Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and especially to those of you who have written multiple reviews for this story. I pray that my limited skills will be able to do justice the love, and encouragement you all have given me as I write one of the longest, and most complicated fics I have ever composed. Thank you!
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The Haunting of Yuuri Shibuya – Chapter Nine: Puppeteer: The Nineteenth Day Part Two
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"The sage has arrived, your Excellency."
Gwendal let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His face was in its usual stony mask, but inside he was rejoicing at the news. Finally, the sage was here and soon, they would have their answers. Their bumbling medical treatments courtesy of Marko had yielded nothing, and they were in great need of someone who would most likely have dealt with this before. Gwendal was at his wits' end, trying to see to Yuuri's care, and run the kingdom.
"Very well, you may go," He said to the pageboy that stood in the doorway. The boy gave a curt bow and quickly left the general's presence. Gwendal started to push the various papers and documents aside for later, briefly scanning their contents as he went, there was really no need to read them in detail yet, they all said more or less the same thing.
Most of them were documents of the legal kind-deeds, formal requests, land tenures, property disputes, the mundane and the necessary. Then there were those that were political correspondence,-alliance requests from small countries on the outskirts of the continent, legal disputes, and the like. The final documents, and these were the worst, were the intrusive from the Aristocrats. Some of them were just generic inquiries to the king's health, others asked more specific questions, like why there was no official statement from the castle concerning the king's physical well-being, usually in time of ill health the king would send out a notice to the nobles to quell any misgivings, but there was none and they wanted to know why.
Normally, Gwendal would answer them, normally, he would write some equally generic reply to their questions. But some of them disturbed them with the specificity of their questions, especially those from Bielefeld. Gwendal had no idea what his little brother had told his uncle, but Bielefeld's words informed Gwendal that their attempts to keep Yuuri's waning mental state secret were failing. Bielefeld spoke of his nephew's nightmares, his nonsensical ramblings in the dead of night that his servants reported him, the stories, and the rumors, rumors of a consuming madness that had befallen their young king.
Bielefeld, and the others would have to be dealt with soon, but now, Gwendal needed to speak with the sage, their last vestiges of sanity were relying on the sage's precious counsel, the only one who could really help them.
A soft call beckoned his attention to the door. Just inside his office stood his little adopted niece. She looked at him with wide, purple eyes, a small thing dressed in bright yellow, a spark of light against the grey walls. Black lace lined the hems of her sleeves and skirt, a message to all that she was the king's most favored ward.
"Uncle Gwendal?" her tiny voice said as she looked up at him through dark lashes.
There was something about the tone of her voice, something about the way she looked so lost, and forgotten, that made Gwendal drop the papers he was holding roughly onto his desk, and guided him around the great desk to stand in front of her, bending over slightly to look the petite girl in the eye. Greta, while most cowered in fear of the Chief, managed to melt his will on the spot, bringing out his rarely shown nurturing side, a side that only her blonde father had ever managed to find.
"What is it, Greta?" He asked, using his hand to gently tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.
She seemed to struggle with her words for a moment, staring at the bookshelves, instead of at her uncle's concerned face. Her mouth pulled into a thin line. Eyes squinted in thought, she found her voice.
"When's Papa Wolfram coming back?" She asked.
"I don't know," Gwendal answered. "You know that the weather has made the roads unfit for travel. Wolfram will be back as soon as it is safe."
"I want him back now," She said, voice cracking. "I want him to come back and make Daddy better." Tears welled up in her eyes, and quickly spilled over round cheeks, giving in to her emotion, she fell forward into Gwendal's arms, sniffling and clutching at the fabric of his uniform as tiny sobs shook her thin body against him.
"Greta, Greta," Gwendal soothed, rubbing her back in small circles. "Please don't cry. You have to be strong for your fathers. His Majesty is very sick and-"
"But why?" She cried, pushing back to look at her uncle. "Why is he sick? What's wrong with him? No one will tell me, not the maids, not Uncle Conrad or Yozak, not anyone! I haven't spoken to any of you in days. I haven't even seen Daddy in forever! You all treat me like I'm a stupid little kid, or you ignore me altogether! I wake up alone, I eat dinner alone, I play alone! I'm always alone!" She ended her rant in a near shout, bunching up the cloth of his jacket on her tiny fists, shaking him as she spoke of her plight.
Gwendal bit back the wave of guilt swarming his insides, he pulled her close to him, cradling her like an infant against his breast, shushing and cooing as she continued to let the tears fall, staining his clothes. Gwendal felt terrible, in their preoccupation with Yuuri's condition, he, Conrad and Gunter had brushed aside many things, including the care of their little niece, leaving her to her nursemaid, and her tutors. This was actually the first time Gwendal had seen her in almost four days, only catching glimpses of her bouncy curls in the hall as he made his way to his office in the morning. He hugged her tighter even as her sobs died down into whimpers. He continued to stroke her hair even when she pulled away from him again and collected herself to look him straight in the eye with an air of determination and stubbornness that he had only seen previously in her blonde father. Amazing, how a child not born of either her father's blood could still bear the same traits and mannerisms as if she had the same blood in her veins.
"Uncle Gwendal," She said in a voice that left no room for arguments or lies. "What's happening to my father?"
"He is very ill, Greta," Gwendal answered, unable to hide anything from those solemn eyes. "His body is going through a change that will make him stronger than before, but it's very difficult and his body is not healing the way it's supposed to."
"I know that," Greta said. "You've told me often enough. But I can't help but feel like it's something more. Even when he was sick, Daddy was always the same. He still played with me. He still found time for me and everyone. He was always smiling. But he's…different. He's not the same. Uncle, you should see him at night, he just stares into the distance, he doesn't hear me or see me even when I stand in front of him and scream until my throat hurts. Everyone comes to me, but he just sits there. At night it's worse, I can hear him crying, and begging for it to stop."
As she spoke, her tears began anew, and her words were accentuated by hiccup, and sniffs as the girl described how her world was falling apart around her, her father was suffering and she could do nothing to help him.
'It is nothing. It's all part of the change. There's nothing to worry about, my dear.'
"It is nothing," Gwendal said, tone comforting, yet automatic. "It's all part of the change. There's nothing to worry about, my dear."
Greta only sniffled, wiping away her tears with a trembling hand. "But what if it's not, Uncle? Something isn't right. I know you told me the change could take months to complete, but I can't help but feel there's something missing."
'There's nothing to worry about, Greta.'
"There's nothing to worry about, Greta," Gwendal said, drawing the girl back into his embrace.
"Yes, there is!" She pushed away from him, glaring through her tears. "There's a ton of things to worry about!"
'No there isn't. It will all be over soon, Greta. Don't you worry.'
"No, there isn't," Gwendal said, gently pushing a strand of hair out of her face. "It will al be over soon, Greta. Don't you worry."
Greta just looked at him. "I'm still going to worry. I want Wolfram back. Wolfram will know what to do."
"I'm sure he will, Greta," Gwendal said. "But, until he's back, we are doing all we can to help your father. Wolfram will return very soon. This, I promise you."
Standing up from his kneeling position, he gave Greta one last pat on the head, more words of comfort to the still sniffling girl and hurried to the king's bedroom to meet with the sage, and hopefully, find a resolution to their problems.
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Murata's feet kicked beneath him as he was lifted off the ground by an irate demon king. Or really, it wasn't the demon king anymore. His mind reeled as precious oxygen was cut off from his brain, and old memories flashed across his waning vision as cold hands tightened their grip on his throat.
The words that rolled off the tongue of his attacker were of a language long dead, no one, not even the nobility could speak the Old Tongue, a language not spoken since the time of the Ten Demon Kings. A Language that only existed in the oldest of documents now lost or destroyed. But the words were clear, and he knew them, heard them and immediately understood the threat they conveyed.
The dark aura was all around them now. Twining, and twisting around flailing limbs, and malicious grins. Writhing in glee as the hapless victim's movements grew sluggish and his eyelids drooped as his life was eked out of him.
"Sh-Shibuya…" Was all he could rasp out, as a creature in his best friend's skin leaned forward with a triumphant smile, canine glinting, eyes burrowing into his soul.
"Not…anymore…" It whispered, accent not that of Japan, instead it was grating, and cruel.
The door was kicked open. Conrad and Yozak came rushing in, followed by a few guards. With experienced hands, they rushed the two. Yozak pried Shibuya's hands from his bruised neck and Weller roughly pulled the hissing man from him.
Murata sputtered, and took in a gluttonous gulp of air, his vision returning. He collapsed against the waiting arms of the red-haired spy, eyes still affixed on the struggling king as the guards and Conrad tried vainly to restrain him. Yozak was dragging him towards the door and into the hall as more guards came to assist, roused by the commotion. Once in the hall, Murata fell to his knees, still staring in shock and fear at the wild thing still inside Shibuya's bedroom.
"Your Majesty! Yuuri!" Conrad shouted over the screeches coming from the king. But the king was beyond reasoning. Conrad had his arms hooked under Yuuri's armpits, as two guards made a move for his kicking legs, one of whom received a hard kick right in the jaw, sending the poor man back onto his rump in a daze, but within seconds another took his place. It disturbed Murata how they all showed expertise when it came to restraining the king, no hesitation at all, despite that they were manhandling the most powerful man in the kingdom. No, they acted as if they were handling a common madman, some lucid punk off the streets, essentially unworthy of their sympathy.
Yozak was saying something to him, but Murata couldn't hear anything other than the enraged screech of Shibuya as they shoved him to the bed, producing leather bindings seemingly out of nowhere and fastening him to the bedposts. While they bound him to his bed, Yuuri's eyes never left Murata's face. They never lost the cold rage behind them. Even when the door was slammed shut, he could still feel them on him, never wavering.
"Your Eminence!" Yozak shook him roughly by the shoulders, only then did Murata finally acknowledge the other man. He broke free of Yozak's grasp and stood up on shaking legs.
"I have to leave," He said breathlessly. Without another word, he all but ran down the hall, back towards the entrance to the castle, leaving a stunned Yozak behind him.
It only took a second for Yozak to gather his wits, and pursue Murata down the hallway.
"Your Eminence!" He shouted. "Where are you going? You can't leave!"
Murata only slowed his pace a bit, but continued on to his destination, he barked at a nearby servant to fetch his horse, completely ignoring the protests from behind him. He understood that he was leaving them, when they so desperately needed him, but there was nothing he could do then to help them in any way. They were all in over their heads, completely at the mercy of his vengeful spirit.
He knew what it was that had Shibuya and everyone in the castle suffering so. He knew the face, the personality, the voice, everything. But for the life of him he couldn't recall his name. That name had been erased from every book, letter, and painting since the Dark Times. His name was synonymous with destruction, and the circumstances surrounding his death were steeped in mystery, they were buried in the darkest corners of the memory, especially his, because no one was meant to find out. He had allowed those memories to die away along with the Daikenja.
Yozak caught up to him, and grabbed his forearm, spinning him around to face the hard stare of the spy.
"You can't leave!" Yozak hissed. "You just got here! You're the only one that can help us!"
But Murata was already shaking his head when Yozak said that they needed him. They did, and maybe he could have helped. But this was beyond him. The presence was following him with malicious glee at his helplessness. He could hear it mocking him from behind Yozak, peering over the other man's shoulder, toothy grin shining in the dim light of the hall.
He couldn't help them from where he was now, but if he could get back to the temple, he could find answers.
"There's nothing I can do for you." He said with as much authority as he could muster when the presence reached around Yozak to choke him from the inside. Murata gasped, stumbling away and turning to leave.
He nearly broke from the guilt when he caught a glimpse of the shocked, and desperate expression on Yozak's face. The spy rarely showed emotion other than sarcasm, and stoicism, to see him so openly disturbed at the turn of events, left Murata feeling even guiltier that he was leaving so soon, with no help or answers for any of them.
"If you let me go," He rasped, the presence was toying with them now, scratching up his throat, making itself known to him and only him. "I can help Shibuya. But I don't have the knowledge to help him now. I have to go back."
Yozak froze. "You know what's wrong with him?" He asked, grabbing Murata again and pulling him closer, pining him under his gaze, but it was nowhere near as powerful as the thing inside Shibuya. "Stay and tell us!"
"I-I can't!" Murata cried, yanking his arm from Yozak's grip. "I don't know what's wrong!"
"But you just said you did!"
"I…know," Murata looked down at the floor, face contorted in confusion and frustration. "I do…and then I don't. This wasn't supposed to happen. He said it was foolproof..."
"What are you talking about?" Yozak all but shouted, equally as frustrated as the sage, for himself, and for his captain still inside the royal bedchamber. The screams had died down, but the few sounds that escaped from behind the doors echoed off the wide halls, reaching the ears of the two men.
Murata grimaced, a thousand different emotions playing across his usually stoic face. He didn't know how he could explain what was really going on with Shibuya, but words escaped him, and the dark aura was cackling so loudly in his ears he could barely hear himself think, much less communicate.
But, he looked up into Yozak's accusing eyes, seeing the desperation, and anger on his face. He needed to get back to the temple. It was the only place where he could find answers. He needed to check something, see the oubliette, and its contents.
"I can find out what's going on with the king," He said as evenly as he could, looking at Yozak as sternly as possible, silently communicating the need for his return to the temple. "But I need to go back to the Temple, and look for something. I need to go now." 'Before it kills me,' he added silently.
"But…" Yozak's anger deflated slightly and his confusion set in. "We need you! The doctor who's looking at him now is crud! He doesn't know anything!"
"I'll be back," Murata promised. "Just give me two days and I will be back. I swear to you."
"You can go later! Just stay. I know you're probably scared that the kiddo would attack you, but that's just the severity of the situation! He's done worse, much worse to himself and to us! We've tried everything, your Excellency! We're at our wit's end! Come back with me. There must be something-"
"There's nothing you or I can do at this point!" Murata shouted, but he quickly collected himself. "Not now. This was…..it is, beyond us, much deeper than it would seem."
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean," Murata said. "Is that this change is merely a cover up of something else, something deeper, and we are completely helpless against it if you don't let me go."
Yozak said nothing, only stared down at the younger man, Murata stared back, face set and determined. "Please, Yozak."
"Two days?" Yozak repeated, skeptically.
Murata only nodded. The aura was pressing in now, urging him to go, to try and help his little friend, it was useless anyway.
Yozak wasn't letting go. "You have to see Voltaire first before you leave. He should be here by now."
"Let me go." Yes, Murata was begging now. He needed to get answers, but he also just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
'Would you like me to have him let you go, sage?' The aura chuckled. 'Because I'd be more than happy to.'
No sooner had the words etched themselves into Murata's mind, did Yozak heave a tired sigh and step away from him.
'There we go!' It chirped.
"Fine." Yozak said grudgingly. "But you better be grateful, I'm sticking my neck out for you. The boss will never forgive me."
Murata didn't say anything; he only stared with wide, frightened eyes at the man, at what had just happened. Yozak shouldn't have conceded, but he did, because of the aura.
Yozak's expectant gaze and the aura's power moved him. With one final look back, Murata turned and nearly ran out of the castle. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, his horse was already waiting. The dark brown thoroughbred was fidgeting, and whining, well aware of the evil that encircled the entire castle, unlike the blind inhabitants. He gave his horse a fleeting stroke, and mounted it.
He paused and turned around to see the spy still standing at the top of the stairs, an unreadable expression on his face.
A thought occurred to him. Murata motioned for the other man to come closer. Expression unchanged, Yozak walked swiftly down the stairs and was at his side within seconds.
Murata leaned forward, the sound of the rain and wind hiding his voice from prying ears.
"Listen to me, keep Yuuri in his room. Don't let him near anyone. Find him someone to watch his every move. Do not let him leave his room at night and if he tries to attack someone again, you may want to bind him."
Not waiting for an answer, Murata straightened in his saddle, kicked his horse's side was and off through the gates of the castle, all the while the presence cackled and licked at his heels, urging the beast forward, away from its new domain.
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"I…just don't know what to do with you anymore!" Conrad said, voice cracking from emotion.
Yuuri didn't respond. He had gone limp in the few seconds after they tore his hands from the Sage's neck. Yuuri had never behaved in such a way. He bit, he scratched, he grabbed until blood, and skin were caught under his nails from the exposed flesh of the hapless soldiers who tried to subdue him. Conrad was now sporting three perfectly straight scratches down the left side of his face from Yuuri's attack. The red welts burned when the sweat from his brow trickled down his skin. He winced every time he spoke, the muscles in his cheek stretching and irritating the marks.
"Please, Yuuri," Conrad begged, cupping his godson's cold cheek, tilting the young man's face into full view. He ached when Yuuri didn't even acknowledge his movements, the king's eyes were completely glazed over, and they hadn't even given him anything yet. He had just let out one last squeal and collapsed onto the bed, and remained in a tangle of limbs and sheets, staring with empty eyes at the wall behind the soldier.
"Please," his voice was just a whisper now, his desperation made it difficult to speak around the lump in his throat. "Help us make you better."
When Yuuri didn't answer or even seem to hear him, Conrad silently admitted defeat. He gently laid Yuuri's head back down onto the pillow and pulled up one of the covers to shield him from the cold. He then took the young man's icy hand into his own, Yuuri was always cold now, inside and out, he was no longer the warm-hearted man they loved. This thing in front of him was just an empty shell, a vapid, tumultuous, aggressive, uncontrollable creature that wore his godson's face. Nothing was left of his godson's vibrancy, his kindness, his life. He was just some thing.
"We've tried everything, Yuuri," He said. "The medicine, the therapy-we've done everything we could think of to help you. But nothing is working. I fear that we are doing something terribly wrong, but I don't know what. What could be possibly going on with you that we don't know about? Please, Yuuri. You must tell us. because guessing hasn't done us one godforsaken thing."
Yuuri shifted in his spot, his limp fingers tightened weakly around Conrad's own. The soldier looked on in surprise as Yuuri's eyes slowly peered around the room, before focusing on Conrad's own gaze. Black stared into brown, cracked lips moved, the voice was so small that Conrad had to lean until his nose was nearly brushing against Yuuri's in order to catch the broken sentence.
"Help….me," his king whispered. "He's…killing me…"
Yuuri sunk back into his bed, drifting back into unconsciousness. Conrad squeezed his hand, shaking it a little to keep Yuuri awake long enough to understand the words coming out of his mouth.
"Who?" Conrad demanded, filled with dread, and pleading with Yuuri to stay with him a bit longer. "Who is killing you?"
Yuuri let out a ragged breath, energy quickly depleting as he let go of Conrad's hand, leaving it the hang limply in the other man's grip.
"Yuuri!" Conrad cried. "Stay with me! Tell me!"
A single word, the hand fell from Conrad's grip, Yuuri's eyes rolled back into his head as they slid shut, and he fell back into darkness, leaving Conrad to process the confirmation of his fears.
"…Him…"
The door the bedroom was thrust open. Gwendal entered followed by Gunter, ready to speak with the now gone sage and no doubt just informed of what had transpired only minutes before.
"Where is the sage?" Gwendal all but shouted at his brother. He walked up to stand behind him, and his frown deepened at the sight of the king as Gunter let out a pitiful cry at the sad state the change had left their ruler in. The royal advisor fell to his knees beside Conrad, and took one of Yuuri's hands into his own.
"When will this be over?" He cried, looking between the two soldiers, needing some kind of answer, some kind of comfort.
Gwendal chose to ignore him and instead directed his attention to Conrad, who had not moved from his position at the king's side.
"Where is the sage?" He asked again, this time much slower and through gritted teeth.
"He's gone."
All three of them turned to see Yozak walk into the room, arms crossed, grim and frustrated.
"Where?" Gwendal shouted. "He just got here twenty minutes ago! How could he have gone?" He glared at Yozak. "How could you have let him go? Don't you realize how much we need him now?"
"There was nothing he could do right now," Yozak said, grimly.
"The hell there was!' The exhausted general snarled, he was just about ready to give up on everything.
"What are we going to do?" Gunter cried, raking his hands harshly through his long hair. No one had seen much of him in the past few days, he had exiled himself to the massive library and the archives, looking for any information on Verschmelzungs and the change in the hopes that it would somehow help them understand what was happening to their king. The advisor's clothes were disheveled and his hair was messed from thin fingers constantly running through them in agitation.
Gwendal answered Günter's question, but never stopped glaring at Yozak, who stared back blankly. "Get the soldiers," He growled. "And drag him back. I don't care about protocol! Just bring him back here!"
"It's no use, your Excellency," Yozak said, rather calmly despite being torn to pieces by Gwendal's glare. "There was nothing he could do here, so he went back to the temple and said he would return in two days."
"Are you kidding me?" Gwendal snarled. "We've been all but begging him to come and he finally does and just decides he can't be of use. He's the sage for Shinou's sake! He always has answers!"
"I'm…sorry," Yozak said. "But he did order me to let him go, and his word trumps everyone's but the king's."
Gwendal let out a harsh hiss and spun around to stare out the window, towards the path the retreating sage had took just moments before. If only he had gotten there sooner, if only Greta hadn't come in with her silly questions. He could have gotten the sage to stay.
"Brother," Conrad's voice broke the heavy silence that had taken the room, for the first time, he acknowledged the three men behind him and stood, his gaze was determined and fixed upon his older brother, several emotions playing across his serious brown eyes.
"What is it?" Gwendal noticed the hard look in his younger brother's eyes, and knew immediately that he had to listen. When any of the brothers got that look, they all stopped and took heed.
"I demand that we have a talk with Marko and get some answers, now." Conrad's voice was eerily quiet, but the gravity of his words weighed down on all of them and left no opportunity to say otherwise.
With resignation, and whole-hearted agreement, Gwendal nodded his consent.
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"Is everything alright, nephew?"
Wolfram looked up from his lukewarm porridge at the concerned face of his uncle. His hand stopped its arbitrary stirring of the thick, sweet paste, the temperature having long ago cooled. He slowly lifted his head from his hand, too tired to even hold it up properly as a man of his station should, he was just too fatigued.
The past few days had been absolute torture for the young prince. The constantly bad weather had hindered any news from the capital, leaving his overworked imagination to come up with the most terrible scenarios taking place in his absence. His thoughts were filled with images of his fiancé, silent inquires and worries to his health, the status of his daughter, if his little family was being cared for the way he thought they should. Nothing, not a single piece of information to put his weary mind at rest and ease the restlessness in his mind as he frittered away in his uncle's estate.
"I'm fine," he muttered, returning his attention back to his untouched food. His hand resumed its pointless stirring.
"You don't look fine," Waltorana countered. Wolfram only continued to play with his food. Waltorana sighed, leaning back into his own chair. He had managed to bring his nephew out of his room to join him for breakfast, intent on coaxing the young man into eating when the trays he had sent up to his room came back full. The maids had informed him that the young man was not sleeping either. The sounds of him shuffling about his room at all hours of the night and the odd bump or two alerted them to his nightly activities. When Waltorana did see his nephew during the day, the young man was drawn, and gaunt, walking around with his shirts unbuttoned halfway, his hair a mess, and a haunted expression on his face. Ever since the night he had given Wolfram the tea block, the prince had become a recluse, rarely leaving his bedroom, unless Waltorana specifically summoned him. His nephew didn't even look like he had bathed recently, and that was in itself worrisome judging by how hygienic he was normally. Waltorana made sure that Wolfram received the special teas he made his healers prepare for him every evening to help him sleep, but even that didn't seem to be helping the troubled demon.
"I really am, Uncle," Wolfram insisted, but a look from Waltorana let him know that the leader of the Bielefeld's didn't buy that for one second.
"No, you're not," Waltorana said flatly. "Now tell me what is wrong. You haven't been sleeping well, and you're not eating. It can't be simply because of homesickness, can it?"
"I told you, it's nothing," Wolfram huffed. Though he knew his uncle was looking out for his well-being, he couldn't help the bitterness that bubbled underneath his skin when he thought of what his uncle had given –and said- to him merely days prior. A bitterness that made him feel less inclined to indulge his uncle's concern.
"Don't be stupid, Wolfram," Waltorana said. "It's obvious something's bothering you."
Wolfram sighed, finally abandoning his food. "I need to go home, Uncle," He said. "I need to see my fiancé. He needs me."
Waltorana looked at this nephew with sympathy. Wolfram only spoke when it was to express his desperation to return to the capital. But, no matter how much Waltorana tried, he could not get Wolfram to understand that he didn't keep him here for his own selfish reasons, the damned weather made travel impossible and he would not risk his nephew's safety for the sake of true love. No matter how romantic the notion sounded. He was too practical for that.
"I know," He said. "I understand it's frustrating, but you must know that it is unwise for you to travel. Not until this weather eases up and the roads are no longer rivers."
"Please, Uncle," The desperation in Wolfram's voice was heartbreaking. "There has to be a way! I can't stay here while Yuuri is back at the castle. He needs me!"
"And why would he need you so desperately?" Waltorana asked, leaning forward in his seat, gaze drilling into Wolfram even from the very end of the table.
"He's…fallen ill," Wolfram said cautiously. Gwendal had warned him to keep the change a guarded secret. There was no way to predict how the Aristocrats would react and their disdain of Yuuri's bloodline to begin with wouldn't do them any good.
"Has he?" Waltorana replied smoothly. "With what?"
"With…influenza," Wolfram explained as smoothly as possible. "He wasn't feeling well when I left so I meant to return to his side quickly as a fiancé should. It would not do for me to leave him in his state."
"Huh," Waltorana grunted indifferently, he reached for a pastry and took a bite of the little cake, chewing contemplatively as he regarded his nephew. When he swallowed the pastry, he picked up his cup filled with hot tea.
"It must have something to do with what happened at the anniversary banquet," He muttered into the teacup. "I noticed that he had been distracted the entire evening after he gave that pretty little speech of his. Almost like he wasn't even in the room."
"It must have," Wolfram looked down at his own neglected breakfast, a maid had dutifully replaced his cold tea with a fresh cup. It was still steaming in front of him, beside the plate of assorted cakes, their brightly colored frosting the only joy in the dim dining room.
"It must be a serious case of Influenza then," Waltorana continued, gazing into his tea as if the liquid would yield more answers than his nephew. "For him to collapse in the middle of such a huge state affair. Were you not seeing after his care?"
"We were," Wolfram assured. "But as you know, it would have been difficult for us to reschedule such a massive event. Even if he was ill, Yuuri wouldn't have let us do it anyway. He's foolhardy like that."
"Very foolhardy. But if he had been ill even then, why was he not allowed back to his rooms?"
"Are you seriously asking me that question, Uncle?" Wolfram said in disbelief. "You know as well as I do that Yuuri wouldn't have been allowed to leave. He is required to mingle, and talk with the guests and do other things, especially when it's the celebration of his third year as king."
"Be that as it may, it still caused quite a scene when he fell to the ground in the middle of the opening dance. You should have seen the faces on the other nobles. The rumors started flying the minute he was carried from the room. Most say it was poison, others say something else."
"What else do they say?" Wolfram asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Nothing unusual," Waltorana said nonchalantly. "Just that his Majesty might be caving under the added pressures of ruling, among other things."
"What other things?" Wolfram had grown up with castle gossip his entire life. He had been the subject of various rumors and they only seemed to increase with his relationship with Yuuri. But, he was used to it, used to being ridiculed, and judged behind his back, behind fake smiles and empty complements. But, Yuuri, his sweet, caring Yuuri wouldn't know to see past the fake visage and see the truth. He chose to believe that others were as honest and genuine as he was, no matter how experience taught him otherwise. It made Wolfram feel even more protective towards his fiancé, so when someone brought up a rumor, Wolfram's hackles rose, ready to stamp it out for Yuuri's sake.
Waltorana only sighed and gently placed his cup back into his dish. He carefully pushed aside his plate for a waiting maid to carry them away, calmly enduring the drilling stare of his nephew. After dabbing his upper lip, he finally returned the gaze unflinchingly.
"Some are saying that the illness that has besotted the king is driving or has already driven him mad."
"How so?" Wolfram whispered.
"It's recent," Waltorana said. "But some have been saying that his Majesty's behavior has grown more erratic with each passing day. Some say he's been locked in his room by his retainers and kept away from everyone else, lest he become violent, which, if the rumors be true, has already happened."
"How did you know this?"
"I have ways."
"Then what you're saying is completely without merit!" Wolfram stated.
" It could be, but then it couldn't" Waltorana said, much to the frustration of his nephew.
"Well, let me be the first to tell you," Wolfram threw down his fork with a huff. "That whatever you have heard, it is completely baseless and I'm surprised that you would be wasting your time with senseless rumors."
"All rumors begin with a semblance of truth."
"All rumors begin with a semblance of truth that has been corrupted by assumption!" Wolfram retorted. "Uncle, I will not believe a word you say if you can't give me more details or tell me how you got this information when every messenger has been blocked by this goddamned rain!"
Waltorana didn't want to say anything, but he had gotten his information from former servants working in the palace that were still loyal to the Bielefeld family. The rumors he spoke of were from nearly four weeks ago, shortly after his nephew had departed the capital and right before the weather turned for the worse. Wolfram's subtle reactions; a twitch of his eye, the way he gripped his cutlery, alerted Waltorana to something much graver than a simple case of influenza.
Waltorana didn't like to be kept in the dark about things, and he certainly didn't like not knowing what the future husband of his nephew was up to. While he had grudging respect for the young king and had been impressed with his accomplishments so far, he still kept a focused eye on the king's behavior. The boy was young and not a native of the kingdom, born and raised somewhere else, and Waltorana didn't trust the divine judgment of their True King the way others did. He was a man of empirical evidence and proof of quality, not divine governance.
Maybe it was his protectiveness of his nephew, a boy who was like a son to him, the last remnant of his beloved brother or maybe it was his own distrust of the Christs and the Voltaires who were a part of the king's close circle that drove him to question and suspect. He wanted a Bielefeld to be a part of that circle. Not just that, but the king's right hand and second in power in the kingdom. To have that kind of influence would solidify the Bielefeld's survival and power so long as Yuuri remained king and Wolfram, with his superior lifespan, remained his spouse and heir.
But he wasn't going to let Wolfram know that. "Calm down, Wolfram," He said, giving his best comforting smile. Now that Wolfram had given him some insight by way of body language, he could back off a little. "I'm only looking out for you, you know that."
It was something that few could ever hope to do, even Wolfram's brothers, and Waltorana was probably the only one who could – calm his nephew with a simple word and the right tone of voice and it worked each time. Wolfram relaxed slightly and sat back into his seat, gaze softening as his uncle held that soothing smile.
"Fine," Wolfram said. "But don't waste your time with such stupidity."
Wolfram on the other hand, was well aware of his uncle's potential ulterior motives. Though he wasn't sure of this instance, he knew enough from past experience and observation of his uncle in political meetings that he should travel with caution around the older Bielefeld. He knew that his uncle had spies planted in Blood Pledge castle and he had made it a side mission of his to eradicate them, but his uncle was sneaky and Wolfram could never fully get rid of all of them, there was always a couple that escaped his grasp. He knew exactly what his union with Yuuri would mean for his family. In any other case, Wolfram would have proudly acted as the vessel through which his mighty clan gained power and prestige for hundreds of years to come, but that was before he had held such deep feelings for the king. Now he felt a need to protect his Yuuri from the plans and conspiracies of his family and that of other closely tied noble families whose livelihood rested on his marriage prospects.
" And I shalln't," His uncle replied affirmatively, but who knew how much it really meant. "This marriage will be a new phase in your young life, there will be many new responsibilities, to the king, to the country and to your family. You will be expected to take on some of the care for your lesser relatives alongside myself, in some cases more so than myself. But I think that with time, you will get the hang of it. This illness that has befallen his Majesty will surely pass and everything will be back to the way it was."
About halfway through his speech, Wolfram completely tuned out his uncle as another presence made itself known in the parlor. Wolfram had been eyeing it out of his peripheral vision ever since their conversation began and it started as a gray blur in the corner. He thought it was merely a shadow cast by the window, but that couldn't be possible when the curtains were drawn and the blur began to grow in size and take shape. While he had attributed it to a trick of his tired mind, the shadow solidified right behind his uncle's shoulder as the other man prattled on. It was facing away from him, head bowed into the corner. The head formed first, a familiar black mop of hair followed by shoulders, arms, torso, hips and legs clothed the ratty, blood-stained uniform of his fiancé.
The temperature in the room dropped, Wolfram didn't hear his uncle call his name questioningly as 'Yuuri', pain-stakingly slow, turned around to face him, pinning him to the spot with haunted eyes. Wolfram felt the blood rush out of his cheeks as Yuuri faced him fully and he could see the wraith that was his fiancé.
Yuuri looked like a hunted, beaten, broken creature. Leaning heavily against the wall, skin white as death, dark circles framing saucer-sized eyes, hair in straggly tangles around thin cheekbones. A bony hand weakly reached out to him as pale lips formed words that brushed against Wolfram's ears.
"Please," He heard Yuuri whisper feebly, his hand shaking uncontrollably. "Help…me…he's killing me."
"Yuuri?" Wolfram said breathlessly as he stood up quickly from his seat and rushed past his uncle to cradle the other man.
"Wolfram?" Waltorana asked, watching the prince with increasing worry as he saw the color drain from his face drain and his body froze up in fear at some unseen entity behind him. Waltorana followed his line of vision, but his confusion only worsened when he saw nothing that could have caused such a reaction in his ward.
Just was Wolfram reached out to grasp Yuuri's outstretched hand, the young king disappeared, causing Wolfram to nearly trip into the wall. The blonde frantically looked around for his fiancé just in time to see the apparition standing in the doorway to the main hall and then turn to walk away.
"Yuuri!" Wolfram took off, ignoring the outburst from his uncle and chased Yuuri down the hallway back towards his bedroom.
He followed him into his bedroom, the half-demon was collapsed on his bedroom floor, no longer in his bloody uniform but in a bloody rough tunic and shredded trousers, the marks of a whip peeking through the cloth. He was chained to the floor, no longer a lush carpet but the harsh concrete of a cell, large shackles biting cruelly into soft skin. His hands clawed at the straw covered stone, grasping for something unseen, something nonexistent.
Wolfram was filled with overwhelming guilt. He knelt at his fiancé's side and gently rolled him over onto his back. He cried out softly when the face of his love was covered in thin scratches nearly beyond recognition, weeks' worth of torture painfully evident on his arms, legs and hollow cheeks.
"Oh-oh, my love what have they done to you?" Wolfram sobbed, his voice slightly lighter and of a different cadence. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry!"
At the sound of 'his' voice, Yuuri slowly opened bloodshot eyes and looked up at him with a mixture of sadness and accusation.
Wolfram continued to mutter gibberish as he gathered the broken body into his arms, cradling it in an attempt to soothe away the pain, but nothing could comfort the emotional pain that sparked behind those eyes.
"You betrayed me," Yuuri whispered brokenly.
"I'm so sorry," Wolfram pleaded. " I never meant to hurt you. They promised me they wouldn't hurt you."
"You're a fool," Yuuri coughed, little spatters of blood stained his lips.
"What was I supposed to do?" He cried. "The change, it corrupted you. You became someone else!"
"I told you my weakness because I trusted you with my life. You demanded proof of my love for you so I gave you my life. I told you how to kill me. It was all a trick." 'Yuuri' hissed, ignoring Wolfram's pitiful pleas.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" Wolfram was sobbing now. His jerky movements caused him to hold 'Yuuri' even tighter. "Please, let me take you from here! I can talk to Shinou, I can convince him to give you reprieve! Please, you're still his own-"
"I want nothing from that traitor!" 'Yuuri' snarled weakly, eyes blazing with rage. "And least of all from you! Let me die here and may my death be a curse on your soul!'
"Don't do this!" Wolfram begged. "I love you!"
Yuuri gave Wolfram a bitter, dreadful smile. "I did as well, Rufus."
"Wolfram!"
His uncle's voice was like icy water being poured over his body. Wolfram whipped his head back with a harsh gasp as the cell melted away to reveal the lush décor of his own bedroom. The smell of torches and rotted hay were gone, replaced by fragrant incense and fresh linens. He no longer kneeled on a stone floor, but a luxurious rug, instead of Yuuri's beaten body, his arms held nothing but air, fingers flexing at the now empty space.
His uncle stood in the doorway, staring down at him with a stunned look in his face. Fear, concern and confusion also colored his fine features. The two demon lords simply stared at each other, neither knowing what to do or say in light of such a situation. Waltorana was questioning his nephew's sanity and Wolfram could only muster a single thought in his frantic mind.
"Uncle," He said with dogged determination. "I must return to Blood Pledge, no matter what."
Waltorana nodded stiffly. "Very well, but as head of the Bielefeld family and your guardian, I hereby order you to tell me what is going on, now."
* * * * * * * * * * THYS * * * * * * * * * *
His horse hadn't fully come to a stop before Murata had already dismounted the steed. Black hair plastered to his face by the steady rainfall, eyes squinted as they struggled to see past the droplets of water that cascaded down his face, he all but ran into the entrance to the temple, the cold laugh of the aura still echoing in the back of his mind.
Murata was both relieved and embarrassed at his departure. He cursed himself for giving into the taunts and power of the entity. But, he knew that he had little power against it. It was something beyond his knowledge, something that couldn't be done by the currently not-as-Great Sage.
A tiny voice in his head told him that he shouldn't be ashamed. After all, he may be the wisest, but he was also human like the rest of them. Flawed, and just as likely to have his moments of weakness, but another voice told him that he should have had more control, over himself and the situation.
It was those eyes! Yuuri's deep black eyes, that usually held such kindness and innocence, turned on him. Whatever ounce of courage or calm control he had in his possession immediately vanished when he looked into those deep abysses filled with cold-hearted hatred and malice and saw the very soul of the one whose death haunted the history of Shin Makoku, lauding a distant curse over the prosperous kingdom. A kingdom, whose affluence was bought with the blood of that one, single individual.
It was not his friend that he saw. It was He Who Should Not Be Named, He who should be forgotten. The memory only known to the rats and worms that ate at his rotting corpse in the oubliette, where they left him to the ravages of starvation and time.
Murata shoved pass the temple maidens who stood by in shock as the notoriously lecherous sage ignored their beauty, acted as if they weren't even there. Even when they called out cheerfully to him, he didn't so much as give them a passing glance, only made his way deeper into the stone fortress that was the spiritual center for the demon tribe.
He made his way past the main shrine, only registering Ulrike's questioning calls as he pushed onward into the bowels of the temple. In his haste, his brain managed to relay an order to his hand, which grabbed a lit torch of the wall as the other shoved a heavy door aside, revealing the stone stairs that led into the deepest parts of the temple.
For a brief moment, he hesitated. It had been years, millennia, since he had descended those stairs. Why it gave it easily to his touch, he would never know, but the energy floating up from the abyss hinted that another power wanted him to come forward into the darkness, to see the terrible secrets it held.
A part of him, his 'human' side, bade him stay, not to follow the beckoning call of 'It' that led to certain doom in the form of terrible memories filled with guilt and betrayal. But that other part, the part that was the Sage and not Murata Ken ordered him forward, to find answers lest everything fall into ruins. Murata obeyed and took that first step that would lead him to the unknown.
The stairs were steep, dark, and wet. He grasped at the wall to steady himself as his feet threatened to slip and throw him down into the darkness. The torch flickered. Even the flames feared what lay before him. The light seeming to grasp desperately at the door behind him, but he trudged on. The torch was his only guide, and his nerve the only force pushing him deeper and deeper.
It grew steadily colder, wetter. His hand felt the leaks trickle down moss covered rock. The sound of rats scurrying through little puddles echoed in front of him. It was as they had left it. The stairs, the empty torch holders, the smells, everything was the same. The same isolation, desolation, and despair that broke even the strongest of warriors.
Memories played across the screen of Murata's vision. Memories of how they dragged their victims down, dragged him down. As he kicked, screamed, begged, and cursed, they yanked at his chains, the sound of his back hitting the sharp edges of the stairs, his grunts and moans of pain as they pulled him to his lonely fate. Murata as his past self, his first self, followed behind them, carrying a torch much like he did now, watching coldly as they grabbed stringy black hair, revealing a dirtied, drawn, snarling face, dragging ever deeper into their artificial hell.
An obsessive need suddenly filled Murata as he drew ever closer to his destination, his feet guided by those memories. He had to see it! Had to touch it, smell it, - hear it! Walk into that rounded room with the remnants of hay, lift that small hatch in the floor, and make sure he was still there, nothing but bones and memories, to make sure that he hadn't gotten out.
If Murata were looking in on himself, he would be embarrassed at his seemingly irrational behavior. There was no way out of that oubliette, not without aid, and aid was something that would never come to Him. They had made sure of it.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned right, his need outweighing his fear. His feet were the only sounds emitting in that godforsaken place. He felt a sense of disconnect from the outside world that now felt so far away, separated by walls of mossy stone, their depths a secret from the sunny world above, the world of activity and life.
This place was exactly as they had constructed it. It was the complete absence of everything good, and real. It was the presence of despair, and completely void of all things comforting, as it was meant to be for the prisoners of war they brought here to their slow, painful deaths.
He was glad that he didn't go left. He would have had to pass by the empty, rusted cells that held lesser victims. He would have had to hear their voices echoing from their individual voids cut into the walls of the dungeon.
The hallway finally ended after what felt like an eternity. Murata stopped at the entrance to the rounded room, once filled with strewn hay, now was bare and wet like the rest of the dungeon. In the center of the stone floor were the rotted remains of the wooden hatched, still bolted shut after all these years.
Taking a deep breath, Murata cautiously walked towards the little hatch. He wasn't sure of what he planned to accomplish by approaching the horrid thing, but his peace of mind bade him to see, to find out how he could have gotten past the seals carved into the wood of the door.
Just as his shaking hand touched the wood, it spoke.
"You won't be finding anything there, Sage."
Murata felt his body age a few years from the shock of the eerily soft voice directly behind him. He twirled around, nearly dislodging the torch from his grasp, staring with wide eyes into the shallow pool of light the flame created.
A figure, clothed in the darkness, stood just outside the flame's reach. It regarded him with both amusement and disdain, idling just beyond his reach, leaning heavily against the entrance to the round room that held his former prison and tomb.
Murata realized that the presence that had stalked him since he left the castle hadn't followed him down into the dungeon, instead it had retreated into itself, staying outside and now he knew that was due to it manifesting itself in physical form.
Murata didn't need to see its-his face, to know who it was that was behind all of this.
"What are you doing here?" He demanded. "How did you get out? We destroyed you!"
A one-shouldered shrug, beady eyes glinted in the amber torchlight as he shifted his weight to his other foot, altogether unfazed and arrogant in his stance.
He pointed to the door behind Murata. "I climbed out," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The hinges rusted after a time."
"That's not what I'm asking!" Murata snapped. "How did you get past the seals? Why haven't you crossed over? Why are you after Yuuri?"
He blinked lazily at him. "Even magic is not infinite, Sage. You of all people should know that."
"We broke your soul into pieces."
"You broke my power into pieces, Sage," He sneered. " And you attempted to seal away those pieces. But you didn't touch my soul. My soul is intact, nice and dandy after all this time. As long it remains untouched, my power is irrelevant as long as the outlet through which it flows is intact." He shook his head in mock-disappointment. "You should have destroyed my power, instead of giving it a new avenue."
"It wasn't supposed to be," Murata stated.
"And yet, it was," He said. "So now where are we? Right here."
Murata pressed his lips together. The thing in front of him was deadly that much was true. He had extensive experience with the spirit world, but this was much more complicated than what he had encountered. This thing in front of him had its own conscience, its own memories, and a spiritual strength that was on par with him and Shibuya.
"Why couldn't the others sense you?" Murata asked. "I felt your presence the moment I reached the castle, but they didn't even notice you! They're magic wielders, they should be able to sense your power within their own walls!"
He let out a short bark of laughter. "Oh that?" He said with a smirk. "It was rather simple. They don't sense me because I can hide from who I will. You only sensed me because I chose to reveal myself to you." His smirk grew into a mirthless grin. "I can also manipulate what and when they sense or think things. Surely you noticed?"
Murata had noticed. He had noticed the empty gazes, the blank stares underneath the concern the royal retainers held for their king. He had noticed the way Yozak had let him go too easily. Its energy permeated the entire castle, even the inhabitants, pulling invisible strings that manipulated everyone within the castle.
"Ah," he breathed in realization. "You forgot I could do that. It was easy, disappointing even. I would think that the descendants of the Four Keys would be harder to influence, especially the little king. But, his soul was already weakened when I came forward."
"The change," Murata whispered.
"Yes."
They were quiet after that, the presence regarding Murata with malicious intent, still hanging on the edge of the light. Murata's hand gripped painfully at the handle of the torch. His mind raced back into his memories, trying to find an explanation as to why this thing was still in their world. He had created those seals and cast the spells with his own magic! There was no way he should have been able to escape or manifest himself in this world.
"You betrayed me," It whispered suddenly. Murata's gaze shot up to see the smug expression transform into one of anger and hurt. "After everything, we'd been through with each other. You betrayed me, used me and then left me to die in that hellhole!" He gestured angrily toward the oubliette. "I thought that out of everyone, you would understand my plight the most! A fellow double black! You watched them torture me and you didn't come to my rescue!"
"It was never my intention to betray you," Murata said. "You don't understand! The change corrupted you to the point where you couldn't be reasoned with. We tried, my god, we tried to get through to you, but it was no use! We would have all been killed!"
"And whose fault was that!" He screeched, his calm façade breaking. "You wanted me to change! You all wanted me to make that bond! They wanted me to! Because it made them sick that a half-breed bastard was a member of the family!"
"That's not true."
"Is it now?" He sneered, teeth glinting in the light. "Tell me, I was useless until it was found that I could use magic. Tell me I wasn't more than a weapon, a means to an end for your own gain. You made me believe I was more than just a dirty half-blood, but that was a lie from the beginning just like everything else!"
"You betrayed us first," Murata whispered.
This time, he chuckled bitterly at Murata. "Yes, I suppose I did. After all, I was never supposed to grow so powerful, more so than your True King."
"You made a bond with the Other Side."
"And where would we be if I hadn't?" He said with an eyebrow raised mockingly. "The demon tribe would be nothing more than a dirt-covered, sniveling group of indigents enslaved by the weaker humans because they were so busy bickering that they didn't realize the humans were uniting under their very noses. Nothing like the prestigious, all-powerful kingdom you know and boast of."
Murata said nothing, because the words rang too true for him to protest. He smirked at the sage's hesitation, standing up straight from where he leaned and stepping closer towards the pool of light.
Murata watched as he stepped closer, the light traveling up black-clad legs, up a worn tunic, illuminating broad shoulders, and finally a head covered in sleek black hair. Murata bit back disgust and outrage when he saw the features of his friend.
"Why are you wearing his face?" He demanded.
He only chuckled again. "We're connected. It's only fitting I believe. Really though, we're not that different in appearance. Although, he does carry that doe-like innocence."
"What are you talking about?"
"Shinou's guilt would not let him be parted from me," he answered, staring off into the distance, past the stone walls and into a time long gone. "He needed me still. After everything, he still used me. I wasn't even gifted a chance at the after life. I was pulled from the abyss and placed within a new body, to be made what I always was to you- a weapon for your child-king."
Murata blinked in confusion. His mind kept drifting back to the time around Shinou's death, but he only drew a blank. His former self had erased that memory, pushed it back to the farthest recesses of his mind where this incarnation could not reach.
"What do you want?" Murata said vehemently, losing patience at his inability to remember.
"What do I want," the being repeated airily. "That's a good question. I guess, to put it simply, I want to destroy. I want to destroy everything Shinou built on my grave. I want to tear everything apart, the land, the people, and the ones who carry the blood of my enemies in their veins! And I will do it using the messiah you created in that young boy. So much like me, it hurts. He is me."
Something inside him clicked, a flash of an image crossed Murata's mind for the briefest of moments and he was horrified.
"You-you're….you can't be! Shinou would never do that!"
"He would and he did," The being answered a smug grin on his face as he advanced toward the shocked young man.
Murata backed away. The torch flickered nervously in his grip. The being continued to advance on him. He pinned him down with the intensity of his dark eyes, -so much like Shibuya's that it sent chills down his spine. Once again, he was overwhelmed by the raw energy that surrounded the other man, pouring into every nook and cranny of the dungeon, making a mockery of the spiritual power of the Shrine Maidens, of him, and of Shinou himself.
"You won't get away with this!" Murata exclaimed, cursing the tiny squeak in his voice when the being only smiled wider at his statement and drew so close that their noses nearly touched. Murata couldn't turn away from those eyes, he felt as if they were pulling him in against his will, drawing him into a part of the past he would rather have forgotten, a past that had been stamped out from the history of the Great Demon Kingdom.
Instead of answering, the being reached out to gently touch Murata's cold cheek, taking delight in the fear that skimmed across Murata's expression. The being's smile softened into one of mock-sympathy, the reflection of the torchlight dancing in black eyes with dark glee as the being leaned forward to whisper in Murata's ear.
"I think there's a pretty good chance I will," He said, lips brushing against the shell of the sage's ear like that of a lover. "Considering that your people killed off the rest of the fused beings in their ignorant fear of me. Destroyed the only ones who could stand a chance against my power. Hunted them down like animals, they did. Only one you have on your side is under my control and probably won't survive the change. Thanks to his malleable retainers. " Sharp teeth grazed the sensitive curve, causing Murata to involuntarily shudder at the feather light touch.
The being's power was pressing into him, through him. He leaned against the door, held up by the wall and him. Murata's heart threatened to tear from his chest from the rapid beating. The being trailed a long hand up his thigh and side, curving his arm around his waist. The gesture was affectionate, sexual even, a display of dominance.
"Only a Verschmelzung can cancel out my power," He whispered. He snickered at the way Murata weakly struggled against his old, his power completely overwhelming the Great Sage.
"Too bad you won't be around to tell them that."
* * * * * * * * * * THYS * * * * * * * * * *
Something terrible was about to happen.
That was about all he could discern from the haphazardly scattered runes that littered his wooden floor. Colored light from the stained glass of the various trinkets that hung from his ceiling cast the ebony runes in an eerie light, their message all the more intangible. It was a challenge, doing a blind reading with no prior information, even for his experienced mind. But he couldn't resist the urge when he awoke in the middle of the night, his instincts drawing him to the little wooden box that held his divination tools.
Runes were the hardest to read. He could have used the cards, at least then he would have had some control and guidance as he lay down each card, carefully reading each symbol and creating an understandable message from them. He could have used the meditation beads, opening his mind up to whatever spiritual energy that wanted to be known, he could have gotten a straight answer then. Runes were just so frustrating in their unpredictability.
However, it was their unpredictability and the lack of control over where they scattered that gave the runes their unique power. They were completely influenced by spiritual energies that were beyond the divination power of something so limited as the cards, and beads. Cards and beads would always be influenced somewhat by the holder's own spiritual essence, running the risk of altering the message. Runes were pure and free of corruption by the one who wielded them, making for an untouched message, but making its interpretation all the more difficult because that connection wasn't there.
He sat back on his heels and rubbed his tired eyes in frustration. He already knew he wouldn't be able to return to his blessed slumber until he was able to understand what the spirit world was trying to tell him. He groaned at the prospect of an early morning, traveling into town and having to tell some soddy teenage girls their futures for a few coins. It was petty work, and beneath a diviner of his station, but it kept food on the table and it wasn't like anyone would hire him for work once they realized what he was. No, his place was among those society had cast out, forgotten and worthless in the minds of "normal" people.
Heaving a sigh, he gathered the runes into his hands. Shook them as he muttered a prayer and then as carefully as possible threw them to the ground, analyzing the location and manner of where they landed.
The same six runes landed face up, while the others were hidden from his view. He itched to touch them, but just changing the position of a rune could alter the meaning and then he would have to start all over again, and that was a pain because each landing was different, thus requiring more interpretation, though the message remained the same.
"Brothers, rebirth, justice, power, secret, death," he muttered as his hand floated over each rune in turn. There was another issue with the runes- each rune had at least three different meanings assigned to each symbol.
Grumbling, he took his notebook and pencil and carefully drew a map of the location of each rune, taking notes of their position on the floor, the symbols, their possible meanings and the circumstances under which the divination was conducted.
Taking one last glance at the runes, he paused when he noticed a seventh rune face up on the ground next to the "secret" rune, the "purification" rune.
He leaned over to inspect it further, ensuring that it wasn't a trick of his sleep-deprived mind. Yet, there it was the "purification" rune sitting with the top corner of its pentagon shape pointing at the "secret" rune's left point.
The left side was the sinister side, the side of divine judgment and retribution. The rune of purification could mean purification in its literal form, some sort of mystical experience, or oneness with the gods.
He sat back and made note of this new development, it was rare that a new rune would make itself known after three attempts. This was odd…
A light went off in his head and he slapped himself for being forgetful. The purification rune was one of only two runes that had a fourth meaning to its symbol. It could mean purification, mystical experience, oneness with the Gods or…
Exorcism.
He would try to use the runes again in the morning. Maybe then he would have answers as to why the spirits kept drawing him to the south, towards the capital.
* * * * * * * * * * THYS * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter Nine, my lovelies!
A big thank you to SwetxSnowxDream for being my beta. And I would like to welcome AsuraChan as my new German beta! Since we'll be getting t that later.
Yay, Wolfram's coming back! But what is Waltorana up to?
And who is this weird fortuneteller guy? We'll see soon!
Whew, this was probably the most difficult chapter to write. Murata's scenes were particularly challenging, I wanted to throw Murata off his game a little bit. I've gotten tired of seeing him portrayed as this all-knowing figure so I wanted to give him something that would make him shake in his boots a bit.
Things will get worse before they get better.
Thank you for taking the time to read this story! Please leave a review, I always love hearing from you all. You're input is very helpful when I'm writing. They also make me write faster!
Merry Christmas everyone and a Happy Holidays!
-EB
