[ there's still so much they don't understand about the wonders of magic or the full extent of what it's capable of. but sylvain does know: he can feel the tissue in his guts sew shut. it's a creeping, crawling kind of sensation wriggling inside where he can't reach no matter how hard he tries to sluggishly slap at byleth's hands, covered in sylvain's blood that's finally started to go tacky under the professor's careful ministrations.
the last words his mind consciously filters are byleth's promise. sylvain loses the rest in a haze of pain. he gets flashes after that might be byleth carrying him back to the monastery, but it could just as easily have been a dream. he gets a few more of those flashes of the monastery halls and castle halls in fhirdiad and the halls in gautier keep that all slip together between sleep.
sylvain finally wakes again to sunlight full in his face. his side burns still but it's duller. the skin pulls and puckers the way it does when an injury has scarred down shiny and pink rather than when it's fresh. luckily mercedes is there to help him upright before he tries to force his injury open. his injury had been deep, and he'd been unlucky enough that it cut through some major vessel, but the professor had stabilised him. even more unlucky, he had caught an infection from his injury, but they finally managed to get it under control the day before and he was on the mend. an entire week later.
he nearly starts out of bed when he hears how long it's been, but mercedes sternly and gently pushes him back against the pillows.
"You'll be no help to anyone if you don't focus on getting well first."
she's right, of course, but that doesn't stop him from staring out the window down to the rest of the monastery after she leaves. the war doesn't stop just because he's laid up in bed due to his own stupidity. the sun starts to set by the time someone visits him again, this time with dinner, he supposes. byleth. ]
[ It is indeed Byleth with dinner, because it was Byleth who insisted that they still have regular mealtimes as they used to back in Garreg Mach, and he intends to hold all of his students to regular mealtimes, whether they think themselves proper adults or not. Byleth has always believed in the healing power of having a warm meal at the end of every day — and what must be frustrating for his Faerghan and often-ascetic students, who would be inclined to skip meals, is that he's often right.
So, despite the fact that someone like Felix would have turned his nose up at these softer-minded notions of Byleth's — having regular meals in the heat of wartime, imagine — the professor had insisted. And, of course, what the professor wants, he usually gets —
(Except Dimitri, looking at him with softness and not madness in his blue eyes once more —)
— so he makes his way over to Sylvain's sickbed with a tray featuring a good and generous dinner spread: meat, vegetables, soup. A soft sweetbun for dessert. Nothing too greasy or spicy, given that he's still recovering, but it's hearty, sturdy food. ]
We would all be rather sad if we were rid of you.
[ He sets the bed tray over Sylvain's lap (it has its own legs for support) and sighs softly. ]
I daresay Annette would cry.
[ And you wouldn't want to make Annette cry, would you? No dying, Sylvain! ]
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the last words his mind consciously filters are byleth's promise. sylvain loses the rest in a haze of pain. he gets flashes after that might be byleth carrying him back to the monastery, but it could just as easily have been a dream. he gets a few more of those flashes of the monastery halls and castle halls in fhirdiad and the halls in gautier keep that all slip together between sleep.
sylvain finally wakes again to sunlight full in his face. his side burns still but it's duller. the skin pulls and puckers the way it does when an injury has scarred down shiny and pink rather than when it's fresh. luckily mercedes is there to help him upright before he tries to force his injury open. his injury had been deep, and he'd been unlucky enough that it cut through some major vessel, but the professor had stabilised him. even more unlucky, he had caught an infection from his injury, but they finally managed to get it under control the day before and he was on the mend. an entire week later.
he nearly starts out of bed when he hears how long it's been, but mercedes sternly and gently pushes him back against the pillows.
"You'll be no help to anyone if you don't focus on getting well first."
she's right, of course, but that doesn't stop him from staring out the window down to the rest of the monastery after she leaves. the war doesn't stop just because he's laid up in bed due to his own stupidity. the sun starts to set by the time someone visits him again, this time with dinner, he supposes. byleth. ]
Guess no one's rid of me just yet.
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So, despite the fact that someone like Felix would have turned his nose up at these softer-minded notions of Byleth's — having regular meals in the heat of wartime, imagine — the professor had insisted. And, of course, what the professor wants, he usually gets —
(Except Dimitri, looking at him with softness and not madness in his blue eyes once more —)
— so he makes his way over to Sylvain's sickbed with a tray featuring a good and generous dinner spread: meat, vegetables, soup. A soft sweetbun for dessert. Nothing too greasy or spicy, given that he's still recovering, but it's hearty, sturdy food. ]
We would all be rather sad if we were rid of you.
[ He sets the bed tray over Sylvain's lap (it has its own legs for support) and sighs softly. ]
I daresay Annette would cry.
[ And you wouldn't want to make Annette cry, would you? No dying, Sylvain! ]