Beruani. Based on this head canon. I’ll probably build on this later.

It is was a short limerick they learned when they were younger back at the village. By this time, he had forgotten most of the verse. One particular phrase was permanently engraved in his memory, as if the very words cemented his fate from the very beginning.

Blood of my blood.

His reflection is cracked by the facets of the crystals. She sleeps, and he can hardly tell if it’s peaceful.

If she feels pain. 

If she can hear his tearful confession. 

Bertholdt’s hand is trembling when he lifts it closer to his face. The knife burns across the length of his palm, blood seeping through the fold of the cut. He stares at the wound, determined to leave the remainder of his life in her hands. 

Blood of my blood.

He presses his palm to the surface and the crystal shatters.