Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Notes: I was in the mood to try different styles, and didn't feel like jeopardizing Ad Astra Per Aspera (its narrative style being volatile enough as is). So read, and tell me what you think.
Summary: It's more than just vassal and lord. It's more like a sort of friendship—as far as demons can experience such things, anyway. Drabble. Second person POV.
And it Snows in Jotunheim
"Hey, watcha doin' moping over here, Prince? Come on over!"
On the snow, your supposedly omnipotent Overlord sits on top the folds of his tattered red cloak; blue antennae not looking as sprightly as they are wetted and weighed down by the slushy snow. Before him is a number of Imperial Seals staked into the icy-white ground.
You rock forth onto your toes, bend over to see the design. Ivory white on snow white, it spells out boring. You roll your eyes.
"My title," he drawls, "is Overlord."
"Yeah, yeah Prince. Just—"
"It's Overlord to you!"
"Uh-huh. Just get up, sheesh."
"...What for?"
"Picture time!"
It's Whiteout Day, the last day in the Month of Kaguya, when demons all around celebrate this special day when risk of death by avalanche mysteriously raises by 83.21%. For the special occasion, you and the gals decided to drag the gang over to Jotunheim and play, literally hauling Laharl's ass off from his duty of ruling and mwuahaha-ing on the throne in the process.
Currently, red-ribboned Flonne is having a field day with this event, summoning silvery orbs and brilliant Holy Arrows to shower over each and every evergreen tree in the vicinity. Gordon remarks how this is just like Christmas, decorating fir trees with ornaments, but is missing the pizzas for his truly. For that, prinny Kurtis rewards him with a slap to the back of the head.
"...No."
"Yes."
"No."
He wrenches out the Imperial Seals before stabbing them back into the snow. It now reads die.
(You recall Jennifer saying something about a story from the human world. Some loony card and her "Off with your head!" You imagine Laharl as aforementioned Queen of Hearts, and snort.)
"Yes." You settle with nudging his kneecap with your boot. "Now get up."
He flares, antennae shooting up with renewed life. "No! Why should I take orders from you?"
"Because. Photos."
"And? So?"
Your eye twitches slightly, pink spikes of hair bouncing in aggravation. "It's essential for becoming a good Overlord. Or do you want an accident to happen? Get up."
Thirty meters away, Flonne is on her one-hundred-and-twenty-seventh tree, the Defenders are packing snow on an already-oversized snowman, and the Prinny Squad are sliding down the slope on their tummies.
He scowls and gets up (halfway there, you think, halfway there) from the ground, defiance rolling off his bony musculature in tangible waves. "What does picture taking with idiot vassals have anything to do with being a good Overlord?"
You cross your arms and glare, opting to stay silent. Staring contest, begin.
"I'll order my legion of Prinnies to go trash that secret stash of desserts you find so precious."
Oh no, no, no. Your eyes narrow dangerously. "You. Wouldn't. Dare."
(And besides, when it comes to dominance over Prinnies, the Beauty Tyrant will always rank first. Because you just rock like that.)
You wonder, sometimes. Why you even bother putting up with him. Why you don't just sneak into his royal chambers on a nondescript, dark, dark night; stand next to his stone-grey coffin and drive your blood-stained spear through the megalomaniac's non-existent-existent(?) heart; because surely it'd be considered a glorious (Glorious) means of departure.
But then he swivels his head back from its stubborn lock to the side (Hah! Yeah, he lost to you in the stare-down). Deflates. Gives you that look. Blue eyebrows furrowed, red eyes flashing for once with something that is not mwuahaha I am the Almighty or bow down and grovel before the Lord of Terror or so on, so forth.
And you relent a bit. Because what always comes next is—
"Hmph." Unintelligible low grumbles. Something that sounds suspiciously like what kind of vassal are you. Mumblings. Then, "...fine. Have it your way." Chews his lower lip; turns his head away.
He isn't King Kritchevskoy. It's been sixty-six years since treacherous photos, traitorous maneuvers; since sexy succubi, deadly words dripping with "love"; since icicles and chilly air and snow crunching below your feet.
Sixty-six years of this antennae-sporting Prince-now-Overlord-but-always-Prince-to-you megalomaniacal brat, and that's more than okay to you. He isn't his father, but you're perfectly fine with this side of him. You tell him that.
And then he pivots back to face you, crimson orbs glinting to complement a haughty expression, mouth twitching as if he has half a mind to scoff and say: No shit. I am five-thousand Netherworlds above all ye fools (him being as arrogant as he voices himself to be). But instead, he takes a step forward, heels crunching and digging into the snow, says in your ear, "As King, I'll need a right-hand demon like you under my command." Walks to the tree of glowing baubles and the heinously fat snowman.
The falling snow swirls in lazy circles, contrasts harshly with your leather outfit as it catches and melts on your skin, and—
"Say cheese, doods!"
You smile.