WILDFIRE.

❝Cousin Alm.❞

TO PROTECT AND GUIDE HIS COUSIN with his dying breath: the ultimatum of his parents and his king and one he treads lightly, yet when it comes to matters beyond the scope of their kingdom, he cannot help but question Alm's decision in permitting the Deliverance—their enemy—to continue invading their soil.

PERCHANCE HE SAW GOOD intentions in their crusade, hoping that the united forces of Rigel and Zofia might crush the darkness spreading from Duma Tower; nevertheless, a twist knots his stomach to the point where possibilities and theories cannot suffice. If he yearns to know, he must look to the source.

RECENT EVENTS PASS BY HIM like a blur; a panorama of distorted imagery collapsing in on itself and meshing into an amalgam of why's and what's as he attempts to make sense that this life is still worth living. He was ready to behold the burden of the kingdom and now that there is naught to fill the void, an emptiness washes over like none he has experienced before. He functions perfectly in spite of this debilitating sense of self, but the emotion is lost. He is without purpose, no goal afterwards.

WHIST DROWNING IN A STUPOR his senses catch blurred syllables stringing together to compose the sound of his name ( though even that seems foreign to him nowadays ). Briefly he looks up with disinterest before straightening himself, breathing deeply before he speaks.

RIGEL HOUSES COUNTLESS WARRIORS built from birth to fight in the name of their kingdom and Berkut is no different; he recalls his summers flooded with blood, sweat, and tears with the hope of raising him to be a warrior-king, a ruthless beast with none to stand in his march for conquest. Scriptures of war fetter his soul to the reality that he is a pawn of his parents' design. Friendship has no home in his heart, yet man is a social creature and even the young noble—with his intimidating figure terrifying all who behold him—bears some loneliness in his heart.

IT IS WHEN HE HAPPENS TO BUMP into a soldier clad in crimson that he pauses to remember. Nobles come and go as quickly as snow melts into water in his mind, but in this one-in-a-million opportunity, Berkut actually remembers the soldier's name.

THIS ARMY: a motley collaboration between legends and bounded souls across continents and dimensions, their summoning enforcing them under a contract to fight for their masters until all that is left is the victor; he hears them speak of peace and parley, yet all he hears is transience and a fragility that is not bound to last. The lord looks up to the heavens, wondering what purpose he serves amid enemies of his home world and those who never even existed in his own time.

HE KNOWS HE IS NOT ALONE in observing foreign skies passing from periwinkle to caerulean, and so he speaks his mind as if none are present to hear his grievances:

❝Strange how we are summoned here and compelled to fight for a cause that is not ours.❞

     She observes him: how he carefully caresses the flower, how the ivory of its petals reflected in his eyes. To think, he was once faraway from her reach, and now: he was close enough to touch. A man who she once observed from afar, standing tall as a soldier&prince, was now a dear friend. (Perhaps even more than that.)

     She is taken off-guard by his words. Cheeks flush at the thought that she is more beauteous than the flower. The beating beneath her chest hastens, hesitant to meet his gaze once more, but she does while in reply to his statement.

     “You are too kind, my lord.”

     The noblewoman was not often met with such compliments. Unknown to most, self-doubt resided in her fragile heart: one grown from fear that she could not live up to other’s expectations. In a way, she admired him— how he never ceased to impress noble and common eyes; yet he didn’t seem to worry of what they thought of him. (The way he offered her a dance during the ball made it seem as so.) But: what did he think of her?

     She bats her lashes after hearing his offer. He was a true gentleman, one truly worthy of becoming king. Despite this, she did not wish to burden him further. Even so, the way his eyes twinkled— did he mean what he said?

     “O-Oh, please do not trouble yourself. You have already honored me with your presence.” A pause, as she takes into consideration his lifestyle as prince. He must be rather busy. A humble tone in her voice, as she begins to inquire about her fear.

      “If I may ask, are you not at all troubled by visiting me? I fear that I may be delaying you from your duties.”

SOMETHING IN HIS CAGED CHEST bursts as the girl's pallor takes on a cherry hue, steeled features rounded out to something less intimidating and more taciturn than anything. He, colossus / Eligos incarnate, strives to make himself known as both tyrant and caretaker, a fair man with only the interest of his country at his heart, so is it not plausible that in the midst of his battle-earned reputation he returns to remember the simpler things? The things he swears as a knight to protect? Footsteps come to a halt. He turns to Rinea and takes her hands in his.

❝A man is not living if all he knows is combat, and in order to lead my people I must first learn what it is I am protecting.❞

HE OATHS TO NOT BE SELFISH, not like those hedonistic swines polluting Zofia's blood vessels; nay, he will be as strict as Duma, leading his people through trying times with a stern hand ( rigidity is all he knew at a young age: to serve as scion to a throne long beyond his temperamental reach ) and serve as savior-martyr-warlord if he must. He will be the stick that waves away lesser beings, the code of chivalry threaded into his spine.

HER MODESTY DOES NOT GO UNNOTICED and if she thinks herself a burden rather than a guiding light, then he will insist—make her think otherwise.

❝I will have the flowers delivered to you by a messenger as early as tomorrow's morn.❞

UMBRAL TONES DOTH SHIFT to something kinder, ( sugar in black coffee ) the touch of the girl's slender fingers against his, larger and calloused by war, akin to wielding glass—he fears that she'll break in his touch. He lets go with electricity still tangible in his palm and warmth blossoms at the base of his chest.

     She begins to realize how similar they actually were, slowly, as she explores parts of him she never thought she’d uncover. Fear was no longer clouding her judgement of him, and in fear’s stead: empathy. The more the servants shared of him, the more she felt connected. For, she too, was a lonely soul: only renowned for her beauty, otherwise mocked for her individuality. She was ‘ahead of her time’, as her father would say: an naive heart, striving for adventure, only acting with fairness. She was a woman of wits and most of all, a woman of heart. (If the villagers didn’t understand her, could the Beast?)

     “Truly? You can read Latin?”

     Impressed and astounded by his capabilities, the girl bats her lashes. To think he was able to go beyond mother tongue to explore languages from other parts of the world, he was far more knowledgeable than she was. It sparked a newfound curiosity beneath her chest.

     His next set of words sends her heart racing in excitement. To be free to read whatever she so desired to, to be granted the opportunity to venture through collections of fresh ideas and personalities— it was her greatest privilege.

     “Thank you. Thank you so much.” A smile on her lips as she approaches another shelf; eyes scanning through every title and author, finding difficulty in choosing one. Trusting in his taste, she chooses to speak once more, asking for his help on the matter..

     “I’m… not quite sure what to read first. Do you have any recommendations?”

A HUFF, as if insulted that she dares to even ask.

❝Pietate et doctrina tuta libertas. When one is trapped indefinitely in their own home, what better way to seek escapism than to delve into literature, no?❞

LONELINESS BECKONS FOR COMPANY and the beast, in his decade-long misery, answers its call by diving into dusted tomes where he is no longer a furred monster but rather a gallivanting wanderer with a taste for dérive, shirking off weathered hide and peeling away years of vipers poisoning his soul in search of something new. In those stories, he is a human once more; in those stories, he is free.

BITTERNESS PLASTERS ITSELF upon lonesome mien and he idly dusts off a discarded tome, claws careful not to scratch leather-bound covers. For so long he has lived without an intellectual equal of fresh mindset and otherworldly views ( this sameness: the same people, same sights, same visage of wilting flowers—it's maddening ) 'til she wandered and grew to see beyond the hideous mantle, his explosive temper—the horns once a coronet, now infused to his temples like hot iron to skin. To think that she would accept him after all she has experienced. It's comforting. The twinkle in her eye brings a smile to his lips as he leads her closer to the shelves.

@krmhld

     To show him around the gardens was one of her greatest honors. It was flattering and relieving that he showed interest in the place she spoke of so fondly and passionately, as though he cared not for her family’s place. She thinks him too kind, spending his time with her instead of another noble. (To think he even remembered her name! How sweet.)

     As they walk alongside each other on the garden’s stone path, she sneaks a few glances at him (hoping he doesn’t catch her). He was the talk amongst noblewomen, she’d overhear them, how they’d hope to one day appeal to his interests. There was a gentle charm to him, one she had recently witnessed during the ball, that she found herself often thinking about.

     “Oh!” As they passed by a particular species of flora, a small smile appears on the girl’s lips. She strays from their path, and walks toward the bush encasing them.

     “These are gardenias, one of my favorite flowers here.” her fingers gently caress the petite, white flowers. Her eyes full of life as she gazes into them. “They represent purity and sweetness. They are often given as gifts implying secret love or admiration.”

     Rinea returns her gaze to his direction. “Aren’t they lovely, my lord?”

HER INVITATION WAS MET with intrigue and pleasantries, the thought of excusing himself from the dark depths of politics for a chance to traipse with the light—to remind himself that therein lies a realm beyond his reach, one he is forbidden from ever treading ( is it so wrong for a beast to imitate man? ). Fingers caress ivory petals, their velvet texture as foreign to draconian touch—a bare touch, for fear of crushing the thing in his palm—as the fragrance of flowers billowing in the gentle breeze. The fragility of flowers likens itself to the girl at his side.

❝Indeed they are, almost as lovely as you.❞

A MAN OF CRUDE BLUNTNESS AND HONESTY, Berkut likens himself a staunch individual to matters bubbling in his throat: the thought of coating his tongue in silver in hopes of entertaining vipers ails him as much as the quivering sycophants clawing at the ends of his cape; hope for genuine character is lost in political halls save for the smiling angel staring back at him. Her sincerity renders him unguarded and, for a time, at ease with his own skin.

❝Purity and sweetness, you say? A fitting match. Perhaps I should fetch even more for you since you love them so.❞

     “Ah…!” She couldn’t believe the sight. Fully-filled shelves of books, surrounding every corner. The library in her village could never compare to this collection!

     Her eyes, evident with amazement, wander around the room. Her feet carry her to dare and get a closer look at a few of the titles: some she recognized, but many more were new to her! A small giggle escapes her lips at the thought of EXPLORING new horizons framed by hard-bound covers and lead by new characters, places–- this place was so beautiful. Heaven here on Earth. Her lips part to speak words of once softspoken passion, now a spark for her spirits.

     “It’s… wonderful! I’ve never seen such titles in the village. They all seem so unique!”

     She takes moment to calm herself down, almost rendered speechless by this single room. She thought of him fortunate to own such an extensive collection, to have the chance to escape reality with this number of books. (It was also one way for her to forget how village eyes would judge her every action, as though she was strange.) It was the books that accepted her for who she was.

     She turns to his direction, gazing into his eyes, returning to a much more humble tone.

     “Have… have you read all of them, perhaps?”

TO BE ABLE TO WITNESS SUCH PURITY void of ill will instills a beat in the creature's acrid heart ( he cannot help but smirk as light scintillates in her doe eyes—a light that has long-since dimmed in his own ). Youth taken at youth, before he even knew to walk, he learnt of man's crooked ambitions and the deformities of his soul; before he realized it, he too became the very thing that which he despised: hateful and corroded, a lonely soul fit for a beast. But the life of a former noble was not so horrible for it gifted him with education decades beyond that of a common parishoner, and in that sense, to be aware of his hubris and learn to live with it rather than continuing in blissful ignorance is more than he can ever ask for. ❝Not all; one can only endure so much Latin before they start reciting scriptures ad verbum.❞

{r00d}

THUNDERCLAPS ALONG WOODEN FLOORING, creaking of ancient years groan against his hypersensitive ears, and with a wave he reveals the contents of the room to his prisoner. ❝This is the library.❞

A VERITABLE ARCHIVE OF TEXTS from all parts of the world: tomes, scrolls—even stone tablets make their entry among dust-ridden shelves, all meticulously ordered and veiled with neglect. Scarcely does he recall a time where he failed to frequent these ancient archives in search of solace from that which binds him evermore to he castle: worlds where he is not a beast but rather a hero, an individual, a human and for a time he can feel content in his skin. But when he realizes that such ventures into fantasy prove to be his undoing, he forsakes it all in favor of embracing cruelty for what it is and allows himself to suffer damnation if that is what it takes to survive.

ALAS, AT THE BEHEST OF HIS SERVANTS he permits his prisoner—a gentle girl timid in her own skin—to explore more of the dying castle, perchance at an attempt to remember what it once like to be human. Tentatively, he breaks the silence with a baritone chord.