well, he’s not wrong– and the prince doesn’t even try to fend the words off; instead he peers at his most prickly of retainers with a clear lucidity in his remaining eye that had long been missing. even if he tried, there was nothing to defend himself with. he was the source of felix’s suffering, and there was nothing he could do to erase that fact.

   “it is my most sincere wish that the title is only temporary,” and he has to give a barking laugh at the thought of it. that had a grim tone that was neither entirely true nor untrue; if the titled ended because of the death he had earned at the hands of those he had wounded, then so be it. but, for the first time in a decade, he hoped. he hoped that it would end, not with his death, but with the dissolution of the throne and the people of faerghus banding together to rule themselves as equals.

   “speaking of,” he said as he reached and pulled a page from the stack he was slowly working through, despite the military campaign in front of him. five years of neglect did not disappear overnight. “you have another inheritance, one that i prayed you would never have to bear. i truly never intended for it to fall onto your shoulders.” with that, he offered out the page to the only other man he trusted to get the job done. “that…is the will that i wrote when i was still young, when i still had some semblance of ideals. it is still the most current document, so…”

   he propped his chin on his fist. “in the event of my death, you are the next king. there are a few requirements for it, but i trust that between you, sylvain, and ingrid, you will be able to handle it. maybe you will do a better job with it than i ever could.”

     His fingers curled into tight fists that turned his calloused knuckles a ghastly shade of white while his dull nails dug rivets into the thick flesh of his palms. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him to march forward and strangle the boar himself; to wrap his hands about his throat and ensure he could never speak such vile words again, and it took every fiber of control he still possessed not to make true his maddening statement with his own, bare hands.  Temporary? Did he think he could just up and die and leave the kingdom and all of his subjects to fend for themselves and pray the empire didn’t topple them over thanks to this insane war he’s started? Did he think he had the right to just turn tail and run away from the responsibility of ruling when he had caused nothing but heartache and agony for everyone around him? Did he really think he deserved the easy way out of this? No, no, he refused to let the boar back out of his life like Glenn did; he refused to let him sit here and speak about his own death so casually when he hadn’t earned the right to die.  

        “How dare you,” he hissed through a clenched jaw; his voice low and soft, but seething with the rage that the past decade or so has allowed to fester within his gapping chest. And he still has a the gaul to try to laugh it off; to pretend all of the lives he’d taken meant nothing. Of course he deserved to die, but he deserved to live and continue to suffer even more. “I’m not about to let you run away and die.” His voice was slowly increasing in volume until he was shouting at the future king with little to no concern about who might happen to overhear their conversation. He was sick of being pushed aside; sick of being told ‘give him time’ and sick of being told that he needed to lie down like a dog and obey the twisted boar masquerading as a ungodly kind like some kind of worthless, deranged dog. The only deranged animal here was that damn boar himself, and everyone who simply followed after him blindly like he wasn’t charging straight to his own demise. 

       Golden irises narrowed into fine lines like knives as the other continued forward with little regard to the words that had just left his vile lips. “Speaking of what?” he spat, taking a step forward towards the cluttered desk as other began to rummage through the hefty pile of papers that had collected over the past fives years. His lips curled downward into a stern frown as he snatched the paper out of the boar’s ugly hands, crinkling its edges in his anger. He only briefly glanced over the document before his attention was dragged back onto the misguided, fallen king. The last thing he wanted was yet another will to add to his seemingly ever growing collection and he had half a mind to tear it to shreds right then and there, but even he wasn’t so rash, not even in his wildest anger was that much of a beast so he could only stand there and bunch up the edges of that paper in his fist as he felt his heart lurch into the deepest depths of his gut. 

       “I don’t want your damn will.” At this point, if the entire monastery hadn’t heard his vague threats and angry shouts, it would have been a miracle. How many times he would be handed some stupid, inane piece of paper in a pitiful attempt to make up for everything he had lost before this war was over? By the end of it, would he be the only one left behind to carry out the wishes of his loved ones? If so, he’d rather just fight and tooth nail and tear flesh from limb and bone until there was nothing left those who wished to harm everyone in his life; until this stupid war was over and he was left counting the bodies left behind in his wake to ensure they were all mindless, faceless soldiers or those that had betrayed them long ago. But more than that, he didn’t want to be the one left behind to lead the kingdom. He was born to be a tool of war not a king. Sylvain or Ingrid, they were both from noble households and would have been far better fit for the tile than someone like him, no matter what the prince’s will claimed.    

i have and thats not an experience id like twice

 “Your highness.” A sample of cake within his hand, plated to perfection, a cup of tea within his other hand. There wasn’t much to do today.... 

jeralt is going to make a KILLING on fathers day

byleth, coming in to give jeralt a fathers day gift: dad i-

@sinkorol​

      { He } can’t recall what had been cycling through his head as he sat, long legs tangled and bent every which way to make his tall, muscular frame fit upon the cluttered floor of the stable, as absentmindedly twisted and mended his mare’s armor while the prince busied himself with his own task. It was strange, he had gone so many years without seeing head nor tail of Dimitri following Glenn’s death, yet, since that day he had unintentionally stumbled upon the other doubled over with the hoof of a stranger’s horse lodged precariously between his thighs, he had found himself spending more and more time with the prince - much of it wasn’t intentional, and he wasn’t exactly complaining either, but he’d be lying if he said watching Dimitri try to handle anything that wasn’t a lance or blade made him subconsciously tense up because it was always only a matter of time before something ended up bent and broken. Gold wasn’t much of an issue for someone like Dimitri, but Sylvain couldn’t help but pity, in the strangest sense of the word, his unyielding strength. He had grown used to it by now, of course, but a part of him always { wondered } what the other students thought when they returned to the stables only to find the clippers bent or the handle of the brush snapped in half (he could only imagine what those hands of his could do to a human being - both good and bad, and those were thoughts he fully intended to keep to himself; buried deep within the back of his mind where they shouldn’t have even been in the first place).

       Behind him, he could feel the tepid breath pouring out from his mare’s nostrils as she craned her neck over her stout pen to curiously sniff at his hands as his calloused, clumsy fingers carefully pried old, bent nails from the smooth steel of her armor while his other hand was busy trying to mend the holes in the patchy leather of her once immaculate saddle. Occasionally, he would reach his hand back to pat he long, velvety snout to prevent her from trying to kick down the door of her stall, and, less often, his fingers would brush nothing but air and he would turn around to find her poking at Dimitri’s slick, golden locks, pulling wayward strands into her lips and threatening to tug at the back of his head with little to no notice. And he’d drop everything to shoo her away, but she was nothing if not persistent, and he was eventually forced to admit defeat to his own steed when even apples seemed less tasty than the hair of royalty (and left to wonder { when } she had become so interested in the other). Had he been a less shameless man, he might have been horrifically embarrassed by his mare’s prodding, but he wasn’t, so he could only find it mildly amusing.  

       And he’s only vaguely aware of the thoughts that had been playing, over and over again, in his mind as he tried to keep his head occupied with everything else unfolding around him, when he felt something warm collapse against his side.  Peeling his attention away from where the hefty weight of his steed’s saddle was pressed against his thighs, his auburn irises trailed over to his side; surprise creeping onto to his typically calm and charming features as he spots a bed of messy, blond hair plastered against the dark fabric of his uniform. “Y-Your highness?” He fumbled out, hands hovering uselessly above his work as he waited for an explanation that never came. And he only realized, after a long moment passed, and he allowed himself to feel the steady rise and fall of the prince’s chest against his side; his tepid breath as it rolled over his abdomen, that { Dimitri } had fallen asleep. 

         With a sigh, he forced his taut muscles to relax and softly shoved his mare’s snout away from the prince’s face in a pitiful attempt to keep her from waking the other up. And, it’s strange, but he can’t help but notice how peaceful Dimitri looks in that moment. How the creases that typically crinkle the smooth skin of his forehead { had } flattened; how his lips have relaxed into a neutral line instead of a forced smile or a thoughtful frown; even how the tension that typically grips his harsh jawline has vanished almost entirely (and it’s the most human the prince has appeared to him in years and, for a moment, that thought catches in his throat and he wonders if he should be trying harder to put the pieces of their past together instead of simply accepting the inevitable). When was the { last } time he had truly looked at Dimitri like this? While Felix made no secret of his feelings towards the prince, Sylvain’s own were a bit more complicated and he’d always kept them bottled up for the sake of those around him; for the sake of the duty he would be forced to fulfill when Dimitri took the throne and he would have little choice but to follow his orders; good, ugly, and awful.     

        Gingerly, he pushed a few strands of stray, blond hairs from Dimitri’s eyes; his fingers just barely ghosting along his warm skin, before tearing his gaze away from the sleeping prince, and leaning his back against the slick wood of his mare’s stall. His hands coming to rest in his lap, as he quietly set aside all of his own tools, alongside everything Dimitri had been working with. He wasn’t cruel enough to wake him when he, of all people, was well aware of how sleepless Dimitri’s nights often were and, at times, it grated against his nervous because it often left him wide-eyed, tangled in the sheets of his own bed, as he glared at the ceiling at cursed his own bad luck, but not so much so that he would have tried to force him awake now. And while it felt awkward to have the prince of the kingdom he would serve upon leaving the monastery pressed, helplessly, against his side, it wasn’t uncomfortable either (though, he imagined, Dimitri might think otherwise when he did wake up and felt as if he had been resting upon a rock or had a kink in his neck that very much resembled the state of the old pair of clippers he had bent almost in half the first time Sylvain had caught him in the stables, or when he { looked } like a nightmare when he realized how he had managed to fall asleep against him). 

This is like four of the prompts combined, but you told me to live out my dreams so I am || @sinkorol​

       Calloused fingers - still { scarred } and thick from more than a decade of wielding a lance; still burned and stiff from years of casting spells with little regard to his own well-being - gingerly comb through silky locks. Warm knuckles just barely { ghosting } over the prince’s scalp and shoulders as he felt the soft inhale and exhale of the other’s breath against his palm. Strands of blond hair splayed out over his thighs, and the back of Dimitri’s neck felt { warm } where it was pressed against his skin; warmer, even, than edge of the meager and warn blanket he’d tossed over the other at some point during the night. And warmer, still, than the { heat } of the rising sun as it struck his bare back through the uneven and tattered curtains that did little to shelter the { murky } windows of his former dorm room, that he hadn’t bothered to clean since coming back here, from the outside world. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt the heat of Dimitri’s skin against his own, and he prayed it wouldn’t be the las, even if something like this would have seemed so { trivial } before. Today; however, In contrast, his own skin felt cold (though, if it truly was, he imagined Dimitri would have complained by now) and rough and a part of him felt distant - far removed from the fragile and ever fleeting { peace } this messy, old room provided them with because the closer he got to the prince the more he felt like he was digging his own { grave } (but what did that matter when he had been carving his own tombstone for years now - truthfully it didn’t; it was never the thought of his own death that kept him up at night).

         But in the { quiet } calm of this small room, with the weight of Dimitri’s head upon his lap and the sensation of his breathing seemingly rolling through his entire body, the world felt both dreadfully far away and terribly close. He knew. He knew better than most about the prince’s restless nights and sleepless dawns. He knew better than most the { extent } of what Dimitri has suffered through and what he doesn’t already know he’s not entirely certain he’s prepared to find out when every { scar } upon the prince’s body body makes him want to burn this wicked world to the very ground itself (and Goddess above have { mercy } to all the soldiers who had ever both drawn the prince’s blood and crossed his path for the end they were met with was unsightly and brutal and horrific - the extent of which was something not even the prince himself would be privy to). And moments like these reminded him that { this } was as close to peace that Dimitri was likely to get now (that the world had done nothing but take and take and expect everything in return). He felt helpless as his fingers continued to stroke through Dimitri’s hair than he ever did on the battlefield. There he could raise { hell } and tear apart the soldiers that burned a rage so deep in him that he doubted the linger flame would ever fully die. Here, though, here he could do so little it was { pitiful }. His hands weren’t suited for gentle caresses or loving embraces. And his words, so carefully crafted yet sharp, were all but useless in the face of someone he truly cared for.     

        If it were possible, he would have given up { anything } to give Dimitri the chance to be happy - to even stay here, like this. His breathing relaxed for the first time in a long while and his lone eye shut against the blinding light of a new day as he slept. Someone else would have been suited for the role he now played, but he was here now and nothing mattered more to him than the prince himself - and nothing ever would, even if he’s well aware of the fact that { this } is something fleeting. That { this } is something he can’t have forever when Dimitri is to be crowned king and he is likely to die a knight’s death sooner or later. And he imagines { sooner } given his family’s history. So, he’ll hold on to what he was now with iron claws and sharp teeth and cherish every moment he can spend beside Dimitri as he is now. Even if he can only lean his head down to press his forehead against Dimitri’s softly and feel the sensation of his heart beat against his palm as he rests his hand upon the prince’s chest; the sound is muffled by the blanket, but he’d like to believe he’d { committed } it to memory long ago.

Hurt prompts || @sinkorol

      He has always hated being { idle }. Even when he had been a child with too many worries thrust onto his young shoulders and too much he had been incapable of understanding at the time, he had spent most of his time chasing or running or fighting. It was a habit he had never been able to rid himself of and the war only seemed to make him all the more anxious. In the dead of night, when much of the monastery had become still, he was still { restless } as he sat upon the edge of his old cot; the bandages wrapped, taut, about his bare chest damp with blood and pus seeping through the thick cotton and staining the sheets tangled up about his thighs. With his forehead resting against the palm of his hand, he squinted against the bright, dancing silver light pouring in from the stars looming above through the hole in the curtains he had never bothered to repair left behind by an ex-girlfriend (and he’d be damned if he could remember her name) who had tried blasting that same hole through his head after he had dumped here right here, within this very room, years ago (funny how things changed). For all of the time he had spent in this room during his days at the academy, it harbored very few { sentimental } memories - the ones that creeped up on him when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep were all less than pleasant (and only spurred the need he felt to return to { him } so much quicker than his wounds would demand).  

        By now, he would argue that the pain had mostly subsided (but, truly, it was only because he had grown so used to it that he’d become numb to the sharp throngs of { torment } and constant { discomfort } that made his body sore and weary). But he was certain if any of their healers were to catch him as he pressed the palms of his hands against the bed and pushed himself onto his feet they would have gone pale. His own body seemed to protest the motion; muscles creaking and throbbing as he stood, but he only winced and forced himself forward; his hand finding his desk in the murky, sterling silver darkness to keep his trembling legs from giving out on him. It had only been a few days - he still needed { time } to heal, he had overheard them whisper outside of his door earlier that morning when a disgruntled Felix and worried Ingrid had come to check on him, but { time } was never something he had possessed. Growing up, there had been a flare strapped to his back ticking away the time he had left until his meager freedom was { stripped } from him and, as he become angrier (as he had learned to hate and rage and suffer) that same flame seemed to begin counting down the days until he did something that would surely cost him his pathetic life.  

       { And now }. Now, he was just so { desperate } to be beside Dimitri again that any amount of time he was forced to stay felt like just another blade plunging through his chest; just another arrow put through his flesh - another burn left behind on his already tattered skin. Five years had felt like a century when he had been busy { destroying } himself over the supposed deaths of two of the dearest people he had ever known. When Dimitri was apart from him - when he couldn’t hear the sound of his voice or feel the heat that rolled off of his skin or touch him, a part of him would always convince he would, come morning, wake to find out everything had been a lie his own wicked mind had conjured up to torture him for being a rotten person who deserved nothing more than to { burn } forevermore (and he wouldn’t have cared - he would have gladly thrust open the gates of Hell and kissed the devil upon his lips if it would have been enough to keep Dimitri safe from harm). 

        Inhaling sharply, he took a step towards the door; calloused feet quiet against the old wood - one hand upon the wall while his other remained over his chest trying to keep the pain that rattled his bones from { igniting }. For all he may have complained, and he had never meant a word of it, during their academy days, he was truly grateful Dimitri’s room was beside his own as he dragged himself to the door and into the dark, { empty } hallway behind. Every step he took felt like a thousand, and he feared the sound of his labored breathing and dragging feet might wake Felix in the other room, but that was hardly enough to stop him from lifting his pale knuckles and striking the door softly. He didn’t bother announcing himself - it was the only warning he truly had the energy to offer and he had the distinct feeling if he were to raise his voice Dimitri would personally drag him back to his own cot (he had the distinct feeling Dimitri would do just that at the { sight } of him, but, at least, this way he would prolong the amount of time before he was forced back into his room once again).