Resyusov

The people called them resyusov, twin flames, and they would burn until a noble death. 

The girl crept through the dark palace halls with silent footsteps, her gaze fixed upon the man that lay ahead. She hid within the shadows, and by the time he had noticed her, she had a hand around his mouth and was driving his back into the cold stone wall. 

“Where is it?” Ranyera demanded, holding out her hand as she removed the grip from the crown prince’s mouth. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied with a rather deceitful grin.

“My necklace, what’s he done with it?”

“Oh that,” the boy smirked as though it was something he had forgotten, “Yes, he still has that.”

“And where is he?”

“Oh you know,” the prince replied, shrugging, “Around.”

Rolling her eyes, Ranyera left him and found her way to the throne room. Quickly, she merged with the scattered crowds of aristocracy and royals both young and old gathered about the hall. She walked until she was poised a few feet from where he stood, eyes darting about the room and a sly grin pulling at his lips.

She watched him for a moment, considering how to best approach the young prince, before stepping forward. Ranyera had gotten three paces when she dropped down, stretching out a leg and in one fluid motion, knocked the prince from his feet.

With a cry, he went crashing toward the floor, prevented only by Ranyera’s hand around his wrist. Looking up in surprise, Achtimo smirked, twisting his hand and tearing himself from her hold. He moved to escape but before he was able, Ranyera caught him by the collar of his shirt, drawing him backward once again. With a hand around each of his wrists, Ranyera shot him a placable grin, “Give it back, moy tsaritsia.”

“I don’t have it,” he replied, lifting his chin in a very princely manner he knew did not suit him at all. 

“Mhm,” Ranyera nodded, feigning consideration, “Well then perhaps one of your siblings might have a clue,” then louder, “Prince Demisov! Lyonecheka! Princess Taisi—”

“No!” Achtimo cried, a brilliant panic flushing through his eyes. A hand clamped down around Ranyera’s mouth as she was tackled to the ground. 

Laughing, she looked up at him as the hand fell from her face and the young prince pushed himself off of her, failing to hide his grin. 

“Give it back, Achtimo.”

Reaching into his pocket, he handed her the necklace, and returning the piece to its place around her neck, Ranyera took Achtimo’s outstretched hand, letting him drag her to her feet. 

“How goes the gossip?” she inquired as a trifle of children sprinted past, giggling and screeching as they chased each other about the room. 

“Oh you know, decadent parties, scandalous affairs, possible Brünarian expansions near the eastern border, nothing very interesting. You?”

“No such luck,” she replied grimly, “Jaromil thought it a grand idea to wake me before dawn to run drills.”

This earned a knowing laugh, “Now imagine that and having to keep up a princely image.”

“Oh please, “ Ranyera snickered, “If you have any sort of image, it’s got a fraying canvas and funny little pictures drawn all over the portrait.”

Achtimo gave a guilty shrug, “I’ve got no need for anything beautiful. My brother will inherit the crown, and even if he doesn’t want it there are three more backups it has to get through before I ever have to worry about it reaching me.”

“Backups?” Ranyera remarked, nodding sagely, “I’ll be sure to tell them you said that.”

A familiar sly light flickered within his eyes as a grin spread across his face, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh but I would,” she challenged with a matching smirk, “Crown Prince Rurik, and the Backups. I’m sure they’d be very pleased.”

Achtimo was glaring at her, smirking, his lips moving to shape a silent word when it happened. 

The young prince and the orphan girl, the resyusov, were laughing when the king was murdered. 

No one saw the man at the doorway to the throne room until it was too late, and his axe was buried deep inside the king’s chest. 

For a moment, it was as if all sound had been sucked from the hall. Every eye fell to the dais where the queen stood beside her husband’s limp body. The woman opened her mouth and the silence was shattered. 

A moment later she was dead too.

Achtimo stood staring after the two crumpled corpses, eyes fixed to the spot as the room erupted into chaos. Some distant part of him knew that he would be next. He was standing nearest to the door, and he could guess well enough what this was. 

A hand closed around his wrist and Ranyera yanked him into the crowd, ducking beneath outstretched arms and stumbling past the masses of sprinting nobles. She dragged him to a hidden door that led out into the main hall, but a moment before she could pull him through, Achtimo regained his footing, holding strong against her grasp. 

“We need to go,” she cried, tearing at his arm.

“My siblings,” he gasped, turning back to the dias where he caught sight of the three heirs bent over the king and queen, royal blood staining their silken clothes. 

“They’re dead,” Ranyera shouted, still trying to get him to move. 

It was then that he saw it, the arrows that protruded from their chests, their necks, their skulls. Slowly, his gaze drifted toward the floor near the center of the room. There, half covered by the limp shape of a bloodstained nanny were the small bodies of his baby sisters.

A flood of nausea spread through his stomach, but he forced it down as he at last allowed Ranyera to drag him through the doorway. 

They sprinted down the hallway, the echoes of screaming soldiers and flying arrows biting at their heels.

Through the haze in his mind, Achtimo caught the flaccid face of a slumped body they passed. 

It was the crown prince.

He felt nearly certain he would pass out any moment now, but Ranyera pulled him onward. They were halfway to the stables when a figure burst from the shadows of a servant’s stairwell, hand closing hard around Ranyera’s mouth as he yanked the two back into darkness, bolting the door after them. 

“We must go,” the figure said firmly, urging them both forward. Looking up, Achtimo realized that it was Jaromil, the captain of the king’s guard who was leading them in their escape. 

The man steered them from the castle and out into the stables. Ranyera suggested the group take a trio of horses to hasten the journey, but Jaromil was quick to refuse, sure that the tracks would be far too noticeable. The captain did however, stop to grab a pack he had stashed in case of emergency, and with an army of soldiers just behind, the three disappeared into the woods. 

Achtimo woke to the sounds of metal clashing against metal, and a moment later, a distant cry echoed through the woods. In an instant Ranyera was at his side watching the treeline with wary eyes.

They had run well into the night, putting as much distance between the palace and themselves as they could manage. Eventually, after Achtimo had thrown up twice in shock and night had long since fallen, Jaromil had found them a cave to hide out in until morning before departing on watch.

“We really shouldn’t do this,” Achtimo muttered, recalling the captain’s warning against throwing themselves into a fight should one come lurking. 

“Agreed,” Ranyera replied, and the two took the swords the man had left them and started toward the noise. 

The resyusov moved silently through the woods, ducking in and out of low hanging foliage, familiar with each others’ movements, their tactics and strategies. They had been training together for years, and it was clear that Jaromil’s teachings had been proficient as they blended with the forest like shadows with the night sky.

As they drew closer, the sounds grew louder, clearer, and then, nothing. A final cry was uttered in a language unknown to Ranyera’s ears, but one that seemed to register as clear as day to Achtimo as a dark realization flushed over his features. 

They heard someone mounting a horse and a moment later, they were gone, a chorus of shouts fading into the eerie quiet of the forest. 

Slowly, Ranyera crept around the cluster of branches they had been hiding behind, Achtimo mirroring her steps. The two emerged into a small clearing, where a short slope led to an outcropping of rock at the bottom of a hill. There, etched in blurring darkness lay the shape of a man, a sword beside him, just out of reach, and beneath him, a growing pool of shimmering black. 

Blood. 

“Jaromil,” a voice whispered behind her, and Achtimo stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside the body. As Ranyera grew nearer, she too recognized the man, still alive, but just barely. 

The captain had been stabbed somewhere along his ribs, and all three knew that it was no matter of saving him, but merely the wait to watch him die. 

Achtimo was muttering something under his breath, a faded look taking hold in his eyes, as though for a moment, he did not exist within his body. At least this way he was unbound by any sort of grief or pain or sorrow. 

As Ranyera dropped down on Jaromil’s opposite side, the man shifted his attention toward her. His lips moved in a soundless procession of words, and after a moment, his voice came to follow. 

“The palace at Cristfall. Go.”

Ranyera offered a short nod, having nothing else she could think to say. 

They stayed there until he was dead. Then, with nothing more than a command to follow, they started walking once more. 

Ranyera knew Cristfall well, knew the people and the nobles, having served as a lady in waiting before coming to stay with Achtimo’s family. 

The path ahead was nothing wonderful, of course, but there was no denying that it was just a bit better than the one that lay behind. 

It took them three days to reach the palace at Cristfall, leaving them filthy, exhausted, and bruised by the time they were ushered into the throne room, to meet with the queen. Ranyera had a feeling they smelled quite badly too, given the manner in which the guards led them at a considerable distance. 

The queen’s eyes followed the two as they reached the end of the aisle, dropping into identical bows. As they rose, Ranyera was met with a broad smile. 

“You’ve returned.” The queen’s grin faded as her eyes drifted to Achtimo, and with a wave of her hand, she dismissed the guards. “And with the young prince.” A shadow passed through her eyes and she gave the slightest of nods, “Or rather, the young king.”

Achtimo did not respond, and Ranyera took it upon herself to interject. “Sanction, your majesty, that is all we ask.”

The queen’s gaze shifted between the two and after a moment, she nodded. “You are welcome to stay. However, the king shall need a new name, and a reason for being here.”

“Ahmadan, your majesty,” Achtimo replied, “That will be my name. I will be a farmer from the west. Ranyera will be my cousin.”

“I’m here at your request,” Ranyera added, “To serve as one of your ladies in waiting.”

The queen offered a warm smile, “Yes, I think that shall work.” She gave them a wave, “Now go, I shall see you here for tomorrow morning’s social meeting.”

The two thanked the queen and turned away, into the halls that would shape their new lives. 

It was hardly pleasant at first, fearing every potential slip in their words, every possible mistake in any story they told, but soon it got better. The resyusov learned to lie, learned to hide. They learned to tell the same stories, to spin the same memories, altered and changed from the ones that were real. They learned to make acquaintances, though they decided early on never to risk making friends. It left them alone most of the time, but it hardly mattered. They had each other. That was all they cared about now.

“Any stories?” Ranyera inquired one morning as she found Achtimo once more in the throne room, her head buzzing from a morning full of conversing with the other nobles. 

“The Duke of Alighnton was telling a story about the time his dog ate an entire week’s worth of meat in two hours.”

“Oh,” she mused with a grin, “Well I’ll be sure to check that one out. Anything else?”

“Negative,” Achtimo sighed, “Alas, it’s been a boring morning on my end. You?”

“I do believe I overheard Lady Terimann recounting the story of her horse accident for the seventy sixth time,” she smirked, “You know, in case you wanted to hear it again.”

“Shockingly,” he replied, “I do not.”

“Oh,” Ranyera pressed on sarcastically, “But it’s just such an interesting—”

“Stop,” Achtimo interjected, all humor gone from his face in an instant, his sights fixed somewhere over her shoulder. 

“What?” she laughed, sure that he was playing some sort of trick. Then, following his gaze, she spotted it. 

“They’re here,” she whispered. 

That was the last thing anyone said before the roof, walls, and windows all imploded. 

Ranyera woke on her back, with the echo of muffled shouts in her ears. Dust and smoke caught in her throat and she tried to cough it away. Before she could, however, a firm hand closed around her mouth, muting the sound.

Jolting upward, Ranyera took hold of her assailant’s wrist, preparing to break the person’s arm in half, when she looked up and saw the face the hand belonged to. 

Achtimo pressed a finger to his lips and silently nodded toward something ahead. 

They were hiding beneath a patch of stoney rubble, waiting in the ruins of another throne. Through the slits in gaps in the debris, Ranyera could see a group of cowering nobles, assembled on their knees, heads bent downward, many crying, muttering final prayers. Before them, stalking them like wolves before the slaughter, was a group of men, each one adorned in the same blue brocade. 

Brünarians.

“Is anyone going to tell me where our little prince is?” one of the men, the commander, Ranyera assumed, demanded in a ragged voice. There was no response. 

With a nod, the man turned on the first in the line, lifting his sword and slitting a thick red line across the girl’s throat. 

Ranyera watched in horror as her limp form tumbled forward, hitting the ground with a sickening thump.

A cry went up from the prisoners, though no one dared move. The commander was laughing as he reviewed the nobles once more. Then, with a vile grin, he repeated his question from before. “Does anyone know where the boy might be?”

There was quiet for a long time, and Ranyera was sure the commander was about to kill someone else when one of the dukes lifted a hand. 

“There,” the man said in a quivering voice, “He is hiding right there.” 

A chill flooded Ranyera’s veins as she prepared herself to run, but she was already too late. Strong hands closed around her arms, a matching pair tearing Achtimo from the same spot, nails digging into flesh as they were dragged before the commander. 

“Ah,” the man observed, smiling, “Very good.” Then, to one of his men, “Kill them all.”

“No!” Achtimo cried, but the nobles were already dead. 

The commander was shaking his head as he looked upon him with disdain. “My young prince. You were much harder to acquire than I had anticipated.”

Achtimo did not reply, merely glared back at the man and spat at his feet. 

The commander chuckled, then, “Kill him.”

Ranyera slammed her heel into the knee of the man restraining her, lunging on the soldier raising his sword against Achtimo. They slammed into the ground as she struck the blade from his hand. Behind them, Achtimo had managed to replicate Ranyera’s trick and was making an impressive attempt at escape. 

Ranyera grabbed the soldier’s fallen sword and swung to her feet, whirling on the commander, who faced her with a smile.

“Let him go,” she seethed, the point of her sword held even with the man’s throat. His grin grew wider and gave a single nod. 

“Very well,” he said, “He’s all yours.”

Ranyera stilled at the delight on his face, and keeping the blade held high, she slowly turned around. 

There, amongst the rubble on the ground was the body of the boy she had known for the only part of her life that had ever really mattered. His arms, his hands, his shoulder, and a few feet away, sitting in the dust like one of the broken stones, was his head, separated from the neck. 

A scream escaped her throat, a sound unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was worse than the queen’s scream when her husband lay dying, it was worse than any of the screams she had heard in her trek to to the place where everything she knew, and the last person alive that she loved, had been taken from her. 

What happened next Ranyera only remembered in bits, but when it was all done she knew it was her doing. The Brünarian soldiers lay in pieces along the rubble, and the commander . . . the commander had been laughing when he died, victory filling his cold, cruel eyes. She had taken those eyes, carved them from his head and smashed them against the blades of his own men. 

The resyusov was dead, and there was nothing that could stop the monster that little orphan girl had become.