Nightingale

Part Two || Chapter V

Part Two

The Rise of Empress Nightingale

Dawn brings a crown from the heavens above. The sun smiles upon the earth, igniting the white marble stone of the lavish castle in oranges, red, and yellow. And through the large bedroom windows, which lead towards a balcony, Beowulf could see the ever-changing sky.

The imperial general was sat upright in his bed, the lower half of his nude body covered by the soft white sheets of his bed. From the early rays of the sunrise, his gold orbs drift to the body right next to him. There, (Y/N) laid on her side. Her (h/c) hair was in ripples across the pillow beneath her head. Her (e/c) eyes were shut and her breathing was steady. She was asleep.

His chest was heavy and his heart ached with each passing beat. Beowulf combs his fingers through his white tresses, slicking them back with a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He tortured himself with his own thoughts. Why did he do this? What was the point of it all? He had tangled himself with the wife of a fallen companion and a now engaged woman. In her search for comfort, Beowulf was selfish. Sleeping with (Y/N), his best friend, of all things?

He couldn't erase the memories of the previous night. He couldn't erase the feeling of her lips against his own or upon his brown skin. His fingers still tingled from each gentle stroke across her bare (s/c) skin or through her hair. Oh, and how the delicious moans that fell from her lips always brought him near ecstasy.

A love story should be one of happiness and one that ends with such happiness. And yet all it has done was bring him misery. So many regrets filled Beowulf's mind; not just sleeping with (Y/N), but even before then. He should have kept her safe away from the emperor. And he should have kept her away from Atticus. He should have married her first, he should have stayed by her side and not left to fight for Maodria, and he should have never become general.

Love made him into a fool, a soul in woe. He waited for (Y/N) for years, never once acting upon such feelings for her. He held his tongue, but his heart had beaten for her. And it still did...

Why did he stay quiet for so many years? Had he known it would bring him such misery, he wouldn't have done so. His life wasn't a love story, it was a story of unrequited love. He had waited for years for her, and yet the emperor so easily took her away. He didn't want to fall into the same mistake of the past. And so he fought back. His jealousy wrought him to act in such a manner.

When (Y/N) needed emotional stability, he pushed his love upon her. It was selfish. There was no denying it. Hurt had damaged them both, but Beowulf was the one who allowed it to consume him entirely.

His hand drifts to (Y/N), and he slicks his fingers through her hair, adoring the softness of her locks. He combs it back, to gaze closely at her sleeping face. She looked at peace for the first time since the announcement of her engagement to the emperor.

Beowulf frowns, his gold eyes becoming teary. Yet he blinks them away. Does he even have a right to cry? To allow the pain of his heartache wielded inside him to finally flow away? All throughout the time of the war, he was a weapon, and that's all he was destined to be. He's a weapon, and weapons don't weep.

"I'm sorry," Beowulf mutters to the slumbering young woman, "You deserve a better life than this, something I wish I could've given you. And yet, I don't want to let you go. I can't make you happy, yet all I think about is you and I don't want to be alone."

Laying back down on his bed, Beowulf lays on his side to face (Y/N). His strong arms wrap around (Y/N)'s smaller frame. He brings her close and his lips skim across her forehead in a gentle kiss. His eyes closed and his brows furrowed. "Don't.." Beowulf begs, "Don't you break my heart anymore, (Y/N)..."