Love and War

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

A/N: I’m sorry if this chapter sounds kind of… weird. I was going through a hugely major bout of writer’s block as I was getting it drafted, so it isn’t exactly how I wanted it. Sorry.

In fact, I’m still in a hugely major bout of writer’s block, which is the entire reason I’m posting this now instead of waiting a little bit to get some more work done like I usually do. I don’t exactly like admitting to it because I’m not sure how it makes me sound as a writer and a person, but I’m hoping some encouragement from the fans will get me more into the mood to write.

Love and War
by Mikage

Chapter Sixteen

Lord Gwendal von Voltaire sat stiffly in a wooden chair by Alexei’s bedside, his large, powerful hands making swift movements as he began the task of knitting the boy yet another plush toy. Already the once drab and dreary room was beginning to take on a more homey feel, and although he still intended to move the young blond to more suitable chambers whenever an adequate space became available, the room he was currently in had become a bit more comforting to the child since he’d been brought to the palace from Fane. Alexei had shown a great fondness for the Sand Bear Gwendal had originally made for him, so the dark haired man had used his scant amount of free time to create even more cuddly creatures for the mazoku boy.

The room was now decorated with them, along with many that had been crafted through other hands, as both Greta and Anissina had taken to spending time with Alexei as a way to ease his loneliness. Gisela had remained adamant in her decision to keep the boy in bed, and Alexei had only been allowed out of the tiny room during supervised walks with the green haired medic, so that he could slowly regain his strength without overexerting himself. Honestly, Gwendal would rather the boy be able to get a little more exercise - he remembered how it had felt to be confined at such a young age, when he’d been full of boundless energy - but he had learned not to argue with the younger woman.

Alexei had grown restless as he slowly continued to recover, and although his memories of the attack still haunted him, he was becoming less introverted and more curious about the place he had been brought to, asking a multitude of questions about the palace and expressing the desire to explore its fine rooms and vast corridors. So far he’d only been permitted to see the chambers along the hall his room was stationed on, but he’d been promised a more extensive tour once his health and current condition was no longer such a cause for worry. The excitement that had shone from the boy’s wide blue-green eyes had been a great source of amusement to the tall Chief of State, and he was half tempted to take Alexei on the tour himself, if only to bear witness to the wide smile he knew would cross the young child’s face.

Over the course of the last two weeks, Alexei had managed to worm his way into Gwendal’s heart despite the older man’s attempts to prevent any form of deep attachment. He supposed he only had himself to blame, as he’d spent many hours in the child’s company, finding a source of comfort in his curious inquiries and unlimited fascination with everything that surrounded him. Speaking with the boy, however briefly, had provided him with a means to ease and clear his often times troubled mind, an effect he had once found only through knitting. The boy’s smiles were heartwarming, and the bubbly nature that was beginning to show through his sadness had almost managed to bring a smile to Gwendal’s face more than once before.

Presently, Alexei was sitting in his normal spot on the narrow bed, but rather than asking if he could again take a walk down the hall or go outside for a few minutes, his teal eyes were riveted on the pages of a book held by the dark haired girl next to him. Greta read to him out loud from one of Anissina’s children’s novels - a story she’d claimed was her favorite when she’d first presented it to Alexei a few minutes ago - and the boy looked on in fascination, eyes scanning over the words he had not yet learned to read, stopping Greta every time they came across a picture so that he was able to peer at it more closely. They made a charming picture, almost like an older sister patiently taking care of her little brother, and Gwendal found himself looking up to stare at them for a moment more than once.

Greta was one of the very few people he’d allowed himself to become attached to without much of a protest. He couldn’t quite explain what it was about the young human girl that brought him such a sense of peace, but he’d decided not to continue questioning it. For some reason he’d never been able to comprehend, Greta had grown close to him almost as soon as she’d begun residing in the palace. When neither of her fathers were available for one reason or another, the girl usually came running to him, sometimes before seeking out the red haired scientist she’d come to look up to.

Gwendal had to admit he’d never found her company to be a nuisance. Greta knew when it was best to be quiet and leave him to his business, and when it was appropriate to speak. Many times they’d sat in companionable silence, Gwendal seeing to his work and Greta completing her various studies or knitting a toy of her own, with hardly a word passing between them as the hours passed them by. Other times he would sit and carefully listen as Greta chattered on about whatever came to mind, even when half of his focus was relegated to the paperwork that always stacked itself upon his and the king’s desks.

Never before had he felt so calm around children as he had and still did around his adopted niece. Even when Conrart and Wolfram had been young, never had he been able to sit with them for long periods of time before becoming uncomfortable or annoyed. Perhaps he had changed as he’d grown older and more mature, or perhaps with Greta he’d finally learned a bit of patience and understanding. Now the task of speaking with and caring for small children had become more of a joy than an obligation. It was one of the few things in life that made him feel accomplished and important.

That did not mean, however, that he had any clue as to what to do with the tiny child currently paying such rapt attention to his fourteen year old niece. He’d contemplated over the issue quite a bit recently; when he hadn’t been consumed by battle plans and carefully looking over the nation’s defenses, he’d spent time thinking of what would become of the boy. Before he’d even left the decimated village that had once been the boy’s home, he’d planned on keeping him at the castle until his extended family could be found. Once it had become apparent that Alexei had lost the only family he’d had in the attack, Gwendal had decided to continue allowing his stay, but beyond that he had no clue as to what to do.

He knew that should he bring the issue to His Majesty’s attention - should he and the king even talk after the harsh words they’d spoken to one another - the young king would not hesitate to provide for the dirty blond haired boy. Such care could possibly be a result of the guilt he felt over the attack, but the king would no doubt grow to genuinely care for the tiny child. The double black would do whatever he could for him - that much had been proven when he’d taken in Greta and made the girl his daughter. He would give Alexei the best clothes money could buy, gift him with the room that Greta had once used to house her multitude of toys, and offer him all the protections of the royal crown.

But somehow Gwendal didn’t feel as if that would be enough, at least not where he himself was concerned. His Majesty could do all he was capable of to make Alexei feel comfortable and accepted, and still it would not ease Lord von Voltaire’s heart and mind. Given the opportunity, the black haired king may even do what he’d done for Greta and make the boy a part of his little family, and Gwendal was sure that if Wolfram met with Alexei instead of locking himself away, the blond would have been in here as well, and would have quite possibly pulled the boy into his lap as Greta went on with her reading. The blond prince had a remarkable knack for looking after children, and it was obvious that he enjoyed it.

Still, Gwendal did not feel right with the idea of leaving Alexei to his youngest brother and nineteen year old king. The two boys would treat him well, he was sure - love him, cherish him - but the thought of foisting the boy off onto the two royals made the older man feel somewhat helpless and inadequate, though he truthfully had no idea why. For what possible reason would he balk at such an idea? Should that be the case, Alexei would be made a prince, and it would easily solve the last few problems they had with the line of succession. Wolfram would inherit the throne after His Majesty, with Greta possibly serving by him for a few years, and then Alexei could serve as the blond’s own heir.

Even thinking of it like, in terms of what would be the best for the kingdom, it did not sit well with the oldest of the former queen’s sons. Perhaps, he wondered, glancing up at the boy once more, it was because for once in his life he wanted something to call his own, a child to care for himself. Having a son or a daughter had once been further from his mind than marriage. Though he did not have any more siblings of Voltaire blood, he had enough male cousins to make sure that the family name was passed on to following generations, so he had not felt the pressure of that responsibility. When he passed on or chose to step down from his place as one of the Ten Aristocrats, there would be an ample amount of von Voltaire men and women to choose from to take his place.

Only recently had be begun to wonder what it would be like to have a son.

Curse Greta and His Majesty for instilling these sorts of feelings into him. Things had been so much easier when he’d been able to remain dispassionate about everything.

Never once did he think that these sorts of feelings could have always resided within him, waiting for the right moment, the right person to come along and release them.

“Gwen?” Alexei’s young, questioning voice captured his attention once more, the child turning just slightly to glance up at him before the dark haired man could look down at his knitting again. He used the name Greta often called him by, having quickly grown out of referring to him as ‘Your Excellency’ or ‘Lord von Voltaire,’ such formalities sounding strange coming from one so young.

Gwendal made hardly a sound, but nodded to show the boy that he had his attention.

“Is His Majesty really like what it says in the stories?” the child wondered, his inquiries as innocent as they always were, and yet they still managed to make Gwendal think carefully.

He knew what had inspired this specific question. Many of the stories Greta had been reading to him were relatively new compared to Anissina’s previous publications, and the tales centered around their young king instead of the red haired, blue eyed heroine of the old stories. These tales had not only increased Alexei’s interest in the castle and their kingdom, but he’d developed a deep fascination with their double black monarch. Gwendal suspected that were he able to play, Alexei would tie a sheet around his shoulders and take up a wooden sword, then pretend the way all the children in town did.

The story they were currently reading through was all too familiar to the blue eyed noble, as he had played a major part in it as well. Each of those involved had written their own accounts of the dealings with Shinou, the Sovereign and the four boxes, expressing their experiences, thoughts and feelings in journals or stray pieces of parchment, so that the event would be correctly recorded in their country’s history. Conrart had put down his words with pride, Gwendal himself with accomplishment, Gunter with admiration, and Wolfram with heartache and tears during the months that had passed before His Majesty and His Highness had returned to them.

Anissina had taken a different approach, writing down a tale that would surely one day become legend, detailing the king’s adventures in a series of short stories that made up her newest - and undoubtedly most popular - novel. In this way she hoped the children of their country and others around the world would find it easier to understand the importance of every event that had taken place those four years ago, the book in question simply - and fittingly - entitled The Adventures. Obviously her work was having the desired effect, if Alexei’s reaction was any indication.

Sighing, Gwendal continued his knitting, and though his eyes were focused downward, his attention remained with the young boy. “Yes, His Majesty is just as kind and generous as it says in those stories,” he replied, forcing his recent harsh feelings down. The part of him that remained angry growled at the mention of the young half-human, though the rest of him was beginning to experience some sense of regret, especially as his memories overtook him.

“And strong?” Alexei went on voicing his childish questions.

“He’s very strong,” Greta answered for him, seeming to notice how ill at ease her oldest uncle had become. She was well aware of the current animosity between Gwendal and her two fathers, but she’d so far refrained from picking sides, and Lord von Voltaire was more than appreciative of her understanding.

“Stronger than Shinou?”

“He defeated the Sovereign and freed Shinou, didn’t he?” Greta prodded, earning a nod from the tiny boy beside her. Looking at them, it was near impossible to remember that Alexei’s mazoku blood made him nearly two decades older than the human princess, as he wasn’t even half her size - sitting close to her with his injured arm still held in a sling. “My father’s the strongest king that’s ever lived!” she finished proudly.

“Even stronger than Gwen?” the boy asked with wide eyes, and Gwendal could hardly suppress the smirk that broke out along his face at the awe in his voice.

“Mm hmm,” the brown haired female nodded with a smile of her own, amused.

Lord von Voltaire watched as they went back to their reading, Alexei’s curiosity having momentarily abated, and the tall blue eyed man listened intently as Greta recounted events that she hadn’t even been present to witness. More often than not when there was even the slightest hint of danger, Greta would be relegated to the palace, placed under the care of her grandmother or Anissina while Gwendal and the others went out to check on the disturbance. That had most definitely been the case during the time when the boxes had been opened and the dark powers of the Sovereign had been released into the world.

Gwendal could quite clearly remember the day, and the wash of confusion that had spread through he and his companions, as well fear. Yes, fear. For although fighting against a powerful force that had wrecked havoc on the world four thousand years ago had been appropriately intimidating, the thought of raising his sword against Shinou - who had been and still was revered as a god - as well as their kind-hearted king, had been slightly more frightening than the thought of their kingdom being consumed by darkness. Gwendal had been one of the first of their group to draw his sword, and he took pride in that fact; it was simply more proof that no matter who or what the enemy, he would fight to protect their country.

It had been a day filled with both joy and sadness. The boxes had been destroyed and the armies of darkness had vanished, Shinou had been released from his self-imposed prison and the entire world had been saved from almost certain destruction. But, at the same time they’d lost their beloved king, and although he’d eventually made his surprising return, the idea of loosing him and never seeing his cheesy grin again had pained more than his tearful youngest brother. Even now Gwendal internally shivered at the possibility of something happening to the boy. Despite his many mistakes, His Majesty was still a force he and the others would be unable to live without.

The king had only just returned to this world once more before Gwendal had made his way into Alexei’s tiny room, and the confrontation that had taken place left Lord von Voltaire feeling the smallest twinge of regret. He could hide it well, and for a little while he’d even managed to convince himself that he didn’t care about the stress and turmoil his actions had brought to Wolfram and the double black, but he’d been lying to himself the entire time. Witnessing the anger that had bloomed across the king’s face when he’d read over the Declaration, and watching as he’d stormed away after his argument with the blond prince had left Gwendal feeling exceptionally guilty.

He didn’t regret drafting the Declaration or even having it signed, but he wished he could have done so without causing so much trouble and grief. Regardless of his harsh words and forceful actions, Gwendal cared deeply for his youngest brother - though he would never express those feelings out loud, choosing instead to keep them to himself. It had taken a lot of strength and most of his courage to pressure the boy into signing the Declaration of War, and most of what he’d said and done had been forced, though he doubted anyone else in the room had even noticed how hard it had been for him to glare at the boy so darkly while Wolfram had been gazing up at him with betrayal in his wide green eyes.

In truth, Gwendal was proud of his blond brother, though he’d rarely let anyone know it. Wolfram had grown from a spoiled, selfish child into a strong, capable, and compassionate young man. He almost envied the boy, that the blond could express his thoughts and feelings so passionately and allow himself the attachments Gwendal shied away from, bonds that gave him strength instead of making him weaker. His proudest moment had been when His Majesty had been forced to choose between Shin Makoku and Earth, and Wolfram had selflessly told him to return to his family.

He’d been surprised at the time. To think that Wolfram would willingly give up what he’d considered the most important thing in the word, and then watch as the young prince had cried in his efforts not to run after the king and pull him back, had been proof enough of how deeply Wolfram felt for him. Gwendal had always suspected, but he hadn’t been sure until that moment, as they’d watched their king disappear with his older brother and the Great Sage, and Wolfram had collapsed to his knees, wracked with heavy sobs.

To forsake his own happiness for the happiness of others… Lord von Voltaire admired him for it, and sometimes wondered if he could have done the same thing had he been in such a situation.

“Gwen?” Alexei’s young, boyish voice broke through his thoughts again, causing Gwendal to look up and focus his gaze upon him. He and Greta had paused in their reading once again, the mazoku child looking up at him with a mixture of hope and fear, appearing a little shy.

“What is it?” he asked in reply, his hands still moving - a little clumsily - to finish the plush toy he’d so recently begun.

“Can I stay here?” the boy wondered cautiously, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was an appropriate question to be asking some one who was so much older, and whose status was so much higher than his own.

“You’ve been here for the past two weeks,” Gwendal patiently pointed out, having a feeling he knew exactly where Alexei was heading with this series of inquiries. “Why wouldn’t you be allowed to remain here even longer?”

“But…” the tiny blond tried again, cuddled close to Greta’s side, looking so vulnerable. “Can I stay… forever?” he finally asked, so sweet and innocent it would have killed the Chief of State to tell him ‘no.’

“Would you like that?” he asked instead, watching the happy grin that spread across his face.

“Yes!” Alexei exclaimed, happier than Gwendal could remember him being since he’d first been brought here. “I want to stay here in the castle with you and Greta! Can I? Can I stay with you?”

“I don’t see why that would be a problem. I’m sure His Majesty would not protest.”

Alexei nearly jumped out of the bed at his words, his excitement mirrored in the happy look on the Princess’ face. Gwendal felt his heart warm at the sight, though nothing more than a hint of a smirk pulled at his lips.

Maybe he still didn’t truly know what he could do for the boy in order to bring his happiness back fully, but he had a feeling this was as good a start as any.

* * *

Yuuri listened to the loud crack of the bat as he sent the white ball soaring into the air, watching it fly across the stadium and inevitably land somewhere out of the ballpark.

It had been a long time since he’d stood astride home plate and taken part in his favorite pastime. Since graduating high school most of his days had seen him in Shin Makoku, passing the time by sorting through paperwork and sitting down for meals with foreign dignitaries, the fun and games of childhood and adolescence giving way to the duties and responsibilities of adulthood. The last time he’d been on this field that his half-human guardian had commissioned for him had been to watch and teach some of the village children to play. Rarely had he been able to partake in even a single game over the course of the last few years.

Even so, the ball field brought him a source of comfort, a place of familiarity that he could use as an escape from all that troubled him without having to leave Shin Makoku and return to Earth. He’d come out here soon after confronting his blond haired friend, using this time to himself as an opportunity to cool down, so that he would not be given the chance to do something he’d end up regretting, or cause any more damage to their already tarnished relationship. He’d bounded onto Ao as soon as he’d made it to the stables, and had ridden out here as fast as he could, heedless of the guards that followed him. He ignored them easily enough, his uncharacteristic anger more than sufficient to have them standing a good distance away, afraid of bothering the irate king.

His wooden bat at hand, reminiscent of the professional bats used in his home world, Yuuri picked up another ball from the basket he’d retrieved upon his arrival. Swiftly he tossed the spherical object into the air in front of him, and once it had descended to the right level he lashed out in a powerful swing, something inside of him reveling at that split second of impact before he was again watching the sphere streak across the park, landing this time in the wooden bleachers in centerfield. He continued this same routine a few more times, taking out his rage on the basket full of baseballs instead of those who had caused him to feel this way.

‘Damn you, Wolfram,’ he thought the whole time, teeth still tightly clenched. ‘Damn you to hell.’

Many times in his youth he’d attempted to force such harsh thoughts and feelings down, choosing to focus instead on things of a greater importance, the process of improving his skills and conditioning his body usually enough to adequately distract him. Before it had been so easy to lose himself in his favorite sport; with a simple swing of the bat he’d been able to envision himself facing down a famed big league pitcher, surrounded on all sides by adoring fans; merely playing catch with Conrad had caused him to imagine what it would be like to play ball professionally, to get his chance to prove himself in the sport’s birthplace, the United States. Now he couldn’t fall into those fantasies, he couldn’t escape into his childhood dreams.

He’d never been so angry at someone in his entire life. It was overwhelming, and even a little frightening, to feel so out of control of the events presently taking place around him. He’d grown so used to making the decisions, accustomed to giving the orders and not having his demands questioned. Suddenly he felt out of place in his own country, lost among his own friends - like he didn’t even know them - and he didn’t have a clue as to what to do about it. How dare they make these sorts of decisions without first consulting him about the issue? Who the hell did Wolfram think he was, deceiving him so casually and signing a Declaration of War behind his back?

He ignored the memory of the look that had been in the prince’s eyes when he’d left him, how he’d appeared so shattered and full of regrets. A perverse part of him had rejoiced in the fact that he was so obviously in pain, wanted his blond haired friend to hurt as much as he’d been hurt. That half of him wanted to lash out at more than an innocent ball, wanted to scream into Wolfram’s face until he wept and begged for forgiveness. He didn’t care how vicious or cruel thoughts like those made him seem. The only thing he wanted was a release from all this heartache and pain. He wanted things to go back to the way they’d been when he’d first arrived in this world.

Everything had been so simple then. It all seemed so predictable now that he looked back over it, though at the time he’d been just as confused as he was currently. He’d be unexpectedly dragged to this world, told of the current troubles, then set out on one adventure or another in an effort to solve the world’s problems. Once he’d completed whatever he was needed for he was unceremoniously sent back home. The most he’d had to worry about had been pirate attacks or random kidnappings. Even his trials with the forbidden boxes and the darkness within them had not seemed as threatening to he and his people as the thought of warfare, though that power could have very easily destroyed the world.

He supposed the difference between now and then was that he’d been able to believe that everything would turn out fine in the end. He’d had an answer for every question, and a solution for every problem or threat.

Stoffel wanted to regain the powers he’d had as regent during his younger sister’s reign? No, he wasn’t really a bad person. He was just a little misguided. It was okay to be wary around him, but he really couldn’t do any harm. There was no cause for concern.

Conrad turned traitor and allied himself with the king of Shimeron? It wasn’t his fault. He would come back; he had to. Conrad wouldn’t really abandon him. It was impossible.

The humans had found one of the four boxes? No big deal. They’d just go and retrieve it from them. They could protect them in Shin Makoku, where they could rest in the Castle of the Original King without posing a threat to anyone.

Wolfram’s heart had been taken as a key? ‘I can get it back. I promise I’ll get it back. I won’t leave you, Wolfram, I swear. You’ll be alright. You have to be. You can’t leave me.’

Now the level of predictability had steadily decreased, as had his confidence. He awoke every morning next to a fitfully sleeping blond in a pale pink nightgown, completed his morning exercise routine with Conrad before taking a bath and sitting down to breakfast with everyone, but after that he had no clue as to how he would spend his day. Sometimes it would be the obligatory paperwork, other times his waking hours would consist of going over maps with Gwendal and his other advisors, listening to them go on and on about Shimeron and their other enemies, and sometimes he would even spend hours taking foreign visitors on a tour of the castle and it’s surrounding capital. Rarely were his days peaceful and free of stress.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to bed without the thought of something weighing down on him, or the last time he’d slept through the entire night. He went to bed late and woke up early.

“Yuuri!” he heard a familiar voice calling his name, as well as the trampling of a horse at it approached the stadium. He ignored the single-worded plea for his attention, continuing his current hobby of senselessly whacking a quick succession of baseballs.

It wasn’t long before the owner of the voice stood by his side, close enough so that they could converse but far enough away from the enraged king so that he would not be injured unintentionally. Yuuri hadn’t truthfully expected Conrad to leave him alone when he’d ignored him, nor did he delude himself into believing that the brown haired man would leave before the two of them were able to talk this out. Conrad had come with a purpose in mind, and the half-human king knew he was stubborn enough not to make his leave until he’d completed it. Yuuri knew he wasn’t going to get out of this without having a conversation with him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

“Yuuri,” his half-human guardian tried again, his call a bit more quiet now that they were in such close proximity. The two guards that had originally followed the double black remained within sight, and neither Conrad nor Yuuri wished for them to overhear.

“I don’t want to talk right now, Conrad,” the demon king warned him, his own voice coming out somewhat harsher than usual, sounding - even in his own ears - a bit strained. Carelessly he swung at another ball, feeling a little defeated when, instead of soaring high into the evening sky and heading towards the horizon where the sun had half set, it sunk towards the ground, skipping over the pitchers mound before ricocheting off of second base and rolling into shallow right field.

“You may not want to, Your Majesty,” Conrad calmly replied, “but I believe you need to.”

Yuuri failed to say anything in return, frowning deeply as he bent to fish another ball out of the almost empty basket.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been able to speak with one another outside of the company of others,” the brunet soldier observed, carefully watching Yuuri’s reactions. “It’s dangerous for you to be out here on your own,” he said then, hoping to gain more of his attention.

The black haired king snorted, Conrad’s words and mere presence distracting him enough so that his next swing missed, the ball landing in the dirt around his feet. “Wouldn’t be if we weren’t at war,” he angrily bit out, retrieving the spherical object in order to try again. This time the hit connect, sending the ball out to the warning track in left field.

“Perhaps,” his guardian serenely agreed, warm brown eyes still focused on the figure of the younger man. “You’ve been gone for a week, Your Majesty. With the state our world is currently in, numerous things can happen in the span of seven days.”

“Obviously,” was Yuuri’s bitter reply.

“You’re angry.”

The king snorted again at his simple observation, plucking yet another ball out of the basket. “That,” he began, tossing his intended target up and hitting it into the outfield where it hit the grass and then bounced into the bleachers, “is an understatement,” he completed his sentence, stopping for only a second to wipe a few drops of sweat off of his brow. The weather was surprisingly cool for this time of year, but his state of activeness without taking a break had lead him to perspiration.

“Do you oppose this war that much?” Conrad wondered, making no move to further approach.

Yuuri tossed him a heavy glare, his hands tightening their grip on the bat, the lithe muscles he’d developed over the years bunching and shifting under the tanned skin of his arms, his rolled up sleeves making the movement visible. It was just another testament of the power he’d gained since childhood, when his physical appearance had been far from impressive. “Do you?” he finally asked, taking a few experimental swings before beginning again.

“Sometimes war is necessary,” the captain told him, keeping his voice as calm and soothing as possible, so as not to further agitate his charge. “As much as we would all rather have peace, it cannot last forever,” he continued sagely, his past experiences allowing him to speak of such things truthfully.

Yuuri, as usual, didn’t want to believe it. “Maybe if people actually stopped to listen and weren’t so hell bent on destroying one another just because of their differences…” he trailed off, not having to finish his statement for the older man to know how he felt about the issue.

Conrad’s lips fell into a sad frown. “You’re disappointed in Wolfram.”

“That,” the king started, onyx eyes narrowing even further at both his guardians words and the fact that his basket was now completely empty, leaving him with nothing to take out his rage on, “is also an understatement.”

“He has done nothing wrong.”

“He made a promise and he broke it,” Yuuri glared at the slightly taller man, remembering a time when the top of his head had barely reached the line of Conrad’s shoulders; now he was only two or so inches away from being able to look him straight in the eye. “He gave me his word,” he added.

“He doesn’t want this war any more than you do.”

The king snorted in disbelief a third time, taking a few steps back in order to lean his bat against the fence behind him. “Could have fooled me,” he muttered under his breath, though it was just loud enough that he was sure Conrad hear it.

“I don’t think you understand him very well,” his guardian said with a small, sad smile.

“What’s to understand?” Yuuri wondered with a quick shrug, the thought of his blond haired friend not making him feel any better about the situation. “He’s impulsive, rash, arrogant, spoiled, selfish, close minded…” In his anger he forgot that these were the very things that had endeared Wolfram to him in the first place.

“In love with you,” Conrad’s sudden statement caused Yuuri to stop mid-sentence, the Japanese young man turning to peer at him, curious over his words. He knew the older man was right, but what did that have to do with Wolfram’s decision to go to war? “He lives to serve you, just as I do.”

Yuuri’s frowned remained. “You certainly do a better job of that than he does,” he observed, momentarily forgetting all the things the prince had done to cause him to cherish his friendship as much as he did.

“Do I?”

The curiosity in Conrad’s questioning voice and the somewhat skeptical look in his hazel eyes led Yuuri to fall into his memories again, knowing exactly what he’d been thinking of as he’d posed that particular inquiry. Conrad has served him well over the four years that he had been king, protecting him, following his wishes, and rarely questioning him, guiding him along a path that had successfully confused him often. Only once had Conrad strayed, and though it had hurt Yuuri greatly, never once had he blamed the older man for it. No matter what the brown haired soldier did, he’d always trust and believe in him.

“Even after what happened with Shimeron in the past,” he said with a tiny, barely noticeable smile, “you’re still the only one I can always depend on,” the king finished sadly, thinking again of Gwendal and the recently crowned prince, and even the gap that had suddenly formed between he and Murata.

“Isn’t that what you said to Wolfram?” the brown haired captain wondered softly.

Yuuri quickly turned from the look that was being directed his way, telling himself that it was foolish to feel as guilty as he was slowly beginning to feel when Wolfram was the one who’d been at fault. “Yeah, well,” he said, voice still nothing more than a low mutter. “I was wrong,” he elaborated, the pain of betrayal still too fresh.

“You think he wanted to sign that paper?” Conrad asked him, as calm as always, though there was a strange sort of desperation in his words. “You think it was easy for him?” he tried again, eyes carefully trained upon the younger half-human. “He argued with Gwendal and tried to come up with another solution, and in the end there was none.” He paused, his frown deepening only slightly. “You didn’t see him afterwards, how upset he was, how convinced he was that you’d hate him.”

“I don’t…” the more youthful of the two began, feeling his guilt increase to match the level of his anger. “I don’t hate him.”

How could he possibly hate Wolfram, after everything they’d been through together? Sure, he’d been annoyed with him more than a handful of times - the boy’s jealousy had led them into more arguments than Yuuri could even remember - and he’d been angry enough at the boy to call him names on more than one occasion. Hell, he’d hit him once, long ago when they’d first met, and though the meaning of a slap was different in this word than it was on his own, he still saw it as an act of affronted anger more than an act of proposal. But he couldn’t hate Wolfram, no matter what he said or did.

“He thinks you do. Since you’ve returned, you haven’t done anything to make him believe otherwise,” the king’s guardian pointed out.

Yuuri looked at the taller man, knowing he’d been out in the hall during his altercation with Wolfram and had probably heard the entire thing from start to finish. He knew Conrad would always remain loyal to him, but when he gazed into the man’s light brown eyes he could easily pick out a feeling he was used to seeing in Shori. Despite the distance between them, Conrad still had his protective-older-brother moments, and now seemed to be one of them. It made Yuuri feel even worse, especially knowing the conflict Conrad must be going through as he was stuck in the middle, wanting to remain faithful to his king but unable to completely turn away from his younger brother.

“I don’t hate him,” Yuuri repeated, as if to reassure the older man. “I’m just…” Again he trailed off, unable to find what he thought was a correct explanation.

“Frustrated?” Conrad provided for him, watching as Yuuri nodded. “You are both young,” he went on, understanding his charge’s sentiments well. “Compared to how long a full blooded mazoku can live, Wolfram remains more of a child than an adult, though the law states otherwise, and Wolfram would like to think the opposite. And you have spent most of your life on Earth. You’re still not completely used to life here. The responsibilities that have been placed before the two of your are not easy to handle, not for ones so young. You shouldn’t have to be faced with these sorts of decisions.”

“But that makes me seem like a bad king, doesn’t it?” the double black thought out loud, knowing how much he’d relied on his advisors over the years and cursing himself for being unable to do anything on his own. What kind of leader did that make him? “If I’m so incapable…”

“The people trust you,” Conrad told him, and though there had been much rioting as of late he believed that his statement still held true. “They look up to you, and they know you’ll end up doing the right thing.”

‘The right thing.’ Yuuri shook his head as the older man’s words repeated themselves within his mind. For months now he’d been attempting to discover what exactly ‘the right thing’ was, and still the answer eluded him in much the same way every other answer did. Recently he’d come to decide that the line between right and wrong was so thin it was almost impossible to see it, and that the two conditions could mean different things to different people, depending on the instance. There was no definite ‘right’ answer, just as there was no definite ‘wrong’ one. The people believing in him, then, showed a great amount of trust on their part.

“We shouldn’t be fighting in a war,” he finally spoke again, still not understanding how that could possibly be the best solution to all their problems. Wouldn’t that really only make things worse in the end? “That can’t be what’s best for our people.”

“Maybe not,” Conrad relented with a shallow nod, “but allowing out enemies to take control, sacrificing our people without even trying to defend them is far worse. If you allowed that to happen, you’d be letting them down, and then I could no longer respect you as a king,” he finished seriously.

“Conrad…” Yuuri said breathlessly, his mouth falling open slightly in shock.

He was surprised by the other man’s admittance, and deeply hurt, though he tried his hardest not to let it show. He’d never known Conrad to be so blunt and honest. Usually the older man agreed with him at every turn; the only times he’d ever voiced any sort of objection was when the king’s safety had to be taken into account; otherwise he was fiercely loyal, to the point where Yuuri sometimes wished he’d answer with a short and caustic ‘no’ as a way to ease the monotony that was their father/son, big brother/little brother relationship. He could always depend on Conrad to agree with him, and to follow his wishes no matter the challenge or the threat to his life.

Now Yuuri was being faced with another side of the man who’d named him. His fierce loyalty would often give way to a protectiveness that was equally as fierce, only now the protectiveness he was showing was not felt towards the king, but towards their kingdom. It made Yuuri feel even more guilty to know that he’d put Conrad in such a position, conflicted between his feelings for the king and his desire to defend their country. More than that, Yuuri realized, he couldn’t blame Conrad for what he’d said, nor could he pretend he didn’t understand. He didn’t think he could respect someone like himself, a weak king who couldn’t even save his own people.

“It’s true that Wolfram broke a promise to you,” the brunet continued, his calm voice holding more compassion that it had mere seconds ago, as if he knew how his honest words had made Yuuri feel, “but he did it for the kingdom. It had nothing to do with hatred or a desire for bloodshed; it was selfless act. He’s already lived through one war. I’m sure that, like the rest of us, he’d rather not go through another.”

‘He’s right,’ the nineteen year old thought, his anger slowly washing away, his nerves easing and frustrations lowering to a level that was far more bearable than before.

“Allowing this war was probably the hardest decision he will ever have to make,” Conrad went on when it seemed as if the king were finally coming around. “Maybe you think he’s betrayed you, but an even bigger betrayal would have been to continue ignoring this problem. It would have been a betrayal to you as well as to our people.”

‘He’s right,’ Yuuri thought again, feeling guilty and suddenly so ashamed for how he’d treated his blond haired friend. ‘I know he is, but…’ “I don’t…” he began, unable to look the taller man in the eye, his dark gaze focused on the ground below them. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

“None of us do,” his guardian told him, startling Yuuri when he placed a consoling hand upon one of his shoulders, causing the boy to look up at him curiously. “A lot has happened since you left, Your Majesty,” he explained, hazel eyes deeply serious. “There’s still much concerning our situation that you have not been informed of.”

Confusion filled Yuuri in an instant, the king arching a dark eyebrow at the look in Conrad’s eyes. He knew that look all too well. Conrad was hiding something from him, something important, something - his instincts screamed - that would finally shed light upon all of this. “What do you mean?” he asked, confident that the man would tell him if he pestered him enough.

The look Conrad gave him then made it seem as if it was against his better judgment to tell him any more than he already had, but he plowed on anyway. “If you were to go down into the dungeon, you would find one cell occupied by two human men.”

“What?” Yuuri wondered, completely surprised. Their dungeons had been empty for years; he’d made sure of that. What would the reason be for throwing two men down there now? “Why?”

“In your absence, we experienced three more attacks. Two of them occurred in the territory of Yale, and the third…” he trailed off for a moment, as if he’d suddenly decided that now would not be a good time to discuss this, but he continued at Yuuri’s imploring look. “The third attack took place here.”

“In the capital?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the brown haired captain nodded with a sad, ironic smile. “In the capital.” He paused once more, though the king didn’t have to wait very long for him to speak again, for which he was immensely thankful. “The men currently being detained… they disguised themselves as some of our guards and infiltrated the palace. They snuck into your room late one night and attacked Wolfram and Greta.”

Yuuri’s heart stopped.

“What?” he breathed.

No, no, no, no! That wasn’t possible! Wolfram hadn’t mentioned anything about something like that, nor had Greta or Gwendal.

His guilt was nearly enough to suffocate him when he realized he hadn’t even given them the chance. He’d jumped to so many conclusions, when all the while the signs had been there: everyone’s oddly subdued nature, and the sudden increase of the guard. If only he’d taken the time to question his friends instead of so readily acting on his anger. If only he’d let Wolfram explain.

“Greta managed to escape and call for help,” Conrad added, paying close attention to the king’s reactions, knowing this was hard for him to hear. “She was unharmed, but terrified. They had threatened to kill her should Wolfram struggle or fight against them.”

“Oh, God,” Yuuri moaned, distressed, as the memories of the dream he’d had on his wedding night came flooding back to him. He could quite easily recall the bedroom scene, and although he had seen no people, the noises and the voices he’d heard were enough for him to imagine what had been going on. Greta had been restrained, and Wolfram… Wolfram had been on the bed. The sheets had been stained with crimson liquid, a sight that had made the dark haired king physically ill. Bile rose in the back of his throat now, and he could have sworn he could smell the scent of blood. In his head he could hear the fair prince screaming.

‘No!’ he thought, nearly panicking, not wanting to believe that it was true. That had been a dream, nothing more than a harmless nightmare! Wolfram and Greta were both alive; they were fine. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear, no reason for him to be so alarmed. ‘God, why? Why is this happening?’

“What did they do to him?” he asked, half of him not wanting to hear it, but the other half wanting to be reassured. Wolfram hadn’t been hurt too badly, right? He’d looked fine when he’d last seen him, a little paler than usual but that wasn’t such a big deal. He hadn’t seen or noticed anything out of the ordinary, certainly nothing that would allude to physical, emotional or psychological trauma. Then again, in his anger, he hadn’t taken the time to look at him closely.

Conrad shook his head, a sad frown still present on his handsome face. “They weren’t given much of an opportunity to do anything before Greta escaped and called for the guards, though they had planned to use them against you,” he informed him, watching the mix of emotions that swirled within the king’s deep, black eyes. “Wolfram has a few bruises, which I’m sure you haven’t seen - around his neck, along his shoulders, arms and thighs, and his…” he paused momentarily, silently debating with himself before he was able to finish the thought, “… and on his face.”

Something about the strain in the older man’s voice as he said that brought Yuuri’s attention back to the present, and confusion was quick to engulf him. “His face?” he wondered, not sure he understood, but it had to have meant something important if Conrad felt the need to mention it so solemnly. “But I didn’t see any bruises on his face when I saw him, and…” It didn’t take him long to think that Wolfram had most likely done something to cover it up. “We’re already married. Why would they slap him if there’s no possibility of an engagement?”

“It’s an insult, Your Majesty, directed to you,” the brunet patiently explained. “Since your marriage, Wolfram has come to represent everything that you own, including our kingdom. By staking claim to him they’ve alluded to claiming the country as their own. They’re challenging you by threatening to take what belongs to you, by force if need be.”

“How will they be punished?” Yuuri wondered, slowly taking everything in.

“Their crimes are punishable by death. When they are found guilty at their trial - and they will be found guilty - a date for their execution will be set.”

Execution. Yuuri shivered at the word, trying to force certain graphic images from his mind. He knew that such a thing was a common form of punishment in this world, even in his own country. He’d learned about too many kings and evil-doers who’d met such a fate in his history lessons to try making himself believe otherwise. Many past kings had had some of their subjects hanged, as well as a good number of their enemies, and King Slaughter had found that his path had lead him to the guillotine, the bloodthirsty king meeting the same fate he’d imposed upon two of his wives.

But Yuuri had yet to witness such activities, even after being here for four years. Besides the day or two Greta had been housed in a prison cell after her misguided assassination attempt, the dungeon had remained noticeably empty. Yuuri had made it a point not to punish those who were not deserving, and those who were guilty of certain crimes had been handled accordingly. He’d yet to send a man to his death, be they thieve, bandit, pirate, assassin, or any other form of unlawful individual; the most he’d ever done was exile them. There had been no reasons to inflict pain or death.

These men they currently held captive had snuck into his bedroom and attacked his friend and daughter, but as far as he knew neither of the two members of his family had been harmed too seriously. Yes, he thought it appropriate that they be detained, at least until he was given the opportunity to speak with them and discover their reasons for committing these crimes, and he had every intention of making them stand trial, so that whatever punishment he felt was necessary would be justified and conclusive. But was it imperative to have them executed? True, what they’d done was horrible, and it angered him almost as much as the current war did, but was putting them to death a just disciplinary action?

“What crimes are they being charged with?” he asked the older man, thinking that perhaps his answer would shed some light on the matter.

“Unlawful entry of the Royal Palace, criminal surveillance, threatening the Royal Crown,” Conrad began, slowly listing each one, the pauses in between charges becoming more pronounced as he came towards the end of the list, “inflicting injury upon the Royal Family, attempted rape and attempted murder.”

Yuuri eyes widened at the last two, and he immediately feared for Greta, but could easily tell by the look upon his guardian’s face that it wasn’t his daughter he should be worrying about at the moment. Greta had managed to escape, or so he’d been told; Conrad had failed to mention any bruises or other injuries that she may have sustained, so he was able to remain confident that she had not been seriously harmed - frightened, no doubt, but in less danger than her blond haired father.

His stomach twisted into tight knots, and he had to lean back against the chain-linked fence behind him to prevent his body from slumping to the ground, his legs suddenly shaky, his knees buckling and threatening to give way. He thought of Wolfram, of what Conrad had said about the bruises on his face and the meaning behind it, how those men had staked claim and threatened to take what was his, and he momentarily felt as if he were going to throw up. His breathing became heavy, sweat breaking out along his brow again despite the bone-deep chill that consumed him, and a trembling hand came up so that he could press his palm against his mouth. Suddenly the whole situation seemed ten times more serious than it had previously been.

He could only imagine what Wolfram had gone through that night, how the attack had made him feel, what it had done to him emotionally and psychologically more than physically. The physical wounds he had sustained would heal and fade over time, but if what he suspected had indeed taken place, it would be a long while until his friend managed to get over it completely. What had he been thinking while the event had taken place? Had he thought of the king, maybe looked to the door in the hopes that he would come? Had he felt guilty that Greta had been present, that those two men had been able to use her against him?

‘Oh, god…’ the king thought, the blood draining from his face, leaving him looking ghostly pale. Not only was he incapable of protecting his kingdom and its people, he hadn’t even been there when his family had needed him. If he hadn’t left, if he hadn’t run away like a coward, like a frightened child from the monsters under his bed and in his closet, he could have protected them, saved them, and Wolfram and Greta would not have had to go through any of that.

He supposed it was rather heartless of him to be so concerned for their kingdom now, when the signs had been there all along. Instead of doing something from the very beginning, giving into his advisors’ pleas and the requests of the Aristocrats, he’d allowed things to steadily grow worse, until he was now physically faced with the danger that had been lurking out there for so many months. Did it really take something like this to open his eyes? Shouldn’t the village attacks have been enough? Hadn’t the decimation of Fane proven that this whole ordeal was a serious one?

Why now was he becoming angry? Why now was he so tempted to personally seek out their enemies and tend to them himself? Perhaps it was merely the fact that the aggression had become too personal. He’d realized the danger from the very beginning, and though he’d been concerned for their people, though he’d sworn that they would not be sacrificed in vain, that he would do something to rectify everything, the fact that his friends and family had been targeted as a way to win his attention was more daring and far bolder. Just thinking of the position Greta and Wolfram had most assuredly been forced into was enough to leave him seething.

“H-how… how’s Wolfram?” he stuttered, the boy’s face flashing before his eyes, and he remembered the blond’s most recent words to him, what he’d been trying to say as the king had stomped away. “Wait, please!” he’d begged him. Wolfram had begged him. “Yuuri, I have to tell you something! When you were gone, Greta and-” If he hadn’t been so unwilling to listen, what would Wolfram have said to him? How would he have finished his sentence?

“He would most likely tell you otherwise,” Conrad began slowly, obviously concerned, perhaps waiting for the king to further react to the news, “but he hasn’t handled it very well. If there is one thing that frightens him more than the thought of losing you or Greta, it is facing his own vulnerability. The attack scared him, more than he’s willing to admit.”

“He was going to tell me,” Yuuri told the older man, convinced that that’s what the blond had been trying to say when he’d left him there in the music room. Wolfram had been about to forfeit his pride as a way to make Yuuri understand. “He was going to tell me about it and I wouldn’t listen. If I had known, I…” He didn’t really know what he would have done had he been made aware of this earlier, but he definitely wouldn’t have shouted at Wolfram the way he did, nor would he have been so intolerant and cruel.

“Tell you?” Conrad wondered as if he hadn’t heard him correctly, seemingly surprised, his hazel eyes widened slightly. “I was under the impression that he didn’t want you to find out. I went against his orders by speaking to you about this now,” the captain explained.

Yuuri only felt worse upon hearing that, his chest tightening painfully, making it hard to draw in a breath. How much courage had it taken for Wolfram to even begin to try and tell him about it? How much had Yuuri truly hurt him if he’d willingly sacrifice his pride like that? “Why?!” he asked desperately, tears of frustration, sadness and guilt rising up to blur his vision. “Why wouldn’t he have told me something like that?! I have to know, Conrad! I have to fix things!”

In his desperation he failed to realize that he’d even moved, and didn’t notice that he was no longer leaning against the fence until he looked down to see his hands gripping the tan material of Conrad’s uniform jacket. The taller half-human was gazing down at him sympathetically, pale brown eyes filled with both pity and understanding. Comfortingly the older man took hold of Yuuri’s shoulders, pushing him away enough so that they could easily stare at one another. Long ago Yuuri may have felt a bit awkward in this position; now it hardly bothered him. He needed Conrad’s guidance right now.

“You know why he wouldn’t have told you,” the brunet replied evenly. “He is a soldier, Your Majesty, above all else. Since you proposed to him, it has been his duty to serve and protect you and your family, and he has made that task the most important thing in his life. That night he was unable to do anything. His wrists had been bound with rope embedded with esoteric stones, and to fight back in any way would have resulted in your daughter’s death. He feels as if he’s failed you,” Conrad continued to explain. “And I’m sure that after his confrontation with you in regards to the war, he’s feeling much worse.”

“I’m an idiot!” Yuuri exclaimed, feeling like such a fool. He’d known all along how bad their position was; why did it take something like this to open his eyes? Why had he even let it come to this? “I’m such an idiot!” he said again, gazing up at his god father. “What do I do now, Conrad? How do I fix it?”

“You made a mistake by yelling at Wolfram and not allowing him to explain things, just as you’ve made a mistake in how you’ve been handling the kingdom, but there is still time for you to rectify both of those situations,” Conrad comfortingly reassured the young king. “Talk to him, Yuuri,” he told him, the use of the boy’s given name further gaining his attention. “Try and understand how he feels.”

Yuuri glanced up at the brown haired man during the moment of silence that fell over them then. It was a comforting silence, nothing like the normal periods of nothingness that left him fidgeting restlessly and feeling uncomfortable or out of place. His hands loosened their grip on the jacket of Conrad’s uniform as warm hazel eyes looked down at him, and the young king took a bit of comfort from his tranquil presence and the serene, yet confident smile that worked its way across the older man’s handsome face. Yuuri’s racing heart slowed, and he found himself able to breath normally again. His thoughts were still a jumbled mess in his head, but he could feel his panic and anger lessening, his moods shifting back to some semblance of normal.

Yes, yes - he would talk to Wolfram. He would go to him, apologize - fall to his knees if he had to - then he’d have the fairer boy explain everything that had happened. Conrad could only tell him so much about the attack, about what had happened and how it had affected his younger brother and his niece. As much as it made him ill merely thinking about what those human men had done to his best friend, he had to know everything. Only then could he make a decision as to what to do with the prisoners. Only then would these issues between himself and the blond begin to ease. Once they’d discussed it they could move on and focus more directly on the recent changes in their relationship.

Whatever anger he had felt - and there was a significant amount of it - was no longer directed at the mazoku prince. Still he could not find much support within himself for this war they’d found themselves drawn in to, but he could not deny that he felt a spark of desire to have their enemies punish severely. He didn’t think he could order an execution - he didn’t want that sort of guilt resting on his conscience - but he couldn’t very well let them get away with what they’d done either. Already a young mazoku child had been left injured and homeless; now Greta and Wolfram had been targeted. They had been used as a means to gain his attention, and the humans’ plans had worked better than they’d probably expected.

If Yuuri thought before that he’d been angered beyond a rational point, he didn’t know how to describe his current ire. It didn’t reach the surface; his facial expressions were conflicted, fluctuating between saddened and guilty, his hands still fisted, but resting at his sides. If Conrad knew how he was feeling at the moment it was simply because the older man had come to know him so well; otherwise his guardian most likely had no clue as to the turmoil he was going through. His anger lurked within him and burned his insides like a hot iron, strong and potent - like it had been when he’d been told of the war - but easily contained this time, pushed away and left to fester.

“Wolfram’s lucky,” the young king said, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath, making one last attempt at gaining control over himself, “to have a brother who cares for him so much.”

He could see Conrad smiling sadly at him when he met his gaze again, and Yuuri did his best to smile reassuringly in return. ‘Things will be okay,’ he mentally told himself, trying to make himself believe it. ‘Everything will be okay.’

“I do what I can,” the brown haired captain said, lifting a hand to the younger boy’s shoulder in order to give him another supportive squeeze.

Silently the two turned away from the field, slowly returning to the problems awaiting them within the palace.

* * *

Wolfram sat upon the cushioned chair in his mother’s sitting room, his knees brought up against his chest and his arms encircling them, green eyes lazily staring out the window to his right, a position he’d taken up many times over the last few days, allowing his thoughts to wash through his head. He felt cold inside, numb, almost empty, like nothing else really mattered anymore.

Yuuri had returned, and yet Wolfram could not find a single bit of happiness within himself. Years ago, when the king’s comings and goings had been regulated by Shinou, they’d been given ample time to prepare themselves for the Japanese boy’s appearances. Each time Wolfram had waited with barely repressed anticipation - a few times he’d even locked himself within the king’s room and spent hours making sure he looked presentable, as if his appearance really mattered to the other young man. Yuuri had never noticed, too busy speaking with others to pay more than a moment’s worth of attention to the blond, and Wolfram had been left to stew in his jealously.

When Yuuri had gained control of travel between dimensions, their previous warnings of his impending arrival had ceased, and the only way they’d been made aware of his return was through the excitement that spread amongst the maids and guards who’d spot him wandering the halls, or Yuuri would come find one of them on his own, shouting out “I’m home!” with a large grin. Wolfram’s heart would flutter every time he heard those words, and although he realized the foolishness he’d exhibited before in properly preparing himself to greet his fiancé, he couldn’t stop the joy that filled him whenever he saw the other boy’s smile after their time apart.

This time their reunion had been what Wolfram had expected, but not what he’d wanted - it hadn’t played out the way he’d always wished their reunions would. Originally, when he’d once thought of their life together as a married couple - if they’d married for love instead of politics - he thought they’d both share a kiss every time Yuuri came back from his home world. He’d imagined warm, intimate embraces - out of sight of others, of course, as it was hardly appropriate to expose any part of their private life to others - then soft words spoken between themselves in the privacy of their bedroom. Yuuri would tell him of his time on Earth, and Wolfram would inform him of all that had transpired in his absence.

When Yuuri had run off a week ago, Wolfram had had no delusions as to what would happen upon his inevitable return - though he’d hoped the raven haired boy would have sorted out some of his issues. Upon the signing of the Declaration of War, Wolfram’s entire view of the occurrence had changed, and he’d even begun to wish that Yuuri would stay away for a while longer, that he would either be too scared or embarrassed to return, or delayed by some frivolous thing on Earth. He’d known exactly how Yuuri would react to everything that had taken place since his departure, and the blond haired prince had not been proven wrong.

It had hurt him so badly to have Yuuri glaring at him, his narrowed eyes and deeply set frown darker than Gwendal’s had been when his older brother had forced him to sign the incriminating document. The anger that Yuuri had been experiencing had nearly been a physical force between them, a thick, palpable aura that had been almost suffocating. Wolfram hadn’t known what to do to calm him - something he’d never found extremely difficult before (this time he thought to even mutter the word ‘wimp’ would have resulted in a harsh slap across the face) - nor how to explain his reasoning, and though he felt as if he’d made some valid points, he knew it wasn’t enough to make Yuri understand. The king hadn’t wanted to listen, and Wolfram had been forced to try and speak of the event he wanted nothing more than to forget.

That had hurt the most, to have Yuuri refuse to hear him out - the one time he’d actually been about to expose his true feelings, to tell the man he loved of an event that had shamed him and stripped him of every last thread of his pride. Watching Yuuri walk away after attempting to voice his fears and shortcomings had been ten times harder that watching as he’d run away after their unexpected kiss. He’d tried so hard to tell him, to make him understand, almost certain that the king would finally do something if he’d known Greta had been in danger, and Wolfram would have been willing to sacrifice anything - pride, honor, respect, acceptance - to make him open his eyes.

Now there was nothing left for him to do but sit around and wait for the other man to speak to him again, which - judging from the dark haired man’s anger - could be quite a while. Not that Wolfram really wanted to talk; after the confrontation they’d had in the music room, the prince of Shin Makoku didn’t think he could face Yuuri again, much less gaze into his onyx eyes and actually attempt to speak with him. He could hardly look at the double black without being consumed by guilt and shame, as well as an ever increasing sense of self-hatred. His presence merely served as a reminder of all the times Wolfram had failed him.

What good was he to Yuuri anyway? The demon king didn’t need him, not when he had so many other loyal subjects waiting to do his bidding. Conrart’s skills with a sword were far superior to his own, Gwendal’s maryoku was at least twice as powerful - not to mention he had better control over it than Wolfram could ever hope to achieve - Gunter’s advice was more logical, his loyalty to the crown almost unmatched, and the Great Sage’s wisdom gave him a greater knowledge than the blond could ever hope to attain. With so many strong, intelligent men surrounding the king and devoting their services to him, there wasn’t much else Yuuri needed.

‘So where does that leave me?’ he wondered, resting his chin against his knees dejectedly.

He’d thought over that question many times since meeting the younger man, and he’d yet to come up with any sort of answer - at least not any that pleased him. There really wasn’t anything Yuuri was lacking in life; as king he could do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it, he merely had to give the order. There were no restrictions held against him - besides the expectations presented by the people - and he had the means to achieve whatever money could buy, though Wolfram knew Yuuri would never spend wastefully. Their black haired monarch had surrounded himself with those most skilled and knowledgeable, and put trust in them without reservation.

Gwendal had become his second father; Wolfram could see that every time the two reacted with one another. Yuuri had worked hard to gain his Chief of State’s acceptance, and even after all that had happened between them recently, there was still an attachment of some sort. Yuuri would always seek his honest opinion about which treaties to sign and how the state taxes should be handled, and yet he rebelled against a majority of his demands and warnings; Gwendal would always reprimand him when he thought the king was wrong, and at the same time protect him from any sign of danger.

Gunter was there as the king’s teacher and advisor, and though Yuuri often complained about the lavender haired man’s exuberance and tight embraces - much the same way he complained about Mama (and at the thought, Wolfram then decided Gunter was very much like the mother in Yuuri’s little mazoku family) - he put up with them anyway and was even comforted by the predictability. If there was one person who would always support the young boy-king without fail, it was Lord von Christ. Rarely had Gunter ever gone against his orders, and he was always quick to agree with the half human.

For a while Wolfram had thought he and Yuuri could be friends; besides Elizabeth, Yuuri was the first true friend he’d ever really had, and even if the boy couldn’t return his romantic feelings, he’d hoped to at least gain his friendship. He’d succeeded in that, at least, to a certain degree. Yuuri had claimed on multiple occasion that Wolfram was his best friend, but the prince knew better than to believe him. That spot in the Japanese man’s life had been taken up by the Great Sage. Together the two would immerse themselves in jokes that could only be understood by someone from their home-world, and they’d laugh until their faces turned read and tears slid from their matching black eyes.

Many times Wolfram had sat and listened to them chat about baseball, or other Earthen sports that the prince could not understand the appeal of (for some reason, Earthlings seemed to find amusement in hitting, catching, bouncing, throwing, and kicking spherical objects of varying sizes). Other times they would discuss school work, or Earthen technologies that Wolfram had no clue how to utilize - he still didn’t completely get the purpose of video games, or exactly what a movie was, and the fact that one could find any sort of information at the click of a button continued to astound him. The sage could understand Yuuri better than anyone, and Yuuri obviously felt much more comfortable speaking with someone who actually knew what he was talking about.

Then there was Conrart. Wolfram couldn’t even think or speak of the two of them in one sentence without becoming exceedingly jealous. There was no denying that Conrart and Yuuri shared a unique bond, one created through respect, trust, and a brotherly affection. It was through Conrart’s influence, Wolfram believed, that Yuuri had grown into such a wonderful king, and it was because of Yuuri that Conrart had been able to find the smile he’d lost so long ago. Wolfram hated watching them, hated how Yuuri looked up to him as if he could do no wrong, hated how Yuuri would seek out the brunet’s company more than anyone else’s, and he hated how Conrart was always there for the other man.

Wolfram wanted to be the one to do that for him.

He’d always been jealous of his second brother, ever since they’d both been nothing more than children, and even more so now that Yuuri seemed to care for him so much. Despite his human blood, people had always been drawn to the brown haired captain, attracted by his kind words and warm smiles. Gwendal gave him his trust and respect, and those who would normally curse him for his human background looked up to him for his superb skills with the sword. He’d had a loving father - something Wolfram sorely lacked in his life - and he held more of the king’s heart than Wolfram could ever hope to grab hold of.

Still, at the same time he was jealous of Yuuri as well. Long ago, when he’d been a very little boy, Wolfram had been the main focus of Conrart’s attention - more than that, he knew; he’d been the center of Conrart’s entire world. Though that had changed with the wall that had been erected between them, Wolfram had hoped that Conrart still loved him as much as he had back then, even though Wolfram himself rarely showed him anything more than annoyance and hatred. There was still that desire within him to be accepted by his older brother - besides Yuuri’s love, there was nothing he wanted more than for Conrart and Gwendal to be proud of him.

“Wolfram,” he heard his mother’s voice calling to him from the background, and he didn’t have to look to know that she’d seated herself beside him; he could feel the couch cushions dip just slightly under the extra weight.

His mother was the only one who’d stayed with him after his heated confrontation with the king. Greta had wondered off after leaving her two fathers in the music room, no doubt upset by Yuuri’s cold rebuttal and the arguing that had most likely been heard out in the hallway. Elizabeth, also, had gone off after a while, and Wolfram had to spare a thought for her current whereabouts. She’d been spending a lot of time with the sage recently, and he had to wonder if that was who she was with at the moment, perhaps trying to persuade him to speak with the king and help sort everything out, though it was more than obvious - at least in the prince’s mind - that nothing they could say could get through to him.

After Yuuri had stormed out, Cecilie had been the only one to comfort the young prince; Gwendal or any of the other aristocrats hardly cared about the state of their relationship and Conrart had immediately gone to follow their emotional king. It had been Wolfram’s mother who’d come to pull him away from the solitude of the music room, her slender hands brushing against his face and through his hair in a comforting gesture. With soft words and a seemingly unlimited amount of understanding, she’d gently guided him through the halls and to her suite of rooms, comforting him as best as she knew how, attempting to soothe the ache that continued to ravage his already abused heart.

It was times like these where he could remember why he put up with his mother’s antics, when he realized how much he truly appreciated her. Multiple times Lady von Spitzweg had been criticized for the way in which she had raised her children, especially after her third marriage had ended and she’d often placed her maternal responsibilities on to someone else as she’d moved from one man to the next. But she’d been as good of a mother as she knew how under the circumstances, and though Wolfram has said all those horrible things to her a few days ago while consumed by such anger and betrayal, he’d never truly doubted her love for him. He knew how much she cared for he and his two brothers, and how much it pained her to watch any of them suffer.

“Wolfram,” she called his name again, waiting for him to face her before doing anything else. When he did, she wound her arms around him and pulled him close until his head rested against her shoulder. He almost pushed himself away from her, but decided against it. He may not have needed the motherly embrace, but then a part of him knew she wasn’t doing this because of that. She needed this closeness far more than he did, and he wasn’t about to take that away from her.

He felt closer to his mother now that he ever had before; even as a young child he’d never felt as connected to her, as he’d often had to stand by and watch as she gave her attention and affections to some strange man. Now that her journey for free love had been put on hold indefinitely (by her own choice, not because of any danger that would have faced her had she gone), she’d been spending a great deal of her time with him, and he with her, perhaps making up for all the times she’d inadvertently left him alone. He had to admit it felt nice to have her hold him after so many years of craving a loving embrace of some kind, and her often pointless chatter served as a wonderful distraction.

“This isn’t what I wanted for you,” she whispered, the seriousness in her voice letting him know that the conversation he was about to have with her would be in no way mundane.

“I know,” he quietly replied, burrowing even closer to the blonde woman, unfolding his legs to make the movement easier.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. She’d been apologizing for a lot if things lately, even things that had not been her fault. “I’m sorry this burden has to be placed onto your shoulders,” she elaborated. “I didn’t want you to become like me.” Slowly she began stroking his blond curls, leaning down to lightly kiss the top of his head. “Don’t become like me.”

“Mother…” He was becoming a little confused, not sure he understood what she meant by that. He knew he was very similar to her, in appearance, in the mistakes that they’d made with the past war and the more recent one, though he liked to think - despite what he’d said a few days ago - that he was a stronger person.

“Do you love His Majesty?” she asked him, pulling away far enough to be able to gaze into his emerald eyes.

Wolfram felt his cheeks warm, and he hoped his mother couldn’t see him blushing - though he had a feeling she could. Why was she asking him something like that when she already knew the answer? Out of all the people who resided within the palace, he’d always thought his mother would best understand how he felt the most. “Yes,” he answered with a shallow nod, saying no more than that. Nothing else was really necessary.

“Are you sure?” Celi continued to pose questions, looking desperate as she did so, as if she wished he would deny it and revoke his feelings for the other boy, though he couldn’t fathom why. “This isn’t just a passing phase? It’s not just to save your honor and pride?”

‘What pride?’ he thought, and almost asked the question out loud, but decided to keep it to himself instead. ‘I don’t have any pride left.’ Outwardly he simply shook his head. “No, Mother, I…” he paused, feeling him pale face flush again. “I love him.” Why was she doubting him? Why would she even question it? Everyone else seemed to believe his emotions were fairly obvious. “I don’t understand why you -”

“True love is very hard to find,” the former demon queen told him, moving her hands so that they were framing his youthful face, one that was identical to her own. “Even after all the time I’ve spent searching, I’ve only found it once.”

Wolfram remained silent as he listened to her words, knowing exactly who she was talking about as she spoke them. She’d been married three times, and though she’d cared deeply for each of her husbands, she’d only ever truly loved one of them. Dan Hiri Weller had been that person, a man Wolfram had only ever seen once - and by that point he’d been nothing more than a shriveled old man, hardly the handsome young swordsman his mother had married. But he’d heard numerous stories, enough to where he thought he had a pretty good idea what Conrart’s father had been like, enough to know that Mother had loved him with all of her heart, and he in return.

It often made him wonder why she’d even bothered getting together with his own father, since he felt it was obvious that the only love between them was that of friendship. They’d been lovers for years after Dan Hiri had left, each immersing themselves in the affair - perhaps as a way to distract themselves from all that was going on in the world at that time - and it had only been when a child had been conceived from their adultery that they felt the need to get married. Needless to say, their marriage hadn’t lasted long. Wolfram didn’t even have any memories of his mother and father together as a couple.

It was only another of the many things to be jealous of Conrart for; out of the three of them, Conrart was the only of Celi’s sons to be conceived from love. Gwendal had been a product of duty, an arranged engagement that had led to an eventual wedding, the requisite child, and the death of his father many years later. Wolfram had been spawned through passion, as mistake (though his mother would always say otherwise), his father’s fourth child and his mother’s third. Sometimes he wondered… if it hadn’t been so necessary that he be the key of one of the four boxes, would he have even been born?

It was a question he didn’t really feel like coming up with an answer for.

“When you do find it,” the mazoku woman continued, “if you know that’s what you feel for His Majesty… hold on to it tightly, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless things seem, or how much he tries to leave you. Never let him go.”

Wolfram frowned at her words. He didn’t know why she was telling him all of this now, though he figured she was well aware of his feelings of helplessness on this issue; ever since Yuuri had run off he’d been debating with himself on why he even bothered. The dark haired boy’s unwillingness to kiss him without fear and denial had caused him to come to realize that Yuuri would probably never be able to return his feelings. There was nothing he could do for the other man that he hadn’t already done before, nothing he could say that he hadn’t already said. He’d tried everything he could think of to prove his feelings, to gain Yuuri’s love and affection, and yet nothing had worked.

When he’d first realized he was in love with the double black demon king, Wolfram had known that to give up on that love would bring nothing but pain. Simply being denied what he wanted most had been painful enough; willingly giving up that love would have been ten times worse, he was sure. Still, he hadn’t realized exactly how much it could hurt until Yuuri had been forced to choose between his two worlds. At the time, Wolfram had had no idea why he’d told the other boy to go home. It definitely had not been the first thing to cross his mind when he’d learned that the portal that had opened with Shinou’s passing would be the last.

He’d almost told him to stay, for himself mostly, although he did spare a thought for Greta back at the castle, who hadn’t even been given the chance to say goodbye to him. He stopped himself, however, knowing full well that although Yuuri had found another family in Shin Makoku, he’d hate himself forever if he left his Earthen family behind. As much as Wolfram wanted Yuuri to stay with him, he couldn’t have asked the boy to give up something like that, not when Yuuri had looked so conflicted and undecided. The boy-king hadn’t known what to do, what to say, hadn’t know what decision to make.

So Wolfram had made the decision for him.

He’d wanted his fiancé to be happy. For once he hadn’t been selfish in his desires, knowing that Yuuri would live with a constant sense of regret if he’d left his true family behind for a world he’d only known for about a year. As much as it had hurt to tell him to go - his heart had hurt so much he’d wished it hadn’t been returned to him at all - he knew it would have been worse to see Yuuri’s guilt over staying, to hear him constantly lamenting that lost chance to lead a normal life.

He’d been given a second chance when Yuuri had come back on his own, without the aide of the Original King, but he was beginning to wonder if it was even worth it. He’d been debating with himself recently on whether he should truly give up on Yuuri or not. He’d tried to, but every time he did Yuuri would do or say something to make him back up and rethink his decision. The king had yet to return his feelings completely, and Wolfram still doubted he ever would, but the blond would always feel something between them in those moments when they were alone together, a bond that had everything and nothing to do with friendship.

When he did as Yuuri’s mother had told him and cleared his mind of all thought, relying on his intuition more than anything else, he could swear he could feel emotions emanating from the younger man that were similar to his own. He could feel warmth and affection; it was subtle, but there, and it was enough to keep him hanging on, enough to have him continuing to hope.

He didn’t voice any of his thoughts to his mother, merely nodded in agreement to her words.

A knocking against the sitting room door had both of the blonds looking up, the fair haired boy slightly startled by the sudden announcement of company. Lady Celi merely disentangled herself from her youngest son, one of her slender hands moving to stroke his hair a final time before she was heading for the door, Wolfram’s attention turning back out the window. He didn’t really care who it was; more than likely it was one of his brothers, coming to their mother to discuss some wartime issue that simply could not wait.

“Your Majesty!” his mother’s gasp had him quickly turning his gaze back towards the doorway again.

Sure enough, there was Yuuri, standing in the doorway in the dark pants and white shirt he’d changed into upon arriving, face devoid of the enraged frown that had marred his handsome features the last time the prince had seen the younger man. Green eyes widened at the sight of him, surprised - no, shocked - to see the double black so soon after their argument. He’d expected the king to avoid him for a while, at least until he’d managed to come to terms with the betrayal - which could have been days, even weeks from the moment he’d found out. But here he was now, looking calmer than before, if not a little haggard, not completely at peace with the idea but appearing a little more accepting.

“Hi, Lady Celi,” the king greeted the older mazoku woman, black eyes peering around her to scan the room. “I’m sorry about the way I acted earlier, and I was wondering if you knew where -” the boy cut himself off when his gaze fell upon Wolfram, making it obvious that he’d already found the individual he was searching for.

Wolfram held his gaze as his mother moved aside to allow the king to enter, but turned away again after a short moment. Yuuri certainly didn’t look as angry as he had when he’d left him, but it didn’t make being in his presence any easier.

“Wolfram,” the king called to him quietly, voice filled with remorse. “Can I talk to you?”

“We’ve already talked,” Prince von Bielefeld replied, making no move to further acknowledge him, eyes stubbornly cast aside as he remained rooted to his place on the stuffed sofa. “There’s nothing more to discuss.”

“There’s plenty to discuss!” Yuuri exclaimed, determined, though he hung back by the door and refrained from further entering the room, as if he were somehow afraid - of himself or the blond boy, it was hard to tell.

“I’m sure Gwendal would be more than happy to inform you of everything that’s taken place since you left.”

“I don’t want to hear it from Gwendal!” the Japanese teen snapped this time, releasing some of that hidden frustration, enough evidence that he was still wound up over the whole idea of warfare, and that attempting to convince him again would be futile. “I want to hear it from you.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Wolfram,” his mother cut in, the warning tone in her voice enough to make him glance in her direction, noting how her green eyes narrowed, clear indication that she did not approve of his cold rebuttals. “You should go with His Majesty,” she told him, firm in her decision and leaving him with very little room to refuse. It was as close to an actual demand or order that she would ever give him.

He refused anyway, frowning as he replied with an unfeeling, “No.”

“Wolfram,” it was Yuuri this time, though his speech had yet to become as hard as that of the former queen’s. “Please, talk to me. Don’t make me turn it into an order.”

The blond’s face flushed in indignation.

Rarely did Yuuri make use of his full authority as king. It wasn’t in his nature to be a supreme authoritarian, but when his stubborn streak kicked in very few people chose to stand against him. Even then his demands were not usually official orders; he was merely followed because those bellow him often thought better of arguing with someone who had such great power. Only when he wanted something bad enough did the king make it a royal command, and such instances typically occurred during his attempts to protect and keep the peace he’d strived for.

Wolfram had only been given a direct order from the other boy a handful of times, but each time he’d despised it more than the last, feeling as if his own power and authority was being stripped away form him. Yuuri preached so much about fairness and equality that it stung whenever he did change something from a simple request into a command - and despite his kindheartedness, Yuuri could remain as rigid as steel until his demands were met. Wolfram hated those moments; it reminded him of his place, reminded him that no matter what Yuuri or anyone else said, he would never be an equal to the king.

“Fine!” he eventually snapped with a forced huff of annoyance, trying to hide how unsettled he truly was. Gracefully he pushed himself from his mother’s couch and made his way across the sitting room, forcing himself to hold his head high and glare at their monarch levelly. “What do you want? I have nothing more to say to you,” he reiterated.

“Can you come with me?” Yuuri requested, and when the blond peered passed his outward frustration he could see a sense of loss in his eyes, the forlorn regret and heavy set shame. It was almost enough to make Wolfram put aside his hurt feelings and ignore the throbbing pain in his chest. The only thing that stopped him from embracing the other young man and apologizing to him profusely was his stubbornness and his mind’s reminder of the night Yuuri had left. Would Yuuri even want to accept that closeness now?

“If you have something to say to me, then you can say it right here. I have no intention of trying to explain things to you again only to have you throw it all back in my face.”

‘I have no intention of letting you hurt me again.’

“Wolfram,” his mother warned him again.

The blond merely stuck his nose in the air arrogantly, though it was really nothing more than an effort to keep from staring Yuuri in the eye.

“Look, Wolfram, I really don’t want to get into another argument with you,” Yuuri’s speech was interrupted momentarily by a scoff, at which his dark eyes narrowed slightly and his hand came up to grab onto Wolfram’s upper right arm. “Don’t be a brat and come with me.”

“What could you possibly have to say that you can’t say right here?”

The darker man did not answer, and for a moment Wolfram thought Yuuri was close to giving up. Such thoughts were proven wrong, however, when he found himself being pushed through the doorway, his mother’s startled gasp the last thing he heard from her before he was being dragged down the hall. He didn’t know how to react for a short period of time and merely allowed Yuuri to lead him to their room, but once they had almost arrived at the closed and guarded door he planted his feet firmly against the stone floor and leaned back, halting the king in his tracks as he glared up at him.

“Let go of me!” he demanded testily. Once, not even a month ago, it had been comforting to have the other man touch him in whatever way Yuuri was willing to, but now it merely felt demeaning, and he was again reminded of how absolutely pathetic he’d become in just four short weeks. Being lead around like a child did nothing to raise the level of his self-esteem.

“Not until you talk to me!”

“I already told you: there’s nothing left to say!” the prince shot back, still struggling, almost surprised at how strong Yuuri had become over the years, though he didn’t know why that fact should be so startling. At one point in their friendship it had been fairly simple to wrestle Yuuri to the ground; back then their roles had been the opposite, with Wolfram dragging the unwilling king off to wherever it was he was needed. Now Yuuri had grown, and it was only in instances such as this that Wolfram realized the physical power he’d come to gain along with the hidden strength he possessed within.

“And even if there was,” he rushed to add when his statement was met with nothing more than darkly narrowed eyes, “you wouldn’t listen to a thing I said! You’ll never understand or accept what’s happened, no matter how many times I try to explain our reasoning to you!”

“‘Our reasoning?’” Yuuri wondered, as if he didn’t quite agree with his choice of words. “But you didn’t really want to sign that declaration, did you?”

Wolfram froze, staring at him in surprise. Just a little while ago the black haired youth had been unwilling to believe that what the prince had done hadn’t been what he’d really wanted. Yuuri hadn’t wanted to listen as Wolfram had tried to explain how Gwendal had forced him, how this situation was the last thing he wanted for the people and their kingdom. Now it seemed as if Yuuri had done a complete about-face; he seemed more agreeable, like their short time apart from the moment Yuuri had turned his back on him until now had allowed him to better come to terms with everything.

It was obvious that Conrart had managed to talk to him, and Wolfram was suddenly afraid of how much his second brother had revealed to their king. His startled gaze met Yuuri’s determined one, and he forced himself to momentarily forget his anger and heartache in order to hold the other boy’s stare for more than a few seconds, looking beyond the more outward emotions that were being expressed upon his face and searching deeper within. It was hard to decipher most of what Yuuri was feeling at the moment behind all that anger and frustration, but there was a good bit of remorse, and something else as well.

Sorrow? Guilt? Pity? A combination of the three?

Wolfram didn’t know, but it didn’t ease the sudden rapid beating of his heart.

TBC…

A/N: I kinda felt that that was a really odd place to leave it off. Originally the scene was going to be longer, but I decided to leave it at that and pick it up at the beginning of the next chapter.

And I have no idea what the next chapter is going to be titled. After all the plagiarism stuff was taken care of, the motherboard to my old computer fried, so I had to get a new one. I had most of my important stuff backed up ahead of time, but unfortunately for some reason I didn’t think to back up the list of the names for all the chapters. XD;