Prison Cut

A/N: Okay, this is just a scene from a much longer fic I was planning but decided to abort. However, I liked this scene, and while I felt badly for hurting Murata, it wrote itself. And everyone has to write some dark!fic at some point, so here goes.

More happy fics to come, promise :D

Prison Cut


They were Yuuri's footsteps that pounded down the pitch black hall, racing to the last cell on the block which he somehow knew instinctively was were Murata would be. But it was Shinou's bursts of blue flame that sent the door shattering in on itself and allowed the yellow lantern light to cut a wide area of the damp darkness away.

Shinou was not the kind of man who would flinch at anything, but the sight before him caused him anguish enough that Yuuri, clawing to get out, could sense it. It added to the boy's fear.

Murata was there, and alive, but not unhurt. He was chained painfully close to the wall, his writsts bound on top of each other. His legs were drawn up to his chest, and his ankles were tied together with sinew ropes. He was naked, Shinou noted; there was hardly an inch of skin that did not show a cut or bruise. And, to Shinou's great anger, there was a growing pool of blood seeping out from under Murata.

"Who's there?" Murata growled in a voice that was hoarse; whether it was from lack of water or screaming was indeterminable.

Without saying a word, the Maoh stepped foward, kneeling in front of Murata so that his face could be fuzzily seen without the aid of Murata's shattered glasses.

"Shinou," he croaked, unable to say anything else.

More tenderly than anyone would have believed him capable of, Shinou applied his power to each tie or cuff that bound the boy until Murata was free. He slumped over, and Shinou caught him.

"For once, the battle of wit did you no good, Daikenja. Your power has grown greatly through the generations," He indicated the two soldiers that lay dead in the floor. "Although after that, you probably don't have any power left."

Murata was so tired, and not in the mood to have his weaknesses pointed out to him. "Don't screw with me, Shinou."

Shinou's eyes were drawn to the pool of blood beneath Murata. "It seems someone already has," he said softly. Murata looked at the cold stone floor, refusing to meet the Maoh's eyes.

Then, Shinou took him into his arms, and the blue light outlined them both. Through the haze of pain, Murata was dimly surprised that Shinou's strong youki had the ability to heal, not just hurt. But then that might be Yuuri's influence shining through.

A few moments later, Murata felt better. The internal bleeding that was making him so weak had subsided, and some of the more worrisome cuts had stopped oozing and were beginning to close. He was still exhausted though.

Murata was relieved to see that his salvation came in the form of Shinou instead of Yuuri. He knew that Yuuri had no concept of torture or depravity. To him, torture was not getting to play baseball after school. The scene before him would have scarred him.

And suddenly, as if reacting to his thoughts, the Maoh was crying. And that, Murata knew, was Yuuri.

"Yuuri," he said softly, a shaky, bruised hand rising to wipe away the tears. "It's okay." But it wasn't and no one was more painfully aware of that than Yuuri.

Yuuri shook his head through the tears. "How could I..." And suddenly, the boy was full of cold fury, and Murata was sure that that was Shinou's influence.

"Where are your clothes?" Yuuri asked, softly.

"Out of commission, I'm afraid. The shirt and tunic were...used several hours ago, and I don't know what they did with the pants." Murata's eyes flashed to a heap of clothing a few feet away, and Yuuri's followed.

Very gently, so as not to cause any more damage, he leaned Murata against the wall and went to fetch the shirt. He picked it up, and stared agahst at the wet spots that soaked it. Reality at last sinking in, Yuuri dropped it to the ground.

He turned back to Murata, horror in his eyes. Murata attempted to smile through cracked lips, to reassure his king that he was okay. Shivering, Yuuri quickly retrieved the damaged but still wearable pants and helped Murata get them on, wincing as he gritted his teeth in pain. Then he took off his tunic and wrapped it carefully around Murata's shoulders. Murata looked at him gratefully.

"You should leave," Murata whispered. "They'll have noticed the commotion, and more soldiers will be here soon. I'll be okay now, I just need a little rest."

Yuuri's voice held terrible, calm anger, a different kind that the rightous anger that usually found its way to his voice. "I will not leave you. Ever."

Murata smile held some bitterness. He'd heard that line somewhere before. Well, as least that was definitely Yuuri talking.

"Yuuri..." and it was all he could manage. Yuuri pulled him into his arms again and held him tight. "Never," he mummered, kissing Murata's forehead.

Murata rested his head on Yuuri's shoulder, too weak to respond in the manner he wished to.

"We're going home." It was a statement, strong and sure. And oh, thought Murata, how quickly and fully something can change a person.