A/n: I am so sorry that this chapter is so late. I took a hiatus for the earthquakes earlier in the month, and when I came back to update, there were these error two messages! I meant to update yesterday, but then my keyboard died! Instead of waiting until next Sunday, I decided to post this today—on a Monday. Sorry for the delay and the schedule changes.
As an apology, here is an extra long chapter! Hope you guys enjoy. The backstory ends soon.
Disclaimer: Too lazy. You get the idea.
If you see any grammatical errors, feel free to tell me! Note, some errors in speech (not typos) are just improper speech patterns. Kids don't speak grammatically, after all. :/
Chapter Seven: Long Live the King
"I'm almost never serious, and I'm always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I'm like a collection of paradoxes." - Ferdinand von Schrubentaufft
- Page Cut -
The blonde boy sat in his throne proudly, the fur-lined cape made of some sort of soft velvet draped over his side. The crown was ever so slightly askew on his head, and waves of long blonde waves—like the silk imported from Xing—washed down his back.
To his right was his beautiful young wife, holding their baby. She was Ishvallen, he noted absently, and he was surprised to find happiness fill him instead of fear or hatred. She was dressed in fine silks and lace and looked ever so regal, holding one of their children gently.
To his left, bowing down and looking miserable, was a faceless older man. Despite the fact his was faceless, the boy knew this was Bradley, the former Führer.
Past Bradley was another man, this one less slave-like and more like a miserable naked prisoner, chained to the wall.
The boy chuckled. You deserve it for what you did to her.
He couldn't help but think that this was all too perfect. It was his ideal lifestyle—his ideal world, even. He breathed in, closing his eyes. The boy felt successful and proud. He felt like an absolute god, one could even say; I am king. There is nothing better.
Opening his eyes, he surveyed his kingdom. The gathering of people in the room stopped their conversation—he hadn't even heard the voices before—and turned to look at him, smiling brightly. The smiles were filled with love and warmth, and he knew then that he was truly happy.
"Long live our glorious king!" They cheered, raising their wine glasses to him.
"Long live our king, for without him our kingdom would no be so wondrous!" A melodic female voice said from the crowd.
A small laugh chimed from somewhere. "Long live our king, for without him we would not be so prosperous."
"Long live our beloved king!"
- Page Cut -
Harris' eyes opened. He blinked once, twice, clearing his vision a bit.
It was oddly quiet in the city. He smiled slightly at the low hum in the distance as he forced himself to sit up; his whole body ached, especially his legs. He must have done more running than he realized. His hands hurt, too—he'd been clenching that money in his hands so tightly, even in his sleep… The bigger sens had cut into his palm slightly.
Harris rolled his eyes and brushed his hand off on his pants as he stood, before stretching. "Wonder if it's too soon to spend this money…" He mused aloud, groaning lightly as he stretched his arms above his head. "Maybe I ought to cut to the next town for safety."
He pondered this as he found an alley hose plug, turning it on with a bit of effort. He splashed his face with the water, then rinsed his mouth with it, then drank a bit. The taste was absolutely horrible, but definitely better than nothing. Better than dehydrating, especially; he'd learned about it once in school. It didn't sound fun at all.
"What to do…" He murmured, looking to the sky. There were quite a few towns nearby—the west of Amestris was good for that, at least—but he didn't know if they'd be as safe for street kids as this one was.
He walked down the streets, whistling a strange tune. He passed by a gathering of police officers, and chuckled. They'd found his handiwork from last night.
Harris couldn't believe he'd killed someone for a few sens. It was probably a really silly thing for him to do. But—in his mind—it was quite necessary; his stomach growled lowly, almost as proof to that belief of his. He sighed. "I guess I should get some food." He decided, shaking his head ever so slightly before going into a nearby bar. It seemed to be the only place open this afternoon.
Sure enough, when he stepped in, it seemed like all of the people who would normally be on the streets of this town were inside having an afternoon drink. With much confidence, Harris wandered up to the bar, taking a seat on the stool next to a rugged young man bearing a large, smelly rucksack.
"One whisky," Harris said to the bartender with a grin, slamming a majority of his sens onto the bar with great pride. "And all the food the leftover cash buys!"
"You can have the food and water, kid. I don't serve unaccompanied minors." The bartender said in a deep voice that made Harris feel a bit intimidated. Harris frowned, obviously disappointed; he'd wanted to try alcohol so badly…
He laid his head on the bar while he waited, absently wondering whether the old wood was softer than the ground he'd slept on.
"So you're serious about that, kid?" A voice asked in a hoarse whisper from nearby. "All that business… A new empire, a better world?"
"I am." A smooth voice said from beside him. "My father's vision that is shared by our group is just that. We don't want power or money, just a safe country without discrimination or wars—as cliché as that dream may sound, it is possible! Führer Bradley is going to be nothing more than a war lord, I assure you. This is why he must be unseated and our country turned into a democracy, sir."
That almost makes sense.
"I suppose."
"Really though, it's more or less about the Ishvallens and soldiers dying senselessly—and for a war that should never have happened, no less." The smoother voice sounded saddened. "My brothers—Henry, Luke, and Matthew—all died for this war unnecessarily. My father has seen countless others experiencing the grief that we have. It… it doesn't need to happen, but Bradley lets it. He wants it, actually. He's… I don't even know."
The honesty and compassion in his tone was overwhelming. Even a child like Harris could hear it, and feel it with the same power as a grown man.
As the rugged male continued speaking in his smooth voice, explaining the other ideals and describing the manifesto of his organization—The Eastern Front for Peace and Liberation, a militia seeking a diverse, peaceful nation where everyone could be accepted and happy, and where death and war were things of the past—Harris found himself drawn in. Slowly, more people—even the bartender and police—were as well.
"Right now," the man said, "we've been involved in uprooting military control from the regions closer to warzones. This allows the shopkeepers to have control over their stock and profit, land to be returned to the farmers who own it, and families to rest safely knowing those men aren't in their town. That's nothing against the soldiers, but really… When those strong, armed men come down the streets in hoards with their weapons and the soulless looks in their eyes, don't you feel scared? Don't you worry about what they could do to your wives and children, or even you? I have heard one too many stories about what happens when a sweet girl gets caught by one of those men—"
"That's enough now!"
The crowd of huddled listeners jumped at the bartender's words. Harris made a whining sound, pouting a bit; he'd wanted to hear more of what the man had to say. He was addicted to his words and recounting of tales, his voice, and his pleasant smile…
When the crowd disbursed and the loud clamor of forks and plates and mugs returned, bringing with it the hum of voices, Harris decided that he had to speak with the young man.
Before he could, though, the man stood. "I'll see you lot later, I'm going to sleep now."
"Already?" Someone asked, laughing.
"I'm afraid so," he smiled sadly, raising a hand in a slight wave—almost defensively, actually. "I arrived only a few hours ago, remember? I'll be down by dinner, I promise."
And like that, he was half way across the room. Harris almost reached out for him, wishing that warm presence would return to his side. The man was up the stairs on the other side of the room, going up into an inn that the pub connected to.
He'll be back by dinner, though. I can see him again. Harris absorbed that knowledge with joy, heart-racing.
That sudden departure was painful, but it wouldn't be the last time he saw him.
- Page Cut –
By the time late afternoon rolled around, it was very hot outside; the sun was beating down on the city, and it brought with it great humidity. Harris momentarily missed his home; on days like this, he would absolutely love to soak in the small creek or simply bathe. He's enjoy ice cream if his mother let him have some, or just lay in the room with the fan while she…
Mother, I hope you're holding up alright without me.
He shook his head, cheering himself up a bit with thoughts of his dream from last night.
"I want that dream to come true…" He mumbled quietly, shaking his head a bit. As if that would make the thought of living without that approving public—without the satisfaction of revenge—wasn't painful to him.
That guy's group… They're going to take out the Führer, right?
Harris paused, wondering whether he should even continue these thoughts for a moment. He then decided that yes, he should continue them—they were all he really had right now.
I could use that to make my dream come true, like in those books I read.
Grinning, Harris leaned against a wall.
He'd decided already what he would do with his life from now on.
- Page Cut -
That night, Harris returned to the pub, just in time for the dinner hour to start. His hand fumbled with the last sens in his pocket as he passed the police station without a single worry—except for that he had little money left. What a useless old gasbag that guy turned out to be! Not even a whole fifty on him!
Wandering inside shyly, Harris found that the bar was a lot more crowded, and reeked of alcohol. He shook his head a bit, hating the way the cigar smoke actually burned his eyes. "Nasty."
"…And that was the day when those market bandits from the desert rolled in…"
Harris gasped softly, looking around. That was the young man's voice!
I need to get close to him. I have to be able to talk to him if I want him to take me along with him!
He awkwardly made his war towards the group of huddled men at the bar, smiling happily as he heard the man talk about an epic battle with the men from the desert, defending a homestead sort-of place and simultaneously taking out the small military police group there. Harris realized that this story had probably been told before he'd arrived earlier, judging by the whispered conversation of the men around him. He listened all the same, unable to pull away from the stories.
"Hey, Pete, tell them about the forced marriage in Arlington!" Another man laughed.
Is his name Pete? Harris wondered, eyes wide. Such an unfitting name, he decided.
"Oh, that's such a horrible story, though." 'Pete' shook his head, grimacing. "That poor girl was in such an awful condition, I just don't feel comfortable telling her story like this."
The man who had asked—Harris determined that it was one of 'Pete's' traveling companions—snorted, rolling his eyes and waving him off.
"Bah, she was a prostitute to begin with, right? I'd personally say the girl had it coming."
Those words struck a small cord with Harris, but he shook it off as the crowd erupted in agreeing laughter.
"All the same," 'Pete' sighed, "I won't discuss it."
Harris oddly admired him even more.
- Page Cut -
Harris sat in his seat, squirming as some of Pete's companions discussed sexual assaults by military groups. He wasn't as interested in hearing this, surprisingly—though, there was good reason; the man referred to as Pete—Harris' idol and current last source of hope—was sitting at the bar beside him, eating a sandwich. Harris had a smaller sandwich, though that was all he could afford. Because of the 'reduced price', he ended up with stale bread and very little meat. He knew he'd be hungry later, but he'd just have to deal with it, really.
He listened as Pete commented on how horrible it was for a married man to rape a poor girl while on duty. "The excuse of being deprived is absolutely horrible and disgusting. A real man stays loyal to his family and doesn't attack a defenseless woman because of his own needs."
Exactly, Harris internally grumbled. Exactly that.
A slight argument was on the tip of Harris' tongue, but he bit it back for a short while. He waited patiently until everyone seemed back into their own conversations—until he and the man could have privacy. When that time came, he thought about what to say.
There was only one thing that was really on his mind—only one that he thought he knew enough about to discuss on the man's level. It was terrible to think that this was the thing he knew the most about, but…
"They don't just force it on the women, you know." Harris started off bluntly. It earned the man's attention.
He blinked curiously at Harris, tilting his head. "Excuse me, kid?"
"The soldiers." Harris clarified. "They don't just force it on women. Even if they're married, they pick up prostitutes or just regular easy women. They're all bastards."
"…I suppose." He chuckled. He held out a large, rough hand expectantly, smiling at Harris with a strange fondness. The blonde boy's face heated a bit as he accepted the shake. "I'm Peter Lunsford. And you are..?"
"Harris Klein," Harris blinked, smiling back at Peter, before spilling out, "I'm nine."
Peter laughed. "Wow! You look so much older than that!"
"You don't have to humor me. I know I'm still really a kid." Harris informed him, deadpan. He took a gulp of his water, before eying Jack seriously. "So, your militia… It sounds cool."
"Does it?" Peter wondered, blinking. "I don't mean to make it sound that way… It's a difficult lifestyle. A lot of secrecy and recruiting—you have to be careful, even in towns like this—and you have to work hard and train. It's even tougher than being a soldier; no one can no you exist."
It was obvious what the dark haired boy was trying to do.
Peter could see the spark in Harris' eyes—the dangerous spark that no child should have, given the context of the situation.
"I want in."
There was a pause.
Peter thought for a moment; he really didn't know what to say to this boy, though. The militia had taken in a few boys, but never this young. Child soldiers could be incredibly useful, but the idea put a horrible feeling in his gut… Even we are fighting a war though, and in wars, dirty tactics must be used… Right? Peter wished he could contact his father for advice right now.
He looked into Harris' eyes. To turn down one so inspired and enthusiastic—as sudden as it was—would be too cruel…
"…I'm leaving tomorrow. Think about it for a while."
With the firmness in his tone, Harris couldn't even object. He nodded, accepting this solemnly. It wouldn't hurt to think on it more, he supposed—adults like to think a lot, and since he was an adult now, he probably should, too—and really, he was just happy that Peter's response wasn't a definite 'no'. He looked back to his food, before smiling at Peter. When Peter smiled back, Harris could only smile more; it was nice to feel like this person approved of him.
He loved approval.
- Page Cut -
The king stood proudly before his citizens, a wide grin on his face as he waved to the prisoner.
"At last, the horrible warlock has been brought to justice!" He declared with a laugh; the crowd erupted into applause, cheering their king's might and thanking him for his work. They praised his faithful knights and his team of magicians. They smiled warmly and waved to him. "For his crimes, he will be burned at the stake! Criminals like this horrible warlock will not be left unpunished. I, your precious king, will light the match myself."
Even louder applause erupted from the crowd, leaving a buzz in the king's ears as he sauntered to the criminal tied to the cross.
"P-please," the faceless man begged, "spare me!"
The king smirked. "No."
And soon, the man was ablaze, screaming and begging for mercy.
The king looked to his mother in the audience—the Queen, one might say—and smiled. "Aren't you happy, mother? I did it. I got him."
The woman smiled back at him with great pride and happiness, letting her beautiful blonde hair fall in her face as she applauded her son's success, and the king knew that that meant it had to be a dream.
- Page Cut –
It was a bit noisier when Harris woke up. The man he'd stabbed was having a small funeral today, and the procession was crossing the alley he slept in. He eyed the sobbing ex-wife, slightly disgruntled by all the commotion a worthless old drunk was suddenly getting.
He sleepily stumbled through the back alleys, making his way around a building and own a sidewalk. Did Peter ever say what time he was leaving today? He didn't… I hope he hasn't gone without me! Harris felt a bit anxious and more awake at the thought, looking to the clock tower in the distance; he couldn't tell time too well—much less see that far, for that matter—and so was hopeless at telling if he'd slept in too long. With the funeral procession going on, he was clueless as to whether it was breakfast hour or lunch hour. The sun was well hidden behind clouds, and he was a bit disoriented.
Harris groaned in frustration; What a bad way to begin the day, huh?
His journey to the pub was uneventful, aside from a stray cat running past him—"Disgusting! Gross, stupid animal!" he shouted at it, jumping away and cringing. Harris absolutely hated cats, and all animals, for that matter!—and was rather quick, thankfully.
"Alright, here I go…" He whispered to himself, giving a nod of confidence and making sure he looked strong and determined, before going in.
- Page Cut -
"What do you mean he left already?"
The bartender stared, surprised at the outburst. "It's late in the afternoon, kid. He left only about twenty minutes ago, though. With the traffic, he's probably just outside of the city. You could catch him—Ah!"
Harris had run out as soon as he heard where Peter might be. "Peter, wait!"
His skinny legs were shaking as he ran down the old, dirty road that led out of the city. A wooden horse-drawn cat was only about half a mile ahead of him, horses beside it. Harris could see Peter sitting on the bag of the cart, holding a shotgun, and he smiled, waving his arms.
He felt like he was going to throw up when he opened his mouth, shouting, "PETER! PETER, ITS HARRIS KLEIN! WAIT UP!"
The cart came to a stop and he let out a laugh, doing his best to pick up speed, no matter how much it hurt to do so.
He stumbled to his knees when he finally caught up, gasping and panting for air. "Harris, are you alright?" Peter asked, blinking. One of the men got off his horse, offering the young boy a canteen. Harris waved him off, shaking his head weakly as he gasped for air again.
"N-no thank you, ah… P-Peter, I made my choice!" He grinned at the older male, wiping sweat from his forehead shakily. "P-Peter, I want to g-go with you! L-let me join the militia, please!"
Peter watched him, slightly surprised, before looking between his companions. Some sort of silent debate passed between them, before Peter smiled at Harris warmly. Harris' already rapidly beating heart sped up to a dangerous rate, adrenaline and anticipation nearly making it burst.
"Welcome aboard, Klein."
- Page Cut –
Three Weeks Later
"As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." –Marianne Williamson
Harris looked around the base town with enthusiasm, grinning.
It was a small town much like his own; it vaguely reminded him of the town called Risembool that Peter had told him about, but not nearly as farmland-oriented or spread out. The buildings were brick with tiled (was that the word? He wasn't sure…) roofs and little flower boxes in the windows. A few shops were around, but not many, and he could smell meat cooking from someplace.
This town was the base town for the militia; it was known as Patrick's Grove to the citizens, but according to Peter, that wasn't its real name—it was apparently officially called Bradley Hill.
"It was named before the Führer was put into office, but it now symbolizes something we refuse to accept—something we hate." Peter explained with a frown.
Harris was awed. "Is everyone here a part of the militia?"
"Yes. There are only about sixty people in the area total, but they all are involved somehow and support what we are trying to accomplish," Peter smiled slightly at his childish excitement. "My father is the leader, though—you'll meet him when he gets back from a recruitment trip."
"Okay…"
"I'll be finding a place for you to stay, but for now you can just explore the area. Have fun, make some friends—this is your home now."
Harris nodded, hopping off the cart and running off. He was sure he'd find Peter later when he needed him—it wasn't that big of a place, after all.
He felt bad that he'd partially lied to the charismatic man—when telling his story, he'd said that he was an orphan running away from a children's home in the city, and Peter believed him; "You smell awful and look like a street kid, the possibility of you being anything but was far too unlikely. I've seen many street kids and many spies, and you are neither."—but it was all for a good cause. It wasn't like he was entirely lying, either; he had disowned his mother in a way. He might as well be an orphan then, right? He had been a street kid for a while…
Don't think about the technicalities, just focus on now!
Harris sighed, sitting on some stairs to tie his shoes. He thought this was probably a schoolhouse, judging by the appearance—he couldn't read the sign well.
I don't want to go to school, really, he mused, but if no one knows my mother… maybe it'd be different.
He cringed at the memories that ran through his mind.
"What does the hooker's son have for lunch today? Ha, woulda guessed it be seeds! Loser!"
"Bastards…" Harris grumbled, shaking his head.
"Hm?"
He blinked and looked up, face heating when he saw the cute blonde girl peeking out from the building window.
"Huh?"
"You said some weird word," the girl mumbled shyly, tilting her head. "Bast… Barters? What does it mean?" She asked, batting her big blue eyes at him innocently.
Harris deadpanned, looking back to his shoes. "Well, aren't you naïve?" He sighed, shaking his head a bit with a frown. "I said 'bastards', it's a word you use for people you dislike because they're mean."
"Don't talk to me like I'm stupid," she pouted. "I'm not an idiot."
"It's arguable." Harris grumbled, before looking back to her. Maybe he shouldn't be so mean; for a whorish woman, she was pretty cute. "My name is Harris Klein. I just moved into town."
"I saw! Peter brought you." She grinned. "It's nice to meet you then, Harris Klein, friend of Peter! I'm Melinda Fritz. I live outside of the town, on the horse farm! I just turned eight!"
"…U-huh. Kay. Nice to meet you then, kid." Harris rolled his eyes, cheeks turning a bit pink. What a weird girl… "Well, um…"
"See you!" And just like that, she disappeared into the window—her laughter faded as she went further inside, and Harris deadpanned.
This town kind of freaks me out, now that I think about it.
- Page Cut –
That night, Harris was invited to Peter's home for dinner. He knew from their many discussions on the road that Peter had a wife, but he was surprised to find out that Larraine Lunsford had had a baby since Peter left. Not even Peter had known that the baby had been born—hell, he didn't even know that Larraine was pregnant!
"I found out a week after he left," she said, brushing some of her light brown hair from her eyes. "When Peter is on the road, he never calls—it's too dangerous in case the military is listening in, he says."
Peter sighed sadly, hugging his newborn daughter a bit tightly. "It's the price of the job. Ever since my father decided to start the militia, we've had to live like this. Recruiting trips or surveillance every other month with no contact with our family back home—usually they don't last eight months, though! And just after our wedding, too…"
"Well, not right after…" Larraine teased. The joke went right over Harris' head.
"That's why I wanted you to think about it, Harris." Peter went on. "It's not an easy life, and once you get in, you don't get out—it's too risky."
"But you talked about it so openly in town!"
"Those people already have supported us—they're a small group that only provides supplies and shelter when our members pass through. They never fight." Peter explained. "It's complicated, I know, but you'll get it eventually."
"I'm sure that I will." Harris smiled, nodding.
Larraine grinned. "I'll bet! You seem like a smart boy."
"T-thanks…"
"He is, Lar." Peter laughed. "The things he talked about on the trip home—the goals he has! You should hear him talk, Larraine. He's a good boy." He then looked to Harris with a bit of pride; as if he was some new weapon that Peter had acquired. "He's a teacher's kid, I'll bet."
Harris internally flinched.
"Or maybe a soldier's son." Larraine agreed.
"Tell me, Harris, what did your mother do?"
- Page Cut -
The king watched his castle burn with horror, the screams of the servants escaping and those trapped inside filling his ears. His dream was his downfall.
Long live the king.
Omake/Extra
"Tell me, Harris, what did your mother do?" Peter asked, grinning.
Harris laughed. "Well, just about everyone in town. Hey, miss Larraine, can you pass the mashed potatoes? Please?"
Silence filled the room.
A/n: Hope you enjoyed the extra at the end. Harris won't be around for a while—I'm getting initial backstories out of the way, but this one especially plays important parts in the future of the story.
Reviews are appreciated!
Happy early April Fools Day/Evangelion 2.22 release day!
-Dice
