[ when claude meets his gaze again sylvain instinctively knows it can't be anything good—the way his expression is suddenly shuttered, the tonal shift of his voice from playful to deliberate. and finally, sylvain sees the mask for what it is, realizes that whatever camaraderie he imagined them building has never been more than a house of cards. it still takes a moment, however, to feel the twist of the proverbial knife, not fully realizing the cut is there until claude's already finished speaking. it's sylvain's first instinct to deny a painful truth—second to recklessly embrace it. he's been here long enough that it's no longer strange or unimaginable to experience wildly diverging histories. he should've known better.
it's his shadow that bleeds from this unexpected wound, a sudden spill of malice that colors his vision red, blanches whatever warmth he felt with the acute feelings of dismay, of betrayal, of resentment. he forgets every good moment they've shared, forgets their stupid sweaters and dancing and mistletoe, and imagines tearing through claude's chest with his relic instead. (in the absence of his weapon, he thinks it would be just as satisfying to crush his throat with his bare hands.)
thankfully, his soulbond offers a semblance of clarity, tempers the thrashing of his shadow. he digs his fingers into the collar of claude's sweater, rather than his windpipe. ]
Why?
[ it's not too difficult to see the reason behind claude's political decisions, given the church's history with faerghus and all the dangers edelgard poses. it's always been a possibility the alliance could bend to the empire, though at the moment, it's unforgivable to sylvain all the same.
but what he really wants to know, ]
Why are you telling me this?
[ why paint a target on his back, when he can keep lying instead?
sylvain doesn't want to hate claude, but it feels too close to an inevitability—even if his father is well and alive in his own world. even if the claude in his version of fódlan had chosen to ally with the kingdom instead. he can't help the way his expression twists into a smile of bitter regret.
merry crisis
it's his shadow that bleeds from this unexpected wound, a sudden spill of malice that colors his vision red, blanches whatever warmth he felt with the acute feelings of dismay, of betrayal, of resentment. he forgets every good moment they've shared, forgets their stupid sweaters and dancing and mistletoe, and imagines tearing through claude's chest with his relic instead. (in the absence of his weapon, he thinks it would be just as satisfying to crush his throat with his bare hands.)
thankfully, his soulbond offers a semblance of clarity, tempers the thrashing of his shadow. he digs his fingers into the collar of claude's sweater, rather than his windpipe. ]
Why?
[ it's not too difficult to see the reason behind claude's political decisions, given the church's history with faerghus and all the dangers edelgard poses. it's always been a possibility the alliance could bend to the empire, though at the moment, it's unforgivable to sylvain all the same.
but what he really wants to know, ]
Why are you telling me this?
[ why paint a target on his back, when he can keep lying instead?
sylvain doesn't want to hate claude, but it feels too close to an inevitability—even if his father is well and alive in his own world. even if the claude in his version of fódlan had chosen to ally with the kingdom instead. he can't help the way his expression twists into a smile of bitter regret.
what a damn fool he's been. ]