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Battler was a human, and as such, humans were foolhardy creatures. They acted with negligence, impertinent to their behavior. Throughout history, they enforced suffering upon others. Whether it was for maintaining their status, or to prevent a loved one from escaping, whether with their own hands or calling upon dark arts, humans were the puppeteers of mutual agony.
Beatrice knew Battler had that capability. Despite his earnest nature, wearing his heart on his sleeve as he bawled for his mutilated relatives, the sin he committed was too grave for a Witch such as Beatrice to ignore. Although he had not pierced through her chest and gouged his fingers through her heart physically, the scars he left behind on her soul impeded Beatrice with a constant, striking throbbing. It was far worse than the pain of denial.
However, as she prepared the fourth game, the crossroads presented to her were rather interesting. There, curled into a ball once more, was Battler. His soft sobs wracked his once sturdy frame. He was enshrouded, the darkness of their small world threatening to overtake him, a pitiful human in the sweet, enticing world of Witches.
The shock was great, she supposed. How she had deceived him was tremendous. Right now, her noble image in his mind was that of a provocateur. She had sneered at him for believing she had changed, wrapping Battler around her finger as he boldly fought for the honor of his greatest nemesis.
It was delightful, at the time, fighting alongside him, clapping together for her wicked, bratty successor. Her smile had been genuine and matched the one across his face. If she had the power, Beatrice would have liked to drink in the revelry more, share wine with him during the afterparty as Maria played with the Chiesters, but deception was not her goal. Even if she had nearly goaded him into signing his acknowledgment, the truth of the matter remained unresolved, and her scars searingly fresh.
Beatrice squared her shoulders. She stepped into the outskirts of her domain. Battler must have traveled far and wide, unsure of where to go, only to surrender himself to tears. And when her heels clicked, he whipped his head up, gasping, puffy eyes narrowing into venomous slits.
“Battler,” she announced like a clap of thunder, “are you scared?”
He swallowed. He rose to his knees, fists trembling. Leftover tears rolled down his cheeks, two final droplets staining his suit. Firm in his position, Battler spoke through gritted teeth.
“How could you betray me like that? I trusted you. I thought you were fair and honest, but you’re the same as always.”
I’d like to say the same to you.
What transpired between them occurred mere hours ago. It was not as if Beatrice hadn’t gnawed on her lower lip and caressed his face as he pleaded for understanding. How her heart rattled in her ribcage threatened to break the bones, recalling how he believed in her as a Witch.
But it was not what she craved. The roots, thorns, and barbs gouged into her heart. For that, just as Bernkastel defied Beatrice’s expectations with a particularly shocking guest, Beatrice defied Battler’s hope with cruel, piercing, skewering declarations. He may as well have been prey to the Seven Stakes with her proclamations, dyeing his body red.
Beatrice strode to his side. Her fingers curled into her palm, then ghosted along his jaw. He stiffened, his gasp brushing against her thumb. Slowly, as if not to startle a rabbit, she sat down on her bottom. Then, with her nails scrapping the base of his head, his resistance nonexistent, she allowed her grin to curl into her cheek.
“Then, for tonight, I will be kind, exactly as you knew,” she crooned, and her long, slender fingers guided Battler, stroking his hair. “Come. My lap will be your pillow.”
He must have been in shock. His compliance was given with ease, and she felt the weight of his head on her thigh. He was not looking at her, as she had hoped, and she continued massaging his head. She teased the short ends of his hair, savoring the locks that reminded her of coarse rabbit fur. And as Battler stiffened, for once, lost for words, she chuckled while answering the obvious, unspoken question.
“Consider this respect for my opponent.”
Battler blustered out sound between a bemused hum and a strangled groan. He tried to look at her, but Beatrice pinched his earlobe. He yelped and stayed in place, his tanned cheeks radiating a pleasantly hot shade.
In the silence, Beatrice raised her head. She spoke aloud, her voice echoing in the stretching darkness. It was quite possibly their only chance, and sighing, she allowed herself to bequeath upon him clues.
“Battler, you are my sworn enemy, but on the other hand, I truly enjoyed the third game, and I want to face you again in the fourth.” She cupped his cheek, smoothing her nail over damp skin. “If you wish, stay like this, renew your strength. Then, you can proudly face me once more.”
As she uttered her offer, he raised a shaky hand. His palm was much larger, and he clasped hold of her comparatively dainty hand. She felt his calluses, worn and rugged, and had she not desired anything else, she might have insisted she was complete.
“Just for tonight,” Battler whispered, his tone breathless. “Tomorrow, we’re enemies.”
Beatrice smirked, laughing behind closed lips. Surrounded by nothingness, the only signs of life being distant candles and hints of tea, Beatrice relished in their solitude. Only their breathing pervaded the space. If anyone dared disturb them, or tear him away from her, Beatrice vowed to protect her dearest, incompetent beloved.
She might not have been healed, for Batter’s ignorance was salt on her wounds, but Beatrice accepted and relished the time spent only with him. As if she was alive, she could have kissed him and felt satisfied sinking to the bottom of the sea.