You let it die

7. Juni 1523
2 am,
Københavnsslot, Danmark

A heart of gold but it lost its pride

He had always hated the silverish light of the full moon on the darkblue sky at midnight.
It robbed everything that was mysterious away, it stole the beauty of the stars and it hid the life of every creature with a veil of its dead light.
He hated the moon, it destroyed the darkness of the night that always lulled him. That hid him away from hungry eyes of the one that wanted to consume him.
That could hide him away from the hurt and sad eyes of the one he loved.
This night wasn't quiet.
It wasn't peaceful.

His heart hurt.
There were words screamed at him, insults, what did they mean, another language he may had been able to understand years ago. Why did they broke his heart like that? Why did they cut him so deep? Why? Why did it have to end like this?

His body hurt.

The abuse always left bruises on his delicate body. Dirty blood on his pale skin, dark blue marks and scanned wounds. He wondered if everyone would ever care how he suffered, how broken he was. He wondered when he had broken on the inside and the outside. When he had lost all of his dignity. His pride. Where was all his strenght gone? Why was he that broken ? Why didn't he stand up against him? Times had changed. He was at the bottom of their hierachy.

He was conflicted.

Why, why was it like that? Why was he that weak? How could he get his colour back – his colour, his shine. His eyes that could tell so many norse fairytales…they were of a dull grey instead of a clear amethyst blue. Which of them would heal his wounds? Would they ever scarred up, those deep cuts in his heart?

He was torn between them.

How could he ever be able to stay?
He loved Berwald with all his heart, his soul, even with his broken body. He was loved by him, he knew it, he felt it in every gentle touch, no matter if he was the one that laid all bloody on the ground and had to be fixed by the Norwegian or vice versa. His heart, his wounded and hurt and broken heart, it was healed by his gazes, his few words, his featherlight kisses. How could he deny his wish to flee? His wish for independence? Because of his love he could stand through every abuse.

He had a little brother, the youngest of all of them, six years by appereance. The child was innocent and fragile and soft to touch in heart and body. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he left him behind. Berwald said he should simply take him with him. But there was no 'simple way' in the life of a nation. The Swede didn't know it because he was still proud and wore his head up like a man should. But Lukas had no pride anymore. It was all gone because a certain person had robbed it away along with his dignity and innocence. But he was the second reason why Lukas could never leave this cursed castle – he couldn't let him fall in insanity. Insanity. It wasn't Mathias fault. It was the fault of this god damned might that was in his hands. Lukas was a puppet, Emil was a puppet, Tino was a puppet, yes, even Berwald was a puppet but a puppet that was about to cut the strings. And he would also cut Lukas' strings if he would just let him. But Lukas couldn't. He couldn't.
And he hated himself for it.

Beautiful veins and bloodshot eyes

Berwald had never realised how thin Lukas really was, even when he laid completely bare in front of him. Maybe it had been the veil of love in front of his seablue eyes that had hidden the illness of the Norwegian. Though he had felt the bones under his skin every time he had grazed his fingers over the flesh of his arms, his chest and hips. What he had seen were the bruises, blue and green and red, so colourful. He had been a painting, a painting of pain and abuse, created in the cruellest way. What a beautiful, destructive work. It had cut his heart, a heart that seemed hard every time he spoke to their self-declared king. He had hated it. He still hated it.
To share him. Oh no, what a way of thinking! He had sworn to cherish him but the doors to Lukas' heart were closed. He had been turned into a doll…It was a curse but the Swede had sworn to crush it. He'd free him. If only he would accomplish…If only he would let him.
He hated to see him like this, shivering, trembling though he had covered him in blankets and in his own fur-coat…He hated to see those orbs that were like gems to him – priceless – reddened by the tears he had shed. He hated to see the veins that weren't hidden by his skin – his sensitive, snowy white skin – so hurt, so hurt, so hurt. Why couldn't he make his pain his own?
Maybe because his own pain was enough – because his body was scarred as well.
Maybe because his heart was tired of the pain – it slowly turned cold like ice and hard like a stone.
Maybe because his soul was ripped apart and the only one that would be able to heal him shoved him away again and again.
Maybe because he was tired of waiting. And he was tired. Tired of talking to him about his plan, again and again, tired of trying to convince him to come with them.
Who were 'them'?
Berwald had not chosen Tino. But he knew the boy would surely reach the age in which Mathias would do the same to him. The same he did to Lukas. And since he had been the one to find him as a child in the woods, Tino was like a little brother to him. A person he had to take care of.
Now, if he had also someone that he saw as a person he had to protect and another person he loved over everything, you'll ask yourself why he didn't understand Lukas' situation.
Couldn't he see the despair in these dull eyes? Couldn't he understand why Lukas preferred to sleep in the room he shared with his little brother? Couldn't he understand that Emil who was nothing more than a child needed the protection of his brother?
Oh well. Berwald saw everything, he heard everything and he understood everything.
But he didn't get that Lukas also protected him and them, on his very own way.
He couldn't take him as the person he had been in the past.
The warrior, the strongest of them, a Viking like no one else with so much power.
By now the power was gone or so it seemed to the tall blonde man.
But it wasn't gone.
Lukas seemed so powerless. He seemed so broken with his transparent skin, the bruises on his hips and his arms, everywhere, the bite-marks on his neck, the dried blood. Where was this power?
In his heart.
Berwald didn't know it but Lukas gave everything to be their shield.
The Swede might be their sword against the Dane. He might be the weapon but he was too aggressive. He still thought that it was the best thing to fight, that the attack was the best protection.
But it wasn't. Lukas knew the only way to keep Mathias away from slaughtering and killing like the maniac he was. No one else did. Lukas was the one that whispered reassuring words to him. Lukas was the one that took all the pain. He was the one that shed all the tears, alone, in a locked chamber where he was kept when the days were especially dark. Lukas was the only one that was loved by Mathias.
Yes, it was a strange kind of love. He was loved in the most wicked way there was.
Yes, it was a destructive love and maybe it was one-sited too.
But Mathias had always loved Lukas. And Lukas had – secretly – adored him from the depths of his heart. He knew him better than everyone else. Better than Berwald, better than Tino and also better than himself. He knew it was an illness.
And Berwald hated him for this. He hated how Lukas defended Mathias.
He hated it. He couldn't believe it.
He misunderstood the caring of him, the self-destruction, and all those selfless actions as love. As love to the one that terrorised them all.