Chapter Text
Sylvain
Sylvain is, for lack of better phrasing, losing his shit.
Earlier, he'd glimpsed Byleth hurrying off with Seteth and Gilbert in tow, an official-looking letter bearing the Fraldarius seal clutched in her hand. At the time, it had admittedly been an amusing sight: the monastery's infamously strict advisor to the archbishop, a Knight of Seiros formerly in service to the Faerghus royal family and who looks far too identical to Annette to be coincidence, and the former Blue Lions' infallible professor-turned-war-commander who never seems to stand still for longer than absolutely necessary. Honestly, her borderline unhealthy work ethic might put Felix to shame.
But now, he's finding it increasingly difficult to wring any humor out of his current predicament.
Good news: Rodrigue, strained though he is, has graciously agreed to the monastery's request for aid on the condition they're able to find a suitable meeting point that will decrease the odds of an ambush.
The bad news? The meeting spot Rodrigue proposed is none other than Ailell. Otherwise known as the Valley of Torment.
Byleth has decided they're departing at the end of the month—two weeks from tomorrow, to be precise. When she'd made the announcement she'd been remarkably unfazed, and later, Sylvain just so happened to bump into her in the knights' hall. Which has led to his current predicament.
"The Valley of Torment… Man," Sylvain sighs, already not looking forward to enduring such brutal terrain. "I really do not wanna go anywhere near that place."
Byleth regards him curiously, as though his reluctance is a puzzle she's trying to solve rather than a reasonable reaction to the idea of traveling in such a harsh environment. "Why's that?" she finally asks aloud.
For a second, Sylvain sputters. "'Why's that?'" he mimics, out of disbelief more than anything. "Byleth, you've heard the stories about Ailell, haven't you?" He knows as well as anyone that when Byleth had first shown up at the monastery as a newly-appointed professor, she'd known hilariously little of the church and Fódlan's history as a whole; even then, after her first month at the academy Byleth had settled into her teaching role surprisingly well—including actually understanding her own subject matters.
"If you mean the legends of the valley being scorched by the goddess's wrath," Byleth supplies flatly, "then yes." Her indifference does not bode well for him.
"Right, then you also know that place is unbearably hot year-round," Sylvain presses. At Byleth's nod, he feels emboldened to continue, "For guys like me who were raised up north? That's like some kind of death sentence, I swear." That's a little dramatic, even for him, and he knows Byleth knows it from the raised eyebrow he receives in response. But he also wears a lot of armor on missions and poor Lady's never done well in the heat, either. So can he really be judged for dramaticizing at least a little?
The answer? Well, yes, evidently he can.
Byleth's mouth quirks up slightly at one corner as she says, "Then I suppose it's a good thing we'll all be going. Misery loves company, Sylvain." Her amusement at his expense feels downright evil, and in the moment he's distinctly reminded of Dorothea. Before he can say anything about that, Byleth continues, suddenly solemn. "It'll be a difficult march, I'd be a fool to claim otherwise. But we've endured worse, right?"
Sylvain thinks of the Empire's siege on Garreg Mach, of the seemingly endless wave of soldiers that inevitably forced them to abandon the monastery, of the monotonous, pointless five year stretch that Byleth and Dimitri were believed to be dead and the Kingdom fought a losing battle day after day. Even now their odds haven't improved by much, but with the Kingdom army primarily stationed at the monastery, for the first time in five years they may actually have a fighting chance to gain a foothold in the war. Maybe they'll beat these odds as well.
"Yeah," he agrees after a moment of contemplative silence. "Assuming we can keep His Highness from trying to knock down the gates of Enbarr by himself."
The way Byleth's shoulders stiffen slightly doesn't go unnoticed. Nor does the exhaustion in her eyes. Sylvain's about to ask when she beats him to it. "I'm going to do everything I can to prevent that. I still want to help him…if he's willing to be helped."
"Heh. Now there's a sentiment we could've used five years ago." Sylvain's not entirely sure what prompts the bitter words, but before he can even reconsider what he's said, the damage is done.
He should feel guilty for the way Byleth physically flinches, but where he expects guilt to be he finds only frustration. "I mean, where were you? Why couldn't anyone find you?" Sylvain presses.
Byleth's posture is briefly wilted before she suddenly squares her shoulders, as if preparing herself. Her answer does little to alleviate the sour air. "I was…confused." She's quiet for so long Sylvain starts to wonder if that's all she intends to say, but eventually she seems to make up her mind as she looks him directly in the eye. "After I fell… Everything was just blank. I can't tell you where I was because I truthfully don't know, but I came back as soon as I was physically able, Sylvain." Byleth takes a step closer before adding, "I would never abandon any of you. Not of my own volition. If I could have returned sooner, I swear to you that I would have."
It's not a perfect answer. Sylvain's still frustratingly left with an important unanswered question: What kept you away? But in the face of his former professor's earnest assurances, he finds it difficult to stay angry. At least—not as angry. He may think many things of Byleth, but being a liar is not one of them. Sometimes he wonders if she even knows how.
After a moment of silence, Sylvain heaves a sigh and breaks eye contact. "Okay," he concedes. "I guess the important thing is you're here now, right?"
Byleth nods, reaching to give him what was meant to be a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but with their difference in stature, the action is more awkward than anything. Maybe a little funny. Regardless, it does its job of dissolving the tension in the air, so a win is a win. "That's right. And this is where I intend to stay."
Never let anyone say the 'Valley of Torment' is just a metaphor. Ailell is a fucking nightmare.
They've been on the road for Goddess knows how long, and the temperature's only grown steadily warmer the closer they get to the valley. It's only a small consolation that everyone else is feeling the heat just as badly as—if not worse than—Sylvain; even Dimitri, who refuses to shed his impossibly-heavy cloak even in a place like this, for once looks closer to miserable than manic. Byleth had been right after all: misery loves company.
A cursory glance around their army's encampment is enough to give Sylvain an idea of how the others are coping with the heat: Ashe and Hapi both look equally miserable as they try to stick to the shadier spots of the camp, seemingly too exhausted to do much else besides suffer together in silence; Dorothea is weakly fanning herself while she tries to maintain a conversation with Ingrid in an attempt to ignore the temperature entirely; Sylvain has absolutely no idea what Linhardt is up to—the last he'd seen of him had been after they crossed the Galatea border and the air started becoming thick and humid with each gust of wind blown overheard from the direction of the valley. The healer had all but squirreled himself away inside the convoy and hasn't made an appearance since. Sylvain's pretty sure he fell asleep in there somehow; fell asleep, passed out—what's in a name. Point is, he's still in there with no desire to come out. Sylvain can hardly blame him.
An audible chuff from Lady indicates that she's not pleased with the recent developments either. Sylvain gives the side of her neck a sympathetic pat before he takes a minute to actually observe their surroundings—the place they've set up camp is surprisingly sheltered, lined by jagged rocks on all but one side while the far edge of the ridge rises in a gradual slope to overlook the rest of the valley and provide a good vantage point. Even if by some ill-intentioned miracle they're marching headlong into an enemy confrontation, the cliffside should give them enough of an advantage to catch them by surprise. The thought of actually fighting here makes Sylvain wince; he'd really rather not die in a place like this.
Despite the heat, it's no surprise to see Mercedes flitting about the group, offering flasks of water to any who will accept. Which is to say, pretty much everyone. Bless her; Sylvain doesn't particularly want to consider where any of them would be without Mercedes's gentle attentiveness and desire to help. Probably dead.
With considerably less grace than usual, Sylvain dismounts and gently strokes Lady's face in an attempt to soothe her at least a little. The sound of someone politely clearing their throat behind him makes Sylvain half-turn, looking over his shoulder to see Marianne shyly fidgeting with something in her hands before she holds out a water canteen. "U-um… May I?" the downcast healer offers quietly—so quiet it's almost a miracle he can hear her at all. She's avoiding eye contact and her shoulders are stiff, but there's a slight smile playing at her lips when she glances at Lady. Although Marianne's favorite child is clearly Dorte, it's no secret that she's delightfully in her element when caring for horses in general. Even just mentioning them has made her smile a lot more often recently.
"Marianne, you are truly a soothing balm in the middle of this disastrous place," Sylvain declares with a grin, watching her flush slightly in response, though he's not sure if it's because of her usual shyness or the heat. Probably a mix of both. Unceremoniously yanking off one of his gloves—and if he struggles to do so because of the heat, that's no one's business—Sylvain gratefully accepts the offered ration with a smile and a wink directed at Marianne. "Make sure you don't overdo it, yeah?" he adds, gently encouraging the white magic user to not neglect her own needs. One of their most talented healers being out of commission from heatstroke would be really, really bad.
Marianne lifts her head, just barely avoiding eye contact as she smiles a fraction wider and says, "Yes, of course."
Sylvain thinks he hears her wander off when he turns his attention back to Lady, carefully unscrewing the flask and being mindful not to drop it.
Hypocrite that he is, it's no surprise that immediately after telling another member of the army to be mindful of their health is when Sylvain decides to completely forego his own needs in favor of his steed's comfort.
"There we go, girl," he murmurs placatingly in the tone he reserves for when he's dealing with horses. "It’s not so bad, right?” As if she can tell that he’s lying, Lady lets out a snort that’s clearly meant to be interpreted as, ‘Speak for yourself.’
As his steed ambles away toward the other horses, Sylvain lets himself sink to the ground with a groan. He's about reached his limit by now. He's almost surprised to see he hasn't already melted into a sad little puddle from the sheer intensity of the heat. Fumbling with sweaty hands, Sylvain paws almost fruitlessly at the clasps on his chestplate. Carefully removing the pauldrons first, he then shifts his attention to the actual chestpiece itself, setting it on the dusty ground with a quiet sound of triumph upon his success. Briefly, he wonders whether he should've just sucked it up and considers just putting everything back on, lest he draw someone's ire for not being ‘properly prepared’ in case of a sudden ambush. Sylvain can still very clearly hear Byleth's lecture about never leaving the safety of the monastery unprepared, even when setting up a safe place to rest; evidently old mercenary habits are pretty tough to shake. Instead of making the smart decision, Sylvain opts to lie down on the warm, cracked stone with his arms pillowed beneath his head as he stares up at the ashy sky, his mind drifting.
As is pretty standard for him at this point, Sylvain letting his mind idle gradually draws him closer to a stroll down memory lane, recalling academy days long gone and times even before that. He’s just thinking about the time Felix and Ingrid had spent a week up in Gautier, constantly griping about how much colder it was despite being so close by, when—
"What are you doing."
There's only one person who can make questions sound like irritated statements. Sylvain tilts his head just slightly and— Yep, there's Felix, squinting down at him with an expression warring between annoyance and mild concern.
Sylvain offers the swordsman a lazy grin and a halfhearted wave. "What's it look like? I'm dying out here, Felix, I swear," he whines, perhaps a bit more dramatic than the situation should warrant. Judging by the furrow in Felix's brow, he's unamused.
"Why're you—" He cuts himself off with a harsh sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "…Should I even bother asking why in the world you thought stripping off your armor was a viable solution?"
"I think you just did." At Felix's glare, Sylvain can't help but smile a little bit wider. Lovingly annoying Felix is always a welcome distraction from most of Sylvain's miseries.
Another sigh. "You know what I meant. Now get up."
"Ahh, but it's marginally cooler like this. Heat rises, you know! Staying close to the ground is just a smart decision, Felix," he insists, making a point of spreading both arms over the ground and closing his eyes.
Even without looking, Sylvain registers the kick to his armored leg. "You know that's useless when the entire valley's hot enough to boil water on contact. Stand up, you half-wit," Felix snaps, though there's considerably less venom behind the words than usual. Even the prickly Fraldarius heir is no match for Ailell's hellish climate, it seems.
Sylvain, of course, can't resist the opportunity to poke the hornets’ nest. “You say that, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually hot enough to boil water here. I'd love to prove my point, but it'd just be a shame to waste Mercie's hard work.” Felix makes a frustrated sound that actually stirs Sylvain into cracking open an eye to observe him curiously. He's not quite sure how his comment warrants this particular response.
“You are unbelievable. I'm not blind, you know," Felix mutters, and Sylvain can see him turning away which sparks a hint of panic he’d really rather not unpack right now in the middle of a fiery wasteland. Before he can blurt out something stupid—like asking him not to go—he hears Felix mutter out an additional, “Wait here,” before he stomps off and out of sight.
He returns not even a full minute later with what looks like a fresh canteen of water, glaring at the ground next to Sylvain's head as he holds out the flask and waits for him to take it. Classic Felix—acts like an offended porcupine in front of others, but secretly one of the most considerate people you’ll ever meet. The silent gesture very much outweighs Sylvain's innate desire to irritate his friend as much as possible, so he sits himself upright with little complaint, relieving Felix of the flask. “Thanks,” he responds quietly, sincerely.
Felix scoffs in his usual way that means he's aware he's doing something nice and is trying to deflect from it as he says, “Thank Mercedes. She’s the one who predicted you’d do something stupid and made sure we had extra supplies.” Neither of them decides to address the fact it had been Felix himself who made the suggestion, knowing full well Sylvain was the type to consider his own needs last.
“I’ll be sure to do that, then,” Sylvain agrees with his usual sees-through-Felix’s-bullshit grin, which only serves to make the swordsman turn away entirely to hide his flushed face; it could easily just be the heat, but it almost looks like he's blushing. Almost. Wishful thinking, maybe.
“Whatever. Just don't go getting heatstroke before we even get to do anything worthwhile.” Classic deflection, Felix-style.
Even if he knows it's deflection, Sylvain really can't help himself from taking the bait: “‘Anything worthwhile’? Felix, this is supposed to be a rendezvous, not a battle.” Now it's his turn to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. Trust Felix to actually hope for the worst case scenario just for an excuse to battle out his frustrations.
Another kick to his leg before Felix says, “And our reunion at the monastery was supposed to be bandit-free, yet here we are.” Okay. Solid point there, damn. Felix, one; Sylvain, zero.
“Yeah, well, you’d have to be either an idiot or pretty fucking desperate to stage an ambush in a place like this,” Sylvain snorts, offering the half-empty canister back to Felix.
Felix makes a face that Sylvain can barely decipher from the way he's angled in the sun as he retrieves it. “Or a genius. With the right tactics, you can easily use this place to wear the enemy down,” the swordsman shoots back, and this time Sylvain can definitely see the look he's given, like Felix isn't at all pleased to be saying this. It's a little funny. “You're usually the one telling me pointless things like that.” He sounds irritated as he forces out the last part—it has the distinct air of a disgruntled cat. Okay, maybe it's a lot funny.
“It's not pointless if it saves our lives, Fe.” Sylvain playfully nudges the other man’s shin with his shoulder, which earns him a disapproving scowl as Felix abruptly shifts aside. The movement causes Sylvain to nearly topple right over with a surprised yelp; it's only by the grace of Felix's swift reflexes that he actually stays upright, with the swordsman having a firm grasp on Sylvain's upper arm.
“Unbelievable,” Felix parrots from earlier. It's one of his favorite words these days. He sounds annoyed beyond belief, but he still doesn't let go of Sylvain's arm until the latter properly regains his balance.
“Whoa— Close one! Thanks.” Sylvain winks up at Felix and has to restrain himself from laughing at the way Felix looks like he's regretting the unconscious decision to prevent a well-deserved dose of humbling. Sylvain’s honestly wondering if Felix is planning to just drop him and let him deal with the consequences.
Instead, he hears an annoyed, “Shut up,” as Felix steps away—far enough out of touching distance, but not so far to give the impression he's done with the conversation. Before Sylvain can come up with a teasing remark about it, he hears another voice that is very decidedly not Felix, and is distinctly female.
“Sylvain, please keep your clothes on. That includes the armor.” Byleth's tired resignation is almost worth the consequences of an impending lecture. You’d think she's had this conversation more than once; in Sylvain's defense, none of those included him.
“I shouldn't need to tell you that. Please don't make me need to tell you that,” she continues in response to Sylvain's amused snort. He sees Felix roll his eyes and it takes so much of his willpower not to laugh even harder.
When he finally composes himself enough to give a proper answer, all Sylvain can manage is, "It's brutal out here! Have some sympathy for a suffering man, won't you?"
Byleth's only response is a long-suffering sigh as she throws her hands up in exasperation.
Sylvain can't help but watch as the swordswoman marches off toward the convoy, effectively paying him no more attention. Even Felix seems almost amused by the way Byleth stands beside the convoy, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand while she uses the other to firmly rattle the fabric-covered side of the cart. There's subtle shuffling from inside before Linhardt practically tumbles out, caught in the midst of a yawn. Sylvain's too far away to catch the words they exchange, but judging from the way Byleth stands there massaging her temples, he's sure the conversation can't be good.
"She's in rare form, huh?" Sylvain points out humorously.
Felix just snorts. "Speak for yourself. Somehow she could always tell when I was using the training grounds after curfew," he mutters, shaking his head. He effectively changes the subject when he adds, "Now will you put your damn armor back on? Don't expect me to come to your rescue because you decided to slack off in enemy territory."
As empty as they both know the threat is, it's still enough to get Sylvain moving.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sylvain sighs, though he can still feel an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He manages to get the chestplate reattached properly with little fanfare, but the positioning is a little too awkward to properly fasten his pauldrons back into place, which ultimately proves too much for Felix's limited patience.
With a frustrated sound, Felix kneels beside him and practically swats Sylvain's hands away. "Sothis, just let me do it," he mutters irritably, eyes narrowing slightly as he focuses on his task. It's probably more than a little selfish that Sylvain's willing to let him, seeing as he is perfectly capable of doing it himself. It's also probably a little creepy that he uses the opportunity to stare without scaring the other off, but he's hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Instead, he opts for being as annoying as ever. "You know, I'm pretty sure it might be some kind of blasphemy to say the goddess's name in vain?" Sylvain points out innocently.
He gets an eye roll in response before Felix mutters, "Shut up and hold still or else I'm leaving you here."
"Okay, okay. I'm at your mercy here." Another eye roll, this time accompanied by a huff that might be vaguely amused. Or Sylvain's just delirious from early signs of heatstroke. It's fine.
Felix has only just finished helping Sylvain readjust his other pauldron when movement out of the corner of his eye suddenly draws Sylvain's attention. Byleth and Dimitri are both standing on the edge of the rise that leads down into their base camp, the former shielding her eyes with a hand as she squints into the distance while her other hand has a tight hold on Dimitri's cloak. It almost looks like she's physically holding him back, which would almost be funny if Sylvain didn't know the reason behind it. It's a small consolation that for all his clear impatience, Dimitri is still willing to heed Byleth's orders. How much longer that'll last, he can't say.
He's jolted back to himself by the feeling of Felix suddenly hauling him to his feet. By the arm. With one hand. Despite their noticeable difference in height plus the added weight of Sylvain's armor, it almost looks effortless on his part, which is equally impressive and a little frightening and invites a bunch of thoughts Sylvain should definitely not try to unpack right now—he doesn't get to dwell on it for long anyway, because Felix is elbowing him in the side and gesturing his head toward Byleth, who is striding down the rise toward the rest of the group.
Byleth's expression is indecipherable, much like how she'd been back when she'd first arrived at Garreg Mach, only now it's easier to read her body language when her expressions are so stoic. She has one hand gripping the hilt of her sword tightly enough to turn her knuckles white, and her other hand is clenched into a fist at her side. She seems almost nervous, and the reason why quickly becomes clear:
"They knew we'd be here. We'll be walking directly into an ambush."
Oh, lovely. Never let it be said that the Valley of Torment doesn't live up to its name, because the news of an impending battle in such an unforgiving environment sure does have Sylvain feeling pretty tormented.
Traversing Ailell's unsteady, lava-packed terrain? No problem. Traversing it on the back of a horse? Sylvain has a sneaking suspicion he'll need more than just a sincere prayer to the goddess if he wants this to end well.
Lady, for all her clear discomfort, is still a warhorse; she's disciplined enough to withstand the heat and experienced enough to go where she's directed with minimal coaxing. Thanks to that, navigating over the valley's hot steam vents is proving to be less of a hassle than he'd been expecting. Which is why he should've expected something to go wrong.
Needless to say, it's all gone off without a hitch. Except for the reinforcements.
House Rowe's initial forces certainly aren't small, but they're not exactly too difficult, either. The problem starts when reinforcements appear from farther along the valley to join the fray; before long the battlefield has dissolved into sheer chaos.
"You know, Felix, the next time you jinx a peaceful mission, you owe me a meal!" Sylvain shouts over the clashing of metal and the shouts of dying or enraged soldiers.
Felix doesn't even dignify his comment with a response, but the very deliberate way he slams the edge of the Aegis Shield against an encroaching soldier's chest feels like he's saying he doesn't regret it.
The terrain ahead is too unstable for even the most skilled warhorse, so when there's a brief lull in the amount of soldiers out for their lives Sylvain dismounts, patting the side of Lady's neck. Being the smart creature that she is, Lady takes the action as a signal to get away from the fighting. Unfortunately, Sylvain isn't given the luxury of making sure the destrier is out of harm's way because Felix is shouting at him. Even if he can't make out the exact words, Sylvain knows it's a warning and the heads-up gives him enough of an advantage to dispatch the soldier attempting to capitalize on his temporary lapse. What would he do without Felix?
It seems like the goddess herself has taken that thought as a challenge, because no sooner than Sylvain thinks it does a nearby steam vent erupt, bringing with it slight tremors across the ground and an unbearable blast of heat. By the time the steam finally clears enough for Sylvain to see again, he can't even spot the eerie glow of Felix's shield. That's a problem. He wouldn't say he's worried, per se—Felix is damn near one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom, if not all of Fódlan—but he's… Okay, yeah. Sue him for panicking the tiniest bit when he loses sight of the best friend he's fought battle after battle beside for the past five years.
For now, all Sylvain can really do is keep moving. If he stands around for too long, an enemy soldier might think him easy pickings; he may fight like he wants to die, but Sylvain was serious about preferring to die somewhere much less miserable. Even with all of his armor, he's able to duck and weave his way through errant spells and take advantage of the way-too-wide openings the enemy leaves. When something pulses in time with the Lance out of the edge of his peripheral, Sylvain dares to get his hopes up. He whirls around to see the Sword of the Creator arcing through the air in a way that exudes grace and danger in equal measure. The whip-like appendages of the sword leave behind some nasty wounds—worse than Sylvain's own Lance, even. If he had the time to spare to feel sick, he probably would; right now, he's using Byleth's weapon as a beacon. She's always in the thick of any battle, and where the fighting's thickest…there's generally a safe bet you'll find Felix not far off. Assuming he's not focused on saving Sylvain's sorry ass when he accidentally leaves too big of an opening on the battlefield.
He could swear the goddess is just taunting him now. Why else would he end up in such a situation where he's the only one to notice an incoming attack from the mercenary's blind spot?
Byleth's senses are sharp—unnaturally so—but even she makes mistakes. Even she sometimes loses her footing in the chaos of battle and takes just a little too much time to right herself again. Even she would be unlikely to survive a direct blow from an enraged Warrior's axe, with the kind of armor she tends to wear. For all his claims back in his monastery days, a war effort without Byleth is a unique kind of hell he's not eager to replicate. The thought of Byleth dying while he could've done something leaves a very bitter taste in Sylvain's mouth.
He throws himself forward just in time—the axe cleaves into his shoulder even through the armor and it takes all of Sylvain's strength to send the Warrior staggering backwards with a harsh shove long enough to let the Lance of Ruin finish the job. He can't really feel his arm, which is—not good? Probably? But at the same time, not feeling it means no pain. He can at least keep going until his frayed mind finally catches up with his body's condition. From his peripheral, Sylvain sees Byleth moving. Except she's not following the flow of the battle; she's headed directly toward him.
The faint glow of a Heal spell settles over him, and Byleth is standing close enough that even over the sounds of battle Sylvain can hear the grunt of frustration as the spell fizzles out almost immediately after.
"I can't—" Whatever Byleth had planned to say is rudely interrupted when she suddenly propels herself forward to intercept a javelin headed toward some of the less defensive ranks. The look she throws at Sylvain practically screams, 'Don't do anything stupid,' and while he appreciates the sentiment…Sylvain has plenty of practice doing the exact opposite of what's expected of him.
At the very least, from what he can tell the wound isn't bleeding as heavily as before. And he can't quite see for sure, but it certainly feels smaller than it had been. This is fine. He's played off worse injuries, even if his brain has finally reconnected with his pain receptors, sending a jolting pain through his left shoulder and even slightly across his back each time he moves too sharply.
Sylvain's sure he'll receive one hell of a scolding later for fucking up his injury even more instead of seeking out someone capable of patching up the wound fully, but the battle won't wait. At the very least, it seems like it might finally be reaching its conclusion if the dwindling number of soldiers is anything to go by.
Just as he'd predicted, Sylvain is just fine. It's not quite as difficult as one would think to avoid staring at the blood still steadily streaming down his armor, it's closer to second nature at this point. He deflects a strike from a retreating soldier, belatedly noticing the way the movement pulls at his shoulder as he counters with a strike of his own. He can see the Kingdom banners flying high and proud now. Good. Just as he said, this is just fine.
"Ouch! Okay, definitely still hurts," Sylvain hisses as he accidentally flexes his shoulder while trying to replace the bandages. He must've been louder than he thought, because not even a full minute later there's a soft knock at his door before the knob twists and his visitor invites themself in. He's actually a little surprised by how unsurprised he is to see Byleth leaning against the doorframe, eyes assessing his current situation.
He imagines he must be quite a sight: sitting on his bed, a basic medical kit open beside him with its contents all sprawled out, still muddy from the battle with his undershirt tossed aside as he awkwardly unravels the stained bandages that had been hastily applied to his shoulder before the army's return to the monastery, looking for all the world like a deer caught in a hunter's sights. To his credit, Sylvain recovers relatively smoothly and is quick to make light of the situation. "Byleth! You really ought to be more mindful, you know. What if I'd been indecent?" As expected, Byleth's only reaction to his usual antics is a raised eyebrow.
The green-haired woman steps further into the room, softly closing the door behind her as she does. "How's your shoulder?" she asks suddenly, ignoring his pathetic deflection entirely. Right to the point, as usual. Though her tone is neutral, the concern etched into the slight furrow of Byleth's brow says what her words do not.
"Ah, well." With his opposite hand, Sylvain gestures lazily at the half-unwound bandages, deciding that to be a sufficient answer on its own. "You know."
When Byleth makes a face, he rushes to amend his answer. "It's not that bad, seriously! They even said I'll be cleared for service starting tomorrow. So, you know, don't look so guilty about it."
Pursing her lips in discontent, Byleth crosses the room and reaches for the stale bandages still partly wrapped around his shoulder and upper arm, but deliberately pauses before actually touching them, a silent question embedded in her hesitance. Normally, Sylvain would shrug off the offered assistance, insisting he could tend to himself so as to not put more unnecessary strain on the healers. Unfortunately, however, this particular injury happens to be in a rather inconvenient spot for Sylvain to deal with himself, so his options are regrettably pretty limited. Instead of giving a verbal answer, Sylvain just slightly tilts on the bed to give the other an easier angle to work with.
Byleth's hands are careful and precise as she peels the stained bandages away and reaches for the cloth Sylvain'd left beside the water basin, dampening it before returning to her work. He hisses through his teeth when the cloth touches his wound, but after that brief jolt the pain mostly subsides into something duller.
"…It'll scar." If anything, Byleth seems more bothered by this fact than Sylvain. It's hardly the first scar he's received, and with the current trajectory of the war he's certain it'll be far from his last—but that doesn't mean he's unfamiliar with the slight strain in the other's voice. Guilt can be a heavy thing. "It's because I stopped in the middle of the spell."
"Yeah, that's what the healers said too," Sylvain agrees with a half-shrug. "But hey! At least I got this scar fighting for you, so that makes it seem like a medal or something."
There's a vaguely amused huff behind him as Byleth methodically cleans the wound to prevent any potential infection. At one point she presses just a bit too close to where the gash is deepest across his shoulderblade and Sylvain feels her stiffen before grunting out, "Sorry."
Sylvain casually waves the apology off.
The room lapses into silence as Byleth reaches for the roll of fresh bandages. Without any prompting, Sylvain carefully raises his arm to make the task a little less awkward. When he chances a glance over his shoulder, it's clear that Byleth is mulling over some decision or other by the way her mouth is slightly downturned at one corner, almost a frown but not quite. The former mercenary finishes tying off the clean bandage and steps back to examine her work.
Sylvain forgets that he's staring until Byleth's eyes suddenly meet his own, and after only a second he can't help but look away; the Blue Lions' former teacher had a very uncanny stare, almost as though she's looking through someone instead of at them—as if she's searching for something. Sylvain certainly has plenty of things he'd rather his teacher not find, thanks.
Then, Byleth speaks. "Are you happy that you protected me?"
Sylvain sighs as he slightly rotates his bandaged shoulder, wincing at the brief sting of the movement. He catches himself from offering some halfhearted answer, instead considering his words carefully for a change. "Honestly, when I saw you in actual danger, my reflexes just kicked in," he admits with a one-shouldered shrug. "It doesn't necessarily mean I've stopped envying you." He watches Byleth lean back against the closed door, arms crossed as she patiently waits for him to continue. He sighs again. "But at the same time… How could I not look up to you? Half of us probably wouldn't even be here if not for you, and who knows, maybe if I'd had the guts to run away from home, I could've been lucky enough to care as little about my Crest as you do yours." It almost feels a little too honest, and it leaves him feeling a little uneasy.
This time it's Byleth who sighs, finding Sylvain's window to be a suitable target to stare a hole into as she seems to consider her words. "Are you saying you didn't have the courage?" she asks eventually.
"Of course not. But believe me, if I thought I could've gotten away from it, I definitely would've tried," he retorts flatly. It's not an idea he's ever really entertained, not even as a kid, but it's an interesting thought nonetheless. "If I'd had a choice in the matter, I'd definitely be willing to leave behind House Gautier and the lifestyle of being a noble…as well as anyone who knew about my Crest." The professor—it's still sometimes a bit of a slow adjustment to actually stop calling her that—turns her eyes back to him in silence and waits, as if she's expecting more. Maybe she has a better grasp on Sylvain than he does himself, because even without meeting her eyes he feels compelled to continue, "Even then, though… For all of the Kingdom's faults, I can't say I wouldn't miss it if I had left. Some things, at least." And it's true; the idea of growing up anywhere else, or even just living somewhere else, is so inexplicably foreign to him that he can't even begin to envision it. Even shadowed as it is by Miklan's animosity and his parents' obsession, Sylvain's childhood being spent with Felix, Ingrid, Dimitri, and even Glenn is something he'd never give up.
"It's your home," Byleth says simply, and Sylvain almost wants to laugh at how three words can somehow explain so little and yet expose everything all at once.
With an amused scoff, Sylvain says, "Something like that. The thing is, our home is in the northernmost part of Faerghus, bordering a group of foreigners. The land's been contested for centuries, and with the Kingdom in collapse it's only just a matter of time before the fighting breaks out all over again. It's always fallen to House Gautier to protect it." Almost subconsciously, Sylvain's eyes slide over the Lance of Ruin propped against the wall beside his desk, its eerie red glow somehow still unsettling him even all these years later. "I guess to be more specific, it's our Lance of Ruin doing most of the work," he concludes, gesturing vaguely at the item in question.
Byleth hums in acknowledgment as her eyes follow the motion. "I remember," she replies. "That incident five years ago…"
"Yup. We were in a pretty tough spot back then. One wrong move, and our Relic would've been lost to the church." Sylvain shrugs once again, mindful of his shoulder, as he adds, "My father entrusted it to me since he was afraid the church might try to keep it. In the event of an emergency, I was supposed to be called back home with Relic in tow."
"That sounds like quite the responsibility." Understatement of the year, Sylvain thinks, half-amused.
What he says is, "With all of that in mind, it makes sense why my family places so much value in Crests. You could say we even depend on them." He must sound as bitter as he feels, because Byleth's frown is noticeable even from the corner of his eye. "Of course, since I actually have one, my parents made sure I was never left wanting. And even though he was older, my brother was pushed aside purely because he didn't. Can you imagine that?"
It's a rhetorical question, but it shouldn't surprise him when Byleth shakes her head anyway. "Not at all. It sounds unfair to you both."
"Unfair is definitely a nicer way of saying it, but I'd say it was mostly unfair to him." He's not quite sure what drives him to continue, but sitting in the safety of his own room with one of the few people he thinks might be willing to look beyond his Crest and status to see what's underneath, he feels a little bolder as he adds, "You know he once shoved me into a well when I was a kid? A couple years after that, he even left me stranded on the mountainside in the middle of a blizzard." He knows the conversational tone is out of place for something so serious, but in Sylvain's eyes that's what it is—a simple conversation, an indisputable fact of his life that he's long since learned to accept. From the look on Byleth's face, she doesn't quite assume the same.
"What?" The pure shock in her voice really shouldn't be funny—and it's not. But, you know, it also kind of is. "That's horrible," Byleth amends, shaking her head in mild disbelief as she uncrosses her arms to instead lean against them. Her voice is a little softer as she adds, "You didn't deserve that."
Sylvain can't help but laugh at the simplicity of it. "I'm glad we agree. But even as a kid, I understood why he was like that. Just by existing, I took everything from him, you know? What right do I have to complain about the burdens of possessing a Crest that so many others wish for, but do not."
"Sylvain." The tone of her voice is what makes him look up, finally meeting Byleth's eyes for longer than just a fraction of a second. "It's not your fault for existing. It isn't something you should be made to pay penance for." The sudden gentleness of her voice almost throws Sylvain completely off-kilter. He knows now that his life isn't something to apologize for, but to hear it out loud so bluntly is still an unfamiliar experience.
He leans back against his good arm, ignoring the slight pull in his injured shoulder when he does. "Maybe so, but that hardly changes the fact that my brother wanted me dead for the same reason women smile at me and my parents adore me." He ignores the bitter feeling in his chest as he adds, "And I'm expected to meet them all with a smile and a wink, all because I just so happen to have a Crest I never even asked for."
Ever the teacher, Byleth listens with what's probably boundless patience before she decides to speak again. "So… All those girls you spend your time fooling around with, the way you actually feel about them is…?"
"'Hatred' probably fits the bill there, but even that answer feels too simple. I honestly couldn't tell you how I really feel about it all." Sylvain sighs, staring at the ceiling. "But conflicted feelings aside, I know how unreasonable it was of me to resent you. I'm really sorry for that," he adds, willing himself to meet the other's eyes again. It feels less heavy and expectant now, as if she's not searching as deeply anymore. Or she doesn't need to. With less to hide, the less he feels the urge to run away.
Across the room, Byleth seems to come to a decision.
He's not expecting his former professor to cross the room toward him again, and he's definitely not expecting her to reach out and pull his head closer, almost cradling it against her abdomen. Sylvain wraps a hand around her forearm to—what? Push her away? Keep her still? He doesn't know what he plans on doing, but all that matters is what he actually does: he lets out a sigh so deep he wouldn't be surprised if he's been holding it since he was ten years old and leans into the unexpected embrace with his eyes closed.
There's nothing romantic about it. Sylvain can almost compare it to something maternal, or at the very least, how maternal is probably supposed to feel. Neither of them even speak—and do they really need to? Sylvain's great at maneuvering other people's emotions, but his own? Not so much. He can't even remember the last time someone's touched him like this, like a person, not some kind of ticket to a life of luxury. There's no ulterior motive in this; it's nothing but a friend's endearingly clumsy attempt at comfort.
The image is further enhanced by the way Byleth just…rests her hands, one on the top of Sylvain's head and the other curled almost protectively around the back of his neck. The gesture feels too intimate, too vulnerable, and despite himself Sylvain retreats from the touch after indulging for just a second. Byleth doesn't resist or try to pull him back toward her, just stands there with her hands still slightly hovering in the air before she lowers them back to her sides and retreats several steps out of his personal space.
"Uh— Thanks," Sylvain forces out awkwardly after the silence stretches just a little too long. "For checking in on me, I mean. And for the chat, very enlightening." He tries for a wink and his usual flattery—which is promptly rebuked by Byleth's flat expression. At least some things haven't changed.
Byleth nods and then turns away and reaches for the door handle, but at the last minute an idea seems to pop into her head. Sylvain is almost on edge when she slightly angles herself toward him and says, "Sylvain. You're more than just your Crest; you're an important member of this army and a precious companion to many people here—myself included. None of us wish to see you throw that away."
For a second, Sylvain is absolutely dumbfounded. Five years ago he might've laughed off such a sentiment, maybe followed it up with an ill-timed joke that would make even their dear professor decide she's had enough of his self-sabotaging and leave him to his own devices, but things are different now. He's different now—at least, he'd like to hope he is.
It'd be a lie to say he's fully come to accept that people actually care what happens to him, but he's getting there. That much, he can be proud of. He's still finding his footing with the whole honesty thing, but he finds it's not quite so hard to meet Byleth's eye this time.
Quietly, Sylvain says, "Yeah. I'm…starting to understand that."
The smile he receives in response before Byleth opens the door and slips out of the room is enough for him to know that for once, he's finally said the right thing.