Title: descriptors

A/N: For the Fe3h exchange, for Mymhilda, who wanted some Sylvigrid! I had fun with parallels in this one.

Summary: Over the years, Sylvain learned many words to describe Ingrid: stubborn, glutton, beautiful, noble. The one leaving his lips now was "Moron."

…

…

…

…

Sylvain knew many words that described Ingrid: stubborn, nagging, glutton, strict, determined. The one word he wouldn't use, however, was weak. Especially not now, in the middle of the training field after she'd knocked him on his ass. His back and butt ached as he lay there sprawled, staring up at the bright blue sky, and couldn't for the life of him figure out how he'd ended up there.

Despite being two years older than her, his skills were nowhere on par with hers. He wasn't even sure he saw her move. Sylvain blinked, getting his bearings. A sharp blade pressed against his throat and he blinked again before realizing Ingrid was standing in front of him now, a smug smile on her lips.

"Yield?" she asked cockily. There was something different about her in the training ground, something feral and alive.

She looked beautiful, actually, but Sylvain knew better than to say that when she still had her lance against his throat. "Definitely," he agreed, letting go of his blade and holding his hands up. "Your win."

Ingrid yanked her lance back, replacing it with a hand. "Alright, get up before we have to wash your clothes."

"I think it's too late," he replied dryly. There were a few nicks and scrapes here and there, and after a hard landing like that dirt caked his shirt. He slipped his hand into hers, letting her yank him up. "Though if you wanted to get me out of my clothes, you could have just asked."

He almost toppled over when she let go of him. Giving him a disgruntled look, she rested her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Seriously, Sylvain?"

"I kid, I kid." He held his hands up in surrender. "I won't do it again."

"Like I can believe that." She snorted, shaking her head. "How many losses is that now, Sylvain?"

"Uh…" Sylvain smiled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. He didn't have to know the answer to know where she was taking this. "Honestly, who keeps track of that?"

"Sylvain, you've won only a handful of times! You should at least tie with me." She groaned, exasperated. Ingrid's posture was always ramrod straight, but it seemed he was testing that. Leaning against her spear, she glared at him. "You need to train more."

"Now, you're sounding like Felix," he retorted, stretching an arm over his head. Honestly, why were all of his friends such stick-in-the-muds?

"That's because he's right." Ingrid sighed once more. Slowly, she approached him, her words soft but firm. "Sylvain, you need to take this seriously. Otherwise, you might get hurt."

He didn't need to ask to know who she was thinking of, to guess why her eyes were downcast and her skin pale. Reaching forward, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. "It'll be fine. I'm more likely to die in someone else's bed than the battlefield."

"Sylvain."

Sylvain chuckled at her tone. "Sorry, just a joke, but seriously. Dimitri's strong enough to protect himself and even if he wasn't, you're his spear and Felix his shield. I don't need to get any stronger than this."

Not convinced, Ingrid snorted and yanked her hand free. "Why not? What're you going to do on the battlefield—run?"

"Well, that isn't a bad choice, but I'm not made for the battlefield." Sylvain shrugged, lacing his hands behind his head. "I'm just here to keep the stick from going too far up your butts."

Ingrid's lance was at his throat before he could laugh, her glare capable of cutting entire battalions. She looked fetching, red from anger, but he'd never tell her that.

"This proves my point!" he said instead, stepping back and out of her reach. "You all need to learn to lighten up."

"And you need to grow stronger." Ingrid shook her head, but he could hear the defeated tone in her voice, the sound that marked she'd given up on convincing him today. The lecture was over. "Like you said, we're protecting Dimitri—so who's going to protect you?"

-x-

There were many words Sylvain could call Ingrid: beautiful, noble, protective, kind. The one leaving his lips now was, "Moron."

Cradling Ingrid's wounded body in his arms, Sylvain urged his horse to run faster. The battlefield was uneven and he could feel every bumpy as they raced across the field to the rear forces. Ingrid shuddered at each hole in the road, the slight bounce jarring her injury. His hands were warm with her blood, but he tried not to think of that as he hunched over her, shielding her from any stray arrows or magic attacks.

Instead, he repeated harshly, "Moron." He wanted the word to drum into, to imprint on her bones so she'd never do such a stupid thing ever again. Suddenly, he understood why Felix was such a prickly cat sometimes. Maybe if he'd done it too, this would never have happened in the first place.

"'m not a moron," she weakly retorted, her words slurring slightly.

Sylvain clenched his teeth. "Don't talk, moron."

She was losing too much blood. His clothes were wet from it. Tightening his grip on the reins, he quickly glanced down at her stomach. He'd cut off as much of the spear as he could, leaving only the blade and the stump of the handle in place. That had to keep some of her blood inside of her—all she had to do was make it to Mercedes alive.

If he could get there fast enough, they could laugh over this tomorrow.

"'ou okay?" she asked, her breathing laboured. Her eyes were trained on his.

When she looked at him like that, he could almost believe that she'd make it through this. He swallowed, his voice thick. "You're asking me that, seriously? I'm fine. Perfectly fine!" His voice rose, anger building. "Why'd you do that?"

It had been his mistake. A lance aimed his way, his body too slow to react. Every warning from Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid over the years had run through his mind, telling him in no uncertain terms that it was his fault he was going to die.

And then his beautiful, noble, stupid Ingrid had pushed him to the side, taking the blow instead.

"Didn't you say no one would protect me?" His voice cracked, no more than a whisper.

Still, she heard. She always did. Laughing wetly, she shook her head. "'ow who's th' moron? Like I'd leave you."

And that was what made her a moron. She shouldn't have protected him. He could live with dying, but he couldn't live if he'd killed her. Sylvain clutched her tighter, his fingers digging into her arms. Voice hoarse, he growled, "You better not."

Sylvain had never been known for keeping promises, but that was fine. Ingrid always kept hers. And she wasn't going to leave him, not now, not like this. Squeezing his thighs, he urged his horse to speed up.

Ingrid would live, even if Sylvain had to drag her out of heaven himself.