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Sylvain sat on the steps outside the dormitories and looked around the empty monastery with a sigh. Five years ago he would have been thrilled to be the only Blue Lion not chosen for a battle, but today, he hated it. He wanted to be angry with the Professor for leaving him behind, for choosing everyone except him for today’s mission, but he couldn't really blame her. Not after what happened at the last one.
Honestly it’s a miracle I’m still alive.
He stood up with a wince, trying not to put weight on his injured leg. It was a gruesome wound, a lucky stab that caught an artery, and he knew he was lucky to still draw breath. He’d lost enough blood on the battlefield to start hallucinating.
It had been a nice hallucination, though. There were worse ways to die than to bleed out while thinking Dorothea Arnault was holding your hand and telling you to stay with her.
A voice reached his ears.
It was faint and distant, and Sylvain only heard it because it rang so clear. He would know that voice anywhere. It was Dorothea, and she was singing.
For a moment Sylvain stopped and just listened, allowing himself to bask in the crystalline sound of Dorothea’s voice. But then a question began to nag at him. I thought she was going with the rest of the team?
Curious, he began to walk towards the singing.
Dorothea’s song was rising from the broken cathedral, and as he drew closer, Sylvain found himself imagining her somewhere else entirely. He pictured her onstage in Enbarr, resplendent in an opera diva’s gown and jewels, singing an aria to an enraptured audience. He imagined himself in his nobleman’s finery bringing her a bouquet of roses afterwards, trying his luck with a flirtatious comment and a little wink.
Then he imagined Dorothea throwing the roses in his face.
He shook his head and sighed. Back in their Academy days he and Dorothea had been something close to enemies. She thought he was a shallow playboy; he thought she was a conniving fortune-hunter. One of them had been right and it wasn’t Sylvain. All right, yes, she was hoping to make a good match at Garreg Mach, but she was never anything less than honest with the people she dated. Sylvain certainly couldn’t say the same.
And ever since they’d reunited at the monastery, Sylvain had barely been able to take his eyes off her. She was gorgeous, sure, and that was part of it—but Goddess, she was brave and kind and principled, and fought this war even though she hated every moment of it. She could have run off with half a dozen nobles who would have made sure she never came within ten miles of a battlefield, and yet she was here, trying to bring the conflict to an end.
He wanted desperately to prove to her that he wasn’t the jerk he’d been five years ago, but he suspected that was a hopeless cause.
I’m just checking on her, he told himself as he climbed the stairs to the cathedral one agonizing leg-dragging step at a time. As he reached the top he closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him—just for a moment, not long enough for it to be pathetic, but enough to give his heart something it had come to crave.
As he pushed open the door to the cathedral, the song stopped abruptly. Sylvain felt a prickle of magic in the air, the telltale sign of a spellcaster readying to strike.
“It’s just me!” he shouted, stepping into view.
“Sylvain?” The spell vanished abruptly.
Dorothea was standing at the altar, framed in the colored light of the shattered cathedral windows, her mouth open in indignation. “What are you doing out of the infirmary?” she demanded. “Professor Manuela said the pain medicine would make you sleep for hours!”
“I… may not have taken all of it,” Sylvain admitted with a wink. “Felix said…”
“Sylvain. Tell me you are not taking healing advice from Felix Fraldarius.” Dorothea shook her head in disgust.
“He said feeling the injury might remind me not to be so stupid next time,” Sylvain finished. “Seemed like good advice. Besides, that stuff makes me dizzy.”
Dorothea scowled. “Oh, you are just impossible. All of you Faerghus men, really, but you in particular.”
“Is that why you stayed behind?” Sylvain joked. “Couldn’t take any more of us?”
Dorothea’s eyes shifted away. “It… may have seemed like a good idea to have someone here. In case… well. I know the monastery staff is here, but they’re not healers.”
“Dorothea Arnault, are you saying you stayed to look after me?” Sylvain teased. “I’m beginning to think you might like me! The next thing you’ll tell me is that you’re the one who saved my life. Held my hand, whispering ‘hold on, Sylvain’ until Mercedes could get there.”
Dorothea’s beautiful face darkened. “Well, now I don’t know why I bothered,” she spat. “Of course you’d make a joke out of it.”
Sylvain stared at her, blinking. “Wait… what? You… that really happened?”
Dorothea made a dismissive motion with her hand and started to walk away. Sylvain searched, desperately, for some way to salvage this. “Dorothea, wait. I thought—I thought I’d dreamed it or something! I mean, why would you—I know I’m a jerk, all right?”
That halted her steps.
“I know I’m a jerk,” he repeated. “And that I’d never have a chance with you. So I figured… maybe my brain decided to show me something I was wishing for, since I was probably dying and all.” He sighed heavily. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you for saving my rotten life. I’m sorry.”
Dorothea turned around slowly, raising her chin to meet his gaze. The look on her face sent Sylvain’s heart pounding—her lips were slightly parted, her eyes bright, and he saw his own hopes reflected back at him in her beautiful face.
“You know, under other circumstances, telling me you’d picture me in your dying moments could be considered quite romantic,” she said softly.
“Any chance you could still find it romantic?” Sylvain said as his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. “Because… I’d like that. Finding some way to sweep you off your feet. Giving you a grand romance, the kind they write operas about.”
“Those operas are just stories, Sylvain.” She shook her head. “I don’t need something grand. I need something real.”
Sylvain didn’t think she could have said anything that scared him more. He’d said so many false words, made so many false promises. But for her, he would try.
“Then… I really like you, Dorothea,” he said, stepping forward and reaching for her hand. She placed her fingers in his, and he felt his heart skip a beat. “You’re brave, and smart, and talented, and… my day just gets better when I see you. Even when you call me an idiot.”
“And I really like you, Sylvain,” she replied, a little smile curving her mouth. “You’re clever, and funny, and you always find a way to make me laugh even when everything is awful. And you never seem to hold it against me when I call you an idiot.”
“So can I take you to dinner?” he asked, smiling down at her. “I’ll warn you now, it probably won’t be a very romantic dinner. I don’t think I can walk much further than the dining hall. Those cathedral stairs almost did me in.”
“Sylvain!” Dorothea swatted his arm with her free hand. “Why would you climb the stairs… oh, never mind. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to take you back to the infirmary and bring you dinner there. And afterwards, you will take all of the pain medicine Professor Manuela prescribed.”
“Do I get a kiss if I’m a good patient?” Sylvain asked with a wink.
Dorothea arched an eyebrow at him, then rose on her toes and kissed him. It was a fast kiss, so fast he barely knew it was happening until it was over, but it set every inch of him alight.
“I gave you the kiss in advance so now you have to take the medicine,” she replied, tucking his arm over her shoulders, winding hers around his waist. “Now come on. Let’s get you back down those stairs.”
It was going to be a slow trip, Sylvain reflected ruefully as they took the first steps together. But somehow, he knew he wouldn’t really mind.