Fandom The Worst Reflection of Myself (WanderingWisps & serenities)

[serenities]

When Edelgard approached him at the height of Garland Moon with a scroll clutched in her dainty hand, Sylvain had assumed the worst. Instead of what he'd feared, Edelgard handed everything he'd wanted on a silver plate. A chance for reparations, negotiation with Sreng. Her cool purple eyes and the onyx gleam of her advisor's dared him to deny the gift, to uncover it for what it was. He's tired - instead of doing any of that, he accepts. They're working towards the same goal, ultimately, even if it never feels like it. What else does he have left, anyway? Old Faerghan territory is barren and frosty, razed by fire and the stink of death. Though Edelgard is millitant with her plans of redevelopment, she's still dealing with uprisings and minor revolts and unable to cover it all.

Meanwhile, resentment grows by his side. He's used to distrust by now - he didn't get to where he is by expecting loyalty from his men. The gold in his treasury goes to good use, good pay for eyes and ears throughout his land. No one dares speak the truth to his face anymore; instead, it's common for Sylvain to hear reports of what his own people accuse him of in the corridors. Regicide. Traitor. Deserter. Now, people think he's gone mad, seeking the hand of a savage princess in the desert. Sylvain hardly cares about propriety at this stage. Let them think the worst.

Every time Sylvain revisits those thoughts, a sharp scorn wells in his chest; none of them would be alive, if he hadn't had changed sides. A single man wouldn't be able to turn the tides of war. He'd chose to be on the correct side, the winning one, and the Gautier lordship had consequentially stayed afloat. Sitting in his empty castle, it's a rhetoric can't afford to give up.

The journey to Sreng is not easy. Upon crossing the border, their buffeted by harsh heat and sandy winds. Though the men daren't say anything, Sylvain senses their footsteps dwindling behind him, reluctant to follow. He raises a hand once they arrive at meagre shade and prompt them to stop. They rest gratefully beneath the trees. Sylvain takes a measured sip from his canteen, eyes tracking the rising heat in the distance. They're here. They just need to wait.

The Srengi procession reaches a halt before him after a short wait. A man steps forth, dressed in bright garb, a hostile, defiant grin even as he bows low. He offers a hand, fingernails lined with filth. Tardiness and lack of a proper procession - clear signs of disrespect. Sylvain clenches his jaw and clasps the hand with both, a wordless cue for him to straighten.

"Lord Gautier," the man speaks in a deep rasp, "I am Bodor, to be your guide in your time at Sreng and tasked to escort your Lordship to King Csenger the Second and Princess Ilona."

"Appreciated, Bodor. Lead the way."

It's a cue for his men to rise, and they follow through, following behind the two of them as Bodor makes an effort to answer Sylvain's questions about the culture and attitudes of Sreng. As they cut a line through the town capital to the royal establishment, eyes follow Sylvain and the beacon of his bright red hair throughout. Sylvain bears his teeth in an approximation of a smile. Accepts the attention like he'd done so at the academy, water off a duck's feathers. He's here for a reason, and he's not losing sight of it.

 

[WanderingWisps]

His mind had grown hazy as the years have all but blurred together for him by now as Fodlan had fallen under the Empress' control. No longer having his own future expect for picking up where the fallen king of Fearghus had left off. Becoming a ravenous creature of his own right, yet one that slunk around in the shadows of hiding with the men that had become yet another weapon for him. All with similar desires like a pack of hungry wolves ready to take down their prey at his command. Cold burning amber eyes stared into cold steel as Felix sat around the camp fire, holding onto the whetstone between his fingers as he slid it over the blade.

The ravenette held the blade by the hilt, tilting it to expect the edge before finally catching the reflection his stone expressionless face and on of his men standing behind him with a letter for his next task. Wordlessly he reaches up taking the letter before breaking the wax seal, reading over the contents of the letter from his higher up. An Adestrian Diplomat of some sorts meeting in the town capital escorting the King and Princess. He scoffed lightly, his fingers crumbling the paper between them. Traitors. Every last one of them were. To think that King Csenger would seek out aid from the likes of Adestrian scum. No matter though, Felix would simply add their bodies to his majesties' collection.

His tone cold and quiet as he waves the man off, not having further words. Never once looking up from the sheet of parchment and ink. "You're dismissed."

The quiet cacophony of quiet whispers in the back of his mind encouraging him to spill more blood for his King and what he use to call home. Felix stared into the glint of his blade that had left bodies and a trial of blood in it's wake. Already feeling the familiar restless itch to wield his sword like he first did when he sought out mercenary work. To think that he now had his own lust for blood was pure irony after Felix years ago had tried everything within his power to get through to Dimitri. He was no better then Beastly King. He was nothing but a shadow and former version of himself.

The sweltering heat in Sreng was something that Felix had surprisingly grown use to after hiding away for so long. The warm wind blowing through his long grown-out hair as Felix followed the tracks and footprints in the sand that led towards the capital. He silently cursed under his breath, having missed the diplomat before he had met up with the King. He clearly was falling behind on schedule and not being swift enough. Felix nudges his head silently at the men following behind him, urging the tired mercenaries forward into the capital taking a shorter route so they would be there sooner. Once inside the capital as he pulls aside one of his hitmen, keeping his voice low as he gives an order.

"Tell the others to split off and find them. Keep an eye on them though once they enter."

 

[serenities]

To contrary belief, Sylvain isn't a fool. It's merely in his best interests not to advertise. It's clear why Sreng suddenly accepted the peace talks after a slew of denials. There's no love lost between the two regions, but they've got bigger fish to fry. With rumors of a new power struggle in Almyra, the tenuous trading agreements between Sreng and Almyra are up in the air. With a region of the newly formed kingdom reaching out with prospects of aid, it's a good back door that Sreng will have to grit their teeth and bear, if not accept. War on two fronts could potentially decimate the region.

Sylvain isn't here to hide under the umbrella of a threat. He's here to do one better. Beyond seeking peace, he needs to build a new identity for himself here. Immerse himself in the culture, dedicate himself to understanding the language, the intricacies of the court. He needs to reach out and take that first, shaky step towards mending relations of a bloody past. Regret may be fueling his obssession, but he knows the importance of identifying and addressing tensions before it boils over, before it's resolved by blood. He has a need to see this through.

He stows the spiralling thoughts as they approach the palace, the metallic copper dome of the royal house distinct from all the low lying households littering the outskirts of the city. When he enters, guards follow adjacent, escorting him directly to the throne room, no chances for pit stops.

"We hereby present Lord Sylvain Gautier of the United Kingdom of Fodlan to His Royal, Apostolic Majesty, Csenger the Second and Princess Ilona of Sreng," The guard bows, retreating with his head lowered.

Sylvain, upon reveal to the the royal court, bows deeply as well, a hand over his heart.

Before him is a stodgy man, clearly endowed with prowess and strength, likely with all the battle scars and stories to prove it. Princess Ilona stands to his right, seemingly placid, but when their gazes meet, her eyes are full of fire. Hatred, Sylvain's fills the blank for himself. Well, he's bluffed his way through worse circumstances.

He smiles at the two like a weapon. His eyes crinkle, but they do not dull.

"Your Majesty, I am honored to be in your presence for the purpose of establishing new history between our regions. I appear before you today in seek your daughter's hand in marriage," his throat closes upon the words, but it's a lot lighter than the weight of his regret. He'll take it. One by one, he presents the gifts as is custom upon asking the hand of royalty - jewellry, ointment, oils, fragrances - the list goes on.

King Csenger eyes the fanfare darkly, before finally saying, "so this is the ambassador. You have guts to ask for my Ilona's hand."

Sylvain contains a scoff - as if this agreement were not already signed on paper with the ink dried, their fates set in stone. King Csenger sure knows how to put on a show. Most importantly, so does he.

"My request is made in full dedication to my country and to the continual peace and prosper of both lands," Sylvain responds clearly, as discussed.

King Csenger nods, "you would do well to prove that sentiment as the truth, Lord Gautier. Very well. The marriage proposal shall be held in consideration for the upcoming quarter-annum, as is the right contained in both jurisdictions. Under the condition of the court's approval, you will have the right to courtship of the Royal Princess alongside her other suitors. In the meantime, you shall stay within palace grounds as our esteemed guest."

The rest of the discussion is drab and full of meaningless pleasantry that goes right over his head. The marriage isn't affirmed, but all he needs to do for now is to buy time. The rest will follow.

 

[WanderingWisps]

This wouldn't of been Felix' first time in Sreng's capital, having been here when he had first disappeared from Fodlan. Him having to refuse to fall in line to anything that the Empress had said to him offering him a form of 'mercy'. He was given the chance to join forces and speed along the unification. Yet even with either his former friends and classmates being dead or following. Felix had kept his guard as the shield, giving his people one last chance to flee be or stand and fight if need be. Even then after the war and for a long time, Fraldarius had fallen in the clutches of Adrestrian rule. Fearghus had soon slowly began to crumble underneath the weight of Edelgard.

Felix being forced to relinquish his title with no where else to turn and perhaps now his descent into ever growing madness.

Sreng had become his new home and personal training grounds. A way to continue to hone his sharp skills into something more then just mere swordsmanship. All a small price to him in the end, exchanging his identity as Felix to become some nameless creature. Ready to leap and sink his blade into anyone who dared step into his way, striking from the shadows at the first opportunity. A sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach and corners of his mind that Felix pushed down further and further with each of his targets over the years. Now only a sense of accomplishment and pride had taken root with the work he did.

Felix walks through the streets keeping a low enough profile as to not draw attention to himself, staying close to the tight alley ways along the capital's streets in the outskirts of the royal palace. Only every once in awhile ducking into the safety of the shadows as to not be spotted by anyone as people drew near to him. His back rests against the stone wall, his eyes piercing through darkness as he lurks and waits for a small group of people to pass before making quick movement again.

Only being in Sreng for a few years and starting to pick up on the language in the region, he picks up clues and whereabouts of his target from passing people in the city. An Adrestrian diplomat and foreigner visiting the palace with a shock of red hair, awaiting for the King's approval of his marriage approval.

His hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, his thumb tracing over the pummel as that itch comes forth trying to quell it down until the right time came forth for him to hunt his target. He needed to stay vigilant however. There was no need to become sloppy after building the reputation Felix had upheld after all.

The raven haired mercenary scales the walls carefully, climbing to the top of the building. Leaping from building to building towards the palace with a cat's grace. His men staying in hiding amongst the busy streets below, stealthily following and waiting for Felix' command. He holds a hand up as a palace guard walks down the street, a distance away before he makes another motion as the guard takes a turn and his mercenaries follow suit creating a distraction.

Felix quietly jumps down from the rooftop as he moves and ducks out of view from more guards circling the area. Footfalls remaining light as the heels of his boots click gently against the stone street when he lands. Stays crouched and pulling a small throwing dagger from his boot, making his fast pace towards his new location to complete his task. Staying there in waiting as his sharp cold emotionless eyes stay afix to the window of the guest room of the palace. It was now only a matter of time and patiently waiting. A predator waiting for his prey to fall right into his trap.

 

[serenities]

Soon enough, Sylvain is escorted from the throne room and led to his appointed room by a slew of guards. They're not here for his protection. Clearly, they're here to dissuade him from any... extra-curricular exploration of the palace. Though, they wouldn't be so bold as to explicitly dissuade him from walking around Sreng - after all, he's not a political prisoner, as much as they'd like him to be.

To appease the guards momentarily, Sylvain resorts to taking a short rest in the chair by the bed side. With the sash curtains drawn, no one looking in would be able to discern his features as that of a noble from Fodlan, and he rests easy. Beyond the window, he sees the expanse of Sreng, desert-land infertile and unyielding, but still prosperous with life and energy. The markets thrum with trade and stock, children interspersing the stalls, women milling by the town's well. It leaves a bitter taste in Sylvain's chest.

It's so much easier to find memories of home here, in this foreign country he'd just set foot in, as opposed to the frigid, barren land of his own country. Whenever he sleeps in his own bed, the dreams that plague him at night are of memories of his friends dying at his blade, of the lives he'd taken as he'd advanced across his own land. He likes to think that he regrets it, but by then, he had been so desensitized by the violence of their cause that he'd only acted. Here, when he closes his eyes and breathes in, he hears the laughter of civilians, idle chatter in the streets, the friendly clash of weapons for training. Some part of it reminds him of Faerghus - of academy days.

Seiros, he's forgotten why it's a bad idea to leave himself alone with his thoughts. He brushes the intrusive spiral away, reaching for his lance. It's ironic, but with all the pent up dissatisfaction building within him, he's itching to find the palace's training grounds and let off a little steam. If he'd told himself ten years ago that he'd hold on to his weapon like a crutch, that carefree boy would have laughed in his face.

Cautiously pressing his ear to the door yields no result. All is silent outside. He steps out cautiously, blade tucked politely downwards in his hand. He's about to head down the hallway, but intuition has him grinding to a halt. He stiffens, before asking, "who's there?"

 

[WanderingWisps]

As soon as those curtains are drawn, the ravenette mercenary inches closer and closer keeping his footing as silent against the pavement holding the throwing blade at the ready as his target turn his back. Yet for a moment as soon as a familiar voice cuts the air, Felix freezes as he is about to let the dagger fly through the air.

A split moment, memories of care-free laughter, a dusting of freckles, and warm tawny eyes of someone he had long ago tried to forget about fill his head. How he missed the simpler days of the academy when all he ever cared about was training and his close friends. All the dumb jokes that his old childhood bestfriend would make while they sat in the dining hall together. Or that promise Felix and his bestfriend had sworn to one another.

In that small short minute he isn't just a cold monster. He was that scared man during war that had watched the empire tear apart his friends and all of Fodlan. The very same who was terrified deep down to kill a familiar face and bury his sword in them.

No no no no no- It couldn't be him. Sylvain wasn't supposed to be here. He had purposely made sure to disappear after the war and Fearghus had fell. All just so the other man wouldn't have found him or thought of him to be dead. Felix thought he would of been safe here with his new found work so that Sylvain wouldn't try to convince him otherwise to come back. So why? So why was he here in Sreng?

Felix' teeth clenched as the grip on his dagger tightened. No. Old friend or not, Sylvain was still an enemy and he was a mercenary. Sylvain just happened to be a target for him. It was as simple as that. This was his job and he wasn't planning on just sitting here all day again. Once more that cold mask slides back on and he moves his cowl to hide most of his features save for his sunset eyes before Felix gracefully moved slid his way through the window.

Nonetheless the pounding in his chest doesn't cease to stop as he stares down the red head with cold burning eyes, memories flash once more of them standing in front of one another on the battlefield about to kill each other, his own voice parrying and bantering back the other's. "I would say take a guess but that would defeat the purpose of my job, wouldn't it?"

 

[serenities]

The presence behind him doesn't speak for a long time. With how silent the corridor is, devoid of guards or merriment, Sylvain is able to hear the swish of a cloak, the sound of a dagger slicing through air. His ambusher is hesitant but ultimately slips through the window, where he'd apparently been hiding. The man's face is obscured by fabric, but when his profile comes into the light, Sylvain's heart stops cold in his chest. Sylvain has those amber eyes memorized. They haunt him in dreams, sometimes angry or pleading. At worst, he dreams of them lifeless before his feet, the lance of ruin dipped in blood, dripping into Arianrhod cobblestone.

"...Felix. You're alive."

The word escapes him, unbidden. The world is stock still around him, but there's panic at his chest, a rising whirlwind of thoughts. What is there to say at a moment like this? Maybe if he'd been untouched by war, he'd be able to come up with something witty or dashing, in hopes of piecing together the unshakable bridge that they'd once had. Instead, Sylvain reaches for the space between them and all he finds before him is ash and fire. Spoils of war.

He takes a good look at the man, trying to find familiarity in the broadened features. He's a little different since the last time they'd met. The Sreng climate has left a mark on Felix's complexion - either tan or verging a burn, Sylvain isn't able to tell. It feels like vertigo, having to adjust to the knowledge that Felix has been living all these years after the war, that he's been alive and well. A naive part of him wants to greet him like an old friend, to reach like muscle memory and pull him into an embrace.

Imagining that actually happening in any degree is jarring, almost laughable. Judging by the burning hatred simmering underneath Felix's taut frame, he's more likely to chop Sylvain's arm off than accept his touch. The animosity is warranted, but Sylvain keenly feels the sting, still.

He's fully aware that Felix's well-being is in no part due of him. He'd been the one to throw away his ties to Faerghus and devote himself to a bloody cause. He'd opposed the Blaiddyd banner and charged stoutly ahead, despite knowing the casualties. At the heart of it, he's no better than what people whisper on the streets. A traitor to his homeland, to his cause. His hands shake. The reparation he strives for now isn't pointless, but it's overshadowed completely by the senseless violence he'd taken part in. No amount of persuasion or good deed would cure the bad blood between them.

He shakes himself out of wishful thinking, striving for pragmaticism. He shrugs, ill-tempered, savage humor lurking beneath a placid look, "sure - I'll give you my guess. King Csenger wouldn't be so short-tempered or senseless to incite conflict with the newly united Fodlan by murdering the first Fodlani ambassador sent to Sreng in good-will. Especially not when the Almyran ascension is putting pressure on the Srengi-Alymran trade union. Which means you're acting out of your own volition. But why? Are you looking for revenge?"

He doesn't know how to play nice. He'd grown up scrappy, looking for buttons to push to ensure that it hurt the most. It's messed up to play into the role of aggravator, in this case, but he didn't sacrifice everything he knew just to die before realizing his goal. His fingers grip the Lance of Ruin tight in a fist. He prays that Felix doesn't notice the digits trembling imperceptibly.

 

[WanderingWisps]

The mercenary threw another dagger towards Sylvain's throat with almost deadly accuracy just hearing the other, an angry almost feral sound clawed it's through him as Felix had apparently missed by a hair and landing in the wood of the door behind Sylvain. He should know by now that the other was purposely pressing his buttons. Sadly for the other, Felix' old and controlled frustration or anger had blossomed into something much worse over time. Why did his past have to show up? Why did it have to be Sylvain of all people that he had to kill and relive the war?

Yet that small part of him, that scared man after so many years was still there however as soon as a name that Felix hadn't heard in so many years. No matter how much he tried to push that part of him away, Felix wanted nothing more to drop his weapons, run over and hug the other. To scream and cry at the other for leaving him alone like everyone else did in his life. He hated the very fact that he had missed Sylvain desperately. Or the way they both use to be before the way.

"Revenge...? You think my work is revenge? You're very much mistaken." All he could do was let out a cold humorless laugh pass through him as he grabbed yet another dagger from his side bag. All this time he thought he could escape seeing Sylvain and Fodlan forever but it seemed that his past would eventually catch up to him. Or in this case find him. Yet his blood could only boil at the sheer mention of revenge. His work was so much more then that to him. It was his duty to rectify any traitor or Adrestrian who stood before him. Felix' cold laugh died down as he tilted his head as he looked down at the glinting steel of his dagger like an old friend, those quiet whispers echoing in the corner of his mind. His voice sounding distant as if he was talking to someone also with Sylvain and him in the room. "I am but a simple weapon now. Nothing more then that."

He traced a gloved finger along the edge of the blade as Felix scoffed quietly before finally looking back up, his amber eyes burning now with a certain kind of feeling the only one that Felix had grown use to for so long. The cloaked mercenary takes a step forward, his trained eyes calculating every movement. A cat playing around with it's food before making the final plunge.

"You didn't think I already heard all of that? Please give me more credit then that, I know all about how some Fodlan ambassador is going to marry the Sreng princess all in the name of 'peace'. What, was the women in Fodlan not enough for you? Did you make your way through them all 'old friend'? Finally had enough of them and made your way all the here?" His tone as equally as calculating yet spitting the word 'friend' as if it were the foulest thing in existence. Not even bothering to use his name. Felix purposely pressing personal buttons in return, taking it a step further as he pin pointed where exactly he could hurt Sylvain just like he had done to him.

Those whispers and reminding him it was because of his old childhood friend and the rest of Adrestria that he was alone now. Waves and currents pulling him back deep below, a sea of red around him by his own doing and his own hands. Maybe if Sylvain became apart of his pile, just maybe he wouldn't be as alone. Yes that was a logical solution. A small part of him hoped that Sylvain didn't see him either with his hesitation before Felix finally made his move. "Unfortunately for you though, I'm tired of this chit chat, you're on my hitlist and I have a job to do." Before Felix knew it and purely on his instincts now, he already had lunged towards his old friend with a dagger in hand.