Ruination of the Roselus
The Frays of Love & War
A mythic short story of a god and a warrior, bound by lust, love, and betrayal.
Beiren believed that victory would heal his mind. He knew Roselle could never provide solace for her betrayal; he had spent the nights of many years writhing to overcome his grief. His war against her newfound lover was absolution, and the sword, his gavel of justice. The oddity in the direction of his hatred was that it was toward another who bore his face, save for the slight differences a mortal eye could never notice. He learned he was of a different world—a god with the face of a man.
Beiren seethed with hatred remembering Roselle’s words when he learned of their affair—a mortal could not satisfy the quench of her thirst. Her mortal love was only a king—not a god. Such a station was low in the eyes of Roselle when she learned of such that was greater.
But woe to that woman now, Beiren thought as he made his way closer to the wounded god, oozing colors Roselle could never have imagined possible. He had proved himself better at a skill pleasure never troubles itself to learn—war and killing. Beiren blotted out the sun as he drifted over his doppelgänger, a shadow swallowing him in shade. Paralyzed by defeat, the god awaited Beiren’s final strike of fatal judgement.
Roselle had fled the bloody battlefield when she realized her god-lover could not repel her former lover’s armies on the path of vengeance. Baerwyth, the world god, felt his powers could provide the edge to his forces defeating Beiren and prove himself a god among the gods. Some of his heavenly rivals refused to be unseated by the beautiful Baerwyth and his succubus, and so they aided the lesser mortal in secret.
The gods were surprised of Baerwyth’s decision to fight in defense of his femme fatale. He’d been no stranger to wooing the women of all worlds, never caring for their cries at his casual departures, but Roselle had somehow chained him—capturing his devotion. It was a strange power to the gods—as they viewed Roselle as nothing more than a concubine—one that Baerwyth was dangerously vulnerable to.
And so, the god-lover charged into battle against the betrayed Beiren.
As a god, he thought men should stand aside to his lordly claims. Were not all their wives under the higher worlds’ sovereignty? Beiren’s indignation toward the gods alone justified Baerwyth in killing him.
How dare he defy my want, Baerwyth said to himself.
Baerwyth decreed Beiren to be the villain and his armies a force of demonic vice. Baerwyth’s force (as all the gods were given) cared not for Roselle, nor the others of Baerwyth’s conquests, but they shared a disdain for humanity and sought any chance to exercise violence upon it. Their hatred for Beiren and his kind was amplified since his army had taken the veilroad and crossed into their world. Little did they know that high powers, similar to theirs, worked against them with their foe.
Baerwyth fought as best as he could to defend the world he ruled and the Roselle that graced its bosom.
But when Baerwyth’s favor turned and the warriors of Beiren encircled him, Roselle abandoned the plain and the world that fought because of her. She refused to die under Beiren’s rage or for Baerwyth’s devotion. Her lover learned the truth in the last moments of his long unnatural life—she cared for nothing save herself. On the Roselus fields named after the woman he loved, Baerwyth bled out as Beiren swung his sword toward neck.
The god remembered a time when Roselle’s affection felt certain. She appeared so pure—not like any he’d ever known.
“—to the ends of the worlds,” she had said, swearing all her fidelity to Baerwyth in their most intimate moments. But now, she was gone, leaving so much destruction stricken for her sake. Baerwyth’s brow, heavy with the weight of blood and sweat, looked for her across the Roselus of dismembered souls, hearing the lamentations of young soldiers crying for the mothers they never knew (for they were conscripted at birth). He could not see whether she was among the dead or the living but his heart knew she was the darkness that defined her distance. Then, his heart let her go.
His eyes closed to the blackness behind them and waited for fate to finish him.
Beiren’s sword cut through its mark, and Baerwyth’s head fell from its body. The victor stared at the deceased, unsure of what to do next. He stood there, half satiated, half void. Vengeance was not fulfilled. His kill-lust dissipated as a singe of pain enter his backside. Looking down, the tip of an arrow showed through his chest armor followed by two more that whirred through him beneath it. He swirled about, quickened by instinct. Skirmishes still waged. His glazed eyes could not see his attacker, but he knew someone had avenged his world’s lord.
He broke the arrowheads in a fit of rage, stumbling forward without a sense of direction. The severity of his wounds overtook his adrenaline and he collapsed a few steps beyond where his nemesis lay. He looked back at Baerwyth’s corpse, the bloodshot stare of his eyes piercing into Beiren’s dying soul. He heard the birds cawing overhead excited for the flesh they’d soon devour. His eyesight faded into glowing blurs of carcasses scattered about as he faintly searched for his once-betrothed who gave herself to the dead god.
I die, yet my anger lives. Where is the flower that withered my heart?
His thoughts flickered like a weakened flame. Death overpowered his body, but fury prolonged his mind. Beiren hated Roselle. He longed to kill her for what she had done.
As Beiren’s heart slowed to a soft, broken rhythm, he remembered the crystal pendant in his armor; the one that could see what others could not. Surely, the power could heal his eyes if only for a glimpse of what he longed to know—did she live? His mind debated whether he wanted to see her without the strength to carry out his revenge, but he could not let death steal his knowing. He whispered the three words Roselle instructed him when she gifted the strange pendant to him so many moons ago. So much about her was a mystery—mysteries he never questioned. He concentrated into the pendant’s prismatic depths, awaiting its revelation.
A vision came to his sight—Roselle, alight and free, standing upon a great golden hill on the far reaches of the Roselus, overlooking the battle’s carnage. He moved the pendant away from his eyes, briefly healed, and fixated on a highland blur that came into focus in the distance. It was the very hill from the vision. The pendant did not lie, for a frail shadow stood in the place it envisioned—wind coursing through long, dark hair. Beiren cried out with a shout, unable to move. He slammed the pendant on the ground and crushed it with the hilt of his sword. Roselle was alive. A burst of energy flooded his body and he began crawling the long distance to the far hill where she stood, leaving a trail of blood behind him. But his efforts were in vain. Death came and the crawl ceased.
At the end of the Roselus, Roselle towered over the flowery plain in the glory of an easterly wind, looking at the war whose victor would have claimed her the prize—one to love or one to kill. The will of gods and men meant nothing to her. She felt no desire to descend the hill and learn of their wellbeing. Instead, she uncovered a pendant of her own, different than the one she had gifted Beiren—and more powerful. A pendant whose eyes looked into the depths of her own soul. She looked into herself and saw herself—a rose, resurrected, ready for the next season of souls.
An audio-visual version is in development, complete with narration, soundscape, and art. But first—this is how it was written. The words before the voices.
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Ruination of the Roselus is a standalone release in a growing archive of mythic tragedies, short stories, and dark epics. Subscribe to support The Story Renegade.