Love and War

Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of it’s characters.

A/N: I probably should have made note of this at the beginning of the fic, but honestly I didn’t think I’d have to. As far as this story goes, please ignore the novels, the OVAs, and the up and coming season three. I don’t have access to the novels, so those were never going to be a factor, but once I’d finished season two of the anime I’d thought it was over, which was why I’d started writing this fic (I generally don’t start writing anything until I’ve seen an entire series; that’s just how I roll). Now they’re throwing OVAs and a third season at me, which makes me happy, but also worries me at the same time (especially the fact that Shinou is still around in the OVAs… that totally screws some stuff up, but since I’d thought of all this before I knew that, I’m still sticking with my original story line). So, please, when reading, keep in mind that nothing in the novels, the OVAs, or the third season will be in here in any way (unless season three allows me to use Sara, because that would be fun…).

Also, I had many people correcting me on what I said this chapter’s title would be. Thank you all very much!! Unfortunately, I got a couple of different ways to say it, and I’m not quite sure which one to go with (and because I’m lazy, I don’t feel like digging out all my old French notebooks and books and figuring it out on my own), so I’m going to change the title all together. Therefore, this chapter is called ‘Écrire,’ which means ‘to write.’

A rather important note: There’s a scene in this chapter that I suppose can be a bit misleading, in that it could potentially be misconstrued as being a foreshadowing to future Mpreg. I want to make it clear right now that there will be no Mpreg in this fic. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a proud fan of Mpreg, but I never envisioned it as being a factor when I was first coming up with this story. Sorry to those who would have actually liked it, but I don’t feel there’s a place for it in the way this story will eventually progress.

And now! Onward!!

In which Yuuri begins to worry and war befalls Shin Makoku…

Love and War
by Mikage

Chapter Fourteen

Conrart was awakened in the middle of the night by a commotion in the hallway. It took him a moment to clear his mind of the fog of sleep that still clung to his senses, to make sense of the shouts he was hearing outside of his room, but once awareness dawned on him he immediately sprinted into action. He jumped out of bed in a hurry, throwing on whatever clothes he could find - his khaki colored pants, and the white shirt he wore beneath his matching jacket, not even taking the time to button it properly before he was grabbing his sword and exiting the room.

Multiple guards shuffled their way down the corridor, each looking as panicked as the next, the higher ranking soldiers shouting orders to those who worked below them, hardly even noticing Conrart as they went about their duties, taking care of whatever issue that had arisen over the course of the evening as if there were some great threat of danger. The brown haired captain allowed himself a moment’s worth of confusion and curiosity before he was again taking action, grabbing onto the arm of a passing guard, a young man the had once been part of Wolfram’s personal group of soldiers, but who had been promoted to the Royal Guard upon the blond’s accession to Prince.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his own brown eyes wondering up and down the hall, seeking out the source of everyone’s apparent vexation.

“Captain,” the youthful dark haired man greeted him, slightly out of breath. “Our defenses have been breached. The enemy managed to infiltrate the palace and made their way to His Majesty’s bedroom.”

Conrart felt as if his heart had just been ripped from his chest, falling down to land somewhere around his feet. “What?” he questioned in surprise, his thoughts going a mile a minute, relief over the fact that the king was currently absent lasting only a second when an image of his younger brother flashed in his mind. “What happened?” he demanded, his grip on the younger soldier tightening somewhat in his dread and alarm.

“Prince Wolfram and Princess Greta were attacked,” he explained, obviously frightened about being the bearer of bad news, stammering somewhat under the older man’s gaze, as if the whole ordeal were somehow his fault. “We weren’t alerted to the fact until we heard the Princess screaming for help in the hallway.”

The Captain cursed loudly, causing the other man to flinch before the brunet released him, turning to begin heading towards a completely different wing of the palace, his bare feet slapping against the stone floors. He ran the entire way, and still it took him longer to arrive than he would have liked, the increased number of guards now stationed along the royal hall not going unnoticed by his hazel eyes. It filled him with a sense of foreboding, the beat of his heart picking up as he heard Greta’s near hysterical babbling, her voice carrying out into the ornately decorated corridor.

He took a moment to think over the distance from his room to that of His Majesty’s. Long ago when he’d first enlisted in the military, after his father had died and he’d completed his training with Gunter, he’d decided to give up his room in the royal wing of the palace, choosing to take his place amongst the soldiers instead. He used the room for nothing more than sleep, so his time in there was limited, but in situations like this it made him wish he’d chosen to remain closer to his family. The fact that everyone else seemed to have been aware of this evening’s happenings before him was not comforting in the least.

Entering through the doorway, his light brown eyes took in the sight before him, the plethora of people who had already entered before he had even arrived. They were all in various states of dress, most of them in nothing more than simple night clothes and bathrobes, their loud voices bouncing off of the walls, creating a large mass of jumbled words that he found difficult to pick apart in his anxious state. Greta was being comforted by Anissina, although the red haired woman’s soothing words seemed to be doing little good to the emotional girl. The Aristocrats were also present, yelling at one another as they attempted to find someone to place the blame on, most of their angered shouts currently being thrown in Gwendal’s direction.

“Is your security here so lax that you’d allow two human men to enter and do as they please to the royal family?!” Auberon was ranting, screaming all sorts of insults into Gwendal’s face, ‘powerless’ and ‘incompetent’ being only a few of them, his face growing redder as the level of his shouting increased.

“I find it highly suspicious that you would care so much now for the safety of your nephew!” Gwendal shot back and looked close to pummeling the older man; he probably would have - if only to release the anger he’d too long kept inside - were it not for Gunter holding him back, the lavender haired man struggling against the stronger body pulling against the arms that restrained him.

“And what exactly are you suggesting?!” the dirty blond haired man wondered acidly, snarling into the face of his fellow Aristocrat, the man who had once been his nephew, even if it was only through marriage. “You’d dare to imply that I had something to do with this heinous act of violence?!”

“I wouldn’t put it passed you!” Conrart’s older brother growled lowly, though the brown haired man knew his words were nothing more than hot air. Tonight’s events had simply been the last straw, the final incident to take place before he completely snapped, taking out his ire on anyone and everything that happened to be in the vicinity.

“Gwendal, please!” came Gunter’s exasperated beg from behind the larger man, hair mussed and bedclothes somewhat askew due to his efforts, and Conrart thought it was truly a miracle that he’d managed to keep the younger man at bay for so long.

“Do not attempt to hold me accountable for your disgrace!” Auberon spat in disapproval, turquoise eyes flashing in the candle light. “You were the one who failed in your duties as Chief of State!” he roared. “If you can’t even protect your own brother, how do you expect the remainder of us to trust you to protect the kingdom?! How can we know where your priorities lie when so far you’ve done nothing to end this madness?!”

Gunter’s precarious hold broke then as Gwendal finally managed to free himself, infuriated beyond his point of control. Conrart barely had the time to push him back before one of his large fists landed along Auberon’s jaw, hands pressing against his strong shoulders as Gunter rushed foreword to wind his arms around his abdomen again, slowly drawing him back from the older man. The dark haired male attempted to escape again, but with two people now holding him back instead of one, it proved to be a bit more difficult. He growled against the confines, but when it seemed as if the other two men were reluctant to release him any time soon, he stilled his efforts, choosing to release all of his pent up hostility in the dark glare of his blue eyes and the harsh words from his mouth.

“Gwendal, calm down,” Conrart implored, narrowing his eyes at the effort it took to keep the older man from springing foreword again. He’d always been a strong man, but his now emancipated outrage only increased the level of his physical strength. “We won’t solve anything if we continue to allow ourselves to be drawn into these pointless arguments!”

Gwendal hardly paid him any mind, choosing to ignore him instead of heeding his words. “And what have you done besides hide under the roof of a king you hate?!” his older brother wondered maliciously of the shorter Aristocrat, his words spat in a fierce voice filled with resentment and ill-tempered venom. “If you place so much distrust in him, why rely on him for your protection?!”

“You’re one to talk about trust!” Lord von Bielefeld shouted sarcastically, a bitter chuckle erupting from within his chest. “Are you not the one plotting against the crown?” he inquired, blue-green eyes narrowed and calculating, spitting out his words as if they were sharp blades intended to wound the younger nobleman. “Traitor!”

“Why you…” And Gwendal’s aspiration to inflict serious injury upon the older man only intensified at that, his battle against the arms and hands keeping him in place gaining new energy.

Conrart was somewhat startled and unnerved by his older brother’s reaction, and he feared what would happen if the man were to break free again. He couldn’t help but wonder if blood would be spilt in that event, the crazed look that had entered the taller man’s sapphire eyes enough cause for concern. It had been many years since he’d seen the man this enraged; not since the last war had Gwendal’s threats sounded so genuine, his fury so powerful and uncontrolled. Conrart imagined the situation must have truly been a horrific one to throw the normally stoic man into such a nearly animalistic state.

“Enough!” he heard his mother’s voice shout authoritatively from the doorway of the washroom, her voice loud and shrill in order to be heard above all the others. Gwendal froze at her tone, and Auberon’s shouting abruptly ceased, the room’s occupants turning to rest their eyes upon her slender frame.

Conrart, too, turned to glance in her direction, and when he did his hazel eyes inevitably fell onto the form of his younger brother, widening at the sight that met his gaze. The blond was leaning heavily against their mother’s side, nearly clutching to her even though she already had one of her arms wrapped securely around him to keep him steady. He seemed bone-weary, ready to collapse on the spot, his legs wobbling slightly as he was lead into the candlelit room, his hands bound together by a thick string of rope.

His pale pink gown was ripped and torn in a variety of places, so much so that it wouldn’t have been worth it to mend the clothing. One of the sleeves remained attached by only a few thin threads, two of the dark pink bows missing - and when he looked around the room he found them laying against the sheets, which were tangled and thrown into a state of disarray, enough evidence that a heated struggle had taken place upon the bed. Part of the bottom hem of ruffles had been ripped off, a long gash trailing down the back of the fabric, the rest of the material wrinkled and mangled beyond recognition.

Wolfram’s complexion had gone completely white, his hands shaking so slightly it would have gone unnoticed by the untrained eye. Blood seeped from an injury along his shoulder, the red liquid tricking down to stain a few areas on the top of his nightgown, and when Conrart looked closer, he realized that it was not merely a simple cut; his brother had been viciously bitten, the wound a perfect ring of teeth marks. His neck was ringed with red hand-shaped marks that were beginning to bruise, evidence to an attempted strangulation.

The wounds that stood out the most, however, were the striking bruises that had appeared on his face. The once flawless pale skin was swollen and dyed in deep blues and purples, the right corner of his mouth split. The bright contusions made the true purpose of the attack all too apparent. Whoever had done this had used Wolfram to leave what Conrart thought was a very vivid message for their king, and he momentarily wondered how Yuuri would react to the unspoken proclamation, or if he would even understand what it meant.

Immediately Conrart left the side of his older brother in order to move towards his younger sibling, confident that their mother’s presence, sharp words, and harsh demands would suffice in keeping him in check for the time being. Conrart’s main concern right now was not Auberon’s safety (not that he cared so much for the older man; he would have gladly punched him in the face himself had he any less restraint when it came to dealing with the Aristocrats), but Wolfram’s condition, and the circumstances that had lead him to appear so abused.

“What happened?” he asked, reaching out to brush a strand of matted golden hair behind one of his ears.

Wolfram lashed out immediately, violently smacking his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” he exclaimed, voice sharp and green eyes wild.

Conrart didn’t allow himself to feel any disappointment, though he hated to think that his brother was denying him again, after all that they’d done in the last four years to break down the barriers that had been erected between them. He internally told himself not to be offended, that Wolfram’s reaction had been instinctive and had nothing to do with him, reminding himself that the blond had been through a lot in the course of one evening, though he still had no clue as to what exactly had taken place in this room. He had an idea, but jumping to conclusions had never been one of his faults - his stubbornness and self-sacrificing nature made up for that.

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” he asked then, though his focus was mainly on his mother, noticing how her emerald eyes appeared somewhat puffy and red. Obviously she’d been crying, upset and frightened enough by the state of her youngest son to be reduced to tears.

“I’ll tell you what has transpired here,” Auberon began gruffly, arms crossed over a thick chest, his sandy hair released from it’s bindings so that the thick strands fell about his face. “The utter disregard for the threats that have been expressed have finally lead our enemies to take further action in receiving our utmost attention.”

“We have not disregarded any threats,” Gunter quietly corrected him. “Everything that has taken place since Shimeron reinstated their hostilities has been looked into to the best of our abilities. We have taken the threats and warnings that have been posed very seriously.”

“I find that hard to believe,” von Bielefeld continued, leading the other aristocrats in their little rebellion, for although Winifred, Marlena, Griselda, Julius and the others were present, none of them chose to speak on the matter - and a majority of them had gathered together by the door, watching the current events with curiosity. Auberon shot foreword then, towards Gwendal, and ripped something out of his hands, a piece of parchment Conrart had not noticed his brother was even holding on to. “‘To His Majesty Yuuri of Shin Makoku,” he recited for all to hear. “‘Another gift I give to you, through the most trusting hands I’ve sent. Perhaps it will reveal to you the entirety of my intent, to bring down all that you have built and to all that you have swore. Long live the Demon King and his-’”

“Stop it!” Wolfram’s voice cut him off, surprising all of them with it’s suddenness. He clung to the former queen like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver, the trembling in his hands growing harsher as the words on the letter were shared. “Stop it, stop it!”

Auberon’s eyes narrowed further, taking in the pathetic form of his nephew, frowning in distaste. “Look at what your negligence had allowed to occur!” he said to the others, pointing a finger at the young blond prince, before he was turning to glare heatedly at Gwendal. “You had us convinced that he would be the answer to all our problems, that our honor and pride would be upheld in the world and that our enemies would be stopped!”

‘You promised us a war!’ Conrart knew the man was thinking, but Auberon refrained from saying it with so many other people in the room, people who would be in opposition to their grand plan to force Wolfram to sign a declaration. The brown haired Captain had half a mind to bring their devious plot to light, but didn’t think it would be appropriate to do so at the time, when Wolfram had already been through enough for one night.

“Now they’ve made their way to our capital, they’ve broken through our defenses and attacked the seat of our monarchy, and you sat back and let it happen!” the angered aristocrat accused. “How long have you had this letter? Did you think they were joking, that they wouldn’t try to carry out their threats?! Was the destruction in Fane not enough to open your eyes to what’s happening around us?!”

“That letter was not the one we found in Fane,” Gwendal told him evenly, stubbornly keeping his temper in check, though his eyes still shot blue fire at the older man and his hands were still tightly clenched, his teeth gritted together. “That letter was found amongst the mail delivered to the palace earlier this afternoon. It hadn’t been read until those men began their attack.”

“Any fool with even half the military training that you’ve received should know to have the king’s bedroom carefully guarded at all times,” Auberon snapped in return. Conrart flinched at this statement, knowing that such a task had been his responsibility. How many sleepless nights had he spent standing outside His Majesty’s door like a careful watchdog, both during the times he was here as well as when he was away? Why hadn’t he done so tonight? Why hadn’t he come back after Wolfram demanded that he go away?

“Now you’ve let our human enemies turn your brother - our Prince,” Auberon was still shouting, sneering in his nephew’s direction, shooting him a look filled with disdain, “into a cheap whore!”

“How dare you?!” Celi seethed before either Conrart or Gwendal could react in any way, looking angrier than her oldest son had appeared only moments ago, shaking with a rage she rarely exposed. “Have you no compassion or sense at all?! Whatever those men did to him, he did not go into it willingly!”

“I’m sure they expected him to, and rightly so,” Lord von Bielefeld spat. “Sleeping in His Majesty’s chambers before they were even married… it’s improper and demonstrates a lack of decorum! Is this your idea of how royalty should conduct themselves?” he asked spitefully. “This is not what I agreed to when I consented to this marriage! Had I known our future prince would turn out to be nothing more than a powerless tramp, I never would have allowed it!”

“That’s enough!” Celi yelled, hardly restraining herself from screaming into his face. “I refuse to put up with anymore of your profane assertions, you bastard! One more slanderous word from your mouth, and I’ll have you exiled and stripped of your title!”

Her threats hung heavy in the air, and none of them had any doubts that she would go through with them, or that she could. Auberon had been abusing his authority for years, his insults growing worse as nothing was done to prevent him from doing so, and Conrart supposed his mother had finally had enough of it. She’d certainly put up with it for far too long, his harsh words not only directed at her, but at her sons as well. With everything that had happened tonight, she’d finally hit the point where she could no longer sit by passively.

His mother could be an intimidating woman if she chose to. Many people tended to forget the vast amounts of power she possessed beneath her curvy exterior, as she very rarely used it. But when she got rid of her oblivious, girly disguise, they were reminded of the reason she’d been chosen as Demon Queen; outwardly she appeared fairly ignorant, easily manipulated, but inwardly she was truly very calculating, and could use others just as easily as she could be used. She could be forceful when it mattered, and though she’d lacked confidence in herself when she’d been queen and relied heavily on her older brother for guidance - a mistake that had cost them dearly - she was very capable of giving orders and handing out punishments.

Auberon fell silent immediately, not so stupid as to test the woman when she was already well passed her limit. He’d never liked Cecilie - but then he’d never liked women who didn’t take orders from him and who refused to bend to his will - but he knew better than the cross her. He glared at her for a long moment, the look on his face causing him to appear tempted, as if he desired to spit out more hateful words, but he held back, and turned on his heel to stalk towards the door. He mumbled under his breath, but his muttering went unheard by those who remained in the room, and he soon disappeared from sight, taking long strides down the hallway.

The tension the older man always carried around left the room as he did, and Gwendal immediately relaxed as a result, though his shoulders were still stiff and his frown did not show any signs of easing. Celi was back to tending to her youngest son, whispering soothing words to him and apologizing for his uncle’s foul disposition, her actions reminiscent of the ones she’d used to comfort him as a young child, when he’d clung to her in a similar way, when he’d held on tight instead of pushing her away and shouting at her to stop treating him like a baby.

“Conrart, can you remove these bindings?” their mother asked him, her voice calm, but her stance was enough to reveal her displeasure, her puffy eyes still narrowed in warning, daring anyone else to speak up in some form of opposition.

The brunet moved closer to the two blonds, wary of Wolfram swatting him away again, but the boy hardly moved, not even when Conrart lifted his hands to get a look at the rope wrapped tightly around them. He’d wondered why no one had bothered to take it off yet, but understood when he caught sight of the gleaming stones woven in, easily recognizing them as the esoteric stones mined in the human lands. It made sense now why Wolfram hadn’t been able to fight back; his sword would have been inaccessible if he’d been caught by surprise, and with his maryoku suppressed it would have been difficult for him to resist. Taking Greta’s safety into account… it didn’t take Conrart long to surmise exactly how things had played out.

“Where are the criminals?” he asked as he began unraveling the rope, thankful once more for his human blood. In battle it was a bit of a handicap to lack the great powers gifted to all full blooded mazoku, but in instances like this, with the others unable to so much as touch the human-made object, he was grateful for it. Once he’d completed the task, he let the cord fall to the ground, gently touching the skin of Wolfram’s wrists, rubbed red and raw.

“They’ve been placed in the dungeon, where they will remain until their trial begins,” Cecilie answered him, slowly guiding Wolfram so that he could sit down on the bed and rest, but he flinched away from it. Conrart could hardly blame him. “Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere,” she lightly suggested, and began heading for the opened door.

Gwendal’s voice stopped her. “You think he’s capable of standing trial?” he asked, and it was obvious that he was speaking about their young brother, who would be asked for a recounting of the night’s events - numerous times - before punishment would be dealt, regardless of how much evidence already stood against them.

“Let’s not discuss this now,” their mother replied, not turning to face him, focusing a majority of her attention on the Prince, motioning for Greta and Anissina to follow her out into the hall. Conrart went after them, his sword still at hand, eyes quickly glancing around for any more signs of trouble. “Anissina, go and fetch Gisela, please,” Celi requested, moving down the corridor to her own set of rooms.

“Of course,” the red head agreed, and Conrart immediately took Greta from her, the girl gripping tightly to his shirt and hiding against his side, her tears having stopped, but eyes still wild with terror. Her confident, self-assured demeanor had been wiped away, leaving her looking like the frightened child she’d been when she’d first arrived at the castle.

They entered through their mother’s sitting room, crossing over through the candle light into the bedroom, two guards immediately positioning themselves by the doorway. Greta broke free then, dashing over to throw her arms around her father, crystalline tears falling from her eyes again as she buried her face into his shoulder. She was not sobbing this time, crying quietly instead, and Wolfram held onto her tightly, protectively, though his eyes remained dry.

“I’m sorry,” Conrart heard his little brother whisper to the dark haired girl, his words soft and barely heard, but an obvious indication of his guilt.

“Wolfram,” the Captain tried again, trying to distract himself from his own guilt, the shame that nearly consumed him at the thought of not being able to protect his own younger brother. “Please, tell me what happened,” he entreated, and though he already had somewhat of an idea, he needed to know the truth.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the blond grumbled quietly, averting his eyes from the taller man, arms still wrapped tightly around his daughter, holding onto her as if he were afraid she’d disappear if he let go for even a moment.

Greta lifted her head, just high enough to exclaim, “They had him on the bed!” She was falling into hysterics again, clearly traumatized by the event. “They had him on the bed and we couldn’t get away! They were going to kill us!”

Conrart had his own set of suspicions, ones that told him those men - whoever they were - and been sent here to conduct more than a simple murder, but he kept those thoughts to himself, not wanting to upset the girl further by asking any more questions. He’d have to speak with Gwendal later; no doubt the man would be willing to share the information.

“Greta, dear,” Celi cooed, still standing close to her youngest son, moving to pry her granddaughter away from him so that she could hug her comfortingly. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be okay now. You’re safe,” she reassured the girl, leading her over to the large bed. “You should rest. Try to get some sleep.”

Greta nodded weakly, climbing up onto the mattress and burying her face into one of the pillows, sniffling softly as her grandmother pulled the warm blankets around her, tucking her in and placing a kiss along her temple. Wolfram merely stood by and watched, his arms hanging limply by his sides now that they’d been freed, his pale, bruised face blank, though in his eyes Conrart could see the great conflict that was swirling around on his insides. The blond boy’s breathing was still somewhat irregular, and now that he’d been given time to calm down, the anger that had before been pushed down by indescribable fear was beginning to bubble up.

Gisela was quick to enter not even a minute later, rushing in and panting for breath as if she’d run from one side of the palace to the other at full speed, a satchel of medical supplies at hand. She hadn’t bothered changing from her nightclothes, her green hair mussed and falling out of it’s braid, and she looked every bit as disheveled as the Prince in her haste. The look on her face immediately eased upon seeing that both Prince and Princess were alive and no longer in danger, and she looked over the two of them for any serious injuries, leaving Greta to get some rest when she was confident she’d suffered from nothing more than bruises.

She moved to Wolfram next, speaking to him carefully, her voice not nearly as threatening as Conrart knew it could be, neither shouting orders at him nor asking any questions. “I’ll need you to remove your nightgown, Your Majesty,” she said, wanting to see the full extents of his wounds, Lady Celi flitting about her room, searching for something else for Wolfram to wear after his tattered nightdress was disposed of.

Wolfram looked ready to argue for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest as if to guard himself from the green haired woman, but in the end he did what was requested of him. Only when he’d slipped the dilapidated pink material over his head and let it fall to a thin heap on the floor was Conrart hit with an inexpressible feeling of deficiency, an anger at himself for not preventing all that had occurred. Wolfram was covered in bruises, from his face to his shoulders, and from his chest down to his thighs, dark splotches of blues and purples that stood out brightly from skin that had gone too pale.

Gisela did what she could for him, taking the pain away with her maryoku, but unable to do anything to help the contusions fade. Carefully she inspected his hand, the one she’d healed and bandaged only days ago, making sure nothing had been done to further injure it. Once she was satisfied, she allowed him to dress himself, Celi handing him another gown that she’d had one of the maids retrieve from his room, this one dyed a dark peach color, with a string of blue ribbon around the collar. He rushed to slip it on, probably embarrassed by his lack of dress.

“Here,” Gisela said when he’d finished, holding out a cup that contained a mixture of hot tea and an herbal remedy that would help him sleep. “Drink this.”

He shook his head and backed away, narrowing his eyes at her. “I don’t want it,” he told her, their mother coming up behind him to place comforting hands on his shoulders.

“It’ll help you sleep,” Celi informed him, like he didn’t know already what the drink’s purpose was.

“I said, ‘I don’t want it,’” he repeated, more adamant this time, pushing the brew away when Gisela drew closer with it. “You can’t force me to drink it.”

“You need to rest,” Gisela tried, but it was apparent that Wolfram wanted none of it.

Still Wolfram refused, and when the older women were unable to convince him to drink it after a few more tries, they let it go, Gisela leaving the concoction on the bedside table just in case before she departed. Celi tried to get her blond son to lay down after that, but Wolfram simply shook his head and moved to take a seat in the chair by one of the windows, listlessly staring out with his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms circling around them as his eyes stared out, his face back to the blank mask that had concealed his emotions before. Conrart watched Celi watch him for a moment, before he was turning to make his own exit.

“I’m going to speak with Gwendal,” he informed them, though he hardly thought they’d spare his statement much attention, Wolfram too lost in the mess of his own mind, Greta close to sleep as she curled up under the blankets, and Celi watching over the both of them, seeming as if she would stay up for the rest of the night just to make sure that the two of them were truly okay.

Conrart left them there, shutting the door behind him and crossing back through the sitting room to head into the hallway, nodding to the guards who stood there, glad when he recognized the two of them as two of Gwendal’s most trusted men. He didn’t know if he’d feel comfortable leaving his family’s safety in the hands of people he hardly knew, not after what had happened tonight. Already his thoughts were swirling, trying to come up with ways to further tighten security, to make the palace even safer, when they’d all been fooled into believing that it was safe enough before.

Obviously they’d been wrong.

It had been a long time since Conrart had felt so much shame at one time. He still didn’t know the exact details of the attack - though he figured he’d find out soon enough, as Gwendal and the others dissected every moment of the transgression to have as much to charge the criminals with as they possibly could - but it didn’t stop the feelings of frustration, it didn’t prevent him from feeling as if he’d failed his younger brother and his niece. It had been years since he’d made such a blunder; the last time he remembered making such a huge mistake had been when he’d allied himself with Greater Shimeron - something he considered the worst mistake of his entire life.

He’d failed Yuuri then just as he’d failed Yuuri now, and just like then he was determined to make up for it with everything that he had. He’d speak with Gwendal, get the entire story, then request to be the one to interrogate the criminals. He wouldn’t be passive, he wouldn’t just sit down and calmly ask them questions - part of him didn’t even think he could remain calm in this instance, his serene smile now long gone. He’d demand answers, and he’d do whatever it took to get them; he’d find out who sent them, what their objective was, and what the two letters that had been addressed to the king meant.

He’d be damned it he let anyone get this close to the king or his family again.
* * *

Yuuri knew he was dreaming. He was back in that dark, vast, endless void he’d been in so many times before. He felt lighter than he did when he was conscious, weightless, as if this place lacked any real substance, though he could feel his spirit flowing through him, the blood and energy that always made him feel so alive. He felt as if the pressure he’d been under recently had faded away with the real world, despite knowing what his dreams could possibly bring, easily remembering the last dream that had started out within this sea of total blackness.

Inwardly he was somewhat disappointed. After spending two days thinking of what he and Shori had discussed in the restaurant, the long night hours filled with the battles of an internal conflict instead of the slumber he desperately wanted, he desired nothing more than to float in oblivion, to rest his eyes, his mind, his soul, and wake up refreshed and rejuvenated. He didn’t want to be bothered by dreams or nightmares, no matter how harmless they ended up being. He just wanted an escape, wanted to fall into a sleep so deep he would lose the awareness he had of everything around him.

He was almost frightened to open his eyes. He knew where he was without even having to look. There was a certain feeling he always got when he’d fallen this far into his subconscious, a sense of pure power - everywhere - running around and through him. It had once been comforting, warm, like being cradled in his mother’s arms, like the rays of the sun on a warm spring day. As the years had passed, and as his dreams had grown progressively more violent and graphic, that warmth had given way to a bone-deep chill which always succeeded in causing a shiver to trail down his spine.

It was here that he’d seen Lady Julia so many times in the past, and though he’d often found it odd that he was, in a sense, talking to himself in the times that he’d conversed with her, her presence had always been a tranquil one, one he’d been able to feel inside of him even in a conscious state once he’d been made aware of it. She’d eased his mind in times of trouble, empowered him when he was at his weakest, encouraged him when his spirits were at their lowest, and gave him the strength to sort through his troubles.

He couldn’t feel her now, so he knew that if he allowed his eyes to open, she wouldn’t be there with that look of serenity on her pale face and kind words that always managed to ease his pained heart. Instead he felt nothing but the cold, and it was discomforting. Every other time he’d needed her guidance, she’d always been there. Why wasn’t she there for him now?

Shori’s words had gone a long way in making him think things through over in the last couple of days, but the discussion they’d had had not eased Yuuri’s confusion in the least, nor had it helped to alleviated his guilt. He’d come to accept certain things that had worsened his issues in Shin Makoku, knew now that he had to do more if he were ever to fix this mess that had developed between he and Wolfram. It made him uncertain, to be thinking about a deepening of their relationship, and the fear was still there - part of him suspected it would always be there - but along with that fear and uncertainty was a determination to see this through to the very end, to find the answers and come to a final, definite conclusion.

A part of him was still doubtful that he’d ever be able to do that.

Discovering that he was attracted to Wolfram would be easy, but trying to find out if he was in love or not… he didn’t even know what love was supposed to feel like. How was he to know if what he felt for the boy was love or not?

Was there even an answer?

It wasn’t long before Yuuri’s eyes began to flutter, and though he had no desire to be sucked into the nightmares that so often left him feeling sick, he couldn’t squelch the curiosity that was slowly building up within him. Nothing had happened in this plane of existence so far tonight, and that thought struck him as rather odd. Never before had he been here without bearing witness to some figment of his imagination, whether it was of the threatening sort or not. It seemed strange to him that he was not hearing or feeling anything, when his senses had always been pretty active even in an unconscious state.

Dark eyes finally slid open, slowly, like they did when he awakened from a long night of sleep. The only light was the pillar of white shining down upon him, the same spotlight that trailed above his figure every time he walked through this black field. This time, however, instead of he being the sole occupant of the circle of brightness, four mirrors surrounded him, one in the front, one on each side, and one behind him, each reflecting his image. He was in the bedclothes he’d fallen asleep in, the dark blue flannel pants and shirt he’d earlier pulled out of one of his drawers, the thick fabric doing nothing to shield him from the ominous chill that hung in the air.

For a moment he wondered what significance these mirrors had, why his mind had conjured them up in place of fire, blood and death. He rotated in a clockwise motion, staring first at the mirror directly across from him, and when he cocked his head to the side he watched his reflection copy the movement. He turned to his right and made a goofy face, allowing himself a second’s worth of laughter, his chuckles echoing loudly, reverberating around him. To the right again, where he simply stared, and then again, only to narrow his eyes in slight frustration, not understanding what these four pieces of glass could possibly mean.

Once more he moved, back to the first looking-glass, intent on stepping closer to inspect it, but he stopped before he could take a step foreword, surprised when his mirror-image no longer met his gaze. His eyes widened, his lips parting inquisitively, another picture having faded into focus to obstruct his view of himself.

It was his bedroom in Shin Makoku, lit by the soft glowing of candles, the angle of the picture giving him a clear view of the bed, vanity, and doorway, as if a camera had been set up by the tall windows. The canopy was neatly made with thick winter dressings, the green privacy curtains tied to each post, the door was shut so he could not see into the hallway, and all of the objects on the vanity were neatly lined and stacked, as if the maids had just come in to clean and Wolfram hadn’t been given a chance to make a mess of things yet.

Stepping closer to the mirror, Yuuri narrowed his eyes in order to peer closer, trailing them over the image as if looking for something suspicious, something different from the norm, perhaps an object or presence that was not meant to be there. Nothing of the sort jumped out at him, at least not right away, until the gaze swept over the chair that had been set up a short distance away from the bed, not quite in the corner, but backed up enough to be out of the way. The thing he found odd about it was that it was not one of the simple wooden chairs he used while sitting at the table when he chose to have his meals brought to his room, but an ornately carved rocking chair, moving to and fro in a soft squeaking noise that should have been annoying, but ended up sounding strangely comforting instead.

Wolfram was seated in the chair, clothed in the familiar pink nightgown that Yuuri would admit to finding strangely cute, his golden curls hanging about his face, his emerald gaze focused downward. At his feet was Greta, her nightclothes as equally pink and frilly, her own dark curls tumbling over her thin shoulders, her eyes scanning over the pages of a book, seeming engrossed in whatever tale was being weaved through its pages. It was a heartwarming scene, one that brought a smile to Yuuri’s face. It cheered him to see them safe and healthy. Slowly he reached out a hand to touch the cold, smooth glass, feeling almost as if he could reach into the image and touch them as he did so.

His blond friend was smiling, not a smirk or a triumphant grin, not the small, reassuring smiles that lacked real feeling, but a genuine smile. It was slight and barely there, his lips lightly quirked at the corners, but it still managed to reach his eyes, causing the green to sparkle in a way Yuuri had never seen before. There was so much emotion on his pale face at that moment, and yet he looked so different than he normally did when consumed by such strong feelings. His eyes were not narrowed in anger, nor were his thin golden brows furrowed in frustration. His mouth was not arched downwards in sadness, nor did he appear to be suffering from the pains of betrayal.

Instead he looked relaxed and content. In all the years Yuuri had known him, never before had he seen the other boy truly content. There had been a few instances, when they’d both basked in moments of serenity, of peacefulness, sitting beside one another and quietly enjoying the sunrise on a few of their journeys, or standing on one of the balconies to gaze up at the stars, but there had still been a certain tension in the other boy, a strain or pressure that had kept him from being completely calm. Here he was as Yuuri had never seen him, as he wished with all his heart to see him: happy. Wolfram was happy, there in that room with Greta close by, and it filled Yuuri’s heart with an unmistakable joy.

“Hey, Wolfram,” he heard the reflection of Greta say, the brown haired girl looking up from her book to glance over her shoulder at her father. “When is Yuuri coming home?”

Instead of growing upset - as Yuuri had immediately suspected he would - or angry at the king’s apparent absence, Wolfram’s smile widened slightly as he focused on whatever had become the center of his attention, his eyes still cast downward. “Soon,” he replied, voice lacking the hard edge that usually disrupted it’s youthful smoothness.

“How soon?” Greta wondered, her longing to see her other father fairly obvious, and Yuuri momentarily felt guilty for leaving her behind so much.

“A day or two more,” Wolfram replied easily, still rocking to and fro, to and fro, never disrupting the rhythm of the chair’s creaking. “He has a long way to travel. Even so he’ll be earlier than expected,” and here his smile widened again, obviously pleased. “The negotiations with Shimeron must have gone well.”

‘Negotiations’ - if there was ever a word that filled Yuuri with such a great sense of relief, it was that one.

“So is the war ending?” their daughter continued to voice her curious questions.

“I assume it’s nearly the end, although that doesn’t mean the fighting will stop all together. I’m sure there will still be a skirmish every once in a while.”

“But does this mean I can go visit Beatrice this summer?”

Yuuri found himself smiling at her inquiries, recalling how many times Greta had asked to go see her best friend in just the last year alone. With the current crisis they’d been a bit reluctant to let her travel so far without them, even with a troop of soldiers to ensure her safety.

“You’ll have to ask Yuuri,” Wolfram replied, which earned a slight pout from the brown haired girl. Perhaps she worried her dark haired father wouldn’t give in so easily.

The nineteen year old Japanese man continued to watch, eyes locked on their two forms, before he finally shifted his gaze to find what Wolfram was staring at so intently. His dark eyes widened when he realized that the blond was holding something, and by the looks of it he held it fairly close to his person, cradled in his arms and pressed near his chest. Briefly Yuuri wondered what it could possibly be, although he had his suspicions, none of which he could quite comprehend. There were only so many things someone would cradle so delicately, the most common of those being a pet… or a child.

And just as that thought ran through his mind, the image in the glass began to fade, and though Yuuri pressed closer, his nose nearly bumping against the reflective surface, he was unable to make out what the form in Wolfram’s arms looked like. Wolfram and Greta were shown perfectly clear, even as they began to slowly disappear, but the object in the blond’s grasp was nothing more than a blur, its shape and appearance indiscernible to the dark haired young man. He cursed once the picture had lost focus completely, and he was left staring at his own face again, eyes narrowed in consternation.

Swiftly he turned to the next mirror, pivoting to his right again, hoping perhaps the scene had just moved to be played out through one of the other three, only to be disappointed at the obvious difference in setting. There was, indeed, an image projected on the glass, and though it was that of a bedroom, it was not of his room in Shin Makoku, nor of any room in Blood Pledge Castle. He’d never seen those walls before, or that bed - whose canopy curtains were a deep red instead of green, its blankets black as death - and though the decorations and furnishings were just as lavish as those in his private living quarters, it was all unfamiliar.

There was a desk along one wall, with bookshelves on either side, another shelf suspended above it, all sorts of volumes and novels crammed together, each spine a different color, each in a different state of ware. The stone floor was covered with rich, dark scarlet rugs, so soft and thick Yuuri imagined his feet would sink right into them. Half a table could be seen, one chair not completely slid beneath it, and a few trays of barely eaten food covering its surface. On the wall opposite the desk hung a mirror, and below that a vanity, with all sorts of perfumes, colognes and hair ribbons strewn about.

In the chair before the vanity sat Wolfram, only he looked different this time, the face staring into the hanging mirror showing an expression of sadness instead of the satisfaction and joy Yuuri had seen earlier, green eyes dull, with hardly any life in them. His blond hair was longer than the demon king had ever remembered seeing it, falling an inch or so passed his shoulders in loose curls and waves, his slender hands sliding a brush through it almost without thought. He didn’t appear any older, certainly no taller or broader than he was now, but there was still an air about him that made it seem as if he’d aged, as if a dark cloud was hanging over his head, one people didn’t normally carry unless they’d been through some kind of harsh ordeal or traumatic experience.

It broke Yuuri’s heart to see him like that, especially after witnessing the complete opposite not even five seconds ago, and he was so tempted to reach out to him, to brush his growing bangs out of his face and wrap his arms around him, anything to take that forlorn look of depression away. He would have, if only there were some way to go through the mirror, would have done anything in the world to comfort his friend at that moment, to get him to laugh, to smile. As it was, he could only remain standing there, watching, transfixed, eyes locked on the blond’s slender frame.

He was wearing some kind of a nightdress Yuuri didn’t recall him owning, the silky white fabric clinging to his torso then falling down to his ankles, two thin straps the only thing keeping it in place. Yuuri thought his choice of dress to be somewhat out of character. Though it still managed to cover a majority of his pale skin, it was far more revealing than any of the outfits the king had seen him wear. Of course, he looked beautiful. Yuuri didn’t think there was anything he could do to change that, the pure white of the gown only lighter than the hue of his skin by a shade or two, the color making Wolfram look angelic, untainted by the harsh years he’d been raised in, and infinitely more vulnerable.

Yuuri wasn’t sure he liked that.

The door that lead into the projected room was suddenly swung open, though the Wolfram in the picture hardly flinched at all, merely went on dully brushing his hair. The nineteen year old was a bit frustrated when he couldn’t make out the extra figure clearly; this time instead of a blur in the place of a living body, it was a shadowy form, its build indicating confidence and raw power. Whoever it was would have towered over the blond even if the boy had been standing, and the width of his shoulders was at least twice as broad. Heavy footfalls resounded in the room as the shape entered, the door shutting just as harshly as it had been opened.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my love, but I had some very important business to attend to. Wars are such trying times, and they can be so tedious,” the figure said in a deep, intimidating, undeniably male voice, his tone condescending, patronizing, and dripping with feigned sweetness. Approaching the bed, he appeared to be removing some article of clothing, haphazardly flinging it across the room. “And what did you do to entertain yourself today?”

Wolfram remained silent, making no move to indicate he’d even heard the other man, his vacant gaze remaining locked on the mirror before him.

“No walks in the garden? No time spent tinkling away at the piano in the ballroom? No long, luxuriating baths to ease the mind and body?” the shadow of a man wondered, moving then to walk towards the blond.

Silence again, though the blond slowly lowered the brush onto the vanity, then remained still in his chair.

“Nothing?” were the continued questions, until the dark form stood behind the shorter young man, leaning down to brush some of his golden hair away in order to trail what Yuuri could only assume were his lips against the skin of Wolfram’s neck. The blond shivered in reaction, his face morphing into a revolted expression, clear indication that he was not enjoying the attention.

Yuuri wanted very much to go in there and pull that man away from his friend, stop him from doing something that Wolfram was obviously uncomfortable with, but he could do nothing more than helplessly watch. Part of him spared a thought as to why the older boy wasn’t retaliating, pushing the unwanted touch away with a vicious snarl and snapping insults into the man’s face. It disgusted him to see Wolfram being treated as some sort of… concubine, and he was struck with the sudden realization that the green eyed noble had probably been forced there - and into that gown, no less - against his will.

By why? What had happened? What had changed so much between the last happy image and now?

“He hasn’t come for you,” the figure whispered, so softly Yuuri had to strain to hear it, but when he was able to pick out the words, to process them, his heart skipped a beat and nearly fell right out of his chest, thinking he had a pretty good idea who ‘he’ was. “My informants haven’t even spotted him leaving the castle, even though by now I suspect he knows exactly where you are. The traitor’s been caught and is awaiting his trial. No doubt he’s divulged all our dirty little secrets in order to escape a painful death, although his crimes befit the punishment of execution.”

Wolfram’s shoulders trembled, his hands balling into fists, but still he said nothing, nor did he make a move to extricate himself from the man’s presence.

“I guess it’s obvious now how little you mean to him,” the shadowy man crooned, his smirk apparent in his voice, a ghostly black appendage moving to slide one of the tiny little straps off of a narrow shoulder, the nearly nonexistent piece of fabric sliding down the blond’s arm easily. “He’s happier without you,” he nearly chuckled, amused by the heartbreak his words were causing. “When will you finally let go of your foolish hope and give yourself to me?”

“Never,” Wolfram’s voice was small, but that one word still held within it a bit of his old spark, his determination, and the perseverance Yuuri envied him for.

“And yet you’ll knowingly betray your king, reveal the secrets of your country’s defenses to my war council, and forsake your own people to certain annihilation?” he wondered, sounding genuinely surprised. “You’ll commit treason as an act of revenge on those who hurt you, intentionally disclose confidential information about your kingdom to a man who attempted to rape and murder you, and yet you still refuse to willingly come to my bed?”

Yuuri’s heart pounded in his chest at those words, a pit of dread forming at the bottom of his stomach, mind swirling and body heavy, sweat breaking out along his brow. He gulped, not fully understanding what it was they were discussing, but not liking the sound of it at all. What was going on? What was that man talking about? What had happened to make Wolfram do as he claimed?

“I don’t love you,” the blond’s voice was still just as quiet as it had been the moment he first spoke, though now it was wavering slightly, and when Yuuri looked at his pale face, he saw eyes in a state he’d sworn never to cause again: filled with tears.

“And you still love him?” the imposing figured wondered acidly, as if he were hardly able to believe what he was hearing. “He’s humiliated you, betrayed you, proved over and over again that he does not return your feelings, but you continue to love him anyway?” He scoffed, standing back up to move away from the smaller boy, disgusted. “One day I’ll make you realize how absolutely ludicrous you are, and then it will be my name you’re calling out in your sleep.”

“No,” the demon king heard his own voice then, the word spoken as softly as Wolfram’s words had been uttered, watching as the shadowy figure left the room, slamming the door behind him. He watched, brokenly, as Wolfram folded his arms against the vanity, staring at his reflection in the mirror for a moment before lowering his head to rest upon them, the shaking of his shoulders increasing as he finally allowed his tears to fall.

Again the scene faded, leaving Yuuri staring at himself, tears in his own eyes as he thought of what could have possibly driven Wolfram away, what had left him so shattered. His hands trembled as he dropped his fingers away from the glass, gnashing his teeth together in an effort to control his sudden anger at himself; somehow he didn’t doubt it was his fault.

He almost didn’t turn to the next mirror, this dream, though infinitely less violent, was leaving him just as shaken as his nightmare had, and it had all gone downhill in such a short period of time. Perhaps that’s why it was affecting him so badly. One minute he’d seen Wolfram happy, sitting in their room comfortably with Greta, and the next he’d been a shell of the boy he used to be, emotionally crippled beyond repair. If he had to see something like that again, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop from crying; and even if the next image was another happy one, he’d never be able to forget that man’s words.

He turned anyway, face blanching almost immediately.

The scene shown to him now was one set outside, the trees devoid of their leaves, wind blowing through thin, gangly branches, sky an overcast gray. The ground was unhealthy, grass giving way to patches of dirt, and in the very center of the picture rested a marble gravestone, solitary on a hill, the names and dates of the deceased blurred so that he was unable to read the words that had been etched into the stone, but he didn’t need to know who it was to feel dread consume him. Greta, Lady Celi, and Gwendal were the only ones who stood before it, looking down upon it solemnly, the two women openly weeping, and Gwendal appearing more somber than usual.

In the background, along with the harsh gusts of wind, Yuuri could hear someone screaming. “I’m sorry!” they shouted. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!!” they repeated, over and over again, until their voice went raw and inevitably gave out. It sounded so familiar, and yet so different at the same time, and with it distorted by harsh, gut wrenching sobs and the billowing breeze, it was hard for him to discern who it belonged to.

Yuuri didn’t even wait for the picture to fade this time, turning away from it before any more could be revealed, moving to glance at the last mirror, somewhat relieved when the image staring back at him did not contain any of his friends. For a moment he wondered why he was staring at himself again, why the glass hadn’t changed to show him something else, but when he moved to look closer and noticed how the reflection didn’t copy his motions, he understood.

Staring back at him was a person he’d never seen before, but who’s presence he knew all too well. Black hair that had once hung longer than his - but that was now nearly the same length, thanks to years of growing his own hair out - framed a face identical to his own. The eyes were the same, only narrowed, and he was sure he’d never appeared quite that cunning. The young man looking back at him with his lips quirked up in a smirk was not wearing pajamas, but the dark uniform he’d been wearing since high school.

“What are you doing here?” Yuuri immediately asked the Maou, carefully taking in the sight of him, memorizing the look of the entity that sprung forth in his anger, the one who took advantage of his unconscious state and ran havoc on the world.

“What are you doing here?” the Maou questioned in return, his smirk widening in amusement. “Why wouldn’t I be here?” he continued before the other double black could reply, making no move to escape the mirror and further approach.

“I don’t need you anymore,” the young king pointed out, narrowing his own eyes in a hint of anger. “Get out of my head and stop making me overreact to everything all the time. You’ve caused nothing but trouble.”

“Trouble?” his alternate persona wondered curiously, deep voice echoing slightly, while Yuuri’s remained normal and unchanged. “Defending the innocent has caused trouble?” he chortled lightly, entertained by his proclamations. “I’ve only done what you wish of me. You’ve had complete control all along.”

“That isn’t true! You take over and you make me do awful things to people! I don’t care whether they’re innocent or not, that doesn’t give you any right to hurt them!”

His chuckling evolved into all out laughter. “Still so very ignorant. Does denial comfort you, my friend?” he questioned, dark eyes slit and cat-like, almost glowing despite being so dark, raw power practically swirling around him. “I have never made you do anything. You control me, when I’m released, how I deal my justice. It’s all because of you.”

Yuuri would have argued again if he had any delusions that his words wouldn’t be discredited and thrown back into his face. “What are you?” the more innocent of the two asked instead, becoming a bit agitated.

“I am you.”

“Don’t give me any of that sci-fi television bullshit!”

“You refuse to believe me,” the Maou said, his words more a statement than a question. “I am you. I am your anger and your hate, I am everything you’ve never allowed yourself to feel. You created me, a part of yourself, but we are still one person. There is no you without me, just as there is no me without you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” he was reassured. “Whether you understand or not has no effect on what is real and what is false.”

Yuuri fell silent for just a second, trying to work his mind around the Maou’s words, but when it continued to prove difficult to comprehend he shook it from his head, choosing to move passed it and focus on other things. “What was that just now? In those mirrors. What did all that mean?”

“It was the future.”

Part of him had figured that out as he’d been watching, but that didn’t mean it made any sense, “The future? But why? Why would I… dream of something like that?”

“You have to make a choice. Each of those futures is as possible as the next. Your actions will affect which one inevitably comes to pass.”

“But why am I being shown something like that?” the dark haired boy asked - and he truly felt like a boy when confronted with a side of himself that seemed far more intelligent and sophisticated.

The Maou shook his head as if he were somewhat exasperated that Yuuri still didn’t understand. “You have powers buried deep inside you that you couldn’t possibly comprehend. We - you and I,” he clarified, “make up a king greater than any that have been born before. More powerful than Queen Cecilie, than King Eberhart or Ferdinand, stronger than even Shinou himself. Within us lies a power so great we could destroy the world if we chose.” He paused, his cunning smile returning. “But of course, we don’t want that.”

The Japanese boy shivered, the chill in the air forcing another tingle down his spine, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around himself, his trembling caused both by the cold and the information he was being given. Though he knew that at the level he was at right now, he could never hope to accomplish what the Maou had told him he was capable of, the fact that he even had that power inside of him, however deep it was buried, disconcerted him more than anything else he’d learned about himself so far.

Why would he be given powers like that? Why would anyone even want them?

The only thing he wanted was for his family and friends to be happy, but that happiness couldn’t possibly be achieved through super human strength, of that he was more than certain. So then what the hell was the purpose of possessing something that couldn’t do any good?

“You think about things far too much,” the Maou told him, as if he could read his mind, and if he was correct in saying that they were one in the same, then he most likely could. Perhaps his words could even be found in part of Yuuri’s mind, ignored, obscured by other things, but still there, hidden inside of himself.

“The first one,” Yuuri quickly spat out, watching the Maou lift one curious eyebrow. “How do I get the future to be like the first mirror, the one with Wolfram and Greta and…” he trailed off. The image had faded before he’d been able to make out anything else of great importance.

“Ignorant and foolish,” the more imposing man said with another chuckle at Yuuri’s expense. “You can’t choose which future to create. It’s the choices you make in life that will effect whether or not your path leads to the one you desire.”

“How will I know if I’m making the right choice?”

“You won’t,” was the short, simple reply.

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?!” Yuuri suddenly exploded, nearing his limit when it came to dealing with this man, whose word sounded more like riddles than anything that made any sort of sense, allowing himself to curse far more harshly than he usually did when confronted with so much frustration. “Why the hell are you doing this to me?! Do you enjoy seeing me so confused all the time?!”

“What is it that makes you think I’m doing anything?” the Maou wondered, some of the arrogance seeping out of his deep voice. “I am in no way responsible for the conflict currently raging inside of you, inside of us,” he told the boy. “Your confusion is my confusion.”

The black haired king stared at him critically, as if trying to decide if he should believe him or not. Finally, he settled on asking, almost as if he were testing him, “How do I feel about Wolfram?”

“I don’t know,” was the three word reply, the very words he’d said to his brother two days ago.

“How do you feel about Wolfram?”

The Maou frowned, but answered anyway. “I don’t know.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

“Are you?”

Again there was silence, and Yuuri thought the Maou was either simply playing some kind of stupid game with him, or he really was speaking honestly. He couldn’t decide, had no idea what was true or not, and could only continue to hold his suspicions. It was agitating, not being able to understand anything, especially when he was already confused enough as it was. Being unable to make sense of any of this certainly wasn’t helping him in the least. If anything it was only increasing his confusion, as he again wondered why he was even dreaming something like this. For a moment he couldn’t tell which he preferred, this constant bafflement or his nightmares. At least in his nightmares he knew what to expect.

“I don’t know what I want,” he admitted after a while, averting his gaze to the dark ground beneath him - or what he assumed was the ground, since it felt solid beneath his feet, although the black color that prevailed in this plane was the same no matter where he looked. “I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why everything’s happening now, and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”

“And you think I do?”

“You always have before.”

“I only do what you wish of me,” the Maou said again. “In truth, you’re conscious of everything I do, although you may push it down and hide it, refuse to acknowledge it, burying it deep inside you the same way you bury everything else you’d rather not accept about yourself.”

Yuuri snorted, but gave no other form of reply.

“Perhaps it’s time you returned,” his counterpart suggested, his tone serious. “You’ve run away long enough. It’s time you started standing on your own two feet and stopped relying on everyone to help you. You were correct in saying that you no longer have need of me. You must now lessen your need for the others, and handle your responsibilities like a true king.”

“But what if I’m not ready?” the dark haired boy wondered quietly, voice small and unsure of himself, sounding like he had at age fifteen, when he’d understood even less than he did now.

“Why would you no longer need me if you weren’t ready? Look inside of yourself. You know you are. The confidence you’ve relegated to me flows through you as well. You merely have to accept it; accept your hate, accept your anger, move passed the ignorance you’ve blinded yourself with for so many years. Free yourself of your denial. Only then will you and I truly be one.”

It made so much sense, and yet at the same time it made none at all.

It wasn’t long at all before the Maou’s image faded away, and Yuuri was left staring at his own reflection again, one so similar to the figure that had previously been standing before him that it was hardly much of a change at all from one to the other. When he was gone and Yuuri was staring into black eyes stinging with frustrated tears instead of fearlessness and shrewdness, he leaned his forehead against the cold glass, then closed his dark eyes against the blackness.

One by one the mirrors disappeared, and he slowly returned to consciousness.

* * *

Wolfram sat dispiritedly in the king’s office, his back rigid as his eyes listlessly scanned over the papers before him, discarding some as unimportant or not worthy of his time, signing others that he felt held more value. Slowly he scrawled his name across each sheet, looking at the way the ink looped and twisted around, bleeding into and then drying on the rough parchment. He’d been at this for nearly three hours now, lead in here by his oldest brother shortly after lunch - which he’d eaten little of - and he hadn’t had a break since.

Not that he minded at all. There was nothing better to do around the castle at the moment, so he hardly cared that he was stuck doing all of Yuuri’s work. Anything was fine as long as it distracted him for more than a moment, as long as it could prevent him from thinking about dark hair, searching hands, and malicious intent. Stacks of paperwork were more welcome to him than going over the event in his head once more, pointing out all the things he could have done differently, all the ways in which he could have escaped if only he’d tried harder.

If only he hadn’t been so scared.

He gritted his teeth harshly as his fingers fisted around the quill in his hands, lips pulled into a frown that had not eased a bit in the last forty-eight hours. Two days and two nights had passed him by, each dawn bringing with it a new sunrise, and a new layer to his ever-growing self-hatred.

Fear was not an emotion he felt comfortable admitting to, not even to himself, because it meant he invariably suffered from some sort of weakness. After spending so much of his life trying to catch up to his older brothers, he didn’t need yet another reminder of how much he’d failed to reach his goal. Conrart was still the better swordsman, Gwendal still more attuned with and in better control of his maryoku, still the better politician, both still far more respected than he. Neither of the two older men would have been as caught off guard as he inevitably was. Neither of them would have been too powerless to stop such a thing from happening to them.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth, this jealousy and self-revulsion, and he hated himself all the more for it, because even that was another testament to his inferior abilities, his flaws, which kept adding on to one another one by one. He felt so feeble compared to everyone else, so inadequate, this most recent attack throwing into sharp realization just how meager his skills - and experience - actually were. And though some part of him had known all along how much he was lacking, to have it thrown into his face like that was mortifying, to say the least.

He could still remember that man’s dark chuckles.

He hadn’t slept a wink since then, had drifted in and out of consciousness a few times, but he’d always snapped awake quickly thereafter, knowing what sorts of things would visit him in his dreams. Gisela had tried to get him to drink a sleeping-aid each night, but he outright refused, and had even gone so far as to snatch the cup from her and splash the substance all over her uniform when she’d pushed it on him last night. He knew what it was, what it contained, what it would do, had been taking the same thing for years, since the last war, when sleep had been hard to come by. It’s what had always caused him to sleep so deeply, to fall into the world of dreams so quickly. He didn’t want that anymore, not if it left him so vulnerable.

His mother had been with him nearly twenty-four/seven - she was with him now, standing near by, as if with her very presence she could protect him. He would have appreciated her care and concern if he weren’t so angry, if he didn’t want to prove to himself now more than ever that he could be just as strong, and just as able as his two brothers. Instead of clinging to her still, as he had in the aftermath of the attack, he ignored her. He’d been ignoring most everyone recently, with the only exception being Greta, though when she tried to bring up anything concerning that night, he immediately forced her into silence.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything that had happened, preferred to place it far out of his mind, though he knew he’d never be able to forget. Never. But when the Aristocrats came to question him, when his mother voiced her anxiousness and concern for his well being, when Gwendal or Conrart tried to get him to tell his version of the events, he refused to speak, and only spoke enough words to order them away. The Aristocrats were angered over his unwillingness, Gwendal was embittered, and everyone else either didn’t know what to do with him or was too afraid to try.

What he really wanted to do, however, more than anything else, was to weep, to curl up in a corner somewhere and sob until he had no tears left to shed, scream until his voice gave out on him, and hide himself from the world and never show his face again. People whispered his name in the halls, the rumors already circulating, speculations being made, his character assessed and history looked into as everyone tried to come up with some reason for the attack. The criminals themselves had barely spoken a word, though they’d been threatened with torture and eventual execution by all who questioned them, so the nobles were left to come up with their own answers. None of them had been especially kind.

But Wolfram refused to allow himself another breakdown, no matter how strong the urge, no matter how ashamed or violated he felt, and he looked to his anger for salvation. He was a man, not a child. He could handle this, he could forget about it and move on without anyone’s help. He didn’t need his mother to coddle him anymore, didn’t need Conrart to keep asking him if he were alright. He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy or feigned understanding, didn’t need their piteous looks. He just needed the memories to go away, and the terror to ease out of his heart.

Even now, those who were closest to him refused to leave him alone. His mother stood close to the wall to his right, where the large map of Shin Makoku and its territories proudly hung. Gwendal was before him, not even a foot away from the edge of the desk, his imposing form casting a shadow down upon the wooden surface as the blond worked, his frown deeper than it had been in years, his face showing a few more wrinkles - which their mother hadn’t even bothered to point out this time. Gunter stood behind the dark haired man, just as silent and brooding, and there was not a sign of his overabundant joy or annoying theatrics. The Great Sage leaned against the wall to his left, the human’s sharp gaze making him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

He didn’t want them in here, preferred to be alone, but Gwendal’s presence, at least, was necessary if he were to go through all these papers. Never before had he understood what made Yuuri so despondent at the idea of doing paperwork, but now he could quite easily say that it was definitely not one of his favorite activities. Even with his extensive education, the carefully constructed documents confused him, with their considerably long sentences and use of vocabulary that even he was not extremely familiar with. It required patience and a careful eye, neither of witch he’d ever been in abundant possession of.

He’d just finished signing another of the endless sheets of paper when the sullen mood in the room suddenly changed, the tension leaping up as Gwendal quickly snatched the next document away from him. Wolfram glanced up at the taller man, face blank but eyes curious, wondering for a moment if he’d just been about to approve of something he shouldn’t have. His questioning gaze was answered when his older brother moved two piles to the side of the desk so that they were out of the way, calmly placing a new sheet of parchment before him. He easily recognized the blue eyed man’s writing, and knew that he had been the one to draft it.

“What is this?” he asked, eyes scanning over it but not really reading any of the words.

Gwendal’s frown lowered more, his gaze steady and sure. “It’s a Declaration of War.”

Wolfram was floored, and his breathing immediately began to pick up, his heart thudding loudly within his chest and ears. Unconsciously he dropped the quill, green eyes widening as they surveyed the document a second time.

The words were explicitly clear.

“We, the people of the Kingdom of Shin Makoku, henceforth declare War upon the Kingdoms of Shimeron, Anselm, Balderic and their allies, in response to their attacks upon the populace and the Royal Crown.”

“What?” the blond asked, stunned, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“We received word from Yozak that the humans have further advanced on our borders,” Gunter explained rationally, far more calm than Gwendal could ever hope to be in this situation. “They’ve crossed over, and have set up an encampment a day’s journey in. The people are beginning to riot, Your Majesty. They want to know what is being done to prevent them from moving further into our lands.”

‘No,’ Wolfram thought. ‘They stopped progressing foreword weeks ago. They shouldn’t be advancing until winter ends.’

“I…” he began, but didn’t quite know what to say, his mind having gone blank, all thought leaving him as he continued to stare down at the incriminating paper. “We could… we could send a troop of soldiers out to strengthen the border,” he weakly suggested, knowing that wouldn’t be enough. “We don’t have to resort to this. We don’t even know if Belal really is the one conducting these attacks.”

“You honestly think sending one unit to the border will be enough?” Gwendal wondered, his disbelief easily recognizable.

“Two then.”

“They’ll be severely outnumbered. A mission like that will only result in the annihilation of the entire force. It would be suicidal and non-effective.”

“But… there has to be something else…” Wolfram tried again, all the while knowing that every argument he could possibly pose would be in vain.

“The people want this madness to stop, Wolfram!” Gwendal shouted at him this time, blue eyes glaring down at him, his tall, broad figure appearing more intimidating than ever before, and Wolfram felt a bit like a small boy again, staring up at his much older, much larger brother with a mixture of admiration and fear. “You and His Majesty have ignored this problem long enough, foolishly believing that talking with the enemy will solve everything, when it is glaringly obvious that they have no intention of talking.”

“You can’t expect me to sign this,” the Prince said, voice remaining weak and breathless.

“You want to allow them to slowly take over instead?” Lord von Voltaire questioned him, gruff and harsh. “Because that’s exactly what they’ll do if we don’t stop them right now!! This is no time for you to continue the king’s pacifistic ways! You’re both idealistic fools!” he cruelly spat, not seeming to care how his pitiless words were affecting the younger man. “Our men are dying, and our women and children are paying for your mistakes.”

Slowly Wolfram shook his head, eyes trailing up to meet sapphire again. “I can’t…” he told him softly, looking torn, wanting to keep to the promise he’d made to Yuuri, but also unable to ignore the threat he knew was out there. “I won’t…”

“You can and you will! This is your country, Wolfram; these are your people!” the darker male passionately declared. “The humans are relentless! They’ll keep pushing until they advance on the capital! With what information we already have, I’m sure they’ve made plans, and there isn’t any doubt that they already have some of their men hiding around or within the city!”

“I made a promise to Yuuri…”

“To hell with your promise!” Wolfram jumped when Gwendal pounded one of his closed fists against the top of the desk, and out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother mirror his jolt of surprise, though she said nothing to stop her oldest son. “People are dying unnecessarily! Is that what you want? For our men to be slaughtered, our women raped and tortured, and our children enslaved?”

“Of course not,” the blond denied, horrified by the very thought of it.

“You have already been personally attacked, von Bielefeld,” the Great Sage pointed out from his place against the wall, and though he had not been present within the palace at the time of the assault - and though he was one of the very few who had yet to try to get Wolfram to speak about it - he was very much aware of the occurrence. “It could very easily happen again.”

“No,” Wolfram repeatedly shook his head. “No, it won’t,” he said. “We don’t even know who sent those men.” Seeing no way to reason with the wise double black, or with the Chief of State for that matter, the Prince turned his anxious green gaze to Yuuri’s lavender haired teacher. “You know better than anyone that Yuuri would never agree to this.”

Gunter’s determination to see this through never faltered, even at mention of his beloved king. “As much as I admire His Majesty for his gentleness and pacifism, it remains true that there are times when bloodshed cannot be prevented. None of us really want this war, Prince von Bielefeld, but the humans refuse to listen to reason. We have no more options left to take. We must stop them immediately before they take control of any more of our land.”

Abruptly the pale boy turned to his mother, seeking her understanding of the lessons she’d learned from the mistakes she’d made. “Mother, you can’t tell me that you agree with them,” he said, surprised that he’d yet to raise his own voice, when inside his thoughts were screaming. “After everything that happened…” he trailed off, watching as she closed her eyes and turned so she wouldn’t have to face him.

“We don’t have a choice,” she quietly replied, still just as deeply affected as he was over the attack against him and Greta.

“Of course we do,” he tried, but his voice fell flat even in his own ears. ‘Where the hell is Conrart when I need him?’ he internally wondered. ‘He would never agree to this!’

“Name it then,” Gwendal loudly bellowed. “What could we possibly do that we haven’t already tried?!”

“I’ll speak with Belal personally,” he thoughtlessly replied, and when the words reached his ears he was struck by how much he sounded like Yuuri at that moment, parroting statements that he no doubt would have made had he been confronted with this situation, still acting as his faithful little shadow even when he wasn’t around.

“The idea is absurd!” Gunter exclaimed, appalled.

“Do you want him to kill you that badly?!” Gwendal barked not even a second after, his voice void of any compassion, filled instead with contempt and revulsion.

“Who says he wants to kill me? You don’t know that he sent those men,” Wolfram pointed out, hands gripping into tight fists at the mention of the two humans he hated most in this world, men whose names he didn’t even know.

“I will not allow you to go gallivanting off to Shimeron to try and make peace with him!” the Chief of State ignored his reply, focusing instead on his suggested intent. “He wants nothing to do with peace and he’s made that perfectly clear!”

“I don’t want to be responsible for another war. Too many people have already died.”

“And they’ll keep dying if we don’t do something,” the Sage countered, a ray of sunlight that drifted in through one of the windows glinting sharply off of the lenses of his glasses. “At least if we fight back we’ll stand somewhat of a chance. Our people would rather die fighting that sitting around innocently. If we don’t send the army out, they’ll retaliate on their own, and that will only lead to disaster.”

“But…” Wolfram began, his breaths deep and heavy as sweat began to break out along his temples, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically as he attempted to come up with something to change their minds. There was no way he could do what they were asking of him; he didn’t want that sort of responsibility, the knowledge that he had inevitably been the one to send so many men off to their deaths. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. He already had enough ghosts tormenting him in his sleep; he didn’t need anymore to add on to it.

“Yuuri will hate me,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, battling with himself, trying to convince himself that this was wrong, when he knew deep down that his brother, Gunter, and the Great Sage were right.

He jumped again when Gwendal reacted to the words he hadn’t expected him to hear, the older man’s palms slamming against the desk top before him, leaning over the wooden furniture to make sure that the Prince could see the heavy glare being directed at him, the disappointment Gwendal had gleaming in his dark blue eyes. It wasn’t disappointment over the fact that he’d yet to get his Declaration signed, it was disappointment directed completely at his younger brother, as if he were ashamed of him.

It hurt Wolfram so much to see that, when he’d worked so hard for so many years to make his older brothers proud of him.

“Is your desire to please His Majesty more important to you than protecting your people?” the darker man hissed, his quieter tone even more threatening than his loud, booming yells. “Are you so blinded by your feelings for him that you can’t see what’s happening in your own kingdom? We’re being taken over, Wolfram!”

“I made a promise!” Wolfram told him, already feeling his will faltering. Was Gwendal looking at him like that because he meant it or because he knew it would effect the blond enough to get him to do as he wished? Was his shame in the younger man genuine, or was he simply taking advantage of his desire to gain his praise in order to sway the Prince’s decision? “I gave him my word!”

“Your promise means nothing to those people who’ve had their lives and families taken! When you married His Majesty, you accepted the responsibilities of a king! Stop trying to run away from them!”

Wolfram couldn’t stop the hurt look that crossed his pale face. “This isn’t what Yuuri would want!” he cried passionately. “This isn’t what I want! Don’t you remember what happened in the last war, how much it cost us, how much we lost?! I can’t…” he paused, his head moving back and forth, voice slowly growing softer. “I don’t want that to happen again. I don’t want to be responsible for another war.”

“To hell with what you want!” The older man grabbed onto the Prince’s collar then, large hand wrinkling the cravat at his throat, lifting him from the chair and pulling him closer, as if he would be unable to get the full effect of his words unless he was standing mere inches away. “You are a selfish, narrow-minded fool! The only thing you’ve ever care about it yourself! You don’t give a damn what happens to anyone else as long as you can have your way!”

“That isn’t true,” the smaller male denied, at the same time their mother softly called out, “Gwen…” although it did little good to gain Lord von Voltaire’s attention, so focused was he on forcing his brother into action.

“I should have never agreed to this marriage!” he continued to fume. “Having a king who is too incapable of making any important decisions is bad enough! Having you as the prince is even worse! You are a weak and insufficient ruler! If you don’t do something now, the people will rebel and our kingdom will fall apart!” he warned, and Wolfram didn’t doubt that he was right. “Is that what you want your legacy to be? Do you want to be responsible for the end of the Mazoku?!”

Harshly he shoved Wolfram back into his seat, the blond haired boy pale as a ghost. “Now,” Gwendal began again, seeming to calm himself down, if only a little. “Pick up your quill and sign your name.”

Wolfram averted his gaze, no longer able to look at the expression on his oldest brother’s face. “No…” he answered him weakly.

“Do it, Wolfram.”

Another shake of the head was his reply.

And just ask quickly as Gwendal’s frustrations had seemed to leave him, it returned, his palms connecting with the wooden desktop a second time, Wolfram’s flinch more pronounced now than it had been previously. “Do it!” he demanded harshly, his voice far more cruel than it once had been not too long ago, when Wolfram had truly taken orders from him.

The blond’s hand shook as he lifted his quill, his trembling easily noticeable as he moved the feather to the inkpot, dabbing it inside until the tip was once more a dark black. His eyes glanced at each of the room’s occupants again, seeing Gwendal’s determination, the Sage’s blank, compassionless stare, and Gunter’s anticipation. The only one who showed him any amount of sympathy was his mother, but even she refused to spare him any kind words, keeping quiet and turning away, refusing to say anything to dissuade him.

A drop of onyx liquid dripped onto the desktop, but it went unnoticed by the blond, his green eyes returning to the document that had been set in front of him. The quill hovered over the parchment for a long moment, descending a few millimeters before being quickly lifted back up. The struggle Wolfram went through at that moment was the most difficult of his young life, his mind shouting at him, attempting to convince him that his brother was right, that this was the only way, that he had to do this. Yuuri never would, he knew; instead, the decision was up to him.

But his heart told him something else entirely, and it throbbed painfully with each downward motion, its harsh beating what continued to cause him to jerk his hand back up before it could touch the paper. His heart told him not to, warned him of Yuuri’s reaction - what the other boy would no doubt think of him, how this betrayal would make the king feel. With this one action, he’d be throwing all those years of trust and companionship out the window, and any chance of being loved along with it. It would be akin to spitting in the dark haired young man’s face, taking the faith he had in him and ripping it into a million little pieces.

He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t hear or feel anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he finally lowered his hand, the evil chuckling of the human still being contained in a cell in the dungeon filling his mind, mocking him, reigniting his hate and anger.

With a trembling hand he signed the country’s fate in a series of curves, loops, and swirls.

‘Prince Wolfram von Bielefeld’

His heart broke.

Gwendal snatched the sheet of paper away immediately, perhaps thinking Wolfram would quickly think better of the idea and tear it up before it could be distributed. The way the dark haired man’s look of anger evened out was evidence to his satisfaction. But Wolfram wasn’t satisfied, nor was he proud of himself. He felt sick, his stomach churning, again threatening to rebel, like it had so many times over the last month. Slowly he stood to his feet, opening his eyes to stare at his big brother, the one person who had never let him down, the one man he’d always looked up to.

But Gwendal had betrayed him just like Conrart had, and just as easily, too.

Just like he’d betrayed Yuuri.

‘Yuuri…’ he thought, quickly backing up, knocking his chair over backwards at the movement, though he hardly cared to bother putting it back in place. ‘I’m sorry!’

“Are you happy now?” he wondered out loud, his voice still weak, cracking with emotion. “You got what you wanted,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the older man, not even bothering to hide his pain; he hoped Gwendal could see it, hoped it made him feel guilty, though some part of him doubted Gwendal cared that much. How could he after what he’d just done?

“Yuuri will never forgive me!” he added, his voice raising only slightly, enough to make clear the hurt he felt inside. “Never!”

He fled the room then, pushing passed Gwendal and Gunter, paying no attention to Lord von Christ’s shout of “Your Majesty!” or the way his mother was calling his name. It was easy to ignore them with the beating of his bleeding heart pounding away in his ears, his mind screaming at him now, as if it had only just realized what he’d mentally talked himself into. He dashed through the door and ran down the hallways, not once looking back. He paid no mind to anyone he passed, not the maids who whispered upon seeing the completely shattered look on his face, nor the guards who immediately became concerned for his safety.

None of that mattered. The only thing he cared about was what he’d just done to Yuuri.

‘I’m sorry…’

He knew that wasn’t enough. He could apologize all the wanted, fall to his knees before the king and beg for forgiveness, but it wouldn’t change a thing. His husband would never understand.

‘What have I done?’

TBC…

A/N: Chapter fifteen will be called ‘Comprendre,’ which means ‘to understand.’