Sylvain Jose Gautier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crestfallenfor) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
middaeg2020-04-14 02:37 am
crestfallenfor) wrote in middaeg2020-04-14 02:37 am
[Closed] To sleep: perchance to dream
Who: Sylvain and Those planned with (contact me if you'd like a memory!)
When: During the April dream event
Where: The Hall of Mirrors, various memories
What: Memshare memshare memshare
Warnings: Depictions of child abuse and attempted child murder, self-loathing, suicidal ideation, trauma related to the events of war, and allusions to csa. More warnings will be added if necessary, but please mind the warnings on thread toplevels!
[Tonight, the hall of mirrors looks uncharacteristically... alive. Gone are the dusty, simple frames, gone are the clouded glass surfaces, most now appearing bright, shining, alluring, perhaps.
And perhaps one mirror in particular draws your attention. The frame is black lacquer, with the occasional detail in bright, striking red. Unfamiliar individuals will see a banner, emblazoned with a peculiar crest, hanging from the protruding spikes of a pair of crossed lances on the top of the mirror. More familiar individuals will notice that the lances are held in the jaws of a lion and a beast (top), which are also holding the sides of the mirror itself in their claws. Those especially close to him - friends and bonded alike - will notice that the frame has a pattern like rough-hewn stone, with the odd streak of red, resembling a hand dragging blood downwards, and the base of the mirror is a couple, laid out mid-coitus. The male figure looks bored and uninterested at best.
To anyone, the mirror itself looks to be clouded, but in the way that a window will cloud with frost on a particularly cold day, and should it be touched, it will feel as cold - or colder - than it looks.
Perhaps notably - the owner of the mirror is not present to guard it from touch.]
When: During the April dream event
Where: The Hall of Mirrors, various memories
What: Memshare memshare memshare
Warnings: Depictions of child abuse and attempted child murder, self-loathing, suicidal ideation, trauma related to the events of war, and allusions to csa. More warnings will be added if necessary, but please mind the warnings on thread toplevels!
[Tonight, the hall of mirrors looks uncharacteristically... alive. Gone are the dusty, simple frames, gone are the clouded glass surfaces, most now appearing bright, shining, alluring, perhaps.
And perhaps one mirror in particular draws your attention. The frame is black lacquer, with the occasional detail in bright, striking red. Unfamiliar individuals will see a banner, emblazoned with a peculiar crest, hanging from the protruding spikes of a pair of crossed lances on the top of the mirror. More familiar individuals will notice that the lances are held in the jaws of a lion and a beast (top), which are also holding the sides of the mirror itself in their claws. Those especially close to him - friends and bonded alike - will notice that the frame has a pattern like rough-hewn stone, with the odd streak of red, resembling a hand dragging blood downwards, and the base of the mirror is a couple, laid out mid-coitus. The male figure looks bored and uninterested at best.
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To anyone, the mirror itself looks to be clouded, but in the way that a window will cloud with frost on a particularly cold day, and should it be touched, it will feel as cold - or colder - than it looks.
Perhaps notably - the owner of the mirror is not present to guard it from touch.]
>> Dimitri [cw: child abuse and attempted murder, suicidal ideation]
Instead, as he steps through the icy surface, he'll step into a hall of stone, architecture clearly that of northern Faerghus. It might look at once familiar and unfamiliar - it wasn't often that a young Dimitri went to the Gautier estate, after all - more often than not, he came with his father to Fhirdiad instead, on the occasions they got to see one another.
Even so - this might still be an image of wartime. It might be an occasion in the five years between the assault on the monastery and everyone reuniting, if not for the echoes of surely-familiar voices around the corner.
"Miklan, stop-!"
Should he follow the voices, he'll turn the corner to see quite a scene. Sylvan, older, is leaning against one of the walls, quick to turn and look at Dimitri, averting his eyes from the scene playing out in front of them.]
Dimitri? Shit... you shouldn't see this...
["Shut up, you goddess-damned spoiled princess!"
And Sylvain, younger - no older than ten or eleven, already with a dark but healing bruise high on his cheekbone, already with a bloody nose and split lip, is lifted by his throat and slammed back against the wall hard enough to clearly, audibly, knock the wind out of him and leave him struggling to take a breath.]
no subject
He's pleased to find himself in the Gautier estate - he recognizes the stone used as one unique to their territory. Dimly lit and adorned with tapestries, Dimitri vaguely recalls that these motifs were popular in his youth.
Too far back?
He doesn't have time to ponder - a voice rings out and Dimitri immediately follows it.
Sylvain, he recognizes immediately.
But the scene before him?
It feels wrong. Miklan was a violent man, but he can't be older than his mid-teens here. Without thinking, Dimitri rushes forward to place his hand on the memory's shoulder.
He falls through, and ends up standing between the specters of Sylvain's past. Only then does he turn away and look to Sylvain with wide eyes.
Caught between pleading and furious.]
What is this?
no subject
But this... there's no disguising what this is, not with clever words or idle chatter.
Not with his younger self clearly unable to breathe, struggling, kicking, digging his nails into Miklan's wrist, his hand, anything to try and get him to let go. Not with how the hallway seems to darken somewhat as his consciousness begins to fade, dream and memory blurring together in such a way to make the scene all that much more visceral.]
It's... nothing, Dimitri.
[Clearly it isn't - and yet... it is. It doesn't matter anymore, supposedly, with Miklan long dead, yes, but it's also a callback to the excuse he always used to give when he was younger, when Dimitri and Felix and Ingrid would ask about cuts and scrapes and bruises. It's nothing. I'm just clumsy. Don't worry.
He can't help but hope that Dimitri is too distressed, too angry, to recall those excuses.
Or too distracted, as the scene continues to play out around him.
Desperate, the younger Sylvain pulls a knife from his belt - one he'd been so proud of, one Lambert had given him as a gift (ostensibly from both himself and Dimitri, but Dimitri's own wonder at the weapon had told him the truth) for his tenth birthday, a sign he was growing up. The cut he lands to Miklan's arm isn't deep or serious, but it's enough to get him to let go. To curse. To throw him to the ground and finally let him breathe.
To kick him hard in the ribs before he can catch his breath enough to get up and run, and the lashing out is so normal, so expected, that Sylvain doesn't even cry out at the sharp snap that comes with the blow, curling in on himself defensively instead.]
One of the maids will be along soon. He'll stop when he hears footsteps. My father is up at the border, or else he wouldn't be doing this inside.
no subject
Dimitri's eyes fly wilder, as if he may lash out at Sylvain himself for suggesting they brush this situation off. As if there's anything that can be done about wounds carved deep into memory.
He takes a step through Miklan, stopping when the sound of metal pulled from sheath echoes in the small chamber. Wheeling around, Dimitri expects Miklan to be thrusting a dagger into his brother - instead Sylvain pries himself free.
Only to be beaten into the ground. Again, and again, suffering silently.
It makes Dimitri sick.
He continues his march to Sylvain, and clamps both hands on his shoulder. It'd be painful, were his crest still coursing through his blood.] What...?
What-
What possessed you-
to keep this to yourself!?
no subject
Instinctively, Sylvain flinches when Dimitri clamps his hands on his shoulder - no pain comes, without the Blaiddyd crest's influence, though, so he relaxes a moment later with a sigh, resigned.]
I didn't want you and the others to be hurt, Dimitri.
[Not in any sense of the word. Not emotionally, for them to know it was going on, but being unable to stop it. Not physically, because they'd surely try to do something, the next time they saw Miklan, hot-headed kids that they'd been.
And just as he'd said - footsteps echo down the hall a few moments later, quickly. Too quickly for Miklan to duck into a room, out of sight. But as the figure turns the corner, it's revealed he'd been wrong on one key point - it isn't one of the maids.
"Miklan Anschutz Gautier!"
No, their mother is the one to turn the corner, and Sylvain - the older - actually cringes. That... certainly narrows down the possible memories this could be, and he can only hope it will end sooner, rather than later, so Dimitri doesn't see too much.
Almost immediately, she's on the ground, too, wiping blood off of Sylvain's face, petting his hair, holding him close and protectively.
"He started it..."
"I don't care if he started it. You are not to lay a hand on my precious baby, Miklan."
He builds up as though he's going to argue further, maybe point out that Sylvain cut him as proof, but... they're both old enough by now to know it would be useless. So Miklan turns on his heel to leave, their mother continues to fret, to coo sweet nothings that had already lost all meaning to Sylvain, and... his older self hopes, prays that that's it, that the memory will end there. The hall is certainly fading out around them like it might, but... Then again, it might return to something else.]
no subject
Sreng - for the Margrave's sake, even though it seemed like little more than a grab for more land and influence.
And what had Sylvain's father done to deserve it?
Holding the border - it always boiled down to holding the border. The reason the Gautier family was so damn dedicated to having a Crest bearing heir, the clout the Margrave enjoyed at court...
If Dimitri became king, he'd pry those borders open and wrest years of tradition from the man's hands himself.
But that does nothing to help Sylvain - and when he thinks of solving the problem in this moment, he imagines only plunging his lance through Miklan's skull.
Dimitri releases Sylvain's shoulders when his mother enters the room, a protest on the tip of his tongue. Out of habit, he stays quiet to avoid interrupting the noblewoman.
He watches her coddle Sylvain for a moment before looking back to his friend in the present. Darkness closes around them, though such is a perception Dimitri has long grown accustomed to.]
You should have told Rodrigue. Or my father... [His voice has grown quiet, cracked - what's done is done but he cannot and will not leave it lay.]
no subject
[But there was still... nuance, to even the thought of doing that much. If the memory continues, he's sure Dimitri will be able to understand as much. If not in the moment, then... eventually. Possibly when he's laying awake at night.
He hates that he's added this to his friend's demons. He never should have known.]
I didn't want to bother His Majesty with something so small.
[That much, at least, is true. The ordeals of running a country seemed so much bigger than listening to the troubles of some kid from the borderlands, after all, and besides, in the few occasions he spent with Lambert - and the more occasions he spent with Rodrigue - he'd always preferred to not think of all this, to be happy.
Especially considering his mother knew. His father knew. Telling Rodrigue would have done nothing substantial - it wasn't as though his father would send him to live on the Fraldarius estate, after all - and while Lambert could have ordered him into better care... such a thing was too much, for something like him.
Almost as soon as total blackness envelops them, it, too, begins to fade away. First in sensation - the warm, stale air of indoors replaced with the biting breeze of a Gautier spring, stone flooring replaced with the crunch of well-worn dirt. Moments later, sunshine, stone pillars, racks of weaponry. They're alone - if only for a few moments - in the training yard of the estate.]
no subject
He would have-
[Memories clash. A man who smiled kindly and for all of his strength, sought to end the wars that plagued Faerghus. A man who with his dying words begged Dimitri to become a monster and slaughter until he too was nothing more than bones.
Dimitri's lips curl, and he stops himself.
Were he king, he would not allow this. He would respond to every cry for help-
But that is not his future, and nor is it Sylvain's past.
The scene shifts in silence, and Dimitri recognizes a training ground immediately, though it isn't one he remembers practicing in himself. The Gautier's, then, and he anticipates what's about to transpire will be as ugly as what he'd witnessed moments before.
He will not turn away from it.]
...do you hate your crest?
[There's no use in talking about what could or couldn't have been done - and with no one to lash out at, Dimitri turns to listen to Sylvain, like no one had when he was a child.]
no subject
[Clash of memories or no - Sylvain does believe Lambert would have done something. He's not sure what, of course, but... something. Whether that something was for better or worse... well, they'd never know, now, and he hadn't wanted to risk it at the time, on top of not feeling worthy of the help.
He deserved everything he got, anyway. He'd learned - internalized - that early on.
And he also believes that Dimitri would do everything in his power to not let something like this happen to anyone else... but that he wouldn't be able to prevent everything. No one could.
Dimitri asks a question as the scene shifts, but before figures fade into view, and Sylvain's answer comes too quickly.]
I do. It's done no one any good.
[Not himself, certainly not Miklan, not his mother, who had to worry for his safety, not any of the women who chased after him, whose hearts he only ended up breaking in the end.
Not Byleth, who he'd threatened out of pure, unadulterated jealousy at a particularly low point.
All it did was give his father an heir, and a disappointment of one at that.
And as figures fade into view, the training grounds are cast in the deep red light of sunset. Sylvain's figure solidifies first. The bruise from the previous memory still hasn't healed, and there is a ring of new marks around his neck from the previous ordeal. He's breathing hard, clearly labored, and as he pulls his shirt up to wipe sweat from his eyes, the bandages around his torso reveal he'd clearly broken a few ribs.
Yet he's still there. He still has a lance in hand - live steel, notably - and he's still facing down Miklan, who also looks much the same as he had before, with the sole exception being the new bandage on his arm from Sylvain's escape attempt. He's similarly armed, with a heavy lance in hand, blade glinting in the sunset as he squares up for another round.]
no subject
Stupid.
Blind to real suffering.
Dimitri's thumbs rake over his fingertips, and he steps away from the memory of two brothers fighting with live steal, poised like hungry beasts waiting to draw blood.]
I'm sorry.
I won't claim to understand.
But- [He raises his gaze to the younger Sylvain, and watches his form as he fights despite his injuries.] You're fighting a war for Faerghus now, aren't you?
[Fighting a war for him, though he can't bring himself to say as much. Can't offer his selfish cause as a good reason for Sylvain's suffering.]
no subject
His life wasn't threatened because of it.
Now, though... Well, he can't help but hold on to some shards of that sentiment, but at the same time, just because Dimitri had been blind to his own suffering didn't mean his struggles were lessened. They were both harmed, in their own ways.
He couldn't begin to convey as much to him.]
I wouldn't want you to have to understand.
[That much is true enough. He can't help but be terribly jealous of those who don't understand what he's gone through, but at the same time, he wouldn't wish it on anyone. It's a complicated mess of emotions that he prefers to not examine too closely.]
I am fighting a war for Faerghus, right now. We're close to winning the war, though, thank the Goddess.
[Fighting for Dimitri, too, yes, but... he'd be fighting the war with or without his presence. He fought the war for five years while everyone believed Dimitri to be dead. He fought for Faerghus. He lived for Dimitri. He suffered, because he deserved to suffer. None of these overlapped.]
no subject
He tries to remind himself as much, when screams and mangled faces invade his thoughts.
It may be a bit selfish, but Dimitri is thankful he's stepped into Sylvain's memories, rather than the opposite.
A curt nod is all he offers, camaraderie in
not addressing their issues and just dealing with itsilence.]The war will be over when she's dead... [He speaks of Edelgard without any note of mania. Regret, instead, laces words not truly meant for Sylvain to hear.] What will you do when it's done?
[A more optimistic conversation, and one Dimitri will insist upon - this is Sylvain's memory, Sylvain's suffering, and he will not abandon his attempt to find Sylvain solace, as well.]
no subject
Dimitri speaks of Edelgard, in a voice that sounds as though he's alone, rather than here with him. Perhaps he is, for a moment, lost in his own mind.
So he doesn't respond to the statement - it's true. They both know it is. The war will be over when she's dead - but dead to them at home, not here. It's frustrating, though Dimitri's... regret... is sympathetic at worst. It's fine. He understands.
Better than focusing on the scene before them, though he knows - knows - their attention will be ripped back to it soon enough.]
I'll go home. Take up my title, when my father deems fit to grant it to me.
[There's a scraping of metal on metal, shrill and harsh, before a sharp cry from the younger Sylvain as the butt of Miklan's lance swings around to strike already broken ribs.
He doesn't go down. That would be showing weakness.
Showing weakness makes it worse.]
Probably get married, hopefully to someone I can stand, if it's arranged. If it isn't, I... have a couple people in mind to propose to, but you'll have to make it to the end of the war to find out who they are.
[And his tone is... terribly light. Too casual for the scene before them, like they were younger, tucked away in Sylvain's room back at the monastery in the dead of night when neither of them could sleep, discussing who they liked.
Defense, in the dissonance of it.]
>> Hubert [cw: child abuse and attempted murder, hand trauma, hypothermia, drowning]
Sylvain himself - the older, the one he knows - is present, too, leaning against one of the trees and staring into the deepening darkness of the wood, like he doesn't want to watch what he knows is coming next.]
Looking for secrets, Hubert?
[Why else would he have entered his mirror?
Any response will be interrupted by a child's voice ringing out over the hill, as two black and red forms - the smaller of the two seeming to be struggling valiantly - cut a path through the snow towards them.
Miklan, let go!"
"Stop!"
"It's cold out, where are we going?!"]
no subject
Any knowledge is worth having.
[Hubert says it casually, as if this were an encounter on the streets of Aefenglom instead. These dreams were always unnaturally vivid, and it takes all his focus to not start trembling with cold.]
[If it weren't for the context or the name, Hubert doubted he would've recognized Miklan, his face rounded with youth and yet unscarred.
no subject
[Sylvain's response is just as casual, yet he can't help but think that this knowledge is better off being buried. He'd only shared the existence of this event with his professor, and even then it was only in the vaguest terms... he never imagined Hubert would be the one to see it in all it's visceral detail first.
First - because with the way this place works, with the way bonds work, he's certain someone else will see it sooner or later. He's... not sure how to feel about that.
Not that he has the chance to consider it as the two figures finally make it to them. Miklan might look vastly different from how he'd last appeared, but there was still that same look in his eyes, still that soul-deep hatred for the world that had wronged him, focused entirely on Sylvain. Sylvain himself looks young - barely ten, if that - but there's a sort of resignation about the way he fights, like he knows that no matter how hard he tries to pry Miklan's hand from his arm, it won't do any good.
"Okay, you can stop now... I'm sorry..."
Sylvain clearly isn't dressed for the weather. He's barefoot, wearing short sleeves that reveal a bruise already darkening on his arm from the tight grip Miklan has on him. He has a black eye, but it's noticeably healing, already several days old, and a still-bleeding nose.
"If you really mean that, then you won't come back, this time."
And that's... it. With a yank and a shove, Sylvain is tipped over the edge of the well, plunged into its dark depths. Sylvain - the older, the one standing by Hubert - presses a hand to his eyes, if only to remain standing. He remembers that fall, and being entrenched in the memory, can feel the vertigo from the drop again. Whether that's psychosomatic or not... well, he's sure to find out, if Hubert feels it, too.
There's a short, terrified scream and then a splash, and then... nothing, for what surely feels like much too long - only twenty seconds, more or less, but still too long, considering the circumstances - before there's more flailing splashes, coughing, the sound of desperate scratching on stone, as he tries to hold his head up above the water while he catches his breath after breathing in from the shock of the icy cold enveloping his body.
And Miklan has already turned to leave, clearly not intending to fish him out.]
no subject
[For that brief instant as Sylvain covered his eyes, the world did flicker dizzyingly—which made sense, if that was all he remembered of that moment. Hubert watches impassively, on hand tucked under his chin and the other arm folded over his chest. There was no need for alarm, if he were inclined to it; the brothers lived, obviously.]
[But that look. That burning, festering fury in Miklan's eyes. He's seen it before, in the Miklan Hubert had encountered. In the eyes of others. In the mirror.]
[He shakes his head. When Hubert speaks, his voice was neutral, devoid of the taunting antagonism that usually came with it.]
It continually surprises me that you despise our cause. There are very few who have more reason to support it than you.
no subject
Perhaps.
["Miklan, come on... pull me out... this isn't funny!"
Another, smaller splash as he dips under again, more scratching at stone, more coughing.]
It's the method I despise more than anything, Hubert. I'd rather change things from the inside than wage a senseless war or betray my friends.
["Please-!"
More than anything, Sylvain's pauses in speech - timed specifically to when his younger self tries to shout out, when he coughs, when he makes yet another attempt to scrabble at the walls of the well to keep his head above water if not make a futile attempt to climb out - show just how often he's revisited this experience in dreams. He knows it uncomfortably well, and doesn't intend to compete with the sounds of his younger self's struggling on one of the few occasions he is speaking frankly with Hubert.
They'll never see eye to eye, but maybe they'll end up with something of an understanding.]
Forget royalty and succession for a second. I don't know if it's the same in your memory, but your Empress had Dimitri arrested shortly after her assault on the monastery. We thought he was dead for five years, and when he returned, he'd fallen into madness. I don't know if you have friends, Hubert, but pretend you do, and imagine someone with a cause you would support on paper did the same to them, and then had the gall to be amazed you don't support them. I know you're more loyal than that.
[He might well be saying too much, but if that's the case - so be it. The idea that he should support a war just because he agrees with some - not all - tenets of their cause had worked its way under his skin from the moment Edelgard had told him she remembered him as being on their side, and the idea that he'd betray both his friends and his people for a fleeting dream and the flames of war felt insulting at best.
And as is the way with dreams, time seems to warp. The sun sets much more quickly than it should have, darkness falls, the air grows ever colder, and the younger Sylvain's struggling grows quieter, as exhaustion and hypothermia and crushing despair all take their toll.]
I've lost track of how many times she left her own citizens - civilians - to die as we gained traction pushing back against the Empire. I watched Bernadetta burn on her orders at Gronder, and killed Lorenz and Ferdinand myself on Myrddin. I watched her refuse an offering of peace. Even now, just before I was brought here, we're at the gates of Enbarr, waiting, so she has a chance to order the citizens to evacuate. She's refusing to do even that. I might be able to support the spirit of your cause, but I can never support her, after everything I've seen.
sorry it took a while to get this tag right
[He's patient, listening quietly and still watching the desolate well. Hubert tabs every location Sylvain mentions in his memory, trying to reconstruct this alternate version of the war from the little bits he's collected.]
Each of you speaks of changing the status quo from the inside. [Hubert shakes his head, regardless if Sylvain could see it or not.] Do you truly think we did not desire the same? The monsters within the Church carved this system into Fódlan's very bones, and ruthlessly culls anyone that does not feed the infection. That infection has festered—anything less than cutting out every bit of it will lead to a bloodier conflict, a bitter powerstruggle spanning decades—perhaps centuries—as the nobility bites back, refusing to relinquish its parasitic deathgrip.
These people have always been dying, Sylvain. In the streets, of starvation. In the dark, at the hands of capricious nobles. In the fields, worked to the bone. In conspiracies and lies under the Archbishop's inhuman heel—only now, they die screaming where you can hear them, instead of out of sight in silent terror. You might look away, but I will not. The madness our society has embraced will not continue.
600 years later..............
[His answer is clipped, simple, after listening to Hubert say his piece. The insight is... interesting, at the very least, and he can see the lines of logic that brought them to where they were, even if they felt terribly... Imperial.
New perspective or no, it doesn't change his mind.]
So kill the Archbishop. Kill those who would continue to enact her style of rule. Start a war in the Empire and root out the rotten nobility who refuse to lick the boots of your Empress. Don't bring your war to Faerghus. Don't pretend we're all the same as you, or that your changes will stop the suffering of the common people at the hands of the corrupt. There will always be corrupt nobility, Hubert, and I didn't think you were the sort to believe that that would change.
They were never out of sight, Hubert. Not up here. Maybe in your sprawling cities down south they were, but you don't know how life is here any more than I know how it is in Enbarr. The difference between us is I wouldn't start a war to force my way of life on your people.
[There's shouting, coming from the manor, as darkness deepens, as servants begin to wonder where Sylvain might have disappeared to. Eventually, torches are lit, and distant, bobbing flames slowly but steadily grow closer.]
I'm not as stupid as I project. I know there's corruption everywhere. I know the people have always been dying. War only spreads the suffering further, and if you think your nobility wouldn't wring all it could out of Faerghus, out of the Alliance, once your conquest ended, then you're more naive than you think.
no subject
[Hubert wished he could be relieved, as the lights bounce in the darkness their their bearer's haste. It'd been far too long as it is, in his opinion. The absence being noticed eventually was not terribly much better than never.]
[He shakes his head, eyes still on the well.]
I am aware of the suffering. I am aware of the blood that soaks my path. I care not what history thinks of me for it—and frankly, neither does Her Majesty. All that matters to us is bringing about a world where daughters are not sold for their Crests, where sons are not discarded for their lack of them. Where sisters and mothers are not abused for the results of their offspring. Where children are not mutilated for power and knowledge.
You sincerely believe you can change matters with politics. I sincerely believe you cannot. When the next child is pushed into a well for his Crest, we will not tell him, "someone will come for you when it is convenient. That time is not now." No, we are making now that time. Lady Edelgard and I cannot abide this society any longer.
But that is our impasse, is it not?
>> Allura [cw: war, loss, grief, suicidal ideation]
Moments later, a horse and its rider, both in heavy, spiked, black armor - the rider carrying a familiar, glowing, twitching lance, thunder into camp, and the rider - Sylvain, though he looks more stressed, more tired, more gaunt than usual - is dismounting before the horse has come to a complete stop, handing off the reins to a waiting soldier as he strides quickly into one of the lit camps. By the light of both the lance and the tent, it's revealed his armor and the lance itself are both covered in blood, indicating wherever he'd just come from had been a mess of a battlefield.
He doesn't even seem phased by it.
If anything, it just prompts him to remove his armor quickly once he's in the tent, so it can be cleaned and maintained by a waiting page while he sits at a field desk, another soldier standing by and waiting to speak.
"Michel, report."
"Rémy's battalion hasn't returned yet, sir, and it's not looking like they will. Galatea has capitulated in exchange for the safety of their citizens. Duke Fraldarius is still searching for His Majesty, and the Margrave has successfully pushed back the rising insurrection in Sreng, for now."
Sylvain - the one Allura knows, standing to himself and watching from the back of the tent, finally speaks up as the past-him they're watching begins to write a series of letters.]
This is... part of a dwindling front-line force against the Empire's invasion. Galatea is the territory one of my closest friends hails from, and Duke Fraldarius is Felix's father. He never gave up on the idea that Dimitri was still alive, even when everyone else was beginning to... or had, already.
The Margrave is my father. Gautier is a border territory, that fights off and on with invasions from the Northern border. They took advantage of the Empire's advance to strike harder, and more often.
[He figures it's better to explain now, up front, when there's little to see, little to listen in on, because leaving her in the dark... feels as though it would be worse. Cruel, even.]
no subject
The real Sylvain explains, and she sucks in a breath, placing faces to names – and a title to Dimitri, though she wonders why he didn’t introduce himself as such when they first met. It was odd seeing Sylvain like this. Grim, as opposed to the bright personality she’d come to know. Even on the night that they’d met, it wasn’t like this. But I know what it’s like to retreat until your back is against a wall too he’d told her then.]
Who are you writing to?
[There was a lot still to unpack here, but the question comes out, concerned for a timeline she knew nothing about.]
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At least with the cold creeping in, the Empire's forces will be at a disadvantage, their Southern constitutions unable to handle it as well as the Northern forces. He was left to hope that would help at the time - the Empire still had the numbers to wipe them out, if they got a foothold. It was just a matter of ensuring they didn't.]
I'm writing to my father. We're short on supplies and soldiers, and with the current battle at the border won, he was able to send enough to keep us going for another couple months. I also sent him letters to pass on to Ingrid, if anyone ever got through into Galatea, and to Felix, since his contact with Fraldarius territory was easier to maintain than mine, since he was based out of our home, and Rodrigue - Duke Fraldarius - was based out of his own. I didn't hear back from them for months.
[It's about then that the Sylvain of a few years ago finishes his letters, folds them, presses his seal to them, steps to the doorflap of the tent to look out and get someone's - anyone's - attention.
"Hey - make sure our fastest pegasus... yes, Sigrun... is fed and watered. I need Yvette to take these letters to the Margrave as soon as she wakes up for her watch. I'll take her shift personally. Tell her I'll grant her a week of leave if she makes it there by noon tomorrow."
After that... well, it's clear he needs rest. It's clear he knows he needs rest, but all the same, he's back to his desk and studying maps in the dim light, making updates here and there in the margins and on the lands themselves in regard to troop position, numbers, even the makeup of battalions, where mages and archers are stationed, when he knows it. It doesn't look good, with how much of the map is covered in bright, red notes, lines, how their numbers are easily three or more times higher than those written in black.]
I used red ink for the Empire, if you're curious.
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Or maybe that was just her own privilege. Always protected. Not even given the chance to fight back, in some instances.]
So much is lost...
[She watches the tired Sylvain pour over a map, and again it’s something familiar and she remembered her own despair at star charts that were overwhelmingly tipped in the Galra’s favor. Entire sections gone from their unchecked destruction and expansion, including her own solar system.]
How long did it go on? From then until now?
[He’d mentioned still being in the thick of the war when he arrived, but if it’s months before he heard word back – stars, she can’t imagine living in these conditions for so long.]
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Kept him going, when he felt like it would be so much easier to give up, throw himself on the sword of an enemy.]
The war's been going on for six years, more or less, for me. Our professor and Dimitri both returned to us after five, and the tides didn't start turning in our favor until then.
[But that only partially answers her question. So while it's upsetting looking back, she deserves to hear the reality of the situation, if she wants to know.]
Where we are, right now, is only a few months into it. They gathered a force capable of sweeping the continent without anyone knowing, so... we had our backs pushed to the wall almost immediately.
[But it isn't... all... bad... at least not anymore. Hopefully.]
If all goes according to plan, whenever I'm sent home, we'll be a few days off from putting an end to it. There'll still be uprisings, I'm sure, but... we're at the gates of the empire's capital.
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It's a small comfort, to hear that things turned around, but here, standing in the tent that stank of blood, she could almost feel the six long years ahead of the Sylvain that was pouring over the map.
She stared at the younger Sylvain,]
Why did they invade? For resources? Territory? Revenge?
[It was always like that. Small leaders willing to spend so many lives to sort their problems.]
>> Lance [cw: war, death]
And there's Sylvain - the Sylvain of several months ago - armed and armored, astride his large warhorse, Lance of Ruin in one hand and a powerful spell building in his other.
He has to use the lance first - an enemy soldier gets a little too close, takes a swing at him. Well-trained, the horse prances back, out of dodge, and then lunges forward, putting it's strength behind Sylvain's already devastating thrust downward.
He has to push the man's body off his lance with his boot.
The building spell takes out an entire small battalion moments later, before they can get close enough to raise their blades against him.]
Lance?
[Sylvain - the one of now, the one Lance knows - is by his side as soon as he spots him in the chaos, putting a hand on his shoulder to reassure him that he's here, solid, can see and respond to him.]
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he's already frantically trying to avoid attacks that will never hit him -- soldiers running his way run right through him even as he braces himself for impact. he's aware this is a memory, but he can't help himself. suddenly, there's a loud neigh beside him, and he turns to see sylvain himself plunging his weapon into an enemy soldier. it's bloody. it's...
it's war. that's what this is. this is what sylvain was talking about. this is his past and the world he came from before showing up in aefenglom.
then, he hears sylvain's voice again to his other side. lance lets out a surprised gasp as he turns to face the friend he knows now, and his eyes are wide with terror. ]
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The memory-Sylvain carries on without so much as a pause as the enemy soldiers are engulfed in magefire, dying quickly. He knows it's surely an awful way to go, but... spells burn hotter than conventional flame, kill quicker, and one can't spare a thought for the enemy, when it's kill or be killed.
The Sylvain of now doesn't give the scene a second thought either. He's seen it, after all. He remembers it. But it's war. He's seen the same scene on battlefield after battlefield already, and the sentiment held in the location isn't enough to make him pause now. Especially not with a terrified Lance standing in front of him.]
Hey, it's... alright. I'm here.
[But he also knows what's coming. He knows it's something Lance shouldn't see, but... how can he stop him, when their own advance is quick and ruthless, headed by a Dimitri that Lance surely wouldn't recognize - older, larger, feral, tearing through enemy troops with lance and by hand, crushing heads and tearing out throats. Gruesome, but efficient in his singular goal of reaching Edelgard as quickly as possible, little more than a bright red spot on the other side of the field, for now.]
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god. it's so much.
lance has to look away, eyes squeezing shut when the man tears his way through enemy troops. he can't watch this. it's too much.
he looks over at sylvain. ]
This...is where you came from?
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One, two, three arrows zip by. One, two, three enemy soldiers fall into the mud, never to get up again. A crackle of lightning and a scream from a heavily armored unit marks a Thoron spell finding its mark.
And a large ballista bolt punctures clean through the chest of a soldier wearing Faerghus blues.
And Sylvain wraps an arm around Lance's shoulders, pulling him close against his chest, so he can avoid watching more easily. So he has someone solid, reassuring, to hold on to.]
It is. Felix was brought to Aefenglom right after this battle. I'm... from... a few months later, but this is how wars are fought in Fodlan, Lance.
[No space battles or guns or range further than a longbow, unless you're allied with Those Who Slither In The Dark.]
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he wants to get out. of course he wants to learn more about sylvain but -- not like this. he can't handle this, and he almost feels like he should be able to because who knows what's going to happen in the future once he gets back home, right?
he doesn't have much time to linger on that thought, though, because suddenly an arm wraps around him and sylvain's chest. normally, lance would pull away and insist he's fine. in a place like this, though, he's clearly not fine at all. he doesn't really think about it too hard -- sylvain's a warm, steady presence through all the chaos. he needs this. even if all he can do is put his hands over his ears to try and drown out the screaming. ]
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It's gotten him berated time and again, for taking blows that were intended for friends. He'd take every last one again in a heartbeat, just like he'd do anything to shield Lance from all this better than he is able to already.
Especially when Edelgard's voice rings out clearly over the battlefield.
"Those fools who went up the hill will pay with their lives... in the crimson flames!"
And the wooden battlement on the hilltop bursts into flame a moment after she gives the order. The army of Faerghus had gotten too close, and she intended to keep control of the ballista at the top... by any means necessary.
Any means necessary - as evidenced by a surely-familiar voice following immediately after the sudden influx of heat and light. That's Bernadetta's scream. That's her manning the ballista, her skill and sharp aim that made approaching to take it a necessity.
If the Adrestian forces couldn't keep it, then neither the Kingdom, nor the Alliance could have it, either.]
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and immediately, he regrets looking. he wasn't ready to see one of his dearest friends being met with a gruesome, horrifying death. he'd only peeked for a moment, and as soon as he'd recognized what was happening he turned away again, forehead touching sylvain's chest as he ducks and shakes his head. his eyes are wet with tears. he wasn't ready for this. ]
Get me out of here!
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[There has to be a way out of this, without waiting for the memory to finish... right? Even if there isn't, Sylvain does shift to scoop Lance up so he doesn't have to do anything other than focus on... well, not focusing on anything.
"Ingrid!"
Sylvain's voice again - the him from the memory, shouting into the sky, because someone - anyone - needs to put Bernadetta out of her agony. They needed to stop the ballista anyway. Unfortunately, this is enough to make it safe enough for a pegasus to glide in and out without being shot down. Quick. Easy. Comparatively painless.
"I'll end this quickly!"
And, true to form - she does. One strike and it's over, and not a singe on the pegasus's hair or feathers.
"Wish I could've at least died at home... not in this big, stupid field..."
It would seem that that is what the mirror deemed appropriate for Lance to see. Already, the memory is fading away, but not before Dimitri reaches Edelgard, not before their exchange can echo across the space, and draw the attention of most people present. Their King. Their Emperor.
"Stab your chest, break your neck, smash your head... I will allow you to choose your own death."
"I'm not interested in methods of dying. All that matters is when death takes place, not how. And I have no intention of dying today."
"I'm sure all of the people you've slaughtered so far thought the same!"
There. The exit mirror shimmers back into view as Ashe shoots down a heavily armored soldier that was blocking the sight of it, and Sylvain is quick to both get them over to it - and through it - before the memory can fade out and fade in to something else. Perhaps something worse.
The silence in the hall of mirrors is nearly deafening, after the chaos.]
...Lance? We're out.
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and sylvain gets them out indeed. it's quiet all of a sudden, the only thing breaking the silence being sylvain's voice. lance plants his feet on the ground. his breaths are audibly shaky as he tries to fight back tears. ]
...Why -- Bernie, she --
[ he needs a moment. sorry, sylvain. ]
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In my timeline of events... she never joined the Blue Lions.
[And... that's really all there was to it. She'd stayed with Edelgard, she'd been dragged into the war, and she'd died on her orders.
That's war.
That's an awful thing to see, for a friend.]
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...you know, even though he's crying, there's something that grabs his attention. lance blinks his eyes open and looks at sylvain. he never thought that it'd feel so nice to be in a house of creepy mirrors again. ]
Your...timeline?
[ alternate realities, weewoo. ]
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Mostly about the alternate-hims that left Dimitri's side. At least the him in Petra's memory stayed.]
Mhm... Since getting here, I've... found out that our world's... history... varies, depending entirely on which of the three houses our professor decided to teach when they first came to the monastery. Some people apparently even switched houses so they could be taught by him... or her. It's... not pleasant to think about, honestly.
[Weewoo weewoo]
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Okay, I'm gonna have to calm down before I can wrap my head around this.
[ listen. he's tired from all the crying, and he's still trying to stop his sniffles. he gets the gist of it, but wow, uh. alternate realities. he's not surprised they're a thing...and he'd have a better reaction to this if it weren't for everything that happened earlier.
he will take that moment to calm down though. and once he does, he looks up at sylvain tiredly. ]
...Bernie didn't deserve what happened to her.
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[It's a lot. He can still barely wrap his head around it himself, but... it matters less, here, and that's the important part. Bernie is alive. Lorenz is alive. Dimitri is... young, and, yes, has already been through so much, but... not as much as he could have been.
But once Lance looks up at him, he sighs softly and ruffles his hair, just a bit. It's okay. It's... okay.]
She didn't.
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he lets out a deep sigh. ]
Well...she's here now. All we can do is make sure she'll be okay, regardless of what version of her this might be.
>> Tataru [cw: allusions to csa, child abuse]
"Sylvain, greet our guests."
He's pushed forward a few steps, out from hiding, so he can offer the couple a polite little bow, as is only proper for the heir of the house.
"Congratulations on finally producing an heir, Margrave."
"And what a handsome young man he is, too..."
The compliment prompts the younger Sylvain to actually laugh openly - he's more used to hearing the maids, the servants, call him cute, a kid, and to treat him as such, but here? The noblewoman isn't the first to treat him like an adult in the greeting line, and it almost seems as though he likes it, more or less - he is a handsome young man, not a cute kid. He is the heir of the house, not a useless brat like Miklan insists.
He still ducks back behind his father's legs.
And Sylvain - the older - steps up not long after as the greeting line continues along, bending to put his hand on Tataru's shoulder.]
Cute kid, wasn't I?
[Goddess, he hopes this memory is just the banquet, even if he has a sneaking suspicion it won't be.]
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The hand that meets her shoulder has her casting her glance Sylvain's way, giving him a smile to hide the beginnings of unease. The trappings of nobility were never something she'd been jealous of, much rather preferring the attitude those from Ul'dah seemed to take (that it was wealth, not bloodline, that ultimately mattered). Even Alphinaud hadn't been able to escape the expectations placed on him by virtue of having his Grandsire's last name.]
Quite cute. Adorable really.
cw: child abuse
The owner who doesn't appear to be here at the moment.
Touching the glass will be a gentle warmth with almost an electric tingle. Like there's so much energy within it doesn't know what to do with it. But that it might just crack the mirror somehow even though the glass remains whole.
Stepping through it will lead Sylvain to the home of the Varley family. There's the sobbing of a small child and going around a corner will reveal a child's bedroom with Count Varley himself dragging a tiny version of Bernadetta by the wrist to a chair in the middle of the room. Far from anything else around it.
"Please, daddy! I'll be better!"
"You will when you learn to quietly obey."
"Please!"
But he's too strong. He's already yanking her right toward that chair.
Sitting by the door of the room staring at the seen is the older Bernadetta. In all her Fae glory. There's tears on her cheeks as she watches the scene. It's one she's remembered so many times now but seeing it in detail.]
I...didn't want you to ever...ever see this.