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

Chapter List
- 19
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Several days after the last of the Big Cimarron soldiers were shipped off towards their home shores, burdened by the weight of their dead, the nationwide funeral commenced. Flags remained at full mast out of pride in their victory but on every chest a scarlet ribbon of mourning was pinned. It had taken ages to go through the dead.
Yuuri sat towards the front of the chapel as an honored guest along with his friends and retainers. All except for Wolfram. The Prince Consort sat with the remaining nobles on the other side of the central passageway, Sir Bersi Veleif seated on his right as his chief consultant. It was hard for Yuuri to pay attention to the words being spoken by the attending priest who lead them all in a fond remembrance of the royal family and valiant soldiers who had died to reclaim their kingdom. Yuuri’s eyes and thoughts continued to drift towards his friend who even now was still so distant.
Wolfram had recovered his strength quickly once the houseki had been removed. The bruising along his mouth from the doctor’s tools were still purple against his pink lips. He still coughed blood and could not yet speak without pain or discomfort. It would not have been hard at all for Yuuri to have placed his hands along his white neck and soothe his pain away with his maryoku. It might not have healed much but it would have helped, still could. But they were still in human territory and Wolfram would not permit him to use even the slightest bit of his powers so long as he could still smack his hand away and glare. It wasn’t exactly how he had imagined their reunion to be. Wolfram had been out of it and in Conrad’s care while under the houseki’s power and free from it he now buried himself in his work. The air was tense and anxious for Big Cimarron’s rebuttal to their revolution with meeting upon meeting--many of which Yuuri was not permitted to attend—keeping Wolfram busy and the noble class in a nervous frenzy. So much protocol to adhere to, legal standards to stay mindful of to keep Shin Makoku’s role in the upheaval of the occupation to a minimum. There were plenty of witnesses, both human and mazoku, who had seen Wolfram murder the general. There could still be issues, though, if King Lanzil held enough doubt. Wolfram had to remain as obviously aligned with Trebic as possible, and by default as removed from Shin Makoku as outward appearances could achieve. He was the last link to the former royal house and while that did not make him king, it did make him an icon and a figure that could still hold some power on his own until the next true ruler was appointed. Even limited as his power was, there was no head which did not bow to him. Wolfram the Resurrected, they called him. Yuuri thought it was a very cool nickname. Wolfram hadn’t remarked on it at all.
Sitting among the large, ginger bearded men of the court, Wolfram looked very young and out of place, a dandelion stuck in a rosebush. His light hair and skin glowed in the sunlight, made paler still by the black formal uniform he wore, scarlet breast like an open wound that parted the black panels over his chest. He was stone faced as he listened, attention fully set on the words of the priest as the man in red vestments carried on about the bravery and sacrifice made by their leaders and citizens. On a table before him were several ornate boxes like Christmas presents adorned in golden designs. The bodies having been burned, only the bones remained of the fallen royals, no coffin needed for their flesh. It was a sad reminder that even the mightiest of men could still be reduced to little more than a box full of odds and ends.
“It is customary for the surviving members to say a word in this passing. We are reminded, sadly, that for this mighty line of kings there were no survivors. We are blessed, however, with the presence of our dear Prince Alfgier’s husband who rose up from his own grave to avenge these wrongful deaths.”
There was a brief moment of Trebecian applause: the stomping of feet on the floor. It was somewhat out of place in the ceremony but not unexpected. The priest smiled, arms spread out to cease the subdued celebration for the continuation of the somber affair.
“For now, our Prince Consort is unable to speak his own words, so we ask that Sir Veleif rise in his stead and read from his prepared speech.”
Yuuri turned his attention back to his friend. Somehow he hadn’t thought Wolfram would be asked to speak at the funeral. He watched as from his breast pocket Wolfram took out a scrap of parchment, passing it into Bersi’s hands which clasped around his first before accepting their token. The chief consultant took to the vacated podium slowly, unfolding the paper as he walked, eyes downcast to the scribble before him. He placed it down flat, smoothing it over, before grasping the podium’s edges and smiling down at the attending crowd.
“I’m sure no one will fault me if I speak briefly from my own heart first.” The silence of agreement followed. He smiled at the boxes before him. “I have spent many long years in service to the royal household and I have been proud always of my king and my heritage. When His Majesty told me he wished to form an alliance with Shin Makoku rather than continue with our naval battles, I had had many doubts. I worried that Shin Makoku would trick us, that they would lie and deceive us as has been said of their kind for centuries. And yet it was humans who attacked these shores--our own brothers. The king had known far better than I had what our true enemy was. It was hate. He knew our true allies in this world were men of conviction and honestly, not simply those who shared our race or species. He knew and we followed blindly till now. Now I know as he knew and see what he saw. I see a future that will be long and difficult and I see a nation of people who are strong and able and will never be defeated. We paid for Big Cimarron’s ignorance and we have received amongst our grief the knowledge and power of a greater world that our king wanted us to enjoy. And we will. In his memory and in his honor we will fight and we will win and we will be brothers and sisters of the enlightened and cast all others to the sea!”
Feet pounded against the floor, drumming loudly like a thunder of heartbeats. Bersi raised his arms high to calm them though the stomping of leather soles continued on for seconds more. Yuuri smiled gently, warmed to see their allies were not flinching from past convictions. He would not have blamed them. They had lost many lives, much property, and the cornerstone of their government. And it surely wasn’t over yet. They were the Rebel Alliance with the Death Star in pieces but the Emperor was still there, plotting against them, perhaps even building another to attack them once again. That they understood and still stomped their feet against the cobblestone in chorus was more than Yuuri could have hoped for.
“Now, now. Please. I’ve said my piece and I am prouder yet to be of Trebic soil to hear you praise our king as I do. But I must now read--as I was charged to do--our Prince Consort’s parting words for the family he had known here for far too short a time. And I ask that you bear with me as I try to do his words justice through the fault of my own tongue.” Bersi looked again at the paper he’d pressed to the podium, eyes scanning for a moment before voice breaking past a cough of preparation. “I, Wolfram von Beliefeld Havard, third son of the 26th Maou, favored nephew of the ruling house of Beliefeld, former fiancé of the 27th Maou, Father to the Maou’s daughter, Lord Prince of the Trebic ruling house and Prince Consort to the empty throne, have held many titles in my life. None of them before or after compare to the joint title of husband I shared with your Prince Alfgeir; my Alfie.”
Yuuri swallowed, biting his lip. He didn’t want to hear this. It was in tribute, it was expected, but it was naked in its exhibition. The words pulled the sea into the room, stretching out the distance between them father than just an aisle and some chairs. He looked at Wolfram, face still set in cold indifference, steely and unblinking.
“I wish I could say that we loved each other very much and our arranged marriage had blossomed into the kind of romantic feelings most people dream of when they think of marriage. Truthfully, we did not know each other for very long. But among his last words to me were ‘I would have loved you’. And despite the stubbornness of my heart, over time, I think I might have learned to love him too. Learned for my own faults, not through any of his own, for I am more than stubborn; I am rash, I fly off the handle, I jump to conclusions and I brood impatiently. He’d witnessed as much even in only half a year; all my vices and shortcomings which were suddenly his to deal with. And still he would have loved me. Alfie was the sort of man who could only have friends, never enemies, because he would never allow himself to dwell long enough on people’s faults to be critical of them. I want to be around that kind of man. I want to have shared in his time for longer. He was one of the greatest friends I have ever known and one of the greatest losses this kingdom has suffered is in the loss of him as your king. I would-“
Bersi stumbled over the sentence as Wolfram stood, walking not to the podium but to the boxes of remains that lined the long ceremonial table. The chief consultant watched him for a moment before his duty to read was remembered, eyes scanning for his place as Wolfram placed his hands on the lid to Prince Alfgeir’s bones. Yuuri stared, heart pounding in his ears and color lost from his face.
“I would have gladly traded places with him to give you a dawn broken by his light. He would have been a great king. I am proud to be the widower of a hero such as him who died in the line of battle, in duty to the crown and his people.”
Wolfram removed the lid from its box and set it down along the table, hands delving behind the secrecy of its walls and pulling out from within a charred and flame polished skull. Slowly he bent his neck, kissing the cold bone along the ridge of its forehead.
“I can only hope more men like him will follow.”
Bersi folded the paper and hurried down from the podium as Wolfram returned the skull to its resting place. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders and guided him back to the bench to the low thunder of footfalls.
Murata leaned over, shoulder against Yuuri’s. “I’d hate to be the guy who has to follow that.”
Yuuri put his face in his hands, knowing what Murata meant but hearing a completely different meaning.

It was Trebic custom for a great party to be held the night of the funeral, a celebration of life after the mourning of death. Skeleton decorations like macabre reminders of mortality hung from the walls with skull table settings and masks of ghoulish faces left for those attending to wear. It was hoped the ghosts of the departed might linger among them for the celebration if they did not feel themselves surrounded by the living. Yuuri looked at his mask, the near spitting image of Morgif’s visage, and felt the tingle of nerves creep down his spine.
“Is it really okay to have a party?” He asked, tying on the black cloak that was part of his assigned costume.
Murata fluffed the feather of his cap, his half mask baring a large hooked nose and fangs. “Why not? One of the best ways to overcome hardships is to continue doing things the way they’ve always been done.”
“I guess,” he acquiesced. He sighed and pulled his mask on, feeling anxious and grim. Yuuri’s excitement for their victory was quickly being run down by the jealousy he felt towards a dead man. It felt wrong to mimic the dead when he desired nothing more than to let them stay buried and out of sight. “Just what am I supposed to be? A ghost?”
“Yeah, I think so. I guess they thought it in bad taste to make you a demon.” Murata smiled at him, flicking the end of his hook-nose. “Come on, Shibuya. Lighten up. It’s a party. It’ll be fun.”
“Last party I went to I got yelled at by Wolfram.”
“Well, at least you know that won’t happen again.”
Yuuri groaned, leaning his forehead against the wall. “Why doesn’t this stuff ever work out the way it does in the movies? What happened to saving the princess, getting a kiss, and ridding off into the sunset for happily ever after?”
“Well, your princess is a prince consort, he sort of saved himself, he kissed his dead husband’s skull instead and it’s already night.” Murata gave his shoulders a pat. “But that doesn’t mean that happily ever after stuff is out of the question.”
“You’re terrible.” Yuuri stood up straight, readjusting the collar of his cloak. It was going to be a long night. He could already feel it.
Despite all in attendance wearing masks, it was very easy to locate Conrad and the others; they were the ones without beards. Conrad’s mask was somewhat terrifying; that of a doll with soulless eyes. Gunter’s ghost mask was just as bad as Yuuri’s. It was Yozak that Yuuri had trouble finding until a bulky woman with large biceps wearing a devil mask pulled Conrad onto the dance floor. The soldier laughed, smiling brightly as he allowed himself to be lead. Yuuri watched, wondering for the first time since he’d know the pair if maybe there wasn’t something more than camaraderie between the two half-mazoku. He watched for a moment as Conrad spun the devilish damsel around, being dipped by “her” instead as he laughed and played. They fit right in with the others, two big kids enjoying life the way the Trebic people meant it to be.
Yuuri scanned the ballroom for another familiar face, expecting a small frame and blonde hair to stick out just as easily. He found instead Gwendal lurking by a shadowed column, no costume worn and no smile. Yuuri excused himself from the others and went to him, the stoic man standing still and watching him approach.
“Where’s your costume, Gwendal?”
He grimaced. “I’m here on duty,” he explained. He looked back out at the dancers spinning in their ghoulish guises. His eyes followed Conrad with slight exasperation. “When will you be returning to Blood Pledge Castle?”
“I’d like us all to go soon. I think things here will be settled for a while now that the funeral is over.” Yuuri pulled his mask up, feeling weird being trapped behind its plastic grin. Gwendal seemed to appreciate it as well. “Have you spoken to Bersi about what it’s going to take to leave with Wolfram?”
Gwendal nodded. Yuuri waited but he made no effort to expound on his own.
“And?”
Gwendal was no longer looking at him. Yuuri turned and followed his line of sight. The golden hair crowning a while skeletal mask was unmistakable.
“On second thought, hold that thought.” Yuuri moved away from Gwendal, passing through the middle of the dance floor to cut a quick path to Wolfram. Dance partners had little trouble changing their step to avoid him as he hastened his own, bursting through to the other side with his mask still pressed atop his head. The skeleton looked at him with black holes where eyes should be and a toothy grin of exposed bone. “Hey!” Yuuri said, at a loss for what to say next. “Uh, great party…”
Wolfram nodded slowly, turning to continue on his way.
The king grabbed him by the hand. “You um.. wouldn’t want to dance or something, would you?”
He shook his head.
“Ah... is that a no, you would or a no, you wouldn’t?” He laughed nervously, arm behind his head. “Sorry, I should ask things a little more clearly.”
Wolfram gave his hand a squeeze but pulled it from his grasp, sliding his own mask up with the other. Up close, the purple markings along his lips looked nearly as bad as they had the first night he’d borne them. Yuuri could only imagine what his throat looked or felt like in comparison; rock, metal and stomach acid having been dragged up from his belly. He reached out again, fingers wanting desperately to lay against his neck and soothe that pain.
Wolfram titled his head back, asking him to stop.
“Please… don’t worry about me.”
Never, Wolfram mouthed.
Yuuri smiled just slightly. “Then can I at the very least have this dance? I promise I won’t step on your feet.”
Wolfram pursed his bruised lips, looking off to the sides. Of course people were watching them. He was Wolfram the Resurrected. There were guards, nobles, and soldiers all in attendance, all aware of his presence and by extension his actions. Yuuri could almost hear the thoughts running through his head. It wouldn’t be right to dance with his ex-fiancé at a party celebrating the life of his dead husband. It wouldn’t be right for him to be seen too close to Shin Makoku while they still waiting for Big Cimarron’s formal announcement in regards to the mariticide.
Yuuri smiled as an idea popped into mind. “Wait right here, okay?”
Confused, Wolfram nodded. Yuuri hurried back towards Gunter and Murata, the ghost and hook-nosed demon having become common wallflowers. Yuuri grabbed Murata’s hand and pulled him to follow.
“What is it now, Shibuya?”
“I need you to switch costumes with me. Hurry up!”
They ducked around a corner and behind drawn drapes. Yuuri had his cape untied and his mark off before Murata had even managed to start shaking his arms out of his tunic’s sleeves. They managed with only mild awkwardness to undress and switch their costumes, flies laced and necklines right-side-forward. Yuuri tied the half-mask in place, looking down the long nose with ornate fangs resting on his top lip.
Murata sighed at his ghost face. “I’m going to look silly standing next to Gunter in this.”
“Go find someone to dance with, then. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he called, tripping out from the curtain in his haste to return to the dance floor.
People had seen two black-haired young men walk out of the room and were predictably unsurprised when two young men with black hair returned. Yuuri’s exposed grin was hard to keep in check as he walked up behind Wolfram, giving his shoulder a tap. He was still a man from Shin Makoku, but perhaps, just maybe, not being the king and former fiancé would be enough to garner one song’s accompaniment.
Wolfram saw through his disguise immediately, eyebrows raised in question and eyes leveling him with uncertainty. Yuuri extended his hand to him, afraid to speak should anyone be near enough to hear. Intentionally stepping on his foot, Wolfram took his hand. He smiled faintly as he pulled his mask back over his face, demon and skeleton walking onto the floor to carry on their mascaraed.
Yuuri placed his left hand at the small of Wolfram’s back, taking the lead out of habit though hardly a master of the dance. In his right hand he took Wolfram’s, thumb against his palm. They’d only taken a few steps before Yuuri could feel Wolfram’s hand sliding in his grip, fingers manipulating his own as he pressed their palms together, fingertip to fingertip, dragging the rough touch of thin callouses down the length of his fingers and up, intertwining and pulling free again to tangle and caress. It was perhaps the most erotic thing that had ever happened to Yuuri. He was mesmerized by the way their hands danced, a more graceful and honest embrace than their bodies could ever mimic in the sight of Trebic’s nobles. They stood nearly a foot apart, plenty of space between them for feet and the status quo. When he spun Wolfram their fingers tickled pad to sensitive pad, rushing back together as he drew him near again, but never too near. Fingernails never scratched. Yuuri tightened his hand on his waist, looking deeply into the black cave of eyes where somewhere green irises were blinking back at him. He stepped on his feet a couple times. Wolfram always made sure to step on his right back.
At the end of the song Wolfram drew away, the touch of their right hands the last to part ways. He did not look back as he crossed to the state table where Bersi and many others were seated, watching the festivities. Bersi clapped Wolfram on the shoulders, the heavy hands making him jolt forward as Yuuri could recall Alfgeir’s own joyful pats had done.
Like Alfgeir.
A very cold and unwelcome feeling dropped like a copper coin to the bottom of an empty well inside him. He needed to speak to Gwendal. Immediately.
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A Marriage of State