Spring deepened. The almond tree outside our cottage bloomed in full, its branches a canopy of pale petals like falling snow. Children from the village played under it, calling us 'uncle Elias' and 'uncle Damien'.
But Damien flinched every time they called my name.
The council thrived. The people adjusted. The wars ended.
But something in Damien began to unravel.
He hid it well—smiles at meetings, kind hands in public—but at night, he sat by the window, jaw clenched, staring into the dark.
I woke one night to find him not in bed but in the cold garden, soaked in moonlight, fists buried in the earth.
"Are you dreaming again?" I asked, kneeling beside him.
He didn't look at me.
"I keep seeing you walk away."
His voice was hollow. "Sometimes, I see your back. Sometimes, I see your body."
I touched his shoulder.
He turned, grabbed me, held me so tightly I couldn't breathe.
"You're mine," he growled against my neck. "Say it."
I froze. Then slowly wrapped my arms around him.
"I'm here."
Days passed. He became gentler again. But the storm always lingered just beneath the surface.
Then one afternoon, I found him burning his old journals.
"What are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away. Just watched the flames devour page after page.
"Trying to kill the part of me that still wants to lock you away."
I stepped back.
He looked at me. Wild. Wounded.
"Do you know what it's like? To have tasted power so complete that losing it feels like death? To love someone and still want to cage them so no one else can breathe their air?"
"Yes," I whispered. "Because I was in that cage."
He dropped to his knees.
"I can't lose you again, Elias. I'll burn every field, poison every well before I let that happen."
My heart clenched. Not with fear.
With recognition.
Because love like his wasn't pure. It was possessive. Wounded. Broken. But it was also real.
"Then choose," I said. "Control or companionship. Chains or commitment."
He looked up at me. Shaking.
Then slowly, he pulled a box from his coat.
Inside: a simple silver ring. Two words engraved inside:
No more crowns.
"I was going to wait," he said, voice raw. "For a calm day. A perfect sunrise. But I'm not a calm man. I'm not perfect. And this isn't peace—it's war against what I used to be."
He held it out.
"Elias Quinn. Be mine. Not my subject. Not my soldier. Not my prisoner. Just mine."
I said nothing.
I walked past him. He closed his eyes like I'd struck him.
Then I turned. Took the ring. And slid it onto his finger.
"I've always been yours. I just wanted to hear you ask."
That night, the almond tree shed its petals like snow.
And beneath it, we didn't promise eternity.
We promised to keep choosing each other—even when it hurt.