[ This time he resists the urge to look up again in favor of imagining one chess move and then another like it'll clear his head. It does, somewhat, but not enough to dampen any of the far louder thoughts which refuse to leave courtesy of that what if.

It's ridiculous to have felt anything like a flash of hope after that chill of shock faded out since there's no undoing what happened at Gronder. It should make no difference to hear this now because of it, and yet. Grief is the wrong thing to call it, Claude tells himself, to hear there could have been something else. Something that's not the reminder he has more often than not that there will be none of this if they return home: no sitting across from each other playing chess, no complaining about the amount of books scattered across his room, no sense of ease between them, because there will be no Sylvain waiting for him there.

Maybe grief's the right word after all. ]

Well, if there's anything about that I can picture clearly, it's Felix cursing you the whole way and then everyone else after arriving. I don't think we would've had enough swords in the convoy to placate him.

[ Dryly and at least in a normal teasing tone since it's far too easy to slip into that when it comes to talking about Felix, and joking about it drags him back into the present where he can appreciate a chance to tease about the infamous swordsman. Along with also nudging one of his own pawns forward to start the series of moves he has in mind, conveniently without giving Sylvain any hints on strategy. ]

Even now, I'm honestly not sure how either of you managed to hold it for so long, especially against the Empire at that.