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Entry tags:
(fic snippet) faerie sylvain au
a snippet of a sylvix faerie AU WIP I'll never finish, featuring Sylvain, Miklan, and the amount of bloodshed you'd expect.
"Do you know what this is?" Miklan asks conversationally, crouching beside Sylvain and grabbing him by the hair, pulling him up until he's kneeling. "Can you feel it?"
Sylvain doesn't reply, trying to focus hard enough to draw on his magic. Miklan laughs in his face, not giving him the opportunity as he raises his dagger, plunging it into the gap between Sylvain's armour and holding it there.
The pain that burns through Sylvain is white hot and at first, he doesn't recognise the sound of his own scream for the rough, raw thing that it is. He presses his hands against Miklan's chest but can't find the strength to push him off. The searing pain has turned into chills and Sylvain finds that he can't stop shaking like all his strength has been sapped from him.
All at once, he realises exactly what the dagger is made of.
"Iron?" he rasps out, his hands falling to his sides.
Miklan's grin is cruel but past the cold hatred, Sylvain can see the way that he's gritting his teeth together, the way that he's shaking too.
This is what Sylvian knows of iron: that there's no material in all of Faerie that does as much harm. If Miklan has been carrying this knife with him for this journey, he must have been burning the entire time. Iron is fire, it's poison, it's pure agony and as Sylvain looks behind him, to all the other soldiers travelling with them now lying dead in the snow, he knows that Miklan bore the pain for one reason alone.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Miklan's grim smile is all the answer he needs. Sylvain exhales silently and thinks to himself that he probably deserves this.
Except when Miklan pulls the dagger back, Sylvain's blood spills forth and with it, his magic. There's too much blood in the air and Sylvain hasn't properly gotten himself under control from the earlier battle. His magic surges out of him, vicious and burning like the iron searing through him, knocking Miklan off his feet.
"Do you know what this is?" Miklan asks conversationally, crouching beside Sylvain and grabbing him by the hair, pulling him up until he's kneeling. "Can you feel it?"
Sylvain doesn't reply, trying to focus hard enough to draw on his magic. Miklan laughs in his face, not giving him the opportunity as he raises his dagger, plunging it into the gap between Sylvain's armour and holding it there.
The pain that burns through Sylvain is white hot and at first, he doesn't recognise the sound of his own scream for the rough, raw thing that it is. He presses his hands against Miklan's chest but can't find the strength to push him off. The searing pain has turned into chills and Sylvain finds that he can't stop shaking like all his strength has been sapped from him.
All at once, he realises exactly what the dagger is made of.
"Iron?" he rasps out, his hands falling to his sides.
Miklan's grin is cruel but past the cold hatred, Sylvain can see the way that he's gritting his teeth together, the way that he's shaking too.
This is what Sylvian knows of iron: that there's no material in all of Faerie that does as much harm. If Miklan has been carrying this knife with him for this journey, he must have been burning the entire time. Iron is fire, it's poison, it's pure agony and as Sylvain looks behind him, to all the other soldiers travelling with them now lying dead in the snow, he knows that Miklan bore the pain for one reason alone.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Miklan's grim smile is all the answer he needs. Sylvain exhales silently and thinks to himself that he probably deserves this.
Except when Miklan pulls the dagger back, Sylvain's blood spills forth and with it, his magic. There's too much blood in the air and Sylvain hasn't properly gotten himself under control from the earlier battle. His magic surges out of him, vicious and burning like the iron searing through him, knocking Miklan off his feet.