( sylvain often finds himself at the mercy of his dreams.
being reborn in cycles is never easy; he doesn't know whether he'll come to awareness as a young child, having to continue through childhood as if living multiples is an entirely normal thing to do. he doesn't know if the memories will return in bits and pieces, or if he'll remember them, believe they're fiction, and find emmet years later and know that all of it is true and real. sylvain doesn't know how many lives he'll relive in his sleep, how many memories will return to him in his nightmares.
he often dreams of drowning; of water filling his lungs as he sinks further and further away from a distant ship, knowing his powers are utterly useless down here. turning the water to ice will only fuck him up further, all he can do is let himself slowly die and wait until the next life. sometimes his dreams are of fire: of his body tied to a pyre, screams erupting from his lungs as every attempt to rid himself of the flames only encourages the villagers to add more wood to the flames. he dreams of death, of coming back from death, of the good memories in between. of his second life, where his mother had thought his prattling about his other lives had been a child's imagination, until she realized how well his details matched up to an old wive's tale. until she called an exorcist, and when that did nothing, burned him alive. of another time, when he and emmet had met as children and their bond had been seen as a blessing. when sylvain had married someone who was definitely not willa in that lifetime, and how the children she bore were very clearly not just sylvain's. how they died holding hands in that life, sylvain bleeding out from where his leg had been cut almost clean off, a deep wound in the side of his neck. emmet--he can't remember, he only remembers the feeling of him close, the soft whispers, his lips pressed against the bridge of sylvain's nose and his fingers gripping on tight as he faded.
it's always the death dreams that get him the hardest, but those ones always feel lighter. emmet's hand, emmet's lips, emmet's presence close by enough to offer one last little bit of comfort before sylvain startled into awareness in the next life.
but he's not waking up from a dream, this time. his sleep had been quiet, gentle, until he'd felt emmet startle himself awake next to him. sylvain's hand reaches out automatically, blindly reaching for emmet's hand while his eyes stay closed, )
no subject
being reborn in cycles is never easy; he doesn't know whether he'll come to awareness as a young child, having to continue through childhood as if living multiples is an entirely normal thing to do. he doesn't know if the memories will return in bits and pieces, or if he'll remember them, believe they're fiction, and find emmet years later and know that all of it is true and real. sylvain doesn't know how many lives he'll relive in his sleep, how many memories will return to him in his nightmares.
he often dreams of drowning; of water filling his lungs as he sinks further and further away from a distant ship, knowing his powers are utterly useless down here. turning the water to ice will only fuck him up further, all he can do is let himself slowly die and wait until the next life. sometimes his dreams are of fire: of his body tied to a pyre, screams erupting from his lungs as every attempt to rid himself of the flames only encourages the villagers to add more wood to the flames. he dreams of death, of coming back from death, of the good memories in between. of his second life, where his mother had thought his prattling about his other lives had been a child's imagination, until she realized how well his details matched up to an old wive's tale. until she called an exorcist, and when that did nothing, burned him alive. of another time, when he and emmet had met as children and their bond had been seen as a blessing. when sylvain had married someone who was definitely not willa in that lifetime, and how the children she bore were very clearly not just sylvain's. how they died holding hands in that life, sylvain bleeding out from where his leg had been cut almost clean off, a deep wound in the side of his neck. emmet--he can't remember, he only remembers the feeling of him close, the soft whispers, his lips pressed against the bridge of sylvain's nose and his fingers gripping on tight as he faded.
it's always the death dreams that get him the hardest, but those ones always feel lighter. emmet's hand, emmet's lips, emmet's presence close by enough to offer one last little bit of comfort before sylvain startled into awareness in the next life.
but he's not waking up from a dream, this time. his sleep had been quiet, gentle, until he'd felt emmet startle himself awake next to him. sylvain's hand reaches out automatically, blindly reaching for emmet's hand while his eyes stay closed, )
Mm?