Work Text:
If some kind soul centuries ago told Sylvain a holy woman could be so damn attractive, he might’ve entered the priesthood rather than stepped onto the path that led him to this moment:
Stalking the same holy woman that enlightened him.
She walked far more calmly than a woman who knowingly entered a vampire’s lair, her hands clasped before her and her brown eyes scanning the shadowed halls with interest rather than trepidation. She looked more like a prostitute playing at chastity with her downright sinful curves out for a stroll than a nun out for...well, that was what Sylvain was determined to find out before he seduced and slayed her.
“What do you think, sweet lady?” Sylvain gestured around the dreary halls - really, if he wasn’t immortal he’d be dying for any company - and took her small, soft hand in his. “Care to help me liven it up?” He raised her hand to his lips and made sure his eyes met hers at the perfect moment.
She covered her mouth, sweetly and demurely and just coyly enough Sylvain couldn’t help imagining it pressed against his. “Oh my,” she said, “you really are as straightforward as they say.”
Ah, so his reputation preceded him? Sylvain lowered her hand but didn’t let it go, appreciating her living and very human warmth on his skin. “I daresay I haven’t been so sincere in my very long life, sweet lady,” he lied. “But tell me, what is your name? I must know who I’ll be praying to tonight.”
The woman giggled, but how she extricated her fingers from his - gently, but no less disappointing - belied her...positive reaction. “How blasphemous of you. But I thank you,” she continued with a smile that might’ve melted a younger and less dead Sylvain’s heart, “for your hospitality. My name is Mercedes.”
Sylvain’s fingers curled into a fist as if to preserve some of her heat still lingering against his cold skin. “Mercedes,” he said, rather liking how his tongue curved around it. “That’s a lovely name, almost as lovely as yourself.” He smiled. “And since you have graced me with the gift of yours, I shall tell you mine.”
“No need,” she said, shrugging. “Sylvain, is it? You’re quite a popular fancy among the village maidens.”
“And I suppose you’re here to confirm I’ve left their virtues intact?” Sylvain laughed without much humor. Beautiful this holy woman might be, but she could spare her judgment.
“Of course not,” said Mercedes. Her beatific smile never once faltered. “I’m not so naive to think you don’t kill every woman you bed.”
Her bluntness so shocked him he stepped away from her. “I…”
Mercedes strolled past him, her eyes barely pausing on the old, dusty, ugly portrait of his father. “Come now, Sylvain.” She glanced over her shoulder and beckoned for him to follow her. “Perhaps a tour is in order first?”
Sylvain, despite himself, stumbled after her with his jaw flapping uselessly. “Mercedes, sweet lady, what on the good goddess’ green earth brought you here?”
“Is it not obvious?” Her gaze snapped to his, and unlike her lips her eyes didn’t quite smile.
“You carry no weapons,” Sylvain observed, “and you’re already more clever than half the wenches who wander into my lair put together. Surely you’re not here because you think you can survive a tumble?”
“Oh, no, I have no illusions of my physical strength or your own compassion.”
Sylvain did not flinch. “Then what—“
Her fingers found the Crest of Seiros pendant dangling from her neck, and resilience Sylvain hadn’t seen in any human in centuries colored her face. This holy woman, he realized with an awful and startling clarity, had experienced hell on earth.
“I’m here to save you,” she pronounced with a stubborn set to her jaw, “impossible task or not."