Since You've Returned
Author's Note: This is the sequel story to Since You've Been Away. If you haven't read my other fic, I urge you to do so (and review) but this is basically what happened: while Yuuri was away in the human world, Murata and Wolfram formed a relationship slightly stronger than friendship. When Yuuri returned, Murata asked the Shinou to erase both of their memories. The only piece of evidence about Wolfram and Murata's relationship that remained was Wolfram's diary, a pink-papered book bound in dark brown leather. Murata now has the diary, and… ACTION!
oOoOo(M)oOoOo
"Yuuri, you're such an insensitive brat!"
"Wolf, you drive me crazy! You stuck up little—"
"If you knew anything at all, you'd never have—"
"HEIKA!!!"
Gunter's voice shattered the chaos. I smiled, lifting my head from my reading. I stared across the Maou's head at his fiancé, knowing my glasses would hide this covetous glance. The blonde was furious, and I remembered a day where his passion would have made my pleasure. But, I sighed, that today was to be no more. The only trace of the past was the book I held gripped in both hands, a small brown diary, with light pink pages, filled to the last page with cursive writing. I nearly had it memorized now.
"Dear Diary, Monday the 19th…
Why am I doing this? It is wrong, I am engaged, I should not be thinking of another man in this way! Yet every time I see him, every time I cross his path, I find it hard to breathe. I thought only Yuuri could make me feel this way. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps, just perhaps… But this is useless. Even if I weren't engaged, even if I were free for the taking, he'd never want me. He has thousands of years, hundreds of men in his memory. And I'm nothing but a blot on the page."
I read and reread this entry, and my eyes began to water. Wolfram had thought I wouldn't want him? That I would turn him down? Sure, I had a thousand years of memories, but I would gratefully trade all my previous lives for one lifetime with him! I sighed, and closed the book, placing a marker on that page.
That night, I listened to the fighting again.
"Wolfram! Get OUT!"
"Why should I?!? YOU'RE the lying scum!"
"You have no right to talk to me this way!"
"You can't say a thing! After all the—"
"Why, how DARE you?!?"
"WOLFRAM!"
This time it was the strong voice of Cherie-sama that snapped like a whip.
"I've had enough of your bickering! Yuuri, you will sleep in this room! Wolfram, you will sleep in the West Wing! NO COMPLAINTS!" They both agreed without a mutter of dispute, and I heard two sets of footsteps heading my way.
The West Wing?!? That's right beside my room! In fact, it adjoins my room, on the left side, through a sliding door! I moved quickly and soundlessly to the door, and unlatched it. Then like a fox I returned to my desk, and through the open hatchway I heard Cherie-sama drop a heavy box-bag-trunk on the bed in the other room. Then I heard her kiss her son's head (how jealous I was!) and bid him, "Good night, my dear. Tomorrow things will be better."
Wolfram bid her goodnight, and held his breath until the door closed behind her.
Then I heard him exhale deeply, and he threw himself down on the bed.
What shocked and angered me was the sound of his anguish, as he cried. Though he was quiet, I heard everything, and I rose from my position to come to the passageway.
In this state of emotion, I forgot to put the Diary in its secure hiding place.
oOoOo(W)oOoOo
I was angry, and sad, and confused, and frustrated, and flustered, and I thought I was alone.
So of course it was all right it I cried! After all, everyone deserves to be a wimp now and then! And Yuuri broke my heart, not once, but again and again, every chance he had. The Innocent One, he was called. How was he capable of causing me so much pain?? I wanted to rip him from my life like—like a page from a diary!
Some noise caught my attention. I grabbed my sword and jumped up, flaming in pent-up rage. Who dared to interrupt me, to add insult to injury, to kick me when I was down?
"Murata." I sounded dazed, like a dreamer just awoken from a deep slumber. From a nightmare. Woken to what? Had I come out of a bad dream and into a good one, or was there no end to my misery?
"Wolfram!" He exclaimed, but not surprised. Before I could ask, he invited, "Would you like to take dinner with me? Maybe it's late for a meal, but we could have coffee."
I nearly broke down at his kindness. But I couldn't: perhaps there was a smidgeon of hope that he hadn't heard me sobbing like a child. I had to retain some shred of dignity.
"Yes, I will gladly join you. Where are your quarters?"
He smiled. "Right through here, my lord."
I sipped the tea slowly, and the hot liquid burned my throat. My eyes watered, although I'd thought all my tears were gone. I tried to make polite conversation, casting my glance around the room for anything to distract, anything that could divert him from the question I never wanted to answer.
"What are you reading?" My eyes had found a new topic—a small, dark brown leather book atop his writing desk. Now that I thought of it, I remembered that book.
"Hey, Murata, isn't that my old book?" Now I was curious.
He looked oddly tense. It was several seconds before he responded.
"Yes, I've found some rather interesting things in your empty book."
"Hmm? What did you read?" I leaned forward, and set down my teacup. His eyes were mirrors of my own, the glass reflected my green inquisitiveness.
"It's a beautiful story," he said, turning his head away from me, toward the book, "A love story."
"Oh!" I gasped, "How wonderful." Then I added quietly, "It's about time someone gets a happy ending."
"But you're wrong, Wolfram," He began, then corrected himself, "Excuse me, my lord."
"Call me Wolfram, Murata-san."
"Then you call me Ken, Wolfram-san." He spoke evenly, and I nodded, eager to hear the rest.
"You're wrong, Wolfram. There is no happy ending, only a happy beginning and middle. The ending is wrong, all wrong." And he sighed. "Would you like a brief synopsis?"
I tilted my head and examined his expression. He looked—what was the word—Weary. He looked as if the past few months had weighed him down, and where there was once a small child, now there stooped an old man.
"Yes, please tell me the love story!" I asked of him.
He began it in a velvet-soft voice, painting a picture of a field in springtime.
"They'd always known each other, but never more than acquaintances. One, the princess, engaged to another prince of a far-off land; the other was the son of a prominent judge. The judge's son was called Shen-ja, and the princess was named Kurie." He paused, and I urged him on with raised eyebrows.
"One day, Kurie was walking the fields, wondering if she'd ever be free. You see, she was never allowed to be by herself, never allowed to come and go as she pleased. Shen-ja happened upon her, but hid himself. He knew it was forbidden that he should speak to her. But then she began to speak. She told a story, half-speaking, half-singing, as she followed a creek down its path. It, too, was a love story, one in which the lovers elope and run away together, to freedom. At the end of her story, she heaved a great sigh as she knelt beside the creek bed, looking down at her reflection in the crystal water. Shen-ja couldn't help himself. From his hiding place in the bushes, he asked her, aloud, "What is it that you want, Princess? Is it freedom? Do you long to be free of this world with its finery and stiffness? To roam where you will?" She gasped, and stood rather quickly. But then Shen-ja stepped out, and Kurie saw that he was a beautiful, honest young man. He offered to spirit her away, and she left with him that day."
He paused again, here.
"They spent many days together, traveling wherever they took to, and running through many fields. Shen-ja discovered many things about Kurie. He learned of her love of writing, how she wrote with beautiful cursive about days long gone, poetry that would melt a heart of stone. He learned that she painted mystic, if misunderstood, portraits that were worth a thousand printed words. He learned that while she was refined and cultured, she practiced swordplay and could take on even the King and come out unscathed. He learned she controlled a powerful Maryoku—the power over Fire."
And then I knew. But I betrayed no sign of recognition, as I listened to the—to our—love story.
"Shen-ja treasured every moment they spent together, as he loved her with all his heart. But the alien prince was searching for her, determined to make her his bride. He knew nothing about her! He saw her only for her beauty, not for the depth of her mind, not for her skill with a brush, sword, or pen, and not for her kindness or her golden heart." Murata's voice grew cold and unforgiving. "And worst of all, as the prince went on searching; he slept with many other women, to slick his lust until he tracked her down again." My breathing grew ragged, and I bit my finger in desperation, waiting. But he would say no more.
"And? What happened to them?!" I begged. And Murata looked at me over the rims of his glasses with the saddest look I'd ever seen on Dai-kenja.
"Then, then they were apprehended. The prince had Shen-ja jailed, and took back his Princess. All returned to normal again, but Shen-ja moaned in his cell, powerless. All he had left of Kurie, of his Princess, were her words, written over the course of their time together, and bound in a brown leather journal."
Murata took a deep breath. "And so the story ends."
I wanted to hit something, to cry aloud, to demand justice. And I realized that the feelings from before were not for Yuuri. I wasn't mad at Yuuri, wasn't broken-hearted over him. I was infuriated because I had been separated from the one who loved me. When Yuuri returned, Murata had left me. I hung my head and a single tear slipped down my cheek. Then I felt my head being lifted up, and a slow, light kiss was placed on my face. The tear halted in its path, and the wet was replaced with a burning. He spoke softly.
"Do not cry over me, my lord."
"Wolfram," I corrected him, "And I cried because you left me."
He started in surprise. "I left you? No, I released you! Wolfram, I have yearned for you every day since Yuuri returned. I have read and reread every entry in your diary at least three times. Those months we shared together were the highlight of my lives. All of them." He let the magnitude of that statement sink in.
"So why did you let me go?" I was dumbfounded.
"Because I had no choice. I was not the author of that chapter." He spoke grimly, but then looked up at me with a rare spark of hope in his eyes. "But this part has come to a close. Perhaps we can write our own story from here on out."
I took his hand as he offered it, and replied,
"Get me a pen, I'm writing our love story."
The rest of the night was filled with words and whisperings, with embraces and entries, with kisses and Kurie and Shen-ja.
It was very early in the morning when Wolfram awoke to find himself wrapped in Murata's arms. When he turned over, the dark-haired Mazoku opened his eyes and murmured, "We never wrote the last sentence. How did it all end?"
Wolfram smiled, and looked all around him.
"Most definitely, they lived happily ever after."
And he closed the journal and let it fall to the floor, finished at last.
A/N: Please rate; if there's anything that needs to be fixed, I will take care of it! Feliz Navidad!