x
A Castle of Silence and Bones
x
x-x
x
019.
it tells of how even heaven
(the need for stifled conversation kills itself)
He is eighteen years old, on the month, day, and minute, when the first of many Hime Matsuri - The Princess Festival - comes to pass. It is right on his birthday, a result of a snap of fingers at the dinner a month prior; why not celebrate the birth of the crown prince, as well as the ever-so-timely death of his mother? The adoring public (the crowds who would so willingly throw their lives away for his holy imperial blood) would enjoy it just as well.
Asahiko knows his father as well as he knows his country; that is: not at all. his existence has been sheltered to the point of isolation, and he knows, for the maids have told him time and again, that in another time and place, he would have merely been the bastard son. Never the crown prince.
It is with a maddening sort of calmness, he later reflects, that he orders those servants to be ripped apart, limb-by-limb. Those experiments - the one's on his mother's people (no - no - she was not his mother, therefore, they are not his people) have been testing the limits of the human body... and, by extension, of the human mind.
For all the things he does not know, he knows much, much more than they - his 'dearest' father, those 'wonderful' advisors, and of course, the ever-so-trustworthy Kiku-sama - would like him to know.
His 'father' is a puppet with so many strings he can hardly be manuevered anymore; the military used to have quite the bit of dissention - and then they simply executed all suspected protestors (and now the army runs once more like a well-greased machine); Kiku-sama, and Yao-hime (he has long since guessed, from those wayward glances, that the other was the true reason for the Hime Matsuri) cannot die.
The last fact, he knows - not from hissed whispers, or the reading of the council scrolls, but rather, by personal experimentation. In a month's worth of time, as a result of their shared wing and shared meals, he had fed the two of them enough cyanide to fall half the army, and still - neither of them seemed to have any symptoms at all.
Immortality - forever, eternity, and the subsequent black-and-green morality of immortals - troubles him, particularly the idea of immortality with Yao-hime. And he is eighteen years old and the council is choosing for him a bride, and by the whispers of it, it seems that they wish to dilute Tennou-sama's blood even further, by having him wed a Chinese bride.
Nothing is eternal - no one and nobody; empires will fall, sink to their knees, perhaps even so far as the sea, this he has not learned from tutor after tutor; they all sing of the millenia of Japanese domination - none of them believe there is an end to the prosperity.
Asahiko is eighteen years old, with - apparently - royal blood in his veins, standing in front of the Japanese people, in an upper balcony of the Imperial Palace, side-by-side with his father (who cannot wait to leave this ceremony and visit his true wife and children) who are waving banners and flags; celebrating his birth - celebrating his mother's death, celebrating the prescence of princess that they cannot see.
And through it all, he thinks of eternity and tears - of all the lists of women who will be paraded in front of him (in front of the council - in front of the military-run council) until one will be selected. And he hopes against hope, in the face of eternity and immortality itself, that the council will somehow choose Yao as his bride.
Like that - he knows - that despite his apparent maturity, he is still a child through and through.
x
"I do not understand why it was necessary for the two of us to go outside at all," Yao notes with an arch of an eyebrow, reclining against the well-padded chair, as Kiku sits himself down in an identical chair a few feet away.
Today is the inaugural Hime Matsuri, the Princess Festival, as Kiku has told him, kissing his fingertips and plucking blossom petals from his hair. There are floats with the parades, little masks for the girls, and child-sized guns for the boys. There is absolute prosperity in Japan, was is evident in the constant gleam in Kiku's eyes. And, as one of the original dependents (upon Japan, that is) - there is some vague prosperity in what was once called China.
"I made this festival for you," Kiku replies simply, as Yao purses his lips, immediately taking note of the 'I'; as if Kiku were the ruler (though, in terms of consolidated power, he is the one person whom the council will listen to). "Your attendance was not for your people to see you - it was for you to see your people." For every 'your', Yao has learned to hold back his flinch - but it makes his stomach wrench with each stressed repetition.
Kiku smiles, in what would be an indulgent manner (but there is still that ever-present spark of hate), before reaching over to gently caress Yao's cheek with a fully-gloved hand. Yao takes care to not clutch at the armrest of his chair; that would give him away - give away his disgust.
(This is your brother - he killed your brother - you have to kill him; this was your brother - he killed - you have to kill too.)
"Never forget," Kiku murmurs, getting up entirely, before kneeling to lean his head on Yao's kimono, "Never forgive." He has a rather wicked smile on his face, as he looks up to Yao (Yao-hime, Yao's mind derisively adds) and it takes Yao a moment to realize that Kiku is speaking to him. "Remember Im-Yong Soo, and WanRong-hime."
Images flash in front of Yao's eyes - memories that he has not forgotten (never, never, never).
"And then," Kiku continues, as Yao averts his golden, golden eyes (Kiku's are too - too dark - for him), "then you will always remember me," and his grin could be almost lopsided - tantalizing and painful, if not entirely nostalgic (and Yao forces himself to stop thinking of Nihon, to stop thinking of the little boy Kiku will never be again), preening up to brush his forehead against Yao's dry lips.
"I only love him because of you," Yao responds, because he knows the memory of him - writhing and wanton and calling out Asahiko's name - is still fresh in the other's mind. There is some shred of truth in that statement, and Kiku laughs, a bitter unknowing parody of Ludwig. "I..." it will be four thousand years soon, and he has known Kiku for half of that, and still, Yao thinks there to be a happy ending, "I see the old you in him," he tries - strives towards.
"There is no 'old me'; I've always been like this," Kiku soberly retorts, and edge of envy and anger in his voice that Yao is all-too-used to hearing. "And besides, you love him because he is the child of your last Empress."
"Release me," Yao tries - but this is the first of a long line of lies he will be telling (revenge is sweet; he may have once loved Kiku, as close to a brother as possible, but there is no more time for sweetness; for weakness). "You will never be able to keep the world, so why do you even try?" And even now, Kiku's tongue is foreign, distasteful, on his own - and with each word, he reminds himself to stay on-target.
(He has been passive for too many decades.)
"No," Kiku mumbles, burying his head in Yao's lap; his fingers clutching tightly onto the elder's robe. "Nii-sama, Nii-sama," Kiku's voice is strained - almost pleading, though the words are spoken as if part of a nursery rhyme, "I've loved you for so long, and now I finally have you - will you not stay?" It is the cry of a child - of the child Yao would like to think Asahiko-kun to be (he should know better now; he still does not want to know).
"No one will ever own China," Yao simply replies, as Kiku rises easily to his feet - the insanity and anger that came as a result of his new status as a worldly superpower visibly rising in his black eyes. His hands itch to strangle, but they satisfy their lust for blood in Yao's whispers of hate, hate, hate.
"Hate me, hate me, hate me," Kiku repeats, again and again, fingers clenching, clutching - and this time, eyes fully open, lip curled back (although he still sweaty and twitching), Yao comes, hissing Kiku's name - the right name, nails digging into Kiku's shoulder's, mouth savoring Kiku's blood. This will not be the first time, Yao instinctively knows - but the end is near.
And so, the night of the first Hime Matsuri ends, dappled with tears and blood.
(It's a promise; you must keep it - bring about their fall.)
x-x