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When Sylvain woke, everything hurt. Even breathing made his chest ache, as if someone had looped a cord around his lungs and pulled it tight; he could hardly pull in the air before the pressure and the pain forced it back out again. But his head hurt the most. He opened his eyes and only his right responded, the other held shut by some invisible force. It felt hot, swollen and sore, the skin pulled taut along his face.
Sylvain tried to sit up, panic settling into his chest when he could barely lift his head. The room spun.
Something was wrong.
“Maude? MAUDE!”
Sylvain never called for his mother anymore; Lady Gautier tolerated him most days, but she was not what anyone would call a doting parent. But Maude, his old nursemaid—the one who had actually raised him, who had tended to his scraped knees, had lavished him with sweets secreted away from the kitchens and stolen hugs when his parents weren’t looking—she would come. Maude would tell him everything was alright.
Only, when the door burst open a moment later, it wasn’t Maude but his mother, who threw herself by his bedside and wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh, Sylvain! My son! Oh, I was so worried!”
Even had he been able to move, Sylvain would have frozen at the touch. His mother, worried? About him? And now she was…. hugging him? Had he died? Was this some weird fever dream?
“Mother…” He did not return the hug, could not even had he wanted to.
“Shh, it’s alright now,” she whispered into his hair; the same color as her own, fiery red and perpetually untamable. “You’re alright.”
“What happened?” He wished she would let go. “Where’s Maude?”
His mother sat back on her heels, careful of the hem of her dress. “What?”
“Where is Maude?”
That had been a mistake. Lady Gautier’s lips pinched together, an army forming ranks on a hill of displeasure. “Why are you asking for your old nursemaid when your mother is right here?”
Sylvain looked away, his one good eye dropping to his chest. “I’m sorry, I—”
“She’s gone.” Sylvain stopped breathing. Gone? “You’re thirteen, for the goddess’s sake. You’ve no more need of an old woman to coddle you.”
He swallowed, the effort of doing so more than he could handle; it came out a coughing sob, choking on air and emotion and bile. His mother frowned again, then sighed and pulled him to her chest. Shifting hurt, but not as much as the ache threatening to claw its way through his chest.
“I’m not,” Sylvain whispered.
“What?”
“Thirteen.” He shouldn’t push his luck, but he couldn’t help it. How was he supposed to process this? He could barely remember what happened yesterday, still could not remember why his body felt like it had been run over by an entire caravan. “Not yet. I-I could have—We could have said goodbye at least…”
“Really, Sylvain…” Long fingers ran gentle tracks through his hair as his mother tried to soothe him. She was not very good at it; not like Maude, who had rocked him through innumerable tears and chased away his nightmares, waking and sleeping. But she was trying. Sylvain couldn’t hate her for it, even if he wanted to.
“Where… where did she go?” he asked, the fabric of her gown rough against his chapped lips.
Lady Gautier tsked. “Away. Home, I suppose. Your father dismissed her this morning. Not without a proper sendoff, of course—she has served our family well. But it was time to let her go.” His mother shook her head. “She has her own life, Sylvain, one that does not revolve around you. Don’t be selfish.”
The words stung, even as some part of him wanted to argue. He was being selfish. Maude deserved to be happy, and if that meant leaving the Gautier estate—leaving him— “I—I’m sorry…”
His mother sighed. “Do not let it upset you,” she said softly. “You are still healing. You need your rest. We can talk about this later.”
Sylvain leaned against her—he could hardly not, as weak as he was. Rest sounded lovely, and his mother’s touch (while it was a tealight to the bonfire of Maude’s gentle care) was soothing. His muscles relaxed, slowly, one at a time, until consciousness was his last true tether to the world. He was aware of the pleasant weight of her body, the rise and fall of her chest. A sound—the door closing? Footsteps? He couldn’t place it.
“How’s the brat doing?”
Sylvain was instantly awake, every part of him on high alert. Miklan.
Memories came flooding back: that voice, taunting him, daring him to call for help. Miklan’s silhouette, blocking out the light and hope of escape; the head of a loose nail digging into his back as he was pinned to the far wall.
The cold, cruel sting of the discarded horseshoe—an improvised weapon, but effective—as it bit into his skin over and over and over.
The distressed whinny of the horses; the smell of his own blood sharp in his nose.
He remembered, now. He knew why his ribs screamed and his joints ached and his eye was swollen shut. What he couldn’t remember was why. What had he done this time? Sometimes it was something Sylvain said, yet other times he seemed not to need a reason. Miklan was always looking for them, and if he couldn’t find one, he’d make one up.
And now he was here, in Sylvain’s room. To finish the job? Surely he wouldn’t, not with his mother—their mother present?
“No…” Sylvain whimpered into Lady Gautier’s gown, clutching at her sleeve. His bruised muscles burned as he drew in on himself, the effort leaving him gasping. “No, no, no…”
“Shh, shh my son. It’s alright,” said his mother, but he couldn’t stop crying. He whispered, begged into her gown, the tears stinging his eyes and the cuts on his skin. Lady Gautier turned her head to her other son, glowering at him over her shoulder. “Your brother was sleeping. Until you startled him.”
“Hey, I saved the kid. He should be grateful.”
Saved? That wasn’t right.
“No,” Sylvain sobbed. “You—you—”
“Hush,” his mother said gently, smoothing his hair to soothe him. “Miklan, you’re distressing him.”
“I’m not doing anything,” said his brother. “If it weren’t for me, that damn horse—”
“Watch your language.”
“—that damn horse would have killed him. You’re lucky I was there, kiddo.” Sylvain didn’t have to look up to know that his brother was leering at him.
The horse—Sylvain’s horse. He’d gotten her as a Founding Day present when he was seven, a sweet pale mare he’d dubbed Blueberry, after his then-favorite snack. (He’d never been good at naming things, much to the chagrin of his father.) She was the perfect horse for a beginner, docile and even-tempered, and Sylvain loved her. She was probably his best friend, aside from Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix.
And Maude, but now she was gone.
“Blueberry wouldn’t hurt me,” Sylvain rasped, hoping he sounded more certain in their ears than his own. “She wouldn’t—”
Miklan laughed. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but she kicked you in the face.” Rough hands pressed against his cheek, not at all gentle. Sylvain yelped, but his mother had already batted Miklan’s hand away with a growl. His brother laughed again. “Did a good job of it, too.”
“If you’re not going to be helpful, leave,” Lady Gautier snapped, and Miklan bowed.
“As you wish, Mother dear.” He grinned at Sylvain, tipping an invisible hat. “Get well soon, brat.”
“Miklan.”
"Leaving." Miklan moved out of view, his footsteps fading with the click of the door behind him. Even then, Sylvain did not relax, curling into his mother's embrace with a whimper.
"Are you in pain, my love?" The endearment sounded foreign; Sylvain was sure she had never called him that, not since the day he was born. But it felt good to be cared for, even if she had misplaced the cause of his distress.
Sylvain shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Well, yes, but--"
"Then let us get you to bed." Lady Gautier laid him down again, tugging the blankets up to his chin and brushing his hair back with her hands.
"But Mothe--"
"Shh. Rest, Sylvain."
"But--"
"Be still." There were the pinched lips again, and Sylvain dropped his eyes.
"Yes ma’am."
"Good boy." She patted his hand and made as if to stand. "Sleep. I'll ask the healer to check on you in a few hours."
Sylvain's eyes flicked to the door-- the one that Miklan had just left through. The one that would take his mother, his only protection, away.
"Wait!" His mother, startled at his vehemence, took his hand again.
"Yes?"
"D-don't go. Please?" He held her fingers in his own feeble grip, willing her to stay. "P-please, Mother." Lady Gautier frowned. Sylvain knew he was pushing, knew he should be careful, but desperation ruled him now. "Don't go. Please don't."
"Sylvain..."
"Please." He smiled, then; he was sure it was a sad sight, with only one eye and a mottle of bruises covering the freckles he knew were her weakness. "Just.... just until I fall asleep?"
His mother sighed. "You are far too old for this," she murmured; for one terrifying moment, he thought she might leave. But then she sat down again, her smile soft, and said, "But I suppose you have had a hard day. Alright. I'll stay."
He could have cried. "Th-thank you," he whispered instead. Only then did he finally relax, finally allow himself to close his eyes and give his body what it desperately needed.
“What do you mean, you don’t want to go riding?”
Ingrid was furious, and rightly so; she’d talked about nothing since her arrival this afternoon, accompanied by Felix and Lord Rodrigue and their retinue from Fraldarius. Dimitri had arrived this morning under cover of pre-dawn. The prince didn’t understand it, but Sylvain did, at least a little; Lambert was a good king, but he was pushing some unwelcome policy changes and that made him—and the rest of the royal family—a target. He’d almost been unallowed to travel at all, but the prince had insisted. After all, it was Sylvain’s birthday.
Some birthday.
Sylvain shrugged. “I just don’t feel like it, I guess.”
“That’s stupid,” Ingrid shot back. “You promised! You love when we go riding!”
“If you are still nervous,” Dimitri suggested softly, “you know, around the horses—”
“I’m not scared!” He hated that they knew about the accident. That’s what they were calling it, in hushed tones when he thought they couldn’t hear. He was sure Glenn had told them; Glenn was privy to a lot of things, now that he was knighted. Sylvain couldn’t hold it against him, but it did make things… difficult.
“I just meant there would be no shame in it if you were—"
“Fine,” Sylvain snapped. They didn’t understand—they couldn’t. And he couldn’t explain. They’d never look at him the same way again. “Let’s just go.”
He was already walking away when he heard the sniffles start.
“Guys,” Felix whined, his voice trembling with restrained emotion. He tried so hard to be tough, to be like Glenn, but he had always been a crybaby. Probably always would be. “Guys, don’t fight.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” said Dimitri. Then he turned to Ingrid. “It is Sylvain’s birthday. Perhaps we could do something else together.”
“But he promised! We always go riding, Mitri, and Sylvain likes riding—”
“Ing, stop being so mean!”
“If Sylvain doesn’t want to go—"
Sylvain sighed, donning his usual smile like a shield and turning back to his friends, hands raised. “Guys, it’s okay. We can go riding.”
“But Sylvain—”
“Look, I changed my mind.”
Dimitri looked skeptical. “Just like that?”
“What can I say? Ingrid convinced me!” He laughed. “She’s real persuasive. And I did promise.”
“Yay!” Ingrid practically threw herself at him, which admittedly made him feel slightly better about the whole thing. “And then a snack? Maybe some cake?”
“I hate cake,” Felix grumbled. Ingrid either ignored him or didn’t notice.
“Sure,” said Sylvain, ruffling her hair until she let go of him in disgust. “Whatever you want.”
“But Syl,” said Felix, “it’s your birthday.”
"Aw, I just wanna hang out with you guys," he answered. Then he was ruffling Felix's hair, as well, wrapping his friend in his arms so he couldn't escape. The boy squawked and batted at his hands, but Sylvain was taller and stronger. Felix might be feisty but there was no contest between them when it came to brute strength.
"Sylvaaaain, knock it off!" Felix said. "Glenn braided it all nice and you're gonna mess it up!"
Too late, Sylvain thought, but he let Felix go anyway, laughing as the other boy desperately combed at his hair in an attempt to salvage Glenn's hard work. "Come on," he said, waving them on and starting down the path again. "I'll introduce you to Arawn."
“Oh?” Ingrid, who was always more interested in horses than she was people, skipped beside him. "Who's Arawn?"
"My new horse." To his credit, he didn't stumble over the words this time. "Father got him for me."
"Oh?" Ingrid peered at him; her lower lip pouted a bit when she was trying to puzzle things out. He'd started to think it was kind of... cute. "What about Blueberry?"
He should have been ready for the question, should have expected it. But it had only been a few weeks; the pain was still fresh, and the suddenness of its onset caught him by surprise. "She's--" Sylvain cleared his throat. "She's gone."
"Gone?" Dimitri parroted. "Why?"
"Didn't need her anymore," the practiced response rolling off his tongue. It was almost like he believed it. Like she hadn’t been taken from him, like every other good and perfect thing. "Father said it was time I got to ride a real horse-- a warrior's horse. One that can carry me into battle.” Sylvain paused, wondering how much to tell them. “Sreng's been giving us more trouble lately,” he said finally. “I think he's worried."
Felix, wide-eyed at the prospect of a fight, grabbed his arm. "Aren't you scared?”
“Nah,” Sylvain shrugged. “Not really. Happens all the time.”
“But you don't train like you should."
"I'm stronger than you," Sylvain teased. He reached for his hair again, and Felix threw both arms over his head. That left his middle unguarded, which proved to be a fatal mistake; Sylvain poked him in the armpit, and Felix fell away with a yelp and stream of giggles.
"Not fair!"
Sylvain grinned at him. "Totally fair."
"He's right, Fe," Ingrid chimed in, all smugness. "You left yourself wide open."
Felix stuck his tongue out at her, crossing his arms for good measure. "Yeah? Well at least I don't skip practice to sneak into the kitchens all the time!"
Ingrid went scarlet, though Sylvain wasn’t sure if it was from shame or indignance. With Ingrid, it could be either. Sometimes it was both.
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
Dimitri, gentle Dimitri, stepped between them. "Ingrid, Felix, please. Let's not--"
"I'll fight you right here, Felix, don't think I won't!"
"Do it! I'm not scared of you!"
"Felix," Dimitri pleaded, "you were just crying about us fighting--"
"I was not crying!"
"Yes you were, you always cry--"
"Do not!"
“You’re crying right now!”
Felix tugged on his sleeve, face indeed wet with tears. "Sylvaaaain, make her stop!"
Ingrid stomped her foot, her glare daring him to take sides. "You know I'm right!"
"Nuh uh, you're being mean--"
"You started it!"
“Guys, guys, guys.” Sylvain threw an arm around either of them, pulling them to his side and holding them there while they struggled. “I thought we were going for a ride? Come on, let’s just have some fun.” He waggled his eyebrows at them, turning his newly-minted teenage charm to maximum. “It is my birthday.”
Felix went red in the face and wriggled out of his grasp, wiping his face on his sleeve and dropping his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”
Ingrid, too, pushed away, looking properly chastised. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. In fact… Race you there!” And then he was running, his long legs carrying him halfway down the lane before the rest of them even realized he was gone.
“Wh—Sylvain!” Dimitri was the first to recover, laughing and chasing after him with a wave to the younger two. “Come on!” he urged, “we can’t let him get away with that!”
“We certainly cannot!” And then Ingrid was on the prince’s heels, grinning wildly.
"Not even on his birthday!" Felix agreed, only a moment behind. "You're a dirty cheater, Sylvain!" And Sylvain just laughed, stumbling over his feet and feeling lighter than he had in months.
When they finally reached the stables, breathless and leaning on each other and trying to stay upright as they giggled themselves to pieces, Sylvain realized his dread was gone. He slumped to the ground, holding the stitch in his side as he slid down the wall; Felix flopped on top of him with a cry of victory, followed by Ingrid and lastly a hesitant but still giggling Dimitri, who draped himself ungracefully over his legs and gasped for air. As they argued over who had won and whether or not Sylvain had, in fact, cheated, Sylvain tilted his head back and stared upward.
He didn't mind being pinned if it was them. Their weight was a different sort of weight; not oppressive but comforting, a blanket of fondness that made him feel safe instead of trapped in his own skin.
"Happy birthday to me," he murmured.
Maybe they couldn't take every good thing.