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“I can’t do this anymore,” Felix says. He wipes at the blood splatter on his face absently, his chest heaving as they all take in the close-call victory they barely accomplished. His sword lays haphazardly tossed to the ground at his side, blood-stained and surely blunt by now.
Dimitri snarls at him in response, immediately stalking over to Felix and grabbing a fistful of his collar. The blood on Felix’s face is nothing compared to the absolute carnage Dimitri is drenched in. Even after becoming so numb to fighting and blood, the sheer amount of it seeping into Dimitri’s very soul makes Felix feel a little nauseous.
“Dimitri!” Sylvain shouts, rushing across the field of bodies as swiftly as he can without tripping over a corpse with every step. “Dimitri, what are you doing?”
Felix’s hands come up to grasp Dimitri’s wrist, glaring back at him with equal intensity. Fighting with reckless abandon had been pleasing up to a certain point, he’d admit, but something about the scarce margin by which they won this battle makes Felix uneasy. Does he really want to die in battle for a mad man? Is this what his life has built up to?
“Let me go,” he says, gritting his teeth.
He and Dimitri have a staring contest of sorts, though it’s nothing like the ones they had as children; Felix can’t read Dimitri like he used to, can’t tell what’s happening beyond that blue eye, but he’s sure it’s a mess of the voices of the dead and the desire to kill in his head. Felix can’t live for this.
“Where will you go?” Dimitri asks, voice rough from shouting during the battle. “What are you hoping for?”
A beat of silence passes between them. Once the war started, Felix had stopped hoping for anything. He lived to fight, to protect the homeland he didn’t feel fit to claim. He just wants to rest.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, his body slumping slightly. His glare falters, an uncharacteristic break of emotion that he rights immediately by baring his teeth at Dimitri. “I don’t know, but anything would be better than this.”
For a moment, Dimitri seems pensive, as if genuinely considering Felix’s response.
“Okay,” he says, turning to yank Areadbhar from where it stands pierced through a man’s chest. “Go.”
The pitiful remainder of their troops come to gather behind Dimitri, with Sylvain several feet to Dimitri’s left and Dedue and Ingrid immediately to his right. Felix wishes he didn’t look at Sylvain; he looks devastated, searching Felix’s face in a way Felix knows means he’s trying not to cry. His heart clenches in his chest. He looks away.
“Felix—” Sylvain begins, taking a step forward and reaching out only to be stopped by Areadbhar.
He looks over to see Dimitri’s arm is extended only far enough to stop him from stepping forwards; he isn’t even looking at Sylvain, eyes trained on Felix across what of the field lay between them. Just a moment ago, they were only separated by a few feet, but the distance seems to stretch for miles between them now.
Dedue and Ingrid are silent, ever relenting to the antics of their would-be King. When Sylvain’s gaze shifts to Ingrid, he meets her uncertain eyes, and panic rises within him. No one knows what Dimitri is thinking these days.
“Go on then,” Dimitri commands, louder. His gaze is hard, challenging, and Felix is fairly certain things will only end poorly if he calls Dimitri’s bluff. He thinks it might be worth it.
Felix glances at Dedue, stoic as ever, though not untouched by the battle’s bloodshed, and then Ingrid, worriedly looking at Sylvain. It takes some effort not to follow her line of sight to Sylvain. If anything would change Felix’s mind, it would be the look of loss on Sylvain’s face, the anguish. He forces his eyes back to Dimitri instead of letting them trail further to Sylvain. He can’t let himself see Sylvain.
He steels himself, hands clenched into fists at his side, and takes his first, uncertain step backwards. Then another, feeling for bodies behind him before he steps to avoid tripping over their slain enemies — or worse, their fallen comrades.
No one moves on Dimitri’s side, even Sylvain, whose every instinct is screaming to run to Felix, to stop him, to bring him back. He can’t stand the thought of losing Felix, not now, not ever. How can they keep their promise if they’re separated?
After another few cautious steps backwards, Felix turns his back to them. The sight alone is enough to have Sylvain choking back tears. Felix’s stride becomes more confident step after step, leaving Sylvain feeling weak as he goes. That ever-extending stretch between them grows and grows, except this time Felix is the one causing the separation.
A movement from the corner of his eye catches Sylvain’s gaze, and he looks over to see Dimitri raise his free hand and motion forwards with two fingers. Sylvain’s eyes widen at the command, and he only manages a choked, “No, wait—” before an arrow flies out of the crowd beyond Ingrid and Dedue.
His eyes follow the arrow on its path to Felix, who narrowly steps out of the way after hearing that barely perceptible but incredibly familiar shot. Felix had trained enough with Ashe in the past to be able to pick up on even the softest shot he could manage. This shot had not been soft. He spares only a glance behind himself before taking off at a sprint.
He knew from the beginning that this could only end poorly, but when his fight or flight instincts kick in, flight seems more appealing. He hears more arrows loose behind him, from more than one archer, and adds in some random side-steps as he runs, hoping to make himself less of an easy target.
But then again, the army was trained for this, and he was only one man.
He crumbles to his knees as an arrow punches through him, gasping sharply. The pain is intense, maybe worse than anything he’s felt before, and he lifts one dirty hand to his chest, where he’s met not with the point of an arrow, but an empty hole straight through. With a glance, he sees the bloodied arrow stuck into the ground a few feet away.
He doesn’t know who shot it, but he’s certain it wasn’t Ashe. Ashe is strong, but not that strong.
Something about that thought comforts him.
Sylvain dashes forwards, pushing Areadbhar out of the way as soon as Felix sinks to the ground. The response is almost Pavlovian, an unconscious decision to rush to Felix’s side, where he’s meant to be.
“No!” Ingrid shouts, about to rush forward as well, but she’s stopped by Dedue’s hand grasping her bicep. She looks up at him with wide eyes, no longer able to keep herself from crying. All Dedue can do is watch her tears fall and shake his head, somber. There’s nothing they can do but watch as Sylvain runs out of their reach.
Felix hears the footsteps approaching, but he doesn’t move; he can’t seem to make his muscles listen to him beyond the blinking of tears from his eyes. He’s so tired now, feeling almost as if the blood drenching his torso is weighing him down.
He doesn’t need to turn to know who comes rushing towards him, though. Sylvain was always rushing towards him if he displayed even the slightest bit of inconvenience.
Sylvain scoops Felix into his arms gently, like he’s holding porcelain, and Felix huffs out a wheezing laugh at the thought and grunts softly. This only serves to upset Sylvain further, now sobbing as he holds onto Felix. Their tears mix on Felix’s bloodied face.
“Why did you do that?” Sylvain sobs, demanding. His grip is tight on Felix, desperate, and his eyes dart over Felix’s torso as if he’s trying to think of something to do. “No. It’s not your fault. You’re going to be okay, I’m going to fix this.”
Felix reaches up weakly, cupping Sylvain’s cheek and surely smearing mud over his fair skin, and Sylvain reaches up with his free hand to grasp Felix’s.
“I’m sorry,” Felix says, softly. At some point, his entire body has begun trembling, uncontrollable little tremors that wrack through him. He coughs weakly. “I couldn’t keep going.”
“Shut up,” Sylvain snaps, though there’s no real harshness to his voice. He’s panicking, Felix can tell. “I said it’s not your fault. Can’t you listen to me for once? Save your strength, I—”
“Syl,” Felix whispers, immediately cutting him off. Their eyes meet, and Felix offers a pitiful excuse of a smile. “I’m sorry.”
“You can’t,” Sylvain says, holding Felix’s hand up to his lips so he can press a soft kiss to his scarred knuckles. “You can’t leave me like this. We’re supposed to grow old together. We’re supposed to die together.”
“Idiot.” Felix tries to make the moment feel more normal, less like he’s dying in Sylvain’s arms. It doesn’t work. He settles for the truth. “I love you. I’m sorry I made you wait so long to hear it.”
“Fe— No—”
“We danced around it too much,” he says with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering closed. He’s so tired. “I’m sorry.”
“I could have said it too.” Sylvain sobs, pressing kisses to Felix’s hand again and again, as if he could make up for years of kisses they missed out on, years they’d never get to make up for properly. “I didn’t but I could have. I love you. I love you, Felix, so please don’t— please, open your eyes. Ple—”
Thunk.
Ingrid jerks as the arrow sticks true in the back of Sylvain’s skull. She can’t hold back the broken sob that wrenches itself from her throat as she watches his body slump over Felix’s.
Dimitri doesn’t even spare her a glance, turning on his heel with an impersonal scoff and stalking back in the direction they came from.
“Let them serve as an example for those too weak to fight for our cause,” he says, loudly enough for the small number of remaining troops to hear. “We’re finished here.”