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The Lance of Ruin pulses in his hand like snake waiting to wrap itself around his throat. Sylvain feels nauseous, but he swallows it down. He doesn't have the time to throw up. The feeling will pass, anyway. He always gets used to it.
He nudges his horse forward, deeper into the battlefield. The Tailtean Plains are full of bodies. He doesn't look too closely at the corpses. He's afraid of recognizing the faces. Ingrid probably would have smacked some sense into him. She would have told him it was cowardly not to look, that he dishonored his fellow soldiers by not acknowledging their sacrifice. She probably would have been right.
But Ingrid didn't come back from Arianrhod, so there's no one left to yell at Sylvain.
He catches a flash of blue across the battlefield. Even if he hadn't, he would have recognized that style anywhere. He's been watching Felix develop it for their entire lives. He turns his horse towards him, nudging her into a canter. A not insignificant number of the Empire's soldiers charge him, but Sylvain is able to cut them down.
The Lance of Ruin pulses again, reminding him of what it truly is. Reminding him of what it did to Miklan. Sylvain's grip tightens around the handle. First his brother, now his best friend. He doesn't know why his family wanted him to have it. All the Lance brings him is death.
By the time Sylvain reaches Felix, he stands alone. The ground is littered with the corpses of Kingdom knights. Blood stains Felix's face. His sword drips with it. Sylvain feels sick again, and this time he can't blame the Lance.
"I don't want to have to kill you, Felix," he calls. His chest aches. He doesn't want to do this.
"Don't worry," Felix says, leveling his blade. "You won't."
Sylvain doesn't respond except to lower his lance. He leans forward, his jaw set, and his horse charges.
Felix watches him approach with cold, calculating focus. Sylvain readies himself to swing his lance outward, knowing that Felix isn't stupid enough to stay a stationary target for him. But Felix doesn't dodge to the side. He ducks below the lance instead. Before Sylvain can pass him, Felix drops his sword and grabs the handle of the lance with both hands. Sylvain's horse keeps running forward, ripping Sylvain off her back. He tumbles to the ground, the lance flying out of his hand.
Felix has him pinned before Sylvain can even catch his breath. "You've been relying on that thing too much," he says. He grabs Sylvain by his collar and slams his head into the ground. Sylvain's vision flashes white. "Haven't I told you? A fighter needs to be ready for anything. You were ready for nothing." Felix swings his fist, connecting solidly with Sylvain's cheek. He doesn't hold back. Sylvain doesn't expect him to. He punches him again and again. Sylvain's head is swimming.
A horse neighs just behind Felix. Sylvain's mare, having noticed the loss of her rider, trots back toward him. Felix glances up at her for a second, giving Sylvain the opening he needs to throw Felix off. Sylvain throws his weight on top of him. Felix may be the stronger of the two, but Sylvain is heavier even without his armor.
His fist connects with Felix's face, the sharp metal edge of his gauntlet opening up a cut in Felix’s cheek. He looks up at Sylvain with utter calm. There is no fear in his eyes, no concern, nothing but fierce determination. His gaze pierces Sylvain like an arrow.
Sylvain hesitates with his arm drawn back for a second strike, trembling. "What are you waiting for?" Felix hisses. Sylvain doesn’t know. His head hurts. His face hurts. His chest hurts. He wants to do something, but he doesn't want to hurt Felix. He doesn't want to hurt anymore.
He grabs Felix’s face, but tenderly. It’s the kind of touch that has no place on a battlefield. Sylvain strokes Felix’s cheek with his thumb and thinks of bedsheets. He leans in.
It is their first kiss. It makes Sylvain's heart beat faster than it ever has before. Felix's mouth is warm, his tongue is soft, and his left hand caresses Sylvain’s neck. Sylvain pulls away when he runs out of breath. He's lightheaded. He’s almost giddy. He’s so caught up in wanting to kiss Felix again that he doesn’t notice Felix’s right arm reaching for something. He almost doesn't notice the blade sinking into his stomach. Almost.
It's a fatal wound, he knows instinctively. Felix wouldn’t be so careless as to let him live. Curiously, it doesn’t hurt. Sylvain sways, losing his balance along with his blood. He collapses, but Felix catches him and guides him carefully to the ground. He pulls the sword from Sylvain’s body and lays Sylvain’s head on his lap. He touches Sylvain's face. His fingers are gentle.
Despite everything, Sylvain smiles. He finds Felix's hand and grabs it, holding as tightly as he can. He knows his strength won't last. "I didn't think it would end this way, Felix," he says. He tries to laugh, but all that comes out are tears.
"I didn't either." Felix squeezes his hand back, holding Sylvain close. Their fingers are laced together. They are both covered in Sylvain’s blood.
Sylvain reaches up to clumsily brush Felix's hair out of his face. "I hope you get what you want. I hope it makes you happy." Sylvain wishes he could see Felix smile one last time, but his mouth is set in a thin line, jaw trembling slightly. Sylvain knows this face. He saw it so often when they were children. This is what Felix looks like when he's trying to hold back tears. "Don't cry," Sylvain says.
"As if I'd cry for you." But Felix's voice is choked, and his eyes are wet.
Sylvain wants to kiss him again, and again and again, but he is too weak. He is tired. He is dying. "I'm going to miss you so much," he says. His voice comes out like a whisper. It is a miracle that Felix can hear him over the cacophony of the battlefield.
"I'm going to miss you too, Sylvain." Felix squeezes Sylvain's hand again. Sylvain tries to squeeze back, but he can't. He can't do much at all anymore. He looks into Felix's face as long as he can before his heart slows to a stop.
When Sylvain's hand falls from Felix's grasp, he knows it is over. Sylvain cannot feel Felix sliding him gently off his lap, nor can he feel the light press of Felix's lips against his forehead.
Felix does not wipe his face. He simply blinks the tears free, allowing them to carve tracks through the blood on his face. He retrieves his sword and steps back into the battle.
Sylvain had wanted him to be happy. Such a foolish last sentiment. What a foolish man Felix had loved.