Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

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

Chapter List
- 17
- 18
- 19
Yuuri tried to hide his fatigue from Conrad as they crept along the shadows outside the castle's back gates. Murata had told him not to use maryoku in human territories but the ease at which his healing powers relieved the worst of his shoulder's pain was too important to forgo. It left him dizzy but Murata's battery-like ability made up for the worst of it. Still his body beckoned him to sleep, to rejuvenate in the ancient, fail-safe way of slumber. There was simply no time for that. The castle was right there, a Big Cimarron fortress laid by hands which paid no tribute to their king. It would end tonight. Yuuri promised as much to himself and Bersi who crouched low on Conrad's left, bottom lip tucked between his teeth in thought.
"It's quiet."
Conrad nodded, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes scanned the area, body hardly moving as he blended perfectly into the shadows by will. "You mentioned archers?"
"Yes, along the top gate wall. We'd have seen them or been seen by now if they were there." Bersi noted, looking up through the stars at the ivy trimmed wall and its vacant ledge.
Conrad looked less than convinced.
Much like Blood Pledge Castle, the Trebic palace was set high on a hill overlooking the harbor and villages below. Though their line of sight was hampered by the bare branches of trees, enough of the black sea was visible. Ships lit the dark waves like constellations of stars, clustered lights from cabins and decks arranging themselves in unlike patterns. It was too dark to make out the flags but judging by the peacefulness in the air, they belonged solely to Big Cimarron. The Shin Makoku fleet was still en route. Gunter had assured them it would not be long given the dove's much decreased flight.
Murata knelt beside the silver haired man, no weapon in his hand. Yuuri wasn't sure what good he'd be in a fight if he wasn't armed. Gunter had through well enough ahead to have brought Morgif--who deemed it prudent to stay quiet for once--but for the sage nothing had been prepared. Murata didn't seem to mind in the least but it made Yuuri worry. It was good to have someone on hand who could dissect battle plans and make tactical decisions for them but for that person to be defenseless was practically suicide. It wasn't the first time and Yuuri told himself it would not be the last. Murata was a man of thought, not of action--unless, of course, there were cute girls around; the dichotomy of the young man and the sum of his many memories.
Murata scanned the top of the wall as well, glasses shining in the moonlight. "Archers are more effective at a distance. I agree with Sir Veleif. The only reason to not fire on us now would be to toy with us. It's only the sentry we'll have to worry about and keeping quiet as we dispatch of the guards."
"I'll handle the sentry," said one of the Trebic soldiers, armed with a cross bow. "They won't hear so much as a peep out of him."
Gunter nodded, pulling his sword from its sheath. The others did the same, the quiet scrape of metal falling under the howl of the winter winds.
Yuuri pulled Morgif free, one palm over the ghastly face just in case excitement lead to the incessant groaning and hoo-ing of the demon sword. His palms felt sweaty, his heart beating fast. This was it. In a few hours, he'd have Wolfram back. In a few hours there would be blood and death and everything he despised about war, orchestrated by his own words, a violent counter to a violent act. And he could live with that, he felt. So long as in the end the right people were in power and everyone who had been wronged felt things had been made right, he could live with the bloody campaign.
And if he couldn't, if it plagued him forever, so long as Wolfram was alive, some part of it all would still be worth it.
Gunter raised his hand to the ready and gave the signal for the attack. Silently and without the roar of battle frenzy, their troop streamed into the back gardens and proceeded to slaughter every solider in sight.

--
If getting hired had been easy, getting information had been a cinch. Maids talked, soldier's bragged and joked, and the only secrets anyone bothered to keep were on the unimportant things like what first sergeant Bauer was getting lieutenant Lange for his birthday. There was very little of what Yozak heard that made him eager to report back to his captain. There was a great deal of what he'd heard that made him more than ready to deliver the most assuredly alive Lord Prince Bielefeld Havard from his home-turned-prison. A true to life demon, they called him. None would dare go near his room. A man once dead now seen to exist as a living corpse, the general's doll and insult to the demon tribe itself. There would be hell to pay.
Yozak had no trouble getting permission to head to the prisoner's room, tray of food and drink easily concealing weapons and picks--any manner of necessity for making an escape. The fast fading dusk on the horizon was the first sign of the coming siege and he planned to be already halfway out the door before the true confusion and panic struck. There was no guard posted outside the door he'd been told contained the prisoner. It was strange but fortuitous, a small stroke of good luck which Yozak was never too proud to accept. He smiled at his fortune, turning the handle and peeking in slowly before hurrying in, door slammed closed behind him.
There was so much blood. It stained the walls, ceiling and bedclothes, pooled on the floor and soaked the rug. Shards of a broken drinking glass littered the floor by the bedside table while one long piece still stuck out from the young man's pale neck. His Achilles tendon had been sliced through, jagged lesion running across the back of his right heal. He was naked save for his underwear.
Yozak looked around the room, listening for the shuffle of footsteps or the wheeze of breath. Everything was silent and still save for the wind rattling the windows.
Dropping the food tray to the bed, Yozak cursed and gathered up his supplies, slipping them down the bosom of his uniform as he hurried out the room and down the hall at a run. He didn't have time for this. This wasn't supposed to be how the plan went.
He could already hear the clash of armored footsteps as they hurried within the castle. Things were already getting started and he was one too many steps behind.

--
Trebic was a beacon of light smoldering on the coastline, ruby against the ebony night where the torchlights burned through the cold. They were close--close enough to see and be seen. Gwendal took a deep breath of the sea air, eyes focused and cold as steel in their unnervingly serious stare. He was not a forgiving man.
"Sir, we've got at least three ships off to starboard. I've had our gunmen ready the canons. We'll be within range in fifteen minutes."
Gwendal nodded his consent, too focused for speech. His men were wise and well trained; they knew what to do.
Somewhere in the darkness, Conrad was watching over their king. Somewhere on the frozen soil there were men falling for their homeland and vengeance being served in bloody revelry. Gwendal knew these thoughts and motivations well. Solid and unmoved as the earth he commanded, he still had a heart that beat with the pride of a mazoku. He knew anger, hate, devotion, grief. He'd lost both his brothers at one place in time or another and in those moments had known more rage than any ball of yarn could pacify. No one messed with his family. Second only to his king and country, there was nothing he would fight harder to protect or avenge. Wolfram had been only eighty-three...
He could recall the Caloria ball, the strangely tense atmosphere, the choke of pain his his chest and throat when he had seen that man beside his youngest brother. Eighty-three never seemed so much like a child's age than in that moment, seeing him stand there, dwarfed in his husband's shadow, a little boy playing grown up. Eight-three was rash and foolish. Eighty-three was consenting. Eight-three had a lifetime's worth of hopes and expectations that had been put on hold for a grown man's war. Eighty-three was far too young to die.
It still surprised the older man how with Yuuri standing right before him, it had been Gwendal who Wolfram had pulled aside. He'd felt awkward as he seldom had before, hands immediately mimicking the looping pattern of his knitting needles as he stood before him in a quiet corner, alone.
"Has he been kind to you like I told him to be?"
Words that felt like they should have come from his own lips startled the older man. The worry that pinched his brother's face, the embers of rage ready to be fanned within his emerald eyes, that protective streak that seemed to run through all of Cecilie's sons was clear in even his battle ready stance. Gwendal placed his hand on his shoulder, saddened by the happiness he felt at being so loved. "We are all entitled to our feelings regarding what has transpired. If he has been short or angered, it is not directed at me alone."
Wolfram sighed, head hanging. "I'm sorry. I've tried to tell him-"
"I'm aware. Thank you. It is not necessary."
He looked older. Tired. Gwendal hated his somber maturity, the kind of quiet calm that stemmed more from learned behavior than Wolfram's natural inclination. Much as he had wanted his brother to grow up, he envied his honesty and inability to hide his emotions or their intensity. This subdued parody of his fiery sibling worried him more than almost anything else.
"And you.. you're... alright?" His throat felt tight. Never had such an easy question come at such a strain.
Wolfram smiled slightly. "Yes. It's actually a lot easier than I thought it would be. Parts of it anyway. I don't suppose you got the letter? About the ships?"
Work. Duty. An escape to something less raw. Gwendal welcomed it. "I did. I'm afraid we can't send any more than we already have."
"I see..."
"... How badly are you in need of these ships?"
Wolfram put his hands out, eyes downcast to his empty palms. "There are skirmishes nearly every week. Big Cimarron comes in, takes out a few freighters or common fishing vessels, then backs off once we meet them en force. Several of our war ships have been damaged and are in dock for repairs. We're down to the bare minimum for security."
"Are you afraid?"
"Not for myself."
He was. Gwendal had seen it in the curl of his fingers, the bend of his neck, the slump of his shoulders. It wasn't terror but a worry, a foreseeable future set too plainly on their horizon with only a beggar's luck to stave it off.
One ship, he had promised him. Just one more before Shin Makoku would leave itself too vulnerable. He could have sent two. Three. Five. He could have sent the whole armada and planted himself firmly at the shore to raise the very seafloor from its dark home to protect Shin Makoku himself. He could have been more generous even as the learned part of him knew there was no mistake in his decision, no flaw in his logic.
He'd killed his brother with sound tactical analysis and for as long as the sea would bare him, he could bring down his grief and vengeance upon the Big Cimarron vessels that had sent him down that path.
"Sir, we're nearing maximum range. Big Cimarron sips are responding aggressively. Perhaps you should head inside."
Gwendal shook his head, the cold in the air still warmer than the chill in his chest. "I will not move from the deck until we have won or are dead. Proceed with the attack."
--
Inside the Trebic castle was as much a labyrinth as Yuuri recalled Blood Pledge being when he'd first entered in. Stone laid passageways all looked the same, tapestries and flags of similar or the same patters making the monotony even worse. There were bodies in the halls they'd passed before, though. Old blood and new soaked into the mortar, seeping into cracks and pooling in the craftsman's errors. That was how he could tell them most apart. It made Yuuri sick. It made Morgif greedy and enthralled. Life was full of moments when second guessing was too little too late. Yuuri made himself remember that these were the people who had attacked a country on the basis of spreading hate. With every thrust he parried and bit of flesh he caught on his blade, he felt similarly guilty.
He had not killed yet. Conrad always took that blow for himself, steel piercing through weaknesses in armor as though it were made of air. Even if Morgif did swallow their souls, they were dying men already. In some way, he was showing them a mercy in their consumption. Not really. No. Not at all.
They were thoughts for a much latter time.
Desperate and eager, Yuuri pressed into every room they came across, finding them empty or filled with frightened servants or battle ready soldiers. Still no sign of Yozak. Still no sign of Wolfram. He wondered how Gunter and Murata were doing, if they had made their way to the audience chamber, if they had found the general, the self-appointed king. Was the battle over yet? Had they won? With every door he opened and every disappointment that lay beyond it, he felt his anxiety raise and the frenzy of his defensive strikes become uncontrolled and random. There was so much he wanted to know. Had the need for bloodshed passed?
Conrad sliced through the chest of another young soldier with blue-grey eyes and a gap between his two front teeth. Yuuri watched him slump to the floor, jumping back from his prostrate form.
"You're getting too sloppy, Yuuri. I need you to stay focused."
"I'm sorry. I'm just.. I'm looking."
"Please look out for yourself as you do so, your majesty. Wolfram will cry if you aren't able to rescue him yourself."
Yuuri nodded, grip tight around Morgif's hilt. Down another hall he saw more doors, so many doors. He imagined his nightmares to be filled with endless hallways of doors from then on. He walked to each one, throwing them open. They were empty, bedrooms and sitting parlors long since vacated. Each one was red like the Trebic flag and the blood which coated its land. Yuuri let out a frustrated bark as he slammed the door to the last room, hands shaking as he pressed forward. At the next T-junction there were many men waiting, soldier's with swords and arrows ready to cut through their slender ranks. Yuuri caught a strike against Morgif, putting all his strength into his defense as Conrad swung himself through three at a time. It was nothing. They'd press on through. They were doing just fine.
"Yuuri, look out!"
On instinct the king spun around, Morgif's blade somehow connecting with the arrow meant for him and deflecting it harmlessly to the ground. He stared wide eyed at the Big Cimarron soldier leaning heavily against the wall, one arm tucked in around his stomach with rivers of sweat running down his face. His uniform was too big and splattered in blood. He wasn't the shooter, no, Conrad had severed his spine with a hard thrust through his gut. This soldier was far more familiar and dear than any of the nameless bodies that fell to the floor in lifeless heaps.
With a delirious smile, Wolfram pitched forward, saved from smashing face first into the cold, stone floor by his brother's quick catch.
- 17
- 18
- 19
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Marriage of State