Summary:
A persuasive whisperer, a siren weaving dangerous threads, ensnares first the prince, then the king, then even the royal court magician, trapping them in her doomed web of silken promises and poisonous beauty. And then they begin to fall, to rot, to tumble into a despairing oblivion... who is she really doing this for? A Mist deceives and cloaks their true intentions, after all. Siel26, B26, 6926, and 10026.
Disclaimers:
I don't own KHR!, and the cover picture isn't mine, either.
They first met at a party.
It was a grand affair, garnished in gold and dripping diamonds and oozing arrogance.
The Kingdom of Verns was hosting it in their Royal Castle, and had invited royalty and high-up nobility.
Nothing but the best for the mysterious heirs' first public appearance, after all.
Yes, heirs', as in plural.
Rumor had it that they were identical twins, which a fierce hatred between them, and that the eldest was favored for king.
Both, of course, were also rumored to be complete megalomaniac psychopaths.
(Other extremely popular rumors that were circulating the countries of Aifam-Atremo included: the famed swordsman of the proud Squalo Clan had finally pledged an allegiance oath, and to the disgraced but fearsome Xanxus, adopted son of Timoteo Vongola, no less.
Princesses Kyoko and Haru were also repeatedly spotted being rather buddy-buddy with each, other, if you catch my drift.
There were also some very interesting theories cooked up about Prince Tsunayoshi of the Sawada Clan and heir to the Vongola throne, most of which speculated wildly on his scandalous relationship with Prince Enma of the Kozato Clan and heir to the Simon throne.)
That was only to be expected, however; it was well known that the strains of madness oft intertwined themselves into the lives of the Verns' Royal Family.
Of the previous generations, nearly all of them had died young in battle, been murdered, suicided while out of their right minds, or passed away in a tragically brutal freak incident.
The rest all kicked the bucket when they were old and decrepit and paranoid, slowly wasting to bone and flesh and skeletal remains, with their own brains turning against them until they no longer remembered their own name, and easily mistook enemies for allies and friends for foes.
When finally dead, any Verns royalty was always cremated and then thrown into the sea, leaving the ocean tides to pull apart the ashes and scatter them across the four corners of the earth, cleansing their earthly vessels from what sins could be purified.
And goodness knows that the Verns had an abundance of sins.
But Rasiel wasn't thinking too much about the Verns' dark history at the moment.
He was too busy enjoying the party, soaking up the noise and laughter and people and lovely, lovely attention.
Finally 18, and finally old enough to be crowned King in front of the adoring (and secretly despising) masses that were his future subjects, it was indeed a good day for him.
Being able to achieve the ultimate victory over Belphegor would certainly give a sense of satisfaction.
Oh? But what's this?
Something else that was rather lovely.
So he goes over to the pretty tealette maiden standing in the corner, her eyes demurely shaded with all the signs of proper nobility...
…and they talk...
…and they laugh...
…and they smile...
…and they dance the night away, as whimsical and naive and foolish and fairy-tale fantasy-like as it sounds and seems, with rose-tinted lens draping over them….
...as the party goes on...
...and the drinks keep coming...
...and the mouths start babbling without stop, loosened by the pleasant buzz of the alcohol and the general optimism of the atmosphere, surrounded by opulence and luxury and lavishness.
It was also a good night for him.
When she bids farewell to journey back to her kingdom, the girl gives her name and a promise, cradling the sides of his face with pale, slender fingers, and staring deep into exactly where his eyes were hidden, eerily accurate through lowered lashes.
"You will be king, and I look forward to that day. Remember Frances, won't you? I'll remember you; we'll meet again. Goodbye for now, King Rasiel."
It's sealed with a kiss, that sears like fire and lingers warmly even when she's long gone.
There was just something, something about her, something that sparks interest and giddiness and want, unmuted by the traces of unease and suspicion stirring in the back of his head.
/Every king needs a queen. I'll make you my queen./
(He doesn't notice the complete lack of true passion in her words or her kiss; Fran's a trickster, an actress, and one of the best. Nothing else would do for a 'top magician', who puts on a show and delights in fooling the 'audience', even the other actors.
Because life's a play
the world's a stage
we are but puppets
guided around in our cage
and who is the playwright
so clever, so wise
as to be able to manipulate us
using nothing but lies?)
(Nor, notably, did he notice the violet shimmering that appeared where the girl had once stood, which glimmered brightly for a split second and then faded into nothingness. If he had, perhaps he would've noticed that his attraction to her was more than could plausibly be expected from a first meeting.)
They get married in a year, with a whirlwind courtship set up only to fuel the rumor-mills.
Fran, as she preferred to be called, wears 4 layers of pure white, artfully arranged into a gown, and smiles vacuously at the people gathered in the Royal Gardens to attend their marital ceremony, her dulled eyes veiled with delicate lacework and spun silver threads.
Rasiel, a crown perched in his hair and fresh from his coronation day last week, wears a crisp dress shirt and a long black cloak, with a thick white fur 'collar'; he grins at his bride, too blinded with infatuation to realize how utterly bored she looks from under the veil.
"You may kiss the bride," the hired priest, masked and berobed, intoned solemnly with a graveness more suited for funerals than marriages, his voice level and steady and neutral.
Leaning in, the veil is lifted, and they kiss among the background sounds of cheering.
"I love you," Rasiel whispers, his gaze possessive and keen.
Still smiling that empty smile, Fran answers with another kiss, clutching a single daffodil as her bouquet.
("Why a daffodil?" he asks.
"They match your hair, and they mean respect and regard,"she answers.
Satisfied, he leaves the planning room.
A silence.
"They also mean deceit," she murmurs softly into the petals.
The flowers don't respond.
They weren't expected to.)
Off in the corner, a near mirror image of the groom snickers to himself, elegantly twirling a knife balanced on his fingertip.
'Things are being set into motion,' he thinks. 'Soon, soon, soon...'
Lurking in the crowd, a tall man bearing a trident and the mark of a Royal Mage chuckles under his breath, mismatched irises lighting up in unison with mirthful glee.
'That was maneuvered quite cunningly,' he thinks. 'Soon, soon, soon...'
Forgotten, the priest smirks under his mask and clutches a winged ring hanging from his neck, eagerly anticipating a report.
'He'll be happy to hear of this,' he thinks. 'Soon, soon, soon...'
(Those three [and Fran] are the only ones who realize the significance of Fran never replying back with an 'I love you too'.
And if everything goes as planned, two of those three will soon die because of that realization.)
Rasiel, Fran decides, is a childish, selfish, petty puny pathetic person.
But he's also powerful, and gullible if you know how.
Which makes him for perfect for their plans.
Who could make a better pawn?
So she complies to his every need, every want, every desire and wish, with the patience and indulgence of a saint, all while quietly holding sway and most of the actual political power behind-the-scenes.
/How rich of a joke. I'm definitely no saint, and neither is he. Together, we'd be better off as a pair of conspiring demons, plotting devilry to unleash./
The thought amuses her, and she laughs quietly.
"What's so funny, my queen?"
Stirred by her laughter, a sleepy Rasiel peers up at her, disheveled hair sticking up oddly.
Fran patted him reassuringly, a blank smile plastered automatically over her face, real enough to convince him and anyone else who didn't know of their plans.
"Just a humorous rumor I remembered one of the ladies-in-waiting mentioning, my king," she says smoothly, without a single hesitation, the words sliding slickly off of her tongue like oil on water.
"Apparently the Grandmaster Fighter Fon, of the Arcobaleno Guild, recently revealed that he was Prince Kyoya's relation. An uncle of some sort. It's quite hard to imagine, what with the contrasting personalities and all. Prince Kyoya of the Hibari Clan and heir to the Namimori throne? The first word you think of is 'bloodthirsty'. Whereas Arcobaleno Fon is reknown for his serenity and preference for passive antagonism over direct conflict."
(It was all true, too, so she couldn't really be accused of lying.
There really was a rumor, and one of the ladies-in-waiting actually had said it.
But it wasn't what she'd been thinking about.
Then again, when did she ever say that it had been what she was thinking about?)
At any rate, Rasiel bought the excuse, and shuffled his pillow slightly as he gestured with his arms.
Taking the cue, Fran slipped back under the fluffy covers and soft cotton sheets, laying down from her previous sitting position.
"Mine," he breathed into her ear, that touch of madness leaking into his voice.
She kept smiling blankly.
"Yours," she agrees, yielding easily to his embrace.
Under the moonlight shining through the thin window-drapes, teal hair mingles with blond as bare skin meet, their bodies fitting snugly together like puzzle pieces clicking.
(While she may have yielded, that didn't mean that she reciprocated.
Indeed, her arms lay limp against her sides, even while stronger masculine arms wrapped tightly, clingy, around her.)
When she wakes up one day to find her lover dead in bed, she is cool and composed.
After clinically checking for the nonexistent pulse, a robe is thrown on and she hurries to call for the Royal Doctor, looking appropriately shocked and haphazardly dressed when he arrives.
"A slow death, by gradual blood poisoning from ingested substances. Witchcraft at work, as well. There is magical residue in his organs, causing a rapid shut-down as soon as enough of the substance had collected and sunk in," the doctor announces.
He glances, concerned, at the ghostly pale and silent queen.
"Are you alright, Your Majesty? This must be quite a shock for you. I've already rung for a hot bowl of herbal soup; the maids should be here any second."
"I-It's fine," she stammers in reply, quite faintly. "I… I'd just like to have the funeral as soon as possible, and to of course catch the culprit by any means possible."
She appears sincere and honest, the very picture of a recently widowed wife of only a year.
Thus, no suspicions were cast on Queen Frances, and King Rasiel's funeral was held within a week.
Prince Belphegor ascended to the throne amid theories of sabotage; the twins' hatred between them was the stuff of legends.
Still, that didn't stop him from being the next king, and he even graciously allowed the queen to keep her position, for reasons unknown to the public.
It's dusk on the horizon line as she looks out across the ocean.
A golden urn, finely carved, is raised and then emptied into the raging tides, disappearing from the naked eye as soon as they hit the white seafoam.
She stands there for a moment, standing alone on the edge of a cliff, her arms hefting up an empty vase.
Then one hand reaches into her hair and draws out a small, tightly sealed and airtight pouch, which is dropped into the vase.
"My princess," a voice calls from behind her.
Fran turns to meet Belphegor's face, her eyes unreadable and a strangely bland smile on her face.
"My prince," she defers amiably, nudging the vase off the precipice to be broken on the jagged rocks jutting above the sealine.
They link arms and stride away, whispering sweet nothings and laughing delightedly at their success.
/Queen's good and all, but the ones you hear the most about are always the princesses. One step completed, one step closer, one step closer to our plan and you./
(Inside the pouch, now bobbing aimlessly amid the saltwater, are flakes of an untraceable poison, laced with a fading violet glow, that if ingested for…. say…. a year, will result in organ failure and a swift, silent death.
And if anyone ever thought to cross-examine it to the poison that caused the mystery of King Rasiel's passing, there would be no more mystery about it.)
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~Please Review.~
-Sorry for any OOC-ness, but I'm trying to invoke that 'dark fantasy' vibe. Did it work?
-Also, this is kinda a way for me to cure my writer's block on 'Replacement'. My apologies if anyone's frustrated with the slower than usual updates for that, but hey, it's gotten to a difficult plot point, and daily updates are kinda unreasonable now that track and field has started.