from @accrsed : there is a deep crease to her brow, a frown settled across her features as the soft glow of healing magic casts a light across the wound. her hands hover above, careful not to brush or aggravate, focusing as it steadily closes under her careโโ marianne remains close, however, until barely a trace remains, until she can allow her shoulders to fall and the tension drains from her alongside them. tired, weary and worried, the crease in her brow remains even as she raises her head to properly look at him ( at him, this time, not a gash or cut or scrape ) from her perch on the chair beside his. โ does that feel alright, sylvain? โ undoubtedly a healed wound will feel better than one open, yet the corners of her mouth remain oh-so-slightly downturned as she watches and waits. near-silent, as is expected, yet the urge to disturb the quiet rises unbidden. it is a strange urge, yet in times of war she has grown steadily bolderโโ in those peaceful days long past, never would she consider so readily giving voice to her turbulent thoughts. her hands wring together regardless of any newfound courage, her thought voiced quieter than most, more murmur than proper speech. hesitant, uncertain. dark eyes avertโโ she watches her hands grip the material of her skirt instead. โ please ... try to be more careful. i don't want to see you hurt. โ
instinctual, habitual, whateverโโ he hadn't thought. he'd seen the mage approaching, hand flickering with rotten flame, and he'd simply ... moved. jumped off of josephine to reach her, shielding her with his back. he'd made a promise, after all, told her he'd be her knight / sure, sure, but he wasn't thinking about any of that. being a knight means being selfless, being a knight means protecting people; honorable and duty bound, just like faerghus trains him to be. ( just like glenn was supposed to be. ) but none of that had mattered in the moment, and frankly, if he hadn't jumpedโโ if he was too lateโโ what use would honor and duty be to him then?
but such thoughts are unusual, meant to be kept in the dark. he buries them deep in a well and shuts the wooden cover over them, leaves them to die in the cold.
โ ... sorry, marianne. โ he hasn't been able to look her in the eye; at first, it'd been the pain, the gash deep across his back. now, it's a festering shame, the grimace on his face smoothing out into something softer. in a sense, he knows his judgement was clouded; the lance of ruin could have, would have been able to block most of the blow, have it skid and meet with ancient bone first. instead he let his armor have the full brunt of it, and the burning blow after thatโโ if he thought he was being cooked alive in ailell, well. โ i didn't mean to scare you like that. i just ... hah, it'll sound stupid, but i wasn't thinking straight. โ
( how does he explain it? he's thrown himself in front of countless blows before, some with more confidence than others; he's used to ingrid pinching his ear for it, felix's lashing words, dimitri's careful concern. but marianne, with her gentle smile she'd practiced, with her newfound, blooming confidenceโโ he'd been scared. and he's been scared before, undoubtedly so, in the halls of gautier and in the snowy plans his brother would abandon him in, on the battlefield against monstrous creatures far bigger than himโโ but it was different. it was different, )
โ when i saw him there, about to attack you, iโโ i knew i had to move. although, maybe i should have done it better. that thingโโ โ โโ a nod towards the lance of ruinโโ โ โโ has seen me through a whole lot worse, after all. โ sylvain cracks an empty smile as he finally turning his attention towards her, but his smile fades quickly enough. she's being earnest with him, she just healed him, peeled off his tunic from angry burns without a flinch, stayed by his side the entire timeโโ ( he's ungrateful, ungrateful, ungrateful. he doesn't deserve any of it, ) sylvain reaches over for her hand, slowly. strains until he can loosen her grip and smooth her skirt, holding onto her fingers with his. โ i'm sorry. i just couldn't bear to see you hurt, either, marianne. โ earnest, kind marianne, with a quiet, shining soul; he'd do it again, to see her safe.
( a thought slices through him, briefly. what's the point in a world that loses someone like her? what the point in a world that lets someone like him live instead? beautiful, wonderful marianne. rotting, horrendous sylvain. these thoughts, too, he buries in that well. )
( another slicing thought: he thinks he loves her. he's terrified of that fact. he doesn't know what to do with it. )
โ at least if i get hurt, i know you'll be there to patch me up. โ he tries to smile again, and succeeds this time aroundโโ it's warmer, straight from the heart. โ i'm rubbish at white magic, y'know? i don't know how to do battlefield healing like you do, i only know how to fight. โ he squeezes her hand, and here, he looks away again, ducking his head. he sees her hand in his, the skirts of her blue dress. he wonders what she sees. โ so please, let me fight for you. i promise i'll let you take care of me afterwards. โ
( rotting, horrendous, selfish sylvain. he wants to stay like this forever. )