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“Arianrhod has fallen.”
The words clung to Sylvain like mud as he stumbled across the base, leaning into his lance as he used it like a cane.
“While we have no means of retrieving any bodies, there are no confirmed survivors either.”
Gradually he came to a halt, his grip slipping down the length of the lance as his knees buckled. The hallway seemed to bend and shrink in the corners of his vision, the air dry and clawing at the back of his throat with each shallow, quivering breath.
“For now, we should assume the worst case scenario.”
Bracing himself against the wall of the dimly lit corridor, he slowly regained his footing, taking as deep a breath he could, though his lungs ached in response. The world came into focus again. There he stood, alone.
He couldn’t help but imagine what had happened, feeling a morbid pit of guilt form in his stomach as the images came flooding into his head. The Silver Maiden gutted, her viscera on display for all. A swordsman, a pegasus knight, lying still in pools of blood. Felled by a spell, perhaps, their faces burned beyond recognition. Or a blade, whipping through the air as it tore flesh from bone, stealing them away. Which would have been quicker, kinder, if such a thing were possible in this dragged-out, brutal war?
He put a hand to his face and found it dampened by tears, flowing freely and hitting the floor without a sound.
Felix and Ingrid were dead. Two more precious faces, reduced to ash by the all-consuming flames of war. And there Sylvain stood, alone.
Clenching his lance, he rose, lifting it above his head, and swung it so hard against the ground that it snapped clean in two.
---
The night before they were set to depart for the Tailtean Plains, he found himself restless, pacing the night away.
“Now I get how His Majesty feels,” he said aloud to no one in particular with a dry laugh, running a hand through his spikes of hair.
Of course, in the back of his mind he always knew it was never a possibility given the circumstances, but as the days dragged on after the fall of Arianrhod, his mind slipped further and further from battle as he waited, desperate to hear that the bodies of their dead had been claimed. During what little time he could spare to train at this point, it was as though his body, swinging his lance with crushing force, ran independently of his mind, ever wandering to the Silver Maiden.
Wait for us. Wait for me.
The clatter of his weapon, the weight of his armor, it all seemed so distant.
You’ll get a proper burial, in the capital. In Fhirdiad.
He blinked and returned to the present, still pacing away by candlelight. He stopped in his tracks and looked at his hands, calloused and dry.
They were to depart with the king in the morning. Even if, by some miracle, their corpses landed at their doorstep, there was no time left for burials.
But it’s all I want at this point, all I can think about.
Where were they rotting, at that very moment?
Just one last thing, one proper farewell.
Before he too was pulled into the flames of war. Before he too was just another fallen body.
---
When the fighting began, the world around him became a blur. The field, the rain, the soldiers, the blood-- everything melted and meshed together into a slurry of death, there in the mud. But he didn’t care.
His Relic glew bright through it all, the one beacon he could recognize amidst the darkened mess, so he swung, and swung, and swung. And the soldiers fell, and fell, and fell.
Maybe you’re the one who killed Felix. A scream of pain, followed by silence.
Maybe you’re the one who killed Ingrid. Bones splitting, followed by silence.
He had always hated wielding the Lance of Ruin. When it was first entrusted to him, it felt like a block of lead in his hands, laced with all the hatred, all the burden he had always wanted to shrug aside, to hide behind a casually faked smile. The peculiar, stirring feeling he felt in his veins as the bony protrusions were set alight in red always sent a shiver down his spine, as he was made viscerally aware of the power he never asked for, never wanted to bear.
But then and there, as the rain beat down on the plains, he let loose like never before, rushing down every enemy in sight and plunging the Relic into their bodies. How many had he managed to slaughter? They fell to the ground so quickly, reduced to hazy blurs of shredded flesh and spewing blood with a single jab, as though he were merely tearing through paper. He pressed onward, onward, the Lance of Ruin glowing bright as it was slathered with blood. The stirring in his veins was hardly registerable, drowned out by a dull numbness from head to toe as he idly guided his horse by the reins, his mind one step outside of his body as he played executioner.
In truth, he barely registered the blow that sent him flying from his mount, merely blinking when he found himself on his back, looking up toward the blackened sky. He ran a hand over his torso and felt that whatever had hit him had destroyed half of his chestplate, a gush of warmth oozing between his fingers as they traced over his abdomen.
He lifted his hand above his face, thick drops of blood falling onto his cheeks along with the unrelenting rain, then let it fall back to his side.
So, this is it.
It should have been frigid, lying there in the mud as the heavens let loose upon him, yet still his mind was far removed from the present, slipping further and further back, until it settled on a sunny afternoon, between tall blades of fresh grass.
---
“The end.”
As Sylvain gently flipped the book closed and turned toward Ingrid to his left and Felix to his right, he found them both asleep, leaning against the tree they were all sitting under. He couldn’t help but smile at the image of the three of them, resting peacefully as the branches shielded them, as flowers blossomed around them.
“You two are so strong,” he said quietly, detaching his cape. The bags beneath their eyes were swollen and red, but the tears were gone, replaced with the simple rise and fall of their chests with each soft breath. “You’ll make it through this.”
He draped the cape over the three of them where they sat, and nudged them both so that their heads could lean on his shoulders. Earlier that day, he practically had to drag them both out of their rooms, where they had been holed away for days, but it was far more than worth the effort.
He tousled their hair and smiled to himself again. Leaning back against the tree, he took in the sight of the field around them, of the flowers delicately swaying as a warm breeze passed.
“You’ll make it through this,” he repeated. “And I’ll be here for you, always. I’ll protect you, always.”
---
“I’m sorry… I couldn’t even… do that.”
Blinking, Sylvain was dragged back into the present, still staring up toward the sky as his vision began to fade. Blood drained from his mouth and wounds as he struggled to speak to no one who could hear, mud sinking into his hair and skin as if it were trying to embrace him, pull him into the earth.
It beckoned to him: a ruined field, the hand of death.
But he found he didn’t mind. Though the heavy rain clouds above obscured the sky, as he heaved out labored breaths, the world gave way to a brilliant light. A tree, standing proud, guarding two sleeping children.
“I’m sorry… I couldn’t…”
His eyelids fell closed as the rain continued to beat down on his face, and in the next instant, his feet were planted in fresh grass between proudly blossoming flowers, his face warm with tears. He was no soldier plated in ruined armor and gripping a bloodstained lance, just a little boy, gazing at his friends with nothing but love and warmth in his heart. Without a second thought, he leapt into a sprint to return to them, to cradle them in his arms once more and never let go.
“Felix! Ingrid!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as the distance between them closed, and they stirred, awakening and waving with gentle smiles upon noticing him trailing through the grass. He swung his hand above his head, waving back, and laughed as he cried.
Of course, he knew it wasn’t real. There he was, lying in the mud and rain as the Tailtean Plains were being torn apart, sputtering out saliva thick with blood, approaching his final breath. But there was no pain, no fear. His heart was calm, and as everything around him slowed, he could smell the sweetness of fresh grass.
It beckoned to him: someplace warm, a field in bloom.