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A Castle of Silence and Bones

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017.
this is a story of good-bye
(time and again takes us by surprise)

"The Republic of Deustchland gives his most cordial greetings to the Empire of Japan," Ludwig states, bowing deeply as Kiku welcomes him into the newly-refurbished imperial palace. Yao sits, swathed in robes upon robes (today the maids have chosen a curlique of roses and thorns for the sake of a European gesture), playing with the heir apparent.

The two of them playing some child's game with a ball and string, to which Ludwig stiffly nods.

"It is nice," he begins, as the two of them sit themselves down in chairs a room away, "To see your nation in prosperity," he grins - a mix of malevolence and pride - at the German-engineered arches and ceilings and sanitation. "Mein Führer..." he starts, then licks his lips, and starts anew, "My leader enjoys seeing children at play too."

"Shall we proceed accordingly, Ludwig-san?" Kiku seamlessly interrupts, forcefully changing the topic. Ludwig looks startled for a moment; Kiku wonders if, perhaps, he had been lost in the train of thought about his brother, before shaking his head - shaking himself out of an apparent reverie.

"Of course," is the solemn reply, as Ludwig unfurls the sixteen-odd sheets of layman's paper, all embedded with rows upon rows of designs. Designs of military marches and solemnly-lined barracks; a gun that can take a plane down from the sky, without a need for human aim; an improved method of disposing of corpses, for the streets are starting to smell.

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"Who is that man?" Asahiko tonelessly asks, five years old and completely aware of the world at his fingertips. Yao blinks, because it does not seem - he cannot remember - that time has passed so fast. His fingers fiddle with the ball and string, wondering why the future Emperor can still delight in such a simple toy, especially at such a late age.

"He is..." a pause, because that is Ludwig, but he is no longer a friend, "an ally," Yao concludes, listlessly passing the string through his fingers, like Kiku had done time and again to his hair (it's even longer now; almost to his elbows).

"He's a foreigner," the child notes, with mature vocabulary and tasteful choice of sentence structure. His tutors have been up in arms, Yao vaguely recalls, because he says he has no need for them. Asahiko returns to playing with the string and ball, taking both out of Yao's hands. There was a time; there was a lady - a boy, bleeding on the floor, and the name of an empress he cannot remember.

"Asahiko-kun," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to the boy's, hoping against hope that by some string of genetics, some twisted string of fate, the child will - "Asahiko-kun," Yao repeats, "Do you know how to speak my tongue?"

A beat, setting it out in stone, a quiet whisper in the afternoon silence, as Ludwig and Kiku discuss the most efficient temperature for cremating bodies. The heir to the empire's throne (but, not, the heir to the emperor's throne) closes his eyes for a second, and then opens them again, before leaning his head back so that their foreheads are no longer touching.

"Yes I can," Asahiko replies, in Kiku's tongue, and Yao knows his spirits are about to come crashing - and still lets them be held high, as the other continues with, "for the tongue of Yao-hime is that of Kiku-sama."

And for a split second, there's a look of utmost pain on Yao's face - as if someone had just slapped him - before it flashes out.

And in response to that facial expression, Asahiko's face contorts as well: a quick quirk upwards of his lips, mockingly familiar to Yao's earlier smiles. Yao is too lost in broken dreams to notice.

"...hime?" Yao repeats - the word for 'princess' in Kiku-sama's tongue; uncertainty and staggering disillusionment, clouding his eyes. "But I am..." he tries, as Asahiko gently, almost sweetly, rips the piece of string in two, soundly crushing the glass ball underneath his five-year-old feet. "I am not..." Yao tries again, as he looks to his hands, looks to his arms.

They are pale, slender, and for the occasion of Ludwig visiting, the maids have decided to apply varnish - but only in the lightest tint of pink - on his nails. The insides of them are scraped clean, a striking contrast to the long-ago days (that he can - just barely - still remember) when he was a farmer, working the fields. But then, farmer's arms are not always enrobed in layers of kimonos; farmer's arms are not so uselessly weak.

"Yes you are," Asahiko easily says, needing to stand on tip-toes, even while Yao is sitting, in order to plant a soft kiss on Yao's cheek, "Yao-hime is the world to Kiku-sama," he continues, "But..." and entirely unexperienced hands (and maybe, Yao numbly thinks, Asahiko is actually seven, eight, or nine?) play with a lock of long, black hair, "I want more than the world."

x

These meetings - however few they may be nowadays, as the war is nearing its end, and there is, really, only America and Canada - only Alfred and Matthew - standing. Ludwig reaches forth his hand, shaking with Kiku, as they roll up their plans of future constructions. And through their dull, emotionless mutters and statements, the scene is oddly... silent.

Where is Feliciano? - Kiku refuses to ask.

"They will fall soon enough," is what he says instead; Kiku has never been one for empty consolation, and this is as close to a promise as he'll ever make. Ludwig nods, solemn as usual, casting a glance across the room, into the adjacent one, and Kiku follows his gaze. Yao sits alone, poised and disheveled all the same.

"He has left to visit his Pope," Ludwig says, in a manner of response, a curl of derision and disgust making his way around his sharp features. Kiku raises an eyebrow, reverting his attention to Ludwig, and the door, once more. "Opium of the masses, indeed," Ludwig mutters, as Kiku is the one bowing this time around, holding open the door and silently saluting as Ludwig makes his way to the chaffeured vehicle.

"Yao," Kiku whispers, after he has closed the door on Ludwig, entering the de facto playroom (if one were able to exist in the Imperial Palace), completely void of any toys. "Yao-hime," Kiku calls, twistng and twirling some heavy strand of hair. Yao jerks away - eyes wide, posture stiff, stiff, stiff. It's not so much as anger, as it is bemusement and despair, that Kiku sees in the other's eyes.

Golden, golden - not at all like anyone else he's ever known to live - eyes.

(One glance; one touch, it's in Yao's every move and breathe and thought and word; and like that, Kiku wants.)

"Wo hai pa," Yao confides; the first time in a long time Kiku has heard him speak in his own tongue (no, no, his tongue is yours - he has no tongue to call his own), and Kiku needs to strain, not only to hear the words, but to comprehend them as well. I am scared; of what, Kiku does not know, does not care to ask.

"Kimi wa utsukushii," Kiku replies; you are beautiful - the antithesis of a response, as Yao's hands clutch tightly at his shoulders, shaking and quaking in silent sobs. But his statement still rings true, even in the eternal melancholy Yao seems to have lost himself in. Time and again, Kiku finds himself thinking - over and over - that Yao is everything in the world for him.

And still - Kiku knows this fact even better - the world will never be enough. Yao's sobs (for a later day? for a past land? for a lost tongue?) slowly subside as he places the other on one of the lower-level mattresses. The emperor has not been seen in weeks, but that is because Tennou-sama refuses to be anywhere near his heir. But it will work - it will work, it will work, it will succeed, Kiku whispers to a still-awake, still-shivering Yao.

And he aches with want - but he has his world, all for the taking, all for his taking - and so, he leaves the room - the world, without taking anything at all.

(The world will never be enough, for that is the nature of want.)

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