Dimitri and Sylvain
Jan. 30th, 2020 07:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
falseflattery[Guilt had been baggage Sylvain had carried with him since he was old enough to understand what the feeling was. Constantly, he was reminded what his mere existence had cost his older brother. And it had embedded itself in him deep enough that he could never honestly hate Miklan for everything he did to him, not even the attempts on his life. But even growing up with guilt, it had never consumed him the way it did when Dimitri was hauled away by more soldiers than he could strike down. He had never felt so damn worthless, as he had in that moment, hand curled around the Lance of Ruin, but not swinging.
He should have.
He should have done so many things differently. And he wanted to. He wanted to storm the gates, strike down anyone and everything in his way until he got his Dimitri back. But he also knew this was a set up, a plot against Dimitri, and any action he took, any action any of the kingdom took was being watched carefully. It was a game, and for once, he didn't know what move to make. But everyone told him he had to be careful. They needed to bid their time. They needed strategy. That rushing in would only speed up Dimitri's execution.
So he had had done nothing, instead. Paced, and trained, and made himself sick with the attempts not to drown in his despair and his guilt.
And then suddenly it was too late.
Dimitri was dead.
Or at least, that was the story. But when they demanded the body, when they expected proof, they got nothing but excuses. And there was something, twisting in his gut, that told him Dimitri was still alive. And logic backed him up.
He wasn't the only one to cling to some hope that they weren't suddenly a kingdom without a king. It felt too cruel. For years, with their kingdom fractured, Sylvain had always thought as soon as Dimitri took the throne, he'd have the strength and ability to unit them once again. But now that hope, it was an ember at best. Snuffed out completely, if he was to believe the stories.
But he was tired of doing nothing, so he goes out to do something. It doesn't matter if he never finds Dimitri, he has to look. And it takes weeks, but he finds a trail. Broken, beaten soldiers healing in random towns speak of a man that fights more like a beast, and it's a hunch that Sylvain follows, having no other direction to go.
The trail of bloody bodies leads him towards a camp near the edge of an old forgotten monastery that holds some of his best memories, and his wandering weariness fades as he gets closer to it. There's something unsettling about the atmosphere. Tendrils of smoke from dying flames. Trails where horses have clearly fled. It feels recent, and Sylvain slips off his horse outside of it, grabs his lance in hand and heads towards the campground, heartbeat heavy in his chest as he steps over the first slain imperial soldier.]
He should have.
He should have done so many things differently. And he wanted to. He wanted to storm the gates, strike down anyone and everything in his way until he got his Dimitri back. But he also knew this was a set up, a plot against Dimitri, and any action he took, any action any of the kingdom took was being watched carefully. It was a game, and for once, he didn't know what move to make. But everyone told him he had to be careful. They needed to bid their time. They needed strategy. That rushing in would only speed up Dimitri's execution.
So he had had done nothing, instead. Paced, and trained, and made himself sick with the attempts not to drown in his despair and his guilt.
And then suddenly it was too late.
Dimitri was dead.
Or at least, that was the story. But when they demanded the body, when they expected proof, they got nothing but excuses. And there was something, twisting in his gut, that told him Dimitri was still alive. And logic backed him up.
He wasn't the only one to cling to some hope that they weren't suddenly a kingdom without a king. It felt too cruel. For years, with their kingdom fractured, Sylvain had always thought as soon as Dimitri took the throne, he'd have the strength and ability to unit them once again. But now that hope, it was an ember at best. Snuffed out completely, if he was to believe the stories.
But he was tired of doing nothing, so he goes out to do something. It doesn't matter if he never finds Dimitri, he has to look. And it takes weeks, but he finds a trail. Broken, beaten soldiers healing in random towns speak of a man that fights more like a beast, and it's a hunch that Sylvain follows, having no other direction to go.
The trail of bloody bodies leads him towards a camp near the edge of an old forgotten monastery that holds some of his best memories, and his wandering weariness fades as he gets closer to it. There's something unsettling about the atmosphere. Tendrils of smoke from dying flames. Trails where horses have clearly fled. It feels recent, and Sylvain slips off his horse outside of it, grabs his lance in hand and heads towards the campground, heartbeat heavy in his chest as he steps over the first slain imperial soldier.]
