Work Text:
"Remember our promise? I'm not trying to break it, Felix. If we die, we die together."
Axe in hand, war cry on his lips, and rage bubbling through his veins, Sylvain buries the head of his weapon in the chest of an Imperial soldier. It isn't as though he hasn't killed imperial soldiers before. It isn't as though the feeling of blood on his hands and a body beneath his weapon is unfamiliar to him.
It isn't any different, this time.
The man sporting bright red aside from the crimson staining his armor breathes one last desperate gasp before his struggling ceases. The death is quick. Sylvain can't remember the faces of most of the enemies he's slain – and he doubts many of those same enemies would remember his, if he had been the one to fall instead of them – and he doesn't think he'll remember this one either. There isn't time to remember the name, face, voice, life of every person who has wound up dead beneath his axe. There are more important things to worry about.
With the closest enemy down – dead, in the dirt at Sylvain's feet – he takes the opportunity to wipe cascading drops of sweat from his brow. If he can't see, keeping himself alive becomes that much harder. He takes a deep breath, swallows back the constant bile building in his throat, and takes advantage of the rare free moment to glance around the battlefield.
Ingrid and Annette, watching each other's backs as an ever-growing cluster of Imperial soldiers close in on them. One hand reaching for the reigns of his horse, Sylvain feels an urge to rush to their side and assist in whatever way he can. Of course, he doesn't get farther than considering the idea before Annette shouts the name of a spell that he's certain she's taught him and Ingrid flies right up into the air to avoid the massive boom of fire and wind that blows all their enemies away. Sylvain can't help the small laugh of relief at their strength. Really, what was the point of worrying over those two? They can handle themselves.
Next he finds Mercedes, back-to-back with the professor – Byleth, as she'd asked them to call her – casting some inconsistent combination of healing and offensive spells. No one bothers to reply with thanks, when Mercedes closes their wounds and offers her long-distance support from behind the walking weapon that is their professor. There will be time for thank-yous later. When each of them has managed to get out of this alive.
Byleth – ever the powerhouse – cuts down enemy after enemy as though they're made of little more than paper. Her eyes hold no malice or disdain for those in her way, but they also lack the sympathy that someone like Mercedes might carry for those they cut down. Sylvain can't help the thought that by the professor's side is truly the safest place on any battlefield.
Dimitri and Dedue fight side-by-side – as always. Dedue covers the prince's weak spots, while Dimitri deals most of the pair's damage. They move in perfect sync, as though they were one body with one mind. Sylvain supposes it really isn't far from the truth.
Finally, Sylvain's eyes find Felix. His childhood friend and the one who had recently pointed a sword right in his face and threatened him with a duel if he didn't stop his reckless behavior. Felix who had barged in on Sylvain after such a minor wound with nothing but worry, and then reaffirmed a promise made so so many years ago – and Sylvain wonders if he had been aware of how furiously he had been blushing, or if he truly thought he was being subtle.
Sylvain watches Felix's sword dance through the air, and can't help but find it mesmerizing. Even more so than the way Byleth moves between weapons as though she can't find one to settle on. More fascinating than the fluid motion of Mercedes' hands or Ingrid's lance. Felix cuts down enemies with a grace and precision that Sylvain knows is absolutely unique to him.
He almost thinks it beautiful.
Well, it would be beautiful. If not for the crimson staining everything from Felix's blade to his increasingly pale face, the scene would be nothing short of stunning.
Sylvain opens his mouth, about to call out to his childhood friend. Shout, perhaps, some kind of compliment or joking criticism or even a sarcastic inquiry of if he needs any help. He already knows exactly what the reaction to any and all of those options might be. The same annoyance, slight aggression, and soft blush that he's always loved to see on Felix's face. It's something he looks forward to. Something he seeks out. Something that makes his heart race, every time.
As much as he's known for chasing skirts, Sylvain knows better than to think that feeling of warm affection in his chest is anything short of genuine love.
"Felix!" He calls out, waving his hand above his head and anticipating the annoyed look in Felix's eye when he turns to look at him. Felix doesn't seem to notice, however. His sword continues its dance through the air – yet another enemy falls at the sword master's feet – and Sylvain remains absolutely mesmerized.
Then, everything comes to a halt.
Sylvain feels his eyes going wide before he can even really register why. He feels his mouth opening and his entire body moving, and apparently the message hasn't reached his brain yet because about half-way through lifting his axe is when he wonders why he decided to make this effort on foot instead of reaching for his horse, just a few feet away–
“FELIX!” He shouts, loud enough that the entire battlefield seems to come to a stop. So loud that he manages to catch the heads of their allies turning. Quick and shocked and panicked. Perhaps just as panicked as Sylvain's voice had sounded. The message still hasn't seemed to reach his brain, because he struggles to register the sight before his eyes.
A sword is held high in the air. Stained a dazzling shade of crimson – perfectly matching the colors on the holder's sleeve – and the message finally seems to fully hit him when he realizes that it isn't Felix's sword.
The situation only seems to fully hit him – he only realizes why he's running across muddy earth with a war cry on his lips and his axe held high above his head – when he sees the one who lies unmoving at the Imperial soldier's feet.
Felix.
He brings his axe down with all the strength he can find in his arms. He thinks the solider struggles to move their sword in time – likely to block the attack – but their blade is no match for the axe that Byleth had claimed was forged from some kind of beefed up steel. Sylvain will never pretend to understand the material that goes into his weapons. He leaves things like that to Byleth. Dimitri. And Felix.
Felix.
He hears the soldier grunting. Struggling. Trying to breathe. He thinks he hears someone else talking – possibly shouting – something. He doesn't register what it is they're actually saying before he's dropping his weapon and crashing into the Earth. His hands scramble over Felix's bleeding torso. Desperate to find the wound. How does one treat a wound like this? Sylvain remembers some kind of lecture from Mercedes on this topic. Just in case. Just in case something happened and they needed to treat a wound on the battlefield without Mercedes' help–
"Felix!" Sylvain shouts his name again. His fingers continue searching increasingly blood-stained fabric. The weapon is here somewhere. Somewhere on his chest, where the deep blue fabric of his clothing is just getting redder and redder and–
Felix grimaces, winces, and the reaction is so un-Felix that Sylvain thinks that it gives him whiplash. It's something he can't afford to dwell on, but fills his chest with insurmountable dread. There's no way. There's no way. Felix won't die. Felix won't–
He's dragged out of his thoughts by the sound of clashing iron, mere feet away.
"Sylvain!"
He raises his head, eyes still wide with panic as he finds the glowing mint eyes of his professor. He can remember, plain as day, the time before those eyes held so much more than quiet brilliance and a silent promise of trust. Back when they didn't glow, and were such a comforting soft blue. Before an explosion of light and–
"SYLVAIN!" Byleth shouts again, and Sylvain snaps out of his second trance of the past five minutes. Perhaps it has something to do with the adrenaline. He sees her deflecting a blade, thrusting her own forward. Her opponents falls, and she whirls around. "Get him to Mercedes, now!"
Sylvain nods. He nods without really processing the professor's words, and before he knows it Felix is hauled up onto his back and he's moving as fast as his legs will carry him across slippery Earth. Towards their class' resident healer – desperately throwing spells at anyone who dares approach her. Byleth must have left her – knowing that Mercedes is more than capable of handling herself – to jump to his defense. He would be honored if his entire body wasn't overflowing with panic.
He thinks other Imperial soldiers target them, during Sylvain's journey. His only hint is the consistently rising temperature and burst of flames that most certainly came from one of Annette's spells that he manages to catch the one time he glances over his shoulder.
"MERCEDES!" He shouts at the top of his lungs, and she drops her hands from the constant spell casting as Sylvain eases Felix to the ground. "H-He's hurt, I–"
"Focus on keeping the enemies away!" Mercedes doesn't let him finish. She pushes right past him and crouches at Felix's side, seemingly ignoring the red seeping into her hands as soon as she sets them on his chest. "I'll take care of him!"
Sylvain freezes. Nods. Bites down on his lower lip and ignores the feeling of something... wet, seeping into his back. Wet and slippery and sticky and–
Focus.
Sylvain tightens his grip on the axe, still clenched between blood-stained fingers.
Don't you dare die on me, Felix.
Don't you dare break our promise.