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Dorothea’s body was starting to smell.
Her body, and it’s all your fault , Sylvain’s mind screamed at him as he buried his face in his hands, still sitting in the same position at the edge of her bed he’d been in for what felt like hours.
Sylvain had to try to wrap his mind around the fact that Dorothea was dead, and he had killed her. His eyes stared straight ahead, idly searching the flowery wallpaper ( she used to smell like roses ) as if it might hold the answers to what had just happened. His mind had felt like cotton, dripping down to make his mouth and throat dry. He refused to look over at the body ( there was that WORD again, body ). If he didn’t look at her, maybe he could pretend she wasn’t actually dead. He simply couldn’t make sense of it.
Everything had started out so normal. Sylvain was in Enbarr again on Dimitri’s orders, and as usual, he ended up visiting his favorite opera singer. He had kept in touch with most of the Blue Lions after the war, but he looked forward to visits with Dorothea more than with the others. Dorothea had always understood him and didn’t allow him to sugarcoat his problems. She understood the darkness, the self-loathing, the hatred, simmering under the surface of his seemingly cheerful facade.
Admittedly, he tried to keep his feelings under wraps around his childhood friends. Dimitri had enough to deal with running a newly unified Fódlan, Ingrid would be ultimately disappointed in him, and Felix would likely see it as weakness. Dorothea was truly the only one who could empathize, having been complicit in killing nearly all of her friends from her original class. So, how had he managed to kill one of his best friends?
It was an accident , he insisted to himself (not that there was anyone else in the room to disagree anymore). The darker voice he had always tried to ignore in the back of his mind whispered
( You wanted to feel something. Anything. You wanted her dead .)
Sylvain and Dorothea had ended up in bed together, as was their usual pattern. It didn’t tend to take long. Neither of them wanted to talk about the main thing they had in common, the war. Every single topic inevitably would lead back to THE WAR, so not speaking was just easier, safer.
As he pressed himself into her, his hands wrapped around her pale throat, and she moaned in pleasure. She liked breathplay, it brought adrenaline from the potential danger. Both Dorothea and Sylvain were fascinated with the possibility of death in a “safe” place ( guess it wasn’t so safe, after all ) considering the amount of close calls they’d both encountered.
Dorothea’s fingers tapped against his wrist twice, their signal for him to let up on the pressure. He swore ( I didn’t mean it ) he had stopped squeezing the delicate flesh under his calloused palms, but it felt like his hands weren’t attached to his body. His eyes closed and he pictured the faces of his dead classmates ( Ignatz, Lysithea, Petra, Caspar, all gone, all because of you ), like it was some sort of morbid flip book.
At this point, Dorothea’s nails moved to his arms, desperately digging them into his skin in a last-ditch effort to save herself. He didn’t feel it at the time, but sitting on the bed now, he felt the burn of the bloody half moons engraved on his arms.
His fingers squeezed tighter and tighter ( It wasn’t me ) as Dorothea’s face morphed into Edelgard von Hresvelg’s. He had often had Edelgard’s face appear in his nightmares, but never like this. Sylvain had never had Edelgard beneath him like this, but that didn’t matter. He did not picture her as the determined girl he went to school with. No, he imagined her as the monstrosity she turned into during the last battle ( but she’s not the true monster, is she? ). If Edelgard died, the war would be over and the nightmares would be over and he’d stop seeing the blank, lifeless stares of all of his classmates he had killed ( I’m so sorry ).
He had to end it. He had to end HER.
When he finally climaxed, releasing his hands and collapsing onto the bed in a heap, he noticed he didn’t hear Dorothea’s heavy breathing like he normally would. No one cuddled up to his side, gently tracing the scars that covered his chest ( you’re damaged goods ). No sweet perfumey smell entered his nose. His eyes opened abruptly in realization.
He hadn’t just killed Edelgard. He killed Dorothea.
Thoughtful, STRONG Dorothea. All she had wanted was to live in a world where no one had needed to fight anymore, a world where she could raise kids with a loving husband who wanted her for more than her beauty. But the war had ruined that, for both of them, really. In another life, where their hands weren’t stained with blood, maybe even Sylvain would have properly courted her. Maybe they would have had kids ( crest babies, just like your father wanted ). But that would never happen now.
And it was all his fault.
He gently closed her eyes with one hand, shuddering when he realized he’d never see those emerald eyes ever again. If life was fair, he wouldn’t see anyone ever again. But if life had been fair, he wouldn’t have been born with this damned crest, Glenn Fraldarius and Lambert Blaiddyd would still be alive, Dorothea wouldn’t have suffered on the streets, this war would have never happened. But life wasn’t fair.
She had survived the war, but she hadn’t survived Sylvain Gautier.
He knew that someone would come to check on Dorothea eventually, maybe when she didn’t appear for a performance. He both dreaded and anticipated the discovery. He selfishly didn’t want to die, but he certainly didn’t deserve to live, not with the blood on his hands ( you LIKED the feeling of her life fading under your hands, didn’t you? ). But how long would it be before someone came to find her? Hours? Days? How long could he bear to sit next to her corpse, his fingers imprinted in a dark violet on her neck?
He stood, his legs shaky ( you’re only nervous because you know you’ll get caught, you coward ) as he stumbled to his clothes. He pulled out a dagger, feeling the weight in his hands. Could something this light really cause so much pain? Even with the passing of time, he still had daggers hidden on his person, just in case. He’d never had to use it, until now.
Sylvain was a coward for not facing punishment, he knew that. He knew he should be beheaded for what he did to her ( you liked it ), but he knew Dimitri would never order his execution. He imagined the faces of his childhood friends now, seeing what he was. Murder is justified if it’s in a war, after all, but in peace time it just made you a monster.
He sat back down next to Dorothea ( to her corpse ), gently grasping her dainty hand so he didn’t feel so alone . She’d reassure him, if she were still here. Somehow, that made him feel worse. Even after murdering her, she still wouldn’t judge him. His eyes closed and hot tears fell down his cheeks ( you don’t cry for the woman you killed, only for yourself, you selfish coward ).
He felt fear like he never had before. Sylvain had never feared death before, he’d never cared. Suddenly he wondered if there was an afterlife, and if so, if he’d be punished eternally. Maybe it was better than fading to nothing at all. He gently placed the blade at his neck, his other hand clasping Dorothea’s as tightly as he could ( it isn’t like she’ll feel the pain anymore anyways ).
( I’m so sorry )