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/non-consensual sex, 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: I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out! I have this story planned out from beginning to end but sometimes it's still difficult to find the words. I'm still not happy with my writing style. This chapter in particular feels a little short ands tilted to me. I apologize for that as well.
Like, sometimes I read my stuff and just bash my head against the desk because seriously how much more awful can it get?
Between Kings
by Mikage
Chapter Seven – Silence
Yuuri awoke to a splitting headache.
Of three things he was certain as he slipped back into consciousness. First, that he had passed the night in his office. The couch was firm against his back. He felt cramped, for it was not as spacious as the wide bed he was used to.
Second, that night had given way to morning. The sun streamed in through the windows, its light dulled by a graying sky. Yuuri could hear the distant voices of soldiers beginning their daily training. Out in the hall, he heard the footfalls along the floor that signified the changing of the guard.
Third—and most important—that he was not alone.
A noticeable weight rested against his left side, wedged between himself and the back of the couch in what Yuuri could only assume must be an uncomfortable position. The heavy fabric of a full dress skirt was spread over his legs, and someone's hair tickled the side of his face. Yuuri inhaled deeply but did not pick up the familiar smell of soap and rose oil. Yet whatever the smell was, it was floral and pungent, and so familiar, like something long forgotten...
Memories from the previous evening flooded his mind—his paperwork, Elise, the wine. He remembered growing tired; he remembered trying to make it back to his room, but the office was hot and stifling and he felt so overstimulated, so... so...
He felt desire, but the recipient of that desire had not been Wolfram.
Yuuri jerked further awake. His eyes popped open. He sat up quickly but soon regretted it, as his head spun and his stomach twisted, threatening to send up whatever remained within it. He groaned, brought his hands to his face to block out the sunlight and the movement beside him.
The wine... he'd drank too much wine...
"Your Majesty?"
Elise was still there. Yuuri didn't need to see her to register her presence. She was there with her dress hiked up and her hair mused, and there he was with his pants undone, fighting a hangover.
"Shit," he swore.
What had he done?
What had he done? What had he been thinking?
Nothing. He'd thought nothing.
But he could remember Elise beneath him. He could remember kissing her, thrusting within her. Suddenly he felt sick from more than the wine. He was sick with shame, with guilt, horrified and embarrassed and tormented by the thought of what he'd done. That she was still there, that she'd fallen asleep beside him... it was too private, too intimate. These moments were for Wolfram, not for the noble daughter of a known traitor.
"I was drunk," he said, as if saying it out-loud absolved him of any blame.
It didn't, of course. It was no excuse.
Then why? Why?
"Your Majesty..."
He forced himself to look at her, lowered his hands and opened his eyes and made himself see. Elise shifted in place, her expression the very picture of concern. She straightened her dress the best she was able while sitting.
She was a beautiful woman, all long, dark brown hair and startlingly green eyes—startling like Wolfram's had been before the poison dulled their depths. There was something very proper and controlled about Elise. She was dignified. She held her head up with pride even in the face of her father's disgrace.
But she wasn't Wolfram. How could he ever have mistaken the two?
"I was drunk," he said again.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And you... you were... Oh God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... Elise... this was a mistake..."
Yuuri rose from the couch. His head spun as he pulled himself upright. He stumbled on unsteady feet. The motion sent him back a few steps until the edge of his desk brought him to a stop. He grasped onto the side of it for support. His breathing was erratic, strained by the horror of the situation.
"Your Majesty..."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."
"It's alright, Your Majesty," Elise said.
She stood to her feet as well, smoothed out the skirt of her dress and brought her hands up to fix her hair. She did not sound angry. In fact, she didn't sound upset at all. Instead, she was concerned but calm in the face of his panic—patient and understanding.
She shouldn't be so calm, Yuuri thought. She should be upset. He'd come onto her while he'd been drunk, and she would have had no choice but to let him. A noblewoman of her standing in the situation Elise found herself in due to her father's rash actions... she wouldn't have said "no" even if she wanted to.
"It's not alright," he said. He brought his hands to his face again and hid behind his palms.
"Your Majesty..."
"This shouldn't have happened. This can't happen. You have to understand."
"I do understand, Your Majesty. I'll not speak a word of this to anyone. Prince Wolfram will never know."
Yuuri groaned pitifully. He thought he might cry, thinking of Wolfram in their bedchamber, unable to see, barely able to function on his own. What would Wolfram think? What would he say? If he ever found out...
He couldn't. Not now. Not yet. This... this would destroy him when he was only just getting some of his strength back. To be faced with something like this at such a time as this... it wouldn't be good for Wolfram. It would set his recovery back by weeks. Yuuri couldn't do that to him. Not like this.
A part of Yuuri thought Wolfram might be understanding. It wasn't like Yuuri to drink so much. He'd not known how it would affect him. Surely Wolfram would know that. He would be angry, of course. Distraught. But he would understand, wouldn't he? He would know Yuuri hadn't meant to do it. He'd only had too much wine. Without it, nothing of what he'd done with Elise would have happened.
And it would never happen again. Yuuri would make sure of that.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
"You've not need to apologize, Your Majesty," Elise countered. "It was an honor."
"No," Yuuri said. His stomach gave a sickening twist. "God, no, don't say things like that."
An honor...
What was honor?
Years ago Yuuri might have had the answer. Now he wasn't sure he knew what that answer was.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," Elise said. She lowered her eyes. Yuuri thought it might have been in shame. "We'll not speak of this again."
He thought he should have continued to apologize. He should have fallen onto his knees and asked for her forgiveness. He should be offering her comfort. Instead, she was comforting him, saying whatever it took to ease his mind when he held all the power, and she had none.
He felt sick. Unsure whether it was from the wine or the knowledge of what he'd done, Yuuri decided making a quick getaway would be for the best for the both of them. He couldn't expect Elise to deal with him like this, not after what he'd already done. He needed... something. Time, perhaps. Distance. Space. Every part of him screamed to put as much space between them as possible.
"Return to your room," he said.
It sounded too harsh and he winced. Elise didn't flinch away from him, but she frowned slightly. Yuuri though she might look sad.
"Yes, of course," she said.
She dipped a low curtsy. Yuuri shook his head and turned away.
Why wasn't she leaving? Why hadn't she gone from the room when they'd both woken up? Why hadn't she left the evening before once he'd fallen asleep? What compelled her to stay?
Idly he wondered if this somehow meant more to her than what he assumed it to be, and that thought struck more fear into him than the thought that he'd taken advantage of her. If she had... feelings for him...
The thought was preposterous, after all that he'd done to her. Imprisoning her in the dungeon. Putting her under house-arrest. Accusing her of treason. He'd done nothing more than confine her and bring her pain. Yuuri didn't think he deserved her forgiveness or her loyalty; he certainly didn't think he deserved anything more.
Yuuri swallowed thickly, righted his pants, and went to the door. He practically ripped it open, pulling it inward with an unnecessary amount of force that nearly took it from its hinges.
And there, standing with her fist poised to knock, was the nanny—Kat Algren.
"Your Majesty...?"
She wore her confusion on her face when she looked at him, but a quick glance beyond his shoulder told her everything she needed to know.
Yuuri's face blanched. Kat looked up at him with wide eyes. The guards shifted uncomfortably at the door. Behind him, Yuuri felt Elise drawing closer. She edged passed him and slipped by Kat, scampering down the hall without so much as a fleeting look back.
One of the guards cleared his throat and knocked both Kat and Yuuri out of their respective stupors.
"Prince Wolfram was asking after you," Kat said. She took a few steps back like she meant to make a hasty departure.
Before he could think better of it, Yuuri grabbed Kat by the arms and held her in place. Her head whipped up to look at him again, and for a moment Yuuri was struck by the look of fear upon her face.
She was afraid of him. Why? Because of what he'd done? Because of what he was capable of?
He loosened his grip on her arms and hoped the look upon his face was beseeching as he said, "You're sworn to silence. All of you," he added, for the benefit of the guards.
Kat looked as if she might argue. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself before she could so much as speak a single word. She hung her head in silence and made no further struggle to remove herself from Yuuri's grasp. Eventually she nodded, and sagged within his grasp as if what he'd asked of her was too heavy for her to bear.
"I'm sorry," Yuuri said when he released her.
She shook her head and backed away. She would not look at him again.
"Apologize to Prince Wolfram," she said.
Then she turned and walked away.
Yuuri sank against the doorway and dropped his head back into his hands.
"Lord Adla!" Julius called as he rode up to the scene of carnage and destruction. "A word, if you please."
He knew the village intimately; it served as an outpost and a store for supplies and armaments. It was one of the closest towns to the border and therefore heavily fortified. Walled, gated, and home to at least fifty soldiers, it was designed and built to withstand border attacks and raids. Early in his military career, long before Julius received his first promotion that led him on a steady track to General, he had been stationed here. He could still remember the layout of the barracks.
Those barracks were now aflame. The village streets were littered with bodies and stained with blood, the gates torn from their hinges, the great stone wall destroyed to the east, now no more than piles of rubble. Smoke hung heavy in the air, carrying the scent of death to the heavens above, where it blotted out the silver light of the stars.
Louis Adla stood in the center of it all, dressed in black and weighed down by armor. He held a sword in one hand and a parrying dagger in the other. Both were soaked with blood. Rivers of it streaked down his face, and parts of his hair were matted and stained. His armor and clothing were covered, darker in places where the blood had soaked through.
None of it was his own.
"You are foolish to cross the border a wanted man," Lord Adla greeted him. He stepped over a pair of bodies as he sheathed both of his blades. "Return to Cimaron."
Julius ignored the demand to issue one of his own. "Cease your attacks against my people."
Lord Adla laughed coldly. "What does a traitor care for peasants and men of low rank?"
"The Bielefelds are my enemies. My people are not."
"Is there such a distinction when the Bielefelds remain in power?"
"These were innocent men," Julius insisted.
"In war, there are no innocent men."
Julius remained upon his horse, staring down at the young duke with his face contorted by anger. He may have been marked a traitor due to his actions against the Prince, but he was still a man of honor, and honorable men did not attack defenseless women and children, or soldiers in peace time.
Bristling with outrage, Julius said, "Then your King is prepared to war with the Great Demon Kingdom?"
"My King has been prepared from the start," Lord Adla said. His lips curved into a cold smirk.
Julius did not yet know what to think of the young Duke. He was a swordsman to rival Lord Weller, but he bore not a trace of humanity. There was no warmth to him, no feeling. He existed purely to execute the orders of a King ruled by his own desires.
"His Majesty Lyron swore to end these attacks," Julius said.
Lord Adla's brow quirked but his eyes were empty of emotion—the closest he would come to showing curiosity. "You know of this?"
"I am well informed."
"Then you should also know that His Majesty is not pleased by your attempt to poison Prince Wolfram."
Julius gnashed his teeth together, his hands tight on the reins.
Lord Adla's smirk only grew. Again, it did not reach his eyes.
"You are a traitor to more than one King," he said.
"The Prince is alive."
"But that was not your intention, was it?"
"Your King has broken his agreement! The Black Knights were never to cross into our lands!"
"If you expected my King to keep his word, you are more of a fool than I thought," Lord Adla said.
"Your King has no honor," Julius ground out.
"What is honor?"
One of Julius's hands released the reins and made to go for the hilt of his sword. Lord Adla's was on the hilt of his first. There was a warning in his eyes. Julius's hand paused and twitched at his side.
If he was no match for Lord Weller, he would be no match for Louis Adla, certainly not with the Black Knights falling into place behind the young Duke, hands ready to draw their blades in an instant should Julius follow through with his silent threat.
"My King has no need of honor," Lord Adla said. His hand fell away from his sword hilt, unconcerned. "Perhaps your King will one day learn that war is no place for such things."
"His Majesty King Yuuri will not stand for this."
Lord Adla's laugh was as cold and emotionless as the rest of him. "How touching it is that you speak for a King who has labeled you a traitor."
"I am no traitor," Julius seethed.
It was he who had been betrayed. The Bielefelds were a clan of deceivers. They hung onto the coattails of those more powerful and rode them into positions of influence. First Wolfgang with Queen Cecilie, and now Prince Wolfram with King Yuuri. They desired nothing but power and control over the Kingdom, and when they had it there was no justice for those who had been wronged by them.
Julius's son was dead at the hands of a Bielefeld, and yet no Bielefeld had ever been held accountable. Wolfgang escaped with no more than a slap on the wrist, freed by a Queen overcome by emotion, despite the courts deeming that he was guilty.
They would pay for their guilt, one way or another.
Julius looked around the scene in disgust, eyeing Louis Adla and his Black Knights at the same time his eyes skimmed over the inert forms of the dead. And he wondered, was this his only path to vengeance? Was this his only choice? Must he condone such actions for the sake of attaining justice?
He did not want to. There was a fine line between honor and treachery, and Lyron fell on the wrong side of it.
Yet Julius had been feeding him information all these years, waiting for the day when Wolfgang would lose his son as a result. He had kept his silence during the last war, had faced countless scenes like this with a grim determination, with the hope that one day his efforts would pay off, and all these sacrifices would not be made in vain.
Now, with the outcome he desired so close at hand, he could not be sure how much more he could stomach.
"Go about your business," he said, returning both hands to the reins.
Lord Adla's smirk never left his face.
Julius turned his horse and rode for the border, putting the village, his memories, and his honor behind him.
What was left for him to lose?
The longer he remained bedridden, the more restless Wolfram became. Weak though he might be, he ached for mobility and longed for a change in scenery, though his vision remained impaired. He saw shadows and movement, but color and clarity were slow to return. His world was as dark as that which had plagued his dreams the days following his ingestion of the poison. With so little improvement, Wolfram had already given up hope of ever seeing again.
It should have bothered him more. He should have been as enraged as he was when he awoke to learn what had been done to him, and by whom. There remained a small fire of anger which burned low in his gut, but in the weeks since the banquet it had been overcome by sadness and lethargy. The immobility was worse, he'd decided. He could tolerate not being able to see if he could only get around on his own. If he had more of Yuuri's company than short, sporadic visits devoid of intimacy, he might have been able to find some hope in the situation.
Instead there was nothing but the unceasing darkness and the misery, the torment of knowing that Yuuri could not bear to see him.
"He's determined to find Lord von Mannheim," Greta explained.
It was a line he'd heard repetitively since waking—from his mother, from his brothers, from Elizabeth, Katherine, and Greta. They said it as if Yuuri's intentions made up for his absence, as if his anger and determination to bring the culprit to justice were more important than Wolfram's need for comfort and support. He had others to give him those things in Yuuri's absence, after all. He should expect his relationship with his husband to be different in times of hardship. Yuuri was the King. He had more than Wolfram to worry about.
But it was not enough and they all knew it. Wolfram knew they did. If they could not tell by his words and actions, then surely they knew by his long silences. He grew quiet and grave. When the anger abated, they should have known something was wrong. None of them were so ignorant as to mistake his moods.
It was as if their relationship had returned to the state in which it had been before their wedding. When they embraced, Yuuri never kept his arms around Wolfram for long, choosing instead to keep Wolfram at arm's length. Rare were the times now when Yuuri's mouth would meet Wolfram's own. Instead, Yuuri would plant a kiss onto Wolfram's forehead, or brush his lips against Wolfram's cheek. There was a sudden distance between them that no one could miss. It had been weeks since Yuuri had touched him with anything bordering on intimacy.
Wolfram should have been relieved. By all accounts, intimacy should have been the furthest thing from his mind. He was still recovering. His vision was compromised and he could not walk unassisted. He was tired and irritable, weak; every so often his body was overcome by tremors. He was in no condition for physical intimacy, and his emotions were in such disarray Wolfram couldn't even be sure he could handle intimacy of the more emotional sort.
Yet all the same, he craved it. He found that he required the validation. He needed to know that, though things had changed all around them, what existed between he had Yuuri was still the same.
So uncommon was it for Yuuri to even enter their bedchamber that Wolfram jolted awake one night when he did in the middle of winter. He could tell it was Yuuri by the sound of his footfalls, which dragged along the floor tiredly. They stopped when Wolfram stirred and pushed himself up in bed.
"Yuuri...?"
"Go back to sleep, Wolf."
Yuuri's voice sounded so tired, and so sad.
"What are you doing?" Wolfram said.
"Just getting a change of clothes."
Desperate for things between them to return to how they used to be, Wolfram slid from the bed and attempted to make his way in the direction where he was sure Yuuri's footfalls had come to a stop. Wolfram held out his arms, reaching for something he could not see. He thought he heard Yuuri make a choked sound, but it was so quiet Wolfram could not be sure he wasn't imagining it. Otherwise Yuuri said nothing, nor did he make any move to assist Wolfram as Wolfram's mother and Greta might have upon watching him struggle to his feet.
Wolfram made it five steps unassisted before his knees buckled and gave out. He cursed lowly and fell, fully prepared to hit the floor in an ungraceful heap when a pair of firm hands caught him under the arms. He fell into Yuuri's chest instead, solid and warm against Wolfram's wavering strength and the unrelenting chill that followed him.
For a few moments Wolfram didn't move. He leaned into Yuuri. He put his head to Yuuri's shoulder. He inhaled Yuuri's scent—the smell of ink and old papers, the smell of chewed mint, and of ash from the Earthen things he smoked when he was stressed. Wolfram held his breath to savor the smell. He let it out slowly. The buckling in his legs continued, but with Yuuri's support Wolfram was able to remain standing.
Wolfram slid his hands up Yuuri's chest and knew that Yuuri's jacket was missing, for the thinner fabric of Yuuri's shirt met his palms. He ghosted his hands up Yuuri's neck and brought them to Yuuri's face. It felt rough to the touch, as if Yuuri had gone days without shaving. Wolfram tried to imagine what it must look like but found the task impossible. He had never seen Yuuri with anything more than the patch of hair he'd grown on his chin. When Wolfram brought his hands higher, he found Yuuri's hair in disarray.
"Wolf..."
Wolfram marveled at how easy it was to find what he was searching for even though he could not see. He threaded his hands into Yuuri's hair, lifted his head up, and brought Yuuri's head down to meet him with an ease he'd thought impossible. But it was as if there were some invisible force showing him the way, guiding his lips along the path to Yuuri's.
The kiss was all gentleness—the softest press of lips. Wolfram sighed through his nose and leaned heavily against Yuuri. Now he could taste the mint and ash, now he could feel the beating of Yuuri's heart, the scratch of Yuuri's stubble along his bottom lip. At first, Yuuri fell into the kiss. He raised his hands to Wolfram's face and hummed in approval, but it did not last long. Eventually Yuuri seemed to regain control of himself, and he broke the kiss without warning.
"Wolf..."
"What?" Wolfram asked.
He moved in like he meant to retake Yuuri's lips. His attempts were thwarted when Yuuri pulled back.
"Wolf, stop."
"Why?"
He sounded petulant. He could hear it in his voice—demanding, like that of a child denied one of their whims. But he did not care. Wolfram would hear for himself why Yuuri refused to be close to him, even if it took him all night to pull it out of him.
"I just can't right now," Yuuri said.
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Wolf..."
"I never would have thought you would be the type to pull away the moment things became difficult."
Wolfram paused, chuckled derisively, and said, "Perhaps I was giving you too much credit. You are notorious for running away from me."
"Wolf, that's not fair."
"Not fair?" Wolfram said. He could hear the anger building in his voice. He felt Yuuri flinch. "How dare you complain to me about what's not fair! Do you think what happened to me is fair? What about the fact that you can't bear to be around me for more than a few moments? Is that fair?"
"That's not what I meant..."
"Isn't it?"
"Come on, Wolf, please don't do this."
"Does it hurt you to hear the truth?"
"It isn't true."
"Then why will you not stay?"
"I just... can't," Yuuri said.
"And I ask again. Can't, or won't?"
"I'm trying to do what's right."
"You spending every moment of every day in your office avoiding me isn't going to help us locate Julius any sooner!" Wolfram shouted.
He tore himself away from Yuuri in his anger. Wolfram stumbled back and fell, only just catching the mattress as he went down. He crouched there on the floor by the bed, cursing his new handicaps for making him so weak, and cursing Yuuri for being a coward about everything.
"Wolf..." Yuuri said, his voice quiet. Wolfram listened carefully, but Yuuri made no move toward him. "I'm sorry..."
"You're always sorry!" Wolfram spat.
"I know I've disappointed you. I'm always disappointing you."
"You wouldn't if you'd only be there for me."
"I'm sorry," Yuuri said. "I don't know what else to say."
And that was the heart of the matter. Neither of them knew quite what to say to the other. Yuuri had never been good with words and Wolfram was too guarded with himself to spill his thoughts and feelings without provocation. He didn't know what to say to tell Yuuri that he missed him; he didn't know how to tell Yuuri that he was so afraid that he might never see again, that he might always be a burden. He didn't know how to admit to his weaknesses when Yuuri needed him to be strong, and he didn't know how to ask for Yuuri's strength in return.
Wolfram was afraid that things would change irrevocably, that they'd never again have what they once had because he could no longer be the man he used to be. The further Yuuri drew away, the less Wolfram had to hold onto. He was grasping at threads that frayed and loosened at his touch.
"I'm sorry, Wolf," Yuuri said. "I love you... but I just can't right now."
"When will you?" Wolfram replied.
He could hear the frown in Yuuri's voice when Yuuri responded, "When all of this is over."
"It'll never be over."
The years had proven as much.
Yuuri did not stay to hear or say more. Wolfram heard his heavy sigh, then the shuffling of his feet along the floor. Yuuri's footfalls grew quieter the further away he drew. He paused a moment, and Wolfram thought Yuuri might have been looking in his direction, but Yuuri said nothing and Wolfram gave no indication that he cared. All too soon he heard the door open, and the sound of Yuuri's steps retreating.
And Wolfram realized, Yuuri'd never gone to the wardrobe for a change of clothes.
The dungeons were a dark, lonely place.
Even with the comforts insisted upon by His Majesty the King—a cot on which to sleep, a chamberpot that was emptied regularly, and three sustaining meals a day—the dungeons of Blood Pledge Castle were a dismal place. Haunted, some would say. There were times when she thought she heard unnatural moaning, when she caught a flicker of something out of the corner of her eye. But with four others occupying the dungeons with her, the noises could have easily come from one of them, and the flickering could be explained away as a trick of the torchlights.
Irma Fieldler had lost count of how many days she'd remained in this place. Long enough to have seen the Aristocrats dragged in and imprisoned. She'd seen Lords von Voltaire and von Christ released, Admiral von Bielefeld, and the Lords Karbelnikof and Wincott. She'd witnessed Lord von Spitzweg's eventual release as well, for his prison had been across from hers, and Lady Cecilie had come to open the cell herself.
It must have been weeks since she had been brought to her cell by His Eminence the Great Sage. Perhaps a month. Perhaps more. She had no way of knowing the time except by following the changing of the guard, but she'd lost track of that long ago.
Irma passed the time as best as she was able. She sang songs. She wrote letters to her family with the quill, ink, and parchment that were provided to her. She read a little, but the books from the library were all beyond her level of comprehension. Eventually she gave up on them.
She daydreamed the most. She imagined her children, whom she had not seen since before her ordeal. She passed many hours lying in her cot, imagining their faces, and waiting for sleep to claim her.
It was there that His Majesty the King found her one day when the temperatures were uncommonly low. Irma huddled under a blanket, shivering. She knew it must be winter.
"Irma Fieldler..."
Irma gave a start at the sound of the familiar voice and turned to look through the metal bars that kept her trapped inside. There stood the King in all his glory. He looked no older than her—young still, but aged and matured by stress. That day he wore all black but for the white that lined his collar. Irma noticed that he was not outlined in blue, as he often was when he came into the dungeons to speak with one of the prisoners.
"Your Majesty!"
Irma rose from the cot and dropped to her knees on the hard stone floor. She bowed her head low in shame.
"I thought you might like to know that I've seen your children," the King said. "They're doing well."
Irma's body sagged in her relief. "And my mother?" she asked.
The King paused as if the answer pained him. Indeed, when he spoke again, his words brought grief into her heart.
"The healers says she isn't likely to last the week."
Irma trembled. Tears blurred her eyes. "What is to become of my children?"
"They'll become wards of the crown, under the custody of Lady von Karbelnikof. They'll be well taken care of."
It was more than she could have ever dreamed, and certainly more than she would have allowed herself to hope for. Irma sobbed her relief and her gratitude into the ground. She crawled across the floor to lean against the iron bars and reached a hand out for the King. He kneeled and took her hand into both of his own.
With a bravery she did not often feel, Irma raised her head to look the King in the eye. He did not smile, but she could see pity and sympathy in his gaze. He would not soon forget the sins she had committed against him, but in that moment he showed her his forgiveness. He clutched her hand and stared at her entreatingly, showering her with a warmth and a kindness Irma thought unearned.
"And...what is to become of me?" she asked.
"You will remain here," he said.
"For how long?"
His Majesty frowned sadly. His grip on her hand tightened. "For the rest of your life," he said.
"Will I see my children?"
The King shook his head. "The council voted against it."
Tears spilled from Irma's eyes. She nodded to show she understood.
"Then Your Majesty, I would rather be put to death," she said.
Irma sobbed openly. For much of her life she thought herself unafraid of death. She had two living children, but had lost two more in childbirth and another to illness when he was still a baby. Her father had been killed over twenty-five years ago during the war with Cimaron; her husband met the same fate at an outpost three years ago, massacred by Isidore's Black Knights. Her mother had been ill for quite some time now, and close to death more times than Irma could count.
Yet Irma had never imagined her own death. She thought she would grow old working in the comfort of the palace. She thought she would be able to watch her children grow—her son into a proud soldier like his father, and her daughter into a lovely young woman to follow in her footsteps. Perhaps Irma would have met a man and known love again, and grown her family further still. There had been so many possibilities, numerous paths and avenues her life could have taken.
Instead, she found herself here, at the crossroads between eternal imprisonment and death. Despite the comforts of her cell, the choice was an easy one.
"Irma..."
"Surely you can understand, Your Majesty," she said. "I should be put to death for the crimes I have committed."
"You were coerced and threatened."
"Yet if I must remain here for the rest of my life, if I shall never see my children again, death would be far more kind."
Irma watched the King's throat work as he swallowed. He stared at her with such an open look of sadness that she had to cast her eyes away. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held onto it. Only when he finally loosened his hold did she know that he accepted. She sobbed gratefully.
Not once in her life had she thought she would be grateful for death the come.
The next day, Irma Fieldler's death warrant was signed. She wrote her last letter to her children, gave it to the King, and begged that he remind them how much she loved them. She slept peacefully that night, for the first time since meeting the man in the shadows of the guest wing.
Irma was led from her cell by Lord Weller the following morning. She was taken passed the cells of the remaining Aristocrats and out a side door which led to a green lawn, dull and sparse now in winter. Irma shivered from the cold and blinked against the harsh light of the sun. Before her was the scaffold, the block, and the executioner, his face covered by a dark mask.
The crowd was a small one. Only Lords von Voltaire and Christ, His Eminence the Greta Sage, Admiral von Bielefeld, and the Lady Elizabeth stood beyond the scaffold. His Majesty the King was conspicuously absent. Lord Weller guided her up the scaffolds step and brought her to the block.
Irma trembled. Slow tears streaked hot paths down her face as she was lowered to her knees.
"I beg His Majesty's forgiveness," she said.
She put her head to the block.
It was severed by a single stroke of the ax.
Conrart climbed the long, winding steps of the eastern tower. A sense of tragedy hung in the air, thick as the tang of blood had been upon the dungeon green only an hour before. As familiar as he was with death, and as intimately as he had known the world's unfairness, there was indeed something tragic about a young mother being put to death by her own request, to escape a lifetime of darkness and solitude. Foolish as she had been to become swept up in Julius's plotting, Irma Fieldler had not been touched by evil—merely fear and desperation.
Halfway up the staircase Conrart found Yuuri leaning against the sill of an open window. A chill breeze blew into the tower as a result, though Yuuri seemed less affected by that than he was by the scene below. The tower overlooked the dungeon green, where the scaffold was still being scrubbed clean of blood. Irma Fieldler's body had long been taken to its grave, her severed head along with it, but the blood would be a lasting reminder of what had occurred that day. It stained the scaffold red, drying brown under the light of the sun.
Yuuri stood with hunched shoulders, leaning on the sill for support. His hair was a mess, like he'd been dragging a hand through it repeatedly, and his face was wet with tears. Around his feet were numerous butts of the cigarettes he'd finished; another, lit and halfway gone, was perched in his hand. The scent of smoke was pungent in spite of the opened window. Even so, Conrart imagined it did not quite mask the scent of blood far below.
At first, Yuuri gave no indication that he was aware of Conrart's presence. He continued to stare out with an endless stream of tears sliding down his face, occasionally taking a drag from his most recent cigarette.
But he was not entirely blind to what occurred around him, as Conrart learned when Yuuri said, "I should have pardoned her."
Conrart frowned, saw the way Yuuri's body trembled almost imperceptibly, and said, "You saw."
Yuuri's only acknowledgment was a solemn nod.
Had Conrart been a less restrained man, he would have cursed. As it was, he did little more than frown. Beheadings were far from uncommon in this world, yet it was something he'd dared to hope Yuuri would never have to see.
"It was a fate she chose for herself," Conrart said.
"But it shouldn't have been a choice she had to make. I should have pardoned her. I could have. I didn't have to sign that warrant."
"Then you would not have had justice."
"What is justice anyway?" Yuuri said. He crushed his cigarette out against the windowsill and let the butt drop to the stair beneath his feet.
Conrart found he had no answer.
"I still don't understand why she did it," Yuuri said. "Why did she choose to go along with it? She could have come to me. I wouldn't have let anyone hurt her family. I could have protected all of them."
"And Wolfram would not be as he is now," Conrart said.
Yuuri clutched the windowsill so tightly his knuckles went white.
"It wasn't her fault," he said.
"She reacted on fear, not on logic, but it was her choice in the end," Conrart countered.
"But did she deserve to die?"
"Yes and no. The answer to that question is never a simple matter, regardless of whom the subject may be. By law, death was the suitable punishment. What would pardoning her have done?"
"Saved a life," Yuuri said. "Kept her family together."
"And shown the extent to which a criminal could go and still earn your forgiveness," Conrart said. "Persuaded or not, she slipped that poison into Wolfram's cup on her own. Would you forgive all dispensers of poison?"
"I don't know."
"Would you forgive Julius?"
Yuuri's hands tightened on the sill again. His expression went distant and cold.
"No," he said. "I won't forgive him."
"How is what he did any different?"
Yuuri shook his head. Conrart was sure Yuuri did not want to believe the two situations were in any way similar, yet Yuuri presented no further argument. Unsure how he felt about the issue himself, Conrart said nothing else.
Eventually, Yuuri lost his last shred of composure and broke down into wracking sobs. When Conrart placed a comforting palm to Yuuri's back, Yuuri turned from the window and leaned close to him. He sobbed into Conrart's shoulder, clutched tightly to Conrart's jacket. For that moment on the stairwell, Yuuri regressed back to the scared fifteen-year-old he used to be, the boy Conrart had always known remained beneath the man Yuuri had become.
"I can't take any more of this," Yuuri said.
There was nothing left for Conrart to say, nothing left for him to do but to hold Yuuri close and allow him to spill his sorrows—for Wolfram, for himself, for his kingdom, and for one poor woman gone cold in her grave.
"I don't understand why you've brought me here," Prince Wolfram said.
Katherine Algren drifted behind the royal pair. With little Lord Alexei in his lessons with Lord Gunter, Katherine was in charge only of her daughter Brigitta and Prince Merry. Brigitta drifted about the room, exploring the large chamber with Prince Wolfram's permission. Meanwhile, Katherine held Prince Merry against her hip. Merry babbled jovially, occasionally chewing on a lock of Katherine's blonde hair.
Ahead, Princess Greta led Prince Wolfram down the center aisle of the room, which had been lined with a lush red carpet.
"This is where Arthur and I are to be married," she said of the formal throne room.
Prince Wolfram frowned. The expression on his face was one of confusion.
He was little better—more energetic that he'd been in the immediate aftermath of the poison, but his vision had not returned to him and he continued to need assistance with his mobility. At the moment, Princess Greta had one arm around his shoulders; the opposite held Prince Wolfram's hand, holding him upright as much as she was guiding him.
It was a sad picture, this reversal of roles, with Princess Greta looking more like the parent and Prince Wolfram the child.
Every once in a while Katherine saw signs of improvement. There were times when something in Prince Wolfram's eyes would shift, like he was making an effort to focus on something in particular. A face, perhaps, or a specific spot in the room. His strength was returning to him more quickly; he could stand for longer periods of time. Often, Prince Wolfram could make his own way to the washroom, though the effort was taxing and he would inevitably need assistance making his way back.
Katherine chose to view these changes as encouraging signs. Prince Wolfram was far from healed, but he was returning to himself.
"You're to be married in Cimaron," he said.
He would not see it, but Princess Greta smiled at him fondly.
"We've decided to have the ceremony here instead," she said.
"But all of the plans—"
"Will work as well here as they would in Cimaron, only you won't have to worry about making the journey."
Prince Wolfram frowned with some of his old spirit. "I am more than capable of making the journey," he said.
"I've already written to Arthur. He agrees that under the circumstances, we should have the ceremony here. He'll be arriving with his brother and Lady Flynn—"
"Queen," Prince Wolfram corrected her.
"Alright, Her Majesty Queen Flynn of Cimaron, Lady of Caloria. In any case, they'll be arriving at the end of March. The ceremony will be held in early April, just as planned. I'll be invested as the Duchess of Pembroke when I return to Cimaron with Arthur and Their Majesties King Varick and Queen Flynn."
Prince Wolfram's frown remained in place.
Princess Greta's laughter was light and cheerful. "Yuuri told me about all these traditions on Earth I want to incorporate into the ceremony. Yuuri's going to be the one to walk me down the aisle," she explained.
She led Prince Wolfram down the scarlet carpeting to the dais at the end. Here she guided the Prince up the steps and helped him sit upon the appropriate throne.
"After, during the banquet, once Arthur and I have shared our first dace, I want my next dance to be with you," Princess Greta said. She smiled teasingly. "So I expect you to be ready for it."
The conversation faded into the background as Katherine considered the sight of Prince Wolfram on the throne, next to an empty chair where the King should sit. She'd had the good fortune to see Prince Wolfram's marriage to the King three years ago; before that, as a very young child, she'd been a guest at Admiral von Bielefeld's marriage to Lady Cecilie. Katherine was well versed in the spectacle that was a royal marriage. Only three months it had been since Lady Elizabeth married His Eminence the Great Sage, and now they were to have another wedding not even three months from now.
But it was less that thought and more the sight of the empty throne beside Prince Wolfram that had Katherine's head in the clouds.
Katherine liked to think of herself as the loyal sort. For most of her life she'd seen her father as the epitome of a loyal man. His service to Admiral von Bielefeld was unmatched. From boyhood, Francis Algren had served the house of Bielefeld. The two men had grown up together, and in a distant sort of way so had their children. One of Katherine's earliest memories was the announcement of Prince Wolfram's birth, and Admiral von Bielefeld's pride in finally having a living son.
She'd followed the young Prince's life from afar. Admiral von Bielefeld spoke of his son often when visiting her father's estate. Katherine heard so many stories about Wolfram it was as if she knew him. The Kingdom knew Wolfram as sheltered and spoiled; Katherine grew up thinking of Prince Wolfram as someone to be protected, even when his military career began. He was, after all, still just a boy compared to her—young, rash, with a reputation for getting in over his head in an effort to prove himself against his more accomplished older brothers.
As her father served Admiral von Bielefeld, so did Katherine serve Prince Wolfram. Though her primary charge may be the Prince Merry, her loyalty remained strong with the Bielefeld heir. She did all that he asked with joy and gratitude to be in the service of someone so exalted, someone so kind and nurturing toward children—including her own.
Katherine didn't like to keep secrets from him, even those entrusted to her by the King.
Later that evening, when the children were put down to bed and Prince Wolfram and Princess Greta returned to the royal bedchamber to further discuss the upcoming wedding in comfort, Katherine snuck down the palace halls on quiet feet. She paused outside the door to the King's office but heard nothing beneath the sounds of the changing of the guard, even if she could see light filtering out from the gap between the door and the floor. Certainly the King was still awake and working, but it seemed this time he was alone.
Katherine continued to drift down the halls, leaving the royal residential areas behind her. She made her way to the barracks at the rear of the palace, slipping by a group of soldiers in varying uniforms. They spared her little more than a glance, so engrossed were they in their own conversation. It was just as well, for Katherine had no desire to be distracted by idle chatter.
She came to a stop in front of a particular door, raised her fist to knock, then hesitated.
She considered the consequences of what she was about to do. Breaking her silence would have been considered a punishable offense by less amendable kings. Would she not be using His Majesty's kindness to her advantage, speaking of this with the knowledge that he was likely to be lenient with her? At the very least, she was breaking his trust in her, and a King's trust was hard to come by in this day and age.
But when her thoughts drifted back to Prince Wolfram, sightless and weak, Katherine knew she was making the right choice.
The sound her knuckles made against the door sounded too loud to her paranoid ears. Katherine looked up and down the hallway, but none of the soldiers lingering about paid her any mind. Indeed, they went about their business as if there were not a fretful woman currently in their midst.
The door opened only a moment later, and Katherine was greeted by the familiar face of Lord Conrart Weller.
Spending a great deal of time around Prince Wolfram meant frequently being in the presence of the King, which meant, by extension, becoming acquainted with Lord Weller. Katherine appreciated Lord Weller for his calm disposition and his benevolent manner. He was dutiful toward the King, he showed concern for his younger brother, he treated Katherine with respect, and he handled her daughter's rambunctious and inquisitive nature with a gentle hand.
"Katherine..."
He used her given name with familiarity. Katherine, on the other hand, could still not bring herself to call the former Prince anything but Lord Weller.
"I wish to speak with you in private," she said.
He looked out into the hall with sudden concern, glanced first left, then right, and opened the door wider to allow her into the room.
Lord Weller's room was sparsely decorated. There was a bed wide enough for two but more comfortable for one, a side table with a pitcher of wine, a rough wooden table for two, and a battered looking wardrobe that must have been with him for decades. The bed linens were plain but well maintained. There was only one window which overlooked the training grounds. A close examination of her surroundings revealed that Lord Weller did not have his own washroom.
Rather than the amenities allowed to a former Prince, and to a man in such a high standing with His Majesty, Lord Weller chose to live the simpler life of a common soldier. His room was functional; it lacked the personal touches one might normally find in a nobleman's bedchamber. Katherine thought it was fitting for such an unassuming man. In any case, he spent so little of his time there to begin with.
"Please, have a seat," Lord Weller offered.
"Oh no, I couldn't," Katherine said, too restless and anxious to be still.
Noticing this, Lord Weller went to the side table, said, "Wine?" and poured some into a goblet before Katherine could answer.
She nodded anyway and took the goblet gratefully. She drank from it deeply to fortify herself, but still did not sit even when Lord Weller took a seat at the small table.
"By all rights I should not be coming to you with this," Katherine said.
"Is it to do with Wolfram?"
"Yes and no. More to do with His Majesty."
Lord Weller sat patiently, but when she began to pace back and forth Katherine could see the concern in his eyes. Yet he remained where he was, and he made no effort to have her speak before she was ready to.
"It was a month ago now," Katherine said after another gulp of wine. "Prince Wolfram sent me to His Majesty's office to ask after him, but... His Majesty was not alone..."
Still, Lord Weller maintained his silence.
Katherine was grateful for it. She didn't think she could have continued had she been interrupted.
"Lady Elise was with him. Their clothes were rumpled. It... it appeared as if they'd been intimate with one another."
Katherine paused and swallowed another mouthful of wine.
"His Majesty looked panicked when I arrived, like he hadn't meant for anyone to see. He swore the guards and me to silence. He was apologetic. I... I didn't want to believe what I saw, but the more I consider it, the more I know... there's something between His Majesty and Lady Elise. I—"
A pair of hands on her shoulders stopped her. So distressed was she by what she was saying that Katherine did not notice Lord Weller had risen until he caught her gently and put an end to her pacing. She looked up at him and saw the change that had come about him. Though he remained calm, his eyes were hard and his face was creased with a frown.
"You were sworn to silence," he said. "Why do you tell me this?"
Katherine shook her head miserably. "Because if I did not, I would have told Prince Wolfram," she said.
Lord Weller frowned severely.
In her distress, Katherine wondered if he even believed her. What was she but the daughter of a minor nobleman? She was not even of aristocratic blood. She had no business accusing His Majesty of such things without a shred of physical evidence to support her assumptions. Certainly it was a compromising situation she'd found the King in, but that didn't mean things were quite as she assumed. Perhaps she'd merely jumped to all the wrong conclusions.
But the more she memory plagued her, the more certain she became. Katherine put this certainty into her gaze, so that there might be no question as to the validity of her statement. Lord Weller must believe her.
But why? What good was telling him going to do?
Perhaps it was that she hoped he could resolve the situation before Prince Wolfram became aware.
Perhaps it was that she couldn't bear to keep her suspicions a secret any longer, and Lord Weller was the only one she trusted not to use the information to his advantage.
"Tell no one of this," he said. His voice was firm.
Katherine nodded quickly.
"What will you do?" she asked.
Lord Weller released her shoulders and returned to the side table to pour a second goblet of wine. He took a long drink.
"I will speak with the King," he said.
Elsewhere in the castle that same evening, in a room just beyond the royal residential hall, passed a pair of alert guards and a securely locked door, Lady Elise von Mannheim knelt upon the floor in her washroom and proceeded to release the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot.
When she was done, she wiped her mouth, put a hand to her belly, and laughed.
TBC...
