Chapter Text
Master Minami Kenjirou, squire to Lord Katsuki Yuuri of Yashima
The air on the field is still and heavy, as if the last gasps of the Yashima dead hover among the living, whispering shame, shame, shame. What is left of the army is assembled here, in full armor, their weapons cast down in piles on the dirt. Even with no wind, it is bitterly cold, an ill omen for the time of year.
A shudder passes through the ranks as their Emperor, descended from the Sun herself, drops into a bow. The Tsar, across from him, does not smile, but Kenjirou sees the smirks of his men. They are fresh, uninjured, newly arrived from some far-flung region of the Rus’ Empire; many had not even participated in the battles these past weeks. Any well-meaning Yashima soldier who cried out in defense of their Emperor would be easily cut down.
Beside the Tsar, Kenjirou catches a glimpse of infamous silver hair, but not the face beneath it. He doesn’t have a good view of the proceedings; Katsuki-san is a lesser lord (though not by courage, or skill, only birth!) and as such placed far away from the Emperor. Katsuki-san stares straight ahead, expression blank, hands deliberately relaxed. Kenjirou can only wish for such composure.
After the Tsar speaks, he waits patiently for the translator to shout his meaning across the crowd. His words are like snakes, bitter crawling things that do nothing to alleviate the horror of the situation. Yashima will become a province of Rus. The Emperor—unstated, but they all know—will return home and take his own life in penance. Some minister from Rus’ will be appointed to guide their new wayward child.
“Although it is with great sorrow we have fought and killed our brethren, we know that it is only in the service of bringing our nations together in strength. A single piece of straw is weak and yielding; a sheaf bound together is strong. Let this day be an occasion of joy, therefore, since our brave cousins have come to join us under the flag of the great Empire of Rus’.”
Kenjirou splutters, a whine escaping his mouth. Joy!? He bares his teeth at the Yashima translator, who looks about as sick as Kenjirou feels.
“In celebration of our joining, and as a show of penance on your behalf, we will as tradition dictates select one of your warriors to enter our court. Although they will know suffering, in order to understand our suffering, they will emerge from their experience into a life of pleasure and luxury, an honored consort of one of our warriors and a member of our family.”
He’s heard of this, vaguely, in lewd whispers around campfires. Some high-ranking Rus’ soldier will make their choice, usually from among the royal family. The sacrifice will be taken, brutalized until their will is broken, and given to the soldier as a submissive slave. Technically married but hardly a spouse. The Rus’ court, they say, is crawling with jewel-festooned captives, former proud princes and princesses reduced to mere decorations.
The Emperor has three children, two of which are here today. Kenjirou shudders to think that the mild-mannered Prince or courageous Princess will soon be an abject whore.
“In recognition that the land of Yashima has proven to be honorable foes and shall be even greater allies to our court, my own son, the Tsesarevich, will choose a consort today.”
At that, even Katsuki-san tenses and looks up. The Tsesarevich steps forward, and Kenjirou can see him properly now; his cold blue eyes and thin lips are set in a smirk, and his hair is the unnatural silver of an old man. He is beautiful, Kenjirou supposes, but he looks cruel. He sweeps his gaze over the Yashima, then turns to his father and nods.
“Your choice?” The Tsar sounds almost benevolent.
The Tsesarevich smiles, a practiced thing. Kenjirou can’t hear—no, can't believe—his next words over the sudden buzzing in his ears. His stomach drops out in horror as the people around Katsuki-san melt away. He, and Kenjirou beside him, are left exposed and alone on the field. Katsuki-san’s eyes are wide, lips faintly open as if to say something. He stands frozen, still.
The Emperor’s expression does not change, but his attendants look surprised, then horribly relieved. A swell of muttering and whispering gathers, then drops abruptly as the Emperor raises a hand. “Katsuki Yuuri,” he calls out, and Katsuki-san walks forward like a marionette, stiffly. Kenjirou scuttles behind him. He will not leave his lord.
There is a marked difference in the two armies as they pass by. To their left, the Rus’ people whistle and titter. To their right, the Yashima silently bow.
When he reaches the Emperor, Katsuki-san ignores the Tsar and his son. Instead, he prostrates himself before the Emperor, and, looking at his feet, asks, “What is your will, Your Imperial Majesty?”
Kenjirou drops to his knees as well, of course, but shivers under the gazes of the Emperor and the Tsar.
“Divest yourself of your armor and livery. You are to be engaged to the Tsesarevich.” The Emperor hesitates for a long moment, then brings his finger to Katsuki-san’s chin and raises it. “Go, my son, with all our hearts behind you.”
It is Kenjirou’s duty to assist his lord in this, and he does, shaking. It is the last time he ever will. Thin straps of leather holding the armor together fall away, and the panels fall to the ground. When the armor is gone, Katsuki-san stands in Hasetsu blue, and Kenjirou helps him take that off, too. Relative to the royal family, his raiment is simple. It doesn’t take long before he is dressed only in his plain white undershirt and pants, practically naked by the standards of society. He stands unaffected by the cold, holding himself as if it were a warm summer's day.
Kenjirou is crying. “I’ll go with you, my lord,” he whispers as he pats Katsuki-san down, pretending there is something left to do. “I’ll never leave you—“
“Minami-kun,” Katsuki-san turns to him, grips him by the hand. His eyes are wet, but his voice does not shake. “Minami-kun, you will go home.” He looks at their linked hands meaningfully. "To Mari."
His hand slips away from Kenjirou's when two burly soldiers drag him back towards the Rus’ by his shoulders. The Tsar and Tsesarevich watch impassively as he's manhandled, putting up no resistance. The soldiers produce iron cuffs, locking them around his wrists. He flinches, and it is only then that his eyes widen, betraying shock and fear.
They lead him away. Kenjirou watches until the proud form of his retreating back is swallowed up in the red and white sea of the Rus' army. He clutches at the necklace Katsuki-san had slipped him, opening his hand as he turns it to see the plain gold band looped around a simple chain.
Lady Katsuki Mari, eldest child of the Katsuki family and heir to the Hasetsu domains
The formal kimono is heavy and itchy. It’s an expensive thing, with carefully embroidered flowers on the long sleeves. When the Katsuki family was brought to the Imperial palace, their own formalwear was deemed inappropriate; too rural, too cheap. Instead, they were outfitted in clothing the likes of which the royal family might have worn.
“You are like family to us,” the new Empress had said, her eyes tired. “We will not show weakness in the Rus’ court.”
Mari would very much like to tear the damn thing off, and while she’s at it, tear the smiles off the Rus’ faces. That wouldn’t be showing weakness, right?
They’re seated in a circular auditorium, quite small; only a few hundred people, mostly nobles of the Rus’ and their allies, fit in the space. The Tsar is seated across from the Yashima delegation. Beside him are his children, most notably the Tsesarevich. His silver hair falls boyishly in his eyes; his chin is on one hand, and he seems lost in thought.
Mari hates him.
Instead of this rich garment, she should be wearing plain black, preparing for a funeral. Perhaps it would be better if she were. When Minami Kenjirou had come to Hasetsu, his eyes rimmed red with tears, they had thought Yuuri dead; she will never forget her normally quite composed mother’s scream when they’d heard the truth.
Here, they will witness the traditional ritual, taking place over days, that the intended consorts go through; then, at the end, what she is sure will be a mockery of a wedding. His family will go home, and Yuuri will stay here, a pretty trophy to hang on the Tsesarevich’s arm. Mari has seen others of the type already; near the Tsar sits the Duchess Mila Babicheva, with her wife (hah!) the Lady Sara. Formerly of the Republic of Campania, now Sara Crispino leans on Babicheva and looks up at her adoringly. Rumor was they had once been friends, before the war. Babicheva clearly had held little regard for their friendship when she'd made her choice.
Sara had been a great warrior, once. When she was chosen, as Mari has heard, her brother went berserk, attacking the Rus’ guards indiscriminately. He was nearly killed for it. Only by her begging and pleading and promises of utter submission was his life spared. Perhaps if Mari were braver she would do the same as Michele, but here she sits, silent.
Down in the center of the auditorium is a small round stage, covered in straw and brambles, surrounded by flickering magelights. A structure stands in the middle, two posts and a beam across with chains hanging from the top. The lights in the rest of the auditorium go down, so that just that little stage is illuminated. The audience quiets. Beside her, her mother is stock still, and her father looks down at his feet.
The procession is silent. First, a man in white ceremonial regalia, then another all in black. Two medic-mages. Then four guards, surrounding a pale, small figure. Yuuri’s head is held high, but he shuffles his bare feet, and he wavers on the steps leading up to the stage. A short white skirt is the only thing that protects his modesty. He is gaunt, skinny; Yuuri, who always put weight on easily, just like their mother.
He winces with each step across the stage, brambles scratching at his feet and legs. Halfway to the structure, he stumbles, and Mari’s mother draws in a quick breath. Her father is already not watching, and he closes his eyes.
They raise Yuuri's arms and shackle him; it is a little too high, so that he must stay on his tiptoes or else put all his weight on his arms. He is set up to be facing the Tsar, away from his family. He doesn’t look around. He must not be able to see very much anyway; it’s unlikely they bothered to cast the temporary spells to sharpen his eyesight, and she knows he doesn’t have his glasses.
We’re here, Yuuri, she thinks as loudly as she can, stay strong.
The man in white speaks, his voice booming through the space. The auditorium is equipped with translation spells; what Mari hears doesn’t match his mouth, but his meaning. “The first price of the war has been paid,” he declaims. “For each month of battle, that took food out of our people’s mouths and their sons and daughters from the field, a day without sustenance. This complete, we begin the second act of penance.”
It had been a long war.
The man in black steps behind Yuuri and brandishes a whip. “For every thousand of our dead,” the man in white explains, “A strike.”
It had also been a bloody war.
Mari forces herself to watch as the whip catches her little brother’s skin and he jerks forward. He does not cry out. “One,” says the man in white.
He keeps counting. Eventually, a pained yelp erupts from Yuuri’s throat, and Mari surges upward. To hell with this, to hell with them all. They’ve not suppressed her magic. She can kill some of them before—
Her mother’s hand catches her arm and drags her back down. Hiroko does not look at her daughter; her eyes are fixed on Yuuri. Her iron grip on Mari’s arm does not let up as the sounds turn into screams, then fade away entirely, and his legs give out so that he dangles like a limp puppet from his arms.
Mari looks up at the Tsar. He seems almost amused. Beside him, though, she swears she can see the Tsesarevich wince with every blow. Strange, that the so-called Ice Demon of the North would have no stomach for such things. Then again, she has heard his way of killing is bloodless.
It is too long before they stop. Yuuri’s back is a macerated, chewed-up mess. His blood drips on the yellow straw beneath him. “The second price is paid,” says the man in white.
They have to carry him out of the auditorium. Mari watches him go. The next time she glances at the Tsar’s family, the Tsesarevich has disappeared.
The Katsuki family returns to their allocated rooms; the Rus' attendants, after ensuring they have what they need, disappear. Only then does her mother break down in tears. Normally, her father would crack some joke, to bring light to a dark time. Now, he sits in sullen silence, his own grief stilling his tongue.
Mari isn’t sad; she’s angry. She storms out of the rooms, walking blindly down the halls. Nobody tries to stop her. She finds her way outside, to some well-tended garden. Once there, she kicks a bush, punches a rose tree, screams impotently at the night sky. She could do real damage but doesn’t, really, just tires herself out until with shaking hands she lights herself a cigarette. Smokes it, hand drifting to the ring hanging around her neck. Minami-kun had brought it back. It has a faint glimmer of enchantment on it, but she's not yet identified the spell. For courage, most likely. Soldiers carry these sorts of tokens around all the time.
Somebody shifts in the darkness and she starts, cigarette dangling from her fingertips. She must look a mess, hair out of its tight updo and eyes wild. A boy steps out into the light, hands shoved in his pockets, golden hair gleaming. The Grand Prince, Yuri. Shit. If he’d seen—he has the influence to make it worse for Yuuri, and from what she’s heard of his whims he’d do it.
But he doesn’t say anything, just stands next to her and lights a cigarette of his own. Smokes it halfway before dropping it and grinding it into the dirt with his foot.
“I don’t know why he fucking picked him,” he says in Albian, accented but understandable, “But Viktor’s obsessed with the little piggy.” He glares at her. “Stupid to make you watch, though.” With that, he’s gone.
Lady Sara Crispino, consort to the Duchess Babicheva and representative of the province of Campania
Sara remembers the cold. Sometimes, she wakes up, warm in Mila’s arms, with the memory of it; snow drifting around her, too tired to shiver. Tonight, she might not sleep.
Most of the consorts—and there aren’t that many, really—choose not to attend the rituals, if they're given the choice. Mila asks her every time, concerned, but for whatever reason Sara feels like she has a duty to watch. As if it would make it easier, for him, that there is someone who’s been through it before nearby.
She huddles next to Mila, guilty that she has such ready access to warmth. Yuuri Katsuki is chained in the center of an artificial snowstorm, crafted by Rus’ ice mages. He curls into himself as much as he can, but he has neither the body fat nor the strength left to endure for long. This third penance is exposure, for the loss of infrastructure and long nights of soldiers in the field.
For Sara, used to the balmy warmth of Campania, it had been the worst. As an ice mage, Yuuri should have been fine—but the cuffs around his wrists suppress his magic, and he looks practically insensate already. It's symbolic. Sara's no caster, but the elemental ones are given their own element to suffer through. Desert heat for fire; lashing winds for air.
She’s not sure what prompts it, but the snow suddenly ceases, and the ice disappears. There’s muttering in the auditorium—the ordeal is meant to go on for longer—and Sara looks up to see Viktor standing, hand out and trembling. Ah. He himself is an accomplished ice mage, perfectly capable of calming the storm.
“Enough,” he says, voice ringing out. “Enough. Take him to be tended to. The penance is over.”
Something about the look in his eyes makes the master of ceremonies comply with no protest, after a glance at the Tsar. The Tsar himself seems immensely self-satisfied. Across the room, the Yashima delegation’s faces look as blank as ever, but the tension that had sat across their shoulders is lessened.
“Let’s go,” Mila whispers in her ear, and Sara nods in agreement. They leave in a flutter of skirts.
They've not yet reached their rooms when Viktor catches up to them, his long strides eating up the distance easily. "Lady Sara," he nods to her, "Mila, can I talk to you?"
Mila smirks at him. "I thought you might want to."
Ice shivers up his forearms almost unconsciously. He rubs it away. "Alone?"
Mila takes him by the arm and turns down a hallway that leads outside, to a private garden. "I'll see you later, Sara," she says as she goes.