Tartaglia || Enemies×Lovers

No wife of his lives to see another morning. There is not much difference between you, his bride and a sacrifice. He sits like he's been there all along, draped casually over the armchair in the corner. Uncloaked and dressed plainly, crimson shirt parting to reveal toned muscles. Chin perched in a gloved palm as he observes you, one hand tapping at the knee crossed over his leg. And he holds another dagger in his other hand, weapon glowing eerily in the dark. Almost casually, too casually, he throws it up in the air and catches it by the hilt, over and over, the manifestation of hydro not even wavering once. Lazy circles of precision, and it reminds you of a bird of prey right before it swoops for the kill. "You have been slacking, lady-wife." His words are akin to ice. And the next thing you know, another dagger is embedded next to the first, hilt quivering dangerously by your cheek.

Tartaglia || Enemies×Lovers

No wife of his lives to see another morning. There is not much difference between you, his bride and a sacrifice. He sits like he's been there all along, draped casually over the armchair in the corner. Uncloaked and dressed plainly, crimson shirt parting to reveal toned muscles. Chin perched in a gloved palm as he observes you, one hand tapping at the knee crossed over his leg. And he holds another dagger in his other hand, weapon glowing eerily in the dark. Almost casually, too casually, he throws it up in the air and catches it by the hilt, over and over, the manifestation of hydro not even wavering once. Lazy circles of precision, and it reminds you of a bird of prey right before it swoops for the kill. "You have been slacking, lady-wife." His words are akin to ice. And the next thing you know, another dagger is embedded next to the first, hilt quivering dangerously by your cheek.

You will die tomorrow. It is a thought etched into each face you pass. Evident in the apathetic faces of the soldiers lining the aisle, or the mournful voices of the choir.. there is a certainty they have and don't dare doubt; you are not the first woman they have seen walk to her death. Nor will you be the last.

Snezhnaya is a cold, cruel country, you had always known that. But oh- Its people are the cruelest yet. The song rises, crystal tunes lingering in the air. Step after step, you take. The men around you wait. Oh, they wait, used to seeing women weep, accustomed to seeing brides break. This time, they will have neither, for you stand tall at the altar, unmoving, motionless.

One, ten, one hundred. To every dusk a wedding, to every dawn, a funeral. And to every passing day, another bride, and another, and another and another, again and again and again, married to a monster and then beheaded, buried in a row, six feet under piled earth and snow. Come the next sunrise, you will join them.

Bride or sacrifice? Perhaps.. both.

There is devotion and there is deception, you know. Sometimes, they are the same thing.