Chapter Text
Sylvain never felt more like himself—that is to say, like no one at all—than at a party.
For as long as he could remember, his Crest had hounded him wherever he went. But he quickly learned that in a sea of faces, he could come and go as he pleased, supping on meaningless chatter and hastily-forgotten introductions like a fickle hummingbird leaves flowers half-drained of their nectar. So, when news spread across Fódlan of King Lambert's successful invasion of Sreng, eight-year-old Sylvain wasn't sure whether to be more excited about his father's triumphant return or the victory soirée that would inevitably follow.
The climate of Fraldarius territory, though a far cry from warm, was a welcome respite from the freezing gales that blew down year-round from the Ruska Mountains in Gautier. In some places, the snow was even beginning to melt off the castle turrets, gathering in little pools on the ground where Sylvain could catch his reflection as he walked by.
He knew he had a pretty face—with a mother like his, it'd be impossible not to. Even so, he didn't love mirrors. The first time his Crest had manifested during combat training, it had nearly scared him out of his own skin. Bizarre heat flooding his bloodstream, followed by the twin scythes and hooked edges of the Gautier sigil searing the air with almost grotesque color—he had gone to bed shaking that night, wondering how something so strange and terrifying could ever come from the Goddess' blessing. Ever since that day, he'd been wary of his reflection, like some great, hulking creature was lurking just behind his eyes, waiting for the right chance to rear its ugly head and swallow him whole.
"You're dallying again, Sylvain," his father said gruffly. "A future margrave must walk with grace and decision. And straighten your back, for the Goddess' sake."
"Matthias," came the familiar, languid indifference of his mother's chiding. "Go easy on the boy tonight."
"Go easy on him! And what if I had fallen in Sreng? Do you truly think he is fit to succeed our house as he is now?"
"Such macabre hypotheticals hardly befit the night of a celebration, darling," she drawled as she perfumed her chestnut hair with a vial of jasmine oil from her purse.
"Hmph. Celebration or no, see that you conduct yourself in a matter befitting your Crest tonight, Sylvain."
"I will," Sylvain said, picking up his pace.
"What was that?"
"I will, Father."
"Hmm."
His mother cast an unreadable look back at him before taking her husband's arm and leading him out of the fading daylight towards the castle entrance. Heads turned in the courtyard as she daintily gathered her skirts in one hand to keep the emerald velvet from dragging on the sleet-slicked cobblestone. Sylvain's new leather boots squeaked against the pavement as he ran up alongside them. Some wishful part of him wanted to reach out and grab his father's hand, but, even at his tender age, his better instincts kept it glued to his side.
A footman escorted them inside. "Wait here, Your Graces," he said before bustling off into an adjourning room. Sylvain couldn't help but gawk a bit at the floor-to-ceiling tapestries and ornate weapon mounts that adorned the entrance hall, squinting slightly as he took in the magically suspended candelabras floating overhead.
"Now this is an entryway," his mother cooed approvingly. "Perhaps a bit...masculine for my taste, but one can't deny the grandeur. When will you let me redecorate Castle Gautier? Stone here, flags there—honestly, it looks more like a courthouse than a palace. I'll die of embarrassment if we have to receive guests the way it is now. Especially after anyone who's worth anything this side of the Oghma Mountains has been here tonight. A ceiling frieze, stained-glass windows, some mother-of-pearl tile—we'd be the envy of Faerghus!"
"Now is not the time, Sirène," his father muttered, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "For now, we need to figure out how best to deal with our political prisoner. We are undertaking a diplomatic endeavor without precedent in Fódlanian history—"
"Always mired in that damned head of yours. If you were wound any tighter, I'd think I married an ascetic. Have you considered that we might charm the Srengian over to the ways of Fódlan by impressing upon him the elegance and sophistication of our culture? Perhaps by, say, installing an indoor fountain in our foyer?"
"Foolish woman," Matthias snapped. Sylvain winced as he recognized the first refrains of his parents descending into their old, belligerent song and dance. "Do you have any idea the ire such an obtuse display of luxury would invoke in our subjects—one we, in all frankness, can't afford? Every winter our harvests grow thinner, and you're concerned with interior design?"
"And whose fault is it that our coffers are so woefully dry that we can't afford the social niceties that separate us from the commonfolk and reinforce their faith in our sovereignty?"
"Are you referring to the funds I extracted to finance the Sreng campaign? Whose success is the very thing we're celebrating tonight?"
The two were interrupted by the footman loudly clearing his throat from behind them. "Your Graces, if I may. Your presence is requested in the ballroom."
"Ah, yes." Sirène glared at her husband one last time before turning and flashing the attendant a dazzling grin. "Lead the way, then."
"Y-yes, Your Ladyship. Right this way, then," he stammered, color suddenly rising to his cheeks. Matthias' grip tightened on Sirène's arm at the sight. Sylvain silently marveled at his mother's ability to disarm anyone standing in her way, regardless of hostility or unfamiliarity, with nothing but a smile. He wondered vaguely if Miklan would hate him less if he practiced his own.
The footman threw the ballroom doors open to reveal a glittering menagerie of lords and ladies dotting the dance floor like chess pieces in fine evening dress.
"Announcing Margrave Matthias Raoul Gautier and Margravine Sirène Lucere Gautier, as well as their son Sylvain José Gautier!"
Matthias gave a stiff nod and Sirène beamed beatifically as all eyes turned to them. The Duke Fraldarius set his champagne flute down on a side table and strode over to the foot of the stairs to greet the family.
"Matthias," he grinned. "Dashing as ever, I see. Your shoulder seems to be healing nicely."
Matthias' face softened at the sight of his old friend. "You're not looking so bad yourself, Rodrigue."
"And Sirène," Rodrigue said with a bow. "Always a pleasure. Thank you for holding down the fort while the three of us old hands were off playing at war."
"Oh, nonsense; I just did as I always do. I should be thanking you for keeping Matthias safe," Sirène said, curtsying in return.
Matthias cleared his throat. "Rodrigue, I don't believe you've seen my son since he was very small."
"Why, that's right!" Rodrigue smiled down at the boy. "You've grown into quite the young man, Sylvain!"
"Thank you, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you." Sylvain replied, draping his hand over his left chest and dipping his head slightly. Sirène's eyes glinted like polished emeralds as she watched her son execute the gesture just as they'd rehearsed.
"Ha! You're raising quite the charmer, Sirène." The woman scoffed lightly, though she couldn't quite conceal a proud smirk. "But no need for that 'sir' nonsense with me, lad. I'm Uncle Rodrigue to you, all right?"
Sylvain's eyes widened. He had never known an adult to speak to him so...casually.
"None of that, Rodrigue," Matthias warned before Sylvain had a chance to decide whether he liked it or not. "The boy must learn the order of things. See that you don't jeopardize that."
Rodrigue's brow furrowed. "Matthias..."
"Where are your sons? I was hoping that Sylvain could finally meet them in person."
Rodrigue fixed Matthias with a look that oozed "we'll talk later" before smiling again at Sylvain with that same transfixing warmth he couldn't quite wrap his head around. "Glenn is making introductions with his mother presently. But Felix, ah...he tends to disappear shortly before these kinds of things. You'll have to forgive him. He is only six, after all."
Matthias' eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Disappeared. I see. Remind me to never leave Sylvain in your charge."
Rodrigue only laughed good-heartedly. "He's around here somewhere; he just gets a bit shy with crowds. I find it quite adorable, actually. But I'm sure you'll meet him sooner rather than later. You are planning to stay in Fraldarius at least for a few days, yes? The fish in the Whitehorn Sea are practically begging to be caught this time of year."
"Would that I could, old friend, but I'm afraid that with the issue of our prisoner, this little excursion is the most I can spare."
"Ah, yes. Some other time then. Well then, my boy." Rodrigue extended his hand to Sylvain. He stared for a moment before turning to his mother and, after receiving a nod of approval, reached out to accept it. "Shall we go meet Glenn first? I'm sure the two of you will become friends as good as any."
After a brief conversation with Glenn—the boy certainly wasn't overly friendly, not that Sylvain minded much—Rodrigue gave Sylvain a gentle pat on the back and bade him return to his parents. Noticing them engrossed in conversation with the king, he jumped at the opportunity to slip away into the dazzling blur of the crowd.
The party was everything Sylvain had hoped it would be. With all the toasts being made out in his father's name, for once, he found his lineage opening doors to him rather than closing them. The dizzying anonymity of the crowded ballroom kept him feeling wanted without the danger of anyone looking too close. And watching girls' cheeks dust over with pink when he kissed their gloved hands didn't hurt his ego either. Somewhere across the room, he was sure his mother was doing just the same.
After the better part of an hour, though, Sylvain noticed what looked like his parents searching for him in the periphery of his vision. Not quite ready to give up his briefly won liberty, he found the nearest side door and stole out into the quiet chill.
The sky was cloudless and purple in the waning twilight. Sylvain let his feet wander down the garden path on their own, reaching out a hand to brush against the flowering vines creeping up the trellises as he passed. His surroundings seemed muffled and heightened all at once, like his head had been wrapped in burgundy velvet. Maybe his eyes were still adjusting from the brilliance of the celebration within. Maybe an unseen garden fae crouching in the hydrangeas had woven some kind of enchantment upon him. Or maybe it was just the bit of white wine he had snuck off the refreshment table finally catching up to him. The corners of his mouth twitched upward as he pictured the look on his father's face if he found out.
Sylvain meandered the grounds until he glimpsed the first pearly sliver of the moon rising over the mountains. He climbed a nearby tree to get a better look, unbuttoning his collar once he found a comfortable seat near the top. Falling back onto his hands, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes to take a deep breath. The cool evening air carded through his hair and welled up in his lungs like the first trickle of a newly melted river through cracked winter soil. He wasn't sure what freedom felt like, and maybe he never would be, but if this was the closest he ever got...he could work with it.
A flash of movement in the corner of his eye drew him from his quiet dreaming. Peering down through the leaves, he could make out what looked like a girl his age swinging a wooden training sword around the garden. Curious, he crept down between the branches, wrapping his arms under a low-hanging bough and shifting onto his side to look closer. He watched in silent transfixion as she maneuvered her weapon in canting circles and swift slashes, raven hair falling onto her shoulders as she darted about in the crocus as if in some kind of fairy dance.
Soon, the girl's movements halted with a final, sweeping stroke. She straightened up, dusted the dirt off her pants with her free hand, and the spell was broken. Sylvain hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath until he felt the sudden urge to cough. When he did, the girl's head snapped towards his hiding place.
"Who's there?" she asked sharply.
Sylvain froze for a moment at being discovered, but quickly decided to play it cool. Might as well go for the charm. He'd seen it get his mother out of a hundred tight spots, after all, and some part of him couldn't help but imagine the envious looks he'd get if he returned to the party with such an enigmatic prize on his arm.
"Sorry for scaring you," he said amiably, lowering himself from the tree. "I just couldn't take my eyes off your swordplay."
The girl's eyes raked fiercely up and down his body once his feet hit the ground. Looking for a weapon? he wondered. Her guard was up, then. Good thing he'd never been one to back down from a challenge.
"So what's a pretty girl like you doing out here all alone?" he asked, flashing his most winning smile.
"I'm a boy," the child scowled. "And this is my house."
"Your hou-" Realization dawned in Sylvain's eyes. "So you're Felix."
Not sensing a weapon on Sylvain, Felix seemed to relax a little, though his annoyance and embarrassment were still equally written on his face. "You must be here for my dad's party."
"Yeah," Sylvain said. "Look, I'm sorry I thought you were a-"
"It's fine," Felix cut him off. "It happens a lot."
"Oh," Sylvain said, not quite sure how to respond. He'd never met a boy so...pretty.
"So did he send you to drag me over there? I'm not going." Felix said, knuckles going taut as he gripped his training sword a little tighter.
"No! No, that's not it." Although he knew the sword was only wood, the way Felix was holding it still made Sylvain a little nervous. "I'm actually trying to get away from it myself."
Felix paused, unable to hide his surprise. "You are?"
"Yeah. Kind of hiding from my parents right now. You too, huh?"
"I'm not hiding." Felix eyes flashed defensively. "Just...don't wanna go."
"Why not? I mean, it's sort of your party too."
"Don't like all the noise." He toyed a bit with his sword. "And Dimitri isn't there, so. No one to talk to."
"Dimitri? Like, Prince Dimitri?"
Felix shrugged. "Our dads are friends, so."
"Oh." Sylvain went quiet as he remembered the bizarrely....warm way that Rodrigue had treated him. "Your dad is pretty cool, you know."
Felix smiled softly, something heating up under Sylvain's palms at the sight. "I guess he is."
"Uh-huh," Sylvain replied, pushing aside the foreign feeling for his usual air of bravado. "I wish my dad had a nickname like the Shield of Faerghus. You know what they call him? The Wall of Ice. How lame is that?"
"The Wall of Ice?" Felix tilted his head. "I dunno, that actually sounds kind of cool."
Sylvain looked away. "Yeah, maybe..."
"Who's your dad?"
He had sensed the question coming, and yet, now that it had been asked, he didn't feel as uncomfortable answering as he thought he would. Something about Felix put him at ease. Like trusting him wasn't entirely off the table.
"Margrave Gautier. So, uh, our dads are friends too."
"Huh." Felix's eyes rounded slightly. "Then you're...Miklan?"
"Miklan's my big brother. I'm Sylvain."
"Oh, okay. Is he here too?"
"Um...no. He's at home." Sylvain busied himself with pulling at the fabric of his gloves. "My dad doesn't really let him come to these things."
"Why not?"
Sylvain lowered his voice. "Well...he doesn't have a Crest."
Felix blinked. "So?"
Sylvain's world whirred to a stop. "That's...that's not a big deal to you or anything?"
"Not really? I mean, my big brother doesn't have one either."
Sylvain's jaw went slack as the image of Rodrigue smiling with his arm around Glenn flashed across his mind. "But...your dad said he's the heir?"
"Yeah, 'cause he's the oldest." Felix said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"But you have one? A Crest, I mean?"
"Yeah, but I wanna be a knight anyway." Felix's brow creased. "You're weird. Why do you care about Crests so much?"
"I don't," Sylvain lied. "My dad just said we can't protect our people without them."
"I mean, Holst Goneril from the Alliance doesn't have one either. And I heard he killed a Giant Wolf all by himself."
Sylvain balked. "No way!"
Felix's eyes sparkled. "Way. One day I'm gonna do something just as cool and get a nickname like my dad. Like...Felix the Wolf Slayer or something." His chest puffed out at the thought. "I wonder if Giant Wolf meat tastes any good."
Sylvain wrinkled his nose. "I mean, probably not."
"Just you watch. I'll bag one someday. Then we can both find out."
"You don't know how long that'll take, though," Sylvain pointed out.
"You’re just gonna have to wait around and see, then."
The implication of his words settled heavily in the air. Felix's eyes were sharp as blades, and looking at them, Sylvain thought it a wonder they didn't set everything they touched ablaze. But something else was shining underneath, something impossibly beautiful and gentle and still, and if the moonlight hadn't been slanting at just the right angle, he might have missed it entirely. He had suffered enough futile brushes with hope to put him perpetually on his guard, and yet, something about the way Felix looked at him made him feel like if he played his cards right, he would never be alone again. It felt like the opposite of looking at Miklan's back.
He knew from his books that such promises were exactly how dark pixies lured unsuspecting humans away to strange and dangerous fairylands where they'd never be looked upon by civilization again. And yet, if Felix was the one to spirit him away...even though they had only met a matter of minutes ago, Sylvain wouldn't spite him.
"Does that mean we're friends now?" Sylvain ventured.
"Friends?" Felix considered the word for a moment. "I mean, I guess so. Now that our dads are back, we'll probably see each other lots anyway."
"Okay. Cool." Sylvain said as nonchalantly as he could with the thrill of not being rejected bubbling up in his chest. "Mind if I hang out with you a little longer, then?"
"Depends," Felix said, eyes suddenly glinting with a dangerous sort of glee. "Can you fight?"
"Uh...yeah?"
"Then go a few rounds with me," Felix declared, tossing Sylvain his training sword before bending his knees and raising his arms in a barehanded guard stance. "Ready?"
"Wait, hang on!" Sylvain threw up his hands, dropping the sword in his panic.
Felix straightened, frowning. "What? You said you could fight."
"I mean, yeah, but not with one of these." He knelt down to pick up the weapon and gingerly placed it back into Felix's hands.
"Oh. With what, then?"
"Mostly just a lance, but my mom is teaching me some magic."
"...Lances and magic?" Felix repeated slowly.
"Uh, yeah?"
Felix's whole face seemed to light up from within. "Then training with you is gonna be the perfect way to beat my dad!"
Sylvain suddenly understood what Rodrigue had meant when he called Felix "adorable."
"I mean, I'm happy to help, but—hey, what're you doing?"
Before he could finish his sentence, Felix bounded past Sylvain to the tree he had been sitting in and yanked off a long, drooping branch with a few sharp tugs.
"Your lance, Sir Sylvain," he announced in a deep, solemn voice as he held out the makeshift polearm.
All Sylvain's reticence melted away. How long had it been since he'd played with anyone his age? Taking his cue, he shrugged off his evening coat and tied the sleeves around his neck so it hung off his back like a cape, silently delighting when Felix stifled a giggle at the sight. Like he'd seen at his father's knighting ceremonies, he dropped down on one knee and extended both arms to accept the weapon. "Why, thank you...Sir Felix."
He sprang to his feet and spun the branch around him in a couple of quick, sweeping figure-eights, smirking in self-satisfaction as he watched Felix's eyes glisten with awe. It was really the only lance maneuver he had ever put any effort into learning; functionally useless in combat as it was, it never failed to impress the ladies. And...Felix, apparently.
Felix extended his sword, bending his knees and raising his free arm up behind his head in a practiced ready position. "En garde, Sir Sylvain! Do you accept my challenge?"
Sylvain took no small thrill in removing his embroidered satin gloves and flinging them into the dirt. "I throw down my gauntlet! May the best man win!"
"I'll show you what a knight of Faerghus can do!" Felix shouted with a delivery that had clearly been rehearsed no shortage of times in the mirror.
The two lunged at each other with their best battle cries. Being the faster of the two, Felix landed the first hit, nearly knocking the wind out of Sylvain with a sharp jab to his gut. Sylvain was quick to retaliate, though, lighting a small patch of moss with a carefully aimed fire spell and jumping at Felix from behind when he turned to stomp it out with his boot. Using the edge of the branch, he knocked Felix onto his back and held the point to his throat.
"Cheater," Felix pouted.
"More like winner—wha?!" Sylvain's boasting was cut short by Felix kicking his legs out from under him. Felix used the opening to scramble to his feet, striking the branch from Sylvain's hands and pushing him to the ground in one fell swoop.
"Someone spoke too soon," Felix gloated.
"You little—!"
The fight loosed all government from what sparse laws it had been following and devolved into an honorless free-for-all in the dirt. The two lapsed into a tangle of flailing limbs and pealing laughter as they fiercely wrestled for the upper hand. Sylvain vaguely registered that his finest evening wear was getting hopelessly caked in mud, but he was having far too much fun to care. If his father could see him now, he'd be beside himself with rage. Sylvain could just see the brimstone in his eyes, could hear the way he'd shout his name like—
"Sylvain!"
The familiar admonishment split the air just as Sylvain thought it would—he would've written it off as a product of his overactive imagination had Felix's head not shot up in shock. Sylvain whipped around to see his parents standing on the garden path, his father's face red with fury and his mother's lips pressed into a thin line of resignation.
"Just what do you think you're doing? Get up at once!"
"Yes, Father. Sorry, Father," Sylvain instinctively apologized as he jumped to his feet. Felix quickly followed suit.
"I should think you are! Your mother and I have been searching everywhere for you. And who the blazes is that?"
"U-uh," Sylvain stuttered.
"I'm Felix, sir," Felix piped up meekly, still half-hiding behind Sylvain.
"Felix...! Felix Fraldarius?" Matthias said incredulously.
"Uh...yes." Felix fidgeted with his fingers, staring at the ground.
"Well. I am at a loss for words." Matthias lowered his voice to a chilling softness that almost made Sylvain wish he’d yell. "To think the day would come when I'd find two noble scions of Faerghus tumbling in the mud like street urchins."
Sylvain looked desperately to his mother, but she pointedly refused to meet his eyes.
"You two are coming with me. Sirène, get Rodrigue and tell him to meet us in his study. They can't be seen in this state."
Sirène silently nodded and swept off in the direction of the ballroom.
"Pick up your gloves. We're going." Matthias commanded before starting down the walkway without another word.
Sylvain and Felix followed close behind, neither daring to look at the other at first. When Sylvain finally ventured a sideways glance, though, tears were pooling at the corners of Felix's eyes. His chest ached guiltily at the sight. Checking to make sure his father wasn’t watching, he gently took Felix's hand in his. Felix looked up at him in surprise before squeezing back tightly and training his gaze back on the path ahead.
The meeting with Rodrigue wasn't nearly as bad as Sylvain had envisioned. Though he did seem disappointed that Sylvain hadn't rejoined with his parents as he'd instructed, he seemed more adamant in insisting that Matthias let their children act like children.
While they were caught up in their debate, Felix surreptitiously scribbled something on a scrap of paper from Rodrigue's desk and slipped it into Sylvain's front pants pocket. The argument soon drew a fiery close, and Matthias announced that they were returning to Gautier without so much as an opportunity for Sylvain to say goodbye.
In the carriage back, Sylvain fished the crumpled note out of his pocket and straightened it out in his palm, cupping his other hand over it so his parents wouldn't see.
I had fun. Write me. Your friend, Felix
Sylvain held it close the whole way home.