by Y. R. Shin
Oh heavens, are you intimidated right now?
“Make way.”
Make… Oh.
Only then did Reuyen realize Den was blocking their way.
She grabbed his reins and slowly pulled, looking up at the rider on the superb horse as he passed by her: a man with black hair and eyes, wearing a military uniform under a mantle with a red wolf sewn on it.
The color of a raven’s coat drew her attention, and she stopped as if her feet were planted in the ground. Her eyes too clearly saw the red wolf of Duke Brionake’s rocking on the black horse as it elegantly walked away.
Her pulse and heart rate accelerated, and her chill limbs started to shake.
“Belbarote? Bel…by?”
Belbi.
Though she was muttering to herself, barely moving her lips, her voice sounded bewildered enough to catch the others’ ears. The sound of the hooves stopped just like that, and Jacalrin turned from his bow to Paseid to look at the side of her face.
The black-haired man with the red wolf mantle slowly turned his head. The moment they stood face to face, Reuyen felt a shock-like wave and dropped her limp head. Even with a limited field of vision, she could feel his eyes scrutinizing her from top to bottom.
She froze for a moment, until a great shadow cast over her head.
“Just now,” said a quiet voice, slipping into her ear, and she quietly laughed at herself. Of course not. The question continued, “What did you say?”
She raised her eyes as if bewitched.
Dark, dark fathomless eyes were looking down at her. She couldn’t take her eyes off those straight, black ones. Somewhere between her neck and her chest stung.
Belbi… At that moment, I thought you’d come back to scold me for setting foot on a battlefield again. But he looked much more stubborn than you.
The first time the queen saw him was when she was still a young princess of fourteen.
She remembered that rare, hot summer day as clear as crystal. When Margrave Brionake passed away and his son came to Muiyadro to officially succeed his father, she saw the group of people in mourning, wearing black garments that made her sweat just by looking at them, and drew the curtain.
A white wolf banner was laid under the empty coffin.
Dolomete III recited the oration, strongly expressing his regrets. Before him, she recalled memories attached to the name Brionake. She knew the former Margrave Brionake from a few encounters in the past. He was a jovial man, reliable and strong enough to entrust with the country’s borders.
But when her eyes reached the Brionake successor, whom she had only heard of, she was quite surprised by his pitch-black hair. It was dark even for Brionakes, who were known to have dark hair. She couldn’t find the spirit of the wolf guarding the borders in his calm demeanor, quite unlike his predecessor, to the point that she started to quietly doubt if he indeed deserved to be relied on for the protection of the borders.
After the funeral, the official ceremony of Brionake’s succession to the title margrave was administered by Dolomete III. So, the man with eyes as black as his hair was denominated Margrave Brionake.
The eyes are windows to the mind. The princess believed that saying, but she could never figure out what was going on behind his eyes, as if his were painted over with black. Nobles of the capital lined up, hoping to establish a connection with him. But oddly enough, the man refused all the social events and immediately returned to the border.
The princess leaned against the fence on a terrace high in the palace and looked over at the man heading back to his nest. Even in her young eyes, he was quite a ludicrous man. What could his leaving to protect the border mean, when he gave a hollow smile at all the praises people showered him with for his great military force, if it were not a pretense? But she did like him quite a bit, for postulating what his unreadable thoughts were brought her joy in her leisure hours.
He quietly carried on guarding the border until she turned nineteen. Of course, the princess was a cold-blooded woman who thought five years were nothing to prepare oneself for a leap, but even she could have no doubt in Margrave Brionake’s unchanging truthfulness.
All this while, there were a couple opportunities for them to meet face-to-face and become a bit closer, since it wasn’t like there wasn’t any intercourse between the capital and the border.
As there were a lot of belligerent tribes and countries around the small, weak Rarke, conflicts arose frequently. The survivors of the wars all had similar faces of depression or hostility. And the princess was someone who did not hesitate to speak her mind. There were a number of generals who returned in tears at her words, which were as stinging as sandpaper. When that happened, the princess often teased them, saying, “That grotesque face of yours does well with a frown,” like she was telling a joke.
But even though he was a warrior just like the others, Brionake’s face was quite elegant and soft, and she couldn’t mock it as grotesque. The others called Belbarote “black wolf” at times, for Brionake’s symbol was a wolf. But.
“How can one be that black? You’re just like a raven.”
The only sneering word she had for him was probably that.
The princess learned about wars at the border from him. A world beyond the palace walls where conflicts rose incessantly, and blood and flesh splattered. How much damage and pain the enemy soldiers, who thought nothing of Rarke, inflicted on the people of Rarke.
Though he never was the one to reveal his thoughts first, he answered every one of the princess’s questions with additional explanations. It was probably more of a method to get away from the bothersome princess than to show obedience.
Then, in the winter before her twenty-first year, the world was covered in white. A common sight, one could say, for it snowed a third of the year in Rarke. The motionless black hair under the high walls of the palace seemed clearer against the white.
“Every time I see you, you remind me of a raven.”
The princess silently approached, as if she had blended into the snowy scape, and leaned her head next to his.
An enormous banner of a bay tree, the symbol of Rarkalia, was hanging high atop the wall and looking down at the princess and the margrave.
When he turned to bow, she kept looking up at the tall wall and waved her hand to stop him. He instead nodded to show respect and followed her gaze, as he was doing before.
“What do you see up there that makes you spend all that time standing here whenever you come to the palace?” she asked.
It was just a banner of Rarkalia hung atop a wall tall enough to make the back of her neck ache. And yet, as she remembered, he always stood here before leaving the palace.
“I see a tree.”
“And I see a raven who cannot climb the tree.”
His lips opened as if he was going to say something, but they soon shut again, and his chin stiffened. The princess slightly smiled, pretending like she didn’t catch that. A maid was hurrying their way with an umbrella, finally realizing that the princess had disappeared.
She cast away her eyes from the maid and let her voice resound amongst the fluttering snowflakes.
“I hear ravens like shiny things.”
“Apparently so.”
“Then, Belbarote, would you like to be the Prince Consort of Rarke? King, the man of a queen.”
Instead of a surprised inquiry about the young princess speaking rude, unexpected words, he silently looked at her. She grinned and straightened her body toward him.
“I am a person full of doubt, who values what she has. If you become the Prince Consort of Rarke, I will give you the shiniest, priceless gift of my trust. In turn, will you…become a shield so I can protect my beloved Rarke to my heart’s content?”
The playful enticement of her trust rather than power or treasures was perfected by her smile as warm as light.
The red hair shining brightly under the sunlight and the blue eyes completely free of any corruption were more brilliant
than the sky pouring down snow. And so, they did not suit the dark man. Slightly tilting his head to look down at the princess who wasn’t even blinking, Belbarote asked with a grunt, “Did you just propose to me?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t even bring a single flower, but if you want a gift with my proposal, I will gift you the bay tree of Rarkalia you are looking at right now. I will give you the walls of the palace.”
The princess’s lips drew a smooth arc as she finished her sentence, her face arrogant but serene.
“Princess!”
Then, he saw a maid running toward her and turned away. There was no answer to the princess’s proposal.
The black back of the man stood out in the snowfall as he quietly bowed and left. He was beautiful.
Without showing dismay, the princess elegantly walked in the opposite direction. The maid hastily ran after her on the slippery road and held the umbrella over her head. The princess’s red hair blew in the snow, which fell as thick as cotton balls.
The next year, on one morning when the short summer was about to end, Dolomete III left on an irreversible journey to the utopia of Rarkalia.
A month after the funeral, Margrave Brionake came to the princess overcome with grief, with a group of riders carrying white wolf banners on their backs.
“Swan Sekalrid Rarkalia.”
In front of the stone tomb Dolomete III’s ashes were rested, the raven kneeled on one knee. Holding up a single red flower to her.
“I will be your shield.”
It was a red, luscious offering.
“You seek to buy a kingdom with a single flower.”
The princess gladly sold the kingdom for a single flower.
The present came before Reuyen’s mixed memories and pulled her out from her past.
“What did you just say?”
She was too distracted to answer his menacing question. Even without trying, the voice of a man sobbing layered over her ear.
I loved you.
She heard his confession in the far past, right before her death must have made its mark on her heart. The husband she never looked after her whole life, Belbarote. The man she more often called Belbi.
How dare you betray me.
She did resent him so.
I did not look after you.
But she felt guilty at the same time.
Belbarote had that kind of meaning to her, with neither complete hatred nor guilt. A traitor who’d usurped the throne, but someone who’d also thrown his body at the feet of the fallen queen, buried his face in her dirtied dress, and wept like a child.
“Hey, the commander asked you a question,” Jacalrin scolded.
Only then did Reuyen wake up from her memories and let out a low grunt. “Oh.”
She could not feel her dry lips, as though they had been carved out. She looked at the black eyes looking down at her. Forgetting all about manners, she took her time studying them, as if under a spell.
Then she suddenly realized: he did look like Belbarote at a glance, but there really was no particularly familiar part of his face. Except for those black, raven-like things that caught her eye, neither the shape of the eyes and nose, nor the expressions on his face resembled Belbarote. Somewhere in her gut tickled, and she let out a hollow laugh.
“No… No. Nothing, sir. I made a mistake.”
The commander stayed there with Rotsa’s reins in his hand, as though her answer was satisfactory enough, but soon erased that expression off his face.
He stretched out his palm, like he was going to leave, and gestured. Then, the soldiers started to move in an orderly fashion again. He turned his black horse when everyone passed him by and unaffectedly ordered, “Sir Chesa, be sure to take this woman back and have her wounds treated.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, sir.”
He must have seen her feet bleeding again.
With the sound of the black horse’s hooves hitting the ground, the red wolf mantle fluttered. The single black horse did not look back even once, followed by nearly a hundred soldiers and knights who all moved away at a steady speed.
Watching them disappear until they were small black dots, Reuyen asked in a faint voice, “Name… What is his name?”
Jacalrin scowled. But Reuyen’s eyes were fixated on what she could still see of Paseid.
“For heaven’s sake, you don’t know Duke Brionake? He is Duke Paseid Calandok Brionake. Hey, what were you saying before? Bel…what?”
Paseid Calandok Brionake.
Paseid. Even his name amazed her. Had someone said this before? Life could amaze you at times.
She lowered her scrunched-up face, somewhere between laughing or crying.
Jacalrin remembered Paseid’s orders and looked down at Reuyen’s feet. Then, without hesitating, he grabbed her slender waist, picked her up, and put her around his shoulders.
“What are you…!” she cried.
Poof, Den snorted.
Jacalrin tapped on Den’s forehead and coaxed him like a sly fox. “Enough. I’ve been ordered to take care of your master’s wound, you cheeky little horse. How come she doesn’t even whine until her feet get all bloody like this? Like master, like horse.”
“Let me down. I’ll walk.”
“Don’t you think you’ve been missing a word in your sentences for a while?”
“…Sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Jacalrin mumbled, “It’s good to be put on a pedestal,” and strode on. He rolled his eyes, suddenly realizing that the woman had become unusually still and quiet.
He felt an odd shaking against his back that could have been laughter or a sob.
Chapter Eight
Following Jacalrin’s decision that it would be best if she went unnoticed by the soldiers, Reuyen was moved to a tent in the far corner at the edge of the camp. On top of ordering her not to move a single hair, he set guards at the entrance to the tent. These, however, were unnecessary measures, for quite a bit of pain followed every little movement when it put pressure on the fresh wound, and she did not think moving a worthy risk.
She sat there like a good girl, just as Jacalrin wished, and continued her train of thought.
All the things she had let go of came flowing back to her with the passing of time. All the memories and sensations from her past life caught between her fingers and clamored for attention. So, as they wished, she unfurled the question she had neatly folded away long ago.
Why was I reborn?
She had been executed by a guillotine on the scaffold on a day that the skies swarmed with dark colors. When she’d woken up, she had found herself continuing her life through an unforeseen reincarnation. Because she still kept all of her memories when others were learning things from point zero, she had learned to adjust her knowledge to the present reality.
She had never met anyone like her. Even when she had tentatively brought it up, thinking that perhaps others were hiding their pasts like she was, they’d treated it like a joke and said, “You really do think differently.” So, at a certain point, she’d stopped talking about it too.
Living in a remote town in the forest, she’d had the time to thoroughly organize herself. The isolation gave her a certain answer, that this maybe was a second life given to her, like that given to a butterfly newly emerged from a chrysalis.
But Paseid Calandok Brionake. The shock, the guilt, and all the other confusing emotions that crashed over her the moment she laid eyes on him made her think of another possibility at last. Perhaps this was a punishment to atone for a sin that could not be atoned for with one life.
How was he related to Belbarote? He was called a Brionake. The similarity of their coloring was so dreadfully cruel that it made her squeeze her knees and suppress the bursting laughter inside. Everything she’d tried so hard to cast away clung to her clothes and demanded her attention.
I wonder what happened to you after I died, Belbarote.
The wonder she had ignored all these years planted its roots in her brain. To be honest
, it was more that she didn’t want to hear those who’d rejoiced after the queen’s death than that she wasn’t curious. So, she covered her ears, shut her eyes, and soothed herself. Rarke remained strong after nearing collapse under the queen’s tyranny, and that was all that mattered.
Another person naturally made his way into her mind. It was no surprise that he did, for she was on a battlefield. He was a part of the battlefield in her past life, and the battlefield was everything to her.
Peijak Dollehan. She believed Belbarote would have tried his best to appease her will, since he was a humble and a generous man. But perhaps under that concrete belief lay a small part of her desire not to hear that Peijak had been executed because Belbarote failed to accept her plea. Probably so. She had avoided it.
That was an indignity she did not want to admit. Like a coward, the queen was unsure she could stand having to bear the sin not even her death could absolve after two hundred years.
Self-deprecation seeped into Reuyen’s half-closed eyes.
The smell of night pervaded. The smell of night on the battlefield was different from the ordinary smell of peace. It was the smell of a pitch-black mind muddled with tension, anxiety, and nostalgia.
“Are you asleep?” Jacalrin came into her tent, accompanied by Seisen.
The knight who had ruthlessly threatened her before on the field looked down at her with dissatisfied eyes. Reuyen ignored him and turned her gaze to Jacalrin.
“Your brother,” he said, and cut himself off. Reuyen exhaled dryly without realizing it. “Umm, he was there, as you said. He volunteered for the front at Camp Anf, not the main camp.”
Jacalrin seemed quite uncomfortable. He scratched the back of his head for a moment, then said to Seisen, “Step outside for a moment, Sir Verohan. Actually, you may be excused. Thank you for today’s work.”
The middle-aged knight, who looked like he still had suspicious doubts about her, left the tent at his lord’s order. But the way Jacalrin was taking a long time to open his mouth again, very much unlike himself, added to her anxiety.