Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. All of the original characters were, however, created by me.
Beta-ed by: G, whose support through all these years will forever be appreciated.
Warnings: Language, violence, general dark/adult themes, angst, sexual content, sexual content of dubious consent, blood, torture, and OC!character death.
Pairings: Yuuri/Wolfram. Other side pairings will be mentioned, including Murata/Elizabeth and Lyron/Wolfram.
Setting: Seven years post Season 2. Three years after the events of Love and War. Yuuri is 23, Wolfram is 89 (17), and Greta is 18. As with Love and War, please ignore all OVAs as well as the entirety of Season 3.
Rating: M
A/N: It's been well over three years since I've updated this story. I am so, so sorry. For a while I was busy working an awful job, then even when I got a newer, better one I was struggling with depression and anxiety. I'm doing somewhat better now, but I won't make any promises that I'll be able to post frequently. It'll all depend on my level of motivation, and these days my motivation is pretty low.
Part of the reason I avoided continuing this for so long is because I absolutely hated reading it. I've always struggled with my writing style. Sometimes I'm too wordy; sometimes I think I'm not wordy enough. In any case, I went through and heavily edited the first two chapters to make them more tolerable for me to read. They're mostly the same as they were, I just got rid of a lot of unnecessary paragraphs and condensed things a bit. Some of the dialogue was also updated, but the results of each conversation are the same. The only scene to see any dramatic rewrites is the intimate scene between Yuuri and Wolfram in chapter two. That was cut down a lot.
Another reason I've had so much trouble writing this is the divergence from canon. I'm terribly fond of the anime canon. Creating my own Aristocrats seemed necessary when I began writing Love and War, which I started brainstorming even before season 2 of the anime ended. Since then we've been presented with a third season which introduced the Aristocrats by name. I rather like them, especially Waltorana, so while I'll be continuing this story with the Aristocrats I created, I may attempt to bring the others in at a later time. By the end of this, there'll be a good opening for them to replace the ones I created.
Between Kings
by Mikage
Chapter Three – Dearly Beloved
"We come together this day in celebration of the joining together of Her Grace the Lady Elizabeth, and His Eminence the Great Sage."
It was a more intimate ceremony than what Wolfram remembered of his own. Then the throne room had been packed with guests, the walk down the aisle torturously long. But he'd married the King, of course, which in itself seemed to necessitate a lavish affair.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the lower chamber of the Great One's Temple; the Great Sage stood across from her. The rest of the chamber was filled with only as many people as could safely line the walls. The Aristocrats stood in a long file down the eastern wall, Gwendal and Winifred at each end with the rest in-between. Yuuri's parents stood in the place reserved for family; the Great Sage had not deemed it necessary to bring his own, and Elizabeth had only her Uncle Raven, who stood with them near Wolfram's mother and father. They were joined by Hube, Nicola, and their son, and Greta with Katherine, Brigitta, Merry, and Alexei.
Wolfram stood on Yuuri's left, facing Elizabeth from the south; Yuuri, of course, faced the Great Sage. The old priest stood across from them to the north, his eyes occasionally flicking down to scan the pages of an ancient tome placed upon an alter.
"At this time, many would ask, 'Who gives this lady in marriage?'" the priest said. "But I ask simply if the Lady Elizabeth comes of her own free will. Lady Elizabeth, is it true that you come to this union of your own accord?"
"Yes," Elizabeth said. Her voice was firm and even. She looked at no one but His Eminence. "I come joyfully of my own free will."
"Your Majesty, do you offer your blessings upon this marriage?"
"I do," Yuuri said.
He looked as handsome as ever in his formal uniform. Crisp white trousers clung to his thighs. The cut of his black jacket accentuated the width of his shoulders, upon which was draped a purple cape. He wore all the chords and accoutrements of a King, gold and precious stones which glittered in the light refracting through the glass-bottomed fountain high above them.
Yuuri stood straight and tall. There was not a single sign of a slouching youth in the line of his back or the set of his shoulders, a vast improvement many years in the making. He bore the discomfort of his formal crown without complaint, made no move to shift his weight around in his boots, and held his arm level for Wolfram to place his hand in the crook of his elbow.
Briefly, Wolfram gave Yuuri's inner elbow a gentle squeeze of support.
"Know now before you go further," the priest continued, "that as your lives have crossed in this life, you have formed ties between each other. As you seek to enter this state of matrimony, you should strive to make real the ideals which give meaning to this ceremony and to the institution of marriage. With awareness, know that within this circle you are not only declaring your intent to be hand-fasted before His Majesty King Yuuri and these assembled witnesses, but you speak that intent also to a higher power.
"The promises made today and the ties that are bound here strengthen your union. Do you seek to enter the ceremony?"
Together, Elizabeth and the Great Sage said, "We do."
"Your Majesty?"
Wolfram slipped his hand away. Yuuri caught it hastily and gave Wolfram's fingers a squeeze in return. Then Yuuri released Wolfram's hand and stepped forward.
Wolfram could not see Yuuri's face, but he observed with pride Yuuri's formal posture, listening to his calm voice resonate throughout the chamber.
"On Earth," Yuuri began, "in times past, it was believed that the soul shared characteristics with all things divine. This belief assigned virtues to the cardinal directions; East, South, West, and North. In our Kingdom, these virtues coincide with the elements of nature. It is therefore in this tradition, a combination of our two worlds, that I give my blessings.
"Blessed be this union with the gifts of the wind."
He summoned the wind, which blew gently into the chamber from nonexistence. It coalesced around Elizabeth and the Great Sage in a ring of shimmering silver air.
From his place among the Aristocrats, Wolfram knew Gunter was beaming.
"Communication of the heart, mind, and soul," Yuuri said. "Fresh beginnings with the rising of each sun. The knowledge of the growth found in the sharing of silence.
"Blessed be this union with fire."
Yuuri summoned this as well, drawing the element from the torches that lines the walls. Bright flames flickered to life and danced around the pair, throwing gold light onto their joyful faces. The flames emitted a warmth indicative of Yuuri, gentler than the raging inferno that was Wolfram's habit.
"Warmth of hearth and home. The heat of the heart's passion. The light created by both to lighten the darkest of times.
"Blessed be this union with the gifts of water."
A small stream of water trickled down from the ceiling as if summoned from the fountain above, falling in drops like rain that joined the rings of air and fire around Elizabeth and His Eminence.
"The deep commitment of the lake," Yuuri continued. "The swift excitement of the river. The refreshing cleansing of the rain. The all encompassing passion of the sea.
"Blessed be this union with the gifts of the Earth."
Bits of dirt seemed to rise from the groves between the floor stones.
"Firm foundation on which to build. Fertility of the fields to enrich your lives. A stable home to which you may always return.
"Each of these blessings emphasizes those things which will help you build a happy and successful union. But they are only tools which you must use together in order to create what you seek."
The four elemental rings swirled around the pair for a few moments longer before dissipating and vanishing into the air. Yuuri stepped back into place beside Wolfram, who slipped his hand back onto Yuuri's elbow.
He remembered their wedding day, now four years in the past, and the unease with which Yuuri had recited his parts of the ceremony; and before, as a new King, Yuuri's lengthy, rambling speeches with no point and no direction. Presently, Yuuri stood in stark contrast, perhaps not as regal as others might expect, but with a confidence Wolfram had slowly nurtured within him.
Here Yuuri was, not as an ignorant boy-King, but as a grown man—strong and able, speaking at his best friend's wedding with sureness and ease. Wolfram could not have been more proud. Young though he may still be, Yuuri nonetheless continued to take strides toward greatness.
Elizabeth dipped a grateful curtsy, the Great Sage following suit with a bow.
The priest bowed as well, only to rise and continue, "Your Grace, Your Eminence, I ask that you each join your right hands."
Elizabeth's hand joined that of the Great Sage with warmth and familiarity. Wolfram struggled not to give in to a wistful frown, holding tight to Yuuri's arm.
"As your hands are joined, so too are your lives. I ask Your Grace, will you cause His Eminence pain?"
"I may," Elizabeth said.
"Is that your intent?"
"No."
"Your Eminence," the priest turned to the Great Sage and tipped a brief bow of the head. "Will you cause the Lady Elizabeth pain?"
"I may," the Great Sage said.
"Is that your intent?"
"No."
"Will you share each other's pain and seek to erase it?"
"We will," they said together.
"And so the binding is made."
The priest retrieved a pale yellow cord from the alter. He circled around the podium to stand directly before the couple, wending the cord around their joined hands.
"Lady Elizabeth, will you share his laughter?"
"Yes."
"Your Eminence, will you share her laughter?"
"I will."
"Will the both of you look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?"
"We will."
"And so the binding is made."
The priest took another cord from the alter, this one a pristine white. This, too, was wrapped around their hands.
"Lady Elizabeth, will you burden him?"
"I may."
"Is that your intent?"
"No."
"Your Eminence, will you burden her?"
"I may."
"Is that your intent?"
"No."
"Will you share the burdens of each other so that your spirits may grow in unison?"
"We will."
"And so the binding is made."
A third cord was soon added to the previous two, as green as summer grass.
"Lady Elizabeth, will you share his dreams?" the priest said.
"Yes."
"Your Eminence, will your share her dreams?"
"Yes."
"Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes?"
"We will."
"And so the binding is made."
A fourth cord, this one as blue as a cloudless summer sky.
"Lady Elizabeth, will your cause him anger?"
"I may."
"Is that your intent?"
"No."
"Your Eminence, will you cause her anger?"
To Wolfram, the expression on His Eminence's face seemed foreign. It bore a softness he was used to with Yuuri, but it was not a look he was accustomed to on the likes of Muarat Ken. Typically the Great Sage looked jovial, but in a cheeky, exuberant way, not tender as he was now. His eyes were usually bright with mirth, not with love.
And it crushed Wolfram's heart to see the love in His Eminence's eyes. It was the first time since His Eminence made his interest in Elizabeth known that Wolfram even noticed it.
Elizabeth was fortunate, to stand there on her wedding day and see such love staring back at her.
"I may," His Eminence said.
"Is that your intent?" the priest continued.
"No."
"Will you take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of this union?"
"We will," His Eminence and Elizabeth said in unison.
"And so the binding his made."
A red cord was the fifth to be added.
"Lady Elizabeth, will you honor His Eminence?"
"I will."
"Your Eminence, will you honor Her Grace?"
"I will."
"Will you seek never to give cause to break that honor?"
"We shall never do so," they said together.
"And so the binding is made."
Black, the last cord, wended over and through the others.
Wolfram looked into Elizabeth's face, saw His Eminence's love returned in her eyes, and struggled not to envy the Sage that honor. Though Wolfram and Elizabeth would never have been suited for one another, it was nonetheless quite difficult to watch as she was married to another. In the absence of her late parents, Wolfram felt in his heart as if he were the one giving her away.
He needn't have worried, of course. His Eminence's gaze never strayed from Elizabeth. His eyes had locked on her at the start of the ceremony and neither dropped nor drifted. His typical carelessness was nowhere to be seen. There were no frivolous jokes, no inappropriate innuendos. Instead, the Sage stood stoic and expectant, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips as he looked into Elizabeth's eyes as if there were no greater honor in his life.
Wolfram wondered how he'd not seen it sooner. They gazed upon one another with such devotion, such tenderness, as if they desired nothing more than each other.
He knew that feeling. Again, Wolfram's hand tightened on Yuuri's arm.
"As you pull your hands apart," the priest said, "you will see the knot of this binding. Let this it be a symbol of the vows you take today."
Slowly Elizabeth and the Great Sage slid their hands apart. The cords tightened as they did so. Indeed, it soon hung between them in an impressive knot.
Messy, but then all marriages were, Wolfram thought.
The priest took the knotted cords and held them aloft to be viewed by the assembled guests. Then he placed them upon the alter with reverence.
He eyed Wolfram next, lowering into another respectful bow. Wolfram released Yuuri's arm to step toward Elizabeth and the Great Sage.
For a moment he was unable to speak, overcome as he was by the moment. Wolfram swallowed through the emotion that tightened his throat. He lifted his left hand to present a pair of platinum bands, one with black diamonds embedded along the perimeter, and the other thick and without adornment.
Wolfram cleared his throat. On his exposed finger sat the ring Yuuri's mother had given him four years ago, as brilliant now as it had been then. It was lovingly cared for, meaningful in a way Wolfram had not expected, for although it had not been presented to him by Yuuri, and although it had not been given to seal a vow, it nevertheless symbolized Wolfram's place by Yuuri's side.
"Your Eminence, Elizabeth," Wolfram began. "I present to you these rings."
He paused to swallow again. Neither Elizabeth nor the Great Sage seemed to notice the difficulty he had in continuing. Behind Wolfram, Yuuri shifted and placed a supportive hand against Wolfram's back.
"For centuries, our comrades on Earth have expressed their vows with an exchange of rings," Wolfram said. "Let these rings be a sign that love has a past, a present, and a future. May the promises which you have spoken to one another today remain forever in your hearts.
"Let these rings serve as a visible, tangible symbol of your love and commitment. These rings shall announce to the world that you have recognized in each other your soul's mate, that you have entwined together to become one, and that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. As these rings are designed without an ending, they speak of eternity. May the incorruptible substance of these rings represent a love glowing with increasing luster through the years. I bless these rings which you shall give to one another as a sign of your love, your trust, and your faithfulness."
Wolfram reached across the pair to hand the rings to the priest, who took them with careful hands, cradling them between his palms. The priest dipped a bow as Wolfram stepped back. Yuuri's hand slid from Wolfram's back to his waist.
"Your Eminence," the priest said, handing the thinner of the two rings to him, "please take this ring and make your vows as you place it upon Her Grace's hand."
Elizabeth's smile was brilliant as His Eminence slipped the ring onto her finger.
"Take this ring as a sign of my love," His Eminence said, "and as a symbol of all that we share, in token and pledge of my constant faith and abiding love."
"Your Grace, please take this ring and make your vows as you place it upon His Eminence's hand."
The priest presented Elizabeth with the second ring. She stared unflinchingly into His Eminence's eyes as she slid it onto the appropriate finger.
"Take this ring as a sign of my love, and as a symbol of all that we share, in token and pledge of my constant faith and abiding love."
Her voice was all warmth and tenderness.
This was it, Wolfram thought. He was no longer the first man in Elizabeth's life. Wolfram suspected he had not been so for quite some time, but the climax of the ceremony drove the notion home more firmly than the Sage's flirting over the dinner table or Elizabeth's gushing over tea. Wolfram knew that it was selfish to wish that he could always take prominence in Elizabeth's heart when he could not offer her the same, yet wish it he did.
Never again would she look upon Wolfram as she looked upon His Eminence. That time was over; it had ended years ago, when Wolfram had chosen Yuuri over Elizabeth, and when Elizabeth had given her blessings in turn.
Wolfram viewed the moment not with love and well-wishes, but with sorrow. His arms ached to hold Merry; instead, his thumb worked his ring around and around his finger.
"No one but you can declare yourselves married," the priest said. "You have begun your declaration here today in speaking your vows before Their Majesties and these witnesses, and you will do so again in the days and years to come. May you stand by one another, and share all the sweet and the bitter of life. Each act of tenderness, each loving word, will be another declaration of what was made here today.
"In the honesty and sincerity of what you have said and done here today, and in accordance with the laws of this our Great Demon Kingdom, it is my honor and delight to name you husband and wife. You mat seal your vows with a kiss."
The chamber erupted into applause as their lips met. Wolfram raised his hands to follow suit but found that they trembled noticeably as he did so. Yuuri turned to him and caught both of Wolfram's hands, bringing the left up to his mouth to kiss.
Yuuri said nothing to comfort him, but his eyes spoke the words his voice could not utter in present company.
[i]'I love you... I love you... I love you...'[/i]
Irma Fieldler thought of her family as she fingered the vial stashed safely in the pocket of her apron.
Wary eyes skittered around the kitchen. The kitchens at Blood Pledge were always a crowded place whenever a banquet took place. Years ago, during the days of Queen Cecilie, the servants had learned how best to handle their responsibilities during such events. As a group, they were a well oiled machine. They each had their own place, only bothering one another to inquire after some assistance.
The preparations for that evening's banquet were nearly complete. The kitchen smelled strongly of cooked meat and spices. Irma dragged a hand along her brow, removing a layer of sweat that glistened there. It was understandably hot; with the added weight of what she must do set upon her shoulders, the heat felt stifling. Irma stood at her station, staring at a golden goblet full of red wine. She hesitated a few moments more. Naturally she had second thoughts, yet what choice did she have?
If she failed, the lives of her family, of her sick mother and young children, were forfeit. And if she succeeded, she risked loosing her own life in the process.
When she was sure the rest were too focused on their respective tasks to notice, Irma slipped the vial with the silvery liquid out of her apron pocket. Carefully she uncorked the vial and brought it to the goblet. Her hand shook as she held it there.
There was no point asking herself what she intended to accomplish by doing this, or whether or not she meant to go through with it. She'd known what she would do the evening the man in the shadows of the guest wing had given her the vial and offered her a satchel of gold in return.
Before she risked being noticed, Irma tipped the contents of the vial into the wine. Once the vial was empty, she slipped it back into her pocket. She took the wine goblet, sloshed it around to mix the two liquids together. Then she placed the goblet back onto the tabletop, and stared into its depths like it would reveal her fate to her.
She could end it before it even began. She could pour out just enough to ensure that it wouldn't be lethal. Perhaps that would spare her execution. The man in the shadows could not blame her. She'd done what he'd asked. The contents of the vial simply hadn't been strong enough. It wasn't any fault of her own, but of the nobleman who'd procured the concoction. Perhaps he'd trusted the wrong sources. Perhaps he hadn't received the quality of product he'd thought.
"Irma," Doria came up behind her, clasping a hand to her shoulder.
Irma jumped and spun around. A hand came to her chest as if to still her wildly beating heart.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Doria said. "Only, you forgot to take Prince Wolfram's drink to the high table with all the rest."
"I did?" Irma asked. She sounded suitably dismayed. "I... I'm so sorry, I didn't notice, I... I'll bring it right away."
Doria nodded and patted Irma's shoulder in silent support, as if to say, "It's alright. It's a busy night."
Irma took the goblet of wine and made her way out of the kitchen, leaving the hustle and bustle behind for the equally crowded banquet hall. Here noblemen and women sat enjoying their meals. Some flitted about, schmoozing amongst one another the way all rich, powerful people seemed to. They bestowed flattery upon one another, laughed jovially even at those with the poorest sense of humor, and exchanged court gossip as nosily as the maids.
None of them noticed Irma squeezing her way through the crowd with a goblet of wine. She'd not expected them to. After all, a proper servant did his or her best not to interrupt their betters. Those who might have seen her as they looked in her direction overlooked her completely. She was a nobody to these people. She expected few of them even knew her name.
Prince Wolfram sat at the high table on the King's left. Irma paused briefly upon seeing him there—marveling as she'd always marveled at Prince Wolfram's mother.
He was one of the loveliest men she'd ever seen in all her life, his beauty not as sophisticated as that of Lord Gunter, but something to behold nonetheless. He did not wear black that evening, but purple, with a coronet of gold, amethyst, and emerald perched atop his hair. The fair golden strands had been rolled back out of his face and fastened with pins at the nape of his neck. His pale skin seemed to glow in the torchlight; he looked ethereal, almost otherworldly.
Prince Merriel sat in Prince Wolfram's lap in Bielefeld blue; Princess Greta sat to Prince Wolfram's left in matching purple—the very image of a charming family.
And all so young. Prince Wolfram was little more than a child himself. Only eighty-nine. Her son would reach that age in just thirty more years.
How could she live with herself after what she was about to do?
"Your Majesty," Irma dipped a curtsy when she arrived at the high table. She kept her eyes lowered, but saw His Majesty the King spare her a wide smile out of her peripheral vision.
Her hand shook as she placed the goblet onto the table. If prompted to explain, she could blame nervousness caused by being before the King. Rarely was she so close to them. Never had she been so near to them that she could see the color of their eyes—if she ever dared to look.
"Your wine, Your Majesty," she said.
Prince Wolfram didn't even look at her as he took the goblet; he brought it to his mouth without examining the contents, so focused was he on his conversation with the Princess Greta. Had he but a moment for one poor scullery maid, he might have seen the look of anguish upon her face and recognized it for what it was. But of course he didn't. She'd not expected him to. Her life and her troubles were such insignificant concerns to a Prince.
She fell into a deeper curtsy as she slowly backed away from the table.
"Thank you," the King called out to her.
On instinct she lifted her eyes and met his. It took her breath away, and not simply because she was looking upon the King.
Irma thought it was the first and last time she would look at him and see such open kindness in his dark eyes.
"Your Majesty," she said.
She scurried off before another word was said.
"Certainly not my favorite wine," Wolfram announced.
He stared into his goblet as if the drink had done him a grave offense, his face screwed up into something like disgust.
Yuuri snorted into his own goblet, earning an exasperated look from his husband. He winced and smiled an apology, covering his inelegant mistake with a quiet chuckle.
"It tastes fine," he said.
"You'll drink anything," Wolfram countered.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Only that you're opinions on what constitutes good wine must be taken with a grain of salt."
"Don't look at me, Murata and Elizabeth were the ones who decided on the wine."
Yuuri watched Wolfram's eyes flick in the direction of the couple in question. Murata and Elizabeth sat front and center, where he and Wolfram would have been had this been any other banquet. Murata was to Yuuri's immediate right, with Elizabeth on Murata's other side. Yuuri rather enjoyed the shift in attention. Let Murata deal with the fawning courtiers for a change. Yuuri was content to sit by and enjoy his dinner.
Wolfram was not as content. Yuuri could see that without confirmation from his husband. The way Wolfram held Merry in his lap told Yuuri everything he needed to know about Wolfram's emotional state. Yuuri wished he could soothe him, but the most he could do at the table was place a hand along Wolfram's thigh and give it a comforting squeeze.
He'd given Wolfram many of those throughout the day.
"His Eminence's tastes are even less refined than yours," Wolfram said.
"I don't know, if I couldn't have you, Elizabeth was next on my list."
Wolfram stared at him, aghast. His expression soon turned dark, almost murderous.
"It was a joke, Wolf," Yuuri said.
"And in poor taste," Wolfram said.
"Didn't we just go over my lack of good taste?"
Wolfram turned from him to stick his nose in the air. Yuuri watched as Wolfram drew Merry even closer, cuddling the baby against his chest. For once, Merry seemed intent upon struggling away from Wolfram. There were too many things to see and too much trouble to get into for him to sit patiently at the table.
"Kat!" Yuuri called.
In the middle of a conversation with Conrad, the nanny nevertheless scuttled over at Yuuri's summons.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" she said after dipping the requisite curtsy.
"If you wouldn't mind, could you relieve Wolfram of Merry."
"Yes, of course, Your Majesty."
"Yuuri," Wolfram began, "I can handle Merry on my own for one night."
"But I want to dance," Yuuri said.
It wasn't often he volunteered for such things. Indeed, the incredulous look Wolfram gave him seemed to prove otherwise.
Even so, Wolfram stood from his chair to pass Merry off to Kat with the sort of determination that made it seem as if he had something he wanted to prove, taking a large swig of wine to fortify himself.
Yuuri would have been offended if he wasn't already well aware of his own shortcomings.
He took Wolfram's hand before Wolfram could go too far, brought Wolfram's fingers to his elbow and led him around the table. Wolfram gave a long-suffering sigh in response, pinching the skin of Yuuri's inner elbow. It wasn't painful. Try as he might to appear aloof and disinterested, Wolfram's heart just wasn't in it.
Wolfram was upset and trying his damnedest not to be. Yuuri could see it in Wolfram's eyes, in the subtle droop of Wolfram's shoulders, in the somewhat strained tone of Wolfram's voice. Wolfram could fool everyone else with his quiet reserve and forced pleasantries; he likely thought he'd managed to fool Yuuri with it as well. But Yuuri recognized the signs Wolfram didn't even know he was displaying; Yuuri could see the things in Wolfram that Wolfram didn't want to see in himself.
Yuuri could almost understand. Wolfram felt as if he'd just lost his best friend to someone else. Though Yuuri didn't quite feel the same in regards to Murata, he assumed it had little to do with the strength of their friendship and more to do with just how long Wolfram and Elizabeth had been fond of one another. They'd grown up together, shared a wet nurse and nannies if the stories were to be believed, whereas Yuuri had not known Murata until junior high school and only befriended him years later.
Wolfram was longing for more than his best friend.
He was longing for a sister.
In that, Yuuri thought, they were alike. Yuuri would likely have felt the same if Shouri or Conrad were ever to be married.
"What's come over you that has you in such deep thought?" Wolfram said.
In the center of the dance floor, they moved together with practiced ease. What grace or skill Yuuri lacked, Wolfram more than made up for. Yuuri, to his credit, was not quite the bumbling idiot he used to be when thrust in front of a crowd of people to the strains of music. He was by no means a quick study, but he was a determined one.
"Nothing," Yuuri said. "Just thinking about how beautiful you look."
Wolfram rolled his eyes like the compliment was unappreciated, yet Yuuri could see the small quirk of Wolfram's lips that signified a reluctant smile.
It was entirely true, though Yuuri would admit he was probably biased in that respect. He'd thought Wolfram was beautiful long before there were any feelings between them, of course, so Yuuri was at least confident he wasn't far off the mark; he simply thought his opinions might be a bit idealized. He looked at Wolfram and he saw perfection, not in the absence of any flaws, but because those flaws endeared Wolfram to him as much as any virtue.
Fashion conscious as he was, Wolfram was dressed impeccably, each piece of his outfit specifically chosen to enhance his good looks. Try as Wolfram might to adopt it as his own, black just wasn't his color. He was too fair for it. Logic would dictate that it would be no different on Lady Celi, but she was more open with herself, not merely with her body but with her thoughts and feelings. She looked elegant in black—sophisticated, sexy.
Wolfram, far more formal and self-conscious than his mother, looked stoic and severe in black, covered from head to toe even in the event that he wore short pants and stockings. Black aged him and slimmed him down to the point that he looked weathered and skinny, almost sickly. Wolfram didn't have the personality for black. He was far too bright.
He looked better in color—in the blues indicative of Bielefeld, or the greens Yuuri associated with casual dress and travel. For this occasion, Wolfram wore purple. It looked better against Wolfram's skin tone and brought out the color of his eyes.
"You look quite handsome yourself," Wolfram said. He brought a hand to Yuuri's face, lightly fingered the hair at Yuuri's chin. "This is a good look for you."
"You think so?"
"Mmm. Makes you appear more mature."
"So I didn't look mature before?" Yuuri said. He was not offended, his face splitting into a grin.
"Did you not hear me say 'more mature'?"
"So it's a compliment on top of a compliment."
"You could accept it graciously," Wolfram said.
"That's not really my style."
Wolfram's expression was stuck somewhere between an amused smile and a look of annoyance, like he couldn't determine which would be more appropriate in the situation. He settled for shaking his head and drawing closer. Instead of continuing to follow the proper steps of the dance, they swayed together mindlessly, Wolfram resting comfortably against Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri felt the shift of Wolfram's weight as Wolfram relaxed into him. He adjusted his hold accordingly.
Wolfram smelled of his rose bath oils, of fresh soap, of wine from dinner, and mint from the water he cleansed his hands in before each meal. He was not so short that his head was perfectly level with Yuuri's shoulder, so Wolfram leaned his head down to account for the difference. Soft stands of Wolfram's hair brushed against the side of Yuuri's neck, tickling the skin exposed above the collar of Yuuri's jacket. When Yuuri tilted his head to nudge the side of Wolfram's face with his nose, Wolfram's cheek was pink and warm.
Yuuri dropped a kiss onto Wolfram's face and felt the corresponding gesture pressed fleetingly against the side of his neck. He tightened his arms around Wolfram and brought a hand up to Wolfram's hair, careful not to jostle the coronet or lay to waste all the work that had been done to pin back Wolfram's hair. In the midst of such a large gathering, in a room full of faces Yuuri barely recognized, and names he could never quite keep straight in his head, this was cozy and familiar—Wolfram at his side, feeding him constant encouragement and support, while Wolfram sought comfort for himself.
Their troubles melted away, and with the attention predominantly focused on Murata and Elizabeth for the evening, Yuuri and Wolfram could exist as friends and lovers instead of as King and Consort.
Quietly, Yuuri hummed along to the music into Wolfram's hair. He paused occasionally to press his lips once again to the side of Wolfram's face. Yuuri could feel Wolfram's skin growing increasingly warmer.
"Are you trying to be romantic?" Wolfram mumbled—either in embarrassment or fatigue, Yuuri was unable to tell.
"Trying?" Yuuri wondered. "Does that mean I'm failing?"
"It was just a question, you wimp."
Yuuri smiled into Wolfram's hair and leaned down to whisper into Wolfram's ear, "We could always retire for the night and take this dance elsewhere. No one would miss us."
Wolfram hit Yuuri's shoulder in retaliation for his suggestive tone.
"Is that a no?" Yuuri asked.
"Behave," Wolfram warned him.
"So 'no' then."
"You pick the most inopportune moments."
"Oh, is that a 'yes, but later'?"
"Yuuri..."
"What?" Yuuri said, his voice nothing but innocence.
"I'm enjoying the moment," Wolfram told him.
"So'm I."
"Where did our innocent boy-King go?"
"He's still here somewhere. Deep down underneath all that maturity you said I have now."
"I said nothing about your behavior," Wolfram said. "I simply said you look mature. How one looks is not always an accurate signifier of how one typically behaves."
"You love me," Yuuri reminded him.
"Yes, but that's in spite of you—"
Wolfram came to a sudden halt. He stopped speaking, he stopped dancing, he stopped leaning into Yuuri in a relaxed fashion, but tensed as if put on his guard without warning.
Yuuri saw nothing upon scanning the crowed—certainly nothing to warrant the reaction. There were the usual irascible Aristocrats, the sycophantic nobles, the unobtrusive servants. There was no sign of danger and nothing to suggest that their moment together would be ruined except for Wolfram's reaction.
Moments later, Wolfram pulled away and swayed on his feet. He wore a curious expression on his face, confusion mixed with dread, like he was unsure what was happening but assumed the worst. That changed quickly, and his eyes grew wide as he curled in on himself, moaning in distress as his arms crossed low, over his stomach.
"Wolf..." Yuuri said, alarmed.
He grabbed Wolfram by the shoulders, attempted to heave him back upright, but Wolfram whimpered and struggled away, shaking his head back and forth so quickly Yuuri was afraid Wolfram was going to hurt his neck.
"No, no, no, no, no," Wolfram chanted.
"What? Wolfram, what is it? What's wrong?"
"I... I feel..."
"What?" Yuuri tried again, panicking when no answer came.
Wolfram's head came up to look at him, green eyes wide. Yuuri's stomach dropped nauseatingly when he saw fear in Wolfram's gaze.
"Wolf!"
Wolfram coughed, a harsh, ragged hacking sound that sent chills down Yuuri's spine. Wolfram's brought hand hand up to cover his mouth, proper even then. He held it there as if to prevent himself from spilling sick all over the floor, but soon took it away to look at his palm.
Yuuri stared, horrified, at the blood that glistened on Wolfram's lips and fingers.
"Wolfram!"
He grabbed Wolfram again just before Wolfram fell, holding him up by the arms as Wolfram's body went rigid and started to shake.
People were beginning to notice, if they hadn't already. Yuuri could hear vague noises in the background—the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, the whispers and confused muttering of the guests. Conrad called to him from somewhere; Yuuri could hear his boots tapping along the floor as his Godfather drew closer. From the high table, he could hear Elizabeth screaming and Greta calling Wolfram's name.
Wolfram clutched at Yuuri's jacket with his bloody hand. Stubbornly he lifted himself up to look Yuuri in the eye. His expression was mixed, contorted in a range of emotions—from anger, to denial, to determination, to fear. Finally something seemed to settle in Wolfram's eyes and he grew quiet. He brought his other hand to Yuuri's face; he looked sad, resigned. Wolfram's mouth twitched into a small smile, one that was strained and obviously forced.
He was making the effort for Yuuri's sake; he wanted Yuuri to see him as he had before.
Not like this.
"P-Poison..." Wolfram said, his voice quiet and weak.
Then his eyes rolled back and his body was wracked with tremors.
Yuuri felt hot tears gather in his eyes at the same time his blood ran cold.
"GISELA!"
Elizabeth sat on the stone floor of the royal hallway. She wore her black wedding dress, the long train crumpled beneath her as she raised her knees to her chest and curled her arms around them. Earlier she'd been the very picture of a royal bride. Now she appeared ready to attend a funeral.
She fingered the band of black diamonds and platinum that now adorned her left hand, twisting it around her finger in a purposeful emulation of the habit Wolfram had developed when ill at ease. The metal was warm against her thumb, as it'd been since she received it. She liked to think it was Wolfram's doing, that he'd kept it warm for her before handing it to the priest.
Beside her, Princess Greta sat with her legs curled beneath her, leaning heavily into the wall at her back. Her brown eyes stared at nothing, fixed upon the opposite wall, her expression blank. She looked paler than usual, but for the tear tracks that colored her cheeks an angry red.
Further on down the hall, toward the turn that took one away from the royal wing, Miss Katherine Algren stood with Prince Merry in her arms, shushing him quietly as he wailed, the other little children hovering fearfully at her feet. Closer to the door of the royal bedchamber were both Wolfram's and His Majesty's families. Miko Shibuya, a second mother to Wolfram and a loving substitute for Ken's own, held Lady Cecilie steady. Lady Cecilie's behavior fluctuated by the second; one moment she was crying for her youngest, and the next she was seething with righteous anger toward the culprit.
Whomever that may be.
Elizabeth tried to think back. Was there anything that stood out as unusual? With her training, she should have noticed. A shifty look in someone's eye, perhaps. Or a comment with a double meaning that had seemed so harmless at the time.
Nothing of the sort came to her. Anything she remembered vividly about that day involved Ken—the look in his eyes as they received His Majesty's blessings, the sound of his voice as they'd spoken their vows to one another. She hadn't even looked at Wolfram when he'd handed over the rings, nor had she noticed that Wolfram and His Majesty had risen from the table until they were already out on he dance floor.
Guilt tore through her, brought tears to her eyes and hindered her breathing.
Ken stood nearby, but he could not comfort her, so focused was he on the King.
His Majesty stalked up and down the hallway, his body haloed by blue light. His jaw was stiff, his eyes sharp, his hands balled into tight fists. He snapped at anyone who attempted to touch him, and glared darkly whenever someone spoke.
"Be calm, you say," he snarled. His voice was low and dark, uncharacteristic in comparison to his usual demeanor. "I will not be calm."
"Your Majesty—" Lord Weller chanced a cautious approach.
His Majesty turned from him, pacing in the opposite direction as he said, "Silence, Lord Weller."
Elizabeth shivered and lowered her face into her knees. She did not like to think about how much worse the King would become should Gisela fail to save Wolfram.
She would save him, Elizabeth told herself. She couldn't let herself believe otherwise.
"Then think back, Your Majesty," Wolfram's father said. "There must be something to help us determine when the poison was administered."
"Was it by touch?" Ken said. "Did he ingest it?"
His Majesty lifted a shaking fist as if he meant to bat them all away from him and cease their idle chatter, but he stopped the motion and came to a halt in the middle of the hallway, fairly close to Elizabeth, as something seemed to dawn on him.
"The wine... He had no fondness for the wine. He did not enjoy the taste."
"Did you drink from his cup?" Lord Weller asked, alarmed.
His Majesty shook his head. "No, I did not."
"What makes you so sure it was the wine?"
"His cup had not been placed at the table when we arrived. A scullery maid brought it. She was... distraught."
Elizabeth cursed the King's foolishness. He'd had all those signs staring him in the face and yet he hadn't thought anything of it until Wolfram was a writhing heap on the floor.
He must feel as guilty as she did, Elizabeth thought. He must be as angry with himself as he was with the perpetrator, for not noticing at the time.
But wasn't Wolfram even more foolish for drinking it without a second thought?
We've become lax, she decided. We've all let peace dull our instincts and lull us into a false sense of security. There is no peace, simply a break in the storm.
"Lord von Voltaire, Lord Griesela," Ken's voice called out.
Elizabeth lifted her head as the two men approached. She looked between them, noted the matching expressions on their faces—both thunderous and out for blood. Ken motioned for them to join him as he turned down the hall. Elizabeth watched her new husband drift out of sight with only the briefest of glances in her direction.
At least she could read the apology on his face.
It's alright, she thought. This is his duty.
"Where do you mean to go?!" His Majesty barked after them.
Ken did not turn or utter a response, but continued on his way with Lords von Voltaire and Griesela as close to his heels as propriety would allow.
"They must speak with the maids, Your Majesty," Wolfgang said. His voice was clipped, his words short. In no way did he attempt to be soothing. Such things had no effect when His Majesty was in this state.
"I shall speak with them!" His Majesty said.
"Do you not wish to wait for Miss Gisela's report?"
His Majesty looked conflicted, torn between his concern for Wolfram and his need to bring justice to those who had wronged him.
"His Eminence will find the maid," Lord Weller said. "She will be detained. Speak with her later."
His Majesty glared at Lord Weller, riled by his authoritative tone. He made no further move to show his displeasure; he simply went back to pacing up and down the hallway.
Elizabeth had no means to keep track of how much time passed once the sun set behind the distant hills. The royal hall grew shadowed, lit only by the wall torches and the energy which crackled and split the air around the King.
For a while, all was quiet but for Merry's fussing. Elizabeth heard Lady Cecelie weeping down the hall, and Miko's encouraging voice in response.
"Wol-chan will pull through," she said. "You'll see."
His Majesty's father and brother said nothing. Shouma Shibuya watched his youngest pace the floors, staring with an expression that was a mix of pride, awe, and unease. Shouri Shibuya's keen eyes also trailed after His Majesty; he was restrained from approaching only by his father's hand on his shoulder.
The wait felt long and torturous. The hour grew late, but none of them slept, and His Majesty's transformation did not wane. Fatigue settled heavily upon Elizabeth as the moon loomed high in the sky, but she would not allow herself to sleep. Not yet. Not until she knew what was to become of Wolfram.
Even then she could not hope to sleep without visions of Wolfram writhing on the floor and coughing blood to disturb her once pleasant dreams.
Ken returned with Lord von Voltaire and Lord Griesela in toe. All three looked grim. His Majesty faced them as soon as they turned onto the hall, his posture rigid as he waited, an impatient tick jumping along his jaw. Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet, bracing one hand against the wall as the other rose to remove the tears from her eyes.
"The maid has been apprehended," Ken said. "She has been placed in a cell in the dungeon to await your judgement."
"Her name," His Majesty demanded.
"Irma Fieldler."
"Has she confessed?"
"Yes. She begs Your Majesty's forgiveness."
"My forgiveness?!" His Majesty sneered, voice rising again. "She seeks my mercy after administering poison to my Consort?!"
"So it would seem," Ken said.
Elizabeth found herself mildly disturbed by the uncaring tone of Ken's voice. He sounded nothing at all like the jovial man she'd fallen for but instead adopted fully the stoic demeanor of the Great Sage. He did not fear His Majesty. He did not attempt to console the King or calm him from his vengeful fury. He simply stood there, formally emotionless, as if this whole encounter were nothing more than business.
It wasn't that she hadn't known Ken had it in him to be so cold and distant; she'd always assumed his cheerfulness to be half an act. He was calculating, knew exactly which face to wear for any given situation. Ken was not all warmth the way His Majesty was outside of a transformation. There was something cold there, beneath the mirth in Ken's eyes and the wide smiles that stretched across his face. She'd accepted that side of him the day she'd accepted his proposal.
She simply hadn't expected to witness an interaction like this between Ken and the King. It took her breath away to see them, two regal double-blacks standing face to face, one coldly furious, the other lacking in any visible passion. Here were the two most powerful men in all the world confined to a single hallway. All anyone could do was remain quiet, watch, and hope against a poor outcome—for Wolfram's and His Majesty's sakes, of course, as well as their own.
A door creaked open on old hinges. From the royal bedchamber, Gisela stepped out into the hall. She looked as composed as her duties necessitated. Lord von Christ and Lady von Karbelnikoff followed behind her, closing the door softly; their faces was drawn and tired, but not distraught as Elizabeth would expect had their efforts taken a bad turn.
"Well?" His Majesty prompted.
That he'd held the transformation so long was a testament to his overpowering anger and grief.
"Prince Wolfram's condition has stabilized," Gisela announced.
Their was a collective breath of relief shared by all those but Ken and His Majesty.
His Majesty remained expectant, though Elizabeth saw some of the tension leave the stiff line of his shoulders.
"He regained consciousness soon after he was brought to your room. We were able to empty his stomach to prevent any further spread of the poison, but the effects will linger. It will likely take months for him to recover."
"And the poison?"
"Dragon's Breath," Lady von Karbelnikoff said. "In very small doses its not quite so fast acting. We can therefore assume that the poison was administered in a larger dose within the last twenty-four hours."
"It was the wine," His Majesty said. "At the banquet."
"I thought as much. Wolfram's fortunate it was wine. Alcohol stems the effect of Dragon's Breath somewhat. If it'd been slipped into his water it surely would have been fatal. Whoever administered it must not have known."
"Irma Fieldler."
"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"
"The maid, Irma Fieldler. It was she who brought the poisoned drink."
Lady von Karbelnikoff looked perplexed by this revelation but made no further comment on the matter.
"Your Majesty," Gisela intervened. Her composure fell just slightly. There was sorrow written into her features—pity and sadness. "There will be side-effects."
The King's frown darkened. "Of what sort?"
"Dragon's Breath affects what you would call the nervous system. He may experience short term or long term memory loss. His vision will likely be impaired. It could be permanent or temporary. At this stage there's no way for us to tell. We'll also likely see some impairment in his motor functions. It may be that he'll have to relearn basic tasks."
"'It could be,' 'it may be,'" His Majesty observed. "You speak in uncertainties."
"I only wish to prepare you for the worst case scenario, Your Majesty," Gisela said. She stared into his eyes unflinchingly. "He may wake and not remember your name. He may not be able to identify you by sight. In all likelihood he will no longer be the same man he was today."
His Majesty's jaw stiffened, his hands curling into tighter fists. He looked as if he would hit something—or someone, should they get in his way.
Wisely, no one approached the King. Not His Majesty's mother, not His Majesty's father, not Lord Shouri, not either of Wolfram's brothers or Lord von Christ. Greta wept at Elizabeth's side; she clutched at a handkerchief embroidered with the royal crest. The hallway crew silent again but for the sound of poor Greta's tears and Lady Cecilie's ragged breathing. Even Merry had quieted, as if he'd sensed the tension in the all. He stared with wide blue eyes.
No one knew what to say, or what to do. There was no way any of them could comfort the King when they needed comfort themselves.
His Majesty was beyond comfort, in any case. Elizabeth could see it in the cold fury that sharpened his gaze.
"I will speak with the maid," His Majesty announced. "Lords Weller and von Voltaire, Admiral von Bielefeld, and the Great Sage will accompany me."
"Yuuri..." Greta whimpered. It was the first word she'd spoken since shouting Wolfram's name across the banquet hall.
His Majesty turned to her. For just a moment it looked as if he would not be affected by her tears, but he softened somewhat in the face of her misery. One hand uncurled and rose from his side, brushing the tears from her cheeks.
"Weep not," he said. "All will be well."
Greta made an attempt at a wobbly smile.
His Majesty withdrew his hand without another word. He turned on his heel to begin stalking down the hall. Ken followed dutifully, catching Elizabeth's eye as he passed.
She met him with a nod, as if to say, "Do what you have to."
Prince Merry grew restless as the King took heavy strides in his direction. Miss Algren held the baby close, brushing his hair from his face and kissing his cheeks to soothe him as the other children, Brigitta and Alexei, curled up together along the floor. Merry seemed not to notice the nanny's efforts. For once, he had eyes only for His Majesty.
The King passed without looking at him, without pausing to offer comfort as he had with Greta.
Merry let out a plaintive cry when His Majesty turned onto another hall. Elizabeth's heart went out to the poor child as she heard him weep a tearful, "Papa!"
It pained her that Wolfram was not there to hear it.
Conrart did not let his trepidation show as he followed behind Yuuri and His Eminence with Gwendal and Wolfgang. He was well practiced at appearing unruffled and stoic, perhaps not as disciplined as Gwendal in the art of the dispassionate stare, but adequate when the time came. At that moment, he knew they all wore the same expression, and carried with them a similar thought.
They had come close to losing Wolfram, and losing Yuuri in the process.
Others tread the same halls. Courtiers and servants peered at the group of Lords as they passed. None approached. None attempted to speak with the King. They huddled by the walls and whispered between themselves, shrinking back in the face of Yuuri's anger.
The passionate outrage Yuuri had shown before seemed to have tempered into something more controlled. For hours the transformation had lingered; what began in the banquet hall showed no signs of fading. Yuuri had not had the chance to grieve. Conrart was beginning to think that was the point; Yuuri either didn't want to face what was happening, or couldn't do so on his own.
It was saddening to Conrart to think that Yuuri could not bring himself to turn to him in his time of need. Conrart thought he understood it. He had known Yuuri as a baby, had watched him grow from an adolescent into an adult, had seen him take his first awkward steps into manhood, had listened to Yuuri's complaints and fears until each problem was resolved. Slowly, ever so slowly, Wolfram had taken on that role instead. Perhaps Conrart remained Yuuri confidante, but Wolfram was his comfort, his support, and the heart of his strength.
Conrart did not begrudge his younger brother. He simply worried for Yuuri's sanity in those moment's when Wolfram was in less than perfect condition.
They came to the dungeon soon enough. The guards standing by the door bowed before the King and permitted them entrance.
"Where is the maid?" Yuuri demanded of His Eminence.
His Eminence did not speak, merely stepped ahead of them to lead Yuuri to the appropriate cell.
A pitiful looking woman laid curled upon the ground, arms wrapped about her raised knees as she rocked back and forth, back and forth. Wisps of mousy brown hair escaped from the bun it had been twisted into, as if she'd ran her fingers through it over and over, clawing at her scalp as she wailed. Her face was tearstained, pale with fear and smeared with dirt. She shook visibly when they appeared at the cell bars, looking from one to the other with increasing terror.
She looked at Yuuri last, stared straight into his eyes as if she knew what was to come and thought she must face it head on.
His Eminence opened the cell with a key given to him by one of the guards. Yuuri strode in first, followed by Gwendal, Wolfgang, and His Eminence. Conrart was the last to enter. He closed the cell behind him and drifted into the corner, into a better vantage point from which to see both the maid and Yuuri.
Yuuri's face, when Conrart saw it, was strangely blank.
Conrart expected the seething anger from before. An appearance from the Demon King meant a harsh sentence and swiftly executed justice. The Demon King did not accept excuses. He accused and he judged, no matter who might prostrate themselves before him. Only Gwendal had ever gotten through to Yuuri when the Demon King had taken over, and as Conrart glanced to his brother, Gwendal didn't look as if he meant to intervene this time.
Irma Fieldler sobbed brokenly, and crawled wretchedly across the floor. In an act some might have considered brave and others stupid, she grasped at Yuuri's legs. She kissed his boots, sobbed into the white of his pants, and tilted her head to stare up at him like he was her only salvation.
"Y-Your Majesty..." she moaned miserably. "Your Majesty... please... [i]please[/i], I didn't want to. I didn't want to do it!"
Slowly, deliberately, Yuuri lowered himself until he rested on his knees on the stone. He took Irma by the shoulders and held her away from him so that he was able to look into her face.
"Why?" was all he said.
His voice was cold, emotionless, his anger suppressed for now.
"I-I... There was... there was a man," Irma began.
Gwendal shifted and released a derisive sniff. He'd either expected someone else to have been involved or thought the maid might be lying.
"In the guest wing... he summoned me there... he had gold, and... he said... he said if I didn't do it... he said my family would pay the price."
"Perhaps he was lying," Yuuri calmly suggested.
"No," Irma shook her head rapidly. "No, he knows of my two children. He knows my mother is ill!"
"What is his name?"
"I... He never told me... He only... he promised me the money and gave me the vial. He told me when to do it. He said no one would notice during the banquet."
"And you knew what it was this man gave you?"
"O-Only that it was p-poison... Your Majesty," Irma said. She dropped her head in shame, her body shaking with heavy sobs. "He told me nothing else."
"Do you recall anything about his appearance?" Yuuri said.
She shook her head again. "I never saw his face. He wore a cloak and the windows were boarded up. It was dark."
"Would you recognize his voice if you were to hear it again?" This question posed by the Great Sage.
He stood in the other corner, arms crossed over his chest. He appeared entirely at ease, as if he spent a great deal of time interrogating prisoners in the dungeon—particularly poor, weeping women.
"Oh... yes. [i]Yes[/i], Your Eminence! Yes, I remember his voice!"
She looked back to Yuuri, her eyes wide and beseeching.
"Please, Your Majesty, I had no choice."
Yuuri's eyes narrowed. "You had no choice?" he said.
Irma flinched back, but Yuuri's hands on her shoulders stopped her from going far.
"Have you no further information?" he asked.
"I..." Irma stuttered, suddenly fearful again. "He... the man... he wore... expensive jewels. Rings, Your Majesty. O-One of them bore a family crest."
Yuuri's dark eyes flared to life, his nostrils widening as he breathed, "What did it look like?"
"It... it looked like... it was some type of bird, Your Majesty. I-I didn't see it properly, but it was a bird with it's wings spread."
Conrart saw movement out of the corner of his eye and shifted his gaze over to rest on Gwendal. His brother stared back with a thin-lipped scowl. Wolfgang, on the other hand, appeared visibly shaken. His scarred face drained of color and his eyes grew hard.
"You are sure of this?" Admiral von Bielefeld said.
Irma nodded. She looked between them all again, searching for pity and compassion in at least one of their faces.
They showed her none.
"Bielefeld," Yuuri said.
"Conrart," Gwendal barked. "Arrest Lord Auberon von Bielefeld immediately."
Pushing himself away from the wall in his chosen corner, Conrart responded with a curt nod. He spun on his heel and made to follow Gwendal's orders.
That it could have been Auberon who was responsible did not surprise him. Auberon had made his abhorrence of Wolfram quite clear before Wolfram was even born. Even so, certain things failed to add up. Auberon may hate his nephew, and certainly he was among the faction that wished to remove Wolfram from power, but he had proven his loyalties to Wolfgang time and again. It seemed out of character, then, for him to have orchestrated this. He was not a clever man, but he was also not so foolhardy as to make an attempt on Wolfram's life.
"Wait."
The quiet calm of Yuuri's voice stopped him. Conrart turned to peer at Yuuri over his shoulder. Yuuri remained on the ground, his hands still placed upon Irma Fieldler's shoulders. She watched him with wet eyes, too in awe to look away.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" Conrart said.
Yuuri stood and brought Irma to her feet with him. He set her aside—gently, Conrart noticed—on the narrow cot that lined one wall. Then he turned and caught Conrart's eye, his gaze level and insistent.
"Arrest Admiral von Bielefeld and the Aristocrats," he said.
Wolfgang made no sound. The expression on his face looked resigned, defeated, as if he'd expected nothing less.
"Your Majesty," Conrart began, flicking his gaze from Wolfgang to Gwendal, "All of the Aristocrats?"
"Yes, Lord Weller. All of them. I intend to have them questioned."
Gwendal had no visible reaction to the decree but to give Conrart a brief nod.
"Very well, Your Majesty," Conrart said.
Gwendal and Wolfgang left the cell of their own accord. They drifted down the hall, stood before a pair of empty cells, and waited for Conrart to have them opened. When they were both inside their respective prisons, the bars were shut and locked.
Down the hall, Conrart heard Yuuri speaking quietly with the maid.
"He is right to do this," were Gwendal's last words to him before he officially became a prisoner of the state. "I would have advised him no differently."
TBC...
A/N: I apologize for any awkwardness in my writing. I'm still getting used to writing lengthy chapters again. I will say now that this story will likely be much shorter than Love and War was. I don't think I have it in me to do another 30 chapters and 400,000+ words. XD Anyway, I would greatly appreciate any comments you may have! It's been a long while! I hope there's still interest in this! orz