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It was nearly midnight when Arnold arrived at the church. It was a place he did his best to avoid. But, Rishe had sent him a reply to a message he’d never sent to meet him here. That said, he had an idea who had actually written the message to Rishe, and he was not pleased.
“Your Highness!” Rishe’s knights saluted.
Arnold gave them a curt nod of acknowledgement before eyeing the wide open door where Rishe’s figure distantly stood, cast largely in shadow. He could hear her voice, void of any true emotion, as she said: “That’s not unusual amongst royals.”
And, as expected, it was his brother’s voice which replied. “Is it not? Is it per the usual, then, for a man’s son to kill his previous wife?” Theodore’s silhouette stalked closer to Rishe, who didn’t so much as twitch. “My brother killed our mother. But of course, you know that. You know just how ruthless he is. You were enticed here by the title of crown princess, but you’re better off just leaving the likes of him. Do you understand? He’s the sort of man who would kill his own mother.”
The scar on his shoulder throbbed. The pain had long faded, but surely her specter still followed him. His mother hadn’t looked at him as she died, and instead stared up at the stormy sky blocked by the walls of her prison, expression hollow and broken. A small smile lingered on her mouth, made ghastly by the blood trailing out over her cheek. The memory of her slicing her own throat because of what he’d done to her was forever etched into the darkest regions of his mind.
“The women who marry into our family lead unhappy lives.” Theodore’s voice jolted him back. “I hope now you understand better what I meant. This isn’t a mere threat: you may very well be murdered by your husband.”
Arnold clenched his fists at his side, knuckles turning a pale white. He had been the one to spread the rumors, to make him seem just as cruel as his father. Yet, the idea of his younger brother believing them still stung. Perhaps it was for the best for Rishe to leave. Surely, even with all her skills and secrets, she wouldn’t risk–
“I was wondering what you had summoned me to say,” Rishe said. A pause. She seemed to shift. Then she sighed, and asked, “Is that it?”
She didn’t sound empty, or emotionless, or frightened. She sounded bored, and a tad mocking.
Arnold blinked. Surely he had misheard her. Theodore sounded more shocked than she.
“H-he murdered his own mother! How can you be so calm after hearing something so repulsive?!”
So he wasn’t mistaken after all. He couldn’t see Rishe, but he could guess at her expression. One of cool indifference, eyes narrowed slightly in challenge.
“Come what may,” Rishe began, her voice filled with unwavering conviction, “I will marry Prince Arnold.”
She didn’t even sound angry, or particularly forceful about it. She said it as though it were already fact, as though she could see her fate and was prepared to march into it. It was disconcerting.
Silence rang hollowly throughout the chapel. It lasted just long enough Arnold thought of making his entrance before Theodore spoke once more.
“Haven’t you noticed how Arnold has no middle name? That’s because my mother and father didn’t bless him at his birth,” Theodore exclaimed, a slight tremor to his voice, as if it were definitive proof that Arnold was truly a monster. “They didn’t want him—he’s cursed!”
“What use is a middle name, truly?” Rishe asked with a tired sigh. “Sure, I have Irmgard, but mine is hardly worth commenting on, Prince Theodore Auguste Hein.”
Arnold couldn’t help the smirk that rose to his lips at her response. There weren’t many who’d dare speak so freely, even to the second prince despite the name he had made for himself.
“What are you–”
“Are you quite finished?” Her voice was low, commanding. “If so, I’ll be on my way. Instead…”
She turned, stepping halfway into the moonlight, backlit by the silver glow. Through the distance between them, through the obscuring shadows, her steady gaze met his.
“Wait!” Theodore cried out.
“You brothers should have a nice chat,” Rishe concluded. Her eyes narrowed as she followed his movements, drifting back to watch Theodore as well. She had set him up. He truly had to stop underestimating her and her wit.
Arnold stepped into the church, his gaze intentionally cold as he stared down his younger brother. Theodore trembled beneath his stare, shock evident across his features. “Brother,” he gasped. “Why are you here of all places? Wait, did you come for her ?”
“Theodore.” Arnold intoned, low and purposefully vicious. He watched, only partially remorseful, as the younger boy flinched away. “Did I not order you to stay away from Rishe?”
His brother, far too gentle for one in his position—far too gentle for Arnold to ever want him around someone like Rishe, or the cruelty she would be subjected to as his wife—backed away, ducking his head. “I’m sorry, Brother.” The words sounded hoarse. Arnold looked away, not wanting to see the look in Theodore’s eyes, turning towards Rishe instead. At least she was less open.
“Rishe, let’s go.”
“Wait, Your Highness. I think you should speak with your brother a bit longer.” Rishe’s voice sounded uncertain. What was she looking to gain here?
“There’s no point.” Arnold had nothing he could say to Theodore, and no reason to give her what she wanted.
“But–“ Rishe tried to argue.
“Rishe.” Her name was sharp on his tongue, leaving no room for her counter.
“Coming.” Her voice was empty, but Arnold could tell that she had lost whatever game she had created. Briefly, she followed, and then paused.
Theodore was whispering. Arnold strained his ears to catch it, and heard him say: “It’s just as I predicted, Sister.”
Neither of them had the chance to ask what he meant by such a statement as he laughed ominously to himself. With a false meekness, Theodore said: “I’m so sorry, Brother.” His expression was contrite, but there was no hiding the dark glint in his eyes. “I will go, though I doubt you will forgive me. And, Sister: I’m sorry for frightening you. I promise in the future I will treat you with all the respect due to my brother’s wife.”
That done, he swept into a court-perfect bow, though Rishe remained impassive. He smiled at Arnold after, far too genuine for Arnold’s liking. Something very close to guilt twisted up in his sternum, and refused to be dispelled.
“Good night, Brother. I’m so glad to speak to you after such a long time.”
Arnold didn’t turn toward as his brother left, feeling out for his presence until it all but disappeared into the night. “I believe I told you the same thing, Rishe.” Then again, part of him knew that she would ignore him.
“He used your name to summon me—I couldn’t just ignore it,” Rishe reasoned, an edge to her voice. “And I expected you’d find time in your busy schedule to find time for me.” She said with all the air of a noble lady.
“As if I would ignore the reply to a letter I never even sent.” She wasn’t looking at him, but Arnold studied her all the same. She was hardly lacking in tension but, as usual, there was no fear. Had she not believed the things Theodore told her? No: her response had not been one of denial, but one of cold acceptance.
Her brows furrowed, just slightly. “Something wrong?” Arnold asked, hoping to glean any form of insight. Her hands were clasped, covered in black, lacy gloves.
Rishe tilted her head, paused, then spoke. “Why did he say those things about you? That you’re ruthless.” She didn’t seem particularly affected, only curious. Was that what it was, then: a passing curiosity? She hadn’t witnessed him in war, or in a true battle: perhaps it was her rationale which kept her so calm, reasoning that rumours could be easily overblown.
“Probably because it’s true,” he said, watching for a reaction. “I’ve killed countless on the battlefield. I am not… delicate, in my manner. My brutality is known far and wide.”
“I could learn that anywhere,” Rishe sighed, as if disappointed by his answer.
Arnold tilted his head, perplexed. “Then what is it you want to know?”
Rishe hesitated, biting her lip in thought before settling on, “Your heart.”
“My…heart?”
“I have heard of your many great feats during the previous war. And I’ve seen what you were like in battle when those bandits attacked our carriage. But you didn’t kill them.” Rishe stated, as though that would clear any lingering confusion at her absurd statement. Did she truly believe him merciful simply for sparing the lives of a few foolish men?
After all her previous restraint and calm, after her previous wariness, this abrupt turn was baffling. Arnold had proposed to her believing that her strength would carry her through the necessary pain that came with marrying into his family. Trusting that she would be capable of abandoning useless pieces when necessary, himself included. This was… detrimental.
“I was wondering what you were talking about. It appears I’ve gone too easy on you.”
Soldiers who didn’t understand the true perils of war were the first to die. Arnold reached out and wrapped his hand around her throat. His thumb found the ridges of her esophagus and he pressed down, just enough to invoke panic, just enough that the simple act of breathing would force her to push against him.
“If you want to survive in this palace, you’ll disabuse yourself of this naivete.” Her pulse beat strong and steady beneath his fingers. She remained calm. The spill of moonlight over her skin and the thick, black material of her dress made it seem as though she were cast from marble, untouchable, but he could feel her warmth through the leather of his gloves.
“I believe in my own observations and conclusions,” Rishe said, utterly composed.
“What are you saying? You’ve never seen me on the battlefield.” Never seen the way I’ve slaughtered the innocent simply for my father’s sick pleasure.
“Be that as it may, I believe that the person who cares about my desires is the real you.” Her fingers remained still at her side. But it was her eyes he focused on: the sharpness of a challenge and the fire of resolve that burned bright. She seemed to outshine the surrounding moonglow.
“What a foolish thing to say,” Arnold scoffed, voice low in his throat. “I brought you here to use you.” Surely she was smart enough to discover that for herself.
“All the more so, then, if that’s the case,” Rishe countered fiercely.
Arnold was shocked when she pushed against his touch, trapping his hand beneath both of hers, willingly applying more pressure against her throat. There was a raspy note to her voice when she spoke next, low and smoke-soft. “You aren’t ruthless at all, Husband,” she said, and he wondered if he imagined the mocking edge to her words, if that made it any better.
He expected Rishe to pull away, to take back the space she craved from him. But she remained still, watching him with all the ferocity of an enemy soldier in the middle of a bloody spar.
“Where does this confidence come from? This determination?”
He’d never truly been able to see her, Arnold realized: not during their proposal, not during their dance, not when he’d caught her sneaking back into her room. Around him, she’d been sarcastic, or emotionless, or calculative, or irritated: all of it just enough to trick him, all of it just enough to paint her façade and not a person.
This was what she looked like. It was almost frightening.
“What do you mean?” Rishe asked.
“Sometimes, you get this look in your eye. Like you’re meeting me in the field.” The resolve of a dying man, raising his sword against his fate.
Arnold removed his hand from her neck, allowing it to trace up until he was cupping her cheek. He’d half feared that she would make him continue to choke her, but thankfully she did no such thing.
“You have the gaze of someone willing to die for what she believes in, who will fight for it with every last breath. You look like…someone who still believes life is worth living.” But what life would she lead in this court? He could only imagine her and her spirit withering away, trapped in the darkness of the palace. For a moment, an image of his mother flickered in Rishe’s place: fragile, pale, and broken.
“Having to end the life of someone like that, is what I fear most in the world.”
Impossibly enough, her eyes softened. The fire and grit in her expression didn’t vanish, but settled instead. Soft, almost inaudible, she said: “I… Sometimes, I don’t feel like I belong in this world anymore.”
Arnold remained still, and she continued. “I’ve had dreams of watching myself die. But I’m not dreaming now: I’m here, breathing and alive. But despite knowing that I’m awake, I’m still very afraid sometimes.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He’d said it so quietly that it sounded alien. He’d barely even recognized the act of speaking: she’d compelled him to do so, somehow and Arnold had only realized it when he’d heard the sound of his voice, delicate in the night.
“That—” briefly, she stumbled, but continued to speak: “That I’m already dead. That my life ended in that instant, and now this world is just an endless dream.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. A hint of genuine fear crept over her face, and Arnold averted his gaze. For all the times he’d wanted to pry open her armour previously, he could no longer stand to see what was small and fragile underneath. She had granted him a similar grace. He should repay the favour.
Eventually, she opened her eyes again, and looked back up at him. “I’ve made up my mind,” she declared. “I don’t care if this life is a dream, or if I’m destined for some awful end. Whatever it is, I won’t run away.”
“Rishe…” Arnold began. Then he realized he had nothing to say, not before her, not face-to-face with her will. He took a breath and it was shallow. His chest ached with something unnamed.
“I’m not what you think—“ you never are— “I’m not a warrior. But I am resolute in my determination to be your wife.” She paused for a moment, ensuring he was gazing at her as she concluded her speech. “That’s why I want to understand your heart.”
The unnamed thing wrapped tight around his lungs and squeezed, until he felt as though he would crack in two. Arnold couldn’t help the sharp laugh that escaped him: her words were ridiculous, and himself even more so.
It seemed only his touch was enough to make her despise him. What could he do other than take what little love she had? In a move reminiscent of his father, he tilted up Rishe’s chin with two of his fingers, wrapping his free arm around her waist to pull her closer to him. She was unexpectedly small in his hold, for all that she was larger than life. He pressed his lips to hers.
Rishe gasped against his lips, her heart thudding wildly, felt only by the closeness of their bodies. She went tense, hands hovering close to his shoulders and throat, but she let it happen without protest, unmoving as a statue. Guilt dropped into his stomach, leaden and tasting like ash. She should have moved. She should have attempted to strangle him.
After a few moments, just to ensure his point stuck, he pulled away. The feel of her lips, soft against his, lingered like a fading bruise. “You’re a fool.”
There was nothing to savour about the visible shock on her face. There was nothing satisfying when her breath seemed to stutter in her throat. No victory as she stared at him like he was some foreign entity. The thing in his chest didn’t vanish, and he knew that he’d lost.
Still, he spoke, his voice softer than he expected. “You don’t need to be resolute to be my wife.”