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 themse, 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: Thank you so, so much for your wonderful reviews! It really means a lot to me! I wish I had the time to respond to each of you individually like I used to, but with so much going on I just haven't had the opportunity! So I hope another update makes up for it!
Between Kings
by Mikage
Chapter Four – Imprisonment
All their lives Cecilie was forced to watch as her sons drifted away from her, one after the other.
Gwendal went to his duties early in life. He was seconds old and she knew she held a scholar in her arms. Gwendal was grim and studious, and Cecilie had nothing to offer him but her love and support. In her youth she was intelligent but not wise (that would come later), patient but not always attentive. She did not know how to be a mother and her oldest grew distant as a result. She lost him to books as soon as he could read; she lost him to the military as soon as he was old enough for war. Then she lost him to the Kingdom, and to the world beyond.
He was her first and, when his father died, Cecilie thought Gwendal would be her last. It did not sadden her in the least. He was a good boy—the perfect child. He never fussed, he followed directions, he was appropriately formal to his superiors. He did not always show her his love and affection, but Cecilie knew it was there.
"Are you well, Mother?" he would begin every morning.
He could not do so from prison.
Conrart went to his father, and later, when his father was gone, he went the way of bitterness. He was worse than Wolfram at Wolfram's age. Wolfram's arrogance was pride; Conrart's was all spite.. As a child Conrart would cling to her skirts, sit comfortably in her lap, and smile such a sweet, innocent smile she could not imagine him growing to become a hardened soldier. She wanted to keep him for herself. One child—that was all she wanted, just one child to keep safe while the other faced a cruel and dangerous world.
But Conrart grew older, and his smile grew rare over the years. He began to behave as one would expect of someone with "bad blood."
It was her fault. She'd known it then and she still believed it now. She'd not considered the ramifications of marrying Dunheely Weller; she'd not considered the sort of world she was bringing their child into. She'd paid for her mistakes during the war, forced to send her own son on a suicide mission, all so he could prove a loyalty to the crown that should never have been cast in doubt.
So Conrart went to war. He fought, and he won, and he returned quiet and solemn. Angry. Dejected. He awoke from his injuries into a world where one of the few people to accept him apart from his mother had died. Cecilie looked at him and saw his grief, and thought she would never see him smile again.
He could smile now. He could let go of his bitterness, for His Majesty had succeeded in doing what Cecilie had only dreamed of, and her poor, sweet second child drifted from her to the new King.
She wanted things to be different with Wolfram. He was born and she thought it must be fate. Finally, here was a child she could keep; here was one son who would always be safe. Born a Prince (and third at that) and not a soldier, she thought she could keep him from war. She coddled him, she spoiled him, she reveled in his grabby hands and his need to be close to her. Wolfram was not a shy child like Conrart. He was loud and boisterous, the type for games and play, the type to lead a pack of similarly aged children around in search of mischief.
Wolfram, of course, would not conform to her ideals simply because she wanted him to, and her efforts to mold him into a scholarly Prince who knew nothing of war ended in failure. He craved battle and ached to prove himself on the field. He idolized his older brothers, watched his father from afar and dreamed of one day surpassing him. He wanted no part in her silly parties, cared not for travel and adventure that didn't end in a victory for the Kingdom.
He was her darling baby, her spitting image, but he was also Gwendal and Conrart and Wolfgang all wrapped up into a single tiny person.
She'd lost him once, eight years ago when the boxes were opened. His heart stopped beating and it was as if hers stopped with it. She should have kept him behind, she should have listened to her instincts. She'd known then what the others hadn't, what Conrart and Gwendal had only suspected. She'd known Wolfram was a key.
Now, as he lay upon the wide bed in the royal bedchamber, pale beneath the covers and breathing shallowly, Cecilie feared she'd lost him again.
"The Aristocrats are now in custody. They are being detained in the dungeon with Gwendal, Wolfgang, and Irma Fieldler. Only Julius remains free," Conrart said.
"And where is Julius then?"
"He was to lead the escort to deliver supplies to Cimaron. His Majesty has dispatched a summons. He will be recalled and interrogated upon his return."
"Why has Wolfgang been detained?"
"You know why, Mother."
"He would never condone this!" Cecilie said. "Wolfram is his only son, his only living child! In Bastille—"
"I understand, Mother," Conrart's voice was calm and patient. "His Majesty understands that as well. But if Wolfgang were to escape suspicion without questioning when all evidence points to the Bielefelds, His Majesty would be accused of bias."
"This is not Auberon's doing."
She was as sure of that as she was of Wolfgang's innocence. Certainly she abhorred the man for the manner in which he treated her son, but he was no dispenser of poison. Regicide was not in his character, just as such subtle means were not his style.
"Wolfgang and Auberon are not the only Bielefelds," Conrart said. "Their being detained is as much for their protection as it is for Wolfram's."
Cecilie shook her head. Everything about this situation was wrong.
Gwendal in prison, Conrart arresting his own brother, Wolfram so pale and still he might as well have been dead. Her heart cried out for the three small babies they used to be. If only she could hold them one last time.
Conrart approached her. He was at her back and she could not see him, but she could feel him draw closer. His hands came to her shoulders. They rested there firmly and held her steady, sharing with her his unbroken strength.
She sat by Wolfram's bedside, holding one of his limp hands. She watched the blankets obsessively, noting every rise and fall to signify each quiet breath he took. His eyelids would flutter every so often, but he did not awaken. Even now tremors worked their way through his body as the poison lingered—no longer lethal, but still present in his system in traces.
There was no antidote for Dragon's Breath. They could only wait for it to subside.
"When will Gwen be released?" Cecilie asked.
Her voice had calmed. The hands upon her shoulders gave her comfort.
"Soon," Conrart said. "Once he, Wolfgang, and Gunter have been detained long enough to free His Majesty of any bias, they will be subjected to a brief interrogation and released."
"And Stoffel?"
Here Conrart paused. He squeezed her shoulders gently. "Stoffel will likely be detained longer, due to his previous crimes against the crown. How would it look if His Majesty were so quick to release a man who previously incited a civil war?"
"Stoffel only wanted the recognition that was due to him as Regent."
Her brother was no more involved than her third husband. Surely His Majesty knew that. Stoffel was boastful, arrogant, ambitious, but not cunning or clever. He was just a silly boy grown into a clumsy man. If he wanted power, it was only to compensate for his short-comings.
Cecilie caressed Wolfram's pale hand, then clasped it between hers and brought it to her lips to kiss his fingers. If she tried hard enough, she could almost see him again as a small child, tucked under his blankets with a cold. He would open his eyes and smile at her tiredly, hold his little arms out for her, and she could pull him close and sit him in her lap, rock him gently and sing him ancient lullabies.
Wolfram's eyelids fluttered, but he slept on.
"Are we to war again, Conrart?" she said.
Conrart gave her no answer.
He awoke into a dream-world and saw nothing but shadows against a darker background, as black as a night without stars or moonlight.
He thought he could hear voices, but they were muffled and came to him from afar. He could not recognize their tone, could not distinguish them from one another. They came together in a chorus of sorrow, and anger, and concern. He heard his name spoken, but knew not how to respond.
"Wolfram... Wolfram..." the voices said, over and over until the sound overwhelmed him.
If he could have, he would have covered his ears. As things were, he wasn't even sure he had hands in this dream. He felt heavy, too heavy to rise or move, and all he knew was pain.
It burned through him without remorse, set every inch of his would-be body aflame—from the crown of his head to what should be his smallest toe. It raged for hours, days, weeks, months, years. He had no concept of time, no memory of where the pain had come from. He only knew that it existed, a constant companion in this dark dream-scape.
He did not know if he was even alive.
Perhaps he'd met his end somehow. But by what means? He remembered countless battles, yet none of them should have concluded with his death.
He had too much to live for to allow himself to fall before his human enemies. His was a needed, necessary existence, whether Yuuri wanted to admit it or not. Yuuri needed his comfort and guidance. Yuuri needed love amidst the duties that filled his days. They were to be married—perhaps not now, but soon. As soon as Yuuri realized, as soon as he could admit...
Oh...
Oh...
But there was one memory. It came to him now.
He'd lost his heart.
"Picking up Dad's bad habits?"
Yuuri startled at the sound of Shori's voice and froze with a lit cigarette halfway to his mouth.
He turned to spy his older brother standing in the doorway, a disapproving frown being directed toward him. Shori stepped out onto the balcony when Yuuri gave no indication that he wanted him to leave. Then they stood at the railing together, Shori leaning back with his elbows upon the stone, Yuuri leaning forward in a similar fashion. The cigarette completed the journey to his lips; he took a drag and released it on a breath that sounded like a sigh.
"Whatever happened to no drinking, no smoking?" Shori asked.
"That didn't last long when I finally admitted to myself that I was never going to go pro," Yuuri said. "Besides, you can blame Dad. He gave me my first."
Yuuri dug into his pocket for a half-empty packet of cigarettes and offered it to Shori. His brother scoffed, disgusted, and forced the pack away.
"Suit yourself," Yuuri said. He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't quite feel.
The weather was cooling. Soon autumn would be upon them, and with it his fourth wedding anniversary. Any plans he might have had for that were completely shot now, as Wolfram had yet to awaken and may not for quite some time.
It had already been three days.
Gisela cautioned patience. It was a powerful poison Wolfram ingested, and in such a large dose it would take time to flush from his system entirely. She told him it was probably best that Wolfram sleep through it. Awake, he would be in constant pain, as the poison set his nerves on fire and ravaged his body.
Yuuri only wanted to see Wolfram open his eyes once. Just once. Maybe hear his voice, a tired "Yuuri" or "You wimp." Then Wolfram could sleep again and Yuuri could regain his patience. He only wanted to know for sure that Wolfram was alive; Yuuri wanted to know without a shadow of a doubt that he hadn't lost him. Wolfram had a long road ahead of him regardless of which side-effects remained. All Yuuri wanted to know was how long that road would be.
What would he do if Wolfram forgot who he was? What would he do if Wolfram couldn't even speak? If Wolfram ended up blind, how was Yuuri supposed to help him recover from the loss? If Wolfram could not even walk, how was Yuuri supposed to help him regain his pride?
"Mom and Dad are worried about you, you know," Shori said.
Yuuri snorted and took a final drag from his cigarette. "Why's that?"
"You gave them one hellava scare with that little transformation of yours."
"They've seen it before."
"Not like that," Shori said. "That was something else. They're used to random explosions and a lot of blustering bravado. This time you were eerily restrained."
"I had a lot on my mind."
"You sure you weren't just trying to escape?"
It was a thought that crossed his mind many times over the last three days. A number of his councilors certainly believed it. Gunter looked at him with sadness and pity in his eyes between the bars of a dungeon cell. Conrad grew cautious around him now, steered the conversation away from painful subjects, clasped Yuuri's shoulder like he could syphon off some of Yuuri's pain and bear it himself.
Now Shouri was accusing him of the very same thing, which likely meant his parents assumed it was an escape as well. They weren't entirely wrong to think so. He'd used it as an escape before. It was easier to let his consciousness slip away than to deal with the hard issues. If Wolfram died, Yuuri wouldn't have been able to face it.
It was a precaution, not an escape. He needed to keep it together the best he could. Relying on the Demon King was simply the only way he knew how.
"I had to stay focused," Yuuri said.
He crushed out the cigarette butt on the railing, and carelessly flicked it over the edge to watch it descend to the castle grounds far below them.
Yuuri felt a brief pang of guilt for littering, but he forced it aside. What difference did it make now?
"I would have been a mess if I hadn't," he continued. "Maybe I didn't seem calm, but that was as calm as I was going to get under the circumstances."
"He's going to be fine, Yuu-chan," Shori said.
"Is he? We don't know that yet. He could wake up next week and think he's thirty years old."
"What happened to your fearless optimism?"
"It died with Ilyich," Yuuri said.
"Who the hell is Ilyich?"
Shori looked at him, confused. Yuuri stared back levelly. He tried to convey the meaning in his gaze, but Shori either didn't get it or wanted it confirmed verbally.
Yuuri sighed and turned back to the railing. He leaned heavily against his elbows and dropped his head into his hands.
"I killed a man," he said.
"What?"
"I said I killed a man, Shori."
"I heard that," Shori said, "but I don't... what? How? When? Why?"
"You forgot the 'where'?" Yuuri offered.
The silence Shori met him with was deafening. Yuuri could feel his brother's stare as if Shori's eyes were boring holes into his soul. He scrubbed his hands over his hair, grumbled unintelligibly, suddenly tense and frustrated. The memories surfaced, and Wolfram wasn't there to shoo them away.
"During the war," he explained, "I went to the front lines."
"You what?!"
"I helped Gisela at the medical station. I... I needed to go. I needed to experience it. If my people were going to go off to war, I wasn't going to let them fight for a king who didn't even know what war was really like."
Shori pushed himself from the railing aggressively. He shook out his shoulders and began a round of relentless pacing across the balcony.
"And I thought I took it bad," Yuuri observed.
"What the hell are you even saying?!" Shori said.
"I'm saying I killed someone. That someone was a soldier from Isidore. His name was Ilyich. He came into my Kingdom when the boxes were opened and spied on us for three years, before he and his accomplice attacked Wolfram and Greta in my own bedroom while I was on Earth."
"Attacked how?!"
"They were going to rape Wolfram and make Greta watch," Yuuri said. He was surprised by how emotionless his voice sounded when the anger still burned hot in his chest.
It was the first time he'd said it out loud. Saying it made it real, reminded him how easily things could have ended that way. Neither Greta nor Wolfram ever spoke of it. Yuuri felt too much pity and sadness (and horror) for his daughter to force her to relive the experience by asking, and the few times he'd tried to get Wolfram to talk about it Wolfram would change the subject or clam up and refuse to speak.
But sometimes, late at night, Wolfram would mumble in his sleep, whimper and twist about like he was fighting off an attacker. Sometimes he would jerk up with a shout so loud and enraged he woke Yuuri from a deep sleep. Sometimes, during sex, Yuuri could see the memories in Wolfram's eyes. He knew Wolfram could still hear that man's voice, could still see his face and remember what it felt like to have Ilyich force him down.
Yuuri swallowed. His dropped his hands to the balcony railing. They shook noticeably.
"Ilyich escaped from prison and killed his accomplice. So when Isidore's soldiers attacked a village near the medical station and I saw Ilyich there, I went after him."
"Okay, Yuuri, stop, you don't have to tell me anymore."
He didn't stop. He couldn't. Now that he was finally opening up about it to his brother, he couldn't stop until he got it all out there.
Shori should know what sort of person his little brother had become.
"He killed Merry's mother right there, just like that, like she didn't even matter. I just... I lost it. I wanted him gone. I wanted him to pay for what he'd done to Wolfram and Greta. I wanted him to pay for what his soldiers were doing to my people. We fought, I stabbed him, he died. I regretted it back then."
Slowly Yuuri straightened, turned to face his brother and said numbly, "I don't regret it anymore."
Shori looked horrified. It was impossible to determine whether he was more appalled by what Yuuri had done or because of what Yuuri had to go through. Yuuri assumed it was a bit of both. His older brother looked at him and saw him as little Yuu-chan, and couldn't reconcile that image with what Yuuri was telling him.
"Wolfram said it made me a better man. That I could regret it," he said. "What kind of man does that make me now?"
"Yuuri..." Shori breathed.
"Do me a favor? Don't tell Mom and Dad. They don't need to hear any of that."
"Why are you telling me?"
Yuuri shrugged again. He pulled another hand through his hair, took a deep breath and released it like it could help release him from the shame. Then Yuuri dug around in his pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes again. He drew one out and lit it with magic.
"You wanted to know what happened to my optimism."
"Come on, Yuu-chan, seriously."
That Shori could still use the term of endearment brought a laugh from Yuuri's throat.
"I guess I wanted you to understand the situation. It's easier to handle things like that when I transform. I can pretend it wasn't me."
"Then it is an escape."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's an excuse."
Shori said nothing else. Yuuri didn't think there was much left to say in the first place. His brother would need time to process it. Yuuri didn't even think he'd fully processed it and it'd been four years. But he didn't feel guilt anymore, just shame, and he wasn't sure if the shame was for what he'd done or for his lack of remorse.
They stood like that for some time—Shori struggling to find something to say, Yuuri smoking his cigarette and thinking about how complicated life had become in such a short time.
He never would have smoked at fifteen. Of course, he never would have killed anyone either. Back then, things like rape and death and war were things that happened to other people. He didn't like that they happened, he didn't like that such things existed, but as he wasn't face-to-face with them he didn't have to consider what he would do if either ever took place. He could feel pity and sympathy for others, support them in their time of need, and avoid the consequences because it hadn't happened to him.
There were two directions his life could have taken, Yuuri realized. He could have remained ignorant, kept his innocence and believed in the inherent good in people, ignoring or overlooking the bad so long as he was faced with a happy ending. Maybe then he wouldn't be so numb now. He wouldn't have known what it felt like to be truly angry; he wouldn't have known what it was like to have his sword impaled in someone's else's body; he wouldn't have known the horror and fear he now faced, because other people would be facing it for him.
But he'd gone down the second path, the path that took him to the darkness in the living soul. He chose to face rape, and war, and death head on, and he lost a large portion of his innocence in the process. He learned of bitterness and grief, he learned of loss and sorrow, and the silly, wide-eyed, naïve boy he used to be was gone.
Yuuri stared at the last burning embers of his cigarette and wondered where exactly it was the path had split. When had he chosen which road to take? The night he killed Ilyich? Before that? Was it the moment he'd chosen to go to war and face the horrors of the battlefield, or years ago when he'd decided he wasn't going to be a complacent King who sat in his castle and let his councilors handle his business for him?
He put out his cigarette on the balcony railing and flicked the remnants over the side like his first. It fell away like his childhood, never to be seen again.
When he turned to leave the balcony, Yuuri saw Shori staring at him as if he'd never quite seen him before. Shori's expression was not entirely appalled, though there remained a moderate amount of unease. For the most part he seemed amazed, like he was seeing Yuuri for the man he'd become and not the child he used to be for the first time.
If Shori approved of what he saw, Yuuri wouldn't know it then. He pushed himself away from the railing to make his way back inside.
"Come on," he said. "We've got interrogations to do."
"We?" Shori said. His voice choked off in surprise.
"Yeah, we. With Gwendal and Gunter stuck in the dungeon, I need another wingman."
"You have Murata, Conrad, and GeigenHuber. And that ginger haired guy with the dresses."
"I do," Yuuri agreed with a patient nod. "But three double-blacks make more of an impact than two."
He forced a smile. It wasn't a joke, but it sounded like one. Yuuri was pleased to know his voice could still function properly and express amusement.
"Besides, if you're not going to go back to ruling your own Kingdom, you could at least help me with mine," he added.
Shori snorted, and it was as if the two of them were sharing a private joke.
Like they used to when they were young. It was a good sign.
"A planet," Shori corrected him. "I rule a planet."
Needless to say, Shori followed.
The messenger came with the royal summons just as they neared her border.
Julius planned the operation carefully. Confident as he was that he would succeed, he nevertheless enacted a few precautions. The plan would not take effect until he was clear of the castle. In the event that it failed he would not be within reach, and Elise would have what she needed to fend for herself. The King would not harm her, he was sure, for she was innocent. If she lost her place at court because of his crimes, it would be a small price to pay for vengeance; if banished to the Mannheim estate, she would be safe there.
The maid could not be entirely depended upon to keep her silence, fearful though she was for her family. She would not be compensated for her troubles, whatever he'd promised her in the guest wing. She was but a scapegoat, a pawn in his game of revenge.
"Your Excellency," the messenger was escorted into his tent. They'd set up camp just miles from the border with Cimaron.
"An urgent message from His Majesty."
"Give it here," Julius instructed. He did not look at the messenger, but perused a stack of paperwork and held out his hand for the missive as if unconcerned by his arrival.
The messenger placed folded parchment into his hand, sealed with red wax stamped with the royal insignia. Julius held it over the flame of a candle long enough to soften the wax, and opened it without looking at it. He paused for a long moment. Within the large tent, there was only silence; outside the canvas walls, the sound of soldiers enjoying their dinner.
A minute passed. Two. The messenger shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat like he meant to catch Julius's attention.
Finally, Julius set aside his paperwork, adjusted his weight in his seat, leaning into the back of a rough wooden chair as he unfolded the parchment to read its contents.
"To His Excellency, Lord Julius von Mannheim,
You are hereby ordered to return in haste to Blood Pledge Castle by His Majesty King Yuuri. The escort to Cimaron will henceforth be led and commanded by Lieutenant Dietrich Bauer.
Awaiting your return,
Murata Ken."
The Great Sage. So the King had not seen fit to send the summons personally.
Suitably intrigued, Julius made to read the message a second time as he said, "What has happened?"
The messenger shifted on his feet again. Julius could have sworn he heard the man swallow audibly.
"His Majesty Prince Wolfram has been poisoned, My Lord."
Julius paused and waited for further news, but nothing was forthcoming and he could learn little else from the summons. He frowned, drummed his fingers against the scarred, war-beaten table that had seen many a battlefield.
"Will he recover?" he asked, the wording more appropriate than asking if the Prince had died.
If it was treason to foretell the King's death, it was equally so to suggest that of King Yuuri's consort, beloved as he was. Wrongly so, Julius thought, but all the same.
"It seems so, My Lord."
How? He'd come by a lethal dose of Dragon's Breath, the effects of which should have been quick. Prince Wolfram should have breathed his last breath at that banquet before dinner even ended, before he'd even so much as touched his food.
Prince Wolfram should be dead, Wolfgang should be suffering as Julius had suffered, and Julius should be free from suspicion, hundreds of miles away.
Had he been betrayed? The summons gave no indication that he was a suspect, but with his plans falling apart as they were Julius had no choice but to assume the worst. Who would have revealed him to the King? The maid knew not his name nor his face, nor how to find him should she desire. Winifred, Griselda, Marlena, and Auberon knew to feign ignorance. And indeed they were ignorant, for they had not known his method to be poison. Naturally, Elise would keep her silence, devise some means to prove his innocence.
Who, then? And why? The Kingdom would only prosper with Prince Wolfram's demise. The treasury would be saved from exhaustion, his comrades would regain their unquestioned authority. The King would grieve for a time, but he would move on as all men do when young love dies.
"Thanks be to the Great One," Julius said, playing his part accordingly. "I will depart immediately. Wait here and I will draft a return letter to His Majesty. You will take it ahead."
"Yes, My Lord."
Julius stood from his chair in a single fluid motion. He left the summons upon the table, crossed to a small writing desk where more paperwork sat waiting. From beneath a stack of unopened letters, Julius retrieved a letter opener in the form of a small sword, with rubies inlaid in the delicate hilt.
He knew what he must do.
He would not be returning to Blood Pledge Castle.
Julius was upon the messenger before the man was any the wiser. He curled a hand around the man's face from behind, held him steady, and opened his throat with the small blade. The messengers body jerked, blood sprayed from the wound, but he had no time to scream.
His victim fell to the floor in a pool of his own blood, body twitching as his eyes grew vacant. The table and chair had not be spared from the carnage, each dappled with blood. The summons lay open, stained red in places, soaking in a small puddle upon the table.
There was no sound but those made by the soldiers around the fire outside.
"Edmund!" Julius called.
Moments later, Julius's second-in-command, Lord Edmund Eckhart, entered the tent. He glanced at the body at his feet but gave no indication that the sight disturbed him. Rather, he looked to Julius and awaited his orders.
"Dispose of this," Julius said. He motioned to the body as if it were little more than a sack of garbage. "We will be departing momentarily. Send the rest ahead to Cimaron. They will be led by Lieutenant Bauer."
Julius threw the letter opener onto the table and retrieved the summons. He touched a spot of blood with his thumb and thought of the King, burdened by an incompetent Consort and led astray by his councilors. They could never hope to lead His Majesty to the glory he should rightly claim.
"Will we not join the rest in Cimaron, Your Excellency?" Edmund said.
Julius smirked, chuckled quietly, and held the summons over the candle-flame.
"Not quite."
"Wolfram... Wolfram..."
The voices grew louder.
He could recognize them now, but they remained distant. There was his mother, weeping, no doubt, over his prone form. And Greta. She was there too, but her voice sounded strange, not young and sweet as he remembered. Perhaps there was a simple explanation for it. She was overcome by grief; she wept beside his mother, harsh sobs that tore through her throat and roughened her voice.
He heard Elizabeth, too, and for a moment he thought he felt her hand by his face. It carded through his hair, brushed his bangs from his forehead, patted his cheek like she meant to emulate the slap he'd bestowed upon her accidentally, long ago when they were children.
The pain was never-ending. It dragged him down, down, down into the darkness of non-memory.
"Mama... Wo-fu Mama..."
Whose voice was that? A child?
Confusion joined the pain. Suddenly overcome by the sense that something wasn't quite right, he tried to lift his body. If he could prop himself onto his elbows, if he could rise and sit, perhaps he would be able to find his body and break through the darkness.
But that made no sense. He needed a body to move.
Calm, he told himself. Be calm and think.
If he could feel pain, logic dictated that he must still have a body. If he still had a body and retained some sort of consciousness, that must mean his soul had not yet left. He was not dead, but he was not wholly alive, stuck in this dream-world with no visible way out.
How had he ended up here? Perhaps it was not his heart, after all. He remembered that, the moment it was taken, though he'd seen it through hazy eyes. He didn't remember anything after, only nothingness. No pain, no sense of touch, no voices, just silence and darkness.
"Wolfram... Wolfram..."
He knew that voice, knew it as surely as he knew his own, though it was not so light and carefree as he thought it should be.
Open, he told his mouth. Speak.
It was an effort, but he heard his tired voice whisper, "Yuu... ri..."
The dungeons were dark and stuffy.
Yuuri always imaged they would be cold; they were, when the temperatures plummeted outside. They reflected the seasons—hot on the hottest days, and chilly on the colder ones. Yet there was always a heavy staleness in the air, of musk and unwashed skin, the scent of shit, piss, and old blood.
When he'd come to release Greta from her prison, he'd gagged. He'd nearly cried for the poor child confined there, whether or not she was concerned for herself. He made a point of keeping the dungeons empty after that. Those who'd committed petty crimes were released; those responsible for the more heinous ones were handled by Gwendal while Yuuri was on Earth.
Once he'd been ignorant of it. Now, he was sure he knew what happened to them.
"Where were you the evening Prince Wolfram was poisoned?" Murata said.
The interrogation room was a dark, dank cell with thick stone walls and a heavy wooden door. A single table with two chairs on either side took up the most space, beneath a small, barred window set high in the wall. If there had been no clouds to cover its face, they might have seen the moon.
Ilyich was in here before, Yuuri remembered. It was not the first time Yuuri had conducted an interrogation himself, and it would not be the last, but it was certainly the most memorable. Before, his methods had been innocent, not ignorant of the ways of the world, but defiant of them. He'd treated his prisoners with dignity and respect because he thought it was what all living beings deserved. It would be what made his country great, he told himself.
With Ilyich he'd finally realized that kindness and sympathy were not for everyone. Ilyich struck a low blow, and Yuuri responded accordingly. He let himself be fueled by anger; he resorted to threats, and was surprised that he actually intended to carry through with them if provoked. Before, he hadn't known he had it in him.
Yuuri sat in one of the chairs at the table, Murata standing beside him. Conrad sat in an extra chair at the end of the table, rolls of parchment unfurled before him as he took notes. Gegenhuber and Yozak guarded the door from the inside, watching each subsequent exchange with increasing interest. Shori stood in one corner, his arms crossed as he looked on with a growing sense of unease.
"Have Lords von Voltaire and von Christ been released?"
Their prisoner sat in the chair across from Yuuri, stiff backed and tight-lipped. Winifred von Yale took poorly to prison, being an old woman in such rough confines. Her hair was unwashed; strands of it constantly escaped their once tight bindings. Her clothing was wrinkled, her jewelry losing its luster. She looked pale and tired, with small, beady, blood-shot eyes, as if she'd not slept in days.
She should have. There were cots in the dungeon. Yuuri made sure each cell had one.
Perhaps she'd not wanted to in some foolish attempt at rebellion.
"The fate of Lords von Voltaire and von Christ is none of your concern," Murata said.
"And Captain von Bielefeld?"
"Admiral," Yuuri corrected her.
"I did not see them when the guards saw fit to drag me to this room," Winifred sniffed imperiously.
"If you were dragged," Yuuri said, "it was only after you began to resist."
Winifred speared him with a cold glare, which Yuuri met with such an impassive expression he imagined Gwendal, had he been there, would have been proud.
"Where were you the evening Prince Wolfram was poisoned?" Murata said again.
"We've been over this," Winifred insisted. "Many times. My answer remains the same. I was at the banquet held in honor of Your Eminence's marriage to Her Grace the Lady Elizabeth."
"Where were you before that?"
"My presence was required at the Great One's Temple, to witness the aforementioned nuptials."
"Before that?"
"Oh, for goodness sake!" Winifred snapped. She seethed at them both and struggled against the chains that kept her arms fastened to the arms of the chair. "I know not who poisoned Prince Wolfram, but it was not I! When will you cease these pointless interrogations and begin your search for a more legitimate culprit?!"
"The court knows you and Wolfram are enemies," Yuuri said.
"And I have no more poisoned him than he has poisoned me! I assure you, I have more dignity than that, Your Majesty. Prince Wolfram is a disgrace to the name of our great Kingdom, but he is also not worth the time and effort it would take me to concoct such a plan! I beg you to cast your eyes on younger foes!"
Yuuri sighed and exchanged a look with Murata, who waved a hand for Yozak and GegenHuber to come forward and release Winifred from the chair.
"Return her to her cell," Murata said, "until such a time as she deems it appropriate to offer her cooperation."
"You will live to regret this!" Winifred shrieked on her way out of the interrogation room. She twisted in the hold Yozak and GegenHuber had on her, struggling to release her arms from their hands. "This is unlawful imprisonment and your people will know it!"
Neither Yuuri nor Murata said anything in response. Yuuri refused to even look at her as she was taken around the table and pulled from the room. Murata simply glanced over his shoulder and said, "Bring Lord von Bielefeld when you return."
The room grew quiet when Winifred was removed. Her shouts could still be heard as she was taken down the hall, her voice echoing off of the stones, but it drifted further and further away until it no longer reached their ears. Then all Yuuri heard was a constant drip-drip-drip of an as yet undetermined leak.
He sighed heavily and allowed himself to relax during the lull. He'd lost count of how many interrogations they'd been through in the last week. They all streamed together at this point; they were all roughly the same. Either they cooperated and were released, like Gwendal, Gunter, Wolfgang, Densham, and Odell, or they made a play at defiance like Winifred. Griselda and Marlena remained in their cells, each refusing to speak. Stoffel sat in misery, no more guilty than Gwendal or Gunter, but kept away for a time sufficient for a former criminal to be believably absolved of any wrong doing.
Shori shifted in the corner. Yuuri cast a brief look over his shoulder and met his brother's eye. Shori was clearly not comfortable with the proceedings. Of course he wouldn't be; he had no use for such things on Earth. Shori was fortunate to oversee a world where the Humans and Demons were largely at peace. He had no reason to fear poison, nor any reason to go to war, for what wars took place on Earth were between individual countries. None were fought against him.
"You can leave if you want," Yuuri told him.
His brother shook his head, his expression resolute.
Yozak and GegenHuber returned with Auberon between them. Shori shut the door to the chamber while Yozak and Hube brought Auberon to the chair and fastened his shackles to the arms.
Auberon looked no different than Winifred. His hair was unwashed and looked unkept, his clothes obviously worn for a number of days. He'd removed his jacket and accoutrements some time after being placed in his cell, leaving him in nothing more than his shirt, shoes, and trousers.
"Lord Auberon von Bielefeld," Murata began. "Where were you the evening Prince Wolfram was poisoned?"
"I attended the banquet held in Your Eminence's honor," Auberon said.
"Where were you before that?"
Auberon grit his teeth and shot a glare up at Murata.
"Is this necessary?" he said. "Surely Your Eminence remembers I attended your wedding ceremony."
"Before," Yuuri began, "the night of my birthday party, you spoke to me about Wolfram."
"I did," Auberon agreed.
"Would you care to revisit that conversation?"
"Which part, Your Majesty?"
"The rumors. The ones you said were going around court. You said, 'the court is not as happy a place as it appears.'"
"Yes, Your Majesty, I did" Auberon said.
"Would you care to elaborate on that?" Murata said.
"Surely you are aware that there are many people who remain displeased with Prince Wolfram."
"Enough to poison him?"
"Some, yes, Your Eminence."
"Then you know who it was," Yuuri said.
"Those were not my words, Your Majesty."
"But there's someone you suspect."
Auberon fell silent. He met Yuuri and Murata with an obstinate glare. Yuuri was prepared for the use of threats. If Auberon knew something, and Yuuri was fairly certain he did, they were going to get the information out of him one way or the other.
At the end of the able, Conrad stopped dictating the interrogation. He looked up expectantly, waiting for Auberon to continue. Shori shifted in the corner again, perhaps having second thoughts about his decision to stay. Yozak looked no less bored than usual, though there was a spark in his eye that only seemed to be there when he was on a mission. GegenHuber looked merciless and vengeful on Gwendal's behalf. Out of them all, Yuuri suspected Hube would be the first to suggest torture.
It was not an appealing thought—and against the law, at that. As a nobleman, and especially as an Aristocrat, the law protected Auberon from such practices. Yet, to find the culprit, Yuuri could not pretend he couldn't be swayed by a carefully crafted argument.
And that disgusted him. He felt sick to his stomach, wished he could go back and redo everything from the year of the boxes on.
Auberon adjusted his position in his chair. The chains around his arms clinked against the wood. He stared down at them and seemed to fall into deep thought. Yuuri watched the expressions that flitted across his face, from irritation to anger, and from anger to fatigue. From there, it made a shift toward complacency.
"Julius," he said.
Yuuri gave a start. By the door, GegenHuber made a move as if he intended to leave that very moment and apprehend the man in question. Conrad's expression was carefully blank, but by the way his hand tightened around his quill, Yuuri knew that he was furious.
"What?" Yuuri said. The announcement left him bewildered.
"You heard me," Auberon scoffed. "I said it was Julius."
"But... how do you know?"
"He requested my presence in the guest wing, with Ladies von Yale, von Hassel, and von Grantz. He spoke of a plan to strip Prince Wolfram from power. I did not know he meant poison. He would not reveal his methods."
"And you... you didn't think to tell me... until now?"
Auberon was silent once again, perhaps aware that he had not tread as lightly as he should have.
Julius. Julius. He'd not suspected Julius. Julius was one of his most well-respected Generals. He and Gwendal were revered for their military prowess and staunch leadership during the war with Cimaron. Julius, along with Adalbert, had defended their borders against Cimaron and Isidore's Black Knights. Julius was agreeable, open to compromise. Julius was loyal to him. He was not argumentative like Auberon, or irascible like Winifred. He was the only moderate on a council split nearly in half.
Why. Why would Julius do this? He'd never given any indication that he meant to cause Wolfram harm. Yuuri had always suspected Julius held no fondness towards Wolfram, but he'd thought him able to overlook his disapproval for the sake of the Kingdom. Wolfram never showed himself to be a threat toward Julius the way he was with the more conservative Aristocrats. Julius had no reason, nothing to hold against-
And then it hit him. It was not a sudden strike of inspiration like a lightning bolt going off in his head; it built slowly like the ocean waves, bringing forth memories from the depths of his mind.
Julius's son died in Bastille. Julius's son was murdered by Wolfgang von Bielefeld. Julius never forgave Wolfgang, and while Julius may have nothing personally against Wolfram, he certainly had enough to hold against his family.
But this?
Poison?
Treason?
Was Julius's desire for revenge so strong that he would betray Yuuri in the process?
"The maid..." he tried, well aware that he was likely grasping at straws. "She saw a ring. There was a family crest on it. An eagle..."
"As you know, my niece was married to Lord von Mannheim's son," Auberon said. "Her signet ring was never recovered after her death."
Yuuri's blood ran cold the same time hot anger erupted in his chest.
It made sense now. It all made sense. And he'd been stupid enough to believe. After everything, after all he'd been through, he was still so blind. He couldn't spot treachery until it was staring him in the face. First a spy in their midst; now treason from one of their own. Was he still so naïve? Was he still so hopeful that he refused to see until he could no longer avoid it?
Had his weakness led to Wolfram's poisoning? If he'd been a stronger King, a wiser King, could he have prevented it?
Slowly, Yuuri's consciousness slipped back, sliding toward darkness. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a faint blue light shimmer around the outline of his body. Across from him, Auberon's eyes grew wide.
Yuuri was dimly aware of standing from his chair and turning to Yozak and GegenHuber.
"Bring him to me," he said.
The dark dream-world lingered, and he floated there as if stuck in an eternity of misery. The voices came and went, along with with sporadic touches. Once he was aware of warm liquid sliding down his throat. It tasted of tea and broth.
The pain faded. It had not yet left completely, but it grew tolerable as the burning sensation diminished to a mild ache. He could handle it. He'd experienced worse in his life.
But the darkness disturbed him. He moved to reach out, to turn on a light, but his hand met nothing but air. He did not even know if he'd managed to move his arm properly. His twitched his toes and thought he felt something covering them. A blanket, perhaps? Was he in a bed? It was difficult to tell with his mind so numb and his eyes closed.
Wake up, he told himself. Wake up!
He awoke with a gasp, choking on air as his heart pounded away in his chest. He moved his fingers and gripped the covers with his hands, shifted his legs and felt how fatigued they were, as if they'd not been used in some time. A strand of hair tickled the side of his face by his ear; he shook his head to be rid of it and felt the softness of a pillow give beneath him. The clothing he wore draped loosely around him. One of his nightgowns?
Two broad hands came upon his shoulders, pushing him back as he attempted to sit. A voice shushed him, low and quiet.
"Shhh, Wolfram."
"Good morning, Prince Wolfram."
"No," Wolfram said. His voice sounded rough to his own ears. "No no no."
He struggled, flinched away from the hands and brought his fists up to force them off, but they held tight.
"Shhh, it's okay, Wolfram. It's okay, it's just me."
"If you give me any trouble, I'll cut her pretty head off."
"Stop! No no no, stop, stop!"
"Wolfram! Wolfram, it's Yuuri!"
"Yuuri?"
He stopped struggling. His breathing came in ragged gasps. His throat felt dry, unused. His hands shook against a warm, solid chest.
"Yuuri?"
"Yes... yes, Wolfram, it's me. It's okay. You've been out for twelve days."
"What?"
What did he mean? He'd only been sleeping. He remembered the dream-world, the voices, the phantom pain...
Only it hadn't been a phantom, had it? He could feel the remnants, just there, just enough to prick his senses. His hands trembled uncontrollably, not from fear, but by some compulsion he had no power over. He felt weak and dazed. His stomach hurt. He felt sick and heavy.
Bedridden. He'd been bedridden.
"Don't you remember?" Yuuri said. His voice was soft. His hands released Wolfram's shoulders to take Wolfram's face between his palms. "You were poisoned."
"Poison?"
Yes, that's right. They'd been dancing. It was... a banquet of some sort. His Eminence and Elizabeth sat at the high table. Yuuri wore black, white, and purple. His formal crown sat heavily on his head. Wolfram wore a delicate coronet from the castle treasure vault. Greta... she'd been in purple, too. And Elizabeth...
She'd been beautiful.
The wedding. There'd be a wedding. He remembered the rings. He remembered the longing feeling in his chest as Elizabeth said her vows.
"Poison..." he said again.
It came suddenly, the poison did. One moment he felt fine, and the next he'd been on the floor in Yuuri's arms. He'd known then what was happening. There was no doubt in his mind; it was the only explanation. But who? And why?
"It's okay," Yuuri said. He shushed Wolfram softly.
Wolfram felt a kiss placed along his brow.
"It's okay, Wolfram. You're going to be okay now."
"Yuuri..."
Wolfram wanted to see him. He wanted to open his eyes, finally escape that dark dream-world and leave the shadows behind. He wanted to see Yuuri's face, to look into his eyes and feel relief.
But nothing happened. The darkness and the shadows remained.
"Yuuri... why can't I open my eyes?"
Yuuri sucked in a breath. Seconds ticked by in silence. Wolfram shivered. He expected he knew the answer before Yuuri said anything.
"Wolfram..." Yuuri's voice sounded broken. "They're already open."
TBC...