VI: Brothers from Hell

"Fulfilling the objectives of Romulus Vargas' contract has become increasingly difficult," Kiku commented within the living room with the former Vikings and the recovering hellhounds, "if the Duke has become involved."

"He's always been involved," Gilbert mumbled childishly as he reclined on the Victorian sofa, "just like how he's always been a pain in the ass; it's so not awesome. Why the hell does he want the throne anyway? He can't handle it. Like I said before, he's not awesome enough!"

"The same reason why Lucifer rebelled against Heaven according to Christian theology," Arthur commented as he climbed down the stairwell, indirectly demanding silence throughout the living room. He was dressed in a dull green jumper, a white button shirt, and a pair of khakis and Oxfords. "It's excessive pride. Uncle Patrick has more than enough of that, and Aunt Bridget has always been a vain and spoilt crybaby. It's how the two of them tolerate each other, I suppose, over the centuries. At least they are suitable to their own title of the Seven Deadly Sins."

"Pity you've changed out of your formal wear," Gilbert commented with an expression that appeared as if he hadn't been listening to Arthur's remarks about his aunt and uncle. "You always look sexy in that royal getup—epaulettes and all. Anyway, should you even be up at all? You had your wings out last night, you know. That's some serious business—at least to the Scribe."

"Shut it, you nasty little wanker," Arthur snapped, rolling his eyes, though he couldn't suppress the amused smile tugging at his lips. "Don't mind me. I'm fine and walking, aren't I?"

"Gilbert!" Elizaveta exclaimed, elbowing the Head Alpha harshly and pointedly. She hissed under her breath to the albino, "This is not the time or place for that!"

"Ah, but you know you agree, Lizbet," Gilbert teased the brunette. "I've seen you drool over him—especially on a steed and in armour! When was the last time anyone's ever worn armour? The sixteenth, seventeenth century? Man, what I'd give to see Arthur in his knight armour!"

Clearing his throat, Roderich called all of the attention onto him. The brunet was seated to the right of Elizaveta at the end of the sofa while Ludwig occupied the other end. Kiku was standing off to the side of the room while Mathias occupied the arm chair. The other Vikings surrounded their family head. Arthur lingered on the staircase, training his green eyes on Roderich. The moment they had returned home, Arthur had collapsed in his room in the Tower, resting in order to regain his expended energy. The traces of his recuperation remained evident in his physical appearance. His mousy blond hair retained streaks of red, and his pupils were narrowed into vertical slits due to light exposure, controlling how much light entered his sight. "What shall we do now, Your Majesty?" Roderich inquired of his king. "We will obey your orders without question."

After a moment of contemplation, Arthur announced, "Kerberos will resume their patrol. I don't want to give Patrick any ideas—especially ideas that enlarges his already swelling ego. Mathias, your clan can return home if they would like. I still plan to carry out Romulus Vargas' wishes. The only problem now is that I have to go fishing in the River Vitae for his grandson's soul."

"I apologise, My King," Ludwig spoke up promptly, kneeling on the floor and bowing solemnly. "It is because of my incompetence that resulted in Feliciano Vargas' current state—"

"Ludwig, raise your head," Arthur interrupted the young werewolf with genteelness and gentility in his eyes though his expression was as grave as before and his tone no better. "It is not your fault; nobody expects or expected you to go against a Prince of the Underworld and emerge victorious." A wry smile crossed Arthur's lips. "There is a reason why they are the strongest in the hierarchy of the Underworld... except for Peter, of course, but he will be—in due time."

Everyone maintained their silence and made no comment on the aptitude of the youngest prince. After all, he was but a child appearing not much older than the guardian spirits Arthur has adopted, and because he was a child, not much was expected of him currently either. Mathias addressed his old friend at long last, "I don't understand why the Duke of Pride would take Feliciano's soul though. What reason is there behind such an action?"

Arthur shook his head in response. "I'm not sure myself," he confessed, "but I believe it is to secure our meetings and encounters. He knows I will not give up until Romulus Vargas' soul is truly at rest, and that will only happen if the terms of the contract—meaning all of the terms of the contract—are fulfilled as arranged."

"How long do you think it'll take you to wipe out their bases?" Lukas inquired bluntly. "Vargas' empire spreads quite far. It shouldn't be a difficult task for a god to wipe out an entire famiglia, but it will take some time, won't it?"

Arthur huffed. "La Famiglia Divina—the Divine Family—don't make me laugh. There's nothing divine about it—not any more—so it shouldn't be difficult at all," the Briton grumbled under his breath. "It'll be tedious since the family expands throughout the globe and since there are restrictions of daemonic activity on the Surface World, but three months is all that I'll need."

"How's Lovino doing?" Gilbert asked.

"He's with his brother right now," Arthur informed quietly. "He seems to be in shock after all that's happened. This is why I didn't want him to go."

"You stabbed a man in front of him," Gilbert retorted pointedly, "so, of course, he's in shock." He ignored Elizaveta's threatening hiss and violent jab yet again. "I'm asking if he's going to be okay. He was acting pretty strange on the way back."

Arthur averted his gaze from Gilbert and dismissed the meeting. Lukas would be returning to Iceland with Emil, and Berwald and Tino departed for Sweden. In the meanwhile, Elizaveta collected herself and, together with Ludwig and Roderich, resumed their patrol route across the mainland European continent. Gilbert and Mathias settled on their next target in Sicily and planned a path around Italy, across Europe, and then to the Americas from thereon while Kiku would make arrangements for breakfast. Arthur, on the other hand, climbed up the stairs to the upper floor of his manor.

"Artie! Artie!" Alfred exclaimed, jumping onto the Briton and wrapping his legs around Arthur's middle. The daemon was thrown off balance for a moment before recovering and properly propping Alfred against his hip. "How's the mission? Did you beat the bad guys?!"

"Alfred! Calm down, lad," Arthur mused aloud with a fatherly smile on his lips. He sauntered down the corridor with his oldest in his arms and responded to the boy's prior question, "It went rather smoothly, and, yes, we did beat the... the bad guys." The noun rolled off his tongue hesitantly. They may have defeated Valentino, but that pitiful creature was not their main target. Arthur knew that there was a greater force at work, and it was most likely Patrick. All fingers pointed to his uncle, the only demon who would conspire against him. Still, Alfred, forever a child, need not worry about that. All of their problems would be solved eventually if not soon.

"That's good!" Alfred nodded his head eagerly in approval of Arthur's reply. "Romano doesn't look too happy though. I wonder why. If the bad guys are beaten, shouldn't everyone be happy like in the movies? How come Romano's not happy?"

"It's because the bad guys pulled a dirty little trick over our heads," Arthur responded tentatively as he navigated expertly to the room in which Romano and Carriedo were staying. "They've stole his brother's soul, and I can't imagine why they've done so."

If Romulus Vargas' soul was a white flame flickering with blue and if Romano's soul was purely blue—the rarest flame of them all—then one could only imagine what kind of soul Feliciano Vargas himself possessed. Arthur couldn't place his finger on the motive, however, as he doubted that Valentino would have simply wanted to reap the soul of the younger Vargas brother. Maybe it would have made Feliciano Vargas a more complacent hostage since he would simply be comatose, but other than that, he couldn't understand why Valentino would go through the trouble. There was nothing, really, to gain or from which he could benefit. Even with Patrick's borrowed powers, it would have been immensely difficult for a human—even if he was barely so with his makeshift warlock status—to reap another person's soul.

Patrick, on the other hand, might have more reason to do so. Reaping souls not only happened to be a demon's favourite past-time, it was also a means to live. A demon needed sustenance every blue moon, and usually they went hunting for a soul depending on preference. There were those who preferred devouring the purest of souls, a rare delicacy of blue and/or white, for a sweet and juicy sensation, and those who preferred the sinners, a dirty mixture of red and brown, for a spicier, sour, or bitter taste. Most demons, however, dined on typical souls seen in common folk—some souls more savoury than others, some more bland—the shades of flames between red and yellow such as red-orange and orange-yellow. Additionally, for Patrick, there could have been an underlying motive: impeding Arthur's contract with Romulus Vargas, leading to an encounter that might—though not bloody likely, Arthur remarked to himself—end in a life or death situation for and between the two royals.

"What did they do, Artie?" Alfred asked quietly, lowering his voice so that nobody would overhear them. His tiny hands clutched the fabric of Arthur's sweater with concern for his new friend.

"That boy Romano is watching over is his brother," Arthur informed the spirit just as softly, "so he's the one whose soul was stolen."

Alfred's eyes widened, and his bottom lip quivered. "That's mean!" he cried. "I wouldn't want anyone to take you away from me!" Arthur didn't bother telling the lad that he didn't even have a soul for anyone to take, but he did appreciate the sentiment. "That's not very nice at all! Why did they have to do that to him?!"

"I don't know, lad," Arthur admitted as he dropped Alfred onto his feet the moment they've reached Romano and Carriedo's door. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this, so go play with your brothers and sister, all right?"

"Okay, Artie," Alfred answered obediently, giving the older daemon one last glance, before running to their playroom.

In the meanwhile, Arthur rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles. A moment of silence crept past as he waited patiently for the door to open. The doorknob twisted slowly and gradually the door widened some—only a smidgen, but still. Romano peered curiously into the hallway and rested his hazel eyes upon Arthur's form. "Cosa vuoi?" he asked in a cracked, broken voice. His confidence and faith may have been entirely shattered. Arthur doubted that Romano had even realised he had spoken in Italian, and if he had, then he certainly didn't care—neither of them did.

"I wanted to see how you were holding up," Arthur responded casually in Italian, surprising the latter even though it really shouldn't. After recovering from the shock, Romano scoffed and rolled his eyes before pulling the door wider, allowing Arthur access into the room. The Briton obliged, stepping into the bedroom, and laid his eyes on the unconscious forms of Antonio Carriedo and Feliciano Vargas, who rested on Romano's bed. Continuing in Italian, maybe simply to comfort or ease the distraught boy, he asked, "How did you rest last night?"

"Didn't sleep," Romano replied curtly in his native language, collapsing onto the chair beside his bed. He dropped his head into his hands. "How could this have happened? Were we too slow? We took at least three or four days to respond to their threats..."

"They could have done so the moment you've escaped," Arthur remarked pointedly. "You shouldn't dwell on what could have happened. You should just accept it."

"Accept it?!" Romano repeated furiously, whipping his head upwards to glare indignantly and infuriatingly at Arthur. "Accept it, and then what?! Move on?"

"Precisely," Arthur agreed calmly. "Move onto the future and plan our next course—one that can fix what happened. I've told you last night; I'll get back your brother's soul. I can't let anything happen to you, your brother, or Carriedo."

"Because it's in your contract," Romano spat bitterly. "What if there was no contract? Would you still have helped us?"

Arthur returned his cynicism with a wry and weary smile. "Well," he answered, this time in English, his voice assuming an almost playful, teasing quality, "I have no reason to refuse." The Briton turned his attention to the resting Spaniard and asked, continuing in English upon seeing that Romano had regained his spirits, "Has he regained consciousness yet?"

"Not at all," Romano responded brusquely in Arthur's language, having grown accustomed to its use over the past few days. "The bastard's been out like a light."

Arthur chortled lowly. "That only means that he'll switch on at one point or another—though his light isn't particularly bright... Carriedo has always been more on the dim side for as long as I've known him," the daemon remarked. His comment earned himself a subtle, half smile from Romano, and Arthur couldn't help but admire that expression. It was quite pleasant, he decided, and it would have been even more lovely to have been a full smile. Romano was, for a human, a beautiful creature.

"He's not the smartest bastard," Romano acquiesced, "but he's always been helpful. The bastard hated seeing people upset—especially when I was a child."

"Oh? Are you not a child now?" Arthur retorted playfully.

"You snarly bastard! I'm nineteen!"

"Yes, yes, age is but a number, I understand."

"Sarcastic bastard."

"Sensitive git."

The two of them cracked a smile.

"I suppose," Arthur directed the flow of the conversation into something more serious and grave, "you would want to know more about what I've told Valentino from last night and about your brother's state... I'll only tell you if you want me to do so, of course, since you're already in a perilous situation. I won't throw you into the deeper end without your consent."

Romano scoffed, remarking, "You're going to wipe out my memories at the end of this shit anyway, right? You might as well tell me all that I need to know now so I can brace myself for whatever the hell is coming."

Arthur rolled his eyes before taking a seat right next to Feliciano's resting body. His green eyes trailed over his newest guest, subconsciously comparing him to his older brother. The skin was paler, no doubt, and he had less of an Arabic appearance. His hair was a brighter shade than Romano's—taking on a red, coppery tinge—and his body more slender, almost feminine. He noticed the unappreciative and disapproving glances Romano kept throwing his way, so Arthur ceased his observations.

"Stop checking out my little brother, you nasty bastard."

"He's only—what?—sixteen years old. It's practically criminal. I would never do that," Arthur snapped indignantly. "I was just thinking that he looks like Romulus Vargas."

"Yeah, everyone says that."

"So do you," Arthur mentioned offhandedly. Before Romano could touch face on that comment, the Briton had already proposed his question tersely, "At any rate, how am I supposed to know what you want to know? I can't say there's really anything you need to know, so just fire away with your questions."

Romano scowled before obliging, "Fine. What were those wings from last night?" The feathered wings, he recalled, like that of an angel's... But Arthur was a demon.

Catching onto Romano's train of thoughts, Arthur smiled bitterly and mused, "Ah, they say my mother was an angel, but my father was the King of the Underworld—one of the oldest, if not the oldest, demons around. At any rate, among my brothers, I am the strongest, having been descended from first generation fallen angels—making them my half-brothers, I suppose, since my father sired them with different succubi—be it a consort, as in Alistair and Owain's case, or mistresses and concubines, as with Seamus and Peter. In a sense, I don't know what the bloody hell I really am; it's why I don't like talking about it. For a demon, I have the white feathered wings seen in angels instead of the ones tarnished with black, soiled with darkness. For an angel, I've taken upon myself the title of King of the Underworld instead of a soldier of the Heavens. Anyway, you do know what demons are, correct? I would assume that either Mathias or Gilbert had told you already since you've learnt of my title."

Romano nodded shortly and clarified, "Mathias told me that demons are—or were, maybe—fallen angels and that they're rare now. Every daemon of the Underworld is a descendant of fallen angels, and demons are daemons that form contracts and feed on souls."

"That's quite condensed," Arthur mused, "but pretty simple. All of that is true, yes. To start from the beginning, there are essentially two types of daemons: one who is born and one who is created. The former means exactly what I've said; the parents, or one of the parents, are daemons. Usually, this applies only to familiars, incubi and succubi, and demons and angels. The ones who are created are revenants, werewolves, and vampires. They've died a human life and are brought into a cursed existence where reproduction is impossible due to the fact that they are essentially dead corpses—only reanimated. The only differences between the three of them are that werewolves are given a new body—one of hellhounds—so they have an extraordinary healing rate, that vampires thrive off blood so their cells are replenished and appear no different from living cells, and that revenants are... well, the walking dead. Anyway, the reproductive cycle of the borne daemons are quite similar to the human reproductive cycle. I needn't explain that, do I?"

He chuckled at Romano's reddened cheeks before continuing, "The daemon species then began to evolve into separate races although the means of procreation for the borne have remained relatively the same—especially when compared to humans. It also makes possible for a union between a human and a daemon, which results in a being called a cambion—a half-blood existence. Do you remember how I've told you that Angelique is the illegitimate child of one of my... acquaintances? You might have figured it out from the night you've met him, but I'll tell you anyway: she is Francis' child with a human woman. He says that he's named her after me, the Britannia Angel as dubbed by my subjects, but, still, let's keep that between us, the Frog, and Gilbert. We are the only ones who know of her parentage. Because of her paternal inheritance, nevertheless, she is probably the most gifted of my guardian spirits. Francis is, after all, the Patron of the Incubi and Succubi.

"At any rate, in terms of the Heavens, a cambion would probably be called a demigod, I suppose, like in Greek mythology—Hercules, for example. That's why it is also possible for a demon and an angel to have a union, but by doing so or having any kind of sexual or romantic attraction at all, the angel falls from the Heavens. My father is the Devil, the original fallen angel, and my mother is one he had seduced from the Heavens. I am my father's son, spawn of the Devil, but with my mother's blood, blood of a soldier of the Heavens, I have received these white wings."

"That would explain why Valentino said you've never descended from Heaven," Romano deduced.

"And instead rose from Hell though, technically, the terminology is incorrect," Arthur confirmed. "It would be 'descended from the Heavens and rose from the Underworld.' Gilbert and Mathias have already explained to you the difference?"

Romano nodded again. "Only between the Underworld and Hell. What's with the Heavens and Heaven? It sounds the same to me."

"The Heavens, to some, might be Mount Olympus or the sky in general," Arthur explained shortly. "It's the counterpart of the Underworld, otherwise called the Dark Realm, in which it is the Celestial Realm. On the other hand, Heaven is actually the paradise where good little boys and girls go—like Eden or Nirvana or whatever, wherever. I wouldn't know. It's the counterpart of Hell, naturally, where—as you can guess—is where the bad little boys and girls who make Santa's naughty list and don't listen to their mummies and daddies go."

Romano blatantly ignored Arthur's last comment before he paused, thinking, and then asked, "Who is the Duke of Pride? You said he was your uncle? What role does he play in all of this shit?"

Arthur sighed heavily, the breath dragging itself past his lips, slumping his shoulders, and replied, "My uncle, Patrick Brian O'Connor, is the Duke of Pride who willingly married into the family as part of his own agenda. He is now Patrick Brian Kirkland and thus shares the title as one of the Seven Princes with my aunt, Bridget Kirkland, the Duchess of Vanity." Upon seeing the bewildered expression in Romano's hazel eyes, the Briton brought himself to elaborate, "There are Seven Princes of the Underworld, all given titles named after the seven deadly sins. First and foremost is the Duke and Duchess of Pride and Vanity. Afterwards, there is the Prince of Wrath, who happens to be my oldest brother, Alistair, and the Prince of Sloth is the second oldest, Owain. I'm the third oldest and king, but my younger brother, Seamus, is the Prince of Envy. My youngest brother, Peter, is the Prince of Greed. My cousins, Jett and James, are the Princes of Gluttony and Lust respectively. My uncle is aiming for my throne, so I fear he may be plotting everything that has happened to you. He's been like this for centuries. I suspect he might have been the one to reap your brother's soul, but I have no proof at this moment. I apologise for the inefficiencies."

Romano shook his head and mentioned, "I don't get all of this, but you sure as hell don't need to apologise. It's not like you did this on purpose... is it?"

Arthur laughed brusquely and remarked, "Not at all! I wouldn't stoop so low to intervene in the fates of humans whenever I'm bored."

"So why is he after your throne?"

Arthur ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. "Why wouldn't he be?" the blond mused. "I'm still young—in comparison to the older daemons who've been around for certainly more than one millennia—and because of my mother's blood, there may be radicals who believe I have no place in the Underworld like the cambions. Like I said, I don't even know if I can consider myself to be a demon, but I'm definitely no angel... I can't be..."

"You are... exceptionally nice and polite to be a demon—even if you are a snarly, sarcastic bastard," Romano commented dryly. "You don't look like one either."

"I don't know if I should thank you for that," Arthur replied light-heartedly, "but you wouldn't say the same once you've seen my record of kills from my life before and during my reign as King of the Underworld. I was a king before then as well, and I've led my knights into battle and participated in the terrors of war. I'm no kindly person."

"I think you are," Romano whispered. "You told Valentino that you would save his soul."

"...a formality," Arthur muttered.

"Is it really?" Romano persisted.

"It is really," Arthur insisted.

"I don't believe you."

"Then believe what you'd like." Arthur stood up then and glided to the door. Without turning to face Romano, he informed of the Italian boy, "We'll be travelling to Sicily—Gilbert, Mathias, and I—to handle the house there. Afterwards, we'll teleport to Northern Italy—Venice and Florence—and then to Spain, France, and then to Germany to handle the situations there. I expect to return to England by the end of the month. Then we'll venture to the Americas and to Asia and, within two more months, finish the second objective. At the same time, I'll investigate the matter involving your brother's soul. Please, join us for lunch, Romano, and if you won't, then I'll have Kiku send up lunch for you. Is that all right?"

"Sì," he answered hesitantly, "it's... it's fine." Before Arthur could leave, however, Romano blurted out, "W-Wait!"

Arthur's heart skipped a beat from the surprise. "Y-Yes?" he stammered, ignoring how his heart pounded excitably in his chest.

"L-Last night, y-you called me b-be-beau-beaut... N-Never mind, forget it," Romano grumbled.

"A-Are you sure?"

"Y-Ye-Yes—err—Yeah, sure..."

After hearing Romano's wavering response, the Briton's fingers ghosted over the cool surface of the doorknob, uncertain if he should grasp it or not. A part of him nagged at him to speak longer with the Italian boy—though for what reason he was unsure. He pressed his lips together, pursing them, before anxiously biting on his lower lip. Although it was not clear why he felt, all of a sudden, nervous to be around the boy, he chided himself for such irrational behaviour. Before he was even aware of his own actions, the Briton asked of Romano rather impulsively, "Would you care to go for a walk around Rome?"

"...huh?"

"Ah, n-never mind," the blond muttered, waving the question aside dismissively. Hurriedly, he grasped the doorknob and yanked the door open. Arthur didn't waste a second leaving the room then in an attempt to get his heart back under control.

"W-Wait!" Romano blurted in surprise, his outcry halting Arthur in his frenetic paces. The Italian snatched Arthur's wrist and, when the Briton's body tensed slightly, dropped his flustered gaze to the floor. "Why... Why did you ask?"

Heat surged to Arthur's cheeks as he dithered for an answer—a good, decent one at least. "Well..." Arthur faltered, hesitant in his reply. "I thought that you would need some fresh air. You... You stayed by your brother's side all night and didn't get any rest. I thought—I think—that you could use a break since, in your current state, you might not be getting any sleep sometime soon. We could at least go for lunch if you don't want to walk around town, but... I promise you'll be safe with me. I'm all rested—f-for the most part, anyway."

Lovino raised his head then and stared at the Briton, awestruck, admiring the reddish-pink flush coating his pale cheeks and the sheepish expression in his soft green eyes that darted here and there but not at Lovino himself, avoiding confrontation. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest, yearning to step closer to the older man, but Lovino was instilled with mild fear. Here he was with the Devil, the king of all daemons of the dark, and the Devil had asked him out on a... a date? It seemed surreal, rather, to have the Devil—of all beings—to be concerned about him.

A sweet devil! Lovino almost laughed aloud at the prospect.

"So," Arthur pressed in that tender and tentative voice of his—almost sweet and sensitive to Lovino's ears—as he glanced shyly at the Italian, "will you?" He pulled his adoring emerald gaze away reluctantly, and Lovino had half a mind to force him to turn back and look at him even more. Arthur pursed his lips in another bout of discomfort yet again before mentioning, "I haven't been around Rome in a long time—not since the second World War. You could show me around?"

Subconsciously, Lovino slipped his hand into Arthur's and nodded his head. "Yeah, I can do that," he replied just as tamely.

"Hey, Mathias," Gilbert droned as he laid upside down on the Victorian sofa, "Arthur and Lovino just left the house without us, right?"

"I believe so," Mathias replied shortly. "They were awfully quiet about it! Like they were trying to keep it a secret!"

"A secret!" Gilbert exclaimed feverishly, eyes wide, as he toppled over the sofa. "Why the hell would they keep a secret from me?! That's not awesome at all!"

"Maybe they went on a date," Mathias suggested half-heartedly with a casual shrug.

"A date?!" Gilbert repeated hysterically. "I thought we told Lovino not to do that! He's... He's a human—a mortal! Do you know how much of an age difference there is between the two of them?! One day, Lovino's going to die a shrivelled old man, and Arthur's still going to be twenty-three years old! He's immortal! This really is so not awesome! If Arthur's going to fall in love with Lovino, he's going to end up depressed and shit like how Franny was when—!"

"Gilbert!" Mathias boomed loudly, silencing the entire household. "You need to calm down! It's not like they chose to be in love! This kind of thing just happens!"

The werewolf was quiet for a moment as all sorts of thoughts and possibilities ran amok in his mind. "Divine interference also just happens, right?" Gilbert proposed offhandedly with a devious smirk stretching his lips. "Although... daemons like us, the fucking undead, aren't quite divine, it probably still applies, right? While we're at it, we can replace Art's centuries old furniture with something comfortable and Italian—or maybe something from IKEA."

Just as soon as Gilbert rolled over on the floor to sit upright and bolted to the door, it was thrown open, and the werewolf was soon face-to-face with a pair of subdued aquatic green eyes staring at him with a deadpan. He raked a hand covered with a black glove through his strawberry blond hair as his eyes darted about in search for his brother. "Where is Arthur?" he asked monotonously.

"Y-Your Highness," Gilbert greeted as he recoiled from the shock. He immediately bowed—though despised himself for doing so as it was only an alpha's pride being crushed—and responded, "He had just left."

"I guess we were too late, Owain," chirped a short and stout young man with deep auburn hair. His luscious green eyes peered past the werewolf blocking the entrance before barging into the home uninvited.

Bouncing after him was a child no more than twelve years old with vivid blond hair and eyes a mixture of blue and green. "Wait for me, Seamus!" he exclaimed. "I want to look for that jerk Arthur, too!"

One, two, three... Gilbert counted mentally before his heart plummeted into his stomach, burning and dissolving in acid, as fear overwhelmed him. Where was the fourth one?

"Maaattthiiiaaasss!" he exclaimed, running back to the living room in search of his Viking friend. However, the revenant had already vanished. "You traitor!" Gilbert hissed under his breath. Shit, Gilbert cursed his luck, he was stuck in the same room as three of the Seven Princes of the Underworld. His life was on the line here! Who knew what would happen if he managed to piss them off? The Kirkland brothers were always so whimsical—most times, at the least!

At that moment, Kiku strolled out of the kitchen, bowed politely to his master's relatives, and announced that he would prepare the tea. The fox spirit inclined his gaze to the panicking albino and told the werewolf to entertain the guests. A gleeful shrill upstairs alerted the werewolf that Peter had found the five guardian spirits and was already entertained.

Well, that's one less, Gilbert mused half-heartedly as he grinned weakly at the remaining two princes. "So, Your Highnesses, where is His Highness Prince Alistair?" he inquired cautiously.

"He went off on his own again," Seamus answered shortly. "He said he was going to hunt a little white bird who's been straying a little too far from the nest—if you know what I mean."

Dread pooled in Gilbert's stomach. Oh, yes, he knew what Seamus meant very well and only hoped that Mathias had left in search of Arthur. If they were lucky, then the Viking would be able to warn the King of the Underworld in time before his oldest brother snatched hold of him.

"So this is a Catholic cathedral," Arthur mused as he peered into the distance. Despite having asked Romano to escort him around Rome, the King of the Underworld couldn't gather enough nerves to approach any sacred grounds within a five kilometre radius. Instead, he chose to admire them from afar though his admiration appeared to be more amusement than awe. "It's quite grandiose, isn't it? They've probably spent more time building the bloody church than worshipping their God."

Romano eyed him wearily and remarked, "You have something against Catholics, bastard?"

"Catholics, Protestants, and anything to do with the Emperor of the Heavens, or—as they like to call him—God," Arthur answered shortly with a wry smile. He shoved his hands into his pockets as the two of them strolled along. "It comes with the job, you know? Not to mention, if I get any closer, there's a good possibility that I'll be struck with lightning upon sight—that, or spontaneous combustion will occur. I'm not risking either." When Romano rolled his eyes and snorted, the wry smile on Arthur's lips melted into sincerity and tenderness—not that the Italian boy even noticed. It was good that Romano was distracted by his home town, Arthur decided, since he was feeling somewhat sappy at the moment. "Do—or did, I suppose—you come here often? I heard Romulus Vargas was fairly religious."

Romano scoffed quietly at Arthur's last comment before remarking dryly, "That's putting it lightly. We went to Mass every Sunday and attended the evening service at church as often as possible on Wednesdays, and, yeah, it was this church. I don't know if you've noticed, bastard, but Italy's still pretty religious as a whole—generally speaking, dammit."

"Of course," Arthur agreed, "after all, the Vatican isn't that far away from here—if I remember correctly, that is. I should, seeing that one of my pentacles is located in the Vatican."

"How did you get there without being struck by lightning, or were you joking around, bastard?"

"Oh, no, I'm very much serious when it comes to matters pertaining to the Heavens! The Emperor happens to be much more powerful than I am, but I suppose it is because he is the Creator and Maker of this entire world. Me? I'm just a king," Arthur defended himself with a smile. "At any rate, even though I say it's in the Vatican, it's more on the outskirts of the Vatican. I can't step too far into the Vatican without feeling like I'm going to melt or that the ground would collapse under my feet and drop me back into the Underworld. I'm not certain if I'm allowed in His house."

Romano glanced at Arthur the moment the blond finished speaking as though to confirm that the Briton hadn't disappeared in the fashion that he had mentioned earlier. Averting his eyes, Romano commented, "You... You don't really look like the Devil—especially with how you're dressed." Arthur arched an eyebrow, asking the Italian to clarify, despite the fact that Romano was somewhat unnerved and discomfited himself. When the brunet was aware that he was being pressed to elaborate, he explained himself, "You're dressed like an old man for someone who only looks twenty-three years old—o-or like a... a nerd, I guess... With your jumpers and all."

Arthur snorted at Romano's account, hiding his smirk behind his right hand, as he indulged himself in that crimson flush coating the Italian's cheeks. It nearly matched the very hue and intensity of his royal coat with how dark and deep it was becoming, and that especially drew great amusement from the King of the Underworld.

"I didn't always dress like this though," Arthur retorted coolly and suavely, feigning nonchalance to Romano's remarks. His response only elicited more curiosity from the brunet, however.

"Really?"

"Yes, I've dressed in punk as far back as the sixties until the mid-nineties, for example," Arthur clarified.

"No way," Romano responded immediately with pure and utter disbelief. "You're too anal retentive to be a punk-ass delinquent."

Arthur chortled lowly. "Well, living almost two millennia will do that to you. I just had more fun in the seventies; LSD and other drugs were rampant—especially in San Francisco," the Briton explained shortly with a shrug. "It didn't do a single thing to me though; I'm practically immune to all earthly or synthetic, man-made substances. It just gave me an excuse to lower my inhibitions, I suppose. I felt... more free then. There are periods of times when I did feel free in spite of my title and status—the Golden Age of Piracy, for instance."

"Are you... Are you still bored?" Romano inquired tentatively.

Arthur spared his guest a warm smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Not so much now that I'm with you," he answered honestly and blatantly. His words fuelled the heat burning on Romano's cheeks, and Arthur swelled with pride and glory at the sight—wanting nothing more to embrace the Italian and ravish that radiating warmth. "You're an interesting lad, Romano. Sometimes I can't tell if you're a coward or brave or simply an idiot." Before Romano could take any offence to Arthur's remarks, the Briton swiftly mentioned, "Still, your essence is—" beautiful and gorgeous and lovely and divine "—quite... unique, or maybe it's just you in general." After all, the blond mused, his body is a beautiful host for a beautiful soul with a beautiful heart. "Nevertheless, I'm glad to have met you even though it's under these circumstances."

"D-Dammit, you b-b-bastard!" Romano squeaked with a flushed face—flustered and bothered—after having heard such honest words, though not honest enough but a rarity nonetheless from the Briton, who had momentarily lowered his guards and defences. "W-What the hell do you think you're saying?!"

"I honestly don't know, but, ah, I figured trying to be honest with you is the proper thing to do in this situation," Arthur confessed. Romano was in a rut right now; the daemon knew at least that much. His family had betrayed him, and he was now a refugee in Arthur's home—living with strangers possessing otherworldly powers and abilities. He had finally retrieved his brother but only the body; the soul was lost elsewhere. They currently had no leads on where to find Feliciano's soul, and the family that had betrayed him was to be eradicated entirely within three months. "So what have you been doing in the past four days?"

"You mean while you were out cold?" Romano remarked dryly. "I've been playing with the kids, like house, hide and seek, board games, teatime, and shit. I've shown them around Rome a few times, and we've cooked dinner together, too."

"You make quite the older brother," Arthur complimented with a gentle smile. "I wish mine were a tad bit more like you—although that would be a little strange, I have to admit." Romano's cheeks flushed with embarrassment though the Briton took no notice of this. His eyes were currently focused on a little café. He nodded his head towards the local establishment and asked his companion, "Do you want something to eat?" Romano simply shrugged his shoulders and allowed Arthur to lead him there. They both occupied a small round table for two. While Romano ordered a light meal, Arthur had declined, seeing that he really didn't need physical nourishment, but upon noticing that they didn't serve tea, Arthur simply asked to double Romano's drink order—something with the word "latte" in it was all the blond had managed to grasp. When the waiter left to deliver their orders to the kitchen, the Briton resumed conversation, "They're quite attached to you now—the children. You cook with them? I've hardly the time to spare for that in the past; I'm glad they got to experience that then."

"You cook?" was Romano's inquiry.

The corners of Arthur's lips curved into a subtle smile. "I dither in culinary arts, yes," he responded confidently. "It reminds me of brewing a spell—only lacking the cauldron."

Romano snorted with laughter, and Arthur could only smile. Before a silence could creep between them, the waiter returned with Romano's sandwich and their lattes. Arthur politely thanked the waiter and took a curious sip of his latte. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath—eyes wide and glimmering—as he took another sip, "what is this? I've never been one for coffee, so I wouldn't know. This is rather brilliant—though not quite as relaxing as a cup of Earl Grey in my book."

Romano laughed at his reaction and at his expression before answering, "It's caffé latte, bastard—made with espresso and steamed milk. I'm surprised they have this on the menu. Most of the time, caffè latte is served at home for breakfast, but this place kind of has a homely atmosphere to it—maybe it's not that surprising."

"Espresso, huh?" Arthur mused before he took another sip. "I wonder if you can replace espresso with a shot of tea instead—like chai, masala chai—or mix them together."

Romano frowned at the thought and remarked, "It wouldn't be a caffè latte if you did that, dammit."

"Right, right," the Briton agreed. "It'd be more like a masala chai latte—chai latte? Something like that." Arthur glanced at Romano's sandwich just as he took a bite. "How's lunch?"

"It's fine—not bad—could be better," Romano answered shortly. Arthur rolled his eyes at the response—although it was mostly because he was humoured—and the Italian felt a need to defend himself, "Look, I'm a gourmet, dammit. Got it, you bastard?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

A thought crossed the boy's mind then, and he immediately turned to face Arthur in order to ask, "You said that daemons didn't need to eat, right? Does that apply to the children?"

"They're not technically daemons," Arthur responded slowly, gathering his thoughts together to formulate the best possible way to explain this. "They're not ghosts either. They're just... guardian spirits. It's like they're souls without bodies. Technically, they shouldn't be able to feel hungry; I don't know if they really do. It's possible—or most likely—that breakfast, lunch, teatime, and dinner were simply a part of their human lives of which they couldn't rid themselves—like a sort of circadian rhythm that hadn't diminished over the years. Haven't you noticed that they eat at certain, specific or particular times? Every morning around eight, every afternoon around one, sometimes a snack around four, and dinner around half seven. Alfred also complains about hunger at the same time as well—three o'clock—but I wonder if he really does feel hunger. He whines in the same fashion all of the time. It wouldn't surprise me if he couldn't remember what actual hunger feels likes."

"That's... That's true," Romano mumbled, his eyes distant as he realised the proof underlying Arthur's words. "That's... kind of sad. They don't really need food, do they?"

"No," Arthur responded shortly with a bitter smile. "Not at all. If we think about souls as a part of an electromagnetic spectrum or like an electric current, as some modern scientists would suggest, then really all they need to be be near the source of their power to be rejuvenated."

"That's you, isn't it?"

"Correct," Arthur confirmed. "They need to be either near me or at the centre of one of my pentacles." He sighed and gave a weary smile. "Shall we talk about a lighter topic?"

"Like what, bastard? How's the weather?"

"Marvellous, thanks for asking."

Right after Romano finished his meal in between jests and laughter, the two of them paid for their meal—well, Arthur did—tipped the waiter—again, Arthur did—and resumed their stroll throughout town. In the middle of another one of their conversations, however, a wave of heat crossed over the land, trickling over Arthur's skin and washing over his body, before he felt a spark of electricity attack his nerves. Someone was issuing him a warning, but that was hardly necessary. He could sense this essence over a thousand miles, and he knew fully well who it was.

"Romano, get down!" Arthur exclaimed as he reached for the boy accompanying him on his stroll. The Briton covered Romano's smaller body with his own, pushing him and pinning him onto the ground, as a blaze of scarlet scalded the area where they had previously stood. Arthur glanced around them and found a shimmer of light behind them being reflected by the sun. "A barrier?" he whispered to himself. Its purpose was to separate them from the rest of the Surface World, Arthur realised, so it meant that he was being challenged to a duel.

"Ye missed, Amon," remarked a low, deep voice marked with a heavy Scottish accent. Arthur raised his head, narrowing his emerald eyes at the acidic green of his oldest brother. The latter had his arm outstretched for an elegant phoenix with varying shades of vermilion and scarlet feathers tipped lightly with a pristine red flame. His crimson haired brother returned Arthur's glare with an expression of amusement. "Awright thare, Artie?"

"I've never been better," Arthur replied sardonically, refusing to move an inch away from Romano's body, intent on shielding him from Alistair's and Amon's flames. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"We came to pay our wee brother a visit," Alistair mused as the phoenix familiar nesting on his arm dissipated into red flames, vanquishing into thin air. "Is that not allowed? We weren't banished from visiting the Surface World." Upon seeing the puzzlement crossing Arthur's livid expression, the redhead brought himself to explain, "Owain, Seamus, Peter, and I came to see ye. The others are probably at your estate right now. We figured ye would be in London, but suddenly the Scribe obtained records of high magic activity in the vicinities of Rome. It can't be much of a coincidence that ye are here as well."

"What are you implying, Alistair?" Arthur demanded coldly as his emerald eyes hardened into stone. "Hurry up and get to the point."

"Aye," replied the redhead, rolling his eyes at Arthur's impatience (though he himself had no place to gripe), as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What I'm trying to say is this: ye went off and did something stupid, haven't ye? Owain, Seamus, and I already went to examine the site where magic traces remain. The corpses have already been cremated, and the souls have already been dragged to Hell. It's still bloody obvious what happened there. An entire Mafia family had been exterminated through supernatural means—attack by hellhounds, superhuman strength of revenants, unnatural elemental damage by either a mage or a warlock—and, Artie, your last contract involved a Mafioso. These aren't coincidences."

"I'm bound to the words of my contract with Romulus Vargas," Arthur retorted calmly. He was oblivious to the fact that Lovino was staring up at him, wide-eyed with astonishment and quaking with fear, though silently admiring his strength, power, and determination. Gradually, Arthur pushed himself from the ground, no longer covering Romano but instead standing in front of the boy who began to sit upright as well. "As he wishes, I will erase La Famiglia Divina from existence through any means possible."

"Ye have an army," Alistair pointed out. "Ye have an entire horde of daemons at your beck and call, but ye went off and sneaked behind our backs."

"The military is under your command, General," Arthur remarked dryly, his tone vehement and bitter. "Because you are my brother, my older brother, I doubt you would have listened to me even though I am your king."

"Aye, and I admit that our father's lost his mind when he chose ye," Alistair responded just as wryly, "but I like Uncle Patrick no better than ye—no better than ye do as well."

A silence crept between the two brothers.

"You understand what he's been planning?" Arthur queried of his brother.

Alistair huffed indignantly. "How can I not?" he snapped. "I have control of the military branches, as ye have said, and I hear every word that passes through town through the intelligence department. He's been planning for this day for centuries, Artie."

"And what of you?" Arthur asked quietly, sceptically, as he eyed his brother with patent suspicion.

"I might not always be better than Uncle Patrick at times, but I am definitely no worse than he," Alistair responded civilly. "I'd rather bow my head to the angels in the Heavens than see him in charge. The manipulative little bastard somehow conned Aunt Bridget into marrying him, but he won't fool me. I trust our father's word more than I trust his rule." He smirked—somewhat derisively, somewhat amusedly—and remarked, "How does the saying go? 'He that finds discontentment in one place is not likely to find happiness in another'? I guess I'm stuck with ye, Artie."

Arthur cracked a smile. "Sod off, Alistair, you tosser."

Alistair roared with laughter before raising his hand and shouting, "Think fast, Artie!" Instantaneously, a ball of obsidian flames gathered in the palm of his hand before rapidly hurling in Arthur's direction. The blond swiftly stretched out his arm and deflected the flames with his own, dissolving the black flames with crystal blue beams wrapping around his hand like a river current. The older demon grinned deviously at his brother's aggravated expression before drawing a claymore seemingly from thin air. It slowly revealed itself from the black cross hilt to the silvery blade, elongating well past a hundred centimetres excluding the hilt itself, before pointing the claymore at Arthur.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked wearily.

"I didn't say that I would help ye now, did I?" Alistair retorted coolly. "I came to fetch ye at the Scribe's request, and I'm taking ye back whether ye like it or not. If ye do not want to come with me, then I suggest ye draw your sword. I don't mean any sword either; I mean Excalibur."

"You're a fool to challenge me to a sword fight," the Englishman muttered under his breath. Nevertheless, he humoured his brother and, in the same fashion that Alistair had performed, pulled his sword from the sky. Like the first time, the cutlass glowed with a blinding silvery-blue light that engraved the same letters onto the blade, and, again, Arthur swung the sword in a downward motion to slice the air, creating a sharp ripple. He assumed a defensive position just as Alistair began to grip his claymore properly with two hands. In an instant, Alistair charged towards Arthur, who managed to block the attack to his face in the nick of time.

Lovino watched, awestruck, as metal clashed against metal, the sound ringing in his ears in the fashion of a piercing knell, as the two brothers exchanged blows faster than the speed of light. The Italian could barely catch their forms as they danced in a macabre fashion, rhythmically clanging the blades of their swords time and time again. Neither one of them could land a blow on the other, and it was clear that the two of them were exerting themselves entirely. Worry began to pool within Lovino's stomach as he prayed for Arthur's safety. It might have been a ridiculous notion, praying for the Devil, but Lovino desired his safety over anything else in that very moment. He wanted Arthur by his side—not anywhere else. Arthur was a man who kept his word, and if he declared and stated firmly that he would protect Lovino, the brunet would believe him. He was more honest than any other person Lovino has ever encountered—aside from his idiot brother and cousin.

The Italian recoiled as he spotted a ball of obsidian flames hurling at him after having missed its target. Instinctively, his lips parted to scream, yet his voice wouldn't come out. His hazel eyes widened to the size of the moon as trepidation chained his feet to the ground; he was unable to move his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the hell-fire to reach him, but it never came.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur hissed, dropping in front of Lovino with the back of his jumper charred entirely. Trickles of blue flames had barely managed to horde off the attack, now surrounding Arthur and Lovino from any other potential surprise attacks. The cutlass he had been gripping fell to the ground with a clatter, dissolving into particles of light, as he threw his arms around Lovino. "Are you all right?" the Englishman whispered desperately to the boy, tightening his embrace and burying Lovino's face into his chest. Pressed against his breast, Lovino could hear Arthur's rapidly pounding heart, strung with adrenaline and panic and excitement and eager and—perhaps—nervousness. "Oh, Romano, I'm so sorry... I didn't think he would attack you. I'm so sorry, luv; you must have been given quite a fright." Before the Italian had a chance to utter a single syllable, Arthur whipped his head violently to his older brother, glaring vehemently with emeralds sharper than his blade, the pupils narrowing into vertical slits. "Alistair!" he hissed.

"I couldn't help it," Alistair said sheepishly, not giving Arthur a chance to continue onto a relentless tirade. "I just had to test you—somehow, some way. It seems you haven't lost your touch though you still are not at Father's level."

"I'll get there—someday," Arthur vowed silently.

"I don't know if I'm looking forward to it," Alistair responded half-heartedly, raking a hand through his crimson locks, before recalling his purpose. "There's a Council meeting," he mentioned offhandedly to his younger brother. Before Arthur could formulate a witty, sarcastic response, Alistair quickly followed with another statement, "You're required to attend as King of the Underworld. Be at the palace within four hours, but until then, you can enjoy your date with your Italian boy-toy, yeah?"

Arthur flushed indignantly, bristled and affronted, at Alistair's choice in words. "He's no toy!" the younger Kirkland barked heatedly, oblivious to the fact that the brunet standing behind him was flushed for another reason entirely.

Arthur, after all, did not deny that this was a date.

A/N: Well, this was a little off-schedule, but at least it's up! Finally, Arthur's brothers made their début! It's the beginning of a new arc!

Also, Lovino is referred to as "Romano" for some parts of this chapter because it was in Arthur's perspective. At the moment, he views Lovino as a soul, not quite a person. You'll see what I'm talking about as the story progresses. In a purely third person chapter, not limited to only one character and entirely omniscient, the characters will be addressed by their names (no nicknames, no insults, nothing but names and actual titles). I have a weird writing style.

The rest of this author's note is just to simplify chapter content about terminology.

Souls
The souls, as mentioned back in the first (two?) chapters, are flames with colours based in four general categories - blue, white, yellow, and red. This is the same as the colour of the stars such as the sun, blue being the hottest and red being the coolest. In the context of souls, blue is the purest soul and red is not so pure. Red isn't the dirtiest soul though. As illustrated in the previous chapter, Valentino's soul was almost brown in colour, and - oh? What's this? - Alistair was seen using black flames. I wonder what that's all about. So basically, the hierarchy goes like this:
1. Blue - Purest, Rarest
2. White - Pure, Rare
3. Yellow - Good, Common
4. Red - Not So Good, Common
5. Apparently, you can get worse than the general worst, like Valentino's maroon/brown soul

Borne and Created Daemons
There is one basic difference between these two that Arthur explained: to be a daemon, you are either born that way or you are made (cursed/blessed) into one. Daemons such as incubi/succubi, familiars, demons, and angels can therefore mate with each other or with humans. Daemons such as vampires, werewolves, and revenants must die as a human first before being, in a sense, "reborn" or "resurrected."

Heaven vs Hell
I think what Arthur said was pretty simple, but I'll clarify just in case. In the Surface World, there is an extension that normal humans can't see. Everything that is supernatural or paranormal belongs to the Otherside. This includes the Dark Realm and the Celestial Realm.
The Dark Realm is made up of two things: the Underworld and Hell. The Underworld is where daemons of the dark (those perceived to be "evil" or "malignant") live while Hell is where souls go to be tortured.
The Celestial Realm is the counterpart of the Dark Realm; therefore, it is also made of two parts, the Heavens - where "benevolent" daemons reside - and Heaven - a paradise for souls.

Alfred's Insatiable Appetite
Although it sounds humorous at first, it's pretty depressing. Because Arthur's guardian spirits are children who have died and been rescued, they might not have processed that they're actually dead. It's not even clear to Arthur how much they really know despite having lived with them for centuries. In their old lives, it would seem that Alfred and Matthew had a planned schedule of eating, and Aflred kept that routine even in the afterlife, dragging his brothers and sister into the same pattern as well. Based on the theory that ghosts and auras are part of the electromagnetic spectrum (or something like that), they don't need physical nourishment such as breakfast and dinner, yet Alfred and the others still eat because it is simply a habit. Arthur didn't have the heart to confront them about that.

Lastly, I want to thank everyone who added this story to their favourites or followed this story or took the time to review! I honestly didn't think it would get very much attention when I was posting these chapters, but you've really boosted my confidence and esteem. Thank you very so much, everyone; I really feel honoured! We've just about hit the halfway mark of this story, actually, so I hope I'll see you at the end as well!