Chapter Text
At his household’s training arena, Felix prepares for the spar. Sylvain’s not a normal opponent. He’s not there to coddle him, or, to teach him- before this, Sylvain had been an enemy. The idea of fighting someone who will not hold back is thrilling. The professor, Shamir, even Catherine- they all had responsibilities towards him, something to moderate their actions. With Sylvain, there is none of that.
The warrior clans of Sreng are vicious and brutal. Felix wants to test his strength. The training sword is a good weight in his hand, and he’s already warmed up.
There is no use for happiness, not in this time. But Felix might as well claw some sort of enjoyment in this wretched situation. And if that means fighting with his soon to be husband, so be it. Sylvain is a lance user if their time in the stables was in any indication. Felix had never been too interested in learning other’s techniques. He focused on himself and getting stronger and improving his own style. He may not have had an interest in learning, but he does want to see it. And counter it.
Felix has gone through a training dummy when Sylvain arrives. The redhead is underdressed for a spar, all cloth without a scrap of protective gear on him. Good, because Felix does the same. The one major difference is the weapon. There is a brutal looking thing in Sylvain’s hands, a twisted bastardization of a lance. It glows a low red, and the spines coming down from the blade move.
It’s a crest relic, Felix realizes. He himself carries the Aegis shield, though it is not on him.
No wonder Gautier had succeeded in uniting the clans in Sreng.
“You’re missing a training weapon,” Felix calls out where a greeting should be.
Sylvain stops in front of him, leaning against the lance. He’s got an expression Felix very much does not like. The sword and lance, he recalls, are a bad matchup. That might be true for others, but not Felix. “Nah,” Sylvain says, a smile on his face, “I think you’re the one who’s missing something, kitten. Why spar if there’s not a threat to it? We’ll avoid killing blows, sure, but why play around? We’re training for a war. It’s going to hurt.”
Felix doesn’t reply. His answer comes in the form of exchanging his dull sword for one made of silver, edge proud and sharp. It’s a fine weapon- and even then, he’s not sure if it will hold up to the twisted lance. He’s going to have to avoid those spikes too. Annoying.
He’d almost be tempted to get the shield, but that would show far more weakness than Felix is willing to admit to. He knows what this Sreng warrior thinks of him. Kitten. He scowls. He’ll relish beating Sylvain bloody.
They meet in the center of the training arena. “No killing blows. And- I’ll play nice. No severing of limbs. First to admit defeat loses.”
Felix and Sylvain move at the same time. He’s fought lance users before, but even with that, Sylvain moves unusually fast.
Wasn’t this asshole supposed to be cavalry?
Sylvain’s range makes him a less than ideal opponent, his reach with the lance much longer than Felix’s own with a sword. Apart from his first slash, he hasn’t gotten close enough for a hit. Sylvain jabs, Felix parries.
His sword rings, and he can feel the force of Sylvain’s blow through his bones. And that had just been the first. Felix does not like to fight on the defensive, it goes against his own personal style, and it’s an obvious weakness Sylvain recognizes and takes advantage of. Felix parries again. And again.
The next strikes comes down, brutal and heavy, and Felix’s guard breaks. He moves back, letting his body fall and then catching himself on his back foot. The lance swipes down, down, splitting into the ground where his face had been just once before.
“Oops,” Sylvain says, like he hadn’t just tried to cut Felix in half.
Felix feels a feral sort of grimace on his face, and his body burns with adrenaline. The pace of the fight increases, and with it, so does Felix’s strength. It feels good, the way his body burns. When he gets his first cut against Sylvain, dragging the other’s lance high and then striking in to his chest, there’s a warm sense of pride.
But he doesn’t ever get close enough to do real damage- the fight continues, and Felix is realizing Sylvain’s enjoying it whenever Felix gets a hit in, because the pleasure on his face is stupidly obvious.
It’s a different lance wielding style than he’s used to- it reminds him of dimi-the prince’s, because there’s so much risk to the wielder in it, but there’s a wild sort of grace that Sylvain has that the prince had lacked.
They’re both getting tired, and Felix knows something will give soon.
What he doesn’t expect is this: Sylvain feints with a downward strike, but when the lance breaks ground he uses the momentum and vaults himself forward, pulling the lance around with him and swiping in a quarter-moon. Felix had already taken advantage of what he’d thought had been a simple feint- he’s quick with the sword, but not quick enough. The blade of the lance misses him, but the flat of the handle hits the backs of his knees, hard, and he buckles forward.
He feels Sylvain looming over him, and Felix knows he’s lost. He spits on the ground in front of him. Sylvain’s a good fight- but he hadn’t wanted to lose. “Again,” he says, and he attempts to stand, but the blade of Sylvain’s lance stops him.
“Nah,” Sylvain answers, “You lost.” Felix wishes he could spit in his face. The redhead moves off of him, but before Felix can roll over and strike out with his sword, Sylvain’s already got a foot on it. “Uh-uh. I know you’re thinking about it. I know your type. I’ve fought many like you. You’ve got pride, I bet. Losing doesn’t suit you.”
It’s not that, Felix thinks, and he’s satisfied to know Sylvain’s wrong- it’s that they’d had a bargain on this. And if he’s not able to fight, not able to protect anyone- what good is he?
‘Hope he’s good in bed’. The thought flashes in his mind, and he shudders. He’d forgotten,
fighting Sylvain. Forgotten just what kind of person this man was.
“So, remember our little deal? I’ve got some questions for you. You can stop staring at my boot too, you know.” Felix stubbornly stares at Sylvain’s kneecap, instead. “Aww, you listen.”
Felix is going to impale himself on the lance, but it’ll be worth it to punch him. Sylvain’s far too balanced to knock over- but he jerks up anyway - good, the lance isn’t above him anymore- and uppercuts the redhead across the chin.
It’s not as strong as he would have liked, but goddess, does it feel good.
Felix watches as Sylvain touches the blood running from his split lip. He grins around it, and Felix is a little startled to realize how different the expression looks than his previous smiles- this one’s a little crooked, a little wild, though it disappears as Sylvain spits the blood out of his mouth.
“Alright, listen here, Felix,” the name feeling like a threat, “We’re going to be married. I didn’t intend for you to just sit on the sidelines, you know. It’s a marriage and a joining of your house to my nation. There is an opportunity for us to be partners, here, if you can handle that. But if you’re just going to hit me and ignore me- I’ll tie you to the back of my horse and drag you to where you need to be. Or maybe that’s still too kind. I’ll let you walk, then.”
“Like I’d let you do that,” Felix snarls back, because like hell he’s going to just let this man do anything to him- As if just by marrying him, he’s given this man some sort of control over him. Except, isn’t that what his father has signed him up for?
It’s Felix’s body for the stability of the region. For what Dimitri has left behind, in some vain hope that the prince is still alive. The thought that if he holds Faerghus together long enough, he’ll have a prince to return it to.
Blind loyalty, even to someone dead.
Sylvain has an odd expression on his face, and it’s like disgust, but not quite there. “You keep talking like I want this- its-” He shakes it off, and a smirk covers anything Felix can tell of feelings. “Okay, so tell me then, how you want it to be?”
Felix hadn’t been prepared to get this far, “I don’t want to be married at all. I’d prefer if we kept our relationship casual. It would be best if we could have a ceremony and never see each other again.”
“And now, I’m going to tell you how it’s going to be. You see, kitten, you’re Duke Rodrigue’s only son- With your prince dead, this makes you very important.”
“Why don’t you shut up if you have nothing important to say. I understand all of this.”
“Do you? Because to me, it really, really seems like you don’t. If this Faerghus Dukedom wins this fight against your family, your pretty titles all mean nothing. We’d continue raiding your lands, because to us, it doesn’t matter what family owns them. Sure, we might have to face against the Dukedom eventually, but what’s the difference between you and them? Now, Rodrigue’s being very clever here- he’s trying to tie my father’s interests to your own. Because if somehow, we manage to win against the Dukedom- your family will be in line to rule, and a lot more of your land will belong to us. And my father is a very greedy man.”
Felix has to bite his tongue through this, because he knows all of this. He knows how desperate their fight is, how much of a lost cause it is with merely his father and the lords under him.
“You see what I’m getting at? Your marriage to me is a guarantee of Rodrigue’s word. You’re a little bit of a hostage, here. Though no one will ever say something so impolite. Tying you to me will keep Rodrigue honest, and me to you will hold my father’s support. You need to stay by my side. We’ve got a little house of cards, here. So kitten, don’t knock it down?”
Sylvain cups Felix’s face with his bloodied hand, and though Felix grabs his wrist, he’s forced to meet the other’s eyes. “I’m good at loving what I hate. You’ll need to do the same.”
Before Felix can punch him once again, Sylvain’s walking away.
There’s only two more days until the wedding.