Felix's life goes like this:
He is born into a family of knights and spends his childhood walking in the footsteps of both his father and brother. It is nothing but toy swords and footwork drills. His summers are spent at Gautier Manor where he pinky-swears dumb promises with Sylvain and stays up too late in the night with Glenn.
But then, Glenn dies and Felix becomes jaded. Suddenly, the life of a knight tastes sour in his mouth as Felix grows into an adult, angry and bitter. He fights with everyone; his father, Ingrid, and even Sylvain. It isn't that those pinky promises mean less now, it's that Felix doesn't know how to keep them.
So, he does what he does best, which is being selfish. He packs up a few things, picks a sword, and then he's out the double front doors and into the world. No one stops him, not even Sylvain.
Whispers of The Meandering Swordsman spread over the years as he carves a name for himself as a sword for hire. No longer a Fraldarius, he's just Felix instead, and, for the first time, a large part of him feels alive.
He is left alone. Felix tells himself that it makes it easier. Still, he thinks of him. Sylvain and his wide, easy smile. The freckles that would dot his cheeks in the summer and the wild curls of his auburn hair.
Sylvain never comes after him, despite those old whispered promises shared under the starry sky. Felix wonders if romance is truly dead.
#
Sylvain's life goes like this:
He is born into a family that tells him that he must marry well and have lots of babies. This is why falling in love with his best friend is awkward—Felix is decidedly not female and has the propriety of a slug.
Sylvain learns the sword with him and idolizes Glenn. But then, things go to shit, Felix becomes a crusted, cantankerous mess, and Sylvain only starts to love him more. He tells Felix that, eventually, underneath a twinkling summer sky as he gives him an enchanted hairband, something to tame that wild rat's nest Felix insists upon.
Felix takes it, and they make their last promise, hooking their pinkies together in a childish show of affection.
Sylvain is not surprised when Felix breaks it. He's more surprised with himself; when Felix leaves without a word, Sylvain does not follow. His heart aches, sure, but he bucks up and remains stubborn because his mother is too sick, and his father is too strict to ghost his family indefinitely.
So the years pass. Sylvain courts faceless woman after faceless woman, his mind wandering as he pretends they are another. He hears the stories like anyone else, whispers of That Swordsman, and he smiles.
At least Felix is alive.
#
Felix hates magic.
All magic, really. Anything that claims to be so such as curses and fairytales, or the promises of happy endings. More trouble than they're worth, he thinks morosely. Cruel ways to pick and pull at people. It's easier to stick to the simpler things in life, like trusting absolutely no one, or that any and everything is likely a lie.
Felix has been a pessimist since Glenn passed. Funny, what death does to a person, how negatively it can affect one, especially so young. Felix stopped waiting for a happy ending before he even knew what one was.
"Goddess, how annoying," he hisses as his boot sinks ankle-deep into the boggish, muddy ground.
The forest is not his first choice, as far as traveling goes. Felix can feel the thrum of the energy that floats in the air. His skin prickles. It tugs at him, curling about the lengths of his fingers. He hates magic, but he hates more the way that his body wants to lean into it, instinctually heeding its call.
His mother always wanted him to learn basic spells as a child. Felix spent those afternoons sneaking out to play with swords instead.
"Seiros be damned." He jiggles his foot, trying to break his boot loose. Has no such luck. It takes an embarrassing amount of time to finally free himself, and Felix is left sweating profusely, bangs sticking to his face.
The sooner he gets out of here the better. "Shouldn't have listened to that old beggar woman," he mutters to himself. He tugs at the tie around his wrist, pulling at it nervously. It glitters in the dark of the night.
A quicker path to Bergliez, you ask? If you're willing to risk passing through the Forest of Mystery, you could cut your time in half.
"Forest of Mystery," says Felix to himself. "What an absolutely ridiculous name."
The forest itself seems unimpressive at best. Felix knows that he shouldn't underestimate it, but he finds that he doesn't care; he has one goal in mind and that is to get in and out with little fuss.
This is why he sighs as he stands there, holding a muddy boot in his hand, his leg and stockings wet up to the knee. What a brilliant start.
So, off he goes again, doing what he does best which is to ignore all the red flags and push on with his life, selfishly. The forest is less of a mystery and more of an eyesore, and the further that Felix's day bleeds into night, the worse it becomes.
By nightfall, Felix is left cold and damp, chilled to the bone, despite it being the middle of the summer at the south end of Faerghus.
"I shouldn't risk a campfire," he says once he reaches a quiet clearing. Felix thinks about it, though, looking at a large and gnarled tree with sprawling branches. Definitely ancient. Certainly magical. "I really shouldn't," he tells himself again.
There are a thousand reasons not to. Bandits and foes, or wild fiends of the night. Magic sits so heavy in the air that Felix can taste it in his mouth. The ends of his hair sizzle with it. And yet—
Felix finds himself climbing that large, knobbly tree to cut a few branches from it. It's not as though it belongs to anyone else, and as far as he can tell, he's the only one dumb enough to travel through here. The fire is warm and blazing by the time it is lit. Felix sighs, momentarily satisfied as he plops to the ground and leans against one of the tree's gargantuan roots.
He should've seen it coming. Felix tasted the magic and saw all the signs. He should've recognized a sacred tree for exactly as it was, ancient and foreboding.
How cruel, the tree whispers, its voice quiet in the night.
Felix cracks open an eye, his arms crossed over his chest.
Do you think yourself above asking for help? Tell me, wandering swordsman, do you think yourself entitled to my branches?
"Just my absolute luck," he manages to snap before darkness takes him.
#
Over the years, Sylvain listens to the rumors.
Felix is fearsome in the stories that are woven about him. The Meandering Swordsman is a curmudgeon but kind at heart. He does right by those he helps, and, while he takes coin, he's known to cut deals for communities that have less than most.
Sylvain smiles at the thought of Felix's soft-handed kindness. If mentioned, Felix would curse the idea of it, eternally awkward when it comes to going against his assumed nature. But still, these stories bring comfort to Sylvain, and, as long as they keep coming, they are proof that Felix is alive and well.
But then, the stories change.
No longer is he just the traveling swordsman, he's the man who's fallen to a curse. The first time that Sylvain hears of it, he brushes it off as just a silly story. But then he hears it for a second, a third, a tenth time. Eventually, he accosts a merchant, backing her into a corner to prod for more details.
"Tell me more," he says to her.
Anna scoffs, pushing him back, hand flat against Sylvain's chest. "I don't know much, just the rumors on the wind."
"I know you better than that. Come on, Anna, remember that time we—"
"I'd rather not," she cuts in dryly. Anna sighs, dragging a hand through her hair. "Look, I'm being honest that I don't know much—" Sylvain grunts at that. " —but, I do know that there's some truth to the rumor. The story that's being circulated doesn't change much."
Fair enough. Sylvain thumbs his chin. "It's typically the lies that tend to grow fantastical, I guess."
"Despite his crusty nature, most hold Felix in high regard." Anna's gaze narrows slightly, then. "I know you're worried about him."
"Old friends, like I've told you before."
"Hm, I'm sure." Anna presses against Sylvain's chest once more, and this time he actually steps back. "Okay, okay, I'll throw you a bone. Rumor has it that he was on his way to Bergliez and cut through an enchanted forest. Never came out the other side to meet his appointment. Whispers and rumors about an eternal curse, but who knows?"
"Anna," says Sylvain, "I could kiss you."
Her face scrunches at the thought. "Ugh, please don't."
Sylvain then presses a small pouch of gold into her hand. "Just a little something-something at least. For your trouble."
Anna smiles then, her mouth curved into a devious grin. "A little more, then, due to your generosity. As you know, even eternal curses can be broken by true love."
Sylvain pauses at that, his brow furrowing. "Who said anything about true love?" he asks. But his heart thuds so loudly in his ears that he wonders if she can notice.
Anna says nothing, just taps at her cheek with her finger, that far-too-knowing smile etched onto her face.
#
It turns out that there are many small villages that border supposedly enchanted forests. Sylvain spends what feels like years en route to Bergliez, exploring every single one of them.
He is too old for this. He's spent too much time away from the field, pushing papers in the family office at the estate instead. His lance feels almost foreign in his hand and his horse is awkward underneath his thighs. Still, Sylvain persists, pushing on with every day that he learns nothing new.
Sylvain is on the outskirts of Varley when he finally hears a rumor that seems somewhat useful.
I saw it with my own two eyes, says the man, gesturing wildly to another traveler. I was hunting for mushrooms in the Forest of Mystery when I came across a man sprawled out underneath the largest tree in the forest. Asleep, he was! Hands clasped gently across his chest, he looked as though he was just taking a nap. If I didn't know any better…
There are plenty of odd stories like this that plague the land. At first, Sylvain brushes it off, but then—
His hair was like a midnight sky, smooth and sleek. Despite his restful state, though, his face was pinched in anger.
Sylvain pauses just as he passes the merchant, reaching out to tug at his sleeve. "I'm sorry, but repeat that last part?"
The man blinks. "I… the man looked angry? I suppose if I was cursed to sleep, maybe I would be too, but—"
"And where was this?"
"Several days to the southeast. There's a village along the river, a small fishing community. But you shouldn't—"
Sylvain doesn't stick around long enough to hear the rest of what the man says. It's the first lead with substance since he's left home, and he's desperate enough to follow it blindly. He spurs his horse and rides to the southeast, following a winding river towards a vast treescape that lies on the horizon.
Anything for Felix, he thinks. Anything to finally settle whatever it is that lies thick between them, unspoken and haunting for years.
It is Sylvain's love that spurs him on. It's what drives Sylvain at a breakneck pace over the prairie land, towards that ever-lurking forest that rises in the distance. He knows how he feels, highly attuned and aware of it.
But, there is a worry as to whether or not Felix will feel the same. When they were young and stupid, Sylvain wouldn't have doubted it. They danced around each other with the keen sort of footwork that stories speak about. But now, in their middling age, having been separated by time and years—
"No," says Sylvain. "Doesn't matter. Even if he doesn't love me back still, it's worth it. It's worth the try." Because if there's something that Sylvain can do right for once, this is it.
It is a bittersweet thought that perhaps a kiss from Sylvain won't be enough. His chest aches at the idea. Sylvain knows that nothing can be forced. Either Felix does or does not, and judging by his stubbornness to run himself into the ground anywhere but home, Sylvain thinks that perhaps their time has already come and passed.
Sylvain will be alright. He can live out the rest of his pitiful years heartbroken and alone if it means that Felix can be saved, still alive to do as he wishes.
#
The village is livelier than Sylvain expects. He nudges his horse through the main thoroughfare, finding the Inn with relative ease. He dismounts and hands the reins off to a fresh-faced boy who looks up at him with a gap-toothed grin.
Inside, the innkeeper gives him a once-over while polishing a glass with a dubious-looking rag. "Another knight, eh?" he says with a laugh.
Sylvain slides onto a barstool, sighing in relief the moment he's off his feet. More comfortable than a hard-leather saddle, that's for sure. "Get a lot of us out here?"
"Ever since that boy got lost in the forest? Yeah." Sylvain tenses and the innkeeper tilts his head to the side. "Oh? Are you not here for him?"
Sylvain licks at his lips. "Are… have others…?"
The innkeeper scoffs. "You'd be surprised how the promise of a fairytale ending appeals to even the crustiest of mercenaries. You, though—you seem to be a knight proper. Different from our usual fare."
"Have you seen him?"
"The cursed sellsword? I saw him before he tripped through that hellscape. Warned him that it'd be a mistake. Didn't heed much to my words, did he?" The innkeeper snorts at that, pouring Sylvain out a mug of ale. "He isn't the first, nor the last."
"He's truly cursed, then?" Sylvain accepts the mug, sliding it across the worn wood of the bar, curling his fingers around it.
"So they say. There've been enough eyewitness accounts that match, at least. Most describe a rather—"
"Angry-looking man, even in sleep." Sylvain chuckles at that, wistful. "Yeah, I've heard."
The innkeeper's brow pinches in interest. "You… seem different from the others. More…" He waves his hand vaguely.
Sylvain's mouth curls into a gentle smile. "I'm an old friend of his. Ah, The Meandering Swordsman, that is. I thought that maybe I'd try my luck."
The innkeeper smiles back. "Ah, I see," he says, knowingly. "I hope that you can, then. As annoyed as he seemed, he certainly helped this village out of a rough patch—and then downright refused the money. I must say that I was surprised."
"I'm not," says Sylvain softly. Felix is cantankerous at his best, but he's always done right by those who need his help. "Tell me, this forest—just how dangerous is it?"
"Truthfully? It's enchanted for sure but isn't set out to harm anyone. Not really. Most of the locals make it through perfectly fine, as you've no doubt seen. Whatever spirit dwells there only likes to tease, which is why your little swordsman is only asleep, not dead."
"He isn't my little swordsman." Even if he wishes that Felix was. Even if his heart yearns for it to be so. Sylvain downs half of his pint, trying not to think about it.
The innkeeper watches him for a long, quiet moment, polishing another glass. Finally, he says, "Something tells me that you have a better chance than the rest of the poor sots who've tried."
Sylvain can't help but smile at that.
#
The forest that lurks before him is tamer than Sylvain expects.
He can feel the magic—he's always been relatively attuned to it—but it doesn't feel evil. Playful, maybe. Teasing at most, just as the innkeeper said. He decided to tread into the copse on foot, leaving his horse stabled.
The flora feels alive. Sylvain picks his way through branches and roots, hacking away the bits that sit in his way. And then it seems to thicken, no doubt toying with him. "Annoying," he murmurs. "Let me pass through in peace, will you?"
The forest seems to laugh at that, the foliage dancing about him as he cuts through it. But that is the extent of it. A smidge of trite teasing and perhaps leading him around in circles. Sylvain swears that he recognizes a tree or two, and that he's tripped over the same crooked root several times.
"Is it so hard to just let me be on my quest?" Sylvain doesn't expect the forest to answer, but his surroundings chitter away anyhow. And then, there's a whisper—
The sour swordsman thought it keen to steal from me.
That captures Sylvain's attention. "Steal from you? Surely not." Felix is a lot of terrible things, but he isn't a thief.
Oh, do you love the boy? Are you here with pure and honest intent?
"Isn't that why anyone has come here?" The branches around him shudder. Of course, they haven't, the others only came at the prospect of a fairytale ending. Sylvain's entire drive is something else entirely. "I came here to save him, my own future, be damned. Stop leading me in circles," he pleads.
The chittering of the leaves stops as the forest thinks. Your own future be damned? Bold words. Tell me, boy, will you let him go if he holds no love for you?
Sylvain swallows thickly. "Of course," he says, his voice cracked. As if he wouldn't. If that's what Felix wants, then Sylvain would happily bow away, as painful as it'd be.
He feels a tug then, pulling him in a certain direction.
Don't tell the others that I pitied you, you lovesick fool, the forest chimes, sounding bemused.
Sylvain wanders in the direction it tugs him, feeling a strange sort of ache behind his navel, like something has hooked onto him. This time, he doesn't circle about. This time, the foliage is unfamiliar as he hacks his way through, stumbling over a smooth trail that's been hidden.
He comes to a clearing with a tree. It's a tall and ancient thing, sprawling across the space with an almost oppressive presence. Sylvain's mouth goes dry at the power that he feels here.
And, at the base, lays a man on a slab, asleep amidst an unearthly glow. Beside him, on the ground, lies an old cookfire and his pack. Sylvain treks closer, wary of the magic in the space. He picks his way across the clearing on careful toes, his hand readied to draw his sword at a moment's notice.
Felix is more handsome than ever, his face slightly creased with age. He looks less angry and more annoyed, his mouth tugged into a frown. His hands rest over the pommel of his sword and a sprig of eternally fresh flowers. Probably to mock him. Sylvain hides a laugh behind his hand.
"Gods, look at you," he says, his chest aching at the sight of Felix. "Ridiculous, this mess you've gotten yourself in. Just who'd you piss off?"
The tree wriggles and Sylvain swears that he hears laughter in the leaves.
"Typical," he continues. "I always have to come here and clean up your messes, don't I?"
Except that Sylvain hasn't. The last time, he let Felix go, free to make his own mistakes because Sylvain was tired of clinging to something that might never actually pan out.
"I don't even deserve a chance, do I? Shit, man, I'm—" Sylvain wants to apologize, to put all this nonsense and bullshit behind the both of them. He's almost certain that he'll fail. It's more than a chance that his true love is wholly unrequited, it's likely a fact.
Something catches Sylvain's attention just as he turns away. A glittering glint wrapped tightly around Felix's right wrist. The hair tie. Sylvain has all but forgotten about it. Memories come flooding back—that summer of their youth when he spent every spare coin on this sparkling artifact; the way they hooked their pinkies together in a promise; Felix's face as it softened just ever so slightly.
A promise, then, said Sylvain under that twinkling midsummer sky. We will not die without each other.
Sylvain's always been terrible at keeping his promises. But he's there, standing right before Felix. "Better late than never," he says to himself before dipping down.
It is a terrible kiss, more like pressing his lips against a corpse than a slightly-living being. And yet—
Sylvain's heart thuds in his neck as his mouth lingers. He waits, holding his breath.
Felix twitches slightly, his eyes slowly blinking open. His pupils dilate and he throws himself upright in a fight-or-flight reaction. Then he groans, rubbing at his head, no doubt a bit out of sorts having been cursed for Seiros knows how long.
When his gaze turns on Sylvain, he pauses. Rubs at his face, and blinks as though he thinks he might be imagining his presence. "I—"
"Felix," says Sylvain, sighing in relief. "Gods, you're alright."
"I was cursed," blurts Felix, pressing a hand to his chest. "I remember a tree, and then magic, and then—" He thinks, then, recounting the days. "Wait, you're the one who—"
"I figured it was worth a try." Sylvain is quiet, hesitant. His heart pounds as he stands there, awkwardness flooding him. It shouldn't feel like old times, but Felix's steadfast and no-nonsense attitude is familiar. "I mean, what's the worst that can happen? I kiss you, nothing happens, and I go back home with my tail tucked between my legs?"
"You kissed me," repeats Felix, looking surprised.
"I mean, there's something to be said about true love, right?"
Felix laughs then, as though the sound of it is ridiculous. He rubs at his brow, the gravity of everything sinking in.
This is it, thinks Sylvain. He's about to tell him he's screwed up.
"Well, I'll just uh—" Sylvain motions behind him as he turns to go.
Felix's hand snaps out in a flash, curling into the dirty and soiled linen of Sylvain's tunic. Months on the road certainly haven't done him justice. "Wait, why are you leaving?"
"I…" Sylvain doesn't know.
Felix pulls him close then, crashing their mouths together. This kiss is better, fully receptive, and full of something that fills Sylvain's chest until it's bursting. Felix bites at his mouth and nips at his lips, but somehow, Sylvain expects it.
When they part, Felix looks annoyed again. "It's about damn time."
Oh, thinks Sylvain. "I'm an idiot, aren't I?" His fingers curl around Felix's wrist to tug at the hair tie that rests there. "I had no idea that you… Well." Words hang thickly in his throat.
Felix's gaze softens then. "You're an absolute fool, truly the bane of my existence."
That somehow doesn't stop him from kissing Sylvain again and again and again.