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There’s a weight to each blow. The blade shudders against armor and rattles resistance up through his bones. A moment, a held breath, and then it breaks. It’s a series of breaking. Resistance gives, armor pierced. Breaking skin, breaking muscle, breaking bone, breaking life. Blood spills over his hands, spatters across his face. He will never make peace with the warmth of it. He wrenches the lance free, spurs his horse forward. His mind is empty save for one thought which winds over and over. It’s a thought unchanged since his first kill.
I had to do it. Don’t hate me, please.
The reins bite into his hand, wound so tightly. From where he sits, he looks over a sea of soldiers. Colors blur together, and friend is almost indistinguishable from foe. Hooves press into grass, churn it into mud. Sylvain stabs downwards, finds another. He knew battle, killing, would always be inevitable. From the moment he could hold them, weapons were pressed into his palms. He had approached it with something of a lackadaisical attitude. Laughing as he spun the lance in his hands, made a show of assaulting the dummy. Where straw fell then, blood does now.
The first thing he had to break was himself. It was easy to classify that first fight as practice. The forms came naturally, the flow of battle clearly read. Then, shining metal pressed against a rusted breastplate. Pushing forward, until the grooves of the lance began to run red. Most of all, he remembers the eyes. Widening, surprised, pupils blooming with the sudden approach of death. Eyes that were open, eyes he closed. When he sleeps, he still feels them watching. He doesn’t hesitate now as he did then, and worries at the ease with which he kills.
He feels the arrows as though they pierce his own flesh. Distressed, his horse whines, begins to buck. Three of them, at the side of its neck. Its coat already shone with sweat. Unsettled, unable to be calmed, Sylvain desperately strikes at the approaching enemies. It’s not enough, in a different way. The horse rears. He can’t undo the reins in time. The lance clatters out of his hands. The horse falls to its side and onto his leg. Sylvain screams at the sudden weight, struggling to sit up, his hands wrapped around his thigh. “Shit… fuck!”
Sylvain breathes heavy, sweat on his brow, pushes his free foot against the saddle. He leans back on his elbows, attempts to push the horse off his other leg. Shouting with the effort of it, only to produce no results. He reaches out, fingers stretching as far as they’re able, until he can finally wrap his hand around the hilt of his fallen lance. He manages to grab hold of it, in time to defend himself from someone who thought him easy prey. He practically impales himself on the end of Sylvain’s lance. He lands unceremoniously on the ground beside him.
He keeps the lance in his hand as he makes a renewed attempt at freeing himself. With gritted teeth, he pushes at the saddle with his foot, his hand. “Come on,” he murmurs low, “come on!” He doesn’t know who says it, or which direction it even comes from. Either way, the chill runs through his spine at the sound, barely heard over the cacophony of weapon striking weapon.
“It’s the Gautier heir! Over here!” His head whirls, strands of hair stuck to his temple and the nape of his neck, and wildly looks for a friendly face, armor. All seem so engrossed in their own battles, the mess of saving their own lives. At the shout, he can see them all look around, find him. It’s over, he knows. And what has he done with it? The body beside him looks up at him, eyes wide, and silently questions the cost of Sylvain’s life over his. Sylvain doesn’t have an answer for him. He clutches his lance, and waits for them to descend.
Another does, first.
“You face me,” it’s a growl in his throat, as certain as the edge of his blade. Felix parries the blow meant for Sylvain, and steps in the way of those who approach. His feet flat against the bloodied grass, his stance solid and sure. Felix adjusts the grip he has, and stares down an army. Sylvain wants to tell him not to. To run, to leave him. He doesn’t, knowing it would be wasted breath. He uses the time Felix buys him. Sylvain’s heart strangles in his throat as he loses sight of him, gone in the fray.
“Felix!” Byleth and the others are sweeping across the field, pushing back the enemy. They won’t make it in time. He has to.
Sylvain slides the flat edge of the lance underneath the horse, almost just beside his leg. Grabbing hold of the stock, using his lance as a wedge. “Please, please,” he begs empty air. Every inch of him strains, screams. His body aches with the effort of it. A yell is wrenched from him as he pushes the stock upwards, foot pressed against the horse, trying to pull his leg free. Almost – almost, he jumps at the sound of the horn. It blasts into the air, overwhelming every other sound. Retreat. The enemy is running and he, he – he is free.
He briefly lets the lance go to roll himself over somewhat, bracing against his hands, his one good knee. He drags his other leg limply behind him as he crawls away from the horse, the body. Carnage surrounds him. The city burns in the distance while the crows circle overhead. He grasps the lance once last time, uses it to help himself stand. His body longs to collapse. The earth moves of its own volition below him, and finds his head as a certain weightlessness. In a daze, he begins to limp forward, to where he last saw Felix.
“Felix,” he says, and it comes out a desperately pathetic croak, accompanied by a small stumble. He lets the lance drop as he walks ever forward. “Felix.” There’s a lump, sitting in his throat. A rock, it rolls, down into his belly. “Felix, where are you?” A circle of bodies. One, at the center. His heart seizes at the sight of him lying there, cheek against grass, sword abandoned by reaching fingertips. “Felix!” He practically falls at him. Sylvain goes to his knees, pulls Felix into his arms, his embrace, and his head resting limply against his shoulder.
“Hey,” Sylvain says, using his teeth to pull off his glove. He puts his hand against Felix’s cheek, brushes away the dirt and grime. “Felix, it’s me.” One eye opens wearily, dark circles underneath, and Felix sighs when he sees him.
“Sylvain,” he says, struggling to sit up, giving up halfway, “are you alright?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?” He says, through weak laughter.
“Is it over?”
“Yeah… yeah.” Sylvain rests his chin gently on the crown of Felix’s head. “For now.” He keeps his arms wrapped around him tightly. Distantly, he can hear Byleth barking orders. Soldiers are making their way through the battlefield. They give merciful ends to those who need them, begin to gather up fallen weapons and armor. The bodies will be gathered, buried or burnt. A sword impales the ground near them, a blue butterfly sitting upon its hilt. In the forest near, beasts come out their beds eager to feast.
Felix is pulling off his own gloves. It’s as if touching Sylvain makes him real. Moving over the rough pieces of his armor, and all the softer pieces in between. He should be standing, sheathing his sword, making ready for the next battle. He should, he doesn’t, and instead allows Sylvain to hold him and tremble. The whole of him shakes slightly so, breathing wild and unsteady. “Sylvain,” Felix says, taking a heavy inhale, and readies himself to speak aloud the words perched precariously on his tongue. They’re words he’s buried away, afraid to speak them. Blades, blood, and battle – the only three things he thought he needed. Now there’s four.