under co.

The stone walls of Father Renato’s chambers were stripped of the opulence found in the Grand Hall. There were no tapestries to dampen the sound, no grand hearth to cast a warm glow. There was only the singular, flickering flame of a tallow candle and the oppressive weight of silence.

Leon felt small in the wooden chair, his knees pressed together, his hands trembling in his lap. The salt of his tears had dried on his cheeks, leaving his skin feeling tight and brittle.

"Do you feel it, Leon?" Renato asked. He didn't sit and instead he moved behind Leon like a shadow: looming  over the boy’s shoulders. "The quiet. It is in the quiet that God speaks, but you... you seek the noise of the flame."

"....” Leon doesn’t say a thing, afraid to give more than he should. This deep, aching longing for  a man he does not deserve, should never crave is too much, but he does not wish to give that to this man. This priest. Everything in his being telling him to stay quiet. To not speak. 

"That is the root of your suffering, is it not?" Renato continued, his hand finally coming to rest on Leon’s shoulder— it was light and yet it felt like a shackle.  "You have made a man your god. You have placed the weight of your entire soul onto Mathias’s shoulders. Do you not see how cruel that is, Leon? To force a man of his station to carry the burden of your salvation?"

Leon flinched. The thought that his love was a burden to Mathias was a knife to the chest. 

“I never thought—”

"Of course you didn't. You are young." Renato moved into Leon’s line of sight, his gaze detached yet piercing. "Mathias is away on the Church's business. He is serving a higher calling. While he is gone, we must purge this 'fire' you speak of. It is not passion, Leon. It is a fever and if it is not broken, it will consume you both."

For a time they both remained silent until eventually Leon excused himself, bumping into Maria, apologizing and then bolted to his dorm room. He needed to be alone. 

—000— 

The following day, Leon stood in the center of the dirt ring, his practice sword unusually heavy in his grip.  The interaction from the previous evening still weighed on his mind. While he was not always burdened by his desire for Mathias, he did find his thoughts often revolving around him. How would he handle this section of the bible in study? How would he approach this simulated battle strategy? Did he ever participate in tournaments? Would he? 

He would be a fool not to confess he missed the deep conversations they would have or listening to him read or the star gazing, learning to navigate the night sky. He would also confess to not caring much on politics both inside and outside of the church and society as a whole, but these too were lessons to learn and learn them he did. 

"Leon?”

Sir Roland’s voice seemed to register only just now to the teenager. 

“Oh! Sir Roland, my apologies I was lost in thought…” he murmurs shyly. The older knight simply hums and gives an acknowledging nod. It was no secret that, while insanely impressive with fighting he was also very, very intelligent and inquisitive and desired to know everything he could devour. 

When it was something he was interested, of course. A fact that the Priests hated about Leon for his attention would go elsewhere if bored. Leon had confessed once to Roland that he liked to imagine himself rescuing a Princess from a castle or beating up monsters and dragons and being a hero! He daydreams a lot, too, and said he wishes sometimes he could just cloud gaze or stargaze and it truly made his heart melt. 

Roland had watched Leon since he arrived—a child who had traded one tragedy for a different kind. He didn't like the way Leon looked for Mathias all the time and nor did he like the way Mathias seemed to breathe through the boy. It was a weight no child should carry, and seeing Leon return from the "counseling" of men like Renato only made the veteran knight’s jaw tighten.

"I... apologies, Sir Roland," Leon murmured, trying to fix his stance. He didn't look up. He never did when his head was this loud. "I am ready."

Roland didn't raise his blade. Instead, he walked forward and placed a heavy, calloused hand on Leon’s shoulder.

"I appreciate it, my boy, but I do not think your mind is in it for practice," Roland says. His voice softened, though it remained gruff. "Today, we shall take a break from the books and the training.”

Leon finally looked up, blinking. "But—"

"Your spirit is not here, Leon. The heart is not willing and so we will not force it," Roland interrupted. He could see the exhaustion in the boy's blue eyes. "A Knight isn't just a sword in a tabard. A Knight is a man and a man has to know the people he's sworn to protect. If you spend your whole life in these halls or under one man’s shadow, you’ll have nothing left of yourself when the armor comes off."

Roland turned, gesturing toward the gate. "The Church forgets that when we retire, we don't just vanish. We become the governors, the fathers, the neighbors. We become part of the fabric of society. If you don't learn how to walk among the common folk now, you'll be a stranger to the world you're supposed to save."

Leon hesitated and Roland’s expression softened.  

"Today, we’re doing a different kind of lesson. We’re going into the village. You’re going to help me carry supplies, and you’re going to talk to people. You’re just going to be Leon today. I think between the church and Mathias, you may have forgotten what it’s like to just live. Outside of battle, of course, though I have no doubt that Gabrijel enjoys your duels."

The idea of being "just Leon" was terrifying. Without Mathias’s wardship or the Church’s prodigy label, he felt…lost. Adrift. The words drifted back: ‘You need to learn where you start and he ends.’

"Go on, get changed," Roland nudged him toward the barracks, a small, encouraging smirk breaking through his beard. "And put on a plain cloak. We're going to see the sun, boy. It’s high time you remembered what it feels like."

As Leon walked away, Roland watched him, his eyes narrowing. He knew he couldn't protect the boy from the obsession Mathias held for him, nor the machinations of the Vatican, but he could at least give him an afternoon where he wasn't so lost in his own head. 

—-000— 

As they walked, Leon felt a strange sensation in his chest. It was the same rush of blood he’d felt during the spars with Gabrijel, that rare moment where his mind stopped circling his anxieties and simply was. Here, under the wide, blue canopy of the sky, the heavy lectures of the morning felt like a dream he was finally waking up from. The pain of missing Mathias, the heavy voice of Renato, the Church’s ever-looming presence and the feeling of being watched was gone. 

For now.

He found himself walking with a bounce in his step he usually suppressed. He watched a blacksmith’s apprentice struggling with a heavy bucket and felt a sudden, impulsive urge to help. When he returned from helping the young apprentice, he couldn't help but grin up at the other. 

"There it is," Roland remarked, nudging Leon’s shoulder with a playful, heavy elbow. “ I’d almost forgotten what such joy looked like upon your face.”

Leon ducked his head, but the grin remained. 

They turned a corner into the main square, where the flower stalls were in full bloom. The colors were dizzying, but breathtaking, as pinks, yellows, and deep purples made the stone gray of the monastery feel like a tomb and there, standing by a cart of early spring lilies, was the girl.

He remembered the first time he’d seen her, two years ago at the village well. He had been thirteen, his hands calloused and shaking from his first week of real swords instead of wooden practice ones. She had been balancing a bucket, her hair catching the light just as it did now. She had asked his name, and his heart had given a strange, violent thump against his chest—a frantic rhythm he had previously only associated with Mathias’s approval.  It had terrified him then, the idea that a stranger could cause the same feelings as his mentor. Then he saw her more around the cloisters. Small exchanges were given whenever they met, mostly “good morning” or “good afternoon”, yet in those simple moments he felt happy. Happy to have this lovely girl say hi to him. Someone who seemed so…unburdended with eyes so beautiful and bright they reminded him of summer.  He remembered he had been walking a pace behind Mathias, playing the part of the perfect, silent shadow when he was 14. He had caught her eye near a weaver’s stall the one time Mathias and himself went to the market and he was not allowed back in the markets because Mathias had spent an hour trying to find him after, simply because he followed the young girl for a bit trying to work up the courage to say hi to her since they were outside of the stone walls! He lost her in her crowd and then got lost himself.   Another time when they were out, with Mathias resting a hand on Leon’s shoulder to guide him this time, Leon had stumbled over his own feet when his eyes caught her own. Mathias’s hand had tightened, steadying him with a grip that felt suddenly too heavy and far too possessive.  "Eyes forward, Leon," Mathias had murmured. Leon had obeyed.

Now, seeing her here after all those encounters where he barely talked, if at all, he felt shy as his heart beat erratically once more inside his chest.

Sara was laughing at something the flower-seller had said, her hair catching the sunlight in a way that made her look like she was glowing. When she turned and caught sight of them, her eyes lit up. She didn't offer a stiff, formal curtsy as she normally would. She simply waved.

"Sir Roland! And Leon!" she called out, stepping away from the stall.

Leon felt himself blush, the way she said his name so sweetly had his head spinng!!! He has to force himself to breathe normally, but the flustered gaze was evident to any who would look upon him. 

"You're far from the cloisters," Sara said, coming to a halt in front of them. She looked at Leon’s plain cloak and smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I almost didn't recognize you without Mathias by your side."

"Roland had errands and said I was to help him," Leon managed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, feeling his face turn even redder. "It’s a nice day for it. Besides, I finished most of my lessons anyway and Mathias has been away on church business!"

Sara laughed softly, and the sound made Leon melt, as it always did. It was light in a way the monastery never was. It was warmth, something he was beginning to realize, he was missing often when with Mathias.

“Well you deserve some time outside the walls, then. You’re always so studious, it’s nice to just be free of all those silly rules and decorum, you know?”  

Leon smiled despite himself, ducking his head again. He could feel the heat in his cheeks and hated how obvious it probably was. Around Sara, he became painfully aware of every inch of himself 

Roland made a quiet noise in his throat, wisely stepping away toward another merchant stall with the supplies they were meant to collect. It seemed like things were going along swimmingly and there was no need for him to crowd to the youngans.  Leon recognized the deliberate retreat immediately and panicked slightly at being left alone.

Sara seemed entirely unbothered.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” she said. “I thought perhaps you’d vanished back into the monastery forever.”

“I’ve just been busy,” Leon replied quickly. Too quickly. “Lessons and drills and scripture and—”

“And sleeping occasionally?” she interrupted with a grin.

He stared at her for a second before an unexpected laugh escaped him that it actually startled him. He laughed freely with Gabrijel, but this…this was so similar and it felt so foreign still. 

Sara’s expression softened at that.

There it is again, Leon thought distantly. That strange feeling.

Not the consuming inferno that existed around Mathias or the desperate ache of devotion that left him sleepless and hollowed out. This was…different.

Warm.

Like sunlight creeping through cold stone.

Sara reached toward the flower cart beside her and plucked a small sprig of white alyssum from a bundle the vendor had set aside.

“For you,” she said simply.

Leon froze.

“I—I cannot take that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He faltered helplessly. “I do not know the proper response.”

Sara blinked once before laughing again, softer this time.

“You say thank you, Leon.”

“Oh.” His ears burned. “Right. Thank you.”

He accepted the flower clumsily, almost crushing it. 

Her fingers brushed his glove for only a moment, but it still sent a nervous shiver through him. 

“You really don’t come out much, do you?” she asked gently.

Leon opened his mouth to deny it, then paused.

“No,” he admitted quietly.

The answer seemed to cause a shift in her gaze, but what it was he could not say. 

“Well,” Sara said, stepping backward slightly, “that should change. The spring festival is in a few weeks. There’ll be music and dancing and enough food to make the priests faint.”

Leon stared at her.

“A festival?”

“You say that like you’ve never been to one.”

His silence answered for him.

Sara’s eyes widened. “Leon.”

“I was training,” he defended weakly. “And studying.”

“Since childhood?”

“…Yes?”

She looked genuinely horrified.

Leon found himself laughing again at her expression. The tension in his shoulders had loosened without him realizing it. Around her, he did not feel like a prodigy or a weapon or a responsibility. He felt like he was just a normal teenager.

Roland returned then with a sack slung over one shoulder, his sharp eyes immediately catching the way the two young teens were now looking at each other.

“Well,” the knight said, pretending ignorance, “looks like I survived the grain merchant.”

Sara smiled politely at him before glancing back at Leon.

“I should help my father before he assumes I’ve run away,” she said. “But perhaps I’ll see you again before the festival?”

Leon tightened his grip unconsciously around the tiny flowers.

“I would like that.”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Sara’s smile turned bright enough to make his chest ache strangely.

“Good,” she said.

Then she was gone, disappearing back into the crowd and distantly he felt the sunlight and color fade.  Leon watched her leave until she vanished entirely.

How odd…

Roland waited exactly three seconds before speaking.

“So,” he said gravely, “you looked at her like a man dying of thirst.”

Leon nearly choked. “Sir Roland!”

The knight burst into booming laughter.

“Oh, that’s magnificent. It’s nothing to be ashamed, son. It means you are alive, you are human. It means you can still feel something.”

Leon groaned, mortified, trying unsuccessfully to hide his face with the hand holding the flowers. 

Roland’s amusement softened as he looked at him.

“Feels different, doesn’t it?”

Leon’s embarrassment faded slightly at the question.

“…Yes,” he admitted after a moment.

Different.

Not the unbearable gravity he felt around Mathias. Not worship. Not drowning.

This feeling fluttered instead of consumed. It frightened him in an entirely new way, because for the first time in years, Leon could suddenly imagine a life that existed outside monastery and abbey walls and candlelit chambers.

Moreover, somewhere far beneath the warmth blooming timidly in his chest, came the terrible realization that Mathias would hate that. 

Mathias…

“Well, Leon, shall we go?” 

“Ah y-yes. We should. C-Can we stop by Gabrijel’s?” 

“The Hellsing boy?” 

“Yes. I…I want to see him. If it’s okay.” 

A pause. 

“I suppose. Well then, come along. Let’s drop off these goods and get some horses.” 

“Thank you…sir Roland.” 

The field is still warm from the day’s sun, the tall grass bowing softly in the evening breeze. Leon lay on his back, staring up at the sky like it might answer something for him and Gabrijel sat beside him. That was how it always started. Their talks.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Gabrijel murmurs. Leon huffed gently in denial.

“How does one even think too loud?”

“You just do.”

Leon turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him. He looked so…

Leon frowned, thoughtful.

“What?” Gabrijel asked, catching the look. “…Nothing.”

Gabrijel shifted, lowering himself fully into the grass beside him and Leon went still.

“…You’re warm,” Leon said after a moment and then shifted to lay half his torso on top of them.

Gabrijel snorted softly. “That’s usually how bodies work.”

The silence was comfortable and like so often Leon had noted since befriending the other: enjoyable.

“…Roland said this is friendship,” Leon said eventually.

Gabrijel blinked. “Is that so?”

“The feeling.” Leon hesitated, brows knitting faintly. “Wanting to be near someone and wanting them to stay.”

Ah.

Gabrijel turned his head to glance at his shorter friend.

“And do you think he’s right?”

Leon didn’t answer immediately. His hand shifted instead from resting on his chest and moving to play with the long locks of hair.

“…I don’t know,” Leon admitted quietly.

Now it was Gabrijel’s hand that lifted, slow and deliberate, until his fingers laced with Leon’s. This, of course, made Leon breathe in sharply before he let out a small sigh.

“…We don’t have to name it,” Gabrijel says softly.

“…Alright.”

Another stretch of quiet as he sky deepened overhead now, gold bleeding into violet.

After a while, Leon shifted again so he was now half straddling and half clinging to the broad man under him. There was a pause as they both stilled and then Gabrijel relaxed once he adjusted to the weight of the other on him.

Leon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “…Stay,” he murmured, barely audible.

Gabrijel’s arm comes to wrap around the blonde’s waist and then shift so the other was now fully on top. Leon rested his head on the man’s chest and listened to the steady heart beat—despite the fact he was blushing terribly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Dawn came pale and cold, winter not far off now. This was the season for hunting en masse—ensuring they themselves, and their village, would have enough to last through the long months ahead. Hunor was awake before the horses shifted. They moved quietly, careful not to wake Miklós or Ilona by the dying embers, and followed Akos out into the grass where frost sparkled beneath the morning sun. The steppe stretched endlessly, it seemed, and Hunor—much like always—was entranced by it. Akos found it amusing how this child, this young immortal, had grown into such a darling, attentive presence. They had grown well. Very well. Akos checked the wind, wetting two fingers and lifting them. There was no real need—not when one could feel the air break against skin and pass around them—but Akos had done it forever, and old habits died hard.

“Deer,” he finally said. “Three. Moving south.”

Hunor nodded, already adjusting their bow. They often wondered how such a simple action could determine what creature was nearby, but Hunor also decided they did not care for another long-winded explanation from the hunter. They rode until the sun edged higher, horses breathing white. When they dismounted, Akos handed Hunor a spear.

“You take the left,” he said. “Remember to strike clean. A quick death is a merciful one.” Hunor’s mouth twitched in a half-smile before they obeyed.

They moved quietly, leather-bound boots soaked through from the melted frost. The deer were there—but like all prey, they felt danger before they saw it. So Hunor waited. When the moment came, the spear flew clean and true. The animal fell fast. Hunor approached slowly, pressing their forehead briefly to the cooling flank as they gave thanks. Akos emerged from the brush moments later, dragging his own kill.

“Good,” he said simply. “Come. Let’s return and prepare our gifts for the village.”

They returned by midmorning. The family stirred at the sound of hooves, and Miklós nearly tripped over himself running forward, eyes wide.

“You got two!” he exclaimed.

Ilona clicked her tongue. “Of course they did.”

Réka was already moving, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand. Béla followed more slowly, settling himself near the work area with a grunt.

“No wasting time,” Réka said. “Cold keeps the meat fresh—but not forever.” They worked as one. Akos and Hunor strung the deer by the hind legs, showing Miklós how to cut cleanly along the belly without piercing the organs.

“Slow,” Akos corrected gently, guiding the boy’s hand. Hunor demonstrated the next step of skinning the animal. It proved difficult for both of them, and Ilona stepped in to help—because while the struggle was amusing, time was everything.

Daylight was limited, and even if winter itself helped preserve the meat better than the warmer months, speed mattered far more because there was a small window before the meat would not be good enough. By the time dusk fell, their small makeshift village had gathered at the largest of the homes—Hunor’s. They ate together, sharing what they had prepared. Miklós leaned against Hunor’s side, content in his sibling’s presence.

Akos sat back, hands resting on his knees, eyes moving over them—his family.

Most were orphans he had taken in, and all of them looked to him as both father and leader. Hunor did too. They leaned against him now, tired and full, much like Miklós was leaning on Hunor. Akos looked down at Hunor as they rested against his side. His son. His daughter. His child. Soon enough, he thought, this would end—and it would be Hunor in charge. He both awaited and feared that day. For now, he would have this. And he would take it.

“You did well today,” he said. Hunor grinned at the praise.

Hungary had her eyes closed as they danced—a slow, mournful waltz drifting through the air. She could scarcely believe this was happening. Already, her dear Austria was beginning to fall, and she would follow if she did not leave him. The man guiding her across the floor did not seem to mind her distraction, but the numbing rhythm of the dance did little to quiet her mind.

Francis hummed softly, well acquainted with the tune, as they spun together. Erzsébet rested in his arms, quiet. Her steps were precise, flawless even—but something essential was missing: a connection to the dance. Her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled and heavy.

“Ma chère?”

“Hm?” Her eyes opened, meeting his. She forced the storm inside her back, refusing to let him see how deeply this decision cut.

“What is it?” Her voice remained carefully even. The swelling violins sent a shiver down her spine as the tempo quickened slightly, their movements adjusting in kind.

“You were quiet… as though something were troubling you.” He turned her gently, watching her with curious blue eyes. “What is on your mind, ma chère? I cannot claim to read you, but I imagine, if I could, you would rival the most fascinating book in my library.”

“I’m just thinking, that’s all,” she replied softly, letting him guide her through the turn. Better not to think too deeply. It was better not to dwell on how it would break him. Her dear Roderich, but how could she stand by him when her government crumbled, when her own people demanded separation?

“It is nothing.” The finality in her tone should have been enough.

Francis studied her. “I see. If that is what you say, Erzsébet.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheek. It was not enough to convince him for there was more beneath the surface, far more than she allowed him to see. “But know this… if you need someone to talk to, I am here.”

“Talk?” The word came sharp, sudden, laced with anger that rose like poison. “How can I talk when I am betraying someone I love?” Her voice lifted—not quite a shout, but close—as her grip tightened on him, gloved hand clutching his shoulder as they came to a halt.

Her green dress shimmered beneath the chandelier light, familiar in a way that ached. She had worn it once before, long ago. The memory clung to the fabric, intensifying everything she felt now. 

The music continued, swirling around them as they stood still.

Francis raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “You have chosen to betray Roderich—the man you are married to?” he asked carefully, as if confirming he had heard her correctly. “On what grounds?”

“My people…” Her voice faltered. “I… I cannot support him and them at the same time. They want to break away, and…” She trailed off, gaze dropping as she fought back tears. “I don’t know if he’ll recover from this—but we cannot win this war. We’re losing. I don’t want to watch him fall. Besides… we’re not on the best terms either…”

Francis nodded slowly. “I see… but if you leave him while he is weak, then whatever strength he offers you—however small—is gone. You will be alone. What will you do then, ma chère?”

“I will align with you.” She rested her head against his chest. “I will join the Allies. I just want this war to end. I cannot bear the strain any longer. Even if…” Her voice wavered, her body trembling. The thought of changing sides terrified her, but not as much as the pain she imagined in his eyes. “…even if I never see him again.”

“Oh, ma chère…” He stepped out of the formal hold, drawing her into a true embrace. She did not need elegance now. What she needed comfort, and he would give it. “Do not speak as though it is final. No matter what you choose, I am certain he will understand. You will see one another again. God works in mysterious ways.”

“You have no idea…” she whispered, heat and grief spilling together as tears fell. “You don’t understand…” She clung to him tighter as the music surged around them like a rising tide.

“I do not understand?” he repeated, something sharp flickering beneath his calm.

“Non… perhaps you are right,” he continued, voice controlled but edged. “I watched the woman I loved most be murdered by the man I hate most. I am treated as expendable in matters of war. My country and my people are trampled daily at others’ whims, and I have no one with whom to share that burden. No, ma chère… I do not understand.”

Erzsébet looked up at him, her expression softening into regret. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” She pulled away slightly. “Forgive me…”

He sighed, glancing aside. The memory of Jeanne lingered heavier than he wished. “Oui… In turmoil, one says things one does not mean.” Though, in truth, he meant every word.

“I know…” she murmured, looking away. “We’re both hurting, aren’t we?”

“Unfortunately.” He looked at her again, though she avoided his gaze. For a moment, he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “We are.”

“Will you wait for me… when I tell him?” Fear crept back into her voice as she grasped his hand, searching his face. “Please…” Rising onto her toes, she brushed her lips against his. “Please…”

He knew the answer before she asked. “Oui…” Francis breathed, closing the distance fully. There was no denying her. There never had been. “I will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, returning the kiss before burying her face against his neck. “Thank you…”

“Non, ma chère… merci beaucoup…” he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes so that, for a fleeting moment, nothing existed but them and the music. No war. No loss. Only this. “You are the one who deserves thanks.”

“Why?” she asked, pulling back, confusion in her green eyes. “Why do I?”

“Because, Erzsébet… you could have been like the others. You could have let me believe I mattered, only to disappear, but you didn’t. You asked me to wait.” His voice softened. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

“I’m afraid to be alone.” Her voice trembled. “You… you won’t tell, will you?” Desperation flickered in her gaze. “What I’m about to do… it won’t be easy.”

He nodded. “Oui, it will not, but I will be with you, every step of the way. And I will not tell.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I will stay by your side.”

Green met blue in the quiet that followed.

-–000—

Erzsébet lay curled against him now, far from the ballroom’s glitter and music. The world had narrowed to the soft hush of a dim room, to the warmth of his body beneath her cheek. Her arm draped over him, fingers laced with his, while the covers rested low at their waists, leaving their upper bodies bare to the cool air.

Tears slipped free despite her efforts to stop them.

She knew this was wrong, but she had been of no use to the Axis—not in this war. She had tried to support Roderich, truly she had… yet her people…

“A nation’s people must always come before oneself, mon chérie Erzsébet.”

She looked up at him, then gave a small, defeated nod before resting her head back against his chest. Her gaze drifted to the ring on her finger: two slender silver bands woven into a trinity knot. She smiled faintly. They could be tugged, twisted… but never truly separated.

“You will have to choose,” Francis murmured, his fingers threading gently through her soft brown hair.

“I know.” Her voice was quiet. “It’s just… it’s hard, choosing between my heart… and my people.”

“Love is something to cherish,” he said softly. “But you understand that, for this war to end, a choice must be made.”

“I know… I know…” The words came hollow now, as if something inside her had already begun to fracture—had already decided.

—000—

It was harder than she had imagined to face him like this.

Roderich lay in bed, motionless from the waist down, his breathing slow and even in sleep. For a moment—just a moment—she almost lost her resolve.

Almost.

Her hand trembled as she reached toward him, tears spilling freely now, no longer held back. The mere thought of what she was about to do felt like it was tearing her apart.

A soft groan stirred the silence. Violet eyes opened, meeting hers.

He knew.

“Rod—”

“Nein, mein Liebling,” he murmured gently. “Do not say anything.”

“Igen…” she whispered, sinking down beside him, wrapping her arms around him as she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing.

Why was this so hard?

Why did they have to be nations?

His hand found her hair, stroking it gently, soothingly. He wanted to hold her properly, to pull her close, but pain flared when he tried to move. Still, he would not bind her to him now. Not like this.

“Your people need you, mein Liebling,” he said at last, each word clearly forced past the ache in his throat. “I… I cannot hold you to me any longer. As nations, our marriage is over. As humans… we chose each other, but…” His voice faltered. “To sever one bond… we must sever them all.”

“Igen…” Her voice was barely more than breath.

“The marriage documents… of Erzsébet Héderváry and Roderich Edelstein.” His gaze softened, even as it broke. “Burn them.”

Her eyes widened. Slowly, she sat upright, then gave a faint, fragile smile. With trembling hands, she slipped the ring from her finger—the one he had given her—and placed it into his palm, folding his fingers around it.

The last bond, save one.

“I do not wish to…” she admitted softly.

“Neither do I, mein Liebling,” he replied. “But we must. Your people need you. Do not let me be what holds you back.”

“…Of course.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Goodbye, then… Austria. Roderich…”

“Goodbye, Erzsébet… Hungary.”

No more words. They both knew that if either of them spoke again, everything would unravel.

She leaned down, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before turning away. Her steps felt impossibly heavy as she crossed to the small safe, retrieving the document that bound them as husband and wife.

“I love you…” she whispered, barely audible.

The paper caught flame quickly when she held it over the candle. She watched it burn—watched the life they had built together curl into ash.

—000—

“Mon chérie Erzsébet…”

The voice was warm, honey-soft and soothing in a way that almost hurt.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, she almost imagined it was him, but it wasn’t.

“Françis.”

“Come here, mon chérie.”

She obeyed without hesitation, stepping into his arms and then she broke. Completely. The composure she had clung to shattered as she clutched him, sobbing into his chest.

Francis held her gently, rocking her as he murmured quiet reassurances. Somewhere, he thought of Jeanne—offered a silent apology to the woman he still loved, even now. Every nation carried a human love like that… and he was no exception.

Still, his arms tightened around Erzsébet.

The sun’s rays slipped through the window, gently rousing the Hungarian from sleep. It had to be past seven, she thought blearily. She stretched beneath the sheets, her back arching before she turned onto her side, sleepy green eyes settling on her beloved.

She couldn’t help but admire him and how regal he looked even in rest, how innocent and yet… when he spoke, fresh from sleep… oh, yes.

A soft hum left her lips as she let the memory of his voice linger in her mind: low, thick and deliciously slurred. She could almost hear it now, see those violet eyes half-lidded with sleep, that faint smile, that look that seemed to invite her to take him.

She tried to quiet the feelings stirring within her, but how could she? Not when he lay there before her, bare and unaware, so beautiful in his blissful ignorance of her thoughts.

Her hand drifted down her side, over her stomach, brushing lightly against her core. A quiet, pleased sound escaped her, and she repeated the motion, slow and deliberate, imagining his voice, his touch. Her breathing deepened as one finger became two, then three, moving with increasing urgency, drawing soft, broken hums of pleasure from her lips.

Roderich stirred, his mind surfacing from gentle sleep though his eyes remained closed. He had rested well, Erzsébet beside him, sharing his bed. Truly, he loved her—his remarkable, fierce, wonderful woman.

His senses returned one by one: the faint scent of clean silk, the warmth at his side… and then…

Sound.

His eyes opened slowly, violet still hazy with sleep. She was… humming. Not melodicly, of course , but undeniably beautiful. Familiar. Intimate. The kind of sound that stirred something deeper than music ever could.

A small, knowing smile touched his lips.

“Guten Morgen… mein Liebling…”

“R-Roderich…” she squeaked, her fingers faltering as his voice reached her. A shiver ran through her.

Dear God, why did he have to sound like that?

Another tremor followed as her imagination betrayed her, conjuring what he might sound like under different circumstances. The thought alone made her fingers resume their slow, teasing rhythm, soft moans slipping free once more.

Her reaction, though expected, deepened his smile. She likely didn’t realize how she looked in that moment to him: flushed, disheveled and so utterly radiant. The quiet bliss on her face, the sounds she made… all of it stirred something in him.

“Liebling…” he murmured softly, imagining what unfolded beneath the sheets.

“Ah?” she breathed, trying—and failing—to still her movements. “R-Roderich~…”

Her voice wavered, soft and unguarded, her fingers skilled even in their distraction.

“Ja?” he replied, the word more breathed than spoken. Curiosity laced with something warmer crept into his tone as he watched her.

So beautiful. So captivating.

One hand emerged from the sheets, brushing gently along her cheek, tender as if touching something fragile.

Oh…

“N-nothing…” she whispered, breathless as her movements stilled at last. The tension unraveled through her, leaving her trembling. She withdrew her hand slowly, bringing her fingers to her lips, eyes lifting to meet him with feigned innocence.

She knew what she was doing.

He caught her hand before she could continue, guiding her fingers instead to his own lips. Slowly, deliberately, he cleaned them, his tongue tracing each digit with quiet precision. His eyes closed briefly, a fleeting mirror of her feigned innocence, before opening again to meet hers.

She shivered, eyes fluttering closed as her breathing deepened again. His touch and his mouth sent her thoughts spiraling by this point.

Her free hand traced along his chest as she pushed herself upright, drifting lower, mapping his body with slow, deliberate intent until she reached her goal, her touch light but unmistakable.

The air between them thickened.

A soft sound escaped him at her touch, her hand still held close even as he leaned nearer. He released her fingers at last, closing the distance between them and kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks… and finally her lips.

This kiss lingered—deep, unguarded, unmistakable in its intent.

She responded instantly, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his.

“Roderich…” she breathed against his lips, eyes half-lidded. “Do you want to take the lead this time?”

A small smile flickered across his lips at that. So considerate… and yet, he knew well that control was not defined by position alone.

He answered with no real words besides a “Ja, mein Libeling” and guiding her back, settling above her with fluid grace.

“Mmm…” Her gaze softened with affection, though desire clouded it quickly. Her hand rose to his cheek, thumb brushing lightly.

“Yours,” she whispered, her breath uneven with anticipation.

“Ja…” His voice deepened, quiet but certain. “Mein.”

He lowered himself, trailing kisses down her neck, between her collarbones, savoring every inch of her. She responded in kind, her hands roaming, her touch growing bolder, more certain.

“Yours… mein Roderich…”

A soft sound escaped him at the way she said his name, and he returned to her lips, drawing her into another kiss—closer, deeper, leaving no doubt in his intent.

The world beyond the room faded.

Morning light climbed the walls, indifferent to the quiet intensity unfolding behind drawn curtains. Inside, there was only warmth, breath, and the slow unraveling of restraint.

And in that space—between touch and between want and something deeper—they found exactly where they belonged.

Things, since arriving in Spain had played out fine enough. There was nothing awkward or heavy or…uncomfortable. With him, in his own country, she felt more free than she had in years. That was when he sprung upon her the craziest idea:

“T-Tango?” Irina’s voice echoed.

Antonio only smiled wider.

It wasn’t the first time he had looked at her like that. Since her arrival, he had taken it upon himself to introduce her to pieces of his world: long afternoons filled with music drifting through open windows, late dinners that stretched into laughter, stories told with animated hands and brighter eyes. Each day, he nudged her just a little further beyond the careful, contained version of herself she crafted and Irina? She had let him.

At first, it was small things. A different dish. A longer walk. Sitting closer than she normally would, but somewhere along the way, those little steps began to feel less like risks and more like quiet invitations—ones she found herself accepting before she could overthink them.

Still… this?

Dance had always been something distant to her. It was something meant for others,but not her. Folk dances perhaps, but this? No.

Antonio knew that. Of course he did. Which was exactly why he suggested it.

“Si, I cannot let you leave without at least learning it,” he repeated, softer now, as if sensing her hesitation. 

Irina swallowed, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face.

“I’ve never danced before though…”

“And I have danced enough for the both of us,” he replied easily, stepping closer with a slow certainty that made it feel less like he was approaching her and more like she was being drawn in.

When his hands found hers, they were warm and she feels her cheeks flush. 

“It’s not about perfection,” he added, guiding her gently toward the center of the room. “It’s about listening. Feeling. Letting yourself move.”

Her heart was already racing.

The first attempt was… awkward.

Irina missed steps, hesitated too long, nearly stepped on his foot more than once. Every time she faltered, her instinct was to apologize, to retreat, to laugh it off and escape the moment before she could embarrass herself anymore than she was already. 

Antonio wouldn’t let her.

“Again,” he would murmur, adjusting her hand, guiding her step, steadying her when she lost rhythm. “You are thinking too much.”

“I don’t know how not to,” she admitted under her breath, though a small, nervous smile tugged at her lips.

“Then don’t think,” he said simply.

Easier said than done and yet… slowly, something shifted.

Maybe it was the music he had put on—low and rhythmic, wrapping around them like a pulse. Maybe it was the way he moved, confident but never overwhelming, giving her just enough structure to follow without feeling trapped within it.

Or maybe it was the way he looked at her.

The space between them grew smaller gradually, naturally, until she barely noticed the moment it happened.Their steps began to align, imperfect but connected, her movements no longer entirely her own but not entirely his either.

Something shared.

Irina exhaled softly, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Oh…”

“There,” Antonio murmured, quieter now.

The way each movement led into the next. The way she didn’t have to anticipate everything, didn’t have to control every second. For once, she could simply… follow.

By the time the music slowed, neither of them had noticed how long they’d been at it.

Irina’s cheeks were flushed—not just from embarrassment now, but from exertion, from the strange thrill of having done something she once thought she never would. A quiet laugh slipped from her lips, breathless, but genuine as her fingers still loosely curled against his.

“I didn’t fall,” she said, almost surprised.

Antonio chuckled, his grip easing but not fully releasing her just yet.

“No,” he agreed, his voice warm with something softer than teasing. 

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The air between them lingered,  filled with something unspoken that neither seemed in a hurry to break.

Then, slowly, Irina withdrew her hands, though the warmth of his touch seemed to remain.

“…Maybe,” she said, smoothing her dress as if to steady herself, though the small smile on her lips gave her away, “I wouldn’t mind learning a little more.”

Antonio’s grin returned pleased.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

And as the evening stretched on, the music starting again in the background, it became clear that the tango had never just been about the dance.

A few days had passed and though Leon was adjusting to Roland and his familiar trips to see Gabrijel between everything, the young man still felt a way. He felt empty and confused and who better to calm these thoughts and make sense of these feelings than the Father? 

So he goes to confession late after morning drills, skipping brunch. 

Leon had knelt so many times that the floor beneath his knees felt familiar, almost comforting. The chapel was dim with candles flickering softly and incense clinging to the air like a held breath. He did not know why his chest felt so tight tonight—only that Mathias had been gone three weeks, and the silence left behind was louder than any reprimand.

The screen slid closed.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His voice was steady at first.

There was no immediate response from the other side. No clearing of the throat, no murmured prompting.

Leon swallowed.

“And I do not know how to stop it,” he added, more quietly now. “The thoughts. The pull of them.” With each word, his voice wavered. 

At last, a voice—low, calm, and unfamiliar answers him:

“Tell me what you fear, my son.”

Leon stiffened. This was not how Father Ulrich spoke, and yet, unlike the other, this voice did not rush him, and for this Leon felt grateful.

“I fear,” Leon said slowly, choosing each word as though stepping onto ice that could break below him at any moment, “that my devotion is… misplaced.”

A pause. Long enough that Leon wondered if he had spoken too plainly.

“And who do you serve, child?” the voice asked.

“God,” Leon answered at once.

“And no one else?”

Leon’s fingers curled into the wool of his trousers.

“.....” he said nothing. 

The man on the other side did not press him further. 

“You are tired,” the voice said at last. “However, do know this, my son: Attachment can be… misunderstood. It can be used to lead one astray. You must never let affection sway you from God’s light, no matter how brilliant the light of another is… do you understand?”

When Leon rose from the confessional, his legs trembled. He did not get the clear to move or to stand, but the walls felt as if they were closing in, and he could not handle it. 

So he moved without thinking, through the doors and into the courtyard, where winter light spilled pale and thin across the stone. The air was cold enough to sting his lungs as he forced his thoughts to center.

Sara was not there.

The bench beneath the old elm was empty, and the place where she sometimes sat with her sewing basket was abandoned to frost. Leon sank onto the stone, shoulders slumping. 

He did not hear the footsteps at first.

“May I sit?”

Leon looked up and felt a sudden anxiety that he couldn't place bloom in his chest. The man from the confessional stood before him, robes darker than the others, posture relaxed, but deliberate. His hair was touched with silver, his eyes keen without being unkind. Leon knew this was the man who talked to him.

“Yes,” Leon said all too quickly.

Renato sat beside him, close enough that Leon could feel the warmth of them. It was not intimate, and yet Leon’s body reacted all the same—an instinctive lean, followed immediately by fear. He felt comforted as he was afraid, but why? What did a priest need to make him fear for? He was a good man, he was loyal to God and his masters, was he not? Yet…

“You carry yourself with the same withered look I have seen among men twice your age,” Renato observed. “But you are still young; no one your age should look as if he is carrying too heavy a burden alone.”

Leon huffed a soft, humorless breath. “I am almost sixteen. I am not that young—”

“Of course not,” Renato echoed. “Yet you are at an age where you now straddle a clear line between a boy and a man.” A pause. “You remind me of someone,” Renato continued. “Someone who learned early that strength is nothing without resolve. You are adrift, you do not know who you are outside of them, is that not so?”

Leon’s heart stuttered. The words landed too close to home, echoing things he had been told once on sleepless nights: “You must learn where you start and end, my son. You cannot let yourself be led astray.”

Renato adjusted the fall of his sleeve, the motion slow, deliberate. His hand then brushed Leon’s knuckles, and Leon inhaled sharply at the brief contact. How often did Mathias do that in passing as they walked or sat? In the church, in the privacy of their room, when he was going over psalms—

Leon wanted to panic, but he, somehow, managed to remain calm, calm enough to at least hear what was being said.

“My apologies,” Renato said softly, as if sensing the reaction, hand falling into his own lap. 

Leon’s desire—to stay, to listen, to understand—warred violently with the urge to flee. Footsteps sounding across the courtyard chose for him, especially when he heard a familiar voice.

“Leon!”

Leon stood abruptly. He did not look back, not at Renato’s calm expression nor at the woman approaching from the far arch.

Leon barely made it through the corridor before Roland caught up to him.

“Leon.”

The single word stopped him, causing him to almost trip over his own feet as he struggled to stop. Leon turned slowly when he got his footing. His pulse still thudded hard in his ears.

 “Sir?”

“You are in a hurry.”

“I remembered I had training,” Leon said quickly.

“With whom?”

Leon hesitated, and Roland did not miss it. There was nothing that could be hidden from him. 

“Who was in the courtyard?”

The question was neutral. Too neutral.

Leon swallowed. “A priest.”

“I am aware of that.” Roland’s voice remained level. “Which one?”

“…Father Renato.”

The faintest shift in Roland’s expression causes Leon to worry more, biting his inner cheek. Was that bad? 

“I see.”

They stood in the long stretch of stone hallway where the light never fully reached. A draft slipped through unseen cracks, cool against the skin.

“Did he summon you?” Roland asked.

“No.”

“Did you request him?”

Leon shook his head.

Roland’s jaw tightened slightly.

“What did he ask?”

“He asked what I feared losing.”

Silence.

Roland exhaled slowly through his nose.

“And what did you answer?”

Leon’s throat tightened. “My devotion to God.”

Roland stepped closer, pulling the young man into his arms. A hand gently brushes back golden curls in a fatherly gesture as his voice quiets.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said. Leon forced himself to meet his eyes. “There are men in these halls who believe they are shepherds, and there are some who prefer to test which lamb is loyal and which one must be made to kneel.”

Leon blinked.

“I do not understand.”

“You do not need to.” Roland’s gaze hardened. “You only need to understand this: you are not to be alone with him again.”

Leon stiffened. “Sir—”

“That is not a request.”

The firmness of it startled him.

Roland’s tone softened slightly after a beat. “You are being watched more closely than you realize.”

A pause.

“I only went to confession,” he said quietly.

“And you received counsel.”

He’s heard of Renato, never bad things of course, because who would talk bad about one of the most respected of priests within the church? Yet the way Renato reminded him of Mathias was concerning, and the last thing he wants is Leon to be swayed and pulled by the church in the same fashion as Mathias had manipulated Leon.

“Did he do anything to you? Say anything to you?”

Leon’s head snapped up.

“No.”

A beat. They did, but it was merely a brush, nothing more and nothing less. A simple brush of his knuckles. Roland’s expression did not change, but he sees a losing battle when it presents itself. Instead, he decides to give them one piece of advice instead. 

“Leon,” he said evenly, “there is a difference between kindness and manipulation. Learn it.”

Leon nodded, though his thoughts churned.

Roland stepped back. “Now then, you said you had training, and this is true, but it is with me, and if you wish to use that excuse to explain why you ran, then let us do so. I do not want you in trouble, my boy.”

As they walked, Leon could not shake the sensation that something had shifted—not in himself this time, but around him.

—-000—

The chamber was warmer than the rest of the manor attached to the cathedral, though no fire burned.

Heavy drapery muted the draft that forever haunted the stone corridors as candlelight pooled low and steady, throwing soft gold across carved shelves and ancient spines.

Renato stood with his hands folded behind his back.

Across from him sat his other half—Maria. Her posture was impeccable. She had long ago perfected the art of stillness.

“Well?” she asked.

Renato did not rush to answer.

“He is devout,” he said at last. “Yet his heart lies elsewhere,”

“Meaning?”

“He seeks structure through attachment.”

A subtle narrowing of her eyes. “And who does he attach to?”

“Whoever offers certainty.”

Maria rose and moved toward the narrow window. Outside, the courtyard lay quiet in the evening shadow.

“And at present?”

Renato’s voice remained mild.

“Cronqvist’s absence has left a fracture. Though it is clear an older knight has taken his place for now, he is…unmoored. Adrift, if you will, and the church has had their eye on him for some time: a prodigy in swordsmanship and he is being swayed by one who practices the dark arts of Alchemy.”

“So, what shall you do to bring him back to us?” she asked, brow lifted in questioning manner.

“His devotion,” he said. “Specifically, that is, I will find a way to attach him to myself. He will learn to come to me. He will seek it out, and we can sway him back to being loyal to the church. He is destined for greatness and would be a valuable asset.”

The room grew still as Maria considered that with interest.

“Good,” she murmured.

Renato did not smile this time.

“He responds quickly to affirmation. There is intensity beneath the restraint. If guided carefully, he would be our most ruthless of weapons. Bringing God’s divine light to all who wander the darkness, to all who dare turn against the church and all the blessings offered.”

“And if you cannot win him over? What if another comes in and does it first? Are you prepared for this? 

“Yes. The church is interested in him. There is nothing else to it.” Renato inclined his head. “The boy does not realize how transparent he is. He seeks Cronqvist in a way that is unholy, and we can use that. What of the man, have you spoken to him?” 

“No, he seems to be away for now, but I met his wife. Poor thing, consumption has taken her, but the man is an alchemist, and it seems he has been playing God, doing his best to negate the fate already given to her. However, she has sought counsel from me, and so I do believe we might be staying quite a bit longer than expected.” 

“I see, then let us turn in for the night.” 

—000—

The seal was unbroken when it reached Leon and was delivered without comment the following evening.

He stared at it for a long time before breaking it open. The paper inside was heavy and expensive, and he felt so unworthy and worried he would ruin it.

He unfolded it carefully.

Leon,

I trust your progress continues as expected. I am sorry it has taken me so long to write, but my business keeps me longer than I hoped. I hope you are well. Do be nice to Roland. He cares a lot for you. I shall hopefully return before the next fortnight. Be well, Leon.

— M.

He folded the letter. Ah, how his heart sang~

He steps into the outer corridor. The courtyard was dim now. Evening had settled now, and that was when he saw him.

Renato stood beneath the archway — not near enough to intrude, but not distant enough to be accidental either.

Watching.

Waiting.

Leon’s pulse beat hard in his throat. He slipped the folded letter into his pocket as Renato approached.

“You received a letter, I take it?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And?” Leon forces himself to remain calm, something that does not escape the Priest as he follows up: “Does it comfort you?”

The question takes him off guard as Leon hesitates.

“…It does not.”

“Absence can make the heart grow fonder,” he said softly. “Especially when we find ourselves so deeply attached to another…”

Leon’s jaw tightened.

“I am not—”

Renato tilted his head slightly.

“No,” he agreed gently. “You are not, are you?” A pause. “You are trying very hard not to be, and that is admirable. God will never lead you astray, Leon.”

The words took Leon off guard before he could stop them. His breath falters.

“There is strength in seeking counsel,” Renato said. “It does not diminish you. I will be staying for a spell; my chambers are always open for you. Should you need guidance…or an escape.”

Leon’s fingers pressed against his sleeve.

“Might I ask why you are not at the grand hall with the others ?” Renato had rarely come across many like Leon, and so he was fascinated. 

Leon doesn’t quite realize what he is doing until the space between them disappears and his forehead rests against their chest. His whole body was rigid in the way one would be while trying to hold back tears.

“I…” a shuddering breath, shoulders trembling. “I don’t…I cannot stand being around others right now. I feel…I feel like I’m going insane, Father. Sir Roland is so kind, so gentle…he does not look at me with the same burning intensity as Mathias. He is very careful of how he interacts, how he talks—” 

A tear, singular at first, before more follow. 

“It hurts, Father. I wish for the fire of Mathias’s passion, I wish for his arms to hold me, I wish for his—” 

Renato does not move to step back, nor does he move to comfort. He simply remains. 

“You wish for his love, and yet you know that is wrong. What you desire, Leon, is not healthy. What you should desire is the love of God.” 

….

“I…”