let's have a little fun

…ah, back to him again. She only spares a brief glance his way before sighing. She approaches the desk he has stationed himself at with the slightest shake of her head. "You are serviceable thus far. I would not be opposed to improvement."

She places the stack of papers down onto the desk. It appears to be a list of some kind, though the content is, in general, unappealing to her. Instead, her eyes are quick to scan over the covers of the books still left on the desk, curious for what they might hold. Her fingertips catch the edge of a cover and lift it so she can flip through the pages.

He dresses the first part of his question like a statement covered in barbs. Mitama glances up briefly again before lowering her eyes once more. To correct the assumption of home would require a conversation she is not interested in having at this moment. She settles for the easier one instead. "Women do not tend to inherit responsibilities outside of familial duty as often where I came from."

Perhaps it is all the talk of a place that is not quite home, or perhaps it is something in his tone, but this line of questioning irks her. When he questions what she deems worth keeping, her lips press together in a thin line, unseen due to the angle at which she lowers her head. What an unfair question. When has she ever kept anything she wanted to?

At best, he’d been hoping to see what her specific ideal outcomes were. Everyone had them! It wasn’t just commoners targeting their matches, their futures- even Sylvain could think of one or two ‘best cases’ that laid out all the things he could only dream of. It says a lot about a person, and most people are  more than willing to draw those maps for him.

Not this one, who instead says something that makes his expression fall. “A spiritual failing?” He repeats it as if the words are from a foreign language, a curse. Sylvain can’t help but think that whoever taught her that one is more than delusional. If that were true, then everyone he’s ever met has failed with impressive results. 

Except maybe one or two, but that’s not the point!

“Ha, answering my question with a question! Look, everyone has things they want, right? Love, family, money, land, strength - maybe not in that particular order. Anyone who finds it to be a failure is always on the outside looking in, aren’t they?” He shifts to stand a little straighter, putting a hand to his chest for emphasis. “So who cares what anyone else thinks? They’re going to think something no matter what, so why wouldn’t you just do whatever makes you happy while you’re at it? You must think so too, if you’ve travelled all this way, right?”

As for his answer to her question, he shrugs. “You’re right about that- if you ever want a challenge, find any of them on the training grounds.” There’s a little warmth there, for his friends who have their own visions for how to get stronger, to improve. If she knew so much about them already, then Sylvain’s not surprised that it’s taken until now for them to meet. “As for me, I’ve got everything I want already. Well, I’ve got a date tonight, so ask me again tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes.”

"R. S. And C." Ronan touched each coin as if noting their names to himself, lingering a little longer on C's, who was now trapped within a square of straw.

"C has already been missing for a week," he said with another tap, and then took the two remaining coins and slid them away toward his own corner.

"So..."

The tale began thusly.

"Why me?" R paced the floor restlessly. He'd been muttering the same thing between every few words from S, clutching the torn-open letter in his hand. It was early morning, or late at night, depending on how one liked to see things, and although R hadn't yet raised his voice - he certainly looked ready to - the boots he hadn't taken from his feet trudged noisily from one end of the room they were renting to the other. They'd stopped here for the night. It wasn't safe to stay in their own homes; eventually someone would come knocking, and the demand would be more than just the answer to a letter.

Friends of the accused had to be accomplices. If they weren't, then they could be bribed to turn on him, as R had been. In his other hand, he weighed the pouch of coin that had come with the letter. It'd promised more, but that was one of only two lines R had read before he'd been overcome with emotion.

"I've known C since we were children. He's always been mischievous, but he'd never go so far as to kill someone, especially not the king. And even if he had, what makes the Duke think that his best friend would come testify against him?"

Was friendship more important than justice? R thought so. Was it more important than gold? His eyes flitted to the sack of coin, then as if it were made of fire, he tossed it suddenly onto the table and wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers.

He could use a new blade-- No. Nothing good came of blood money.

He turned on S with a furious look on his face.

"The only way I'm going the Duke's gardens is to put that greedy bastard in his place. Then all we have to do is find C. You'll help, wont' you?" His expression then relaxed, softened, turned pleading like a child begging his mother for something sweet. Because a child knows how to ask, but not to accept any answer but "yes."

"You wouldn't just turn your back on him now, after everything we've been through?"

But... maybe it was a good thing for him to go through, he thought in spite of all the protests that the other side of his brain made. He could use a bit of an introspection. A little chessboard game made up as they went, even if the chessboard had to remain imaginary. Perhaps he could even consider this something of a self-imposed therapy session. It had been a while since he was last forced to truly face his own fears, he wordlessly remarked as he regarded the entrapped coin.

His mind made up, the next part of the story came to him fairly naturally. It was akin to writing a biography that never came to be - but totally could.

Thrown into a dark room, C could barely raise his tied hands to wipe some blood out of his eye. He glanced down, at an empty scabbard on his belt that used to hold a knife, cursing his luck. He used to think of it as precaution, and of himself as smart for being always prepared. Now, that knife was taken to be used as false proof against him - stuck into the king's heart while he continued to hold on to its matching scabbard.

Sure, everyone who knew him would say that C would never be this careless if he truly intended to assassinate someone, but the corrupt Duke couldn't care less. Anything could be blown off as protecting a murderer if he was convincing enough.

Behind the door, C could hear muffled voices of the guards. Few words could be understood, but the occasional laughter he caught did not bode well. Only one sentence did he recognize in full, but it did nothing to calm his nerves:

"It won't be long now."

He had little chance to properly measure time in that dark room, but he knew he had been missing for at least a few days. His thoughts wandered to his friends, R and S, who no doubt had received word by now...

But he had no idea exactly what that word was.

There’s no other way to spin it, no other way to get through what had to be done without first acknowledging the circumstances. S could only stare ahead, expression blank, while his mind spun circles around what their future would look like from here on out. 

C could die. He would die, if they weren’t clever enough. If they didn’t handle this just the right way, then the Duke might get away with killing them all or stripping their titles. Not that R had much to lose in that regard, but he’d been so closely tied to C for so long that he had influence that made him dangerous. 

Abruptly, S returned to the present, a snarl on his lips to accompany the accusation. “If anyone is going to turn on C. It’s you. Don’t dare speak to me as if I wouldn’t do anything to get him back.” Was that the wrong thing to say? S couldn’t say that he cared. They had so little time to figure out next steps that it’d be better to lay it all out right here and now. “You know why that letter was sent to you. I’ve been C’s mentor, but I’ve watched you, too.” With his voice growing quieter, S couldn’t contain the sharp edge of disapproval. It was true that R had been built into the foundation when all - S included - thought that he’d be a seasonal breeze just passing through their lives. 

He stayed long after all the bets had been lost. He seemed genuine…except– 

A step forward, S looking down at the discarded gold, frowning. “Out of all of us, your loyalty can be bought. You have no title, no land, no prospects,” Could it be counted as cruelty if it was the truth? R was no-one…but C had managed to make him someone anyway. Now, the Duke would elevate what was already there. “The Duke can give you anything you want, or he’ll make it seem that way. And you, if you so much as look conflicted…” A shake of his head left the thought up for imagination, gesturing to the door. “The horses should be ready. As for ‘why you’... you’re the weakest link. Better prove me wrong.”

Sylvain’s voice had gone a little hoarse toward the end…maybe he shouldn’t have imagined S’s voice to be so serious and severe. Pressing knuckles to his lips, he coughed. “R has to want something, right? Something that’d buy him off. It’s just nature for some people, stepping over anybody to secure the ideal life, no matter who you have to hurt in the process.” With a shrug, he passed the imaginary torch to Rowan with a wave. “The Duke probably knows what it is, too.”

he's had a pretty good time adding to the rumors, though. not like there's anything else to do while everyone else's asleep. boring job otherwise. so at night, he makes sure to stay shifted and more human-looking by day, and he'll light up the room with a torch or two so his shadow'll cast out into the hallway, swoosh around a flame if they get close to scare 'em off. hearing them scream and run's pretty entertaining, but it's been a few days now and even that's starting to get old. guard duty? give him a break. just how long did it take to figure out what they were gonna do with these old bottles anyway? humans really did take forever to make decisions. . .

it's day four by the time this new guy comes around. he hasn't seen this one before ; smell's different from the others. and even though he can tell he's trying to keep his steps soft outside, these ears made for hunting can pick him up a mile away like he's flattening every tree in the forest. and that's not even countin' his nose. before he can tell him to stop insulting himself skulking around though, the guy blows his own cover. suit himself.

thing was, he didn't actually really care if they got 'em or not. if they wanted to mess themselves up enhancing their strength or speed or whatever, go right ahead. wanting to be the strongest and toughest was only natural. joke's on them, though ; there was a way to do all of that without even ruining your body——not immediately, anyway. just a little soul-selling and monstrosity down the line, but it's a better payoff than kicking an early grave now, he'd say.

anyway, they all got a different angle to try. and this guy's talking, it looks like. fair enough. better than the last guy who just stared at him big-eyed and nervous for an hour, almost peed his pants when he growled at him.

"no thanks. i only eat meat." he grins, showing a row of sharp teeth to prove it. "so if those candies are drugged to knock me out so you can get these potions. . . you'll have to do better than that."

sylvain, huh? he lounges deeper in the armchair he'd been given to sit in while he guarded every day. least he didn't have to stand.

Before Garreg Mach, little candies and pastries were few and far in between. What else could anyone expect from Gautier? Even in the summer, the evenings were chilly enough to call for the warmest, heartiest soups - so he’ll have to find someone else to pawn the majority of these things off to. They’re delicious, so he doesn’t want to risk having the sugar turn his stomach.

“Skoll…nice name.” Flipping the treat under his tongue, he strides further into the room. Comically, the potions really are right in front of him, like the plot of a child’s novel where the easiest route is always a trap. 

Walking into the obvious trap is fun in some cases. 

The real question will be whether or not Skoll feels the same way. 

He has to, to make a challenge like that. “Sounds like a fun game,” He concedes, eyes darting to glance that the other hasn’t twitched from his seat as he comes within arm’s reach of the prize.“Watches like these do get a little boring, I’ll admit. Usually they put the students up for stuff like this but well,” One hand splays wide, gesturing to the potions. “What students can they trust after all of this?”

Ordinarily, he’d be considering it more. If he were just a regular knight, then Sylvain thinks he could have the upper hand with strength alone. It’s not a good strategy even then, and even leaner and shorter… Skoll really does sound like he thinks he could take off one of his limbs. After a marked pause, he pulls his hand back to his side and shifts, pressing his hip into the counter space with his back facing away from the prize. “It’s a shame, really- the one thing I can’t bargain is my good looks. The ladies would be devastated, you understand.” Nevermind that one or two vials wouldn’t do him any good. He had other plans for these potions, so getting into a fight over even a handful would be pointless. 

“I’ll give it to you though. It’s a little weird that they’re still here. It’s almost like they want someone to steal a few - like the first batch of students didn’t give enough information.” A handful hadn’t recovered yet, as if their bodies were healing from some great strain. Sylvain sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you? I’ll bet even some of the knights would be interested in this. But not you…guess that means you’ve got the claws to go with the teeth, huh? That could be pretty impressive!” Skoll couldn’t be bribed with sweets and he didn’t seem like he wanted a friend either. He was bored though…and maybe that could be worked with. “So? How about that spar? I can show you a good time. With the condition that there’s no life-threatening damage. Then, maybe you consider letting me have what I came here for.” 

"sure." he doesn't remember if he'd sent an invitation of not, but doesn't think to question sylvain's acknowledgement as he dismounts from his gelding's back. further ahead, glenn is already calling back to them, telling them they're moving too slow. he rolls his eyes and picks up the pace. "let's go before my brother makes this an excuse to give us extra chores."

overhead, songbirds wing, singing a familiar song.

disappear, night! fade away, stars!

"i need you two to find the black iron spurs around here," glenn says when they approach, without looking up from where he's starting to work the foundations of their shelter for these next few days into the earth of the small, barren plot they had made their base camp for years, at the foot of the treeline where it met the dry and yellow stalks of wildflowers. "we used the last of them last time, and we're not going to have any luck hunting anything without them."

"again?" felix sighs. "why didn't you bring them from home?"

"those are all gone, remember?"

and he does remember——something had happened a few years ago that'd depleted the last of their supply. he doesn't recall what exactly the event had been, but doesn't question the gap in memory either, finding nothing abnormal about it ; it'd been a big deal. of course he remembered. "fine. there should be plenty around here. sylvain, come on."

they'd find them " growing " on the low briars where the plants kept out of sight of the sun, plucked like the thorns off a rose that were shed before placing.

Black iron spurs were tough, though. Out of the three of them, Glenn would be the quickest and most successful–

He doesn’t mention it, because then he’ll be the one setting up camp. 

“Glad it’s just the two of us again,” He hums, shoving his other hand into a fleece-lined pocket. “If Dimitri and Ingrid were here, we’d be having a competition right now. You know, Ingrid goes nuts over the Spurs…and His Highness can pretend all he wants, but I think he’s got it just as bad.” 

It’s funny in a friendly way, so Sylvain lets himself snort aloud, eyes crinkling to the thought of their missing friends. He misses them, he always misses the three of them even if he can’t find the words to say so out loud. They know, don’t they, he asks himself, dark eyes turning to Felix rather than scanning their surroundings for any black iron spurs. Felix moves faster, has sharper eyes, so Sylvain accepts that he’ll be hauling product while Felix flits around to find most of them. 

As Felix predicted, the first traces aren’t hard to find. At the edge of the tallest, hardiest trees, the shaded areas are overflowing and green as far as his eyes can see. Logic tells him that most will be somewhere there, hidden between thick, unyielding branches. Using a little bit of force, Sylvain carves a path for them, holding the thornier branches back for Felix as they go. Truly, the network of foliage looks to span miles, and he can see indents of iron in freshly disturbed soil here and there. “Looks like the easy ones are gone already. Oh well! We’ve probably got all day, and a lot to catch up on. For one, look at your hair!” It’s longer than Sylvain remembers, but Felix is also older too–

Which makes sense. They’re all bound to grow up, and Sylvain doesn’t have to look that far down at him anymore either. It makes catching his eye easier when his expression twists, eyes alight with a playfulness that usually earns a scowl. “I mean, it looks good like this, really. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you finally found a,” He cuts off abruptly, wheeling around to assess. “No. You? No way you went and got a girlfriend already! And you didn’t tell me? I thought we were friends, Felix!”

“You look tired,” He tries, eyes widening in a show of concern. “This can wait, don’t you think? I already feel like a new man!”

They aren’t swayed, they never are, which tracks. He can count on a few fingers how many times he’s seen the Church go back on something after it’s been decided. Sylvain thinks that whoever dreamed this specific punishment has a few unaddressed problems of their own…but so do most people with too much power. 

His first and second paragons of virtue were quick to throw in the towel during the first twenty-four hours. The third…

Sylvain can see the logic behind it. The others were knights. People that Sylvain didn’t know, as if all of his so-called bad habits could be fixed with a firm and steady hand. The third person, he knows, and it’s enough to wipe the self-satisfied grin from his face entirely. It could be worse, surely. “Ashe, come on man. This is a joke! Not a great one either...” His voice lilts upward, shock apparent as he reels a step backward. The others were easy to chase away. They hadn’t been prepared for him running his mouth, teasing, pulling them in directions they didn’t want to go. 

It was supposed to be a punishment for Sylvain, not the other way around. 

“You, of all people, I’m surprised, that’s all. Doesn’t this go against some sort of knightly, chivalry thing? They stripped the worst parts out of the binding but it’s still not good-” He’s been told a time or two that he talks too much when he’s having fun, but few people know that the opposite is also true. “Did you know they used to use this spell for arranged marriages? Hah, forcing people together has a nice ring to it for the nobility. Paints a clear picture for when you’re desperate to get that crest in the bloodline but,” He coughs, the familiar zip of magic stinging around his wrists and shoulders. “It’d been banned for a reason, though of course there’s some people that still believe in it. Weird for the church, though.”

The spellcaster is openly frowning at him now, but Sylvain can feel the tether locking in place. 

“Seven days.” The official says, just like every other time. He looks weary when he looks between them. “Stay out of trouble this time.” 

Sylvain gives the archer’s hand a vicious squeeze, one that he knows is directly at odds with the sweet smile he casts. Counting his Blue Lions classmates in his head, he realizes that he knows too little about how the archer spends his spare time. Reading books, practicing archery – it’s never occurred to Sylvain to find out anything more.

…and he doesn’t want to find out more, not like this. If he has anything to say about it, this deal will be done before nightfall. 

for his part, the coast is more than clear. no one's here, presumably because they felt the recording device would tell them if anything was wrong. a sigh leaves his chest as he realizes this was all the more reason they had to get it down ; now that they'd gone through all the trouble, anyone who reviewed the recording would know they'd been up here messing with it if they didn't.

what a headache. why was he here again?

' thunder? ' he hears uttered from the far corner of the balcony, and head turns to finally look at how far the other's gotten, only to find him precariously stretched out over the railing much more than he'd thought he'd be. alarm erases any inkling about knowing a few things about thunder magic, and he uncrosses his arms to swiftly step over: "you're——"

there's a crack. sylvain pinwheels for an instant off balance, the recording stone in his hands.

"sylvain!" he lunges.

fist closes around cloth, the side of sylvain's sleeve, the inertia wheeling him around so they almost faced each other, enough to catch the pale-faced fear on the other's face, so jarringly uncommon. but cotton rips audibly under the strain, and just as soon as he's in his grasp——less than a second——he's gone——plummeting——"sylvain!!"

fear is just as uncommon on the fraldarius heir's expression as it is on gautier's, and today it's found on both. the figure vanishes into the foliage below, loud snapping and rustling as leaves and boughs bend, he can only hope breaking his landing. heart in his throat, all he can imagine is a broken neck, a broken spine, "damn it!", as he turns on his heel and sprints back inside, through the doorway, down the stairs, winding and winding, trying not to trip but not going fast enough. sylvain, why was he such a colossal idiot?! why had he leaned out so far? for a damn recording?! he wouldn't be dead. he couldn't be dead, not from such a stupid fall ; it was such a stupid way to die!

…it’s just that he’s always imagined it to be something more than this. He’s a Gautier, so he’s likely to die in battle. An ambush in the dead of night, and he’s throwing himself between someone else and certain death, he’s giving everything he has to ensure that the scales don’t tip against them. If it has to be relatively painless, then maybe he gets to go to an odorless poison after he’s done some good for the relations with Sreng. 

Maybe it’s a jilted lover stabbing him in the heart out of nowhere. 

The important point is, in an instant, all of that vanishes. 

Instead, his heart is lodged tightly in his throat and oh, Goddess, please don’t let this be the last thing I see. It’s irrational, the fear that spills over as he watches Felix’s expression crumpling, despairing when they both realize what’s happening. It lodges beneath his ribs and twists harder than any knife ever could. Too wrong, too cruel, when in any other circumstance he’d wish for no one else but Felix at his side. 

Even without armor, Sylvain is heavy. It doesn’t take long, staring up at the sky and the outline of Felix’s frame frozen over the railing before the ground finally rushes to meet him in a way that’s much more jarring than any time he’s fallen off of a moving horse. Pain licks across his skin, sharp and stinging over his arms, his waist, his legs where he crashes through the brush. Then, it’s an explosion, white-hot where it darkens his vision, spots of black so large that he closes them, stomach turning viciously. 

He can’t breathe, though this startles him less even as his free hand comes to clutch at his chest. He’s had the wind knocked out of him more times than he can count by now. In battle, in training, but mostly from his days of play-fighting with his friends, always too rough by half even if it was exactly how they liked it to be. Sylvain always made a point to say he let them win, and the fight continued. “Tss…” A weak hiss is all he can manage, mouth opening for nothing, his lungs refusing to cooperate. 

With his head pounding, the lack of air makes the world he can see soft around the edges. Hazy, which he likes. He could go to sleep right here, except- 

“Sylvain!” His name, that voice- finally, he draws a shallow, ragged gasp. His head spins with what must be relief. One breath becomes two, the hand curled to his chest loosening to allow more room for air even if the motion makes him feel like he’s going to be bruised all the way through. Only when he’s sure he isn’t going to pass out does he begin testing his limbs. 

His legs had suffered the worst of the tree and shrubbery underneath, a broken branch poking at his knees large enough to scrape the side of the building even now. “Fff…nghh…” The name seems impossible to say, wheezing when he plants his hand to the soft bed of dirt and pushes into a sitting position. His vision shakes with the effort, taking a few more breaths to steady himself. It’s not that bad, he decides, grateful that he doesn’t seem in danger of losing consciousness. That he’s not really bleeding anywhere. It must be the shock that’s still weighing him down. “Fe- ow.” That rasp doesn’t sound like him, but he stares at his knees and waits for his friend to get closer before his other hand finally uncurls from his side. A wordless offering - because at least he’d kept the device safe from damage. 

His initial gesture to follow is ignored at first in favor of resting her shoulder against the door frame instead. Just like that? For someone who had put in such effort to avoid their task and her company thus far, he certainly gave up without much of a fight. So quickly, it was almost unbelievable. Surely he did not really think that all of this was some convoluted attempt at stealing his company, did he?

Her eyes drop to the papers. She is not sure if they are pages scattered from the books or something else entirely, but they look harmless enough. She glances back at Sylvain before sighing again, pushing herself off the wall, and finally leaving her post in the door frame.

"Garreg Mach specifically was not my original destination. I just wanted to travel." To see all that which she had been cut off from, and to escape the loneliness that awaited in a home with no space for her. "I grew up staring at the same four walls, so to speak, and so I wanted to see sights I had not before. The monastery and its academy have proven good for that, surprisingly."

There was a certain disregard for safety in the grander missions that the monastery assigned them that made ones like this feel almost…comical in comparison. She straightens up and moves to a nearby table to tap the papers she has gathered into order.

He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. Is he aware that she means him? Sure. Does he care?

Well…no. Sylvain can’t exactly say he’s all that used to rejection ( unless one counts Ingrid. Or Dorothea. Or… huh, nevermind. ) 

Still, he gathers all of the books into one place and holds that sunny expression. With the desktop now overflowing with them, the room looks even worse. He’s made it worse by leaps, but most things need to get worse before they can get better. “Must be nice that you can just up and travel,” It’s a double-edged observation that he keeps to his chest other than the flash of steel in his gaze where he regards her. “Not many responsibilities waiting for you at home then. I’m jealous.”

He almost feels that way, which isn’t a good thing. Too bad he’s not really interested in stopping himself, looking down long enough to keep sorting the piles by category before he goes back through to put them in a chronological order. There are more books on the floor, more haphazardly thrown onto shelves– he’s going to be doing this all day, easily. 

Unusual had been the first impression attached to the human whelp. Now? A healthy dose of delirium was considered his safest possession. Such incongruent knowledge that appeared to answer none of his questions! Rafal was comfortable dubbing his response the ramblings of a madman, but he could admit at the same time that it did slightly stoke his curiosity - a theory, even.

Separate worlds were not improbable—especially to the well-traveled dragon—and nor was the concept of a separate self. Unlikely though the idea of another Rafal, it would serve to illuminate a wellspring of little understood things. All the same; however much he theorized, however much his curiosity was stoked, it was not enough to question the mystery further and strive toward its bottom. So what if he did not fully understand? So what if he should exist here in some other form?

Once his conquest was underway, neither this human nor that Rafal were likely to survive his ambitions, anyhow.

". . .Well, none of that matters. What need only matter are your answers. To your credit, you appear to understand your dire position well." He straightened in his human form as if adjusting nonexistent lapels, sized down to mankind's natural limitations but nevertheless a profound terror. The threat of the Fell Heir had never dissipated since his days within a ruined Elyos, only grown, heightened, reached the point of no return. All his black-hearted agenda, his otherworldly ascendancy, to introduce here.

"I am Rafal! A Fell Dragon prince come from another Elyos, a shadow crossed upon every world. In my pursuit to conquer all the universe, I have embarked upon your meager planet. Now, answer me this!"

Was it to dark imagination? 'Withhold your intelligence at risk', threatened the tendrils of magic that had begun to inch upward, crossing leg and flank to hover at Sylvain's neck. More dangerous than any knife that might be held to a throat, more oppressive than a noose.

—kinky.

Not for nothing, but he’d still been hoping that the man’s ( dragon? could he really be a dragon? and if he was, then what did that mean, really? ) lips would twist to reveal a joke gone far too well. It didn’t happen. Yeah, it makes sense. He knows the difference between foreplay and the threat of real pain, but sometimes the strings can get crossed and still turn out fine. 

“Wow, where should I start? All good questions, Your Highness, let me think.” Carefully, he shifts his position. It isn’t much, one foot twisting to cover more of his weight than the other. Rafal’s magic scalds on the way up. In his experience, most magic seems pleasantly warm, but this stings. Even spending most of his life in cold, icy climates, he can’t tell if that grip hovering against his neck is ice or fire. Maybe it’s both. 

Curious, he lets his skin brush against the shadow. “Ah- ah-hah.” A gasp hisses through his teeth, the length of his body shuddering against the chill, so stark he can’t even be sure it hurt him at all. "That's...that's interesting. Your magic is different, Your Highness, but it has to be to do what you do, very- impressive." It reminds him of his childhood. He’d been tossed into snow so deep that it caved in on top of him, and by the time one of the maids had been able to dig him out he’d been so frozen through that everything was as blissfully numb as it is now, static trying to fill the space in his head faster than he can shake it away. “Fodlan. That’s where we are right now. Or, where we were before all this.”

Saying the name of his home helps, a surge of frustration clears the threatening fog. Dark eyes warm once more, his dazed expression finding a well-practiced grin. “There are a lot of territories, a lot of people…with all the worlds you’ve already conquered, you probably already know that advantages and disadvantages are better seen in person. I wouldn’t want to mislead you, after all-” It’s exactly what Sylvain wants, but he’s not sure how he’s going to do it yet.

there it was. a rhetorical question to bind honor in shackles. it was neither admission nor denial, and Ferdinand scoffed boyishly when he hardly had room to make assertions. shame, as one would put it, was providence to no noble man. still, he did not believe himself to be part of the 'anyone' that Sylvain associates with. "show you my what, sylvain? my hand?" awful to think of what thought goes into the his. but his brow plunged disapprovingly, fist clenched as if to resist his soliciting opinions—what good does that do, really? "that was never appropriate to ask me to begin with. and to think that you pressed on! assuming I— a willing perpetrator?"

a pregnant pause followed sylvain's brutality. bristling, Ferdinand Von Aegir thinks of that steel again, that ice, the perspiration, and the kind of wounds a man can make because he thought equity was pulling everyone to the same level. a title, which sylvain so openly claimed as insult, was a devout and stringent agreement to serve others. if Dorothea wished for its security, she would have to sacrifice much of her abundant freedoms to lay down a path for Aegir. brick by brick, as Ferdinand planned on tearing its mangled roots from the ground. it was only love that would allow her to survive the thanklessness of caring for a duchy poisoned by fatherhood. (only love, Ferdinand thinks, as he aches over the poison himself.) but who was he to ask sylvain to understand love?

the heat has risen to his collar, and hissed a warning. "sylvain gautier. be cautious of how you shall proceed. my life is not yours. these hands—" he opened his fist to fronds, fingers parsed. "have no cards to show." but they are still full. "the woman you speak about has waited a lifetime for love. and you deprive her in your mind because you delude yourself into thinking I am like you." the only man being eaten alive for his title was...

"you are no noble."

in his mind, Ferdinand Von Aegir strips sylvain of the title that is chilled of northern air. perhaps it would have made it easier on him.

Sylvain’s answering laugh is short and sharp, feeling almost lightheaded with the sudden rush of emotion that uncurls to the tune of Ferdinand’s disdain. He can’t help himself - though he thinks with some alarm that he should stop, should deflect - smile growing wider without his consent. 

For one, Ferdinand is wrong. He is like Sylvain. He’s just too tightly wrapped up in self-importance to realize it. They’re playing the same game, it’s just that one of them feeds the corrupted system instead of…

Well, if he’s honest, he doesn’t know what he’s trying to do. 

That doesn’t mean he’s about to back down. It’s disgusting, his skin crawls with how badly he wants to lay it all out in ways that even Ferdinand can understand. What does he have to lose? He can only sometimes hold his tongue for Ingrid, his friend. For Dimitri, his future king. 

What does he owe Ferdinand? Nothing. He doesn’t feel the need to leash the urge to wipe that self-righteousness from his face. To drag him back down into the depths with the rest of them. To own up and at least face the realities of his choices rather than make excuses for them. 

“Waited a lifetime for love…alright, alright.” It’s easy to say those words with conviction, but doesn’t everyone at the Academy talk about the famous songstress turned student, who didn’t go on quite as many dates as Sylvain himself but still had a list. That wasn’t waiting for love. It was chasing it. Securing it. But Ferdinand is a fool. Let him find out in the years to come. 

Running a hand through his carefully styled mess of hair, he heaves a sigh. They’re just standing here, but he feels breathless with it, like he’s been knocked out of the saddle of a horse mid-gallop. “All I asked was how serious the two of you were. If anyone’s showing their true colors here…haha, but that doesn’t really matter, huh?” Of course it didn’t. Ferdinand's right where he wants to be, another shining example of the festering rot that comes with the nobility and their crests. “You’ve got the crest, the inheritance, the pretty girl on your arm. Well, as long as she gives you a heir with a crest," otherwise you’ll have to try again, and again. "But you seem like you love it.” He shakes his head, aware of the wild look he can’t control - planting his hands on his hips so he doesn’t speak with them too. 

He’d cautiously hoped she’d be more accommodating, but the pointed stare and squared shoulders never did bode well. The real question is why she cares in the first place, given that the mess would be cleaned up whether or not Sylvain was around to do it.

( he doesn’t say that though. it’s practically an admission of guilt. ) 

Instead, he shifts to put one hand on his hip, lips slanting into a smile. She’s still leveling him with a stare so cold that it belongs back home, but somehow it serves to lift his mood. “Wow. Just what did I do to have such a beautiful girl watching my every move? I’m flattered.” Honestly, he is, which is something that gets him into trouble more often than he wants to analyze. 

His attempt at praise brokers no change to her expression, except perhaps it flattens a bit as though to wordlessly ask him 'really?'. Soleil's attempts at charms had always been grander, more over the top, and more annoying to listen to, but at least she succeeded in her attempts to be endearing.

"You were assigned to a task that you seem determined to leave to the 'beautiful girl' alone." If he thinks that will work and she will simply do the work for him, he is sorely mistaken. She had spent much of the war crafting the perfect excuses to get others to do her work, she is not about to allow the tables to turn now.

Although…his offer is obnoxiously worded, but Mitama pauses to consider it anyway. It is true that if they leave it long enough, someone will likely step in to handle it for them, but then the accusations of dodging duties and potential additional work will come.

If, however, she is to make a case that she is ensuring her teammate works…Supervision is just as important as the doing.

Maybe he still has the chance to win her over. She is his type, after all. “Who am I to turn away such good company?” Gesturing for her to step fully inside the room, the redhead makes a show of returning to where he once was. Away from the door, anyway. He’s not as fast as some of his friends, so it’s not like he’ll try to run as soon as the way is clear. 

Letting his hands skim over the fallen books, Sylvain reimagines the room. It had been a disaster even before they’d helped it along. Like someone had organized it while both drunk and blindfolded. 

“Grab those papers for me,” Pointing to the ones that’d landed at her feet, he piles a stack of books and carries them over to the bookshelf. “What made you come to Garreg Mach anyway? It’s common for people from all over Fodlan to come here…but.” He trails away. It wasn’t like Sylvain didn’t welcome foreign faces with open arms (despite the consistent almost-war at the border of his territory), he just didn’t understand it yet. 

— Whatever this is, it’s working.

The redhead’s startled reaction to her title doesn’t escape her notice. The truth is, no matter what reputation he enjoyed in public circles, he should at least know that Sanaki also had one to maintain: an empress who demands respect and complete honesty.

Does all his doormatting still count as respect? Does "I’ve stayed true since the day we met", which was, hmm, five minutes ago, still count as honesty? 

… If this wasn’t absolutely humiliating, Sanaki might almost find it amusing.

“You’d do anything. Now where have I heard that before?” Normally she would punctuate the mocking remark by crossing her arms, but now she must make do with a sweeping, exasperated flick of her hand. “Say I believe you. Say you deserve another chance to earn my trust. Then why don’t you start with a confession?”

It’s not until she sets her furious glare on the bishop that the clergyman startles and blanches in realization. “Oh, no, you don’t need to—”

Oh, yes. "Tell His Excellency exactly what I caught you doing on the day of the battle, when you were 'turning her down'." The quotes almost float visibly in the air. "Every last detail, to show your… sincerity.”

Satisfied that the bishop is now squirming with discomfort, she turns her back on him. She tugs sharply on her trapped hand, raising any eyebrow at the redhead: an expectant request to let go, if you are fond of your limbs.

It’s a gamble. A little flare of anticipation that Sylvain chases more often than he’ll admit. Every person is different after all, which means that the reward is never the same. If this Empress weren’t so sharp or lacked the grace to manage their little game, Sylvain could be on his way to wherever the Monastery was holding other nuisances. 

In fact, it could have gone a number of ways. This, though? He leans forward, the torchlight hanging over their heads bright enough that he can see the mortification settling over the official’s face. He looks a little like he’s just been told that the Goddess he’s dedicated his life to never existed at all and whatever Sylvain says next will cast him down a path not meant to be recovered from. 

Turning to his newest paramour, he hopes that she can read the admiration shining in expression even as his lips twist, desperate. “You’d have me debase myself? To the church?” For a moment, he sounds just like any upstanding noble citizen of Faeghus should. 

Here’s hoping the Goddess has a sense of humor. 

Defeated, he allows his shoulders to slump, raising her hand to press his lips against cool fingers. “For you, I’ll do anything.” He can hear the bishop’s barely whispered, Saints help me… and it’s all he can do to keep his expression from lifting. “Even if my past actions mean that I’m banned from stepping in the church again, it’ll be worth it.” 

Letting go of her hand, he keeps close to her side as he turns toward the bishop instead, looking more and more like he wanted to flee the scene. Good. “My love, my Empress, on the day of the battle, when she laid her hands on me, I-” Sylvain can’t remember the last time he backed down from a challenge, especially when he had the winning hand. It’s too easy to describe it, like reading a novel he’s memorized by heart. He know how to spin a rapid-fire descent into madness, where desire overwrites rational thought. Sylvain would have crumbled easily. After all, the empress was new, and it was all too easy to fall in to bad habits.

It’s a feeling he knows well, after all. 

Predictably, the bishop folds before the theoretical clothes hit the floor, so Sylvain thinks he will still be welcome here. “Enough!” Oh. He’s angry - Sylvain’s expression runs toward alarm. “You,” Somehow, the angry, accusing finger is pointed at him. As if the woman on trial is no longer the main priority. “Do not say another word. And you-” He’s remembered her after all, anger fading into something more complicated. His head shakes. “I…will be documenting this incident. However. For now, I have no further questions.”

At the very least, he thinks that the whispers of someone having such a boost in their wind affinity that they managed actual flight must be blown out of proportion. Especially since those same rumors say the student died on the way down. Where was the funeral? The mourning? The lessons learned lecture that always pops up when one of the students or knights does something extremely questionable. Sylvain can see it written across the small blackboard clear as day-

Just because something exists, it doesn’t mean it should. 

Sylvain has a mental list that’s miles long. Most of them are small grievances, like how people routinely choose to bake in the sauna and claim it as a health benefit. Like how any empty closet inevitably becomes a disaster zone for things that didn’t belong there. Like crests- but he swats that topic away physically, pulling his palm over his face to wipe away any distaste that might have started to show at the corners of his mouth.

Right now, he needs to be interested in what’s in front of him, pausing to take note of the guard.

…were those real wolf ears?

It’s hard to say, forcing himself to peel his attention from the ears and tail. Almost impossibly, the man’s eyes are a similar shade. “You must be the new guy.” He smiles with the words, his hand curling as he raises it to wave. Sylvain knows already that there are several shamed students serving various punishments for even trying to glimpse the potions that must be hiding in the few chests behind the familiar desk. 

The Professor that used to have this office worked with cavalry classes. Sylvain hadn’t learned anything truly important from her, but he remembers fondly how pretty she was. It made her classes better. It’s with practiced ease that he saunters forward and takes a seat at the edge of the polished desk, facing the man. Animal man? “So did you volunteer for this or are you just that lucky? Oh, and you can call me Sylvain.” 

His angle is an obvious one, but he’s succeeded with less cards in his hand. Besides, if a guard is going to be posted at all times, then the friendly chatter is the only move in his arsenal. Before he can answer, Sylvain reaches in his pockets and offers a few pieces of carefully wrapped candies. “Share some with me? They’re caramels made this morning. The chefs like me a little.”

In dreadful silence, Rafal surveyed his surroundings. Who here would suit his needs - be so cursed as to discover themselves the first? A glance to left; a florist selling flowers. A glance to right; a gaggle of young stablehands on their midday break. Over yonder: a traveler kneeling before his wagon and conducting repairs. Merchants peddling wares and steaming folk food. Innkeepers and housewives airing the day's laundry. Men; women; children; geriatrics. Countless were their faces.

Singular was the one that stood out.

"Hey, Rafal!"

". . .?" That very Rafal turned to face the direction of this call, revealing his lack of expectation with slightly parted lips and wide-eyed appraisal. An uniformed young man stood before his eyes, a total stranger; a daring outlier. Informal! Smiling! Friendly, even. Horrible, unforgivable, unspeakable irreverence. Did he fail to recognize the being who represented the absolute extremes of power and evil before him? Was he so daft as to ignore the reactions of those around him? But, no matter—

Who here would suit his needs? Such an anomaly sealed his decision.

As if the world itself had turned to night at his dictate, the once sunny sky hid itself away. On a flourish of his hand arrived his fell magic; four walls of pitch-black miasma sequestered them both, trapping draconic hunter with human prey, leaving no gaps from which to peer out or in. Beyond it, the chatter of the castle town turned to muffled screams of trepidation and alarm. Another wave of fingers silenced them - like a switch, altered their containment so that it might be privy only to sounds come from within.

The world falls away, and Sylvain has always imagined it to happen a little differently. It’s more of a poetic type of romance, to be the only two people that exist in the world - and Rafal is devastatingly attractive. He fits the idea like few do, right down to the the way his expression turns to stone, eyeing him down as if he actually might be an insect. 

It’s breathtaking, but Sylvain has always been aware of his own faults and flaws. 

In response, his gaze drops toward his feet, studying the tethers of magic that are already wrapping around him like a brand. He roots himself in place, blinking fast. 

First, is this a game? And if it is-

No, it can’t be. Sylvain remembers Rafal like he remembers most who attract his attention. Ruby eyes that glittered, contented by Sylvain’s praise and offerings. He’d been soft at Sylvain’s side. Even if he did possess this kind of power, he can’t think of why the simple greeting would have set this off. 

When they open once more, the stars are settled back on their trajectory, as cold as ever. She does not move from her spot in the doorway. In fact, she plants her feet more firmly, tilting her head back to stare up at him as though offering a silent challenge. She has played these games before. She has stood where he stands now, facing down her own caretakers in quite a similar manner.

She is not cleaning that entire room by herself, if at all.

He’d cautiously hoped she’d be more accommodating, but the pointed stare and squared shoulders never did bode well. The real question is why she cares in the first place, given that the mess would be cleaned up whether or not Sylvain was around to do it.

( he doesn’t say that though. it’s practically an admission of guilt. ) 

Instead, he shifts to put one hand on his hip, lips slanting into a smile. She’s still leveling him with a stare so cold that it belongs back home, but somehow it serves to lift his mood. “Wow. Just what did I do to have such a beautiful girl watching my every move? I’m flattered.” Honestly, he is, which is something that gets him into trouble more often than he wants to analyze.