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Sylvain doesn’t dream and that’s fine with him.
He sees what happens to dreams on the battlefield — crushed in an instant by an axe or burnt to a crisp by a well aimed spell. They turn to dust, to smoke, and Sylvain couldn’t fulfill his mens’ last wishes even if he tried to shoulder the burden. No, the only thing he can do is to lead them to victory day by day and minimize the casualties on his side with his tricks and tactics.
The Goddess curses him tonight, however. Sylvain finds himself squinting at the morning sun, muscles straining through drills that his waking mind forgot but his dream body remembers.
His Highness, alive and back in his princely image, runs through the drills stiffly, staring at the lance in his hands rather than ahead. Ingrid, on Sylvain’s right, grunts with effort as she practices with a steel lance to hone her strength. The Lance of Ruin pulses in his hands as Sylvain swings it in a wide arc in time with them.
“Form is important, but even more so is taking advantage of your opponent’s openings.” Professor Byleth appears behind him to adjust his stance. Sylvain’s foot slips from under him and he tips forward toward the gravel floor.
He braces himself, but ultimately doesn’t fall. Sylvain finds himself upright again, though his heart still thunders in his chest.
“Spar with me,” a challenger calls, and Sylvain spins around to see him. He hasn’t seen Felix’s face in years now, both fighting their own battles to keep the Empire at bay, but his face is as clear as a spring day. There’s no scowl present on this dream version’s lovely face and Sylvain wants to keep it that way, here and in reality.
“Sure.” An iron lance swaps into his hand and a sword manifests in Felix’s.
Metal rings against metal and Felix looks near gleeful as he parries away another blow. Sylvain thrusts his lance forward, but Felix dodges to the side, loose bangs floating around his face. Even with his superior reach, he can’t graze Felix who knows him like the steps to a ballroom dance and spins him around the room.
Sylvain throws his lance to the side and raises his fists, planning to turn the tides in a brawling match instead. Felix mirrors him and darts in to land three consecutive blows before moving back out of range.
No matter, the next time Felix moves in, he’ll grab him and take the fight to the floor to negate Felix’s speed with his weight. It’s over if he can pin Felix with with his larger frame.
But to his surprise, Felix relaxes his stance and undoes his hair from his bun, shaking tangled strands loose that Sylvain longs to comb through for him. “You can be a good sparring partner when you try.”
I want be a good partner in more.
Felix tosses his hair over his shoulder and walks toward the exit. “Come on, let’s go eat,” he says, stretching his arms over his head with a small pop.
Sylvain tries to follow after him, to take the empty place by Felix’s side. He tries to take the first step forward, but his feet stay glued on the ground, almost sinking into the sand.
The doors to the training grounds slam closed.
Sylvain scrambles up, nearly tripping over his bedroll to chase after Felix. If this is some sort of vision from the Goddess that Felix is leaving to somewhere he can’t follow, Sylvain will tear her down tonight before Edelgard wakes up.
This is why it’s best not to dream.
His worry gnaws at him as Sylvain clambers to his bags and to find paper and ink. He addresses the letter to Felix first, but scratches it out. He only knows the general area that Felix is stationed in and he can’t tell his messenger to “ride south until you find him” as much as he wants to.
Sylvain makes the letter out to Rodrigue instead. If the worst has come to pass as he fears, at least Rodrigue will have the capacity to write back.
Outside, a horse’s hooves beat down on the grassy field. Sylvain listens for signs that it’s an enemy and his hand inches toward a weapon. But when it’s clear that there’s only one rider and they slow at the center of camp, he crawls out to meet them.
“A message from Fraldarius!” The messenger announces. His horse’s breath steams in the night air as the man reaches down with a letter in hand for Sylvain.
“Thank you.”
Shaking, Sylvain opens the letter, heart screaming at an aloof Goddess that she better not have called Felix to her side unless she wants to taste his lance with her stomach.
She heeds his threats tonight.
I will see you at the millennium festival.
A demand disguised as a statement, but Sylvain couldn’t be more thankful as the morning sun peeks through the mountain range.
Sylvain looks around for more paper, then giddily tears the sheet in half when there’s none to be found and scribbles a response.
I’ll be there soon.
The messenger takes his note without a word and turns his horse back around toward the south.
There’s hope for dreams after all. Now, all that’s left is to take the first step in the right direction — towards Felix.