didn’t, then he’d never get the chance to try again.
Sylvain walked up to him and grabbed his wrist, spinning him around. “I love you,” he said, and the heat smoked in his chest. The words he had denied himself to admit were the reignited coals of a burning furnace. He squeezed Felix’s wrist tighter. “I love you,” he repeated, voice a whisper.
Felix stared at him, his eyes roving along his face, his lips parted with something akin to disbelief.
For a fleeting moment, Sylvain saw him trying to make sense of it all—saw a trace of hope kindle behind Felix’s eyes, igniting a spark of life that had not been there in so long. But then Felix’s gaze dropped to the Lance of Ruin, its jagged edge still slick with Dimitri’s blood that had mixed with others’. The light in his eyes sputtered out in an instant.
“But I can’t love you,” whispered Felix.
Felix stepped back, slow and deliberate, until Sylvain’s fingers grasped only empty air where once there had been something solid, something certain. He did not speak again.
Felix pulled away until Sylvain’s fingers had nothing to hold onto but the air between them. Felix did not say a word as he turned and left him behind, stalking into early dawn and the ruins of their old home. A breeze flitted by, and the next second, Felix was nowhere to be seen.
Sylvain stood frozen, torn between chasing after him and collapsing under the loss. He wanted to run, wanted to hide. He wanted to go after him.
But Dimitri’s blood still clung to his weapon.
Felix could never forgive the man who killed his king.
Sylvain dropped his lance. The sound it made as it clashed with the ground was a sharp, awful clang.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”