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"It's over, Berkut."
The point of Alm's sword quivered before Berkut's throat, tip dripping blood and miasma. The room was oppressively hot, ash gliding around the room. How had it come to this? Only months ago he had been set to inherit Rigel, Rinea at his side, pride intact.
Then some muddy peasant, Alm, rose from the filth he'd been born in - that he should have stayed in - and challenged all of Rigel, dragging with him some motley band of failures and would-be nobles. He beat Berkut down not once, no, but twice, declaring his Zofian ideals superior, as if he had the right.
What would a spoiled Zofian commoner know about hardship? How dare he presume to know what's best for a country he had never even seen before?
But that was the catch, wasn't it? Emperor Rudolf's last words were declaring that boy his lost son. A prince, the prince of all Rigel, raised as a low-born villager? The implications. It was absurd.
It didn't matter anymore, though, did it? Here he was, Lord Berkut, heir to the most powerful kingdom to ever exist, on his knees in front of the infuriating creature his cousin had become. He had lost, even with the cursed strength from Duma, even after sacrificing Rinea.
If he still couldn't beat Alm, then he had slaughtered the love of his life for nothing.
Gods, he had truly lost everything, hadn't he? His place on the throne, his uncle, his fiancé? What did he have left to live for?
"Alm," Berkut hated saying his name, hated himself for letting the sound through his lips. "Kill me." He had sunken too far to swim back. When had killing one boy been reason enough to give up Rinea? How did he get here?
He couldn't remember.
If there was anything Alm had expected Berkut to say, it wasn't this. An audible gasp, then, "what?! Berkut, no!" A heart of gold, even after everything. Disgusting.
"Rinea is gone. My throne is gone. Tell me, then, what purpose is left for me?" His voice, typically dark and strong like a scalding coffee, quivered and cracked.
If Alm had a response to that, he didn't say it. He simply gazed at his cousin with pity, something Berkut had never expected to see directed at him. The blonde Fernand gripes about - Fernand, where had he gone? - whispered something about Duma. "I'll come back for you," is what Alm decided on, before leading his ragtag army onward.
No one looked back at him.
Rinea's body lay by the fire, eyes half-open, vacant azure eyes accusing him. Her dress was scorched and torn from the battle, hair mangled and bloody, skin burned in some places and gone in others.
He did that to her.
He had indulged himself, before all this, in fantasies of what their life would be like together. He would rule Rigel, protect it as a leader should, unite it with Zofia and make those cheating servants of Mila work for once in their life. Rinea would be by his side, safe, happy, proud of him. They would have children, boys and girls, with his hair and her eyes.
Why had he entertained these ideas, even after giving Duma his love? Did he think he could've fixed this, had he won? Did he think there would be no consequences?
Had he truly thought that he could force such a power into Rinea, then turn around and marry her? That everything would be alright?
Looking at her now, his queen, the one person he trusted enough to let down the fortress he'd built up around his heart, he wonders why she ever stuck with him. Hazy memories of their times together accosted him, changing quickly enough to give him whiplash. Throughout their relationship, Rinea remained a forgiving, quiet presence. He, on the other hand, used her as an emotional scapegoat, imposed what he wished onto her, shouted and screamed and didn't care what she thought.
How could he dare say that he loved her, when he treated her like a doll to be used and not an equal?
Why was he only realizing this now?
It seemed he was full of questions, now that he had no answers left to give.
He gazed at Rinea, taking in the full consequences of his actions. Something boiled within him, rising up from his gut and into his heart. A new goal to stride for. He had to atone.
Berkut gathered her broken body in his arms, the hinges on his armor pinching her skin. Her braid was undone, letting waves of blue run down her face, shimmering in the light of the pyre.
He closed her eyes.
Later, when Alm returned, Berkut would not be there.
-
Fear Shrine was a ways away, too far for Berkut's liking. The country was in economic and political turmoil following the sudden upheaval. Alm was crowned emporer. Most villages he passed were caught up in celebration, many of which having sheltered his cousin.
Traitors.
He had set towards the shrine on the only horse left in the stable; a mixed-breed mare with matted gray hair and rotted teeth that he tied to a tree at the shrine's entrance. Rinea's corpse was wrapped in his cape, leaning against his back. She was stiff and cold and unkind.
Berkut didn't remember a majority of the events that had led up to her death. He recalled his first defeat, the frustration and humiliation that accompanied it, and then... Then? Only whispers, dark notions, suggestions from someone he couldn't name but knew all the less.
Had he fallen prey to Duma like his parents before him? Or had he simply gone insane?
The inside of the shrine smelled like molded bread. The air was damp and clung to the inside of his lungs like cobwebs. The creatures living in the cave were tougher than he anticipated. By the time he reached the inner chambers the walls were roiling in their place.
Gods, he was exhausted. When had he last slept? A sizeable laceration along his collar bone from Alm's sword had started to sting sometime after the third day of his journey, but his armor was stuck to his skin and he didn't have time to pry it off.
He had made it to the revival spring, in the end. At least he could still achieve something. Laying Rinea across the mud floor, fixing her hair and straightening her dress, he gathered up a flask of water with a shaking hand.
If this didn't work, he would bury Rinea and kill himself after.
The water slipped past her shriveled lips in erratic bursts. Once Rinea’s corpse had drained all the water, he tossed the flask aside and sat down beside her.
He would wait.
-
Rinea felt better than she could ever remember feeling, which was pleasantly surprising after being sacrificed to a maniacal dragon by the love of her life. She sat up slowly, grimacing as the smell of rotting flesh rose up from her dress. Her hands caught on a stretch of moss. She was in some sort of cave, but the air was fresher than in the Rigel castle courtyards.
Berkut was there.
He was slouched to the side, leaning against some sort of spring. His eyes were closed, hidden under the tangled mess his bangs had become. His cape was singed at the bottom, armor coated in soot and scratches. Dried blood peppered his neck and disappeared under his collar. He looked so drained.
Rinea was torn.
Sitting in front of her was the man she dedicated herself to day in and day out. He was noble, intelligent, powerful, confident; everything she wished she was. In a world where the house of your birth dictated your political standing, Berkut had ignored the high-born women with talent and beauty, instead favoring her, a silly girl who loved to dance from a poor house looked down upon by others. Part of her wanted nothing more than to protect him in his vulnerable state, to make sure he was alright.
The other part of her wanted to run. After he’d used that acursed mirror, his behavior had become increasingly erratic. He’d screamed at her, broken things in front of her, told her to leave him. She’d hoped it was the stress of having his ideals challenged and losing. His immense level of pride kept him sensitive to any perceived threat- Rinea knew this. No man was without faults, and pride was his.
But still, she had never expected him... never thought him capable of trading her to the very god that stole away his parents. “Take what you will,” he’d said. “I don’t care anymore.” And Duma had. And Berkut laughed as he fought that sweet young man with green hair. He laughed as he used her burning, crying soul as a weapon.
He laughed.
Gods, what to do. What to think? It was easy to blame the mad god for Berkut’s actions- the moment he used the mirror Duma was given a doorway into Berkut’s soul. Duma influenced his actions, drove him to murder. The Berkut she loved, the real Berkut, was gone the instant he resorted to Duma’s sorcery.
But could she truly pin all the blame on a dead god? It was Berkut who chose to let Duma in, who chose to sacrifice her. He didn’t fight Duma’s whispers, he embraced them, and Rinea was the one who payed the price.
The truth of the matter was she didn’t want to hate him. It was so much easier to say Berkut wasn’t in control and absolve him of any guilt. It was so much easier to fall back into his arms, feeling safe and loved. She was here, she was alive, so couldn’t she just put it in the past?
There was a part of her, however, a minuscule piece of her soul, that was consumed with terror and fury and heartbreak. Rinea had been trained from a young age to be subservient. She was a court girl, bred to be married off for financial security. A court girl was silent unless spoken to. A court girl accepted her intended’s moods without complaint. A court girl stayed still and looked pretty. Despite all of this, regardless of a lifetime of her own desires being tucked away and frozen out, some piece of her demanded better.
She shouldn’t have to accept this. It didn’t matter that she was alive now. She had been dead before. Dead. By Berkut’s hands.
The part of her that trusted Berkut wholeheartedly was gone. She still (foolishly, tragically) loved him, but her heart had been broken, and all the magical spring water in the world couldn’t fix that.
-
Berkut was suspiciously comfortable.
He was lying on a bed. A commoner’s bed, if the scratchy sheets and lumpy mattress was anything to go by. His armor was gone, leaving his body feeling light, and his clothes had been washed. There were bandages placed over his wounds, which no longer stung. To his left, Berkut could hear a chair rocking back and forth on a creaky floor.
Hadn’t he been in a cave...?
His eyes snapped open. Berkut had been aiming for a dramatic, speedy transition into a sitting position, but he was too tired to do much more than twitch. He took in his surroundings without a word: simple wood walls, wood floors, wood furniture. A loaf of bread and some oranges sat on a table near the door. The sun was setting (or was it rising?), casting syrupy light through dusted windows into the home.
A simple peasant hovel.
Wait.
Had some peasant dragged him out of the cave? Did they leave Rinea there? Had the water worked?
It took more effort to turn his head than Berkut would have preferred. Sitting in the chair, illuminated by the sun, was Rinea. His cape was spread across her lap. She was stitching the holes with dark thread, unaware of his recent return to consciousness. Her hair was back in place, cascading down her shoulders like the most beautiful river in Rigel. She was in the simple white underdress that typically remained hidden under her fanciful court attire, resembling a well-off maid rather than the fiancé of Rigel’s heir.
Gods, she was stunning. An angel among men, abundant in her warmth. Berkut knew she could’ve left him there. She certainly had the right. Dragging his limp, armored body through a cave filled with terrors couldn’t have been easy. And yet she still took him, cared for him, sat by his bedside and mended his clothes even after all that he’d done.
Was there any greater kindness?
Rinea’s ocean eyes drifted towards him. She startled when she realized he was awake. “Lord Berkut...” Her voice was soft, colored with love and wariness at the same time. “How are you feeling?”
Did she truly care about that? About him? After what he’d done?
Berkut’s breathe hitched. “Rinea... you’re alive... please, tell me this isn’t some cruel dream...” Duma above, don’t let this be a trick of the mind.
That gentle, sweet smile he craved washed over him. “Yes, I’m alive. You brought me back, my Lord. You saved me. Thank you, Lord Berkut.”
Berkut wanted nothing more than to crawl into her embrace, drink up her gratitude and her loving soul and forget everything that happened under Rigel Castle. His conscience, though, wouldn’t allow it. Rinea shouldn’t be thanking him. She shouldn’t be smiling at him, or fixing his cape, or dressing his wounds. He murdered her. He used her soul as a tool for destruction. She should be screaming at him, demanding recompense. She should have just left him there.
“No,” he said, feeling shame and frustration and guilt bubble up inside him at her confused, hurt look. “No. You needn’t thank me. I’m the reason you died. I hurt you. I killed you. Bringing you back was the least I could do to atone. I don’t deserve your kindness.”
He hated the look in her eyes. Rinea seemed devastated and forgiving all at once. He knew how deeply he had hurt her. She trusted him wholeheartedly. She was comfortable enough around him to shed the layer of expectations forced upon her, to simply speak her mind. No one else, not even her parents, had the luxury of her complete faith. Now he doesn’t have it, either.
He would do anything to earn it back.
“What are you planning to do, my Lord?”
Berkut pushed himself up. “Anything you want.”
-
He never would have guessed that Rinea’s ideal life was to live in some isolated cabin, tending to an (admittedly) stunning garden, only venturing out to sell her produce at the nearby village.
He should have. Rinea always had craved solitude in nature. She was never comfortable in the courts and balls of high society, with their rules and vicious gossip. And yet, here he’d thought Rinea’s dream was to rule the lands with him.
How arrogant he’d been.
Part of him still craved power. He’d been raised to rule, after all. His childhood was a choir of voices telling him how superior he was to the peasants he’d one day control. Berkut struggled with a life of humble simplicity. Venturing into the village with Rinea often ended with him infuriated at its inhabitants’ blasé attitudes towards him. He’d garnered a reputation as “the arrogant man living with that sweet young lady.”
It was difficult - gods was it difficult - to resign himself to mediocrity. To assume the status of a powerless farmer, a status he himself had scorned and mocked. One look at Rinea’s radiant figure, though, was enough to steel his resolve.
She was finally happy.
It was just - Duma above, did he miss his status. He missed the castle and its endless corridors. He missed his old bed, with a perfectly stuffed mattress and sheets that slid across his skin like waves of hot water. He didn’t mind working the soil, but he hated being dependent on some patch of dirt for all his food. Only months ago he could demand any meal in the land and eat it within the hour.
This new life, his new life, was so demeaning.
Anything for Rinea, he had taken to reminding himself. Anything for Rinea, as he overturned soil. Anything for Rinea, as some foul-smelling commoner ignored him at the village market. Anything for Rinea, as he fell asleep on a simple bed with simple sheets. Until anything wasn’t enough.
It was late, when it happened. At first, when he abruptly woke, he didn’t register what was happening. It was oddly bright, and the usual smell of damp pine was replaced with something acrid and uncomfortable.
Smoke.
He jerked upright, suddenly aware of Rinea’s terrified screams, as he realized the cottage was on fire. No, wait, that wasn’t right.
Rinea was on fire.
Her body was mottled with patches of flames and blackened skin. Pieces of her hair glowed like embers down her back. One eye was a gleaming yellow, the other a terrified azure. It was as if her body was warring with itself, trying to transform back into her sacrificial form. Berkut could only watch with a growing sense of helplessness as Rinea forced Duma’s powers into submission, quivering and gasping with exertion.
Once she was done, he reached a hand out to her. “Rinea, my love, what-“
Rinea flinched away from him. She curled in on herself, sobbing, horrified, scared of his touch.
Was she... did Berkut frighten her? He tried again, stomach sinking painfully low as the full extent of his actions made itself clear in ways he’d never dared to imagine. “Rinea...”
“No!” Another flinch. “Don’t touch me!”
Berkut’s hand sped back to his side. He stared, wide-eyed, as quiet, subservient Rinea screamed at him. It was so wildly out of character that Berkut was rendered speechless.
Just how deep did her scars run? He thought he was earning her trust back. Her smiles seemed more genuine lately, and her laughter was becoming commonplace, but then this? Had this happened before? Did she hide it from him?
Not knowing what else to do, he slid out of bed and out the door.
-
Rinea didn’t remember falling asleep. When her eyes slid openin the morning, sore from all the crying, all she could feel was dread. Berkut was gone, the blanket smelled like smoke, and she was too hollow and tired to get out of bed.
As idiotic as it was, Rinea was scared less of her own latent powers, and more of Berkut’s reaction. Was he disgusted with her, now that he knew Duma’s influence wasn’t entirely purged? Was he horrified? Ashamed? She’d had episodes before, but they were never as intense as last night’s. Only a burned tool here and there, or a flash of yellow eyes.
She didn’t want to lose what they’d made.
When Berkut had agreed to live with her, she’d been shocked. When they lived in the palace, he’d showered her with gifts, true, but Rinea never thought he would sacrifice his way of life (and his pride) for her. It was an enormous gesture, enough so for her to begin trusting him again, little by little. If he was willing to go so far, then maybe a second chance wasn’t a horrible idea.
Now, though? Now? After what he’d seen? After her undignified screaming fit? She’d be lucky if so much as looked at her again.
Rinea knew, logically, that it was silly to blame herself for last night, when it was the result of Berkut’s own actions. It was simply how she was raised: to always take the blame for a man’s faults. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t healthy, and she was trying to break out of that pattern.
Still.
She was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the door creak open.
“Rinea.” Oh, oh gods above, she wasn’t ready for this conversation. She couldn’t even meet Berkut’s eyes.
“Rinea, please.”
With physical pain, she forced herself to look up, bracing for disgust, or even worse, self-loathing.
She wasn’t expecting the bouquet of forget-me-nots, nor the steaming pastry (apple, her favorite) in his other hand.
“Rinea,” Berkut started up again, refusing to look away. His obsidian eyes had taken hold of her own, keeping them in place. “I haven’t done enough, to earn back your trust.” What? “I’ve been conceited; I thought myself better than your dreams. I was wrong.” Did her prideful prince really say that? “Rinea, I am indescribably sorry for what I did to you. I know I’ve said it before, but it wasn’t enough then, and it still isn’t now.” He placed the warm breakfast and the flowers on their table, then approached the bed and kneeled down.
He pulled out a ring. Rinea stopped breathing.
“I am well aware of the vile nature of my past actions. I understand that I’m a man of many flaws. Despite this all, you’ve proven to be a woman of indomitable kindness and unconditional forgiveness. I will strive to deserve you from now until the end of my days, and I ask that I can do so as your husband.” Husband. Not emperor.
It was his mother’s, Rinea thought dimly, staring at the ring. That’s his mother’s ring.
“Will you marry me, Rinea?”
The tears returned with vengeance.
-
“Excuse me, I’m looking for-“
“Lord Alm?!”
Alm resisted the overwhelming urge to sigh as yet another villager had a heart attack at the sight of him. Celica had been swarmed with fans the millisecond they entered the town, leaving Alm to shift through the crowds alone. He’d heard rumors that Berkut lived nearby, and after nearly two years of searching, he was running out of patience.
Approaching a shopkeeper who was aggressively peddling her flowers, he tried again. “Excuse me, do you know anyone named Berkut who lives around here?”
The shopkeeper looked up at him, cool as a chilled pickle. She was blind, Alm realized as he saw the milky gray irises. “I do,” the shopkeeper answered. “Why ya askin’?”
“Um, I’m his cousin, and I actually want to offer him a job, but we didn’t really part on the best of terms, and I don’t know where he went.” Even after years of etiquette training and cutthroat courtroom politics, Alm still felt underqualified talking to strangers. Her bland expression seemed to go right through him.
She waved her hand. “Yeah, I know ‘im. Moved into some shoddy cabin in the west woods. He used to be a real prick, but he’s mellowed out now. Actually, he’s my best customer. Buys his wife flowers here every two weeks.”
Wife?
Mellowed out?
Alm laughed in a painfully awkward manner. “Oh, um, thanks! I appreciate it.” Sliding away, he nearly broke into a sprint when the shopkeeper called after him.
“Good luck, Lord Alm!”
The cottage was surprisingly simple to locate, considering that the woods were thick and intimidating, and Berkut obviously didn’t want to be found. A cracked, mossy stone path wound up the the most idelic cottage Alm had ever seen: there were round, shuttered windows, a slanted gray roof, a cherry-red door, a neat fence, and a mind-bending amount of plant life. Vines crawled up the log walls, flowers spiraled around fence posts, trees hung sheets of leaves over the yard, and a beautifully manicured garden shined, the centerpiece of a masterful work of art to the right of the house.
There was even a horse, an even-tempered mare with a shiny gray coat and calm eyes.
It was cute. Homey. Warm and inviting. Not at all like he’d pictured.
He knocked at the door, fully expecting a lance to shoot through the wood and go for his knees. Instead, it swung open to reveal a woman who looked disconcertingly familiar. She had lengthy blue hair tied into a long braid down her back, kind eyes, and a very pregnant stomach.
“Oh, hello. Do I... know you? You seem familiar...” Her voice was as soft as her smile.
Alm suddenly felt out of his depth. When he’d started this search, he was prepared to find his cousin bitter and brooding in some run-down tavern, alone. Not living in a peaceful home, with a sweet, pregnant lady.
“I’m, uh, Berkut’s cousin.”
The recognition in her eyes was instant. “Oh! That’s how I know you! You’re that nice young man who became emperor!” Leaning back slightly, she looked into the house, away from Alm’s line of sight. “Dear, come see who it is!”
And then Berkut was there. Berkut, who, last Alm saw him, had murdered his fiancé, gotten possessed, and tried to disembowl Alm and his army with the manic joy of an unstable man.
Berkut, who was dressed in common peasant clothes, holding a hoe, and looking stunningly not homicidal.
Rinea tutted. “Berkut, I told you not to bring the tools in the house. Mud will get everywhere.”
The hoe flew out the front door, right past Alm, who’s entire life flashed before his eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
Oh gods, how had Alm forgotten how intense Berkut was. “I came to offer you a job? At- at the castle? As my advisor?”
The sweet woman looked surprised, and glanced towards her husband with a curious expression. Berkut didn’t seem to react. It was dead silent, save for the soft meow of a cat(?!) inside the house.
Then, “I decline.”
Alm didn’t miss the joy in the woman’s eyes, though it was overshadowed by the sheer shock he was experiencing. Berkut declined? He said no? He didn’t want to be in charge again? What?!
“What?!” Alm managed to squawk. “Why?” The Berkut he remembered was obsessed with leadership and power. He’d never turn down a chance to move up the ladder, and he’d certainly never be complicit to live out life as a farmer.
Berkut raised one eyebrow, and managed to look superior, entertained, and smug all at once. “Rinea and I live here. Our world is here. I have no desire to abandon what we’ve made.”
Rinea?! As in the fiancé he sacrificed to Duma? What was happening?!?!
“O-oh... well, I, okay then. Goodbye?” Alm turned to stumble away, before his sleeve was grabbed. Berkut was gripping it in his calloused hand - a farmer’s hand - while looking immensely displeased with the situation.
“Alm,” Berkut started, and Alm mentally readied himself for that trickily absent lance to make its appearance. Rinea clutched Berkut’s hand, beaming with pride. “Feel free to... visit... us here. In a month or two, you’ll have a new addition to the family.”
And wasn’t that unexpected. Lovely, but unexpected.
Alm found himself beaming back. He had no idea what happened in two years, but he was glad for it. “Yeah. I’d love to.”