Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warnings: Slash, AU, swearing, sub-par writing, wonky plots, appallingly slow updates, abuse of italics, mockery of generic fantasy elements, poor naming skills, made up creatures, and general insanity.
I don't know what I'm doing.
Unbeta'd.
[Chapter 1]
Third nicest city.
Ludwig tried again to wrap his mind around the concept and failed.
This was Darkhelm they were talking about. Darkhelm. Which was known by a whole slew of admittedly uncreative but impressively foreboding titles including: Throne of the Black King. Capital of the Endless Wastes. Home of the Thrice-Cursed Horde. Fortress of the Bloodmarshes. Watchtower of the Forest of Shadows. Spire of the Hellkites. Den of the Fell Mastiffs.
And so on and so forth.
The point being that no description of Darkhelm had ever even hinted that the city was anything but a shadowy, festering cesspool of misery and perversion. No description until today.
Third nicest city.
Ludwig carefully refolded the pamphlet, placed it neatly on his desk, and buried his face in his hands.
Where had he gone wrong?
Or perhaps the better question was: Where had he gone right?
Ludwig had been appointed heir to the Black Throne when he had been little more than an eight year old with sideburns and a serious inclination towards the obsessive compulsive. This was due in no small part to an incident involving his elder brother, a flock of Hellkites, and a flower girl in possession of some seriously impressive kitchen implements. The ensuing chaos had involved an incredible amount of property damage, a duel fought and won with a frying pan, copious amounts of fire, and a hell of a lot of screaming.
After the fires had been put out, an impromptu meeting of the Council of Elders had determined that Gilbert would no longer hold the title of Heir Apparent. Having a ruler who unleashed terror and fire and chaos upon his people was expected with their history. Having a ruler who unleashed terror and fire and chaos on his people by sheer accident was something they were not quite willing to risk.
Thus, Gilbert was stripped of his rank.
Elizabeta, on the other hand, had been entered into one of their most prestigious training academies. That sort of talent in combat was never to be overlooked, especially not in the Wastes.
When the still slightly charred Council had gathered round the confused eight year old to deliver the news, Ludwig had taken his appointment to first in line about as well as anyone could have expected. That is to say he solemnly swore that he would become a great ruler with all the gravitas a child could muster.
It was probably on that day, amongst the ash and the pandemonium that Ludwig's current problems began.
Ludwig had sworn to become a great ruler. And to his eight year old mind, this meant order and discipline. He would raise his people out of the gutters and into prosperity. He would make it safe to sleep at night and would make it so his people felt no unnecessary fear. His people would look at the one on the throne and know that their leader, though firm and strict and sometimes harsh, had their best interests at heart. And there would be no doubting this.
Which was all well and good except for one fact. The throne he would one day inherit was the Black Throne. People did not look at the person sitting on this throne and expect that they had their best interests at heart.
Usually the most anyone could hope for was a lack of genocide.
It was fast approaching midday, which meant that Elizabeta would soon stop her official job in favor of her unofficial one. The job that earned her a paycheck involved beating the absolute crap out of a bunch of recruits in an effort to turn them into something an enemy would run away from screaming if they saw them coming their way. Right now her recruits were more likely to run away screaming than to inspire such terror in others.
Oh well, she wouldn't be paid so much if her official job was easy.
Her unofficial job wasn't much easier, but she found it much more enjoyable. If anyone asked what her unofficial job was, she would answer that she was something of a mathematician. It wasn't a lie, strictly speaking. Except the problems she was working through had less to do with X plus Y equaling Z and more to do with Recruit A and Recruit B in Position C.
Or maybe Position D. Position D was one of her favorites.
An interest in math was enough of a rarity in the kingdom that no one tried to strike up a conversation on the subject with her. No one called her on her claim. No one thought anything of her calculating silences. They even attributed those blank smiling expressions she was prone to sinking into as 'one of those math things'. Her guilty little secret was safe from the masses and she was free to admire a seemingly endless train of attractive and physically fit men on a daily basis.
The only thing that could make it better was if she could actually find some proof that Recruit A and Recruit B regularly engaged in Position C. Or D.
Hell, she'd be happy with evidence of Position E.
Her recruits paused in their exercises and snapped into salutes that couldn't be anything but military in their execution. Elizabeta, pulled from her thoughts, turned to see who had caught their attention and found the hulking figure of their ruler making his way towards them. Elizabeta frowned, but saluted as well.
Something was up.
Ludwig was a firm believer in schedules and hated when order was disrupted. If he was coming to speak with her now, it meant that whatever it was that he wanted to discuss was important enough to disrupt the training schedule and end the recruits' exercises early.
Admittedly, it was only two minutes early, but this was Ludwig they were talking about here.
"Dismissed!" she barked, and the recruits scattered. Elizabeta spared one final moment to observe how Recruit A and Recruit B sent each other lingering looks before turning her undivided attention to her King.
"Afternoon, Ludwig." This wasn't the traditional method of greeting the Black King. The traditional method involved much groveling in the dirt and a lot of pitiful whimpering, most of which went along the lines of 'please don't kill me'.
Elizabeta wasn't one for tradition. She was also fond of buying herself new clothes. These facts weren't unrelated. She wasn't going to buy herself nice things just to get them dirty. And no way in hell would she ever be caught whimpering.
"Good afternoon, Elizabeta." Ludwig replied, and then made a sort of shuffling motion with his feet that indicated he needed to discuss something personal/involving emotion/awkward but instead of getting right to the point, he'd putter about making small talk first.
"So, how is the training progressing?"
Yeah, here came the small talk.
"Oh, they're a pathetic bunch of losers, but I've managed to pound the basics into them. Some of them have even got potential. Not Black Guard potential, but I don't think they'll be getting themselves eaten by anything without putting up a fight. Some might even give whatever's eaten them indigestion."
Ludwig's lips made an aborted attempt at curling up around the edges. Damn, whatever was bothering him was serious. Usually Ludwig could manage at least a constipated smirk.
Time to cut to the chase.
"Do you have something you need to discuss with me?"
Ludwig made another shuffling motion and adjusted his cape before speaking.
"Do the people live in fear?"
Elizabeta paused.
They lived in the Wastes. Something could swoop in out of nowhere and make off with you as you walked the two blocks between your house and the nearest food vendor. Fear, or at least a decent air of wariness, was mandatory for anyone who wanted to live a long and healthy life. Or, you know, walk the two blocks to the nearest food vendor and buy lunch.
"Do you mean fear of you, or just general fear?" she asked delicately. Ludwig tended to take what he saw as his own failings as a ruler rather hard. She had hoped to ease him into it, but her response only seemed to confirm whatever it was that Ludwig was hung up about. His shoulders slumped and he somehow managed to look intimidating and pathetic at the same time.
"Third nicest city."
Elizabeta blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"The Inebriated Bard has ranked Darkhelm third in this year's list of nicest cities to live in."
Elizabeta blinked. "Beg pardon?"
Ludwig repeated his shameful admission and watched as the most notorious mathematician in Darkhelm struggled to put two and two together. It was at least somewhat comforting to know that the situation wasn't mindboggling only to him.
"Are- Are you sure?" Elizabeta asked, at a loss.
"Affirmative. I read the article. The whole article. Three times. There can be no mistake about what it said."
Ludwig so wound up about this that if he'd been a clock he'd be spewing gears out his ass. Elizabeta immediately started damage control.
"Maybe you just need some time to think about this. Why don't you take a break. Clear your head. I'm sure the answer will come to you."
"Yes." Ludwig let out a sigh and ran his finger though his hair. "I- I need to calm down. Step back and take another look at things before acting."
Elizabeta proceeded to break more traditions and patted Ludwig comfortingly on the arm.
"Don't worry, sir. You'll think of something. You always do."
"I- Thank you." He gave her a brief salute before turning away.
Elizabeta snapped a salute more out of habit than anything else. She watched Ludwig slink away and wished, not for the first time, that she knew what added to Ludwig would bring him happiness.
Up in the second highest tower in Darkhelm, the Black King surveyed his kingdom with a critical eye. He followed the slopes and peaks of his city out into the horizon line where everything blurred into dark indistinct shapes.
What had gone wrong? What was there for him to fix?
Ludwig looked down from his vantage point. In one of the courtyards the Hellkites were being fed by their keeper. The huge birds were shrieking and squabbling as they gleefully tore into what were probably strips of blood-black flesh.
Or melons. Hellkites liked melons.
It occurred to him that this was the problem with Darkhelm. On the surface the country was filled with nothing but backstabbing, bloodthirsty brutes who reveled in their reputation for being brutish, bloodthirsty backstabbers.
But then you got a closer look and you realized that there was something more to them. Flesh-eating Hellkites like melons. Fell Mastiffs were actually good family dogs. Toilers in the Sweatpits got free healthcare. Members of the Black Guard were all accomplished ballroom dancers.
That pockmarked, one-eyed, odorous, lecherous fool of a troll that lurked outside town by the old bridge and threated bodily harm if passersby didn't give him something shiny was named Karl. And if you gave Karl a goat meat sandwich, Karl would pull out a worn wooden flute and play you the most heartbreaking off key melody you'd ever heard.
They were all a bit like Karl really. Their outsides might be filthy, or rancid, or bloodstained, or treacherous, or plague carrying, or untrustworthy, or gnarled, or grease stained, or- Well, a whole lot of unpalatable things.
But they weren't bad people. Deep down they were kind of, sort of, maybe nice people that you might possibly want to sit down and eat lunch with.
And no one was supposed to know about that. How had that damned magazine found out? They'd been keeping this secret for centuries. They'd taken great pride in their horrible reputation.
He needed to do something, something that would reestablish Darkhelm as a horrible place to be. But he'd just renovated the South Quarter, so he couldn't raze that part of the city. And they'd been a little shaky on the food supply, so he couldn't go kill some farmers unless he wanted to invite famine. He could declare war on someone, but that would just result in some rather embarrassing diplomatic meetings.
He could imagine the ambassadors now. 'You want to attack our country because someone said nice things about you?'
Damn, it would be so much easier if he could just go kill something... Wait.
He could go kill something. The Waste was teeming with monsters. He could go out, hunt down, and utterly slaughter some horrible abomination. His reputation as the Black King would be mended, and he could drag the thing home leaving trails of blood and gore on the streets where he had passed. That would reestablish Darkhelm's image.
Except he'd need to let the janitorial people know so they could get it cleaned up in a suitably quick fashion. Bodily waste lying about was an invitation for plague. And there were things that lived in the shadows that would be attracted by the scent of blood.
PR was good. Plague and swarms of monsters were bad.
Ludwig swept into the stables early the next morning making an impressive figure in the low lying fog. Stable hands bowed as he passed and went about their jobs with nervous efficiency. None wished to be accused by their king of ineptitude. He passed them without a word. At the back of the stable, his horse was saddled and ready for him.
Ludwig's horse had been named Bootcrusher by a man who was either a prime example of why no one ever accused Wastelanders of subtlety or who had decided to give all future riders fair warning. Bootcrusher was fond of trampling.
The Black King's steed is typically depicted as midnight black with eyes of flame.
While brown and broad and rather plain looking, Bootcrusher had a vicious streak wide enough for several stereotypical fiendish mounts.
Actually, it was a wonder he hadn't caused any fatalities amongst the stable staff. Yet.
Ludwig and Bootcrusher commenced with their traditional standoff until Bootcrusher finally looked away signaling that Ludwig had his consent to climb upon his back.
Danger passed, Ludwig whistled and was immediately flanked by happy hairy bodies.
Ludwig had three Fell Mastiffs who give him their absolute obedience. Throughout the Wastes, they were known as Misery, Sorrow, and Despair.
Ludwig called them Aster, Blackie, and Berlitz.
His most loyal subjects looked up at him, tails wagging. He gave the smallest of smiles in return, his eyes softening.
"Are we ready to go?"
Aster, their leader, barked in eagerness.
Ludwig mounted his horse, dug his heels into Bootcrusher's flanks and they were off, Aster, Blackie, and Berlitz panting joyfully behind them.
It was time to hunt.
Hunting in the Endless Wastes wasn't so much hunting as it was a stalking contest. You would stalk your prey and your prey would stalk you, and whoever managed to out stalk the other would win and whoever didn't would be dead. Of course, in order to stalk something, you had to find it first. And things in the Wastes were very good at not being found and not being seen until it was much too late to do anything but let out one last desperate scream.
Luckily, Fell Mastiffs had good noses.
Aster lifted his from the ground and gave a bark, signaling he'd found something. Ludwig dismounted and trudged over to Aster's position, giving his companion a pat on the head in gratitude.
In the mud was a print of largish size. Ludwig knelt to examine it. Three long tapering toes in a V shape with a squashed oval at their base where the stunted fourth toe had touched ground. The pricks of claws could also be made out. Ludwig knew what this was.
"Skips." he breathed.
It was odd that something in the Wastes would possess such an unassuming name as 'Skips'. Of course, one should never assume that something with such a name was benign in nature. This name was born was more out of convenience than anything else.
In the old tongue, they were called 'Leaping-Dancers-With-Hollow-Eyes-Crowned-With-The-Horn-Of-The-Ram-Who-Frolic-In-The-Carnage-Of-The-Red-Painted-Villiage-That-We-Must-Now-Clean-And-Whose-Dead-We-Must-Now-Bury-Even-Though-We-Have-Better-Things-To-Do-Today'.
Obviously, this took a long time to say and most people would be gored before they could get the name out.
The ability to scream 'Look out! Skips!' raised the survival rate by an almost ridiculous percentile.
Skips looked like bipedal alligators whose heads had been replaced by goat skulls. They moved with a peculiar bouncing gait that earned them their nickname. It went without saying that they were dangerous.
Ludwig whistled and gave a terse command. Immediately, he had been surrounded by his Mastiffs who stood guard around him in a triangle. The best way to fight a Skip was on foot. They were fond of making leaping attacks that could knock a man clean off his horse and ripping his torso open while he lay stunned on the ground.
Ludwig readied his sword and followed the prints through the gloom, the Fells Mastiff guarding him as he went. Their surroundings were as still, quiet, and ominous as ever.
They followed the tracks through trees and slopes and various tangles of foliage before emerging onto what might pass for a road. Ludwig glanced around suspiciously at the newfound openness and breathed deep.
The air was filled with the smell of dampness, and tree bark, and a scent that Ludwig was very familiar with.
Old blood.
There had been fighting nearby. Recently. And someone, or several someone's, had been gravely injured.
But who? Or what?
He soon found his answer.
It looked to have been a caravan, but what such a thing would be doing out here was beyond Ludwig. This area was not safe, anyone could see that. The smashed wooden remains of what had probably once been carts littered the area. A wheel here, a board there, splinters everywhere.
The horses were gone. Drag marks in the mud indicated the Skips had taken them away to feed.
All that was left was the travelers themselves.
Most of the group was dead, scattered about in blood and muck with their fancy clothes in tatters and their bodies oddly contorted. But there was one who was still alive, chest rising and falling shallowly. Ludwig walked to where they lay. They were facedown and unmoving, but the blood that covered them didn't appear to be theirs. Probably they had just been knocked unconscious. He rolled them onto their back for a better look, the heel of his boot leaving a strip of filth across their side.
Ludwig's first thought was of sunshine.
There wasn't really sunshine in the Wastes. There was sunlight, yes, but sunshine didn't really happen. Sunshine was too delicate, too hopeful, and cheerful, and innocent to dwell in the gray bleakness of the Wastes. And for all that sunshine just shouldn't be here, Ludwig could look at this stranger and think of nothing else. They just seemed to glow.
He took in their appearance with quiet shallow breaths, as if this person would startle and disappear if he was too loud or moved too fast. Slowly, cautiously, he knelt down beside them.
They were beautiful. No, she was beautiful. Examining the soft curves of her face and her pale sloping neck, Ludwig wondered how he could have doubted that she was anything else. She was flat chested, yes, and a little bony, but her creamy skin was smooth and unblemished and her hair was a rich shade of auburn nearly red in its intensity.
Ludwig reached out and swept a strand of hair away from her face. She gave a quiet whimper, and moved slightly. The movement drew Ludwig's attention to a slender gold chain hanging from her neck. After a moment of blushing consideration, he decided that he wasn't being ungentlemanly, and withdrew the necklace from under her collar.
A golden charm dangled from the chain, glinting dully in the poor light. He swept his thumb over the charm and studied the looping curves of metal. It was a crest. He thought for a minute before realizing what it was.
The Vargas family crest.
Vargas. Royal family of Volga.
When it dawned on Ludwig what it was that he had just done, he only barely resisted the urge to scream.
Two damning facts became immediately apparent.
One: The Vargas family had no princesses. This was a prince. As in male.
The last few minutes became horribly embarrassing.
And two: The Black King of Darkhelm had, for all intents and purposes, just rescued a princess.
Gods help him.
[End Chapter]
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