Chapter Text
The sun had yet to rise.
Berwald was always awake before its light reached the earth.
Mornings were his favorite time of the day, for they were one of the few instances of complete peace for him. It was barely an hour of absolute silence where not even the birds were out there singing, and while he loved their chirps and whistles, he needed that peace.
Things like peace and playtime were a luxury now that he was no longer a child. He wasn't even a fresh adult; his sixteenth birthday had long passed and he was still with no wife and no children of his own, but that's how he wanted things to be despite the constant nagging of the elderly women who kept wanting to introduce their daughters to him. He didn't want a wife or a family, he was content as he was.
Work was tough and his responsibilities were harsh and demanding—which was the same for everyone else in their small village—, but he was happy
As happy as a simple village man could be with his inexpressive face and with an annoying, spiky-haired neighbour always asking what he was thinking about, to which he would only answer with a grunt or two.
He never thought about much, though he had to admit his mind was very loud, but also organized. It was mostly about his everyday life, what he would make for dinner, what would Sunday's mass be like, and what could he do to be a good and happy man. That was something he was sure achieved by now, but...
He still felt like something was missing, and only in the morning that feeling could vanish amidst the clouds above him when he picked up his axe and marched towards the forest to pick up wood for the day.
Yes, the clouds in the sky, covering the far away mountains in their blueish white. They were the only company he needed. Only the clouds knew what was on his mind and why, despite not needing the wood, everyday without fail he collected some more.
Today was no different and like a routine that had been engraved in his flesh, he grabbed the axe, his leather boots and set off, gently closing the wooden door so it wouldn't creak on his way out.
When he breathed in the refreshing air, he almost smiled. This silence and serenity made his mind go quiet as well. The grass beneath his boots barely made sound when stepped on and as he made his way into the forest, it was as he abandoned his human life with each step, like a man tearing off his earthly flesh to become one with nature. It was freeing and he needed that when his stuffy and exhausting life kept suffocating him with its smell of incense and myrrh.
Unlike the smoky churches and the cozy yet small wood houses, the scent of the forest was fresh and made him feel clean.
Just like any other day, he walked the very same path of barely overgrown grass and flowers that sprouted like small indications of the correct way until he could catch the sound of a hidden and faraway waterfall. Then, he left his coat hanging from the very same branch he used every morning and he looked at the tree stump that he used to cut wood. Indeed, on top of it there laid a single piece of cut wood, one he had placed beforehand so he could go straight to cutting it.
He liked how this routine was never broken. It was rhythmic and silent, it was his very own secret and his escape. These were his mornings of solitude and peace.
It was calm.
He knew what to do and what would happen.
He knew who would be there.
Berwald raised the axe and some faint rays of peeking sun were reflected on its iron, and he waited a second to aim at the piece of wood.
Then, he waited another to once again breathe in the purity.
And when the third second was about to pass, he finally swung the axe down with a fast and rough movement, fitting a man like him.
Clang!
The wood was split, he thought, but before he could check if that was the case, he heard the sound of clapping of hands, like any other day.
"Magnificent," the person said with a soft and monotonous voice. It was like ice in a way, or maybe falling snow—ethereal and calm.
Berwald knew who it was, he didn't even need to look at the spot where he usually stood, just below a leafy tree that provided enough shadow to hid his whole body. Instead, he looked at the half-cut piece of wood and he sighed, just now noticing the thin layer of sarcasm in the other's voice.
"... What are you doing here?" Berwald asked, his grip tightening while he inspected his failed work. He had to remove the axe from the piece of wood, since he didn't use enough force to split it in two.
"What I always do: ask a single question to you," the other said, walking into the sun's gentle embrace.
The sun which loved the questioner and to whom the questioner would assign godhood in turn.
His foot steps were light and his white robes—white like clouds, not like snow—fluttered as he moved, giving him the illusion that he wasn't human and was instead one of the many blasphemous creatures he talked about, but Berwald didn't move. Not even when he capriciously pushed the piece of wood to the ground so he could sit on the tree stump, directly in front of him, and then placed a delicate hand on Berwald's shoulder, tapping it softly to make the righteous man finally look at him and his familiar face.
And when he did, his rosy lips rose gently in an tender yet imperceptible smile, his beautiful features shining under the dawn. Berwald wondered if this was how angels looked, with snow-white skin and purplish blue eyes that hid behind long, blond eyelashes. The questioner was gorgeous as he always was, and his words were, again, the same he pronounced every morning.
Outrageous words that reminded Berwald that this was no angel.
"Will you be betrothed to me?"
No, he was not an angel. He was a demonic being.
A pagan.