Chapter Text
Emerging from his tent, Grand Duke Foolish Älskade surveyed the land. It was a wet, dewy morning over the grass fields of the border. The sun loomed around the early morning mark, bright for its summer heat.
Standing tall in his military garb, long black coat falling down to his knees with his chest adorned with golden medals, he flicked his gaze over the knights of his Duchy. They’d done well out here, camped out for three years, keeping in top physical condition – always ready to fight against the neighbouring enemy country should they make do on their threats. A cold war, the nobles called it, saying he should return home; Foolish would not, for he knew the second he turned his back on his border the enemy country would invade. He could not have that, so sit here and wait he would.
The border was an innocuous place. Tall green grass shorn short where the tents were and trampled where the knights ran drills. The cream tents of his men stood proud in the meadows, rolling hills reaching out over the land. Just East was the country of Sevil, a warring country that was prone to civil wars and sudden invasions of its neighbours; the enemy. To the West of their camp grounds was the rest of the Ulik Empire – controlled by his brother, current Emperor – with Foolish’s Duchy just Northward. The meadows and the shared border, were in fact, part of Foolish’s land, hence his presence here.
Glaring out at the glittering grass, Foolish felt a knot form in his stomach. Something would happen, soon. He felt it. As prominent on the breeze as it was forming inside him, the feeling of suspense drew him bowstring tight, shoulders nearly folded into his back as he attempted to further straighten himself.
Clearing his throat with a gruff noise, he turned and headed for his work tent. His secretary, Hbomb, stood waiting for him, standing awkwardly by the large wooden desk.
“Morning, sir,” murmured the man, seeming more solemn than usual. Walking past him, Foolish wondered if the man was going to try and plead with him to return home.
For the past three years, the second he’d left, Foolish’s advisors had urged him to ignore the rumours of war. They told him to leave the meadows, to return to his Manor and stay with his wife, but Foolish Älskade was no fool and would not be caught out as one. If a war were to erupt, he would be remaining in place to put a stop to it. He was the only defence between Sevil and the Ulik Empire.
Sitting heavily in his chair, Foolish flicked through the reports that sat on his desk. Patrols had proved quiet and the knights reported no suspicious movement from the Sevilan Knights, nor that of word within the country. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Foolish knew something would happen soon, just as he’d known three years ago something would happen. He would not be caught unaware.
Hbomb hadn’t spoken, instead shifting on his feet as though restless.
“What?” Foolish grunted, blunt as always.
“Uh,” his secretary hesitated, an oddity that was rarer than the rains in the Soobi District. “Sir.”
“Speak,” he ordered, staring at the brunet. Dressed in his customary black coat and grey sectorial belt, Hbomb usually looked more than refined; but now, he fiddled with his fingers, and his gaze would not remain on Foolish. The Grand Duke took security in the fact that if war had erupted, he would’ve known by now. “Spit it out, Hbomb.”
He finally declared, shoulders quivering with the news: “Your wife has passed, sir.”
Thinking of the wife he’d barely glimpsed at the altar, Foolish’s brain took a moment to catch up.
“What?” He echoed, voice feeling weak.
“Mana Reflux Syndrome,” Hbomb continued, voice shaking like his hands, which he quickly clenched in front of himself. “They passed late last night, according to the emergency telegram we received this morning.”
The world shrunk around him. Suddenly, his work tent, which had seemed so large before, was miniscule, the canvas walls caving in on him. “Mana Reflux is treatable,” he heard himself say, trying to remember the face he’d seen under the silken veil – soft pale skin, white satin gloves, a long white dress embroidered with patterns of flowers and stars, an entire world stitched into the seams of a white dress that probably cost more than any peasant would ever make in their entire lifetime.
Eret Älskade had been a Mariil before they’d married. His brother had heavily encouraged the union, stating that Foolish marrying the sole child of the Mariil House – the wealthiest and most powerful Dukedom in the Empire, blessed with the best Mana Users of the decades – was a deal not to be passed up. Eret was a renowned Mana User, praised in all corners of the globe as a genius User, a person blessed with everything one could want.
Their union was one of the reasons Foolish camped out along the border of the Empire, stalking a prey that hid in its burrows. Foolish would not let his wife be caught up in a war, so he had to finish it as it started.
But they were dead. Killed by Mana Reflux; a horrible sickness where the body filled up with rampant Mana, drowning the person. Usually it took years to kill, and was easily recognisable.
“How did she die to Mana Reflux?” He repeated, only realising he’d been gripping at his chair’s arms when the wood broke into pieces under his fingers.
Hbomb shook his head, eyes glistening. “They caught it too late, sir. The report said the Duchess’ great Mana capabilities meant she was overwhelmed much quicker than other cases.”
The entire basis of Mana Reflux was that weak Mana Users were affected. Eret Älskade had not been a weak Mana User by any reach.
Foolish couldn’t breathe. His wife couldn’t have died. It was impossible.
“They’re awaiting word on your status, sir,” Hbomb spoke. “The Mariil Family wish to have a meeting with you, likely to discuss the funeral plans.”
His wife couldn’t have died. She was a strong, capable person.
The smile under the white veil flashed in his mind’s eye. The assured, steady pace of someone who knew what they were doing stunned the wedding audience to silence, their long floating strides catching Foolish’s eye. He’d stared at them, then; he’d stared at Eret Mariil like he had no one else, taking in the person who stopped beside him with the grace of angels, noting how quaint they were against his brute frame – a prestigious Mana User, a genius, the last child of House Mariil: the most gifted House of Mana Users the Empire had seen in centuries.
That very night, he’d left for the border.
He hadn’t seen his wife in three years, not receiving a letter nor a telegram from them. Not a week after he and his knights had settled in the Border Meadows, had the news of their sudden illness came through – word of them falling ill out of nowhere, coupled with a plea for him to return home.
His advisors had begged him, gathered around the war table, eyes searching.
“Please, Grand Duke,” Skeppy had been the main voice; a brilliant tactician who never knew when to keep his mouth shut. “Your wife is ill, it’s unbecoming to ignore a spouse’s request to return home.”
Knowing the man simply wished to return to his own husband, BadBoyHalo, Foolish ignored him, looking on to Puffy, the Captain of the Knights.
“I agree, Grand Duke,” said the woman, obviously greatly worried by the news. “It has barely been a week since the vows. It would be good to return now and show the people your strength.”
“Strength?” Foolish echoed, snorting. “What strength is there to be shown in abandoning the border and leaving the Empire prone to attack?”
“Presenting a united front with your wife can bring you great support, Grand Duke,” Hbomb nodded, quietening down at the glare Foolish shot at him.
Snarling, he looked around the table, only finding concerned gazes. “Anymore useless complaints?”
They did not respond.
In the present, Hbomb was still speaking. Foolish wasn’t listening, his secretary’s words running over his head like a fast current. His blood was roaring in his ears; deafening as his pulse thrummed in his fingers. He clenched his hand into a large fist, feeling bulky as he stared down at his hand, thinking back on the small hands he’d clutched at the altar, pushing a gold band onto dainty, lithe fingers.
How had he left them when they were obviously weak? How could Foolish have abandoned his wife in their time of need? The protecting he thought he’d been doing had been for naught, when his wife had passed away in his own Manor.
“Get out,” he snarled, voice unnaturally quiet.
Hbomb paused, blinking. “Pardon, Grand Duke?”
“I said get out!” He roared, standing with a flurry. The desk was shoved aside, chair falling back. Papers flew, the ink pot shattered, and as Hbomb retreated with a squeak, stumbling out of the tent, Foolish stood in the centre and mourned the wife he’d only wanted to keep safe.
“Fuck,” he bellowed at a point, face crumpled into an ugly expression of loss. A cabinet sat across from him; expensive whiskey sitting on the shelves. It was stored for toasts, for the winning victory, or maybe even the negotiation talks with Sevil when they inevitably surrendered upon realising they were doomed against Grand Duke Älskade and his men.
Today, Foolish ripped the doors open and grabbed a crystal tumbler, collapsing into a wooden chair that Hbomb often sat on. Prying the stopper off the bottle, Foolish tipped the beverage back and felt his stomach twist at the crude taste. Sour from the brewing method, scattered with hints of sharp zest, the whiskey seemed more choking than the thought of his wife being dead.
But drinking it was better than dwelling on Eret Älskade, so he drank and he drank and he drank. Foolish drank until the tumbler was empty and then he reached into the cabinet for another and then another until the cabinet was empty and everything was quiet.
Still, the sun shone on the canvas, lighting the interior of the tent bright. It seemed undeserved that his world would be so bright when his wife was likely lying on a sheet, a towel over her face, body cold, drowned by her own Mana.
Mana Reflux Syndrome was treatable. She never should’ve died to it.
He’d have an investigation when he got home, Foolish decided at a point, world spinning around him as he clutched the neck of the last bottle. He’d find the stupid fucking doctor who hadn’t diagnosed them quick enough and he’d make sure the doctor didn’t make another fuck up ever again.
He’d have the doctor hung. Hung for the crime of neglecting an Älskade, the crime of leaving Foolish’s wife to die- a wife he’d barely known.
Wasn’t he stupid? Mourning a wife he’d never known… Foolish hadn’t stayed the first night with them, not bothering to cement the marriage in bed. The looming threat of war had been all too pressing but not once in the past three years had anything happened, not once had the Sevilans done anything, not once had the rumours been true.
Foolish was beginning to understand why his brother had been so keen to advocate the marriage. Most men, when married, would not leave their wives for fool’s errands. Most men felt tied down, grounded, and would not chase boy’s games over their martial duties.
Yet, even married, Foolish had done nothing but play a boy’s game. He was such an idiot.
Now he knew why his advisors had always begged him to return home, always nagging when the news of Eret’s condition never changed. Always they were ‘ill’, never were they healthy. She never sent him letters, likely because the Mana Reflux was eating her alive.
He felt like the fool—no, he had become the very fool he’d pledged not to be.
Something dripped down his cheek. Checking the tent roof for a leak, should it be raining, he found it to be sunny and bright still, no holes in sight. Confused, Foolish lifted a clumsy hand to his cheek and found his vision was blurred. Another droplet of water rolled down his other cheek.
With a quiet breath, Foolish realised he was crying. He was crying and he’d drank all the whiskey.
Easing back against the wooden chair, he slumped in on himself. The empty bottle fell from his hand with a dull thud.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “If I could go back, I never would’ve left you,” And this, he vowed; sealing it in stone with the name he’d never once spoken aloud, “Eret.”
He passed out. He did not dream.
For the first time in years, the harsh glint of sunlight in his eyes did not wake him. He’d fallen asleep sitting upright, and he was mildly surprised to find he hadn’t fallen out of the small chair as he opened his eyes, expecting to see the mess he’d left his work tent in. Instead, he found his brother’s grinning face inches from his, eyes bright and cheery.
“Wakey, wakey, Foosh,” chuckled Dream. “You miss out on your beauty sleep last night?”
“I find it hard to sleep,” he answered on impulse, finding it hard to lie to his brother. Growing up, they’d confided in each other, whispering secrets through the dead of night; one of Foolish’s greatest regrets of growing up and moving out to his Grand Duchy was the fact he’d abandoned his brother in the process.
“Since when?” Asked his brother, voice tinging with concern. Foolish refocussed on his face, finding Dream’s entire head tilted in his customary ‘surprised’ lilt.
“Since—” he scratched at his arm, catching a glimpse of white out of the corner of his eye. Glancing down, Foolish went silent as he stared at the suit he’d worn on the day of his wedding. Looking up to his brother, who was now frowning, he found Dream dressed in the pristine suit he’d worn, every detail the same from the crooked collar he’d had to fix to the diamond cufflinks that sparkled in the light. Around them was the red carpeted room of the church he’d brooded in whilst waiting for the vows. “What day is it?”
“What?” Dream was startled into a laugh. “You must really be tired, brother. It’s the first of March – your wedding day.”
“With Eret?”
Dream blinked at him. “I’ve never heard you call them that. It’s always ‘Miss Mariil’ or ‘the Mariil Heir’. Are you feeling alright, Foolish?”
“I- It’s the year of the Acorn,” he urged.
“Yeah,” Dream nodded, offering him a hand up. Foolish stood, feeling familiar in the fact that he loomed over his brother. The military coat he reached for was gone, replaced by a lily white suit blazer, embroidered with the same flowers Eret’s dress would be. Back then, he’d wondered why he’d needed to wear such a thing, but now he realised it to be a matching statement to his wife’s clothing. “Do you want me to get you some water or something? You’re looking kind of pale.”
“It’s fine,” he cleared his throat, fiddling with the uncomfortable cufflinks. They were simple metal studs for now, soon to be replaced with the white quartz the Bride’s father would gift to him – a tradition of Ulik weddings. “I’m just a little put-off after falling asleep in a chair.”
“If you’re sure,” Dream shrugged, offering a bright smile. “I bet it’s because you’re nervous!”
In fact, Foolish was very nervous, but not about the thing that his brother believed him to be. What set him on edge was the fact that when he pinched himself, it hurt, and that he had certainly not been here five minutes ago. Instead, he’d last been three years in the future, mourning the loss of his wife – he’d already married her!
He’d never heard of things like this happening, though he knew Mana had mysterious ways of working. The words he’d uttered before passing out rung in his head, possibly the reason why he was here in the first place. Though, Foolish himself had never been known for his great Mana Usage. Perhaps something had happened with his wife before she passed? He wasn’t sure how much Mana would be required for the unheard of practice of time travelling, but he was sure it was something only a Mariil could hope to achieve.
With no way of telling whether or not this was real, Foolish needed to be cautious. He had to act cautiously. He needed to talk with Eret.
It felt most likely to be a dream of some sort, a desperate alcohol-induced fantasy, but Foolish had never had a good imagination. He'd never really looked back on this day with enough effort to remember what the stitches in his blazer looked and felt like. He'd never specifically recalled the vanilla scent that curled in his waiting room. Maybe he'd died and this was what his brain could conjure up in his final few minutes?
There was a sour taste in his mouth. In his own opinion, Foolish deserved a death worse than this. For him to have abandoned his wife and lost his entire reason for camping on the border without even truly meeting her, he felt ill. Why had he not invited her over at least once? Why had he never went to visit?
Dream was still ribbing him for being ‘nervous’ when the Priest came into the room. “Your Highness, Grand Duke,” the man bowed. “It is time for you to stand on the altar, Grand Duke. Your soon-to-be will be here soon.”
“Thank you,” Foolish nodded, watching the Priest excuse himself. Turning to Dream, he clasped his brother on the shoulder and grinned. “You better be ready to catch the bouquet. If I have to deal with you at my wedding, you need to have one soon.”
“Men don’t catch the flowers, Foolish,” Dream wheezed.
“Then you’ll need to marry the woman who does,” he taunted.
“As if,” his brother batted him away, pushing him towards the door. “C’mon, we need to get you in place.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going.”
They stepped into the corridor of the church. It was warm, with the sun glittering down through the large glass panes, fresh air swirling through the halls from an open window a few sills down. Each inch of the church was decorated in colourful glass, each window sill depicting a new story. It made sense – this was the Royal Church of the Ulik Empire. His parents had been married here, just as he was now. Since the Empire had been founded, the Rulers had all been wed here; a sign of tradition, honouring the old whilst upkeeping the new.
Large grey stones that shimmered white made up the majority of the larger-than-average church. In fact, as Foolish idled in the corridor, the world seemed so bright around him it was almost blinding.
“Foolish?” Dream asked, a few steps ahead of him.
“You go on, I need the toilet.” He waved his brother off, smirking off the rolling eyes.
“You always have the worst timing, brother,” Dream snorted, but walked off down the corridor nonetheless.
Turning in the opposite direction, only half-sure of where the laboratories where, Foolish followed the red carpet on the floor, meandering along the halls, staring at the painted glass as he went.
He was possibly halfway to his destination when he stumbled upon someone sitting in a window ledge, head tilted down into their chest, long white dress swirled around them.
Halting dead in the corridor, Foolish gaped at the person.
Long brown hair that shimmered in the sun was pulled up in an intricate plait, entwined with golden clips of olive branches – the House of Mariil’s symbol. A long, soft looking, silken dress swirled around them, fanning out over cold stone, with the person’s legs propped up at an odd angle, bent to rest on the stone ledge. White heels were propped up beside them, their bare feet likely chilled by the direct contact with the stone. They’d picked a nice sunny window, though Foolish was sure nothing would spare them from the chill of the church.
Arms folded over themself, they looked fragile. Thin, see-through lace gloves lapped up to their elbows, each inch of their dress decorated with golden white thread, picturing butterflies spawning from cocoons, flying towards the beautiful outstretched leaves of tulips and roses and lilies. The flowers seemed to sway towards the butterflies, each and every thread so intricate and delicately placed.
Even their expression was to be admired: brows softly curving to frame where bright eyes would embolden dark eyelashes, soft cherry-red lips not pinched in the slightest, skin pale yet so soft looking. Stunningly made earrings dangled from their ears, gold and crystals shimmering white peaking forth in a depiction of twin butterflies unwinding from twin cocoons.
“Eret,” he breathed, voice a whisper. Foolish stood, staring at them, unsure of what to do.
It surely wasn’t comfortable to be lying like that, neck drooped, back slouched.
“Eret,” he called, just a tad louder. When they didn’t stir, he stepped over, careful not to step on her dress, and cupped her shoulder. She jerked awake before he could even shake her.
Batting his hand away, she sat up fully, legs dropping from the cold stone to be swallowed up by the depths of the dress. Bright white eyes, the essence of House Mariil, glared up at him.
“Fuck,” she uttered, quite rudely curling her lip at him before she looked down. Regarding her intricate wedding dress with distaste strong enough to burn an unfeeling ghast, she got to her feet, standing only a few inches shorter than him. The wedding dress swirled around her, lapping against Foolish’s legs at her sudden movement. The cinched waist made her figure hourglass-like, small enough that one of Foolish’s hands could easily close around their middle.
“This must be some cruel demise,” Eret of Mariil scowled, meeting his eyes with a gaze more wrathful than anything Foolish had ever seen. “To be here of all days, after so long.”
“Eret,” he repeated, lost for words. His wife’s distress split him open like a creak, worry gushing forth, but there was nothing to be done when it seemed he was the cause of her distress.
“Don’t speak to me,” she lashed out, jaw tightening as soulless eyes gouged into his soul. “I could kill you now, although that might be suspicious.”
“I—” he cut himself off, eyes wide at the thought of this dainty person taking him down.
“What? Shouldn’t you be standing at the altar, or something?” Eret snapped, tongue sharper than the rumours of her said. They turned partly away from him, making to run a hand through her hair.
“Don’t ruin your hair,” he hurried to say, standing his guard when they whirled on him, face the picture of hate.
“Don’t tell me what to do, dear husband.” Their words stung, tone making it clear she was not in a good mood. “Funny how men always think they’re in the right – and how everyone agrees with them.”
Foolish was silent as Eret tugged at a pin, pulling it out to idle at the sharp metal of its end. Half of the intricate ensemble of their hair fell, brown locks flopping over one eye. “If I had left you for three years, the people would’ve called me a whore and a cheat, but when you go off on a glorified camping trip, it’s for the ‘good of the Empire’?”
Horrified, Foolish swallowed the saliva that welled in his mouth. His throat felt chokingly dry.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, staring straight at them to try and show her how sincere he was being. Eret did not once look over, intent on directing her glare down the corridor. “I never meant to neglect you.”
“Oh, this is marvellous,” they muttered. “I die and find a version of my godforsaken husband who wants to cry over me. Fucking ridiculous, I thought the afterlife was meant to be kind.”
“I am your husband,” he said, perhaps too sternly – Eret finally flicked her gaze over to glare at him, lips pulled tight in a snarl.
“Oh, is that so? I couldn’t tell when you were out licking a field.”
“The border is no simple field,” he defended, for even if he had realised the encampment was futile, Foolish was not prepared to let three years of his life be wasted.
“Now you really seem like him,” they groaned, pausing suddenly with their hand held aloft. Their expression shifted to one of surprise, then joy. “I don’t feel heavy—by the aether, I should’ve died sooner.”
“What?” He exclaimed, dismayed. “Eret—”
“Don’t address me as though you know me,” they dismissed him, turning to stalk down the corridor. They abandoned their heels, which Foolish picked up in an excuse to hurry after them. “I need to see what else my afterlife looks like.”
“Please wait,” he begged, following his wife with the grace of a bull. In the shimmering glass, the sight was akin to a fairy gliding away from a hulking troll.
“I wonder if there will be jam tarts at the buffet this time,” she mused, ignoring him perfectly well. Her stride was lighter than anything he’d ever seen, long legs stretching out under the wide dress to allow her an omnipresent value. “Although, seeing as you’re here, it seems death isn’t as nice as some preach.”
“You’re not dead!” He exclaimed, finally gathering the courage to step in front of them and halt them. “You die three years from now from Mana Reflux Syndrome, I know that, but right now, we haven’t even been married yet.”
“What?” They blanched, eyes narrowing. “You mean I have to do that all over again?”
Foolish watched as their skin flushed with colour, cheeks going pink as they brought shaking hands up to their chest.
“No,” they murmured, stumbling a step back. Their eyes were wide and afraid. “No, no, no, I can’t- I won’t! I’m not doing that again, I’m not choking on my own magick again!”
Gaping at her, Foolish was frozen with shock. Eret seemed to be reliving what she didn’t want to, breaths picking up as they continued to back away from him. Their steps dwindled in strength, body wobbling and swaying as they gasped and panted, lithe fingers curling in the front of their dress.
“I can’t!” They shrieked, legs giving out on them. Foolish lunged for them, catching them in time to stop them from meeting a harsh fall to the unforgiving floor. In his hold, they stilled, a quivering hand grasping at his white blazer.
“You’re alright, Eret,” he tried to calm them. “I know what not to do – we can do it better, this time. You won’t die.”
Eret slumped, head thunking against his broad shoulder. Her unsure breaths lapped against his neck, and when she spoke it was a whisper. “Why do you care?”
“I’m your husband,” he said, simple as. “I never should’ve left you the first time.”
“Fuck,” they breathed, voice collapsed to a gasp. “I- don’t wanna.”
Blinking at the sudden drop to less than formal words, Foolish rubbed at their back. “It’s alright, I’ll be here. We’ll be together now; what happened last time won’t happen again, I promise you, Eret.”
The corridor was silent. The sun sparkled. After a few moments, Eret pushed him away, getting to her feet.
“I suppose we’ll have to,” they sighed, sounding odd. Foolish looked up at them, slowly following them up.
“I’ll stay by your side,” he promised again, even though he knew the words couldn’t have been much of a reassurance.
Eret didn’t seem reassured at all. She looked away, chest heaving with a sigh. “I’m sure you will.”
“My lady!” A woman called, the sound of heels clicking off the stone of the back corridors echoing in the quiet.
Foolish handed Eret her heels and fled from the scene before Eret’s aide could find them. The last thing he wanted was to be scolded for seeing the bride before the wedding, least the marriage be called off. It wouldn't have been, seeing how this wedding was far too important for something like that, but being seen with a woman he wasn't supposed to know yet might've turned a few heads.
“I’ll see you at the altar,” he parted.
“I suppose you will,” Eret hummed, not looking at him. The sunlight swirled around her head, gleaming in her hair and bouncing off her eyes. If a lesser man had looked at them, in that moment, he would’ve collapsed at the halo that enshrined them. Foolish, almost that very man, felt his knees wobble as he strode back down the hall.
“My lady,” came the echoing wail a few moments later. “What happened to your hair, oh gods above!”