KKM Memorial Day
At some point on the last day before the official start of Shin Makoku's High Summer, Yosak Gurrier would turn up unannounced at the Blood Pledge barracks, always with a bottle or two – or five, once – of something foreign and tasty and highly alcoholic stashed in his pack. After a wash and a brush-up and some glad-handing with those lieutenants and captains and sergeants of the Castle's guard that inhabited the military wing of the sprawling edifice, he'd report to Lord von Voltaire briefly and then go in determined search of his childhood friend, Conrad Weller.
Now Conrad was generally to be found wherever the Maou was, but usually Yosak timed it so that dinner would be long over and the young King would be safely ensconced in his bedroom with his blonde brat of a fiancé. Lord Gunter and Cheri-sama would never, ever even think of planning any petty or Maou-related festivities for the sacred Eve of High Summer Day, of course, so Yosak could pretty much count on Conrad being unoccupied in the hours after 'kiddo' retired for bed.
This night, true to form, he found the brown-haired nobleman alone in his study, distractedly ruffling through the Maou's leftover paperwork. Yosak had a way of materializing – he was light on his feet for such a tall man – and the first startled glimpse Conrad had of his old friend was a cheerful grin and dazzling blue eyes peering at him cheerily from across the expanse of his great wooden desk.
"Yosak!"
Conrad rose, hurried but graceful, and reached out a slim welcoming hand across the assorted stacks of papers and dried-up quills and half-unfurled maps. But that simply wasn't good enough for Yosak Gurrier, who'd travelled a few too many weary miles this year just to be standing in Weller's sanctum at this particular time on this particular evening, and so he swept 'round the wide oaken barrier and hugged a startled Conrad with all the strength of a extra-friendly sandbear.
"Captain! Did'ja miss me?"
The sparkling white grin took up all of Yosak's handsome visage. Conrad chuckled breathlessly at the little he could see of the spy's merry face not buried against his own brownish-blondish hair.
"Eh, but, I missed you!"
Great puppy-dog eyes were turned on his Captain, till the stern military man couldn't help grinning and succumbing to their dancing charm. Yozak's response was only to squeeze his ex-superior office all the harder and brush his smiling lips across the sheen of Conrad's ruffled hair for a bare instant.
"Whoa, whoa there, soldier!"
Conrad chuckled and gasped at the sudden pressure, exerting himself to push the teasing redhead away, though he managed only just a half-step's distance from of the muscled forearms that'd kept him so firmly in place.
"So familiar, Master Gurrier! What brings this on? What've you been doing, my friend, that you're that happy to see boring old me?"
The infectious pleasure on the spy's face faded to a grim mien in the blink of an eye and Conrad's chuckle died away at the sight of it. After the tiniest of hesitations Yosak also stepped back neatly, lifting his grabby hands from Conrad's shoulders and tucking them soberly into the folds of his overlong shirt. A clink broke the awkward silence as his toe found the corner of the soldier's pack he'd brought along with him, which had been discarded abruptly while he'd flamboyantly 'saluted' his former officer.
"You…actually don't want to know, Captain. Really. But still—" and here the habitual mischief flooded back tenfold to brighten Yosak's sea-blue eyes – "I'm here now, aren't I? So, are you ready for some fun?"
He waved mobile fingers dismissively at the mess on Weller's desk, giving the brown-eyed man a glimpse of the pretty rose-colored polish tinting them, and then gestured down impatiently at the heavy leather pack sitting at his feet. The long necks of several green glass bottles poked through the lacing, their cage-bound corks a pungent invitation for the 'fun' Yosak promised.
"Y'see, I've brought a rare treat for you this year, Captain. Chisolm's 'Killer' O'Whiskogee, the finest, smoothest, cleanest brew of spirits you ever did see. They tell me one keg'll drop a standing army on their asses and you 'n me've got three full bottles at our disposal, Capt'n, courtesy o' my friendly mates."
"A…whole army?" Conrad echoed faintly, moved to stare down at the now very dangerous backpack warily. Though no coward, the ex-Captain edged surreptitiously in the other direction.
"You do…You do remember last year, right, Yosak? With the frilly panties and the donkey…" and here Lord Weller wearily shook his head and closed his eyes, the unhappy flashbacks forcefully intruding on his quiet eveining, "…and that poor innkeeper and the yogurt?"
Gurrier only nodded, grinning. He seemed rather pleased, actually, that the Captain remembered even that much.
"Oh, aye. This one's far worse than that piddling drink from last year! Or rather, far more potent, Captain. You're not gonna remember a single bloody thing this year, I guarantee it!"
"…But the donkey – how can you possibly think I'll ever forget the donkey, Yosak?"
"Come on, Captain, loosen up. Take it easy!"
Not one to waste time, the redhead took firm hold of Weller's sword arm with one hand and gathered up the leather bag with the other, turning Conrad in a smooth motion toward the study's door, obviously raring to go places and drink things.
"B-but, Yosak—"
Dan Hiri's cautious son dug in his booted heels, hesitating. He knew well enough the dangers of strong drink.
"It's only once a year we do this, Captain, and I know you'll agree we have to do it right," Yosak wheedled.
"But--!"
Conrad was impatiently tugged forward by the irrepressible spy and forced to trot unwillingly towards the doorway, still faintly protesting.
"I've got work yet—there's the papers for tomorrow Gwendal asked me to look over—"
"Come on, Captain, what're you waiting for? It's for them, isn't it?"
Clear blue eyes locked on silvered brown and a chilly, forlorn spectre rose between them, clear as day. A blood-red sky, choking with dust and cannon-smoke; broken bodies heaped high, the doomed half-Mazoku battalion of Rutenburg dead and dying all around them – and a cold wind whistled, whispering faintly of long-ago war, scudding through the open window and raising the hairs on Conrad's neck. For one bleak moment, he remembered every desperate act of that awful endless battle, clearly and with all his straining senses, and recalled longingly the forgotten voices of his friends and underlings silenced cruelly by enemy blade. He'd regret for all his remaining years that equally endless sunlit nightmare of bright and scarlet lifeblood, clogging the rent white throats of his valiant companions, spilling over, silencing them forever.
There'd been only carrion crows to be heard at day's end on the plain of Rutenburg, riding thermals far off in the distance, beyond the telltale spiraling smoke. Not one of his company's voices would be heard again in Conrad's long lifetime.
Only one voice still lingered as music to Conrad's ears: low and raspy, familiar as his own, though sometimes high and girlish these days, remembered now as calling endlessly "Captain, Captain!" through the stinking fall of dusk.
He who'd been called 'The Lion of Rutenburg' nodded once, decisively, at his loyal ex-subordinate's more than reasonable request to do them honor and even laid a proprietary hand on the bulging pack dangling off Yosak's broad shoulder. He smiled ferociously at the challenge of three green glass bottles full of 'Killer' O'Whiskogee, as befitting a stalwart warrior of long standing, and eyes blue as the summer seas lit up with a hundred candle power at Lord Conrad Weller's new-found determination.
"We'll drink, then," stated Conrad's calm, clipped voice in all seriousness. There was a gleam in his eyes that had been dulled far too long by paperwork and babysitting duty.
"Yes, Captain," breathed Yosak, jiggling a bit with happiness at seeing a glimpse of the 'old' Conrad.
"Till it's completely, absolutely gone."
"Aye!"
The spy shut his teeth sharply on another blindingly white grin and bobbed his clean-shaven chin in avid agreement. He pulled a glinting, sloshing bottle from the leather pack handily and waved it like a battle standard in front of ex-Captain Weller's stern expression.
"'Till we can't remember a damned thing, my Lion, and everyone of 'em's sent safely off to rest for another whole year!"
"Well, that's the best way, Yozak; isn't it?"
The fierceness blew away as quickly as it came and Conrad fell back into his usual elegant stance, sliding one suited arm securely through the crook of Yosak's elbow.
"Can't think of a better, Captain," winked the redhead, hugging the arm close to his ribs. The curve of his lip intimated far more than simply a hearty anticipation of imbibing wicked spirits.
Two youngish men – half-men, half-demon, to be precise, equally cursed with long lives and longer memories – shared the exact same dangerous smile with each other and then sauntered off to discover an appropriate place (or places) for this particular year's extended toast to their friends dead in battle and their own peculiar luck in surviving the same.
They did this every year, after all, without fail, finding one another's company with more or less difficulty on the long-hallowed Eve of High Summer, the one day dedicated solely to the spirits of all deceased Shin Makoku soldiers – the one day where young and old alike celebrated the proud defenders of their beloved homeland.