Chapter Text
It had seemed a good idea at the time. It does not seem a good idea, now.
After some hours spent in severe disorientation, general panic and the subsequent stages of grief, Sylvain rapidly arrives at the final phase of acceptance. He finally understands and can attest to the following:
1) He's received karmic retribution for his many years of relentless philandering, at the hands of the woman he's just slighted;
2) This woman happens to be a veritable stunner, but also (unfortunately) an incomprehensibly powerful witch; and
3) He's utterly boned.
It's a shame. Sylvain isn't all that enamored with his life as it is, however he isn't prepared to die like this.
He paws tentatively at the damp ground, unaccustomed to his very small, very fuzzy body. He carefully clears his throat, producing the tiniest of squeaks. He attempts walking, and immediately trips over his white-tipped tail.
...Nevermind acceptance. This is too wild for anyone to believe. Sylvain Jose of House Gautier, born on the 5th day of the Garland Moon, has been rendered into a fox kit by spite and black magic.
---
Not even a fully-grown fox, Sylvain grumbles to himself as he wobbles toward the direction of the monastery. He's figured out something of a shamble, carefully swaying himself forward step by step. It's the dead of night, though the darkness has no bearing on his vision—he's just thankful he can't be seen.
He'd woken up at the edge of town, a reasonable distance from the main gates for a human with two functional legs. With his pitiful crawl however, he'll be lucky if he makes it back before sunrise. While his pace does gradually quicken as he becomes accustomed to his new appendages, his energy depletes. He's terribly hungry, and a thin whine escapes his throat.
...He can't help but remember the night he'd spent alone on the mountainside, blindly moving on hands and knees toward a distant pinprick of light (fire, civilization, salvation), feeling his way through the cold dark.
This time, it's a punishment he'd rightfully earned, and the difference doesn't escape him. He persists anyway, driven in part by an animal instinct for survival, and in part by human memory.
He shivers, and thinks he has to find Felix. There's no conclusive evidence that the young swordsman would know what to do, much less even recognize Sylvain in his present state, but Sylvain believes in their friendship with an unshakeable determination regardless.
He'll find Felix.
---
Finally, the gates are in full view. Light encroaches on the horizon, infusing the sky in the soft colors of dawn.
...For someone who had slipped off school grounds so many times in the past, Sylvain never imagined he'd have so much trouble getting back in. He slumps onto his belly for a brief rest, though he knows he'll need to keep moving soon again to keep his body heat elevated. He isn't sure when the gates will open, or how he'll manage to sneak inside, however an opportunity presents itself within the hour.
There's a distant rumble of rolling wheels in the distance, the first of the merchants approaching the marketplace to set up their stall. Sylvain eyes the road warily, though his nerves begin to buzz with anticipation. Hope, if he so dares. He doesn't think he has the strength—or coordination—to execute a perfectly-timed leap into the back of the cart, so he decides he'll follow closely behind, and sprint through the gates as soon as it opens.
He begins to move once more.
---
He moves as quickly as he can, darting past a small number of stationed guards in a small, ruddy streak.
"You see that?" He hears from somewhere behind him. He keeps running, lungs beginning to burn, legs aching as he scampers up the path toward the second, grated gate just outside the marketplace. (Everything is so much farther away, so much bigger.)
"Must be another stray..."
The voices fade as Sylvain takes a sharp left before the entrance hall, veering in the direction of the pond. He can smell traces of fish, stomach lurching painfully as he passes stacked crates and barrels. He's damn exhausted, but he's so close... Just past the greenhouse and into the staircase...
He stops to pick at an abandoned crayfish, and decides he'll never again complain about the food in Faerghus. He notices a cat watching him nearby, and it's frickin' massive. An absolute unit. He's literally never seen a cat as big as himself in his life, holy shit. (He swears it must be the same cat he fed the other day—a handsome lad in a black and white tuxedo, with keen yellow eyes.)
Maybe karma isn't entirely after his sorry ass, because while he's certain he's about to get pummeled away from his tragic meal, the feline simply turns and walks off.
---
He has to keep moving. Most of the students should still be asleep—unless they're his friends, who are probably already at the training grounds. He treads cautiously toward the dormitories, hoping he can slip into his room for a nap. (He's craving familiar shelter more than anything else, this single fundamental desire urging him to stay awake and alert.)
He makes it to the second floor. Of course, his own room is all the way at the end of the hall, as if obliging him to complete a walk of shame every time he enters and leaves it. He's hoping he's strong enough to nudge his door open, or else he'll have to circle around from the outside of the building and attempt a miraculous leap through an open window. A far more dangerous and potentially fatal approach.
He can hear faint voices, and he bristles. He isn't surprised that Edelgard and her shadow are up too at this unholy hour. He can hear Ferdinand bustling ever productively in his quarters.
Just one more block to go...
---
Naturally, his luck dries up right before he reaches his destination. He starts as a door suddenly swings open in front of him, and unthinkingly backtracks, throwing himself into the room he'd just passed, its door cracked open plenty enough for him to clear.
His trajectory is abruptly halted by a small stack (mountain) of books adjacent to the standard-issue writing desk (tall and dark fortress), but even in his daze Sylvain has enough sense to clamber over the obstacle he'd just collided into, huddling behind the makeshift barricade in case anyone outside notices the noise and peeks in.
His small heart hammers in his small chest, pointed ears twitching as he listens for footsteps...
They don't draw any closer, the sound dimming as they pass him by.
...That was Felix just now, wasn't it. So much for finding him.
Sylvain sighs, though it just comes out as another ridiculous whine. A book he'd displaced earlier topples ontop of him, and he yips pathetically as he's squashed.
"—Well, well."
Sylvain freezes, hearing a soft voice from somewhere overhead. In his panic, he hadn't realized he's had company all along. A figure rises from the east (the great plateau of a bed), emerging from behind the distinct peaks of more hardcovers. A pair of nimble feet plant onto the yellow carpet.
A giant hand reaches down to help lift the brick-like burden from Sylvain's back, and the rest of his benefactor crouches down to observe him, his voice quiet, curious and delighted.
"You lost, little guy?"
Sylvain blinks up into the bright green eyes of Claude von Riegan.