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Forgive me, for I have sinned,
Born out of loyalty, your will I once defied.
The shame Beatrice felt as she spoke these words would never fade; she would not let it happen. As she knelt in her room, Thrud Walkure held tightly in her hands, Beatrice tore herself apart, ashamed of herself.
Idiot.
Fool.
Naive.
Brat.
She deserved every single insult ever lobbed at her by others, both by her and all the others. She was a fool, an idiot who deserved to die in disgrace.
I’m naught but a fool, never your equal,
So let your fires have their fill.
How could she have ever entertained the possibility of being good enough for her?
Fare-the-well, my dear, bright child!
And yet here she was, tossing her scrapes of affection, and Beatrice still lapped them up like a pathetic child, pretending it was enough.
I’ll present you with the most fervorous of flames,
No bride shall ever be your equal.
Because she knew she didn’t deserve Eleonore von Wittenburg’s love.
How could she ever be deserving of those bright flames?
“Idiot,” a pair of warm, strong arms enveloped her from behind. “You’re the only one worthy of my love.”