Chapter Text
Glass shattered around him as chaos erupted, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. He was so close now. Minutes trickled into seconds, stretched and stifling, already laden with anticipatory grief.
His home was in flames. Outside, there were screams and clashes of blades, of explosions and crazed laughter belonging to the invading army. None from their own valiant but numbered troops; those men had been scattered and dying even days before the city had been breached.
Their conquerors had finally come, thus concluding the war. Tonight was fortuitous and one that would be remembered by generations to come: the once mighty kingdom in the Sambas—Baratie—had fallen after four long years.
Sanji remained in the Great Hall, kneeling, as the final wisps of his protective spell stretched past their use. He felt the persistence of those outside his barrier, their repeated attempts at shattering his focus and destroying his wards. But he still had a bit of energy left to spend, and he used it to summon a spatial array, just to check how far the others had come.
Satisfied that he’d managed to hold on long enough, Sanji allowed the spell to finally shatter, and soon, there was a barrage of footsteps echoing down the hallway. There were men trying to break down the doors to the Great Hall, the hinges rattling with each force.
Sanji stood, willing his knees to not wobble. He would not cower nor tremble.
The doors eventually gave, and a platoon of soldiers rushed inside, carrying with them the scent of smoke and iron. Death. On their faces were streaks of blood and soot, bearing warped, twisted smiles that promised torture to any survivor they’d come across.
One of the men was clad in an armor more elaborate than the rest, bright blue accentuated with ivory that rooted Sanji in place. Sanji recognized it. It had been years, but he knew that garb: that azure, wretched finery. He knew that stance. They carried a sword with them and aimed it right at Sanji's throat.
The tip drew blood. A nick that barely stung, and Sanji stood firm.
A mixture of awe and recognition sat on the man’s face as they took in Sanji’s expression, his entire form. They then blinked it away, replacing it with manic, sinister glee.
“How many years has it been?” the man greeted with a feral grin that the rest of the soldiers mimicked. “I didn’t know that you were hiding here. What has become of you now, failure? Are you a decoy? No one is going to believe this back home.”
Sanji held his tongue and raised his chin, resisting the urge to step forward and draw the blade further into his body. He’d done his part. Zeff and the others had gotten away. He could die here for all he cared.
A rustle of movement came from the doors and suddenly the soldiers were parting, scrambling to make way. The man before Sanji was pushed aside roughly, momentarily making an aggrieved face before he seemed to realize who had rudely intruded.
“Your Highness,” Niji said with a slight tilt of his head—faux obeisance addressed to this other person. Acknowledgement begrudgingly given. Sanji had never seen him defer to someone else’s authority before.
Sanji almost didn’t want to look at who’d just arrived.
“This is all that’s left of the kingdom,” Niji commented. “No sign of their Prince.”
Sanji could feel the newcomer’s lone eye zeroing on the cut on his throat. Sanji lifted his gaze and met steel gray—piercing, unyielding. Next to it was a scar that ran from forehead to cheek. Letting his eyes wander revealed a dark green armor that looked almost obsidian in the lack of light, of metalwork vastly different from the ones made by Germa. This man wore a cape of the same shade as his armor, albeit littered with silver embroidery that depicted a god with six arms.
Sanji’s breath stilled. He knew this man from the tales. After he’d escaped to the Baratie from Germa, so began his knowledge of this man and the terror he’d wrought. The stories that used to frighten unruly, willful children and send them to bed—come alive. He’d heard of the conquests written in blood and shadows.
This was the Demon of the East. Asura reborn.
Kuraigana had been neutral in the war. Before Germa came to Baratie’s shores, Sanji had heard of the other kingdoms seeking to forge an alliance with Kuraigana, to make use of their formidable military. Zeff himself had been granted audiences with Kuraigana’s king, but before anything could come to fruition, the war had torn Baratie apart.
Sanji had heard of Dracule Mihawk’s General, the son leading the army. How the King of Kuraigana couldn’t control his own spawn, but was content to leave all matters of warfare to him.
Was he the one who’d led the siege to the castle? Was it him that had continuously attempted to break down Sanji’s wards?
“This is the Prince,” the Demon of the East said after a moment.
Denial sat at the tip of Sanji’s tongue. Instead he opted to spit by the man’s boot-clad feet, at the blood and mud they’d tracked inside.
Niji looked taken aback, then he cackled. “Him? No; that’s impossible. They said that the Baratie’s Prince was the mage responsible for the wards outside the city and the castle. This one here is no mage; I’m certain of it. Perhaps a decoy or left as a sacrificial offering.”
“We should kill him,” one Germa’s soldiers suggested, addressing the Demon of the East. This one looked like a high-ranking lieutenant. “We ask for the honors. Our King ordered us to leave none alive. We weren’t expecting Kuraigana’s aid in battle and we are grateful for it, so allow us to seek recompense for that slight against you, Your Highness.”
The Demon of the East darted a glance towards his boot. He stood perhaps only a mere centimeter taller than Sanji, but with a broader set of shoulders that his bulky armor accentuated further. He looked towering—encompassing. Like he dwarfed the rest of the men surrounding him with his might and stance alone.
The answer, when it came, surprised the entire hall.
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
A tanned hand came to rest against the hilts of the three swords strapped to the man’s waist. Sanji heard the stories about those blades as well—extensions of Asura’s bloodlust, his tools for conquest.
Sanji mustered all the disdain that he could in one look: this was the man who’d finally caused their defenses to fall. Before Kuraigana’s participation, Baratie stood a chance. They weren’t a military force that inspired dread in their neighboring countries, but they didn’t appear feeble nor easy to conquer either.
If this man hadn’t come, they could’ve held on. Not enough to win, but enough to minimize the casualties until they were negligible.
“But since I led the siege that gave us victory, that gives me a right,” the Demon of the East remarked, a particular glint now evident in his eye. “A claim to this house in particular.”
Sanji’s blood ran cold. He felt the palpable tension and collective surprise of all those present, and he felt his stomach twist in knots. He remembered Zeff’s words at the beginning, four years ago. War was only fair during bloodshed. As soon as a side triumphed, it created monsters out of the best of men.
But this was no ordinary monster. This was already a demon. A living, walking nightmare.
Death would be preferable.
“You want the failure?” Niji asked, incredulous. “There’s no shortage in the spoils, Asura. My men will gladly turn over whatever we found in the castle as per our agreement. But not him. My father will want his head.”
“Does your father take precedence in the laws of war?” the Demon of the East asked, eye narrowing in challenge. “To my knowledge, he only rules Germa, and not the entire continent.”
“I’m not cattle,” Sanji said, finally finding his voice. It rang in the hall, amidst devils of men.
“His defiant tongue ought to meet its end here,” the same lieutenant from Germa said, eyeing Sanji with distaste. “Just like the rest of his craven, misguided people. We slaughtered their likes outside. He ought to join them.”
Niji’s face held satisfaction that was palpable in waves. As though killing was a sport and he’d excelled at it. Sanji expected nothing less from Germa. It was a kingdom of murderers. He was the only flaw in their bloodthirsty legacy: he didn’t turn out to be a killer like any of his siblings. He didn’t listen to their King.
The Demon of the East looked at Sanji, not sparing the rest of the soldiers a glance. “Your ways, Prince Niji, not mine. Not Kuraigana’s. This Mage Prince shall be my prize. I will allow your men the rest of the spoils.”
It was a testament to Sanji’s pride that he managed to stay upright at those words. He didn’t want to be beholden to a monster. “Kill me.”
“He wishes for it himself,” Niji said with a sneer.
“By the laws of war, I have a right to the Prince’s household,” the Demon of the East said, focusing now on Niji. “And since I’m claiming it, he’s now under my protection. I ought to slay you where you stand for having drawn the Prince’s blood earlier, but on account of our alliance, I will let this pass. If you accept my claim.”
The Demon of the East flicked his thumb over the guard of one of his swords, and the entire hall held its breath. Germa’s soldiers drew their weapons, and Sanji watched Niji assess the situation with narrowed eyes, his lips downturned in displeasure at this turn of events.
“My father tolerates no softness in this alliance,” Niji stated, his hand tightening on the hilt of his own sword. “It’s why we accepted your father’s terms, Asura. Everybody knew you were sadistic and undefeated in battle. If mercy existed in you now and you had some to spare this failure, Germa will not allow it.”
“I do not answer to Germa,” the Demon of the East countered. “The laws did allow a stipulation: anyone’s claim can be challenged. If you’re confident, Prince Niji, then draw.”
Sanji felt like a shadow as he watched two of the most influential generals of the continent decide his fate. He felt powerless, despite the surge of magic in his veins. Trapped, despite the absence of chains. There was no lesser evil here.
“My father and my siblings will never believe that I died in battle,” Niji said. “Not here in this backwater kingdom.”
“Then draw your weapon,” the Demon of the East remarked coolly, “and I will send word to your family that you fought bravely and died honorably.”
For a brief moment, Sanji basked in the immense gratification of seeing Niji’s resolve crumble, of that haughty arrogance finally being put into its proper place. Of all his siblings, Niji had been the most cruel. The one who hadn’t been content with tormenting him alone and thus included all he held dear, like the animals he’d befriended and cared for.
Niji slowly, reluctantly sheathed his sword. “This wasn’t part of our agreement.”
The Demon of the East had a hard set to his jaw, as though explaining himself to others wasn’t something he was accustomed to. “I find the Prince’s looks pleasing. Rest assured, the moment he outlives his use or I’ve grown weary of him, I will hand him over to your kingdom to deal with.”
Sanji committed the Demon of the East’s sadistic face to memory: he wouldn’t forget this slight. This disrespect for his being and utter disregard for his autonomy.
“Germa demands proof of this union,” Niji said after a moment. “We won’t take your word for it, not when you change your mind so abruptly. This can be a ruse to spare the failure’s life.”
“Then you’re welcome to join me and my men as we return to Kuraigana where we will hold the ceremony,” the Demon of the East said evenly. He gestured with his fingers and a soldier bearing Kuraigana’s colors stepped forward. “The Prince rides with me.”
The soldier nodded. “And restraints? Do you want them on him?”
Sanji gave the man a scathing look. Two more soldiers came forward and flanked his sides, serving as guards. Sanji could feel Niji watching everything with thinly veiled interest.
The Demon of the East looked thoughtful. “Will you try to escape?” he asked Sanji directly.
“I will not willingly walk into a prison,” Sanji replied.
“Fetch the irons,” the Demon of the East said with a nod. “Then take him to Chopper.”
Sanji watched him depart then, his dark green cape swirling behind him as he pivoted on his heel. The soldiers on Sanji’s either side nudged him forward and he took a step, having little choice but to follow.
Niji stepped in his space, a smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth.
“They say that he’s a beast, brother,” was the taunting whisper that made Sanji’s hackles rise. “I look forward to the rumors once he’s claimed you. They say his prowess in battle is only matched by his ferocity in bed. Not exactly the life you were hoping for when you escaped, I’d wager.”
Sanji spat right on Niji’s face for that comment and relished in the look of abject mortification and fury as a result. How Niji’s hands clenched into fists but he had to hold back; to hurt Sanji now meant that Niji was openly defying the Demon of the East and he couldn’t risk that.
“Get out of my way,” Sanji said, and Niji seethed.
“Enjoy your honeymoon, failure,” were the parting words that Sanji did his best to drown out as he was escorted out of the Great Hall. “Soon, you’ll be praying that I killed you instead.”
——
Chopper was Kuraigana’s military doctor, one possessing hands so gentle it didn’t befit the army that he was serving. He dressed all of Sanji’s wounds carefully, even the one that Niji’s sword left on his throat. Once done, he then lightly poked at the one Sanji inflicted on himself, the one he’d been nursing on his side while the siege had been ongoing.
When Sanji barely flinched at the touch, Chopper sighed.
“I’ve heard of mages using their own blood to make their spells more potent,” Chopper said, punctuated by a curious head tilt. “The practice never sat right with me, but I wouldn’t know; I don’t have a drop of magic in me. I’ve read that such wounds will scar, though. Will you tell Zoro yourself or will you allow me?”
Sanji blinked at the familiarity, eyeing Chopper with interest. That this hybrid of a man and a reindeer could utter the Demon of the East’s name with such casualness surprised him.
“I have a choice?” he asked. His first words in this makeshift tent situated at the center of what was once the city square, now a collection of rubble and surrounded by carnage.
“A few,” Chopper said as he applied a cooling salve over Sanji’s wrists where the magic suppression cuffs rested. Days of riding with the infernal things strapped to him would cause the skin there to chafe. “I’m bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, but the circumstances are unique this time. We just defeated your country. I’m now responsible for any injuries you may have incurred while in battle.”
Sanji’s eyes flit towards the wound at his side, lightly stinging with each shallow breath but manageable. Chopper’s poultice had a soothing, numbing effect that was setting in. “I don’t see how this would be any more displeasing than the state he saw me in.”
“We all heard that the Prince of Germa wanted you dead,” Chopper said as he tucked his tools back in his bag. “Zoro might get the wrong idea if he sees that.”
Sanji suppressed the urge to laugh despite his situation. So the Demon of the East was a mindless brute with a hunger for violence. So eager to draw his swords that the mere implication of an imagined slight would send him in arms.
“Do I have your permission to tell him?” Chopped asked.
Sanji waved his hand in lieu of a comment; he didn’t care if his country’s conqueror thought that he was hurting himself. He didn’t want to think of the Demon of the East at all. If the man was as cruel as the tales, then Sanji would endure. He’d done it before. He’d had four tormentors when he’d been eight and he had survived.
He was twenty-one now. He would survive this as well.
A soldier entered the tent and informed them that Sanji’s presence was requested. That the castle had been looted and razed to the ground and the Demon of the East wanted to return to Kuraigana as soon as possible.
Chopper stood and Sanji followed, and he was ushered past the crumbling houses and empty, charred streets, past the scent of smoke and the sounds of crackling embers. He now walked in the remains of what was once his home.
Up ahead, a couple of paces from the city gates, the Demon of the East was mounted on a black steed, his banners resting next to him and signifying the head of the Kuraigana cavalry.
Sanji could see Germa’s banners to his right. He paid no attention to them and kept his gaze forward, to that imposing figure of his would-be spouse, amidst a city engulfed in flames.
The ongoing blaze made Sanji’s eyes water. This was all that was left of Baratie.
A tanned hand was offered to him and Sanji considered refusing it. A final act of willful defiance despite the irons around his wrists. He let his eyes trek upwards and watched how the fire illuminated the Demon of the East’s face.
He looked otherworldly. Haunting and ravenous. A creature summoned from the depths of hell.
Sanji took the hand and allowed himself to be guided astride the horse, the Demon of the East placing his hands on either of Sanji’s sides as he held the reins.
Chopper approached with his own horse and mentioned the origins of the wound on Sanji’s side, and Sanji could feel the man behind him take note of it—the minute, almost imperceptible adjustment of his left hand so as not to aggravate Sanji’s injury.
An act of kindness that made Sanji feel sick; it was horribly, glaringly out of place.
The horse trudged onward, passing by fallen, incinerated banners and discarded weaponry. Sanji looked at the soldiers who’d stayed behind, the ones who’d defended the gates to their last breath, now mere bodies. He considered avenging them; this close, he could perhaps kill the man who’d successfully stormed the city.
He heard a hum, then felt a rush of breath against his nape. “Don’t,” came the whisper. “You heard Chopper. Your side will scar. Whatever energy you have left should be conserved; the ride will take us four days.”
“You killed my people,” Sanji said, unable to conceal his resentment.
“Death is inevitable in war,” the Demon of the East said. “Don’t act deluded now, Prince. You knew what you were keeping out with that barrier.”
Sanji’s wards had been specific. It was what made them incredibly potent as long as he’d possessed the energy to sustain them. He’d erected it as a distraction, to buy time for Zeff and the rest of his people. They’d gotten out and must be leagues in the mountain passes by now. Safe.
“Was taking the city not enough?” Sanji asked as they left the remnants of what was once a vibrant city behind, the vast expanse of untilled, rough land now lying ahead of them. “Did you have to claim me too?”
“I was promised my pick amongst the spoils,” the Demon of the East told him.
Sanji curbed the irritation and hatred; he knew what was coming. He knew that by agreeing to this, however reluctantly, he was to be treated as less than a human being. Just another conquest, bound to be forgotten in a month.
“And what am I going to be?” he asked anyway. Pride was a fatal flaw. “Concubine number seventeen? Perhaps your third spouse?”
The tales never mentioned the Demon of the East having any interest in romance. All they painted was a picture of a man far closer to the devil than to his mortal origins. Sanji couldn’t imagine someone like that having a heart.
When Sanji had been younger, he’d dreamt of marrying for love. Of finding the one meant for him and spending every waking moment of his life in keeping them happy. He didn’t imagine it’d be like this: with the enemy of his people, with the destroyer of his country.
With him having no choice. Trading Germa’s prison for another, but a cage nevertheless.
He earned a laugh, one that tickled his ear.
“You think that I have sixteen concubines?” the Demon of the East asked back. “Or two spouses?” Sanji heard him snort. “You should be flattered by what I’m about to tell you then, Your Highness: you’ll be the first. You’re to be no concubine.”
“I’ll have you know that I make no promises to not kill you should we share a bed,” Sanji threatened. “That none of your cuffs will effectively seal off my magic.”
“Should I cower now, Prince?” was the taunt, cheekily uttered that Sanji fumed. “Your magic doesn’t terrify me. I can tell that you feel the same regarding my swords. We’ll see how this plays out when we get to Shikkearu, but for now, how about a truce?”
Sanji resisted the urge to turn his head and frown at the brute behind him. A truce sounded preposterous from the mouth of the man who’d led the siege to the castle.
Before he could retort, the Demon of the East spoke once more, voice saturated with amusement. “Germa wants you dead. That little prick Niji was practically salivating for it. Killing you would’ve put an end to the only country with a mage that managed to openly defy Germa.”
“Your country has mages in your retinue,” Sanji said. “Don’t flatter me.”
“I’m doing no such thing,” the Demon of the East said. “And yes, we do have mages in Kuraigana. But none as skilled as you. Germa knows that. They want you out for good.” A hum. “Doesn’t have anything to do with that old rumor about their missing third prince, now, does it, Prince Sanji?”
Sanji froze—too much of a giveaway. He felt the man behind him take note, those hands tightening minutely on the reins as he guided the horse forward still.
“I knew it was you,” the Demon of the East whispered. “Magic as strong as that had to have ties with Germa.”
“Don’t associate me with them,” Sanji said vehemently, angling his head to the side to search for the man’s eye. “I’m not related to those monsters. If you’re thinking that having me as a bargaining chip against Vinsmoke Judge will work, you’re sorely mistaken. That miserable excuse of a warmonger is no father of mine.”
A sigh. Sanji felt himself regarded, studied. “That’s not what I’m thinking, Prince. It didn’t escape my notice that they wanted you dead. So I know that Judge hardly gives a shit about you. That’s not the reason.”
“Then why?” Sanji asked him. “Why marry a mage if you’re not planning to use him?”
The Demon of the East gave him a long look. “Chopper said that your wards had a different feel to them. He’s no mage, but he’s receptive to such things.” The gray eye narrowed at Sanji. “It wasn’t made to keep us out, was it?”
Sanji’s breath stuttered in his chest. In his heart, he uttered a prayer to whoever was listening for Zeff’s safety. For the others with him to be also out of harm’s way.
“You created it to buy time,” the Demon of the East concluded.
“I will kill you,” Sanji promised. “Not now, but someday.”
Soon, he hoped.
“Don’t be so hasty, Your Highness,” the Demon of the East said, seemingly unbothered by Sanji’s openly declared threat against his person. “I didn’t even do anything with this knowledge. I’ve sent no scouts. No soldiers. What you see behind you is all the men sworn to me and loyal to my adoptive father’s crown. And I’ve created enough of a diplomatic incident to make sure that Germa’s sole focus is on us, so that’s their entire army you’re seeing as well.”
A pause. Then the Demon of the East chuckled. “Or what’s left of it, anyway.”
Sanji swallowed past a lump in his throat as his shoulders sagged. This was all politics, then. What came before and after any war. “If I comply, you won’t go after them.”
“You for your people,” the Demon of the East said. “Germa’s keen to have you, but I don’t like letting them dictate how things should go.”
Sanji managed a derisive snort. “Germa had me locked in a dungeon while wearing an iron mask that hid my face from the rest of the world.” He lifted his wrists, shaking them once. “I have to say that these cuffs are an improvement.”
“I’ll have them remove those as soon as we get to Shikkearu,” the Demon of the East promised. “And I hope you know that I have no plans of handing you to Germa. I just said that to get that damn prince off my back.”
Sanji didn’t know what to think of this man’s promises. The tales never mentioned this side of him. All it had were extensions of monstrosities, of cruelty and death. Not this leniency. For reasons Sanji couldn’t explain, it didn’t seem like the man was lying. Sanji’s people were safe as long as he accepted the arrangement.
He evened out his breaths and hardened his heart. He could do this. A final act of duty. There were worse fates. The Demon of the East didn’t turn him into a bed slave nor let Germa kill him. Despite his barbaric, brutish ways and the infuriating, cocky manner in which he spoke, he remained honorable.
And he wasn’t as hideous as the stories made Sanji believe: he had a strong jaw and a sharp nose, a prominent forehead and strong brows. His hair was shorn, spiky strands of green that made Sanji think of trimmed grass at first, at least until he saw the back of the man’s head and imagined moss. And despite the uncouth demeanor, the bastard was a prince, and therefore Sanji’s equal. He could’ve been given to someone of a lesser standing.
“Very well,” Sanji said. “My people for me.”
“Germa and her army will only remain until the ceremony,” the Demon of the East said. “I knew you’d see reason.”
“You’re holding my people for ransom,” Sanji pointed out. “Of course I’ll agree. You’ve seen the lengths that I’ll go to for them.”
“Yes, you’ve deliberately wounded your side to make that barrier last longer than it should,” was the wry acknowledgement that made Sanji tense for a moment. “Of all the things I thought I’d bring home from Baratie, I didn’t think that a self-sacrificial mage prince was amongst them.”
“You’re making fun of me and my choices,” Sanji noted with a hint of annoyance.
Around them, he heard the wind howl and felt the biting chill of the evening breeze.
“I’m allowed to,” the Demon of the East remarked with an undeniable smile. “You’re to be my husband.”
——
Shikkearu was the citadel of Kuraigana, serving as its capital for centuries. After four days on the road, Sanji could see the looming fortress ahead and resigned himself to his fate; this was going to be his home now. The Demon of the East promised not to toss him into a dungeon, but Sanji wondered how long that’d last.
He wasn’t looking forward to their union. It was going to be a political marriage. There were no delays to such arrangements.
Sanji bore no mind to the procession and the welcoming, eager crowd. These weren’t his people—they were his captors. He let himself be ushered to where he was needed: first to the throne room where he finally met Dracule Mihawk face to face, his daughter Perona standing next to the throne and eyeing them shrewdly. With the Germa retinue also present, all that was spoken of were formalities.
Sanji was then escorted to the royal bathhouse where an attendant washed him, their eyes downcast and touch bearing a steadfastness that befitted such a place. They lathered him with perfumed oils and scrubbed off the grime and dirt, and when that was done, they helped him to his ceremonial robes.
Sanji was to be married come nightfall. He wasn’t privy to the Demon of the East’s thoughts, but any sensible person would want Germa out of their kingdom as soon as possible. If that meant marriage mere hours after the war hero’s return to the citadel, then it was happening.
His wrists were out of the cuffs as soon as he had the gaudy robes on. The elaborate doublet they’d stuffed him into had flowing sleeves, a sheer tulle cape attached to his shoulders. They had him wear heeled boots, heedless of the aches he’d been bearing after four days of riding, and Sanji expected nothing less.
Mercy was nonexistent here. He wouldn’t be here if the Demon of the East had any to spare him.
Attendants tended to his hair while another trimmed his goatee, some applying oils to his nails. Sanji let them work and tried to tap onto his energy reserves but felt them depleted; the journey left him battle-drained. He was exhausted and wanted nothing but to rest, but he still had to attend his own wedding.
A knock on the doors followed by them opening, and Sanji was greeted by Perona’s youthful face. She eyed him in contemplation, scrutinizing him from head to foot then back up, then she clicked her tongue.
“That won’t do,” she said to the attendants disapprovingly. “He’s so pale. Put a bit of color on his cheeks and on his lips.”
They scrambled to obey, and Sanji sat back, allowing them to apply rouge to his face.
“Your Highness,” Sanji greeted belatedly. He’d do it with the usual flourish, but on account of the strange circumstance in which they were meeting, he figured he’d skip his theatrics.
He received an incline of her head. “I didn’t think that Zoro would pull such a stunt. He’s never had the mind for such things. We were told that you singlehandedly held off Kuraigana and Germa’s armies with your barrier.”
“To no avail,” Sanji said, gesturing toward himself.
“You sell yourself so short, Prince Sanji,” Perona told him with a tut. “So unlike my brother, who returns from war reporting one victory after another. Perhaps you ought to learn from him.”
“If I’m as good as your brother made you believe, then I wouldn’t be here,” Sanji reasoned.
Perona swiped her pinky over the jar of rouge and reached for Sanji’s jaw with her other hand. Sanji stilled, eyes widening, but she simply applied the color over his lips herself.
“I didn’t hear that from my little brother,” she told him with another assessing look. “I heard it from the men. All my brother told me was what he said in the throne room in front of everyone else: that he was getting married.” She offered him a smile as she gestured for one of the attendants to put a delicate silver circlet on Sanji’s golden head, one that had a sapphire on its center. “I’m beginning to see why, now.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders and made him face the mirror, and Sanji wished he could muster a smile as well. But he was here as a well-groomed, fashionably dressed prisoner of war and there was no need to pretend.
“Mihawk asked me to escort you to the Grand Hall,” Perona said after a moment.
Sanji frowned at the lack of honorifics as he stood, offering her his arm which she took readily. “You address the king as such?” At the bewildered look Perona had for him, he added, “Your brother referred to him as his adoptive father, at least.”
Perona looked amused as they stalked the hallways together, the attendants at their feet. “Did he now? Zoro was trying, then.” She giggled—shrill, distinct. “I must speak to him after the ceremony.”
Back in the Grand Hall, Sanji saw that Shikkearu’s staff had been efficient. What was once a bare hall now had colors of livery, Kuraigana’s banners plastered on the posts. There were nobles, dignitaries, and courtiers gathered along with Germa’s military: a crowd of witnesses that blatantly ogled Sanji and his appearance.
He heard them whispering. Calling him a prince, a mage, uttering the name of his now destroyed home. He paid them no mind. He would not break here and give them a spectacle.
Sanji held his head high and ignored Niji’s sneering countenance in his periphery; Niji had no idea of the arrangement that Sanji had with the Demon of the East. To his estranged brother, this was all an amusing turn of events that he’d gladly report back home, much to the chagrin of their pitiful excuse of a father. Sanji wished that he could witness Judge’s outburst at the news of Sanji surviving yet again.
Spite was truly a powerful motivator. It was likely what kept Sanji alive all these years. He had enough in him to spare the Demon of the East, who awaited him at the foot of the dais, now out of that ridiculous armor and dressed in similar robes.
Without the dirt, the blood, and the swords strapped to his side, he looked…human. He was almost jarring to look at; this was no Asura.
There was a proffered hand that Sanji took without a fuss, and together they faced Kuraigana’s King as the royal officiant conducted the ceremony. The words blurred over one another and Sanji tuned out the rest of the crowd—this was a performance and he had to play the part of a docile, willing partner.
A squeeze to his palm roused him from his wandering thoughts and he caught the Demon of the East staring at him.
Sanji bore it for as long as he could, and when he could feel that most of the attention in the hall began to drift elsewhere, he quirked an eyebrow in question. “What?”
“You don’t look like your asshole of a brother,” was the insufferable comment that made Sanji seethe. Was he supposed to feel better at such words? “Well, except for that weird eyebrow. But yours curls the other way.”
“And I told you: stop associating me with them,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. He resisted the temptation to summon fire in his palm but entertained the thought of burning his spouse’s hand nevertheless.
He received a shrug. “Was just an observation.”
“Would my lord husband kindly keep his observations to himself from here on?” Sanji whispered. “We’re in the middle of a ceremony.”
“Zoro,” was the pointed drawl that came from the throne, soft enough that it could only be heard by those on the dais, “pay attention to your own machinations.”
Sanji let his eyes settle on Dracule Mihawk, Kuraigana’s King and currently hailed as the World’s Strongest Swordsman. He reportedly had no interest in conquering nearby lands nor the lands that bordered Kuraigana, but he wasn’t as passive as Zeff had Sanji believe. Not when he willingly allied with Germa to see Baratie fall.
If this man had the Demon of the East for a son, what would it be like to witness them both on the battlefield? Would Baratie last longer than it did had Dracule Mihawk led the armies himself?
The rest of the ceremony concluded in a manner so droll Sanji felt that it could substitute as his funeral. He sat on the high table amongst Kuraigana’s royalty, and Sanji focused on the food instead, committing their tastes to memory and cataloguing the adjustments he’d made had he been responsible for its preparation. Germa’s party sat on the table to his right, with Niji watching him behind his goblet and laughing openly at his expense.
The affair dragged on until near midnight. Eventually, Sanji was escorted out of the Grand Hall along with his spouse, led to their bedchambers by an attendant who shut the doors as soon as they got inside.
Sanji took stock of the sparse, rudimentary furnishings. For a prince, the Demon of the East wasn’t vain. He had polished, oaken mounts for each of his swords, bolted against the wall. There was little else of note aside from the bed, the dresser, and a round table with a pitcher of wine.
“Germa will leave in the morning,” the Demon of the East informed him as he poured a goblet with wine, offering it to Sanji after. His surprising attentiveness did nothing to sway Sanji; there was no affection behind such action. It was a display, done in the absence of avid spectators, but a display nonetheless. “I wanted them to leave tonight, but I’ve been told that wasn’t typical of a gracious host.”
“Your disdain for Germa can’t be because of me,” Sanji said knowingly as he accepted the goblet to place it back on the table, refusing to partake. He needed his wits about him. “If you hate them, then why work with them? Why ally yourselves with Vinsmoke Judge?”
“Don’t you get tired of all the politics?” the Demon of the East asked him. An evasion, and poorly done as he began disrobing, heedless of Sanji’s presence. “Don’t tell me that all that happened today didn’t wear you out.”
Sanji averted his eyes at the sight of the man’s solid collection of muscles, all of which hinted at years of rigorous training, but he didn’t miss the generous scattering of scars. “I should’ve known that you’d deny me answers the moment we’re married.”
“I’m not denying them,” the Demon of the East said as he dressed down to his undergarments and settled on the bed. “I’m postponing them. I’m tired, curly. I want to sleep.”
“Curly,” Sanji repeated, frowning at the casual smile that he received.
“Your eyebrow looks funny,” the Demon of the East said, forefinger imitating the swirl as it drew circles in the air.
Sanji sneered. “As hilarious as the moss growing on your head, I suppose.” At the questioning blink that he earned, he snorted. “Marimo.”
The Demon of the East sat up, his back to the headboard as he reached towards the bedside. Sanji watched him extinguish the flame of a lamp using his fingers. Touching fire so openly, while aware of Sanji’s abilities. “Nobody dared to call me like that before. I knew you’d be a piece of work. Nothing like a dutiful, caring husband.”
“Was that what you wanted?” Sanji asked as he began disrobing himself, feeling the man’s stare on his person but willfully ignoring it. The sooner he got this done, the better. “Someone who’d lie on their back and let you do whatever you wanted? Someone that obedient?”
He made his way to the bed and slipped under the furs, eyes fixed on the man next to him. In the dimmed lighting, Sanji could barely see him. But Sanji could feel the warmth emitted by another body and he reached out, wanting this to be over as soon as possible.
A hand closed around his wrist, squeezing once. Movement so fast and purposeful that Sanji barely caught it.
“No,” the Demon of the East said firmly.
“No?” Sanji echoed, confused.
“That’s not what I want,” the Demon of the East said. “And that’s not what’s happening tonight, either. I just want to sleep. Whether you do the same or not matters little to me.”
“I can kill you as you slumber away,” Sanji reminded him, and there was a thumb tracing his pulse now. His energy reserves would replenish in a matter of hours.
“You can,” was the desultory acknowledgement. “Then instead of my bedchambers you’ll find yourself in another dungeon, not too different from the one you once escaped.”
“Is that a threat, my lord?” Sanji asked. The man was yet to unhand him.
“It’s the truth and you know it. I gave you my word,” was the reply, punctuated by another stroke over Sanji’s wrist. “You’re out of the chains now. That’s not the only thing I promised you. I intend to keep each and every one of them, given time.”
He released Sanji then, and Sanji drew his hand back to his chest, eyeing the darkness warily.
“I suppose you have no intention to consummate the marriage as well?” he asked. “Given that it was merely an arrangement.”
He could tell that the man was grinning despite not seeing it; the inflection of his voice gave it away. “I’m not touching you unless you want me to, curly. Not like that, at least.”
Sanji let out a laugh, devoid of mirth. “So much for my looks pleasing you.”
“That wasn’t a lie,” the Demon of the East said, and the deep baritone of his voice carried across the room. “But I’m perfectly fine with just looking if that’s all you’ll allow me.”
One of Sanji’s hands fisted at the sheets in an effort to ground himself. What an unlikely prison he’d landed himself in this time. What an unpredictable monster he’d tied himself to. What kind of beast was perfectly content to slumber away despite the threat of murder?
Sanji already hated the answer. The Demon of the East was someone so assured of his status, so confident in his skills that he feared not even sharing his bed with a capable mage.
“How utterly noble of you,” Sanji remarked sarcastically, unable to conceal his rage. It stirred in him like his magic: intense and unsuppressed. “You’re giving me these pretenses of choices when you’ve already taken so much from me.”
“Then I’ll take more, Your Highness, and risk your further wrath,” the Demon of the East said. “You’re free to roam the citadel but you must return here at night. Here, to sleep right next to the man who burned your city to the ground.” A pause. “Is hearing that far more preferable than whatever flowery words I’ve tried earlier?”
Sanji lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then he summoned whatever magic he had left and extinguished the rest of the lamps, blanketing the entire bedchamber in darkness.
Like this, he wouldn’t be seen. If he finally crumbled and shed a tear, he could pretend that he was alone.
A rush of breath. If Sanji didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounded resigned. “Right now, the only one who knows about your people is me. If you try to leave and return to them, Germa will know of their survival and I won’t be able to stop them from coming after you. So you must stay in the palace.”
“Is this my lord’s first command to his new husband?” Sanji asked.
“It could be a request,” the Demon of the East amended after a moment. “Would you stay in the palace?”
Sanji allowed one measly teardrop to fall and stain his cheek—his first and last sign of weakness in this unfamiliar place. A culmination of all the sorrow, grief, and fury over the circumstances that led him here.
“As your prisoner,” Sanji clarified, willing his voice to come out even. But his hatred for this man seeped through and he knew it had been palpable.
He heard a sigh. “You can keep referring to yourself as such if that’s what you want, but to everyone in Kuraigana, you’re their Prince now. You have to stay.”
“You’re phrasing these things as requests to make yourself feel better,” Sanji accused. “But you’re no different from Vinsmoke Judge and Germa—you kill the innocent and make prisoners out of those you conquered.”
“That’s war,” the Demon of the East said. “When Germa declared war against your kingdom, you knew that something like this could happen. You were so willing to die that night. Is it so unfathomable that I want you alive?”
“Yes,” Sanji replied. “You’re Asura.”
Asura had slain countless men, brought ruin to any country that had opposed Kuraigana. Their hasty union wouldn’t change any of that—Sanji was married to a beast.
Who’d wanted him to stay here in this palace and sleep on this bed.
Sanji trampled on the feelings of disgust and fear that threatened to overtake him; he must remain strong. “I’ll do as you say if you won’t renege on your promise to not go after my people.”
“No harm will come to them,” the Demon of the East said. “If you remain here.”
“Then I will stay,” Sanji said, resigned. “And be your Prince.”