Rating: T
Summary: The battle at Gronder Field has only one outcome; and yet, Sylvain participates. / chapter 17 of Verdant Wind, no recruitment.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Intelligent Systems, Nintendo.
Hello hello, this was powered by my sadness and my intense feelings :')
My first run was with the Blue Lions so when I played the Golden Deers and had to kill them at Gronder, I felt my soul leave me. And their death quotes added more pain. This is the events of the battle seen through Sylvain, and none of the Blue Lions joined Claude.
Graphic depiction of violence and major character death! Crossposted to AO3.
One-shot: the rust under their binds
The entire battlefield looks like it's on fire. The central hill is burning while thick, almost black wisps of smoke cover the sky. Sylvain's eyes are prickling and he curses under his breath as he pushes his horse forward, ignoring the sickening sounds that the bodies being trampled on make. Death is everywhere; there are corpses lying right and left, weapons scattered around them and the remains of demonic beasts sticking to the soil. The smell is awful—Sylvain wants to throw up and forget that he's ever stepped in this damned field that will turn into a cemetery.
He lost his battalion around half an hour ago; it wasn't even a proper battalion, constituted of only a dozen men desperate for peace but consumed by trust. Gautier is one of the last military bases Faerghus has left, but he's reduced to this: charging forward alone, exhausted, clothes soaked with the blood of allies and enemies alike, his armor nicked in places he didn't know was possible, a lance that's about to break, and his relic. His cursed relic that's been pulsing and demanding for more destruction as the minutes turned into hours.
The wind picks up and the howl of an animal sounds. Sylvain looks up and admires the graceful form of a white wyvern crossing the field with a definite path in mind.
He lies awake in his bed and considers chickening out.
That's what he wants to believe but he perfectly knows he won't ever find the courage to pick up his lance, mount his horse and disappear somewhere until the war ends. He's always been a coward, after all, and this night like the others isn't any different—it's not any different even if tomorrow there is a high chance they won't be able to come back at all.
Their army isn't that big, compared to the Empire and the Alliance; they've gathered as many loyal soldiers as they could and recruited anyone not too shady looking, but they're still a drop in the ocean. Fighting against two armies who possess much more resources and men is not a thought that would have ever occurred to him, even in his most crazed state.
Since he's not getting any wink of sleep tonight, he might as well go dig into their meager food supplies. Nobody is going to eat it, anyway.
He coughs up blood and grips the reins of his horse tighter, shuddering and sputtering, but refusing to stop. The soldiers thrust their lances at him with renewed vigor, and maybe frustration, but Sylvain doesn't let them hit him again and he deploys the Lance of Ruin's power to take them down. His blood boils and his hands shake when the lance goes through them like they were made of ash and mud. He doesn't watch their bodies hit the ground and kicks into his horse's side.
Fuck. It's getting difficult to see what's going on.
The Alliance is focusing on the imperial troops but they're still standing in their way. Sylvain distantly remembers that their main objective is Edelgard, but they were also given the order to kill every last one of them. Ha. Who is he to disobey his king?
There are voices he recognizes, even if it's been five years since the last time he heard them. Funny how the brain works, sometimes; he isn't able to remember the name of the girl he dated last week but he perfectly knows that former classmates are fighting for their survival just like he does merely by sound. He's a soldier, but that doesn't mean he wants to fight people he once considered his allies—that's really irresponsible and foolish of him, but he can't help it. Lysithea is firing spell after spell, wreaking havoc on the battlefield and never letting her enemies a chance to stand up; Leonie is rushing into the troops and in one fell swoop of her lance she injures several of them; Ignatz's aim has always been the best and his arrows make clean kills. Others are here too, even demure Marianne who stays behind and heals her allies from afar. Sylvain acknowledges that he logically should kill her first so as to deprive his enemies of healing abilities.
Instead, he runs off to the left side and hopes he can regroup with the others.
"What the fuck are you doing up at this hour?"
"Well, I'm clearly not the only one."
Felix scoffs but doesn't retort. He's nursing a cup of water, sitting at a table in the tent that is supposed to be the kitchen, in the dark because he's that much of a lunatic. Sylvain prefers looking at what he's rummaging through so he lights up a candle. He ends up picking the first thing his hand touches, which is a stale piece of bread. He eats it slowly.
Nights are like these aren't uncommon, happening more frequently as they approach the Empire's territory. Being near Gronder Field will naturally make some people restless and maybe a bit afraid, too. Sylvain isn't sure that what he feels is fear, but he sure as hell knows he doesn't like it.
"Were you training?" he asks, turning a careful eye towards Felix.
"What else do you want me to do?" Felix shrugs. His voice isn't dripping with his usual venom. "Sleeping like we should all be doing?"
"I've heard that sleep is good for the body. Would you believe that? I thought that roaming around camp all night and snacking on days old food would be much more healthy."
Sylvain flashes him one of his smiles, full of fake confidence and casualness, and of course Felix glares at him.
"This isn't the time for jokes," Felix says.
"It's never the time for jokes."
They've been robbed of tranquil days for the past five years, and try as they might, even if they pretend everything will be fine they know it won't. Dimitri emerging from the dead should have rekindled the hope in them, but it didn't have the expected effect—Sylvain doesn't want to say it, but his return made things worse.
Felix swallows the content of his glass and puts it down with more strength than necessary. They stay silent for a while, Felix contemplating the empty bottom of his glass and Sylvain toying with crumbs on his fingers. If anyone walked in, they would think they make a pathetic sight.
"Hey, about that promise," Sylvain starts, but Felix stands up and his chair rattles before toppling over.
"Don't be stupid." He takes a few steps towards the exit but he doesn't touch the tent's flaps.
Sylvain shrugs. "Just wanted to make sure you remembered."
"You and I know what's going to happen tomorrow, Sylvain."
For someone so vocal about his thoughts and so quick to disagree with orders given by a specific person, Felix doesn't say the words that have been haunting Sylvain's mind for the entirety of their journey to Gronder Field. Perhaps they don't need to be vocalized; perhaps it's Felix who doesn't want to recognize their truth, even if they hang heavily in the air. He'd much prefer that Sylvain is the one to say them so he can tell him he's been right all along. That might be the case, but Sylvain has never said he wasn't willing to believe in fantasies as long as he was with his loved ones.
So what he says instead is, "That means a lot of people will share the promise with us, then."
This time around his grin feels more genuine, amused by his own lack of taste in jokes at such a critical time, but Felix snorts and that's as much approval as he's going to get. It's good to have one last laugh.
He leads on foot his battalion of cavalrymen and they all travel in tense silence to their position. Next to him, Ingrid is looking at the sky, most likely evaluating the force of the wind and the direction it will blow in a few hours. Her pegasus is walking behind her, as agitated as his horse.
"You think you're going to be okay?"
Ingrid grips her lance tighter and glances at him.
"Of course I'll be alright. We have to fight for His Highness, after all."
Sylvain dearly wishes he can reply something sensible, but his mouth as usual runs faster than his brain.
"We're going to die, that's what is going to happen."
Felix knows this mission is suicide; Ingrid refuses to see it as such. And naturally, she glares at him with the fierceness she reserves for her lectures.
"We are knights. Fighting for our liege is what we do, and dying is—dying as a knight is the best death we could get."
"I'd prefer not dying at all."
"Then why are you here?"
Why is he here, indeed? Ingrid's resolve has never wavered, not even in these uncertain times when all they could do was run in circles or train without seeing results. She is steadfast and strong when she latches onto her principles, because she'd be lost otherwise; her mind and her heart have decided long ago how she is going to live, even if everyone around her is spitting on chivalry and is treating her ideals like garbage. Sylvain admires that in her, and that's why he's sad that she's willing to blind herself for someone they all cherish. She could have become the greatest knight in Faerghus.
Sylvain is here because he can't run away and because he's still cradling memories of better days.
"I guess I have nothing else to do."
Ingrid's sharp intake of breath makes him smile a little bit, and he pats her shoulder.
"Don't worry about me, worry about yourself."
"You—you don't even know what is coming out of your mouth, do you?"
He doesn't want her to cry, but he feels he's the one who might cry if they keep talking. He ignores her sniffling and he ignores his own misty eyes.
Lying on the ground are the corpses of pegasi and their riders, shot down from the sky with a single arrow. The fall most likely killed the knights instantly, judging by the amount of blood under their helmets. Sylvain scans the area, slightly swaying on the saddle of his horse, dread clambering from his stomach to his throat. The fire has almost spread to the entire field—maybe they won't even need to bury the dead if the fire keeps raging on like this, and burn them to a crisp.
"Sylvain!"
Sylvain's head snaps up and his lips curl immediately in a grin when he sees Ingrid approaching, covered in blood and limping, Lúin clutched in her hand. She probably lost her pegasus in the midst of the battle, or decided that she'd be more efficient on foot. Sylvain doesn't care; he gets closer to her and offers her his hand to get behind him. But as soon as he extended his arm all colors drain from his face when he realizes there is an arrow embedded deep into her back, close to her neck, and a javelin protruding from her side. How did he miss that?
"You're injured, Ingrid," he says absentmindedly. "Go—go see Mercedes."
"You're also bleeding, and I bet you didn't even notice," she mutters, wincing when she takes one final step and falls on her knees.
Sylvain wants to dismount and help her, be by her side in the last minutes she has left, but it's as if she can read his mind and she shakes violently her head.
"Go, go, go, don't get distracted," she chokes. "I wanted… to see a familiar face…"
What's the point of going away if he's going to die too? Why can't he stay by her side until she finds rest?
"His Highness is up there… the Alliance…"
A laugh breaks its away out of Sylvain's throat, wet and uncontrolled. It's ridiculous, it's insane, it's complete madness. Against his better judgment he swings his leg over the saddle and gets down, to his horse's relief, but he keeps the reins tight into his hand. He thinks he might be losing too much blood but that's inconsequential. He gets down on one knee, gently passes his hand behind Ingrid's head, and brings her to his chest. All the fight leaves her.
"I said..."
"I know what you said," he interrupts her. "Go to sleep, Ingrid."
Around them, the battle is still fierce. There are still infantrymen rushing to crush the enemy's defenses, and there are still mages casting every spell they know while the heavy armored knights are keeping them safe. The sounds of people fighting aren't drowned by the crackling of the fire or the roars of the demonic beasts left. Only wyverns are flying in the sky, now.
Ingrid lets out a shuddering breath that's too close to a sob. Sylvain keeps stroking her hair.
"I'm sorry… I failed my duty…"
Sylvain doesn't have to wait long before she stills and slumps against him.
He lays her down and gets back on his horse, the Lance of Ruin weeping a red, bright glow.
He suspects that none of his words will be heard, but he supposes he can try.
"Your Highness, are you really sure you want to fight both the Empire and the Alliance at the same time?"
Dimitri doesn't even look at him and keeps his eye trained on Areadbhar.
"We have already come here. It would be a waste of time not to charge."
"Well, we could ask the Alliance to help us with resources…"
"Is there a point you wish to make, Sylvain?"
Sylvain has rarely considered Dimitri cold. He's distant, yes, ever since the Tragedy of Duscur, but he's never shown so much animosity towards people he trusts and has known for his entire life. Dedue is the only one who can get through him, but even still, that's only because Dedue has pledged to serve him and to obey him. Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus, but he has yet to throw away his decision-making.
"What if we die?" he asks with as much boldness he can muster, hands clasped behind his back.
Dimitri slowly turns around, his fingers curling around his relic like they're about to break it.
"Then we take that woman's head with us."
Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus. The man in front of him has not yet sat on the throne.
He smiles.
"Of course, Your Highness."
Before they each depart with the battalion and the soldiers they were assigned, Sylvain pulls both of them into a tight hug. He's mindful of his gauntlets and his cold armor but his arms easily snake around their shoulders and he brings them so close that their heads bump into each other, which makes Felix splutter every swear word he knows and Ingrid groan but there is laughter in her voice. Sylvain chuckles when her hands come at his waist while Felix awkwardly pats him on the back.
"You guys are the best."
"If we're the best then don't freeze us to death with your stupid armor," Felix retorts, but he doesn't pull away.
"Such sincerity coming from you is rare, Sylvain."
"What, can't I express my love for my friends from time to time?"
"Not when you're being weird about it, no."
Sylvain releases them and grins, squeezing their shoulders one last time. Felix pushes some bangs out of his eyes then crosses his arms over his chest, gauging him. His jaw is tense and his posture is stiff at best, like what he's about to say is going to cause him great pain. Were they only chatting with a drink in hand, Sylvain would have cracked a joke to save Felix from embarrassment, but they all know that it's time to lay bare their feelings.
"Are you prepared? Did you memorize the map?" Felix asks tersely.
"I did, don't worry," Sylvain replies. "And I can count on my battalion, so I can't get lost."
"We all have soldiers we are responsible for," Ingrid adds with the beginning of a smile, but the curl of her lips is sad. "We could have fought alongside each other, but I understand His Highness's decision."
Felix grits his teeth, and Sylvain expects him to storm off but he remains rooted on the spot, only casting down his gaze and silently fuming.
"We are his trusted generals, after all," Sylvain says.
"'Trusted' my ass," Felix mutters.
"Felix," Ingrid admonishes, more out of habit than real bite.
Sylvain thinks it's nice to speak with his friends before going into battle. They ease into familiar chatter and banter, chasing away for a few minutes the danger looming over them. It's not the most reasonable course of action to take, but they're only human—Sylvain is only human and he clings to what is reassuring, to get through this war and come back with as much sanity as he can keep. That was his original plan, anyway.
"Well, time to go to war," he announces evenly, jerking his chin towards their mounts.
Ingrid nods. Lúin is securely strapped on her back, while Felix has yet to pick up the Aegis Shield from the armory but he's already carrying the sword of Moralta and a sword of Zoltan. Sylvain has heard Felix brag about his swords more times than necessary to recognize them with only a glance.
They share one last look, maybe lingering a bit too long. None of them is going to admit they are scared, because knights from Faerghus aren't scared of going to war. Ingrid follows him to get to her pegasus and Felix goes on the opposite side, joining Dimitri's troops. The Lance of Ruin is itching for a fight, and Sylvain will let himself be consumed.
Ever since he was small, Sylvain thought that the crest of Fraldarius looked cool. Even when he started to despise and reject his own crest, he viewed that shield-shaped crest as something comforting, always protecting them from immediate danger. Felix prides himself in his strength and the use of his crest, in spite of what he thinks about its meaning and the expectations that befall him.
Sylvain follows the glow of the crest of Fraldarius visible even from afar. He knows that the biggest forces of the Alliance have gone to fight Edelgard, but the imperial troops have focused theirs on the Kingdom. It's a real carnage; the bushes and the trees are all painted in blood, and the fire is starting to reach them. Felix swings his sword with terrifying speed but Sylvain recognizes the laboriousness of his moves. Aegis is shining and pulsing, deflecting the blows and pushing the opponents away like they weigh nothing. There are grunts and hisses and shouts, soldiers from all sides mingling and unable to tell apart ally and foe.
Sylvain charges into them and with one swipe of the Lance of Ruin he decapitates two soldiers. He actually doesn't know who he killed, only that they're not on his side. His hands keep shaking but he's holding onto his weapon firmly, never allowing himself to lose focus even for a split second. His arrival has alerted mages he vaguely recognizes as Edelgard's, and they direct their spells at him. His horse is just as tired as he is, and dodging quickly takes too much effort. The fire spell hits him square in the chest and he lets out a wordless scream, gripping painfully on the reins so as not to fall. The situation is so, so bad. The blood in his eyes and the fog in his mind cloud his judgment, perhaps, but he's only had one objective since the beginning of the battle.
His horse is whining and also stumbling, but Sylvain pushes him forward, relentlessly, even if he's hurting all over and unable to see clearly what's in front of him. He brandishes his relic and calls upon the power of his crest, nausea crawling up his throat as the light of his crest is the last thing the mages see before they're struck down. Sylvain has barely the time to lower his weapon when he vomits blood and bile on the ground, shivering and pitching forward on his saddle. It's far from being over.
When he reaches Felix (or is it Felix who reaches him?), he's sure he's oscillating between life and death.
"Hey, Sylvain, hey," Felix rasps, shielding them both from an arrow.
Sylvain has crossed half the field alone and has cut his way through here, has lost count of the number of soldiers he killed, and has seen Ingrid die in his arms. He's exhausted.
He looks down, peering at the frazzled figure of Felix looking up at him. Felix's hair has seen better days; it's matted with blood and sweat, and some of the bangs are sticking out of his ponytail. There are cuts on his face and he's lost his pauldron, where a deep gash is still oozing blood, which explains his extensive use of Aegis. He's also heavily leaning on his right leg. Sylvain doesn't have the time to take in all the other injuries.
"Stay focused, Sylvain," Felix tells him with so much vehemence that Sylvain laughs.
"That's all I've been doing for the past hour or so, I don't remember."
Dedue and Dimitri aren't here; they probably went to fight Edelgard and left the others taking care of the minions and the Alliance. There's not much Sylvain can say about this strategy, since the goal of this battle has always been killing Edelgard, means and consequences be damned.
"We… we're done." Felix swallows, and Sylvain is surprised he can hear him with all the noises around him and the blood banging against his skull.
"Done? There's still the other half of the field to clean up."
"No, I mean… we're losing."
Sylvain's head jerks up and he blocks the assault of the wyvern rider diving for him. The Lance of Ruin grinds against the axe and Sylvain snarls, pushing with all his might and hoping that it won't break. Felix, like the idiot he is, jumps and runs his sword through the wyvern's stomach, between the armor plates, and the beast shrieks. The rider gets jostled and loses the advantage for one second, so Sylvain uses the opportunity to once again make the crest of Gautier flare up, and his lance comes away red. He's so dizzy he's pretty sure he can hear the Saints' cajoling whispers to the dead fallen into battle.
He wants to lie down.
"...vain! Sylvain!"
Felix is shaking his arm, trying to get his attention. Sylvain has never been able to refuse him. His eyes glaze over him, and he smiles.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm still here."
Felix's eyes are wide and his mouth is quirked downward. He looks like the boy he used to be, scared of everything and hiding behind people and asking what he should do to become stronger. The old Felix wore his heart on his sleeve and this Felix is close to tears—maybe they're not this different, have never been two separate people in the first place. Sylvain briefly closes his eyes.
"You don't usually show your emotions on the battlefield," he says.
"Cut the bullshit, move your horse! Don't you fucking dare give up now!"
Didn't Felix say they're losing? What's the point of fighting if they're already doomed? But Felix's logic has always been flawed.
"Sylvain, I swear to fucking god—"
His horse suddenly reels and Sylvain snaps his eyes open, his Lance coming up just as instinctively, but there is nobody in front of him. Instead, Felix is blocking an attack with his shield while a battalion of cavalrymen is surrounding them. Sylvain didn't think that there were enough people left to form a battalion of any kind.
It's the Alliance, judging by the color of their armors. And he recognizes some faces among them—he also won't pretend that the anguish twisting the features of their faces isn't bringing him some sort of sick satisfaction. He knew he should have killed them instead of coming here to help whoever survived.
Felix is struggling to stay upright, blood loss and exhaustion finally catching up on him, but he's stubborn, always stubborn. Well, Sylvain doesn't have any right to criticize him since he's still fighting.
"If you surrender…," one of the Alliance members says, Ignatz or Leonie, he doesn't quite know.
"I don't think that's how it works," Sylvain replies with a sharp laugh.
Sylvain inhales and exhales slowly. The sky is orange, now. The battle has been going on for too long already.
"Time to end this," he declares, and brandishes the Lance of Ruin.
Felix lunges at them, the crest of Fraldarius driving him onward. Sylvain summons his last forces—the crest of Gautier engulfs him.
When Dimitri reappeared and told everyone he was marching towards Enbarr, Sylvain wasn't sure he would follow.
"We can't leave him in this state," Ingrid says, horrified. "He's going to get killed!"
"Yeah, and we're going to die too if we follow his orders," Felix growls.
But they spent five years looking for him. Five long years of endless searching and fighting against their own people who only wanted a chance at living. There is no king on the throne at Fhirdiad and there is no one to lead them. Gautier and Fraldarius can't hold the fort forever. Besides, it's Dimitri they're talking about.
"Can any of us really abandon him right now?" he asks, quietly, because he might be having a few realizations himself.
Felix is, of course, the first to express how much he disagrees with this notion.
"You'd foolishly trail after a boar when you know he's fucking insane?"
"He's not insane!" Ingrid protests. "He needs our help!"
"Well, he's not getting it from me."
The three of them are fucking liars—they're all liars in different ways, but pointing out each other's lies only calls for further falsehood and they end up ignoring it altogether. It's easier to pretend everything is alright, or to take it all at face value.
They don't argue for long, though. They act like there is something legitimate to argue about in the first place when they've been raised to care for each other, and to care for their kingdom. Sylvain has opinions about the way Faerghus is run, about the emphasis put on traditions and ridiculous expectations children have to uphold, but he's the first to defend loyalty.
Loyalty is the rust that lingers in the chain links binding them together.
The moment Felix loses his left arm, it's over.
It's not cut clean from the shoulder, but someone must have noticed he had difficulty using it every time he lifted the Aegis Shield, so they shot an arrow, and it pierces the flesh with appalling accuracy. Felix muffles a scream and his arm goes limp against his side, as he pants and hisses, his right hand never letting go of his sword. It's over, and acceptance slowly overcomes Sylvain.
"Not now… not like this…"
Felix is still trying to get in a few hits with his sword, but with only half his limbs functional he can't gather much strength to land a proper blow. The shield is still burning and flashing its gleaming light, with its power rendered useless.
Sylvain's horse got injured by a lance and collapsed, so he's now standing on his feet, though wobbling would be a better qualifier. He doesn't even know how he's still up and waving his weapon around; he should have died a long time ago. Perhaps stubbornness only is keeping him alive.
Each one of these cavalrymen is holding a bow or a lance. The sight is strangely comforting.
"I'm not afraid. I figured it would end like this…"
It's selfish of him. There is no way to know whether the Alliance was truly going to take them in as war prisoners, as soldiers, or something. Maybe they could have found comrades in their ranks and they could have overthrown Edelgard's reign together. It doesn't matter—Sylvain has a promise to keep, and a silent pledge to abide by.
He doesn't look at Felix as he lifts the Lance of Ruin one last time. The crest of Gautier bursts out but he never gets to unleash its power.
When the arrows go flying, he sees movement to the side. His mouth curls upward even as pain explodes behind every inch of his body, forcing him to drop his relic before he follows soon after, his face meeting dirt and his eyes filled with dust. There is another grunt beside him and he hears a thud. A laugh bubbles in his throat but he only spits out blood and atrocious wet sounds. He doesn't have enough energy to say how funny the situation is, so he simply closes his eyes.
He can finally rest.
Once upon a time, Sylvain admired Glenn for being such a righteous and strong knight, walking the honored path of serving the prince and receiving praise for his accomplishments. However, more than anything, Sylvain loved him as the big brother he never had; and when he lost him, too, he thought that maybe it was his turn to act like a big brother. Dimitri, Felix and Ingrid still didn't see all the horrors of life, not yet—they suffered the loss of a loved one but their hearts weren't ready to keep on stepping down that road. He didn't have Miklan's raw fury or Glenn's unshakable belief, but caring is something he's capable of, despite everything. He's clumsy with words and hopeless with actions, but he can watch over them and keep them close to his heart.
He realizes that he failed every single one of them, but at least none of them has to live through the guilt of surviving.
Thank you for reading! A review would be much appreciated. Find me on twitter at kornetable!