Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou or any of its characters. Isidore and all of the original characters within were, however, created by me.

Beta-ed by: Guinechan.

Warnings: Spoilers for the end of Season Two. Language, violence, blood, dark/adult themes, angst, and sexual exploration/experimentation.

Pairing(s): Yuuri/Wolfram, with a few very minor others on the side.

Rating: M.

A/N: Once again, I failed to reply to everyone. I'm so sorry! I'm determined to do better this time! Please, never hesitate to review! Even when I'm not able to respond (whether I just run out of time or I'm really that forgetful), your thoughts are always welcome and appreciated!

This is my favorite chapter out of all that I've written so far (for any story), so I'd like to see what you guys think!

Love and War

by Mikage

Chapter Twenty-One - Tuer - To Kill

The Temple of the Great One was as much a home to him as Blood Pledge Castle - perhaps more so, since he'd spent so much time between its thick stone walls. Four thousand years ago, he'd buried his king's soul here; three years ago, he'd helped to release that same king, only to pledge his full loyalty to another. The walls of the temple had bore witness to it all. Murata wondered how much more the building would withstand, how many more changes it would see within the kingdom before it finally crumbled to dust.

It was as old as Blood Pledge Castle, build to honor the elemental spirits of the earth that had allowed the Demon Tribe to settle on the land after the war against the Originators. It's intended purpose had been for worship and ceremony, and though that had surely been the case these four thousand years past, the object of the people's piety had quickly shifted from the spirits to the Original King. When they'd considered removing the Great One's soul from his body, the Temple had been the first and only place suggested to house his soul, as it was both removed from the Court but close to the country's center, and it was located on one of the Demon Tribes only plots of hallowed land.

It was a sacred place, if anything tainted by Demons could be considered as such, and it was the place Murata felt most at ease. Here he could come to collect his thoughts, away from the tedious life at Court, to a place where the main concern was not war and power, but peace and tranquility. The walls exuded serenity, blocking all signs of the crazy world outside, so that there was no noise, no distraction, and no wrong. He was one of the only men allowed inside without permission from the Shrine Maidens, a privilege he'd gained in the years he'd called the Temple home.

Descending into the furthest depths of the shrine, Murata quietly intruded upon the High Priestess's domain. Ulrike stood at the front of the room, facing the entrance and gazing into the crystal ball that showed the whereabouts of previous and current Demon Kings. The three remaining boxes were in their places on the platform behind her, Earth, Wind, and Hell's Fire, each now nothing more than a mere shadow of what they once were. Powerless, they served as a reminder of what had once been, the near destruction of the entire world by something as simple and common as hate.

Somewhere in the Temple the remnants of the fourth box were stored, shattered into pieces, parts of it disintegrated as the Demon Sword had descended to its master, so that it was now impossible for it to be fully restored.

Ulrike's attention remained on her luminous sphere, sparkling with the celestial bodies that signified the presence of a chosen soul, but Murata's entrance into the lower chamber did not go without notice. Leisurely, he made his way down the isle, lined by a row of candles on either side, the flames flickering as he passed, casting their light upon the walls as water from the fountain above produced undulating shapes on every surface.

"Your Eminence," the High Priestess greeted him in her soft, misty voice, "it has been some time since I saw you last."

"I hope I'm not intruding," he said as he came to a stop on the opposite side of the crystal ball, choosing not to offer an explanation as to why he'd been away for so long. "Is Shibuya still staying out of trouble?"

"His Majesty's aura has been quite calm. He remains out of danger, with very few fluctuations in his power. We are fortunate that little has transpired to jeopardize his desire to be at the front."

"Good." Murata gazed intently into the orb, noting the bright spot of light in the upper hemisphere. As Yuuri's magic had become more stable, so too had his spiritual reflection. The stability made it much easier to track his movements, if nothing else. "If we're lucky, and we rarely are, he'll return to us unscathed - hopefully soon."

"Do you grow anxious over His Majesty's well-being?"

"I grow anxious by the actions of others in his absence."

Ulrike's gaze quickly met his own, before returning to her fervid monitoring of the King. "Has something happened at the castle?" she asked.

"It's not a question of if it has happened, but when it will happen," he explained. "Von Bielefeld continues to offend the Aristocrats. Some of them are already beginning to regret their decision of naming him Prince Consort, especially now that Shibuya has gone to war on his own accord. They consider the idea that they should have put more pressure on the King to sign a Declaration instead of elevating von Bielefeld to a position above them as a means of accomplishing their goals."

"Do you regret the decision, Your Eminence?"

Murata smiled lightly at her candid inquiry. This was why he came to speak with her when things grew disquieting: Ulrike's words and actions were never anything but humble and respectful, but she always managed to ask the right questions. It gave him the opportunity to think out loud instead of keeping the prospects and conceptions in his mind completely internal. She would prod him then listen quietly, while he expounded upon things that often coiled in his head, becoming entangled with an overabundance of memories and prior learning.

"No, I don't regret it," he replied. "I think it's a shame that it had to come to that. Playing with people's feelings is never fun, but sometimes it has to be done for the benefit of others. Von Bielefeld was a logical choice. All that remains now is to reign in his eagerness and mold him into an appropriate Prince Consort for the country. The Aristocrats, however, seem to think it's an impossible pursuit. Some of them would rather remove him than waste the effort of fashioning him into a suitable heir."

"Have they proposed a divorce?"

"Not yet, though I doubt Shibuya would agree to it if they did. He's already been talked into a political marriage, which was hard enough to convince him was necessary and wouldn't have proceeded without von Bielefeld's consent. Shibuya's not the type to back out of something until he's seen it through to the conclusion, whatever that might be. It'll be the same for his marriage. If they suggest a divorce, he'll deny them, maybe even place the decision on von Bielefeld again, and without consent from either one of them an annulment won't go through."

"Which would only anger the Aristocrats more," Ulrike calmly observed, though there was a hint of uncertainty in the softness of her voice.

Murata bobbed his head once in agreement. "And that on top of von Bielefeld's recent ambitions will not keep them satisfied."

"What has he done to displease them so?" she asked, surprised that it seemed their Prince would purposefully seek to anger his noble subjects.

"Nothing. Not yet. At least nothing but insult them. It seems the distaste they have for him is entirely mutual." He paused. He'd known that Wolfram's antagonistic relationship with many of the Aristocrats could end up being unfavorable, but he'd hoped - perhaps wrongly - that Wolfram would be able to put aside his differences and attempt to be more benevolent toward the people who aided the King in ruling the country.

Typically, Murata was a decent judge of character. It was something he prided himself on, having spent so many lifetimes meeting and interacting with countless differing peoples, immersed within societies both comparative and contrasting to one another. After all these thousands of years, he thought he knew what to expect from people based on their personality and background, but he was beginning to discover that there were still some people and events he couldn't accurately predict.

When he'd first met Yuuri's fiancé, Murata had immediately seen similarities in Wolfram and the Great One, similarities that went deeper than the near identical appearance. Just as the Original King had been prideful and arrogant, willful and demanding, so too was Wolfram; and just as Wolfram was aggressive and quarrelsome, childish and callow, so too had been the Original King. It was like seeing the Great One as he would have been as a young boy - haughty, uninhibited, and overtly zealous.

It wasn't until he'd conducted a more thorough examination with three years of observation that Murata noted the differences. Wolfram had been raised in a different fashion under entirely different circumstances, so his view of the world was different. The Great One had seen it as something to honor and protect; Wolfram saw the world as an entity all its own, constantly operating against him and bending him to its will. The Great One saw the worth in humans; to Wolfram, they were untrustworthy, devious, and worthless.

Their differences were more relevant than the ways in which they were alike, for it was those opinions and assessments of the world and those that peopled it that would affect Wolfram's policies in the future. Already his antipathy for the Aristocrats was beginning to manifest itself in the way he did business. As he grew more comfortable with his position and with the power he now held as the spouse of the King, his actions would no doubt become more earnest and severe.

"Lord von Voltaire has informed me of a conversation he had with the Prince just yesterday," Murata continued. "Von Bielefeld has considered stripping the Aristocrats of theirs privileges and giving sole power and authority to Shibuya."

Ulrike's violet eyes rose from the crystal ball, widening at the significance of Wolfram's intended action. "But he cannot do that! The Aristocrats have ruled this land with the King since His Majesty the Great One!"

"He can attempt it," he told her, as anxious about the possibility as she seemed to be, but not allowing it to show. "If he does, I see it ending badly. Shibuya would cause no problems as an absolute monarch, not with his morality and sense of justice. What power he'd have, he'd use for the greater good of the people, as he does now. Once again, it's the Aristocrats who cause the issue. They won't sit back and allow their rights to be taken from them."

"What would give Prince von Bielefeld such an idea?"

Murata frowned, gazing up at the decorative crest high on the opposite wall that had once contained the Great One's soul. Looking at it allowed him to feel a connection to his old friend, even if it was empty. "On Earth, a doctrine of absolutism once appealed to the western world. It was called the Divine Right of Kings. A similar tradition occurred in the east, known as the Mandate of Heaven," he knowledgeably explained. "Divine Right meant that a king was not subject to any earthly power, and gained his right to rule from God. Those who acted against the King also acted against the will of God, and were considered heretics."

"Do such ideas exists to this day?"

"No, but perhaps von Bielefeld has developed a parallel of his own. For four thousand years, the kings and queens of the Great Demon Kingdom have been chosen by the Original King, whom our people have revered as one would revere a God. His final selection was Shibuya; he spent millennia developing the perfect soul for the purpose of destroying him and ruling after he would no longer be able to influence matters within the country. That decision could easily be interpreted as something like Divine Right."

"Prince von Bielefeld has not visited Earth enough to adopt such concepts," the High Priestess pointed out. "If these theories cease to exist, he would not have been made aware of them."

"Which means he's come up with it on his own," he replied, dashing whatever hopes she'd built. "After being forced into a relatively loveless marriage, nearly raped, and then made to sign a Declaration of War, an act which broke his sworn oath to his husband, von Bielefeld is looking for control. However, he's unable to gain complete control himself due to his subservience to the King, so instead he's transposing the power he wants for himself onto the person he trusts most.

"I don't think his actions are derived from any firm belief in a Divine Right, though that may change as he further develops his political opinions and practices. He's a young ruler who, after losing control over his life, has just come into power; he shares many of Shibuya's ideals, as he's been heavily influenced by him, but he also retains some of the prejudices and fears of his childhood, many of which relate to the Aristocrats - Lord von Bielefeld refused to accept him as his nephew and almost withheld the family name, Lord von Mannheim spurns him simply because he has that name, Lord von Spitzweg used his mother to force his way into a position of regency, Lord von Grantz deserted and began allying himself with the humans, and Lord von Voltaire exiled his own cousin for crimes that, looking back, did not befit the punishment of being banished from one's homeland.

"Those experiences will lead him to form his own ideals separate from Shibuya, especially in the King's absence. He sees the Aristocrats as a threat to both he and Shibuya as much as Isidore is. They hold a power over him that causes him to grow anxious, and he holds a great sense of animosity toward them because of their present behavior and their actions in the past. It's only natural for von Bielefeld to want to do away with them; he sees them as his enemies."

Ulrike listened, absorbing each word so that she may think on it herself. Her concern appeared to increase with each point he made. "I do not think His Majesty would wish to rule this country supremely. It is not in his nature to act without the advice of others, whether that advice is contrary to his final decision or in agreement with it."

"I agree, but the Aristocrats need little power to give advice, which is the point we can expect von Bielefeld to make," Murata responded, his eyes never leaving the crest on the wall. "If he does develop a theory of Divine Right, he'll have plenty of evidence to work with. He's both feared and revered the Great One more fully than most throughout his entire life."

"Yet he initially opposed the Great One's decision to have a human on the throne."

"Was he opposing him?" Murata wondered aloud. "Or was he merely looking for proof of Shibuya's power, as Lord von Voltaire was? From all that I've been told, as soon as Shibuya gave him that proof, von Bielefeld became his most faithful disciple."

"The von Bielefelds have always been prejudiced against humans," Ulrike pointed out, "more than any other family. Are you sure that played no part in his antagonism? His actions toward His Majesty were quite severe."

"It probably did," Murata conceded, "but I don't think it influenced him as heavily as others believe. It begs the question: does he still hold those same prejudices?"

"He has married a human man and adopted a human daughter," his comrade offered.

Murata was hardly swayed by the evidence. "Which proves that he's capable of accepting individual humans. He can accept Shibuya, the Princess, Shibuya's family and our allies and still be prejudiced against humans as a whole. He can have a general view of them and still allow exceptions." Black eyes lowered behind his glasses, finally meeting her gaze. "You can't tell me that if Shibuya had come to this world fully grown and looking as he did when he left the castle to go to war, von Bielefeld wouldn't have bowed to him straight away. He'd have been the first on his knees."

If there was anything Wolfram valued, it was strength, courage, and honesty, all of which he'd been given the chance to find within Yuuri. It made it possible for him to overlook less pleasing characteristics, like Yuuri's humanity. If he'd seen his favored virtues right away instead of the immaturity and lack of experience Yuuri had projected, Murata suspected Wolfram wouldn't have given their King such a hard time, and would have bended the knee and given his obeisances as quickly as Gunter had.

If the basis for his hostility had been Yuuri's impure blood, then an execution of power on Yuuri's part wouldn't have been enough to change Wolfram's allegiance. Either he would have refused to serve a human king altogether, or he would have surrendered to the Great One's will specifically because it was the Great One who'd made the decision, not because of anything Yuuri had said or done. Instead, it had been Yuuri's actions that had gained him another supporter, which seemed to suggest that Wolfram had been looking for the qualities he desired in a king, and not capitulating to his disgust for anything human.

"Will you speak with Prince von Bielefeld about his beliefs, or mention them to His Majesty?" Ulrike asked, lifting her hands to clasp them palm to palm with fingers entwined, as if in prayer. There was little for her to pray to and ask for guidance now that the Great One was gone, but the custom of folding her hands in a pious gesture was probably still comforting to her.

Sighing, Murata shrugged, not seeing that there was very much he could do about the problem. "Shibuya will have to be made aware of it, but I can't see how confronting von Bielefeld will do any good. Questioning him about his intentions may do nothing more than make him feel as if he's being backed into a corner. I'd be just another powerful man siding against him, in his mind. It would be better for me to watch from the background."

"But will you step in if he tries to take action?"

"I'm not sure," he confessed, considering the idea but failing to come to a decision. "If the Great One were still present," he began, eying the crest again, "I'd ask him what he's thinking, why he's causing events to unfold like this, but with him gone…" His eyes lowered to the crystal ball twinkling with stars. "Would it be better for me to influence things in his place and move us on a path affected by the lessons learned in Earth's history, or should I allow things to unfold as they are, and let us learn from our own mistakes?"

He allowed the question to hang there, not expecting Ulrike to answer it. It was a problem of ethics he'd been struggling with recently. Was it right to impose one world's values onto another? Was it acceptable for him to coach Wolfram and Yuuri in order for them to avoid the mistakes made in Earth's past, or should he allow a more natural course? Should the horrors and atrocities that happened on Earth be forgotten and ignored so that this other world could develop on its own, without the influence of a more technologically advanced realm?

"What happened to cause the idea of the Divine Right of Kings to die out on Earth?" Ulrike asked him, curious, her hands still grasping one another.

Murata's lips curved into an ironic smile, and the answer he gave, though insufficient in explaining the period of history completely, was true enough . "Many people who believed in it suddenly found themselves without a head."

Violet eyes expanded as Ulrike's expression changed from one of relative calm to one of horror. Murata, however, gave no further explanation, neither to reassure her or strengthen her apprehension, letting her consider the consequences of Wolfram's ambitions on her own.

Would things unfold similarly here as they had on Earth?

Possibly. But things could also be quite different. The question he faced now was whether certain things were best to be avoided, or if prospective happenings were necessary steps in creating a more peaceful and more civilized world. After all, it was through their own mistakes that people learned best, not through those of others.

Yuuri saw Karl's wife as soon as she was escorted into the medical tent, surrounded by guards for her protection as well as the protection of her young child. He took a moment to observe her, slowly wrapping a roll of bandages he'd just used in covering a patient's wound as his eyes took in her appearance. She looked as one would expect a commoner to appear, with frayed clothing that had been patched in places, seeming more bedraggled and unkempt than those of noble birth he encountered at the castle. But there was a softness to her that captured his interest and tempered his worries.

It had taken a while to coordinate the escort. He'd wanted to send a decently sized group of soldiers, incase Karl was right and the danger came closer to home, so it had been some time before all those he'd intended to send had been able to abscond from their duties long enough to make the short trip. He'd wanted to have her here sooner in the hopes that her presence would help to allay Karl's pain, but there was only so much he could accomplish in a given amount of time with the resources he had at his disposal.

He watched her as her eyes swept anxiously around the tent, seeking out her husband, holding her baby securely in her arms. Handing the roll of bandages to another healer who was in need of them, Yuuri moved to greet the troubled woman, putting a smile on his face in the hopes that it would ease her discomfort.

"Hi," he welcomed her when she noticed him, her eyes going wide with recognition. "You must be Nastia. Karl's been waiting for you."

"Y-Your Majesty!" she gasped out, and lowered herself into as much of a bow as she could manage with a baby hampering her motion and little practice. "I can't even begin to thank you for your generosity! First, seeing to my husband's hurts, and then allowing me to see him!"

"I'd hope others in my position would do the same thing," he said. He had all this power, all this influence; why wouldn't he use it to help others? He had no need for it himself.

"What can I do to repay you?" Nastia's outpouring of gratitude continued. "We have little money and nothing of value you gift you, but if there's anything else you want or need…"

Waving a hand in dismissal, Yuuri attempted to have her stop feeling as if she owed him anything. "Really, it's no big deal. I don't need to be repaid for this. What did I do aside from send some soldiers to bring you here? It was no trouble for me, I promise, and the soldiers will all be well compensated for their time." A few of them had denied any need for a reward, but he'd been adamant in his intentions to see that they received something in return for their charity.

"Your Majesty-"

He cut her off before she could finish her thought. "If you really want to do something for me, then go see your husband. He needs you right now. He's already been through a lot."

That gave Nastia pause, and she looked up at him in worry. "Someone said something about his arm…"

Nodding, he tried to remain neutral and straight forward, yet kind and sympathetic at the same time. "He was wounded in battle. We fixed it up as best we could and then watched over him from there, but we couldn't stop the infection."

"So his arm was…?"

"It was amputated about a week ago."

Since he'd first arrived, Gisela had been telling him to keep a careful check on his emotions and not allow himself to become too attached to the patients. He knew why, since many of them frequently died and others were left so severely injured it was a wonder they could go on living at all. It was enough to make someone go crazy. He constantly saw himself or Wolfram in the place of this soldier or that one, so that any attempt he made at keeping an emotional distance was made in vain.

Karl's loss of an arm had been especially traumatizing. After spending so much time trying to heal him, after enjoying so much of his company, he hadn't been able to just hand him over to Gisela and let her see to the procedure while he went off and distracted himself. He'd demanded to be present, to bear witness to the surgery, as if by being there he could somehow make things easier on the man losing an appendage, when in reality it probably hadn't made much of a difference at all.

Now he didn't know if he regretted it or not. The amputation had been one of the most gruesome things he'd ever seen, and had left him pale and shaky, with his stomach roiling. Their use of magic made the demons more capable of handling severe injuries, but anesthesia was nonexistent. Karl had undergone the surgery with complete awareness and no lack of feeling. Yuuri had never seen a grown man scream and shout the way Karl had when it had been cut off. He was just glad that Gisela had been quick about it.

Nastia seemed to share his dismay, her face paling as she gasped. "Which arm?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet, holding her baby a bit tighter in here grasp.

"His left." He supposed there had been some good in the procedure. Aside from preventing the infection from spreading, his left arm had not been his dominant one, which meant he retained the ability for swordplay and writing, and all the other tasks made easier with one's dominant hand.

It made Yuuri wonder how Wolfram's father dealt with having just one arm. Wolfgang had lost his right, not his left. He knew men in the military were conditioned to use their right hand, though some could fight just as well with the opposite, like Gwendal. Was Wolfgang as adept, or had he had to relearn everything he'd been able to do prior to the surgery?

"Where is he now?" Nastia's eyes scanned over the rows of cots again, but her sights didn't settle on the man she was looking for.

"Come on, I'll take you to him," Yuuri offered, turning to lead the way.

Karl had been moved to another area of the tent, where it was hoped that he would be able to recover in peace. The operation had left him pale and weak, and his condition was still in danger of worsening. Some days he showed signs of his former self, when his moods were positive and upbeat, but there were also days in which he was nothing like he had been. The surgery had taken more than his arm from him; some of his pride had most likely gone with it.

He was reclining in bed when Yuuri and Nastia arrived in the little secluded corner of the tent, where patients with more severe injuries were kept. He had the company of a few other men, one who had also suffered the horrors of an amputation, but none of them spoke to one another. Many times Yuuri would come by to see them staring off into space, and the responses he received from them were minimal. Many of the men kept back here seemed dead long before their bodies failed them.

"Oh, Karl!" Nastia exclaimed when she saw him, rushing to his bedside. Yuuri quickly grabbed a spare chair and brought it over, so that she may sit beside him. "I've been so worried!"

Karl's lips twitched beneath the hair covering the lower half of his face, raising into as much of a smile as he could manage. "Nothin' to fret about, Nastia."

"How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

Briefly, Karl glanced at the place where his severed arm had once been attached, before looking back at his wife. "Slightly, but there's little 'at can be done about it."

"I could try using my magic to dull the pain," Yuuri offered, beginning to move to his other side, having allowed Nastia to take his right so that she might hold his good hand.

"Don't waste it on me. You've been goin' 'round all day, healin' people left and right. Give it a rest."

"Karl!" Nastia gasped. "Don't be so disrespectful!"

"It's fine," Yuuri told her with a smile. "I don't mind. I don't see it as disrespect." In fact, he was happy to hear Karl speaking to him like that again. It made him think he might actually be recovering.

"You've been so kind already…" the woman began.

"It's nothing, honestly!" Yuuri said, waving a hand at her once again. Halfway through the motion, he moved back around to the other side of the bed where she was sitting, hoping to change the subject by pretending as if he'd just become aware of the child in her arms. "Is this Merry?"

Nastia glanced down at her child before shifting him in her arms so that he was facing forward, sitting him in her lap. "Yes, it is. Merry, can you greet His Majesty?"

Yuuri thought he might be a little young to greet anyone appropriately. He looked as one might expect a six-month-old human to appear, eyes looking around at everything that seemed foreign and chin coated with drool as he chewed on one of his fists with toothless gums. He had Nastia's hair, thin blond baby curls that had yet to grow very much, but he had his father's eyes.

If Yuuri had thought Karl had the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen, they fell to a close second compared to the hue that Merry possessed. Though wide, innocent and oblivious to most of the world around him, Merry's eyes pierced through him when he looked at him, as if all the secrets of the universe were his to know.

It was a troubling sensation, and one that Yuuri had to be quick to conceal, so that his reaction would not be viewed by the loving mother and father. He wondered if they had ever felt that way when looking at their son, like he was viewing them with more recognition than a normal three-year-old Demon would exhibit, or if he was merely overreacting. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been awed by something the Demons thought of as completely normal.

"Hi, Merry," he said to the child, showing him a big smile and leaning down to get a closer look, reaching out a hand to touch a curl or two.

Merry took a moment to stare at him, pausing in the gumming of his drool covered fist, before taking it from his mouth and unfolding his fingers to shove his palm against Yuuri's face with a delighted squeal.

Yuuri stumbled back, not from the strength of the action - for Merry's power was minuscule at best - but from the surprise of being hit. He let out a squeak as he stepped back and straightened up, lifting a hand to his aching nose to rub at it while Karl burst into raucous laughter.

Nastia, however, was more mortified than amused. "Merry! No no, don't do that!" she said, taking hold of his arm to prevent him from taking another wild swing. "I'm so sorry, Your Majesty! I don't know what's gotten into him!"

Regaining his composure relatively quickly, Yuuri shook his head, smiling once again. "It's okay. He's just a baby. No harm done. Wolfram's always telling me I'm not very good with kids." He didn't really think it was his fault, though. He was the youngest in his family; he'd had no one to practice on aside from Greta, and she'd been ten when they'd first met and relatively self-sufficient.

"You been givin' yer Momma trouble, Merry?" Karl asked, his laughter receding into quiet chuckles.

The baby looked at him with a wide grin. "Mammm-ma!" he cooed, exaggerating the sound in his inexperience with words.

"Right. Yer Momma. Can you say 'Papa' yet?"

"Mammm-ma!"

Nastia gave him a wan smile, still appearing distressed by her son's behavior. "I've been trying to teach him, but I don't think it's taken."

Yuuri looked over the family for the rest of the day. He made sure to see to the other patients, but no matter where he went he found that his eyes always strayed back to Karl and his wife. Nastia stayed by her husband's side, holding his hand and stroking at his face, while Merry bounced in her lap or attempted to crawl along the ground by her feet. Watching them, it was obvious to him how much they cared for one another, and how much their child enhanced their unity, their sense of family.

He'd noted similar things in Hube and Nicola before, how happy Nicola appeared when she was with her husband and son, and how nurturing Hube had become since El's birth. It reminded him of all the times he and Wolf had spent with Greta, reading to her, letting her share their bed at night, comforting her when she was upset or scared. He wasn't the world's best father by any means, but he could still understand the feelings Karl and Nastia had for their child, as well as what they felt for one another. A special sort of bonding took place between two people raising a child of their own; he'd already experienced parts of it with Wolfram.

Perhaps one day they'd be fortunate enough to experience it again.

Nastia and Merry stayed by Karl's bedside until right before sunset, when it was agreed that they should head back to the village before it grew too dark. Nastia kissed her husband, and Karl held Merry with his only arm, holding him close for a few long moments before allowing him to be taken away. Yuuri saw them out, promising that he would take care of Karl and that he would have Nastia informed if there was any change in his condition - good or bad - then stood by the entrance of the tent to watch as the soldiers guided her back to her home in the distant village.

The fires were burning in the camp and the smell of food wafted his way when Yuuri went back inside, heading once again towards the back of the tent where Karl rested. His previous good mood seemed to have vanished as soon as his family had left, his expression melancholy, his face gaunt and his eyes empty. He looked at Yuuri with a frown when he took up Nastia's position by his bedside, and spoke in a voice hoarse with emotion.

"Can I make another request, Yer Majesty?"

Yuuri tried to smile, but the man's tone created a somber mood. "Of course."

"If I don't make it through this, can you see that my wife and my boy are taken care of?"

Frowning in return, Yuuri shook his head, not wanting to think of the alternative to Karl living. "Don't talk like that. You're going to make it through this. You made it through the operation! Now all you have to do is heal."

Karl's expression grew haunted at the mention of his surgery, but his words remained firm. "Don't bullshit me, Yer Majesty. Just 'cause I've made it this far don't mean I'll live through the war. If I don't, I wanna know Nastia and Merry are gonna be okay."

"Alright," Yuuri conceded, wishing he would stop talking like that. "I'll make sure they're taken care of. I promise I won't let anything happen to them."

Satisfied, Karl relaxed against the pillows, nodding his head once before falling silent.

Yuuri continued to sit by him, holding his hands out to use his magic, and though Karl had previously spoken against him trying to heal him, he said nothing now. Slowly, dulled blue eyes slipped closed, and Yuuri was left with nothing more than his thoughts and the groans of other patients to keep him company.

It was a charming inn, small and out of the way, with few travelers passing through. Even better, the owner asked no questions, and had led him to his room with hardly a glance in his direction. Ilyich couldn't complain. He was keeping himself out of the public eye as much as possible, and after a month of evading the authorities of the Great Demon Kingdom, he was now a day's journey away from the border. Soon he'd cross into Cimaron, out of the Demon King's reach, and then further, home to Isidore.

After spending three years within the borders of their enemy country, Ilyich was looking forwar to returning home. He had much to share with his king, and returning to his prior duties would be a delightful change of pace. The danger of being caught would be gone, and he could go back to a normal life.

But a man with goals must have patience, and he was biding his time. With soldiers in nearly every town, it was more difficult than before to move around undetected. All of them had been informed of his escape; they knew what to look for, and though he had his own men, he knew they'd be outnumbered now that the Demon King was aware of his Black Knights. Since the attack on Blood Pledge Castle, they'd been laying low, and he intended to continue with the practice for at least a little longer.

It was late evening. Ilyich sat at a small table by a low burning fire, sharpening and polishing his borrowed sword. The blade was not as wide as those used by his own soldiers, but the Demons' standard issue sword had its benefits. It wasn't as heavy, for one thing, and could be used with only a single hand.

A quiet knock on the door disrupted his examination, and Ilyich paused, inclining his head in that direction in an effort to sense any noise in the hallway. There were no voices and no sound of feet on the stair, but after a moment another soft knock broke through the silence of the room.

Cautiously, he stood from his chair, leaving his sword where it was but drawing a dirk from his side before moving to the door. He checked to make sure it was locked, before taking hold of the handle. He didn't turn it, continuing to listen carefully, incase the one outside was foe and not friend.

"Who is it?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"An ally," a whisper from the other side called, "sent by Our Majesty in friendship. May God bless and keep him."

Ilyich snorted. "A demon could just as easily invoke the graces of God. What proof do I have that you're not my enemy? Which king do you serve?"

A pause, then, "To speak his name would be dangerous in these troubled times, given our location."

"Some hint would suffice. Something our enemies would not know."

The voice on the other side of the door fell into silence again. Ilyich waited, his dirk still at hand, prepared to fight the man off should he attempt to force entry.

Finally, there was a response. "His Majesty secretly dines with a young courtier. Only those closest to the king, such as yourself, know of the affair. Even the Queen remains ignorant."

"The Queen is nothing more than a foolish woman. His Majesty would have done well to wed someone with more sense."

Satisfied, Ilyich unlocked the door and turned the handle, slowly easing it open and peering out through the crack. A cloaked figure greeted him through the shadows, and though his hood had been raised to hide his face from anyone who might recognize him as one of Lyron's men, Ilyich could spy familiar features. "Adla," he greeted the younger man, opening the door wider to allow him to come in. "So he's sent the paramour himself."

Adla crossed into the room, at which point Ilyich closed the door and locked it again. Safe from prying eyes, his guest lowered his hood and removed his cloak, drenched from the cold rain falling outside. "It's good to see you well," he said.

Ilyich looked him over. Adla was a young man of eighteen years, dressed in rich traveling clothes not suitable for battle. Ash brown hair met the high collar of his shirt, while pale green eyes glanced around the small room, revealing not a single thought or emotion. If Ilyich did not know him personally, he would not be impressed by what he saw, a fatal mistake many had made before. His soft face and lithe frame was Adla's greatest weapon.

"Three years since I last saw you and you've hardly changed," Ilyich observed. "You've gained a few inches, but I don't see any more weight on you. His Majesty still favors you after all this time?"

"His Majesty does me a great honor," Adla replied indifferently.

"What aid does he expect a boy to give me?"

"You trained me yourself." Sage colored eyes surveyed him. "You know best how my skills can be used. In fact, I recall you singing my praises to His Majesty on more than one occasion."

"That was before, when you were training to be the King's sword and not his sheath," Ilyich responded. "Your talents have gone to waste. You're no good to your country spreading your legs for the King."

"I am still the King's sword," Adla insisted with the smallest of frowns. "I had not realized you were so averse to the situation. Surely your disapproval would grieve His Majesty. You are his oldest friend, are you not, Lord Kurgan?"

"His Majesty knows my opinions well. I'm afraid in this instance, he's chosen to ignore them." Returning his dirk to its place by his side, Ilyich moved back to the fire to once again take his seat and continue to work on his sword. "Why has he sent you? Surely Robert would have been a better choice."

Adla didn't follow him, but remained where he was by the door. Considering the room was so small, there wasn't much distance between them to begin with. "Seeing as we are currently at war, His Majesty finds it far more beneficial to have his Chancellor by his side than to send the Duke of Grafton out of country."

"So instead he's sent his concubine."

"You underestimate me."

Ilyich laughed at the comment. "No, Louis, I'm not brainless enough to do that." Slowly, he stroked his sword over the oiled whetstone. "You said it yourself: I'm the one who trained you. I know well what you're capable of. What I don't understand is why you've suddenly decided to spend your time as the King's bedmate. You have more potential than that."

"One does not deny His Majesty."

"Ah," he made a noise of agreement. "So you have no feelings for him?"

Louis Adla paused. "If I said 'no,' my actions may be considered treasonous."

"You're no better use to me dead than you are as a whore. Whatever your answer, my opinion of you won't change."

Gradually, the younger man moved to stand by the fire. "I respect and admire His Majesty more than any man, but to speak of love would be to speak of things I have no experience in. I love him as a subject is expected to love his master, and I am honored that he holds so much interest in me, but if I were to lose His Majesty's favor, it would be my prospects that were hurt and not my feelings."

"Cold and emotionless, exactly as I trained you to be."

Louis nodded. "I requested to come when word reached us of your capture."

"And His Majesty is fond enough of you to grant the request," Ilyich observed, working the blade over the whetstone again. "Even so, he would have done better to send me more than a minor nobleman."

"Then you have not heard."

"Information is hard to come by in prison. What have I not heard?"

"His Majesty has made me a duke. Duke of Braith."

Ilyich chuckled at the revelation, but couldn't say that he was surprised. "Then you truly are his favorite."

"He knows of my skills as well as you do," Louis said, his voice never anything but neutral and monotone.

"And what skills would those be?" Ilyich asked. "I trained you how to use a sword and take a man's life, not how to please a man with your mouth."

"If I displease you, then I would be more than willing to be on my way."

"Are you alone?"

"His Majesty has placed twenty of the Black Knights under my command. I have them hiding in the forest. We have remained undetected."

Ceasing his chuckling, Ilyich looked over at Louis with a smirk on his face. "Soon he'll be giving you my job as well as my title."

"The King still values your contributions to his campaign."

"My contributions, yes," Ilyich agreed, lifting the sword before him to examine the blade. "I may be friend to the King, but if my head were to win him the Great Demon Kingdom, he would present it to the Demon King on a silver platter. That is the sort of king Lyron is."

"The Demon King is negligible. He poses little threat."

"Is that what Lyron said?" Ilyich asked with another laugh, taking his scabbard and sliding the sword into it, before looking at Louis again. "Let me amend your previous thoughts about the Demon King. If there's one person in this world His Majesty underestimates, it's King Yuuri. He may seem easily vanquished, but Lyron has never seen him face-to-face."

He imagined Lyron would continue to underestimate him even if they were to cross paths. Lyron's power was also his weakness. He depended too much on his large military, thinking no man could ever successfully stand against him. He took pride from the victories Isidore had experienced in the past, without thinking they may one day face an opponent whose own power evened the odds. If the Demon King ever attained full use of his powers, he would never have a need for the large force Lyron had inherited with the throne.

"You can't tell me you've grown to fear him," Louis said, his small frown lifting into an even smaller smile.

"Fear is not an emotion I'm accustomed to experiencing. Caution is the more likely reaction," Ilyich explained, remembering his confrontation with the Demon King, the way his eyes had sparked and his entire being had been surrounded by natural power. "He'll be a stronger adversary than you or I thought. Belar only saw a fraction of his power. There's more than that, kept somewhere deep inside. If he'd used it all against Belar, Cimaron would have been decimated and we would have felt the effects in Isidore."

"No one has that much power."

"No?" Ilyich raised an eyebrow, setting his newly sharpened sword aside. "The Great One was mighty enough to harness the Originators. What makes you think the king he chose to destroy them isn't even more powerful than that?"

"Are you saying you believe the Demons have been following the will of a king who died four-thousand years ago?" Louis questioned him, cackling low in his throat. "We humans know better. To revere the Great One is to commit sacrilege. He is a false idol and no prophet."

"I've been in the Great Demon Kingdom for three years, my Duke of Braith. I think I know better than you how these people function, what their beliefs are, and if there's any shred of truth behind them. What knowledge do you have aside from what can be attained through books?"

Louis frowned again, staring at him levelly. "Are you saying our own beliefs are false?"

"I'm saying there's room for error," Ilyich elaborated. "I'm saying I know more than anyone what King Yuuri is capable of. He speaks of tolerance and peace, but when he's challenged, when the fires of his anger are stoked, he has the look of a killer in his eyes. By the end of this war, I trust you'll see just how savage he can be."

The boy the Demons had in the place of their king would be negligible on his own, but the entity within, the root of his power - that was the real Demon King. Ilyich had seen a small piece of it during the interrogation, enough to know that everything everyone had ever thought about the boy was wrong. As he was, he was hardly a threat; but if he were ever to realize his full potential, he would be a force the likes of which they had not seen since the Originators had ravaged the world.

"I'll be sure to offer you my apologies should that prove to be the case," Louis replied, sounding as unimpressed as he had from the beginning. "For now, you'll have to understand my doubts, which His Majesty and the members of his war council share."

Ilyich's only response was to shrug. He cared naught who believed him; they would all realize their folly one day.

"On a related note," his young comrade continued, "His Majesty wants Prince Wolfram."

Ilyich released another bark of laughter. "Trust Lyron to become completely infatuated with the youthful prince. He has always prized beauty. He's never even seen the bitch."

"He has been fortunate enough to acquire a portrait. It's not the most recent of pictures, but seeing as the Prince is a pure blooded Demon, his appearance will not have changed much in the last fifteen years."

"How is it that His Majesty came by this painting?"

"The King has his sources."

"In other words, King Yuuri has himself a traitor," Ilyich discerned, unless Belar had somehow come across a portrait of the previous Queen's youngest son and shared it with his master, which he highly doubted. "Who is it? I might know of him."

"I have not been privy to that information. As far as I am aware, only His Majesty and the Duke of Grafton know the man's identity."

"If it's even a man. The Demons are not against placing women in positions of power."

"I may not know the traitor's identity, but I have been told that it is a man."

"Then it could be any number of people. It's a pity whoever he is didn't think to aid me in my escape." Smirking, Ilyich lounged in his chair, amused. "Do you fear that the Prince might replace you? If His Majesty is already so infatuated with him, I imagine seeing him in person will only increase his lust."

Louis lifted a hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of his face. "I fear no man," he casually responded.

"Not even His Majesty?"

No reply was forthcoming, but Ilyich saw Louis's silence as answer enough. "No matter," he said, standing to join him by the fire. "We will return to Isidore and there we will make plans to capture His Majesty's prize whore. Whether he becomes the new favorite is of no concern to me. But first…"

"'First?'" One of Louis's delicate brows arched up in curiosity. "You have other plans?"

"Of course. One thing you must learn, Louis, is that I always have a plan. I'm going to pay His Majesty the Demon King one final visit."

"Is that wise, considering your current cautiousness?"

"I merely want to stoke the fires a bit higher, test his limits so as to have more information for His Majesty. You're welcome to join me if you choose."

The corners of Louis's lips quirked as the turned towards the fire, hiding his expression, but Ilyich knew that if he were to face him, he would see nothing but cold ruthlessness in his pale eyes. "Perhaps I will," the youth said calmly. "As you so eloquently observed when I arrived, it's been a while since my sword last drew blood."

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Gisela apologized, keeping her voice quiet so as not to be overheard by others. "It won't be long now."

Yuuri hung his head, eyes meeting the ground as his hands clenched by his sides. Around him life went on within the camp, but inside it felt as if something was slowly dying. "How long?" he asked.

"Maybe a day or two more. His condition is worsening rapidly. We've done everything we can. Now all there's left to do is see that he's comfortable, and inform his family."

Noting the irony of it all, Yuuri laughed bitterly. "They were here only a couple of days ago."

Nastia's concern and the special smile she showed to no one but her husband were still fresh in his memory. He could hear the worry in her voice, see the love in her eyes, feel the longing that existed between them as she'd sat by her husband's side. Now that longing might never be fulfilled, and she would have to learn to live as a widow.

It wasn't fair. Karl had only gone to war because of a debt he owed, because he had no other way to make the money he needed, and because he loved his son. Now he was going to die for it, and there was nothing that could be done to give him more time. Yuuri ached with the knowledge that some time soon, whether it was tomorrow or the next day, Karl would never laugh again; those eyes he'd been so mesmerized by would close forever.

Another life would slip away, and the only thing Yuuri could do was watch.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Gisela said again, containing her own emotions. As a healer she was obligated to remain neutral, but Yuuri knew she regretted every loss of life. "I told you before that this was still a possibility. He was lucky enough to survive the surgery."

"A lot of good that did," Yuuri muttered.

"Your Majesty-"

He stopped her by lifting a hand, shaking his head to let her know he wished to hear no more. "It's alright. Just let me know if there are any updates."

Desolate, Yuuri turned to make his way from the main tent, aimlessly wandering through the camp until he came by a fire. There were people and noise everywhere he turned; there was nothing he could do and nowhere he could go to escape it, so he didn't even try. Sitting down onto the cold ground, he looked into the flames and tried to lose himself in their warmth, thinking of home, thinking of Greta and Wolfram, of his parents and his brother. But for some reason, the thought that the members of his family were alive and safe didn't console him this time as it had before. Not even the thought of Wolfram's smiling face could ease the anguish aching in his chest.

The rest of the camp was in high spirits, but Yuuri couldn't join them. Their troops along the border had engaged in battle and won, and word had spread as the injured were brought in to be healed. Conrad and Yozak had led their men to a great victory, and morale had lifted ten fold. As soon as the news had been authenticated, the celebration had begun. Wine and ale were even now being passed between the camp guards and the soldiers who were well enough to participate, as loud, jubilant voices rose in song.

The kings of the world live on the summit.

They have the most beautiful view, but there is a but,

They don't know when we think of them down below;

They don't know that here, it's we who are the kings.

The kings of the world do everything they want;

They have the world around them, but they are alone.

In their castles up high, they are so bored,

While down here we dance all through the night.

Cursing under his breath, Yuuri lifted both hands to cover his face, before sliding them up to tug at his hair, feeling his anger towards the injustice of the situation consuming him. He wanted to go home. He wanted to call an end to this war right now, throw in the towel, raise the white flag, and run back to what was comfortable. He wanted to return the troops to their families, he wanted to dry his people's tears and end their heartache. He wanted to go to Earth and live out the rest of his life in peace.

But he knew he couldn't do that; he wouldn't do that. Too many people depended on him, too many people looked up to him for courage and strength. Whether he liked it or not, his people needed a reason to fight, a future to look forward to and sacrifice their lives for, or else their trials really would be for nothing. He had a responsibility to all these millions of people, and if he gave up now, if he allowed one more death to affect him as deeply as all the others had, then he was going to break and his people would no longer have the king they needed to guide the way.

The kings of the world fear everything;

They can't tell the dogs from the wolves.

They set traps that they'll fall in themselves;

They hide from everything, even from love.

The kings of the world fight with each other.

There is no room for two of them,

And us down here, we don't fight their wars;

We don't even know what these games of kings are for.

"Your Majesty," Gunter appeared across from him, probably informed of his mood by Gisela and sent to check up on him. "Do you require anything?" he asked, far from his usual exuberant self. He sounded sympathetic, consoling him with words but not actions.

"No," Yuuri said, keeping his gaze averted, never breaking from the flames. If only Wolfram were here; if only he could have him next to him, feel his arms around him. "Thank you, Gunter."

His tutor didn't back away. "Have you eaten?"

"A little while ago." As things were now, he didn't think he'd be able to stomach any more tonight.

Gunter didn't bring him food, but he did pass him a cup of wine, which Yuuri took without any argument. The cup was dinged and chipped and the wine was cheap, but if it could dull his senses then he would think it a success. He drank the cup quickly and held it out for Gunter to refill, which he did despite what Yuuri could assume was his better judgment.

"You are unhappy," the older man observed, sitting across from him as Yuuri gulped down his second cup.

"What's there to be happy about?" Yuuri asked, ignoring the change in song. "We won one battle, not the war. People are still dying."

"Death is a part of life," Gunter explained. "It is the natural end of all things."

"Yeah, when people are old, when they've actually had the chance to live. These men aren't dying naturally, Gunter, they're being killed. And then what? They're buried and forgotten."

It seemed a poor consolation. To live so briefly, only to be forgotten as the world went on without them.

"Not forgotten, Your Majesty," his tutor denied. "Never forgotten, at least not by those whose lives they affected. I still remember every man I trained who lost his life in battle, just as Conrart still remembers his fallen comrades, and just as you will remember the men you've cared for here. Yes, time may lessen the sense of loss, but the memories will always remain, and so too shall the proof of their lives."

"That's not much of a comfort." For the one who remembers will die as well, and take his memories with him.

Yuuri shook his head, tempted to pour himself another cup of wine, before deciding against it. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to hide from it, nothing was going to take away the pain. He knew that well enough by now. It was something he would have to accept and live with indefinitely, and hope that with time it would come to hurt less.

Resentfully, he tossed his cup to the side, not caring where it landed or if it was damaged further, pushing himself to his feet. "Never mind. I'm going to bed. Wake me if something happens, otherwise I'll see you in the morning."

If Gunter tried to say something else, he didn't hear it. He turned to make his way to his tent before his tutor and current guardian could call him back to the fireside, entering only to remove his armor on his own. He dropped the pieces with abandon, hearing them clink and clatter where they fell, before stripping off his dirty clothes. He'd given up wearing anything to bed after a month; his pajamas were washed as rarely as his day clothes, and stank just as bad. Naked, he slipped between the blankets piled on the unforgiving ground, intending to remain there until morning.

Sighing deeply and lying on his back, he raised his arms to pillow his head with his hands, staring up and into nothing. Few thoughts crossed his mind as he waited for sleep to claim him, listening to the caroling men as they drank the night away. At least they were able to forget the danger; at least they were able to ignore the losses, if only for the night. They deserved a few hours of respite before returning to their duties and once again facing the darkness of war.

If only Yuuri could join them. If only he could find something to be happy about, something to celebrate.

He didn't know if it was the wine or if exhaustion was taking its toll, but before long he was drifting off. His dreams were no better than reality, for in them he saw just as much blood and experienced just as much death. Instead of Karl lying pale and ghostly in his bed, or any number of faceless soldiers lying dead in the field, he saw Conrad punctured by a multitude of arrows, or Gwendal brutalized by canon fire, or Gunter fallen and broken, or Yozak hung in chains. He saw Greta crying bloody tears, and Wolfram bathing in a pool of red, empty eyes staring into a moonless sky.

There was blood everywhere. No matter where he looked or which way he turned, the carnage was always present. It surrounded him, consumed him, making his insides throb with anger - at himself, at his enemies, at the entire world. Bloody tears, bloody rain, flesh piled on flesh; screaming, shouting, pleading; running, burning, dying. Even in his dreams, he could smell the scent of death, the revolting stink of rotting corpses, lining the streets, filling the graveyards; with each fallen man, the world grew a little bit darker.

He could not change his dreams, nor could he wake from them. They'd ceased to be just nightmares long ago. Now they were with him every time he closed his eyes. The less bloody they were, the more pleasant his sleep was; the more carnal, the more he wished to wake and never sleep again. Sometimes there were peaceful interludes of pure blackness, and if he was lucky Wolfram would come to him in a shroud of light and he would awaken with "I love you" whispered in his ear instead of pleas for mercy.

Wolfram did not come to him this night, as much as he would have liked him to. The more time passed and the more death he saw, the harder it became to remember the sound of Wolfram's voice in their quiet moments together. It had only been a month and he was already forgetting what it was like to be held in warm arms, against a solid chest, with kisses pressed against his hair. He was forgetting what it felt like to have Wolfram's hand in his, what it felt like to crush their mouths together and lose track of everything save the two of them.

The "I love you"s sounded farther and farther away, fading with time and distance. Yuuri feared that one day he would awaken and the image of his husband would cease to cross his mind at all. He was afraid that he would become so weary and embittered that he would forget everything good, everything that made life worthwhile, everything he cherished and hoped for, and all that would remain would be hate and anger and the burning need for revenge.

Something disturbed his dreams and brought him into consciousness late into the night. In his delirium he thought it might be thunder - it wouldn't be the first time a storm had come through - but as he grew more aware he began to hear other things. There were far off screams, piercing the late autumn air, and shouts erupting between medic and soldier alike as the camp came alive. The joyful singing had died out, only to be replaced by dread and panic.

Rubbing his forehead and trying to come back to himself, Yuuri made himself focus on the voices outside. He tried to pick out their words, but there was too much to register properly. He heard an order to saddle some horses, to make ready, to arm themselves, but the reasons for it were lost in all the commotion. His only clue were the screams originating in the countryside, and the loud explosions he'd previously mistaken for thunder.

He sat up in his pile of blankets quickly, grabbing for the clothes he'd discarded only hours ago, beginning to yank them on as Gunter barged in with a loud, "Your Majesty!"

"Gunter!" he called in return, pulling his shirt over his head. "What was that?!"

"It's the village, Your Majesty! The village is under attack!"

Such news may have frozen him in shock before, but the surprise had long worn off by now. He continued to dress rapidly, picking up the pieces of his armor and attempting to strap them into place. "Help me into my armor!" he demanded, knowing he wouldn't be able to complete the task on his own.

"Your Majesty," Gunter's voice was beseeching, "you must not jump into the fray! If the human soldiers were to see you-"

"Damn it, Gunter, that's an order!" he bellowed, with more strength than anyone had probably ever expected from him. "You know they already know I'm here!"

Gunter looked to be battling with himself, but after the order was issued he had no other choice. Yuuri stood as patiently as he could while his armor was fastened into place, listening and trying not to imagine anything too horrible, though he knew for once his imaginings were probably closer to the truth than he would like. As soon as Gunter had finished, Yuuri grabbed Morgif and sprinted out of his tent without another thought, leaving his tutor behind to shout after him.

"Your Majesty! Your helmet!"

He didn't turn back for it, or wait for the older man to catch up. He saw a soldier saddling a horse and took it from him as soon as he was through, climbing into the saddle fully armored without any assistance, and taking the reins to turn the horse and head off into the direction of the village. What once had been nothing more than the dark shapes of houses on the horizon was now being devoured by flames, rising high into the air and illuminating the dark night. The smoke blotted out the stars, and only a small sliver of moonlight shone from above.

Yuuri sped his horse toward the devastation as fast as the animal could take him, arriving in less time than he'd had to formulate a plan. He pulled the horse to a stop as soon as he entered the streets, looking around as he realized he had no idea what he was going to do. Already some of his soldiers were engaging in combat with their enemies, who he could clearly see were dressed in black clothing under gleaming black armor. More than a few bodies littered the streets, as the buildings around him burned to the ground.

He turned his horse, taking in the scene as his addled brain worked to think of something to do. Finally, he summoned as much magic as he could, controlling what particles of water he could find, and using it to douse the flames. Shouts of "Your Majesty!" joined the screaming and wailing of the civilians, his soldiers quickly beginning to notice that he had arrived and was unprotected. Strangely, none of the men in black sought to approach him. He saw a few look his way, smirking in what he could only assume was delight, but not a single one attempted to attack him.

He would have thought it strange had he not seen Ilyich among them. As his eyes settled on the man, he thought it must have been through some order by him that the enemy soldiers failed to advance on him.

Yuuri paused when he saw him, standing smugly in the town square with his sword drawn, already wet with blood. A younger man stood beside him, brown haired and pale and like nothing Yuuri would have expected to see murdering innocents, but he too carried a bloodied sword, and wore black armor that was in stark contrast to his ethereal appearance.

The younger man was saying something, but Ilyich was staring straight at Yuuri, and Yuuri didn't even try to look away. He watched as Ilyich's smirk grew, before he was saying something in response to his partner and backing slowly away. Yuuri sat motionless atop his horse, waiting to see what he would do. The younger man turned to glance quickly in his direction, before heading off to another region of the village, and Yuuri was left to face Ilyich on his own.

The escaped prisoner sheathed his sword, then lifted a hand to motion for Yuuri to follow, pivoting to enter one of the few buildings untouched by flames.

Yuuri's insides twisted as he watched him go, taking only a moment to consider the consequences of his actions before dismounting and following him.

The building he came to was a quaint, single-story house. Some of the windows had been broken and the front door had been forced open, hanging on its hinges. Yuuri carefully stepped over the broken glass, drawing Morgif in case he should need to defend himself. He peered into the small sitting room with it's broken and overturned furniture, and, seeing no one, made his way inside.

A scream issued from the back of the house, followed by pleading sobs. "Please, spare my son!"

Yuuri's eyes widened when he recognized the voice, his steps becoming quicker as he vaulted over a fallen table and burst into one of the back rooms. "Stay away from her!"

Ilyich had Nastia by the arm, a dagger held in his free hand and pointed at her threateningly. Nastia's face was streaked red with tears, as she placed herself between Ilyich and the cradle containing her wailing child. Yuuri couldn't see Merry behind them, so he didn't know if he'd been hurt, but he knew that even a baby as young as he was would be frightened by the noise and activity around him.

"Your Majesty!" Nastia gasped when she saw him, and the relief she experienced at the sight of him was hard to mistake.

"Ahh," Ilyich drawled, turning to smirk at him again. "Your Majesty. What a pleasant surprise."

Something about the casual sound of his voice made it seem to Yuuri as if he were hardly surprised at all. He shouldn't be, considering they'd eyed one another on the street, but Yuuri had a feeling it went further than that. Ilyich had drawn him out purposefully.

"Let her go," Yuuri said, taking a few cautious steps closer, holding Morgif in front of him, fully prepared to use him if he had to.

Ilyich ignored him. "How are you, Your Majesty?" he asked condescendingly. "Are you enjoying this war?"

"Let her go," Yuuri commanded again, sweaty hands gripping tighter to the hilt of his sword.

Nastia looked at him in supplication. "Your Majesty, please…"

Her captor held Yuuri's gaze for a moment longer, his smirk wild and ferocious, before glancing back at her. "That's enough from you."

Yuuri had no time to react. Even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to get close enough to stop him. Ilyich took his dagger and pulled it over Nastia's throat, opening it with a deep gash and spilling her blood all over himself and the floor. Nastia couldn't even scream, it happened so quickly. She choked once, then fell into a heap when Ilyich released her, dark red blood forming a puddle around her.

"No!" Yuuri shouted, but it was too late. In the blink of an eye, Nastia was gone.

Anger filled him, stronger and more potent than it ever had before. His entire body shook with it, his teeth gritting together as he stared at the body on the floor, tears springing into his eyes to blur his vision. "You bastard!"

Never in his life had he wanted to bring harm to others; never had he sought to purposefully injure anyone. But as he saw Nastia's life draining out of her, as he remembered what this man had done to his family, and as Ilyich continued to stand there, smirking guiltlessly over what he'd just done, Yuuri felt the unmistakable need to hurt him, maim him, beat him until he begged for forgiveness - only he knew he never would.

He wanted revenge - for Karl, for Nastia, for their baby, for Wolfram and Greta, and for all the other innocent people these men had injured or killed in the name of their savage king.

"Did you know her, Your Majesty?" Ilyich goaded him, putting his dagger away and drawing his sword to replace it. Heedlessly, he stepped over the woman at his feet, his boots making bloody footprints on the floor. "What a pity," he said, his grin feral. "Does she remind you of your own little family? What is your daughter's name? Greta, it is?"

"Leave her out of this!" Yuuri ground out, feeling his face grow suddenly wet as his vision continued to blur. His hands trembled around Morgif, his feet rooted to the spot as Ilyich came closer.

"Such a pretty little girl," he declared. "And what of your prince?" he changed tactics, testing him, seeing what would provoke him the most. "I regret being captured so soon. I would have liked to try him before you work up the courage to be a proper husband. Luckily, His Majesty already has plans to acquire him for himself. Perhaps then I'll have the opportunity."

With a cry of madness and overwhelming fury, Yuuri charged his opponent, swinging his sword in a blind rage.

Ilyich blocked it easily, casually lifting his arm so that their blades met, then forcing him back with a laugh. "Fortunate is the man in possession of something so sweet. Seeing your prince struggle was arousing, to say the least," he added, waiting for the next attack. "Now we know how to weaken little Prince Wolfram. Threaten his daughter's life and he'll submit to anything. His Majesty will surely find that to be valuable information. Perhaps he'll want your daughter, too."

"You son of a bitch!"

Yuuri charged a second time, his blood pumping furiously through his entire body, causing his extremities to tingle as his head throbbed. Even as he attacked, lashing out with more skill than he usually showed when his emotions grew too strong, Yuuri could feel something inside of himself awakening. It guided him, leading him left and right, forward and back, as his and Ilyich's swords danced together.

"My, what foul language! But these are your true colors, are they not, Your Majesty?" Ilyich crowed, seeming to take far too much enjoyment in the enmity being directed toward him. "Will he struggle with you?" he wondered, parrying an attack. "Or will he willingly open himself to you and grant you what belongs to you?"

Metal clashed against metal. Yuuri could hear each blow ring in his hears. Every sound that Morgif made punctuated each strike. The sounds from the burning village seemed far away, fading as his attention focused on one man. Even Merry's loud wails seemed to be nothing but background noise.

"Or maybe…" Ilyich trailed off momentarily, shoving Yuuri back a few steps. "Maybe you'll be the one to spread your legs for him," he theorized, his grin ever present and growing wider. "It's too bad your Chief Adviser had to come in when he did. Your reaction was amusing enough. What would it have been had you seen that someone else had used your pretty whore?"

"I told you what I'd do to you if you ever hurt him again!" Yuuri spat, chest heaving, narrowed eyes stinging with unshed tears, as the ones that had already fallen dried and reddened his face.

"Would you have me killed, gentle king? Or are you too weak to stomach it?" he asked, taunting. They stood before one another, and as Yuuri glared at him darkly, Ilyich spread his arms wide, giving him the chance, the perfect opportunity. "He's still in danger, you know."

Yuuri paused, his eyes widening, and his breath catching in his throat.

"I have other men keeping close tabs on what occurs within your castle. All it would take is a single order…"

More tears spilled out, and Yuuri had to hold his breath to contain a sob. "If you touch him, I'll-"

"He'd do anything to service his king, wouldn't he? Even pretend to love you for the sake of the kingdom?"

"What the hell do you know?!" Yuuri growled, and began the onslaught anew.

Ilyich fended him off easily, mocking him with his laughter and with the adeptness with which he deflected his blows. Yuuri's only thought was to stop him before he did any more harm to others. Greta had been terrorized, Wolfram had been abused, as Nastia lay dead underfoot, and if Ilyich got through him, Yuuri knew he would only continue his barbaric deeds. Someone had to put an end to it.

He couldn't let him execute his threats. If there really were people watching the castle, he couldn't allow Ilyich to issue any orders, and to prevent that he would have to subdue him. Rashly, he thought he should have authorized Gwendal to decide his fate when he'd been held prisoner, even if it would have ended in an execution. This wouldn't have happened if he'd only listened to his advisers. Ilyich never would have escaped, he never would have been given the chance to reunite with his men and plan something like this, all the while keeping the cloud of danger over his loved ones in the capital.

His attacks became careless. The latent aura that had been leading him up until now was still guiding his movements, and some credit could be given to Morgif as well, who seemed to know how to block and parry without much direction from Yuuri, but mistakes were easy to make against Ilyich. Before he knew it, Yuuri found himself defending more and more, forced farther back, until there was very little room for him to move. Ilyich was bearing down on him with a fierce gleam in his eye, attacking over and over, and Yuuri could only block and think nothing of countering.

With an impact that had one of his wrists snapping back with a crack, Morgif was knocked from his hands and skidded across the floor out of his reach. In the next moment, Ilyich swung out with his empty hand, catching him on the side of the head with a black gauntlet. Yuuri's vision faded as he collapsed to the floor in a clamor of heavy armor, before it slowly came back into fuzzy focus. A splitting pain filled his head, and he felt the slow slide of liquid trickle down the side of his face.

Ilyich kicked him hard in the gut with the sole of his foot, which Yuuri felt even through the protective metal. He gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs, twisting to shield himself, only to be forced onto his back as the same foot met his chest and held him down, grinding into the coat-of-arms engraved into his breastplate.

"You're already losing this war," the man told him, leering down at him before removing his foot and stepping back. "Now let's end this racket and I'll be on my way."

Slowly, keeping his eyes locked with Yuuri's the entire time, Ilyich moved back towards the cradle, where Merry remained crying.

"No," Yuuri wheezed out weakly, pushing himself up only to collapse again as his injured wrist gave out and refused to support him, splinters of pain shooting up his arm.

"I'll let you live for now, Demon King. His Majesty wouldn't be pleased if I were to kill you in his place. I don't have that right."

Ilyich made it to the cradle, lifting his sword to hold it up and point it down at the crying child. He smiled at Yuuri one last time, before quickly stabbing down.

"NO!"

But he needn't have done anything. As Ilyich thrust down, a soft red glow emitted from the cradle, deflecting the sword and preventing it from reaching its intended target. Ilyich let out a shout of surprised pain, dropping his weapon with a clatter and stumbling back, holding onto the hand that had been gripping the hilt. Even from where he lay, Yuuri could see bright welts on blistering flesh. Ilyich's hand had been burned.

"What the hell?!"

Thwarted and angered by the obstruction, the man reached out for the child without his sword, as if he intended to strangle him with his bare hands, only to be met with the same obstacle. Yuuri watched, amazed, as an obvious magical barrier formed itself around the howling baby, shocking Ilyich and causing him to back away.

It was enough for Yuuri to regain his senses. His focus sharpened, and he was able to clamber to his feet while supporting himself with his good hand, his palm flat against the wall for leverage. Once he was mobile again, he looked around for his sword, but instead of running to it he called, "Morgif!"

Morgif heeded the unspoken command and flew into his grasp. This time it was Ilyich who was caught off guard, and Ilyich who had to defend himself from Yuuri's relentless offense. He charged, his mind empty of all thought, his body thrumming with power, raw energy practically seeping from his pores, glowing blue around him. Ilyich drew his dagger, but it wasn't enough. Yuuri beat him back, hacking at him as ruthlessly as Ilyich had treated his many victims, until he crashed against the side wall.

Desperation fueled Ilyich's movements. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw the dagger coming for him, but his instincts had heightened and his reactions were quicker. Ignoring the pain in his left arm, he grabbed onto Ilyich's wrist, gripping it and twisting to have him drop the knife. At the same time he drove Morgif forward, and through a weakness in his vile black armor, the blade pierced Ilyich's torso and pushed in deep.

Yuuri's eyes widened at the same time Ilyich's did, and they looked at one another across the meager distance between them. It was Ilyich who broke the gaze, his eyes shifting down to take in his wound. Morgif stuck out of him, though Yuuri's grip on him had loosened somewhat as he slowly began to realize what he'd just done.

Ilyich chuckled, deep and dark, before looking straight at Yuuri again and smirking, a thin stream of blood oozing from the corner of his lips. Reaching out, he gripped onto the sword with one hand and Yuuri's shoulder with the other, grunting as he pulled himself forward onto the blade, close enough to whisper into Yuuri's ear.

"Glory to His Majesty Lyron Aurelius, the first of his name," he croaked, holding Yuuri in place, "by the Grace of God, King of Isidore and Conqueror of the Great Demon Kingdom." He paused, and Yuuri heard a gurgling in his ear before Ilyich coughed and spewed blood down the side of his neck. "Long live the King."

His body slumped against him. Feeling the dead weight, Yuuri released his hold on Morgif and backed away. Ilyich fell to the floor, his body landing close to the motionless heap that was Nastia Brandt.

He had little time to react. As soon as the light left his eyes, Ilyich's soul departed from his body, and Morgif, craving human life, consumed it.

"Shit!"

Yuuri jumped back as Morgif activated and an explosion of power rocked the house, blasting through part of the roof and causing some of the beams supporting it to cave in. Remembering Merry, Yuuri returned to the cradle's side and placed his body over top of it, shielding the baby from any falling debris. Whatever aura had been guarding Merry against Ilyich had faded, leaving him vulnerable and undefended, his face bright from the exertion of weeping so uncontrollably for so long.

Reaching into the cradle, Yuuri lifted him up and into his arms, holding him close as the house began to fall down around them. Peering through the wreckage and smoke as Morgif's release of energy caused the wood to burst into flames, Yuuri fought for a way out, determined to keep at least part of his promise to his injured friend, and return his son to him unharmed.

"Morgif, stop!" he shouted, lifting his wounded arm to shield his head as another beam fell close by.

The sword heard his command and ceased as quickly as it had engaged, but the damage had been done. Moving forward, Yuuri took Morgif by the hilt and pulled him from Ilyich's body, trying not to look at the corpse as he began to make his way from the room, dodging debris and burning furniture as he went.

He made it into the street before the building collapsed completely, his body wracked with harsh coughs from the smoke he'd inhaled. He took a few deep gulps of air, only to cough again as even more smoke filled his lungs from the burning village around him. Merry flailed in his arms, limbs swinging wildly as he cried. Yuuri tightened his hold to keep from dropping him, and with a shuddering breath he turned to make his way out of the town.

The battle had ended. The fires had not been put out, but he saw no more men in black. Bodies of peasants and soldiers alike filled the streets, some blackened from burns, others pale from loss of blood. Yuuri kept his eyes averted, not wanting to see or think of anything, and in his haste he ended up tripping. He fell to his knees, and barely managed to keep himself from careening forward and crushing Merry beneath him, holding the baby with one arm and using the other to catch himself, stabbing Morgif into the ground for support and hissing as pain shot up from his wrist again.

Turning to see what had caused his stumble, Yuuri choked on a scream when he caught sight of a severed hand, kicking it away from him in his fright before scrambling backwards, his armor scraping against the ground.

"Your Majesty!"

A bevy of familiar voices called through the destruction, and Yuuri forced himself to his feet once again, carrying the baby and dragging his sword along with him as he headed in the direction of the desperate calls.

He saw Gunter first, his white clothing standing out through the scene of the massacre like a beacon of light. He tried to hail him, but when he opened his mouth to shout a fit of coughing overtook his words. His tutor heard him regardless, his panicked expression changing to one of relief as he made his way over, hair disheveled and clothes bloodstained and torn.

"Your Majesty, where have you been?! I searched nearly the entire village but couldn't find you! I thought… I don't even want to speak the thoughts that crossed my mind, but-"

He was interrupted as another figure came into view, large and hulking, and Yuuri looked up into bright blue eyes set into a severe face.

"A-Adalbert!" he breathed in surprise, barely able to get his name out around his constricted airways. "Wh-What…?"

"Your husband sent me," the big blond man explained, looking a little less mussed than Gunter, but with just as much blood on his clothes. "I've been ordered to retrieve you and bring you home safely. It seems he no longer wishes for you to put yourself in danger here."

Yuuri couldn't exactly argue in his current state, and only nodded before choking on another cough.

"Yuuri!"

It was then that Conrad appeared through the smoke and flames, and Yuuri thought he would never be so happy to see anyone in his entire life. He led a group of soldiers, all of whom had their swords drawn, and some of which were leading and supporting injured comrades and civilians. Conrad came forward, and Yuuri felt the rest of his energy leave him, dropping Morgif at his side and collapsing against his godfather's chest. Conrad caught him easily, keeping both he and Merry from sliding to the ground.

Someone started shouting orders, but Yuuri's mind grew foggy and he couldn't tell who it was - Gunter, or Adalbert, or Conrad. His body seemed to be shutting down, and with the decrease in adrenaline came the full brunt of his pain. His wrist throbbed and his chest ached from being kicked, his breastplate dented inward, distorting the golden coat-of-arms. A pounding in his head reminded him of the wound at his temple, the side of his face sticky with his own blood.

Gunter carefully took Merry from him while Conrad helped him to his feet, and Yuuri grabbed hold of Morgif again as Conrad slung an arm around him to support him as they walked. Together, they headed out of the village, homes and buildings still burning behind them.

There weren't enough horses for all of them, as many of them had been slaughtered or ran from the scene in fright, so only those having difficulty walking were allowed to ride, while the rest of them ambled to the medical station on foot. Someone offered Yuuri a mount, but he refused, leaning close against Conrad's side and absorbing extra strength from his presence.

Farther away from the town, the night was cold. A frigid breeze rustled the dying grass and cooled Yuuri's overheated body. He shivered, his teeth chattering as sweat dried against his skin. It was refreshing, and helped to clear his head, but he quickly found that that was a state he didn't want his mind to be in, for with greater consciousness came the ability for thought.

"I killed him," he said in a trembling voice, feeling he full weight of the action finally settle on him.

Conrad looked at him in surprise. "Who?" he asked, keeping his own voice as soothing as possible.

Yuuri swallowed thickly, and tears were quick to fill his eyes again as the night's events replayed themselves. "Ilyich," he replied, taking a shaky breath. "I killed him."

He'd done it for the good of others - for Merry, Nastia, and Karl, for Wolfram and Greta - but it didn't make him feel accomplished, or in any way proud of his actions. He knew that with his death, Ilyich would never be able to hurt anyone he cared about again, but that didn't make the killing right. Even when he was able to scrub the grime and sweat from his body, even when his hands were back to their normal state - calloused, but free of dirt and ash - the blood would forever remain, if only in his memory.

Conrad said nothing, but Yuuri felt the arm around him tighten as he continued to lead him back to the cluster of tents. Yuuri allowed the silence, staring sightlessly ahead as the medical station grew closer.

Healers ran in every direction, and Gisela could be heard issuing orders somewhere close by. A few of the tents had been knocked over, and the dead and wounded were being separated into their respective groups. The wounded were taken into the main tent to receive treatment, and Conrad steered him in that direction. The bodies of the dead were lined up outside, to make room for the patients that could actually be saved.

It was when Yuuri saw Karl's body, pale and lifeless among them, that he finally broke.

His knees gave out beneath him mid-stride and he fell to the ground, slamming his fists into the dirt, injured wrist and all. He screamed, loud and unrestrained, as his anger finally gave way to agony. He cried openly, and with his tears fell a cold rain, as dark clouds rumbled into view.

It washed away the blood, rivers of pink that dampened and puddled the ground, but it did not purify the world, nor did it absolve him of his sins.

Yuuri shouted and cried until his throat grew raw and his body grew weak. Eventually, he lowered himself onto the muddy earth as his retainers shouted his name. He ignored them, and sobbed out his guilt and sorrow as it rained and rained and rained.

TBC…

A/N: The song the soldiers were singing earlier was a translation of the song Les Rois du Monde from the musical Romeo et Juliette. It's not completely literal, but… close enough.