Title: Of Sparrows and Princes

Author: sllebswap

Beta'd by: MelissaRose85

Characters/Pairing: Miura Haru and Belphegor

Type: OneShot Collection (InComplete)

Genre: Romance/General/Humor

Word Count: 5871

Rating: T (Contains content not suitable for children)

Disclaimer: Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn belongs to Akira-san.

Summary: TYL ficlet. Various one-shots depicting the complicated relationship between Belphegor and Haru.

Chapter Last Revised on: 13/01/13


Chapter Fifty


He was back in the castle in record time, his men scattering swiftly out of the way as he bounded up the steps with cagey, deadly grace. The journey had been a swift one thanks to the expert driving skills of his highly efficient team, but it had still taken far too long for his tastes. He had been like a ticking time bomb on the whole trip back to the headquarters, edgy and steadily working himself into a fine fury, much to the alarm of the soldiers under his command. The entire Storm Unit had heaved a collective sigh of relief when they finally arrived at their destination—none of them wanted to be in the line of fire when their leader was in such a killing mood.

His servants had been waiting nervously for his arrival, from the most senior individuals who had raised him from boyhood to the newest additions who had only began work mere months ago, most sporting varying degrees of tension, and some, even outright fear. Their apprehension was not without reason; they had dared to lose their master's Consort, had carelessly allowed her to be stolen away when they should have been more vigilant of such threats. Because of their blunder, the most important woman in their King's life, the one who would carry his future heirs and legacies—the next generation of royal blood—was now missing and could very well be in mortal peril. Were the old laws of Astonia still in effect, all of them would have been promptly sentenced for high treason and summarily executed without hesitation for their transgression against the Royal family.

As one body, the somber, grimly dismal group of working-class individuals went silently onto their knees the moment their sovereign was within sight, their heads bowed in disgrace, wordlessly pleading for forgiveness in the traditional way of their country, mentally prepared to accept whatever punishment that their master chose to mete out. There was nothing to say, no excuse to make—it was their responsibility and honor to protect the Princess Consort and they had failed, and that was all there was to the matter. They did not hold hopes that the Crown Prince would be lenient; the blonde had a notoriously narrow tolerance for incompetency, and to make matters worse, it was also no secret that he was rather fond of his wife.

The young woman's soothing presence has had an undeniably positive effect on their master—he was calmer, mellower, if that could even be used to describe him, and less inclined to be deliberately sadistic and violent when around her. It would almost appear as if he had been tamed at the hands of his mate, had become docile and more passive than he used to be—was losing his touch—but that was not the case. If anything, even though the frequency of his outbursts and temper tantrums had lessened significantly—he seemed to have developed a strange parody of patience and tolerance—the edge of his fury had simply grown sharper in compensation for his newfound sense of forbearance towards his allies. The vicious intensity of his wrath was more concentrated now that he had a focus in the form of his missing Consort, his propensity for retaliation deadlier than before because there was so much more at stake this time around.

The servants fully expected to bear the unbridled brunt of their employer's anger. Imagine their collective surprise and uneasy disbelief when he ignored them completely, moving past them quickly in swift, purposeful strides, his expression frozen in a rictus of barely restrained fury. It became quickly apparent that the silent snarl of rage on his face had not been meant for them as they had originally assumed; no, at the moment, the servants were so below Belphegor's radar for violence and destruction that they were practically nonexistent.

The Storm Prince was reserving the full force of his vehemence for the true perpetrator of this audacious crime against him, and his butler was quick enough to understand his purpose. Mortigor rose to his feet promptly and silently followed in his master's darkly agitated wake with all due haste—the middle aged man would stoically accept his punishment for his negligence later, but for now, he was still of some use to the Royal family that he had served all his life and he would give his all to be of assistance.

"Your Highness, we shut down all movement into and out of the castle the moment the alarm had been raised. The Marquise de Fronsac is still in our custody and she is in the Library right now, secure and under close guard. She has been awaiting your return, and so far, has refused to yield any information regarding the current whereabouts of Princess Haru. Commander Xanxus has been made aware of the situation but he has stated that the Varia will not be involved in the matter as this is clearly a domestic conflict of the Tsiveone household and has nothing to do with the Vongola Famiglia." Mortigor continued to report the goings on within the castle calmly and staidly, the quiet dignity in his voice simple and unwavering despite his master's murderous mood.

"We also believe that we may have determined how Her Highness was spirited out of the castle. The Persian carpets in the southern wing have been undergoing restoration works by an external source for the past few days and the vehicle transporting the fabrics was the only one that left the property in the narrow timeframe before we realized that the Princess was no longer on the castle grounds."

That quickly caught the Varia executive's attention.

Belphegor paused, his jaw ticking visibly with increasing aggravation. He turned his furious attention to Mortigor for what appeared to be the first time since his return, leveling a hard stare at his butler. "Are you trying to tell me that woman wrapped my wife in carpets and then had her carried off?"

The blonde had asked the question in a veritably upset roar. Mortigor bore the Prince's anger stoically, and did not deny the latter's assumption. "We attempted to track down the vehicle by its license number, but found it abandoned just a few miles west of the castle, Your Highness." The middle aged man paused, and then continued with quiet, bone deep shame. "I take full responsibility for failing to prevent the Princess' abduction. This would not have happened if I have been more vigilant."

Belphegor resumed walking down the hallway, his strides long and swift. "Don't talk to me right now," he growled even as he stewed in the latest information that had just been relayed to him. Galatea had some nerve, to treat his wife like that. He also did not miss the significance of the move; to remove Haru in such a manner, like one would a piece of trash, was a grave insult that only served to make him even angrier.

The blonde and his servant reached the guarded entrance of the library quickly enough, but Belphegor came to a stop just short of the doors.

"Prepare the car, Mortigor," the Storm Varia instructed tersely. "And do not allow anyone else to come in after me. Alaisdair will be arriving soon; keep him away until I'm done here."

The orders were downright ominous and did not bode well for the lone occupant within the library, but his butler merely nodded swiftly in acquiescence.

"It will be done immediately, Your Highness."

The loyal servant retreated silently.

The pair of soldiers standing sentry in front of the Library quickly made way for the Storm Unit Commander after a smart salute of acknowledgement. Belphegor pushed the doors open and strode in.

He spotted the sophisticated, svelte figure of his distant cousin immediately. The Marquise was standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back turned to him as she stared at the night scenery outside.

Like everything else Galatea did, she exuded an icy, untouchable aura that not many could pull off. The de Fronsac had always carried herself with the regal bearing befitting the Queen that she had been groomed from birth to become, indisputably a woman of great beauty and refined grace, but stiff and unyielding like most of their kind. Her attention catching, unique amethyst eyes were cold and judgmental, calculating, her fair, exquisite features hard and emotionally detached, frozen in a mask of callous disregard for anyone useless to her and her various agendas, jaded and cynical from a lifetime of manipulating the brutally materialistic noble class that was the crème de la crème of high society.

Belphegor had no interest whatsoever in admiring the other blonde's physical perfection. Whether Galatea knew it or not, they were both eerily similar to each other in terms of character, and that was why he would never marry her. Why would he settle for a cold, ruthless, female counterpart of himself when he could have someone better? Clearly, the Marquise was out of her fucking mind if she believed she could force his hand like this.

Belphegor kicked the door shut behind him, ignoring the thunderous slam the heavy wood made against its frame and how the angry sound reverberated loudly across the huge cavernous room that was the castle's library. He folded his arms across his chest and glared icily at the current bane of his existence, fully expecting the woman to face him. He didn't have to wait long.

Galatea turned around slowly at the sound of the Prince's anger, her calm, unruffled expression revealing no indication whatsoever of any unease in this situation. Perhaps she was just too stupid to perceive the danger that she was in at that moment, Belphegor thought furiously, to dare look so fucking composed after what she had done. In a smartly casual dress code and wearing a coolly nonchalant demeanor, the Marquise appeared to be the very picture of elegant serenity, a noblewoman of leisure without a care in the world. Her eyes, however, gleamed cold with vindictive pleasure at the sight of the Tsiveone Crown Prince—the arrogant male had certainly come running to her quickly enough now that she had given him a very good reason to do so.

In no great hurry, the beautiful blonde inclined her head slightly at her fellow aristocrat. "Good evening, Your Highness," she murmured evenly in greeting. "It is a beautiful night, is it not?"

Belphegor was hardly interested in exchanging pleasantries with her. "I have no time for this," he hissed out fiercely. "Where is my wife?"

Galatea didn't even blink at the soft, vicious snarl. The golden-haired woman moved sedately towards the side of the library, deliberately ignoring the question that had been posed to her. Belphegor watched her narrowly as she stopped by the antique study table, her hand movements graceful as she reached for the steeping pot of tea placed there. She poured the steaming, fragrant concoction into a pair of fine china teacups that belonged to the tea set before setting the pot back onto its tray in a soundless, practiced gesture.

"Would you like some tea, Your Highness?" she enquired mildly. She casually dropped two cubes of sugar into one of the teacups, and then used the accompanying silver teaspoon to noiselessly stir in the dissolving sugar crystals. Her nonchalant, dismissive actions only served to make the Prince even angrier than he already was. Unfortunately, the Marquise's intention to deliberately rattle the Prince's composure and drive him to a state of worry and fear for his missing mate failed to come to fruition.

Unlike most, Belphegor was not the type to give in to the crippling, useless sensations of panic and anxiety when driven into a corner. With how fond the Tsiveone Royal was of his wife, Galatea had expected that he would be upset over her sudden disappearance. However, no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy, and instead of getting to manipulate a fretful and distracted husband, she received the full, focused attention of a furious and highly dangerous one instead.

Belphegor moved towards the Marquise in swift strides, his aura forbidding and icy with tightly controlled wrath. He came to a stop right before her, and with a single sweep of his arm, the Varia executive sent the entire tea set smashing onto the ground, much to the Marquise's shock. Galatea flinched inwardly at the loud, violent crash as the priceless porcelain shattered into pieces and hot tea splattered and spilled onto the expensive hand woven carpets.

Amethyst eyes flashed with anger the moment she got over her shock, but Galatea quickly reclaimed her composure. She raised her chin slightly in challenge, staring arrogantly and fearlessly at her blonde counterpart standing a mere foot away from her, boldly ignoring the dark fury that showed on his sharp, angular features with great prominence. Faint stirrings of increasing unease trickled down her spine in the face of the assassin Prince's near palpable rage, but the Marquise still refused to back down.

Galatea folded her arms across her chest, her expression turning quietly mocking. "Is this how you treat the guests under your roof, Your Highness?"

Belphegor curled his upper lip contemptuously at his contemporary. "I will do much worse if you do not tell me what I want to know right now," he growled lowly, coldly, with warning.

For a brief moment, Galatea eyed the other blonde guardedly. At last, she shook her head slightly, a faint sneer crossing her painted lips. "I don't think that you are in any position to make demands, Your Highness," the noblewoman all but purred slyly, her stony violet gaze glittering with spite. "After all, who knows what misfortune might befall the Princess Consort as a result of your unthinking actions."

Galatea would immediately regret her brazen, foolish threat. Belphegor did not even hesitate for a moment, and before the Marquise could prepare herself for what was to come next, the Crown Prince backhanded her with enough force to send her sprawling onto the surface of the table behind. The sharp crack his hand meeting her cheek echoed loudly in the large room and pain exploded across the left side of Galatea's face. It took the stunned noblewoman long seconds to finally comprehend what had happened. He had hit her. She, who had never even been punished for anything her entire life, let alone physically assaulted. A sharp, metallic tang filled her mouth, and Galatea realized belatedly that she had bit her lip badly during the impact. A thin trail of blood trickled down her chin. Dazed with shock, the golden-haired female clutched at her reddened, throbbing cheek with her hand, her disbelieving gaze flying towards the vicious, pitiless one of her attacker.

"You hit me," Galatea breathed in an intimidated, almost incredulous tone. The apprehension within her started to increase exponentially, and for the first time in her life, Galatea experienced fear. Belphegor looked down unfeelingly at the Marquise.

"Have you returned to your senses?" he asked harshly, scathingly. "Didn't I tell you the last time I will not play your foolish games? Do you really think that you can manipulate me like those men that pant after you like lapdogs?"

"You will attack a loyal member of your royal court for a lowly commoner?" Galatea hissed then, pushing herself off the table, forcibly ignoring her instincts that were telling her to avoid further incurring the wrath of the Storm Prince before her.

"That 'lowly commoner' is my Princess Consort," Belphegor bit out in a hard tone. "You claim to be loyal, yet you have orchestrated an abduction of a member of my family. Are you sick of living, Galatea? You must think that I have grown soft, that I lost my edge because of my affection towards Haru. Perhaps you even believe that you have a chance with me. You are wrong. She is the sole exception. Harm her, and I will not hesitate to destroy you."

The Marquise stared venomously at Belphegor, made even more agitated by his callous, derisive remarks. "She is that important to you then, Belphegor?" she demanded angrily, dropping his title in the process. "You'd risk incurring the wrath of my entire clan just for her?"

The Varia Commander looked viciously at the other blonde, bringing his face right up to hers. It was all Galatea could do not to shake with fear—the sheer hostility and malevolence in Belphegor's aura was simply overwhelming in its intensity, and in his powerful presence, she could hardly breathe. This was the King of Astonia, in full rage. "I'd kill for her," he rasped ruthlessly, proving without a doubt that he meant exactly as he said, not to mention the underlying threat in his promise.

"Where is she?"

Pride and fear warred in the French noblewoman's eyes, but at last, obstinate pride won out. How dare he?! Crown Prince or not, no one treated her this way and got away with it! She was a member of the de Fronsac clan, one of the most influential families in the whole of France! She would make sure that he would regret making an enemy out of her, even if she had to use his wife to make him pay for his offences against her!

The beautiful Marquise glared icily at Belphegor, her anger blinding her from the utter danger that she was in at the moment. "I will never tell," she spat out spitefully. "If I have my way, you will never see her again."

Once more, Galatea's prideful reply would prove to be a mistake that she would quickly regret.

The Storm Prince was by no means a patient man, nor was he someone who would allow something like a conscience or even moral obligation to stop him from accomplishing his goals in any way possible. He was a brutally opportunistic opponent and would go out in full force to completely annihilate his adversaries, regardless of their age or gender, and Galatea was about to learn about that vicious part of his character the hard way. Man or woman, young or old, once identified as an enemy, Belphegor showed absolutely no mercy.

And right now, Galatea was definitely an enemy.

Belphegor snarled at the noblewoman, utterly furious. Her threat to remove his wife from him permanently quickly made something within him snap. The last vestiges of his self-control disappeared with the rush of fury that inundated him. The mad frenzy in his blood, already boiling and churning for hours on end without an appropriate outlet, simply made him even more dangerous than he already was, and without warning, Belphegor lashed out. He grabbed her wrist with hard, unyielding fingers and spun her around with a hard jerk. Viciously twisting her arm behind her, he forced her to her knees before him in one smooth, brutally effective maneuver. Galatea struggled fruitlessly and quickly attempted to free herself from the Prince's painful, bruising grip, icy fear coalescing her insides at the deadly calm, dangerous air that surrounded Belphegor, but it was too late. In swift, violent retaliation, with coldblooded intent to subdue and inflict harm, he broke her forearm.

The sharp cry of pain that escaped the Marquise quickly turned into hair raising screams of agony as the vicious Storm Varia continued to apply unrelenting pressure on the fractured limb, and beyond the pain that Belphegor was cruelly and mercilessly forcing on her, Galatea could literally feel the bone of her arm giving way to the huge force that her tormentor was putting on it, simply unable to take the stress of such callous treatment.

And through it all, Belphegor watched coldly as he made her suffer for her transgression against him, his expression ruthlessly blank, no hint of amusement or vindictive pleasure to be found on his unusually emotionless features. Through a blinding haze of pain, it quickly began to occur to Galatea that she had made a huge mistake when she had executed this plan to separate the Crown Prince from his Consort. Clearly, the Varia assassin was less than pleased by the situation and unlike the other men she knew, who drew the line at harming a physically defenseless woman, Belphegor was of another breed altogether, and like a true Tsiveone Royal, he had no qualms whatsoever retaliating in kind against any and all who had done him injustice.

Belatedly, Galatea finally realized the ugly truth about the man she had been groomed from birth to marry—that under his refined, sophisticated veneer, hid a mad, ferociously dangerous animal that did not take kindly to any threats towards those that he had claimed as his, and, most especially, the woman whom he had chosen to bind himself to. He would not allow anyone to come between himself and his mate, and now, for daring to attempt just that, Galatea was paying the price for her folly.

It was becoming very apparent now, that when forced to defend his Consort, Belphegor quickly became a merciless force of nature, his already alarming propensity for violence and bloodshed increasing exponentially to maliciously cause massive pain and suffering to those who tried to harm her.

At that moment of realization, the Marquise started to fear for her life.

It felt like an eternity to the terrified de Fronsac before the excruciating pressure on her injured arm slowly abated, and by then her face had gone bone white from the pain, her pupils dilated and glazed from a combination of shock and agony. Her composure was completely shattered, and the previously proud, elegant woman shook uncontrollably like a leaf, on her knees before the future King of Astonia, completely humiliated before the cold, unfeeling eyes of the Tsiveone monarch.

For all her empty boasts that she would not be easily intimidated by him, she had still broken easily in the end, her resolve easily ripped to shreds by a mere hint of the sheer cruelty that he was capable of. Belphegor let go of her arm promptly, disgusted by the notion of touching her any more than he needed to.

"Tell me what I want to know, or the next thing I break will be your neck," he told her in a lethally calm, barely audible tone. It was a promise, and he had already demonstrated as much that he would carry it through if she gave him the reason to do so. Against her will, Galatea's breath hitched with alarm, and when she finally refocused her gaze on him, her violet eyes showed genuine fear.

One thing was for certain—the Marquise's opinion of the Crown Prince would be irrevocably changed by the time this evening was through.

With a voice that refused to stop trembling with pain and stress no matter how she willed it, the noblewoman quickly yielded the information Belphegor sought, and once she told him all he needed to know, the Storm Varia turned and strode away from the frightened, quivering mess that was the formerly proud and arrogant Marquise de Fronsac. Before Belphegor exited the library, he left only this parting advice to his lesser contemporary.

"Know your place, Galatea de Fronsac," he spoke coldly.

Galatea could only bow her head in defeat, clutching her broken arm to her body, all the while knowing how lucky she was to still be alive.

"…Y- yes, Your Highness."


Belphegor walked out of the library and promptly ran into a harried-looking Alaisdair, or at least as harried-looking at the well-kept man allowed himself to appear. The dark-haired aristocrat had barely brushed off an extremely persistent Mortigor just mere minutes ago and had hurried over the very moment he managed to shake the dogged butler. The stoic manservant had done exactly as his master had instructed, heading off the Archduke for as long as he could and keeping him away from the library until the very last minute, much to Alaisdair's displeasure.

The nobleman took one good look at the icy, forbidding features of his silently seething cousin and was downright reluctant to stick his head into the library to survey the ugly mess that the younger man had no doubt left behind in the aftermath of his wrath-induced rampage. Belphegor was seldom angered to the extent of turning cold with rage—he liked to throw tantrums and give in to quick, short, bouts of temper outbursts, yes—but on the rare occasions that he got furious enough for ice to flow through his veins, the results were horrifying to witness. As such, judging by the volatile, hair trigger mood that the Crown Prince was in now, Alaisdair had a sinking feeling that he was going to be up all night running damage control for whatever the blonde had just done.

"Please tell me that the Marquise is still alive in there," Alaisdair asked of his furious cousin by way of greeting. "Or failing that, at least say you have located Haru by now."

Belphegor scowled back at the dark-haired man, the grip of his arctic rage receding slightly. He still had to fight to keep the unstable fury within him from lashing out inappropriately, the simmering anger in him impatiently lying in wait for the smallest reason, the merest excuse, to shatter the dam of his control once again and paint his surroundings red with the blood of his enemies.

"The woman's alive, but only because she's more useful that way for now," Belphegor growled out. "Keep her here until I can get to Haru and verify that she is safe. If I find out that Galatea has lied, then you'd better grab her and run, for I will hunt that faithless bitch down and really kill her this time." The blonde's tone was deadly serious, and Alaisdair eyed his cousin warily. There was no doubt that after this entire fiasco, Belphegor would barely even stand being in the presence of any de Fronsac, let alone desire to be related to them through a marriage of convenience. This latest plan that the House of Nobles had cooked up was clearly a bust as far as Belphegor was concerned.

"Of course, Belphegor," the Archduke agreed to the Prince's demands. "We will hold her until it has been confirmed that Haru is safe and sound." The possession of the Marquise de Fronsac would serve as a secondary protection for Haru, a powerful bartering chip in exchange for her safe return should Galatea's family prove to be deliberately difficult to reason with, not that Belphegor was planning to be speaking much. No, at the moment, he was so fucking agitated that he fully planned to let his blades and Storm Flame do all the talking for him when he arrived at the family villa of the de Fronsac clan.

That entire House was going to learn to regret crossing him, that was for sure.

Alaisdair reached into his coat pocket then and withdrew something from within its confines. He swiftly tossed it at Belphegor, who reflexively snatched the object out of midair, having immediately recognized the subtle glimmer of platinum and diamonds—it was the ring that he had specially commissioned for Haru. The blonde tucked the jewelry away, keeping it safe until he could return it to its rightful mistress later. Without another word, Belphegor sidestepped his cousin and advanced down the hallway in long, rapid strides. The Archduke watched the younger man disappear out of sight and silently wished the latter luck in the successful retrieval of his abducted wife.

Then, Alaisdair mentally prepared himself to deal with the chaos that he would no doubt find in the next room. Steeling himself, the Archduke nodded at the Varia soldiers standing at attention by the entrance of the Library, allowing them to open the doors for him to enter. He walked in and spotted the Marquise almost immediately. The usually proud and coolly composed woman was sitting crumpled on the floor by a shattered tea set, holding her arm protectively to herself and…trembling helplessly.

Whatever Belphegor had done to the French noblewoman had left a lasting impression on her, one that had reduced the regally self-possessed and beautiful female into a weakened and frightened shadow of herself. Not that Belphegor could be blamed, really. The de Fronsac had made the fatal mistake of provoking their Crown Prince by jeopardizing the safety of his favored Princess Consort, and of course the angered blonde would forcefully retaliate in kind.

Alaisdair moved towards the Marquise slowly, showing that he meant no harm to the woman. The golden-haired woman lifted her gaze to him the moment she sensed his movements and watched his approach with wariness in her dark violet eyes. He could see pain and bitter resentment in her unsteady, shamed gaze, and paying attention to the ginger way she was holding her arm as well as her bruised cheek and the drying trickle of blood on her chin, could already more or less guess at the events that had transpired prior to his arrival.

Alaisdair came to a stop before the fallen Marquise, his gaze neutral as he observed her for a brief moment. Then, the handsome, dark-haired male extended his hand towards her.

"Come, Lady Galatea, you require medical assistance." There was no condemnation to be heard in his tone, nor was there any censure to be seen in his eyes, and his calm, impartial treatment was a welcome change from the utter antipathy and contempt that the Prince he served had shown her earlier.

Truthfully, Galatea was still reeling from the realization that she had brought this entire unpleasant situation upon herself—and she knew that it was not over yet. The repercussions of her actions would definitely affect the name of her family as well as the people around her, just like powerful ripples cascading across the still waters of a pond surface, and knowing Prince Belphegor and his merciless penchant for retribution, it was going to be an ugly fallout. But at least she now knew the undisputed truth when it came to the Crown Prince of Astonia, and it was one that she was unlikely to forget for as long as she lived, and would always take care to factor in when dealing with the Tsiveone Royal in the future.

The Marquise now understood just why it was unwise to cross Belphegor, and at the same time, that she had never stood a chance with him even from the very beginning.

Only someone with the willingness and capability to wholly love and accept the Crown Prince for all that he was could hope to calm the unstable, violent wildness within him, made so much more potent and deadly through generations of careful, selective breeding. For all her faults and inadequacies, the Princess Consort was obviously that someone; closely bonded to her husband, patient and genuinely accepting of his deliberately antagonistic temperament and offensive character, so much so that it was startlingly clear that her affections lay solely with him. It was the type of pure devotion and loyalty borne out of a powerful sense of love that Galatea had never experienced for herself before, let alone offer to anyone else. Besides, after this evening, it was just not possible for her to even attempt to emulate the mildest feeling of fondness towards the utterly ruthless, pitiless Prince Belphegor.

Galatea flinched inwardly at the memory. She still had not stopped trembling from the fear that had gripped hold of her entire being earlier, humiliated that she could not seem to recover herself, to easily shrug off that feeling of terror when she had glimpsed the complete apathy on the face of the Astonian royal as he broke her arm and hurt her, that he would not care if she live or died—that he would kill her if she gave him the smallest excuse to do so. She had been judged and weighed before the cold eyes of the future King of Astonia, and evidently, she was found lacking, worth nothing to him at all.

The instinctive rush of anger as well as the raw affront to her wounded pride made something within the beautiful noblewoman stir with agitation, reawakening a familiar thirst for revenge, to make the Prince pay for his dismissal of her, but the Marquise closed her eyes briefly and willed away her agitation. Never let it be said that Galatea de Fronsac could not learn from her mistakes, especially now that she had been taught this invaluable lesson—if she dared try to attract Belphegor's attention once more, she just might not live long enough to see the results of her folly.

Besides, it was rather obvious by now that the Prince must be very much in love with his Consort, to react with such rage and ferocity on her behalf. Galatea really had no business intruding in the first place and had paid for her mistake and arrogance.

The beautiful aristocrat opened her eyes and saw that Archduke Rousseau still had his hand extended towards her, his expression betraying none of his thoughts at finding her, a Marquise, in such a disgraceful position, and merely waited patiently for her to compose herself and accept his aid.

The golden-haired noblewoman squared her shoulders and lifted her chin slightly then, her spine stiffening as she fixed her unbecoming posture in automatic reaction, the dazed vulnerability in her eyes disappearing quickly as she pulled herself together visibly. Completely concealing her thoughts as well as all signs of physical discomfort from her expression, she also forcibly quelled her unease, retaking control of herself and willing her body to stop that disgraceful trembling. Like a favorite piece of jewelry, the Marquise slipped on a regally serene expression once more, and despite the reddened, swelling bruise on her cheek as well as the blood on her mouth and chin, exuded an elegant, tranquil air, as if she had been doing nothing more strenuous than some light reading in the library.

Slowly, Galatea raised her uninjured hand and placed it placidly on the tall, dark-haired male's. Strong fingers enclosed around hers, and his grip was firm and matter-of-fact as he helped her to stand. He let her go when he had ascertained that she was steady on her feet, maintaining a proper distance from his fellow aristocrat.

"Thank you, Archduke Rousseau," the beautiful blonde murmured passively, and Alaisdair merely nodded impartially.

"You are welcome, Lady Galatea. You are to remain on Varia territory for now, but fortunately, there is a medical ward attached to this castle. Follow me; the medical professionals will tend to your injuries."

It was no coincidence that the Archduke was making no mention whatsoever of her less than bright idea of kidnapping the Princess Consort. As official steward and retainer of the Astonian monarchy, not to mention the next legitimate heir in line to the throne after Belphegor, the man was well within his rights to comment on her treacherous behavior, but he did no such thing. Galatea was surprised by his restraint—and grateful for the small reprieve.

The rest of the journey to the ward was made in silence.


::owari::


Questions That I Would Like To Answer Before You Ask:

As promised, here is the next chapter! I hoped you dear readers enjoyed it. Also, thank you all very much for the warm welcome; I'm really very happy to be back!

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Hmm, I'm not sure if any of you would agree with me, but I do believe that Belphegor is the type who would not hesitate to attack his target regardless of gender or age as long as his goals are fulfilled in the end. He is an assassin by trade, after all, and if he can kill people very easily, I doubt it would bother him very much to smack around an arrogant and obnoxious woman who just kidnapped his wife, female or not.

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To answer a question posed by a reviewer, Bel-kun, Haru's weapon box Sun Flame Sparrow hawk, is unfortunately back at the Varia Castle and oblivious to its mistress' kidnapping. This is because the Sparrow hawk, although technically a box weapon, has not returned to its box form since being first released by Haru and is independent of the holding box since it is able to take in physical sustenance from the material world and not just its mistress' Flame. As such, when Haru was taken, Bel-kun was not within her proximity at the time and therefore unable to render its aid.

Hope that explains Bel-kun's absence in this situation!

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Your reviews make me update faster; so please leave a comment if you like this fic!

-sllebswap