Gerald's eyelashes fluttered, dark and thick against his pale skin, before his eyes finally snapped open. They were the same striking, stormy gray she remembered from the battlefield, but currently, they were clouded with pain and confusion rather than the desperate love she had seen at her death.
He gasped, his hand instinctively flying to the wound on his side, only to wince as the herbal poultice stung his raw flesh.
"Easy," Marianne said, her voice dropping into the calm, authoritative tone she had used to command battalions—before she caught herself and softened it into the pitch of a startled village girl. "You've lost a lot of blood. Don't move."
Gerald blinked, his gaze focusing on her face. For a heartbeat, Marianne held her breath, her pulse thundering. Does he remember? Did the Book of Fate bring his soul back with his memories intact?
"Who..." He coughed, his voice raspy. "Who are you?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. There was no recognition in his eyes. No grief, no bond—just the wary look of a boy waking up to a stranger.
Marianne quickly looked down, busy-ing her hands with the hem of her apron to hide the flicker of pain in her expression. If he didn't remember, she couldn't risk telling him. In this life, she was a peasant and he was the crown prince of a rival nation. To speak of the future was to invite the executioner's axe.
"I'm Marianne," she murmured, keeping her eyes on the herbs. "I was just fetching water and found you half-drowned. You're lucky the current didn't take you further."
Gerald leaned back against a mossy stone, his breathing shallow. He looked down at his own tattered, muddy clothes and then back at her. "Thank you, Marianne. I... I owe you my life."
"What happened to you?" she asked, her curiosity finally winning over her caution. "You're dressed like a beggar, but your hands... they don't look like they've spent a day in the fields."
Gerald shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering toward the treeline as if checking for pursuit.
"I'm from the neighboring village," he said, the lie rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease that made Marianne want to laugh. "Just a traveler. I was coming to explore the inner kingdom, see the sights... but I ran into a group of local youths. Kids, really. They didn't like a stranger on their path. They took my coin and left me for dead."
Marianne stared at him, her brow twitching. Kids? The wounds she had just dressed were clean, deep punctures—the work of trained assassins or professional scouts, not village bullies. And the "neighboring village" didn't produce boys with his refined accent or that subtle, noble tilt of the chin.
He was hiding his identity just as she was hiding her past.
"Those must have been some very dangerous children," she said dryly, reaching for her water bucket.
Gerald managed a weak, sheepish smile. "Aethelgard is a rough place for a wanderer, it seems."
Marianne looked at the mark on his wrist—the faint, burnt-in glow of the Book of Fate. He didn't seem to notice it, or perhaps he thought it was just another scar. She realized then that while their fates were bound, she was the only one carrying the weight of the previous world.
Marianne turned to pick up the heavy wooden bucket, her mind already calculating the quickest route back to her shack. She needed to get away from him—being near Gerald was like leaning too close to a fire she had already been burned by.
"Wait," he called out, his voice stronger now, though still strained. He managed to stumble to his feet, swaying slightly as he clutched his bandaged side. "I realized... I haven't even given you my name. It's Gerald. Just Gerald."
Marianne stiffened, her back to him. I know, she thought bitterly. I know it better than my own. "Gerald," she repeated, forced and flat, as if tasting the name for the first time. "Well, 'Gerald,' you should stay by the river and rest. You can hardly stand."
But before she could protest, he was beside her. Even in his tattered rags and covered in dried mud, he moved with a grace that the slums of Aethelgard could never produce. He reached down, his fingers brushing hers as he took the handle of the heavy bucket from her grip.
"You saved my life, Marianne," he said, offering a lopsided, boyish grin that made her heart ache with a sudden, sharp familiarity. "The least a 'neighboring villager' can do is carry your water. Lead the way to your home."
"No, really—it's a hovel. You'll catch something just looking at it," Marianne protested, reaching for the bucket. But Gerald stepped back, shielding the water with his body, his eyes dancing with a playful stubbornness she hadn't seen in the weary prince of her past.
She had no choice but to lead him through the village.
As they entered the main dirt thoroughfare, the quiet atmosphere of the morning evaporated. The women scrubbing laundry stopped their rhythmic pounding. The old men smoking pipes on porches leaned forward, squinting through the haze.
"Lord above, Marianne!" Auntie Bess, the village gossip, shrieked from across the road. "Where did you find a specimen like that in the mud?"
Marianne felt the heat crawl up her neck. She kept her head down, walking faster, but Gerald seemed completely unfazed by the attention, nodding politely to the gawking neighbors as if he were parading through a royal court instead of a slum.
"Look at those eyes!" a group of girls whispered, loud enough for the entire street to hear. "He's far too pretty to be hanging around a scrawny thing like Freil. Did you kidnap him, Marianne?"
"Maybe she's finally found someone to fix that leaning roof of hers!" another mocked, followed by a chorus of cackles. "Better watch out, boy—she'll have you working the fields till your hands bleed!"
Marianne gritted her teeth, her fists clenched at her sides. In her previous life, she would have glared them into silence with a look that could stop a cavalry charge. Now, she was just a sixteen-year-old girl with a "handsome boy" in tow, enduring the relentless teasing of people who had no idea they were mocking the Crown Prince of the Dwelfinth Kingdom.
They reached the crooked, rotting door of her shack. Maya was sitting on the dirt step, drawing circles in the dust with a stick. She looked up, her jaw dropping as she saw the tall, golden-haired stranger carrying her sister's water.
"Marianne?" Maya squeaked, her eyes wide as dinner plates. "Did... did you buy a prince?"
"He's just a traveler, Maya," Marianne snapped, though her heart wasn't in it. She turned to Gerald, her expression hardening as she reached for the bucket. "We're here. Thank you. Now, you should really go before the neighbors start charging admission to stare at you."
Gerald looked at the shack—the holes in the thatch, the sagging beams, the sheer poverty of it—and his smile faltered, replaced by a look of profound, quiet gravity.