It wasn’t … As if it couldn’t have from the way he spoke with that unwavering Sylvain Gautier confidence. But less than an hour ago, he thought Ashe was going to be fine. The young man was swift and light on his feet, perhaps even better than himself with a bow, and still his ability to remain undetected compared to most, outrun his foes, didn’t save him when it counted. Unable to tolerate foolishness, particularly from within, he knew that people could be cruel, though to witness the cold brutality of war up close, too close to home, it brought back unpleasant memories of witnessing Glenn’s corpse, and the way their father diminished the unnecessary mutilation to call it heroic, that his brother died a good death in defence of the crown. At least Glenn had a mother and brother to mourn his passing. Who would do that for Ashe with Lord Lonato already long gone? Would they say his death was heroic—unknowingly taking an arrow to the back of the head? He didn’t even get to fight for his life. If he had, then maybe Felix could’ve saved him. Instead, the pangs of guilt twist unfamiliarly in his gut, and with each passing day it became all the more difficult to keep his emotions in check.
The only thing standing between him and an abyss right then was the touch of one. Without Sylvain at his side, he wondered if his unravelling might have come to him much quicker. Before this war he didn’t need anyone to lean upon, having spent years beating independence and solitude into his body, so he never ended up like his dearly beloved and missed brother. How the tides of war changed everything in the blink of an eye. If not for Sylvain, he might’ve ended up beside their fallen comrade. It seemed foolishness had touched him after all, and his rage got the better of him once again.
Tentatively, Felix reached for the hand resting on his shoulder and covered it with his own but kept his gaze firmly anywhere else. How long had it been since they entertained this kind of closeness? Longer than he cared to remember. As much as it made his nerves tremble to seek out the intimacy of another person's touch, the instantaneous repose was more than welcome after such an awful day, and all the years before it. Sylvain’s hand was warm beneath his, bringing up another set of memories, better ones from when they were boys, where the elder kept his fingers warm when he inevitably lost his mittens in the snow as he always did. Things were simpler then, the relationship between them was simpler.
“One day, you might not have a choice in the matter.” He uttered, the logician in him forcing its way through. Fairytales were for men like Ashe, Ashe was gone, Felix never believed in those stories, the luxury never given to him when the name Fraldarius bore almost as much importance as Blaiddyd, and he suddenly forced to be its heir in the absence of another good man lost to a stupid cause. “This war could take any of us at any time, Sylvain, myself included.” Did today not prove that? He shook his head, loose strands of midnight blue sliding forward to shield his face further, like the moon hiding from the sun, always just out of reach. But in this case, their hands kept them bound, and he found himself not wanting to let go. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to leave you. I-–would never leave you on purpose. But neither of us knows what tomorrow will bring, death lives among us now.”
mouth tightens, gaze falling, downcast. he doesn't speak, doesn't bother to interrupt. there's a reflective sorrow that mingles within him, overtaking the thoughts that swirl about inside his mind; stifling him, stilling the words before they find their way upon his tongue.
one day, you might not have a choice in the matter.
it's true. felix is right and he knows it, no matter how much that he wants to avoid admitting to it. he glances toward the hand that now rests upon his own, touch warm yet tentative. it grounds him; he wonders if, perhaps, his touch had done the same, if his presence anchors felix the way that felix's own does him, even now-- years later in the midst of bloodshed and war.
once again, it crosses his mind, how much he hates this war. how much it's taken from them. how much it will continue to take. how little control they have over their own fates, much less those of their friends.
his insides twist, a knot of thorns that writhe within his guts. emotions, real and raw, bleed onto his features. he doesn't, for once, bother to fight them. there's little point, he thinks, right now, in hiding from felix, from himself. not here where they're alone, not where felix is struggling before him with the reality of war, of death.
not when ashe's body had fallen lifeless before them. not when the same could happen to them tomorrow, or in the days that follow.
there's a light that leaves him, a sadness that fills his eyes as he exhales, a sigh escaping him, resigned. 'you're right.' he says, finally, the needle and thread now placed beside him, of no further use. 'i could die tomorrow. so could you.'
thus was their reality now.
'i know you wouldn't leave me on purpose. i'm not going anywhere either, not if i can help it. and maybe i can't... maybe you can't either, but right now it doesn't matter.' or maybe it does. maybe he simply doesn't have it in him to think too deeply, or too far out; doesn't want to consider what their future may have in store. not when they've already seen the present firsthand. 'right now we're both still here.'
gummygunk
kianamaiart
origamiaround
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
