It was far too late now. Malms away and climbing further and further away from your own squadron... or rather what remains. There was only a brief moment of cries as you leapt with every fibre of your being at the dragon. Notorious, he was. Yaldryn. Countless dragoons fell to this monster’s claw and bite and here you were, moments away from finally ridding the damned filth for good. Spear lodged into the base of a wing you continuously attempt to bring him down, but the battle ultimately was a slow one. The more you struggled, the further away Yaldryn flew. Like a slow, droning ballad neither side pushed greater than the other. For every push of the spear, the dragon pushed back equally. All while moving farther and farther away from safety and security.
But the table turned moments after escaping the free grassy plains of Coerthas, just as the dragon left the mountains presumably west towards an uncontrollable storm the spear finally lodged itself in a favourable place and with enough leverage could remove a wing entirely and end the exhausting battle at last. There was no hesitation. You threw your entire weight down, knowing full well you would fall along with the dragon. It was a mission done in your eyes, regardless of if you survived. Yaldryn had to go no matter what. The wing ripped off as you pushed, blood gushing furiously like a drunk roegadyn with a beer keg and just as the wing fell, so did you.
Winds howled as both your enemy, your bane, descended. It did not take long before your body was introduced to the land. First the trees, branches clawing at your neck and back. Shooting through limbs like a lance, piercing with little resistance at the joints of your armour. Nature did not pick sides when it came to wars and it did not care for you. Next the cliff, the rocks that resided alongside. The blades that once protected against being grabbed now served to snap and tear as they met rock and stone. An arm became victim to the violent bouncing as every attempt to stablise the harsh fall grew more and more desperate. The sounds of bones snapping almost became a brief drum roll of how absolutely doomed you were. Tumbling, crashing continuously until finally it stopped and a more pressing matter was now in view. Your gaze, blurred as it was from the immense pain and desire to pass out was gifted with a view of a finely pierced dragon. The dragon, the vile beast, the horrendous monster that you felled was now directly above you and falling. There was no time to move. There was no way you could. Your arms screamed in pain. Your back could not respond to a single demand you made. Your legs could barely kick about as the dragon continued to fall. Full body loose. Bleeding from it’s open wound. It’s eyes meeting with yours. It’s remaining wing in full panic. It’s grotesque mouth opening wide. It’s tongue dangling out. Teeth ready to catch. Unable to move. Blood splattering. Vision obscured. Struggling. Falling. All leading to impact and--
Sylvaire violently jerked up into a sitting position, beads of sweat rolling down his face. His entire body called out in pain, clawing furiously in a state of emergency yet not a single injury had been made in moons. He had always been careful with injuries since. It was not a dream, he knew that. It was all very, very real. Perhaps in the past, but his body remembers every part of it. Expressionless, like he always is, he gandered to the window beside him. It was barely morning outside, a sunrise had long since been greeted by the earth and sea and it’s light had only just started to gift the world with warmth once again.
He feared failure that day. Death scared him not one moment but he was afraid he could not protect his family... but only once he crawled back to Ishgard alive did he find out the truth and it brought about anger unseen by anyone including himself. Not a single dragoon in his squadron was aware of their situation back then. That their leader was a heretic. That they, every last member right down to the newest and freshest of tempered blood, was all condemned to death through a mission deemed impossible to complete nor survive. They were fed lies. It was just a couple of weaker scouts looking into Coerthas, they read. It turned out to be a lot more. He was written off as dead. Remains unobtainable. A tragedy for a young, prodigious dragoon who only wanted to be just like the heroes of legend once were. A failure in the eyes of the Holy See.
But that was decades ago. Things have long changed. Revolutions have now been made and Ishgard is finally restoring itself. Though he survived, Sylvaire lost so much in order to return home. His voice, his emotions, his dreams. He lost his father without ever knowing what happened and his sister. His sister.
Not a single word pops up when he searches for her. He attempted to visit home only to see it abandoned. He could not find an address to mail even a letter. Not that such a thing would work. Would she even remember him? The last they ever met, she was just a sweet young child. Missing a tooth in a weird place yet proudly giving the bright grin she had. She was his little rainbow. While they never got to meet much or talk, just seeing her brought about immense joy. That was something worth protecting in his eyes. No, she wouldn’t remember him. That was decades ago. Little Sybelle isn’t little anymore. She’s a grown woman, an adult that bears the name Cassalantar alongside him with experiences, memories and thoughts and feelings. None of which would be about him, a man who was dragged away by their own mother and never saw that little star again when he was written off as dead.
But it doesn’t hurt to try, does it? Even if she does not know him, just knowing she’s alive and well would be enough. Just the thought alone has driven him to survive for so long against all odds, surely being able to meet her and know that she’s alright would be fine. If he can find her that is.
How many years is it now? He’s losing track. Must be in the twenties by now. Thirties?
It doesn’t matter to him. Today is a new day and he has work to do.
