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I.
Towards the end of the Guardian Moon, Imperial Year 1187, Felix Hugo Fraldarius received a letter delivered to him from a messenger he recognized as wearing the garb of House Gautier. A shockwave emitted inside of him at the very moment the parcel met his hand.
The parchment had been folded and wrapped in a berry-red textile. He delicately traced his fingers over the thick twine it was bound with; it had the texture of coarse sand, eroded remains of teeth and prickly shells. People did not often tend to pay attention to the smallest details of others—Felix, for example, enjoyed the way a bit of sand felt between his palms, as he’d discovered quite a few years before his enrollment at Garreg Mach, and it was something he showcased that only a select few had noticed. It became the habit of a certain someone to carry with him a small pouch of sand for this reason, or sometimes sand in the vial of a depleted medicinal elixir. It became a necessity during the war, in which the sheer stress once drove Felix to a shrouded corner of the monastery to gather the gritty dust of a ruined statue in his hands (and he would certainly die before admitting that to anyone, or that someone spent that entire night searching for him, and eventually encountered him kneeling in the disheveled cathedral).
Dizzied, he rushed the parcel back to his quarters. No one could see him like this. At the end of the corridor he gazed into the redness of the package; he lost himself in the meaning of the gesture. Careful thought was put into every component of this. He couldn’t steady his quaking hands as he drew a knife against the twine, freeing the letter; he let the wrap flutter to the floor, flash of red in his eyes.
II.
Felix unveiled the 2-page letter, brimming with words and dense with ink. It read:
“(Guardian Moon, Day 11)
Dear Felix,
It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? I know I’m partly to blame for this, and you’re probably cross with me. But, as I’m sure you’ve heard, my father has become increasingly ill, and the estate’s in a whirlwind right now. You of all people should know that I prefer to put time into my letters, and unfortunately I’ve had barely time to breathe. (Which also means no time to play around1, before you assume anything.) And I can’t say I’ve processed any of these feelings yet, either—I know that my father very likely nears death, and I’ve been unsure how to feel about it, or if I should even let myself feel anything about it at all. Not to bring you too far into a tough subject, but I’m certain it was the same for you. At any rate, this hasn’t made my new workload as Margrave any easier to get used to, and before I know it, it’s been several moons since my last correspondence with… anyone. Not even Ingrid, can you believe that? I know you prefer alone time, so perhaps I’m worrying too much, but I can’t imagine hearing nothing from me for almost a year didn’t at least spark a few concerns.
I’ve been well otherwise—the cats still prowl the grounds for scraps of fish, and there’s an entirely black one that reminds me of you. He likes to sleep in the garden by the spring, and I like to visit him there and give him food. I’ve started calling him Smaller Felix, and he answers to that name now. You like cats, right? You’ve always seemed like a cat to me. You’re a loner, for example, and a little picky about what you eat, and you’re so vigilant. That’s probably why they like you so much. You never bring it up, and I figured you might be embarrassed or something, but the advantage of letters is that no one can see this except for you. Or, at least, I hope so. For all I know you could have a wife reading this over your shoulder right now! (I’m kidding. But it has been a while, and you’ve surprised me before.)
I did want to ask you, though… it really has been too long since we’ve last seen each other. I was thinking we could schedule a meet-up soon? I don’t think I can be in high spirits without seeing you at a regular pace. I’ve certainly learned that these last few moons. You can come by unannounced if you wanted, like the last time. My door has always been open for you, and I’ve given the maids instructions in case you arrive on my absence. But I know your birthday is coming close, and I would die before I missed it, Felix. My family can deal without me for a week or two. (And I honestly need the escape from them, but don’t tell them that.)
I expect this letter to arrive to you in about six days, because mail has been slow in the recent weather2, so I’ll try to free myself from some commitments by then. (Which includes more letters, because I am regretfully very behind, and Ingrid probably thinks I died.)
I’ll hopefully see you soon, Felix.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvain”
Felix stared into the words for some moments after he finished reading. His hands still trembled, and his raven-colored hair, now below his shoulders, nervously tickled his cheeks and chin. He leaned his back against the wall, having not realized he’d been standing until now; it wasn’t like him to be so unaware of himself, but a muffling haze filled his head and numbed his limbs, and the room blurred menacingly around him. He thought about how, in the middle of the war, he’d been stricken with an envenomed arrow in a lapse of judgement, and the side effects he experienced then felt similar to what he experienced now—and, ironically enough, focusing on this thought helped him calm through this episode.
Felix set the letter down. He wasted no time in preparing for the trip to Gautier territory, starting immediately upon the letter brushing his desk.
III.
Felix’s journey to House Gautier took nearly five days, which he achieved by embarking only about two hours upon the letter’s arrival to Fraldarius territory. Dukedom for Felix wasn’t quite as eventful after things settled in Faerghus. Unifying Fódlan was not going to be easy and there would be pockets of resistance everywhere, especially in the former Empire; but currently the waters were calm, relatively enough. Often he spent his recent days on lengthy ventures into the wilderness, honing his survival skills. He found it easy to return days later unaware of how long it’d been until checking in with one of the servants in the manor. They were used to his frequent disappearances and Dimitri always granted his permission to leave, so it was never much of a problem; therefore, relaxed about it as Felix was, the swordsman would camp days in the surrounding woods and hills, alone with his thoughts, and lose his sense of time.
He couldn’t believe how long it had been. His ache for Sylvain, lying dormant in him for ages, re-awakened like a second Crest inside his blood. Questions clamored in his head. How long, truly, had it been? How did Sylvain’s life fare without him? What all happened in this span of time? Certainly he wouldn’t be married by now, or it’d be all he prattled on about—Sylvain made all of his relationships incredibly public. And he hadn’t thought Sylvain was much suited for marriage, though he pained to think so—
Felix shut the door on his ruminations; he could not allow them to sully this trip. At the edge of a mountain he lobbed a stone, representation of every cramped idea in his mind, and watched as it plummeted into one of the ravenous streams between Fraldarius and Gautier, far below his feet.
-
Reception at the Gautier estate was warm and endearing. As Sylvain likely predicted, Felix arrived during one of his missions away from the estate, and so, as per instruction, the servants and housekeepers took meticulous care in setting up his guest room. Felix arrived to one of the most opulent spaces he’d ever seen, even as a person of noble birth—a brocade canopy bed, glimmering silver sconces on the walls, a spring-patterned rug that occupied nearly the entire floor, probably imported from either Brigid or Almyra, and what he surmised to be the most intricate teapot that existed in the kingdom, a traditional style crafted by a local artisan. He scanned the coiled handle, ropelike in appearance; finely-painted flowers embroidered the surface of it. As he sauntered to the table, the familiar scent of Almyran pine needles welcomed him like the essence of a friend. He seated himself in one of the ivory white chairs and served tea to the maid who stayed in the room, as thanks for her hospitality. (And though he did not often partake in these ceremonies, he seemed to have a knack for them, as she complimented him on his posture; he wasn’t quite sure to accept her praise, however, and thanked her stiffly, perhaps awkwardly.)
Felix would wait several nights in this room for Sylvain’s return. Above the estate, the moonlight blanketed all the gardens in its cleansing glow. The halls slumbered as peacefully as those that occupied their beds. Unable to sleep one night, Felix slipped out into the darkness and navigated the sleeping House Gautier—swiftly prowling the grounds, daresay, like a certain animal—and he left no trace of noise behind, just as he always did. Around the main Gautier sculpture in the center courtyard a phantom darted across Felix’s vision, which upon closer inspection revealed itself to be a cat, its polished green eyes analyzing his every move. This cat, blacker than the night, must have been “Smaller Felix.” It approached him warily, its ears twitching at every shuffle, every blink. It took some minutes before his instincts nudged him, suddenly: the cat behaved as if its attention were divided, head nodding in another direction. Felix halted, hand hovering precariously over the hilt of his backup sword.
It was then that he heard the footsteps of another person in the garden. His eyes caught the candlestick’s bubble of light, and from behind one of the evergreen topiaries emerged Sylvain, his red-orange locks dancing like flames in tandem with the burning candlelight.
IV.
That night, Sylvain held Felix there in an ethereal embrace, just the two of them in the courtyard. At this time of night, only the gatekeepers were awake, and no one would see them there, pressed against the sculpture. Neither of them spoke a word. Sylvain was all out of words, having written so many letters; and Felix preferred to talk through action, his fingers tracing lines down the other man’s spine, this man he missed so much. He breathed as if he might die, inhaling so unsteadily, exhaling like spilling a vat of hot wax onto the cobblestones.
Their eyes met in fading light, bitter wind eventually extinguishing the flame. The half-finished candlestick remained there overnight, abandoned after the two retreated inside.
V.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long, Felix,” said Sylvain. It was the first thing either of them had said to each other since their reunion in the garden.
Felix watched groggily as sunlight bloomed through the windows of Sylvain’s room. As the saying went in Fódlan: “The morning becomes the surviving flower of winter.”
VI.
“Was that the black cat you mentioned in your letter?” Felix asked. The two of them slept into the late afternoon, and neither had yet the will to leave bed. It felt as if one could no longer separate from the other—as if to do so would cause the flames of Bolganone to erupt from fissures in the world.
“Yeah. I thought he was acting odd,” Sylvain replied. “He’s grown used to the gardeners and knows their scents, and seeing him so on-edge seemed rather unusual.”
“‘Smaller Felix,’ huh?”
“Yeah. Like the name?”
“I feel like you could have done better.”
Sylvain laughed at this. He rubbed the back of Felix’s neck, a sensation Sylvain always knew he’d liked. By this point, Felix made several mental notes on every instance Sylvain demonstrated a perfect memory for all matters pertaining to him. “I saw the way you reacted when he came into view.”
“Shut up,” Felix retorted, his voice still containing traces of sleep.
“You knelt down and turned your head so slightly to the side. It was cute.”
“Stop talking, Sylvain.”
“You’ll have to make me.”
Felix heaved an exaggerated, passive-aggressive sigh. It was almost a performance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” he said, voice oozing with sarcasm.
“Ouch,” said Sylvain, his voice suddenly quiet; an uneasy color permeated Felix as he heard it. “It hurts to hear you say that—even as a joke. These things don’t usually bother me.” He seemed as if he were going to explain this further, or attempt to pick it for answers, but Felix intercepted his next thought, which severed the sequence.
“No,” muttered Felix, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve seen all the effort you put into preparing for my visit. That teapot wasn’t cheap.” He brought his quivering hand to Sylvain’s face, cupping his cheek. “I’m sorry.” His touch was so flawless, so delicate. Such a silent lethality.
This made Sylvain smile. It was rare for Felix to initiate such intimate affection. “Well, I’m glad you noticed. Someone close to my family crafted it herself. It was the centerpiece of one of our kitchens and rarely saw use, which I thought was a shame.” He winked. “She put so much work into it, after all.”
“The flowers are masterfully painted. I admire her handiwork.”
“She explained using rare pigments for some of the petals. I guess the bulk of them come from Brigid3, but considering the state of the ‘Empire’ now…”
A mycelium of silence branched rapidly across them, dense web so fog-like in nature; its tendrils reached everything, and threatened to fill the throats of the two men, depleting them of words. But they’d been through this before, and tender movements tore at the dense, pale film, eroding it entirely away into the dawn. Felix continued caressing Sylvain’s face, losing himself in the euphoria of it, and in the catharsis of a silence broken without speaking. He couldn’t help but press his head against Sylvain’s chest and listen intently to his life’s rhythms, each beat of his heart a reminder of the promise they made in the distant realm of their past. But it is enough to dance a leaf’s width from death’s hollow hands?
“I noticed something,” said Sylvain, abruptly. The world returned to them.
“What?”
“You apologized so quickly. I have to say, I’m a little speechless.”
“I like to think I’ve changed a bit,” Felix responded vehemently, biting his tongue. He withdrew himself and rolled from his side to his back, eyes facing the ceiling. “It’s been almost two years. After Dimitri and I suppressed the last rebellion, I spent a lot of time by myself. I haven’t had that much solitude since our last school year, before the war.”
Sylvain grinned at this, which lifted a weight from Felix’s shoulders. The contrast of it all sent an arrow careening for the swordsman’s own heart. He wasn’t prepared for this. “It must have driven you crazy, right? Forcing yourself to be social?”
There was a pause. A brown-beaked sparrow tittered by the window. When a reply never came, Sylvain pushed himself up from the bed, and, to his utter disbelief, discovered that Felix had begun to cry.
VII.
Felix Hugo Fraldarius contemplated the absence of Sylvain Jose Gautier: Having once been in such frequent contact with the philandering redhead, his soul grasped for the time they no longer shared, and bore a great crater in his heart. Could he have been a man capable of love? With each emotion came another door in which he labored to open, propelling all of the force he could summon, pushing so hard he risked his head bursting straight open. He trained his sword relentlessly into the evening, and he could trap a rabbit and roast its flesh above a fire he started himself, but he struggled to articulate his feelings to the man he could not live without. How did he neglect himself so gravely? When would the raven-haired man relinquish the looming shadow of his brother? When would he break free of his self-imposed shackles?
Potentially these answers strode on lithe limbs, lingering in the air like a sob, delivered to him like a shipment of cargo through the sea of a thousand years between them.
VIII.
For the next few days, the maid whom Felix had shared tea with on his day of arrival became a messenger of sorts between Sylvain and the rest of his servants; the two scarcely left his room, except to fetch food and for other brief errands, and it had so many of them wrought with unnecessary concern. “We’re all right,” Sylvain would say, repeating this answer for most of the questions they asked. “We just need some time alone.” And, “Neither of us realized how taxing this was for us.” And, “Send my father and uncle my regards.”
On the seventh day they spent together, Sylvain took a plate of roasted duck into his room for Felix, who had scarcely a morsel for dinner, and found him standing by the armoire, as if in a trance. When this occurred again on the eighth day, he shelved the plate by half-read books and made his graceful sway to the troubled man. He took both of his hands, squeezing them, rubbing his thumbs in circles. Then, in an unseen motion, he clasped Felix’s hands together; the swordsman sensed the gritty texture of sand between his palms.
“Sylvain,” Felix muttered, his eyes half-open. His gaze idled towards their hands, Sylvain’s over his; the sunset painted all it touched a dreamy, hallucinatory orange.
“It’s okay now, Felix,” Sylvain crooned, his voice almost silky to the touch.4 “You haven’t had episodes like these in a while, have you?”
“Not since my father’s death,” Felix replied. “It’s almost involuntary. I’ve looked into multiple ways of dealing with it, because I can’t let this hinder me on the battlefield.”
“Oh, Felix.”
“What?”
“You’re right in that you’ve changed, and in many ways,” Sylvain said. He released Felix’s hands. “But you still only see your body as a weapon.”
This caught Felix off-guard, interestingly enough. He combed hair out of his eyes, gliding his fingers through stray, wispy black threads. “Of course you’d go there,” was all he could say.
“If I didn’t, I’d be concerned.” Sylvain had to stifle a smirk, as now did not seem like quite the time for that. “Really, though,” he went on, “you should tend to your personal needs more often, Felix. I know you have those, as much as you pretend not to.”
“It’s not that I pretend,” snapped Felix suddenly; he caught himself quickly, however, and loosened. “Sorry. Look, it isn’t that I’m pretending not to have feelings. You know very well that I have feelings, Sylvain.”
“That’s not quite the issue though, is it?”
“Ugh. No,” Felix said; he rubbed his temples, two fingers on each side, circular motion. He let a sigh gradually escape through his teeth. “When it first started, I was desperate to keep myself from living in my brother’s shadow for the rest of my life. I would have done almost anything, Sylvain, even denounce the goddess if I had to. It’s just the way I was, and still am, to some degree. Sometime during the war, it took on a new form.”
“Intriguing,” Sylvain remarked, clearly relieved by this evidence of Felix’s introspection over the past several years. “How did it change?” His voice carried that silky shimmer just the way it had moments ago. But a grim veil darkened Felix’s eyes at the question.
“I told myself I’d do anything to avoid dying the way he did, and that became my new motivation. Just like that.”
“Oh, Felix.” Sylvain grimaced. Even the dust between the bookshelves became very still.
“My brother didn’t die a fool,” Felix continued, “but he died such a meaningless death. I’ll never forgive the men who taught him that sacrificing your life for a corpse is ‘noble’ and ‘the mark of a true knight.’” The chasms under his eyes trailed ominously across the sides of his face. “My body is the weapon with which I survive. I’ve known no other way to use it.”
“I can think of a few other ways you could use it.”
“Sylvain.”
“I had to. The gloom in here was getting a little too intense.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I wasn’t entirely kidding, though.” Sylvain’s agile arms draped over Felix like a shawl, and he held him there like a trinket—there were echoes of their meeting in the garden. Felix knew Sylvain enjoyed hugging him this way but it’d been so much longer than he thought, and he’d denied him so many of these hugs before; a pit formed in his stomach. He let Sylvain stroke his hair in front of the armoire, looping black strands around his fingers.5 “Weapons don’t feel anything, Felix. People make weapons to serve one purpose, and maintain them to serve said purpose. They never know hesitation or remorse.” Their eyes locked, reflecting endlessly into themselves. “You don’t have to do this to yourself. You don’t have to be a weapon.”
“Sylvain…”
“I know how much you missed me—your eyes are telling me everything. It isn’t enough to merely have feelings, Felix. You have to let yourself feel them.”
Felix inhaled, taking in the other man’s smell. He shook as hot tears brimmed his eyelids, and he allowed himself to fall forward into Sylvain, their bodies colliding, the snap of their connection ringing in his ears. The kiss that followed hung in the air like a vine, hesitant lips consorting with lips all-knowing, armoire tipped against the wall as they engaged in this fervent exchange of passion. In that moment Felix desired nothing more than to engulf Sylvain in him, his hands clasped into the back of this man he missed so much. The steam of their hot breaths could have formed clouds, raining an infinity upon them; one of them would draw back for air, then return to the session unhindered. And this had become the purpose of that visit, picking up where they’d last left each other in the aftermath of that horrible war, in which they hardly swapped goodbyes. (It’d been so casual, as if they both believed it to be enough, knowing one was only a short distance away from the other.) But now they crushed soft lips, and Felix’s tears trickled into Sylvain’s tunic, hidden from sight.
“Sylvain,” began Felix, breathless after the endeavor.
“Yes, Felix?”
“I—can’t,” his sentence broke off, “I—don’t want to live without you anymore. Not like this.”
“You know I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, Felix. I thought you might need space to figure it out. And I might have needed it, as well…”
They spent another few minutes catching their breath. The sun finished setting.
“I didn’t like being the one to say it,” Felix continued. “I used to think it wasn’t like me at all. I was entirely fine with things being as they were, and I ignored any doubts I had. I figured you’d get married to some woman and I’d continue to be by myself.”
Sylvain could not subdue his snickering, not this time. “Seriously, Felix? All this time, and you still think I’m the type to just throw myself at any woman?”
A sly grin cracked Felix’s perpetual frown.6 “Well, you’ve certainly proven that assumption wrong, haven’t you.”
“I’m sure I’ve proven quite a few of your assumptions wrong.” Sylvain winked. His forehead touched Felix’s nose. “But you’ve sure proven yourself just as surprising.”
IX.
That year, the Pegasus Moon arrived on silver wings, and snowfall graced House Gautier as soon as winter gave it permission to land. A servant who maintained the gardens during this season entered the main courtyard to search for cats. She didn’t like leaving them in the cold, but those who refused to camp indoors still appreciated food delivered to them during the day. She made her way past the first row of topiaries before stopping to ponder Felix and Sylvain, both of them sitting propped up against the sculpture, dozing off together in the snow. Conflicted about whether or not to disturb them, she decided ultimately to wake them once she’d finished feeding the cats, concerned that they might fall ill. She came further down the pathway when her gaze beheld an entirely black cat as it sprinted through the bushes, in chase of a finch.
-
1 - “playing around” = flirting with women
2 - The cold winds were unusually aggressive that year, and Sylvain preferred to send his letters by pegasi.
3 - Many color pigments in Brigid were extracted for use in woodworking.
4 - (Many of Garreg Mach’s students would not have assumed Sylvain to be skilled at comforting others. It was, in fact, because of him that Felix learned one of his personal principles: Never assume ostentatious people are always without empathy.)
5 - The loops of hair around his fingers looked like wedding rings, which Sylvain desperately wished to comment on, but figured one inappropriate remark was plenty for now.
6 - He smiled many, many times after this. It happened so often, so suddenly, that some began to worry he might be ill.