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A Marriage of State	By : Niko Category: +G to L > Kyou Kara Maou Views: 2727 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any rights to its story, characters or plot. I make no money from this.

Chapter List
- 11
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Chapter Eleven
Wolfram’s steel echoed off that of the Big Cimarron soldier’s, candle light flickering off the shine of the sword’s blade. He parried and thrust, catching the armored man off guard before piercing through him with a hard jab to his gut, pulling out quickly to slice at the weak-spot above the chest plate. The soldier fell with a weak gurgle, blood rising from his throat as he struck his knees against the marble tile and slumped lifeless on his side.
There would be more.
Wolfram ran as fast as his legs would carry, tearing down the halls with his sword extended beside him, ready to cut down any who got in his way as he sought his husband in the chaos and commotion. He ran into three more enemy soldiers and gave a loud cry of battle as he charged and swung, remembering the lessons his brother had given him, trying to end it all quickly and leave him the strength to push further on. A lucky strike caught him in the left arm, slicing his flesh with a burning flash of pain. He cut them down with five more slashes, not caring to pause long enough to make sure they were dead in his haste to simply continue un-encumbered.
He found Alfgeir in the company of Sir Bersi Veleif and a small regiment of their own guard, both men wiping blood from their swords with a mixed pile of soldiers in khaki and red laying in motionless heaps on the floor.
“Alfie!”
Alfgeir looked over, relief washing over him as he stepped over and at times on the bodies in his way. “You’re hurt.”
“There’s no time. Your father is dead; you’re king now. We have to get you out of here!” Wolfram did not care that he had said the words without pity or feeling. The time for such sentiments was hours in their future and miles away from a castle surely falling into the enemy’s hands.
Alfgeir wrapped an arm around him quickly, pressing his husband’s forehead to his chest as his bent a kiss to the crown of his head. “We can make a stand here.”
“No!” Wolfram pushed away from him, challenging him with his stare. “Your people are going to need you when this is over! Leave the soldiers to make a stand but think of yourself for once!”
“Sir, there may still be time to retreat. The back gates are not brightly lit, we could escape into the darkness if we hurry.”
The prince-now-king looked between his husband and advisor, breath heavy with the weight of his decision.
Wolfram grabbed his sleeve and pulled. “Now, Alfie!” he ordered, not strong enough to force him but willing enough to try.
Alfgeir nodded at length, pointing towards the doors with his sword. “Men, secure the route to the back gates!”
The soldier’s marched past, spreading out to cover their escape. Screams of death and the clash of metal rang out through the dusk in all directions, beckoning them into the quiet depths of servant passages where the scramble of self preservation had left them empty. Wolfram took the lead, looking around each corner as they advanced, ignoring the steady stream of blood running down his arm.
“Once we reach the back gates we can wait in the forest. There will be civilians in refuge there as well. Seeing you will be the inspiration they need to fight back against these Big Cimarron bastards,” Bersi said, looking behind them as they traveled.
Alfgeir gave a short grunt of approval. “It will take time. But we will persevere.”
“Quiet.” Wolfram peeked around the corner leading into the scullery. A Cimarron soldier stood there, unaware and unbothered by the carnage elsewhere. He picked at plates and eyed goblets. Wolfram pointed his sword forward, creeping up towards him while his party waited.
As Wolfram readied his first strike, four Cimarron soldiers came around through the main entrance, spotting him with shouts as the unaware soldier leapt into defensive action. The mazoku sliced through his arm, whirling around to catch his blade against another opponent’s, holding them off with the strength of his right arm where the left was slick and useless.
The first stab of metal went through his back, the second his stomach. When the third sword ran through the junction of his shoulder and left breast, Wolfram gave an enraged growl, running his attacker through with the strength of his will more so than his body which trembled and bled. He was confused for a moment seeing all the soldiers dead, not remembering more than two of their deaths by his own sword. Alfgeir’s strong arms lifted him up off his shaking legs and cradled him against his chest as they ran from the scene, back gates not so far.
“Don’t leave me now.”
Wolfram let his head rest against his shoulder, hands holding down firm on the fast flow of blood from his own gut.
Outside night was falling, the twinkle of stars above masked by the blaze of flames all around. Bersi gasped at the horror befalling their kingdom as Alfgeir pressed on, the gates within his sights down the long, dark garden path.
There were so many soldiers. Behind the gates, on the castle walls, lining the inner square with swords and arrows ready. In the middle their general stood, sick smile like the twisted grin of a jack-o-lantern. “Leaving so soon?”
Alfeir’s eyes grew thin and narrow. “Whatever it is you think this will achieve, you’re wrong.”
The general smirked, long, thick sword laying across his palm as he approached. “You call that begging for your life? I’m sure even a barbarian like you can do better than that.”
Wolfram tugged on Alfgeir’s beard, leaving streaks of blood against the already red hairs.
The king looked down at him, smiling gently. “I would have loved you.”
“Don’t say goodbye, you idiot.”
Kneeling, Alfgeir laid Wolfram on the ground, as gentle as he knew how to be as the mazoku whimpered through clenched teeth at the pain. He ran his large, rough knuckles against his cheek, brushing bloody bangs from his face. “You made me very happy. Thank you.”
“Alfie…”
The ginger man rose, pulling out his sword and pointing at the Cimarron general. “You made a mistake choosing to fight a man with nothing left to lose.”
The general laughed, planting his sword in the soil. “I don’t think ‘fight’ is the word we’re looking for. Try ‘slaughter’.”
As Alfgeir charged with his sword, the archers let their arrows fly. Wolfram watched wide eyed as hundreds of arrows dug into the king’s flesh, turning the man into a charging hedgehog. The general’s smile fell as he was forced to lift his sword in defense, the unstoppable rage in the Trebic king too much for mere arrows to stay. The lines of soldiers on the grounds came forward, swords drawn, sliding their blades into every piece of flesh they could. For a moment, it seemed as if even that was not enough. With his blood spilt and body torn, Alfgeir threw himself and his sword forward, aiming for the general’s hollow heart.
He fell to his knees and then to his face as the last push of adrenalin left his body empty, heavy, and lifeless only a foot away from his standing target. With a mighty arc the general’s sword slashed down like a pendulum, severing the king’s head in one great swing. The Big Cimarron army cheered.
Wolfram let his head fall back on the lawn, his own strength running low on reserves, his hope for escape nonexistent, his expectancy for life limited to a few short minutes. The warmth of his blood as it pushed past his fingers to soak the snow covered earth only served to remind him of how cold he felt as he lay weak and dying. So cold. He could see his breath in the air, the wispy threads of his spirit already rising up through his lips to chase the sun. He prayed Shinou would find him some purpose yet to fulfill even in his death, some way to still serve Yuuri who had so much work to do. Please… don’t let this be the best that I could do…
He felt the sword rest against his neck and looked up at the general’s face, saw his pleased grin as he wore the blood of kings like medals on his chest, saw the walls of archers and gathering of soldiers, and in a cold like no other finally saw no more.

Yuuri was unfortunately certain that the strange warmth pressed against the back of his left thigh was another man’s penis. Most of his certainty came from the fact that it was a man’s hairy arm draped over him, holding him tight against a man’s furry chest under the weight of many blankets. Despite the flinch of terror in these realizations, Yuuri did not scramble to get away. The cold that had shocked him to the bone was gone, heat radiating through him from the other man’s body like a furnace. He felt safe and comfortable even as his mind was on red alert. It didn’t matter that he was spooning against some naked sailor on a ship hundreds of miles from his castle and immeasurable distances from his home on Earth. He was finally warm again with thoughts far more uncomfortable than a stranger’s cock.
Wolfram was in trouble. Wolfram needed him. Wolfram was probably… Even in his thoughts, he could not bring himself to say it. It was a lie, a falsehood, a misconception, a fallacy. Something was certainly wrong but not so hopeless as that. It was an assertion based on feeling, a clarity of mind he only experienced in troubled times. If was a feeling he knew he had to trust and gave him strength to wake up beyond the use of simple senses.
Yuuri could hear voices. Craning his neck, he could see over the tops of the blankets at the swaying lantern hanging from a post in the ceiling. He recognized the fireplace’s mantle and the array of windows on the wall; he was still in the captain’s chambers. Through the windows the stars were still out, sky a rust purple on the slow rising dawn. He could make out Yozak’s voice among those speaking, the captain’s gruff growl of anger and someone else he hadn’t met. In the window he could see only the ghost of their reflections, four fuzzy shapes around a table below his blanket line of sight.
“—fires out. Not that it makes much of a difference now. Most people either died when they started or escaped into the woods to get away. Reports list the lesser Big Cimarron ships returning home with their wounded.”
“I’ve sent word to Blood Pledge Castle. Lord Voltaire will be sending relief as soon as he can.”
“And in the mean time, what? They’re occupying the city! They’ve scuttled the limping ships and that includes two of the Shin Makoku war ships. We’re down to almost nothing! Why hasn’t he done anything?!”
“The demon king is limited in his abilities in human territories. However, not even that may be enough to dissuade Shibuya when he hears.”
Yuuri closed his eyes with a thankful breath. Murata was doing well, it seemed.
“You’re sure he’s dead?”
“There are not many who would be confused for him here.”
A long, tired sigh. “Poor kid…”
“While our king does not condone acts of vengeance, as far as justice is concerned, Big Cimarron will not go unpunished. Shibuya will not abandon Trebic.”
“I certainly hope not. Your king is the reason we’re stuck wading in these waters rather than continuing the fight! What are you people doing out here like this in the first place?!”
He was calling me, Yuuri thought, the peace in his warmth and stillness letting his mind drift back to a tucked away place that reminded him of Julia. He’s still here. With heavy limbs he pushed the blanket down, sheepishly rolling himself a few inches away from the sleeping, naked man in bed beside him.
Yozak gave him a tired smile from his counter perch. “Pink suits you much better than blue.”
Yuuri nodded, wrapping one of the top blankets around his shoulders as he sat up. “Sorry to be an inconvenience. We can return to the battle at once.”
“Shibuya.” Murata shook his head slowly. “We should wait for Lord Voltaire and reinforcements. We will only complicate matters and put you in danger if we return to the battle right now.”
“I have to go, Murata. Wolfram’s waiting for me.”
“I’m sure he is, kid, but not where you think.” Yozak stood and carried over a short stack of folded clothes, the borrowed uniform of a Trebic sailor from the ships supplies. “Listen… about Wolfram-“
“He’s not dead.” Yuuri took a deep, determined breath as he met Yozak’s bright blue and cynical stare. “I know what you’re going to tell me but it’s not true. I felt him when we were going to Earth; he’s the reason we’re here.”
Murata angled his face away, his serious expression far away and troubled.
Yuuri left the clothes on the bed and stood, walking over to his friend with the blanket clutched tight at his chest. “You felt him too, right?”
The Great Sage said nothing, lips pursed in deep concentration.
“Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” The captain banged his fist on the table. “I don’t care about any of this mazoku mumbo jumbo. Are we waiting here or are we sailing back to Trebic?”
“We’re going back!” Yuuri proclaimed.
“On foot,” Murata stipulated. He rose from his seat, adjusting his glasses. “We’re too big to sneak in and the woods are currently the hideout for refugees. We come in across the land and try and gather as much local help as we can. When Lord Voltaire arrives, we can attack them from both angles in an organized offensive.”
Yozak rubbed his chin. “I don’t think that will be too much of a problem for anyone. Captain?”
“I’m a man of the sea but I’ll take what action I can get against those soulless bastards.” He marched to the door, pulling the nearest sailor aside to bark his orders to. It seemed no time at all before the almost empty decks became alive again with shipmen, ropes heaved and rudders hoed as she came about face for more familiar shores.
Yuuri sat back on the borrowed bed, hand petting the red uniform he was soon to wear. He smiled at Murata whose face was still set like stone. “You felt it too, right, Murata?”
The sage shook his head, his calm and cool making Yuuri worry. “What I felt was you lose your way. You were distracted and then we were drowning.”
“It was him, Murata. I don’t know how but I just know it was him.”
Murata crossed to the windows with the dawn stretching out from shore. Disagreeing was something Yuuri could combat but his quiet, reflective manner left the king wondering what all he wasn’t being told that the young man knew.
A warm hand gave his back a pat but sent shivers down Yuuri’s spine despite its warmth. “I believe you,” the naked stranger said.
Somehow his words weren’t nearly as reassuring as he’d hoped they’d be.
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A Marriage of State