I’m not sure if I should apologize to the fandom for this.
But what the hell, Kyou Kara Maou is made of crack anyway.
Meghan, if you’re reading this, some helpful information (that’s not particularly spoileriffic) might be that after the end of season 2, Shinou’s soul now hangs out in the temple and can conjure a realistic semi-corporeal form of his old body. His power outside the temple wanes, though, and if he leaves and/or runs out of maryoku, he ends up as a mini!version of himself. Small enough to stand on Murata’s shoulder and come up to about his ear. (And it’s incredibly cute. And triggers fangirl squees from me every single time.)
Also, he angsts quite often about putting his sage through his multitude of lives, and he’s still the only person in either world who can rattle the unflappable Murata.
Title: Bella Luna
Characters: Shinou and Murata-centric, Ulrike, and mentions of the Daikenja and various (perverted) shrine maidens.
Timeline: …I have no idea? Refers to events after the beginning of season 3.
Spoilers: Same as the above.
Pairing(s): Hinted Shinou/Murata, past Shinou/Daikenja. If you want.
A/N: One part angst, two parts crack. You have been warned.
I’m pretty sure this is what happens when you’re mulling an angst fic over in your head, and then 1) listen to Murata Ken’s funky, cracktastic character song too many times and 2) delegate most of the perspective/narration of the fic to Shinou-Heika. Apparently, these two just refuse to be angsty in any traditional sense.
… … …
Murata Ken closed the door to his wardrobe. He blinked determinedly. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, scrubbed the lenses of his glasses on his sleeping shirt, and replaced them on his nose. Then, he opened the door again.
Nothing had changed in the intervening fifteen seconds.
His comfortably familiar collection of black, gold-trimmed uniforms was gone, replaced by another all too familiar set of outerwear: lush, full-length robes of pale lavender and royal blue, heavy sashes, and richly made, trailing cloaks.
He closed his eyes, counted to ten in four languages, and then marched over to his door and carefully poked his head outside.
“Ulrike? Aaah, excuse me, ladies, can you kindly ask Ulrike to come here for a moment?”
The long-suffering sage retreated back into his room, and massaged his forehead in an attempt to rid himself of his growing headache.
That arrogant, insufferable bastard!
… … …
After the temple-wide search for the sage’s clothes, which probably took longer than necessary for reasons no blushing shrine maiden was willing to admit to, the crumpled heap of black and gold cloth was found on the floor of a deserted hallway.
Shinou watched them from around the corner, and mourned his reduced strength. He’d simply run out of maryoku to stay corporeal before he could secret them to his hideaway, and would now have to stay out from underfoot-literally-for the next few hours while he recharged.
Why couldn’t he just have accepted the gift?
That stubborn, annoyingly contrary... sage!
… … …
Shinou gazed down at his slumbering sage, and marveled once again at how similar this flesh repository for the sage’s soul appeared to his first when his face was relaxed in sleep. Long lashes covered the eyes that were too large for his face; they were thankfully still black, and retained the spark and intelligence over the centuries. The lord of Shin Makoku was sure that with time, his sage’s small form would fill out and the angular face would more naturally accommodate his features. He had chosen the Murata family for a reason, after all.
…Well, multiple reasons. But that was one of them.
The hair, however…that could be fixed immediately.
It had been no secret that Shinou had adored his advisor’s hair, which had grown-thick, straight and glossy black-far past his shoulders. Murata Ken’s current head of hair retained the same color, volume and vibrancy of his predecessor’s, but it was chopped horrifyingly short, creating a spiky halo about his head. Even if Shinou could convince his sage to grow it out, it would take years to reach its previous glory.
The original Maou was not known for his patience. The wielding of maryoku, however, was his specialty.
He’d probably have to stay small for the next few days, but it would be worth it.
He closed his eyes, and focused his energies.
After the deed had been done (quite well he might add), he hid behind the curtains for his sage to awaken, within easy sprinting distance of the cracked window.
A few hours later, which had given him plenty of time to admire his handiwork from this particular angle, the sage stirred, stretched, and yawned. And then he froze, his eyebrows coming together to meet in the middle of his forehead in the exact look of displeased surprise his previous incarnation had worn so often, a very long time ago. His hand rose slowly to his head.
“Oh no, he really didn’t…Shinou!”
The deity in question muffled his giggles into his fist, and fled.
… … …
“Ulrike?”
The priestess turned at the voice of her adored sage, and blinked curiously at his hooded figure. She deemed it better not to ask, settling on a neutral, “Yes, Geika?”
“I’m going to Blood Pledge castle for awhile. Will you mind?”
She smiled. “Of course not, Geika. Have a nice trip. Say hello to Yuuri-Heika for me, please.”
“No problem! Oh, and…Ulrike?”
“Yes, Geika?”
“How handy are you with a pair of shears?”
… … …
Shinou slipped into his sage’s room after nightfall. He closed the door quietly, and turned to see that lying conspicuously on the pillow was a lock of luscious black hair. Beside it was a note that read in snarky, indomitable boldface, “FOR YOU.”
The shade suppressed a grin; he was already one step ahead. He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of metal that he’d possessed one of the temple maidens to retrieve from the market, the very burden that he’d been concentrating so hard for the last half-hour to remain corporeal enough to carry around.
A moment later, the hair was safely snapped inside the locket, which, in turn, was smuggled once again into his pocket. This way, the founder and lord of Shin Makoku wouldn’t have to rummage through the trash to find his prize.
It was only as he was sneaking back along the corridor that it occurred to him that that might have been his sage’s message to him all along.
He knew. Of course he knew.
Some things, Shinou thought ruefully, straightening to walk normally, never do change.
… … …
New target. New mission.
Blood Pledge Castle was quiet at this time of night, the few guards sleepy and decidedly not on the watch for six-inch tall, semi-solid, should-have-been-dead-a-long-time-ago intruders.
Neither was Murata’s room hard to find, either. Shinou scrambled through the gap beneath the door, and snorted at the butterfly net placed threateningly within arm’s reach of the snoozing teenager. As if the sage could ever catch him when he wasn’t off-guard.
He tiptoed over to the boy’s nightstand, and scaled it quickly. There!
“Wha-?”
Damn. Not quiet enough. Murata blinked his big black eyes at him, then sat up quickly, face going from sleepy confusion to anger in an unusually short time. “What are you doing here? Are those my glasses? I can’t see a thing!”
Shinou danced backwards, his prize held tightly to his chest and suppressing a grimace. This bulky contraption was heavy when you were only a few inches tall and concentrating your energies on just staying solid enough to hold it.
All right. He was man enough to admit that his plans were typically better when devised by his chief strategist, not against.
“Shinou! I need those. Give them back!”
Still, he managed a nonchalant shrug and dismissive, “You don’t have to. Just ask a healer, and they’d be happy to fix your vision.”
“I’m not going to! I like them. Besides, what would my parents say when I went back to Earth?”
Ignoring that, he turned up his nose haughtily. “And change that ridiculous way you talk, too. It doesn’t suit you.”
Something deep inside the boy snapped. He rose threateningly, kicking aside his bedclothes and grabbing the butterfly net. “I’m not joking around here, Shinou. This has to stop. Give. Those. Back.”
Instead of running away, Shinou dashed toward the sage, and flailed his way one-handed up the boy’s leg, over his hip, and onto his back, still clinging to his hold on the spectacles. Murata scrabbled once to grab him, but quickly discerned that his tormentor had managed to adhere to the one point on his back that he was unable to reach with either hand. He lowered his arms, not in surrender, never in surrender, that was the thing Shinou loved most about him, but to weigh, choose and act on the best available options.
Shinou thoroughly enjoyed hearing the wheels turn in the tactician’s brain.
His choice, while not altogether surprising if Shinou had thought about it-but he hadn’t been thinking, didn’t want to think, that was what this whole damnable mess was about-still managed to unsettle him.
“I know why you’re doing this, Shinou. You know you’ve always been an open book. Even when you think you’re being subtle.”
“Really, wise one?” He challenged, not willing to admit anything, and ignoring the uncomfortable wiggle in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes, really. Leave subtle to me, all right? Because you really, really suck at it.”
Same tone. Same opinion. Different voice. Different idiom.
Same unswerving, unquestioningly implicit loyalty.
Shinou closed his eyes in pain.
Murata dropped his head to rub at his temples tiredly. “Look, Shinou. These last…years haven’t been a walk in the park for me. But it’s not your fault. I’m not the man you used to know so long ago, and convincing yourself that I am is not going to make the past go away."
He paused, and Shinou did not fill the silence. So he continued, “I made my choice. I promised. It’s my responsibility, and I accepted it. You should accept that. Now, will you stop sulking and give me back my glasses so I don’t have to stumble around our country blind?”
Our country. Ours.
Murata reached one hand behind his opposite shoulder as far as it would go, offering it palm up. Shinou hesitated, then placed the glasses carefully on his palm and climbed up beside them. Murata drew him around to face him. As the strategist put on his glasses with a sigh of relief, the shade considered him seriously, hands on his hips.
“But I really, really love your long black hair. Will you grow it out for me, my sage?”
Murata’s forehead connected firmly with his (other) palm. “Did you hear a word I just said!?”
Shinou threw back his head and winked brashly. “Don’t make me make it an order.”
... ... ...
Wow, I totally did just make a Tactics reference in my KKM fic about Ken-chan. Take that, Kan-chan. :D (Okay, it was unintentional at the time, but I'm brilliant in hindsight. ;))
I'm pretty sure this is the first fanfic I've ever actually written down where people actually did things, instead of just think introspectively. And they ran around doing cracky stuff and being creepy stalkers. Yeaaah...
Meghan, if you’re reading this, some helpful information (that’s not particularly spoileriffic) might be that after the end of season 2, Shinou’s soul now hangs out in the temple and can conjure a realistic semi-corporeal form of his old body. His power outside the temple wanes, though, and if he leaves and/or runs out of maryoku, he ends up as a mini!version of himself. Small enough to stand on Murata’s shoulder and come up to about his ear. (And it’s incredibly cute. And triggers fangirl squees from me every single time.)
Also, he angsts quite often about putting his sage through his multitude of lives, and he’s still the only person in either world who can rattle the unflappable Murata.
Title: Bella Luna
Characters: Shinou and Murata-centric, Ulrike, and mentions of the Daikenja and various (perverted) shrine maidens.
Timeline: …I have no idea? Refers to events after the beginning of season 3.
Spoilers: Same as the above.
Pairing(s): Hinted Shinou/Murata, past Shinou/Daikenja. If you want.
A/N: One part angst, two parts crack. You have been warned.
I’m pretty sure this is what happens when you’re mulling an angst fic over in your head, and then 1) listen to Murata Ken’s funky, cracktastic character song too many times and 2) delegate most of the perspective/narration of the fic to Shinou-Heika. Apparently, these two just refuse to be angsty in any traditional sense.
… … …
Murata Ken closed the door to his wardrobe. He blinked determinedly. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, scrubbed the lenses of his glasses on his sleeping shirt, and replaced them on his nose. Then, he opened the door again.
Nothing had changed in the intervening fifteen seconds.
His comfortably familiar collection of black, gold-trimmed uniforms was gone, replaced by another all too familiar set of outerwear: lush, full-length robes of pale lavender and royal blue, heavy sashes, and richly made, trailing cloaks.
He closed his eyes, counted to ten in four languages, and then marched over to his door and carefully poked his head outside.
“Ulrike? Aaah, excuse me, ladies, can you kindly ask Ulrike to come here for a moment?”
The long-suffering sage retreated back into his room, and massaged his forehead in an attempt to rid himself of his growing headache.
That arrogant, insufferable bastard!
… … …
After the temple-wide search for the sage’s clothes, which probably took longer than necessary for reasons no blushing shrine maiden was willing to admit to, the crumpled heap of black and gold cloth was found on the floor of a deserted hallway.
Shinou watched them from around the corner, and mourned his reduced strength. He’d simply run out of maryoku to stay corporeal before he could secret them to his hideaway, and would now have to stay out from underfoot-literally-for the next few hours while he recharged.
Why couldn’t he just have accepted the gift?
That stubborn, annoyingly contrary... sage!
… … …
Shinou gazed down at his slumbering sage, and marveled once again at how similar this flesh repository for the sage’s soul appeared to his first when his face was relaxed in sleep. Long lashes covered the eyes that were too large for his face; they were thankfully still black, and retained the spark and intelligence over the centuries. The lord of Shin Makoku was sure that with time, his sage’s small form would fill out and the angular face would more naturally accommodate his features. He had chosen the Murata family for a reason, after all.
…Well, multiple reasons. But that was one of them.
The hair, however…that could be fixed immediately.
It had been no secret that Shinou had adored his advisor’s hair, which had grown-thick, straight and glossy black-far past his shoulders. Murata Ken’s current head of hair retained the same color, volume and vibrancy of his predecessor’s, but it was chopped horrifyingly short, creating a spiky halo about his head. Even if Shinou could convince his sage to grow it out, it would take years to reach its previous glory.
The original Maou was not known for his patience. The wielding of maryoku, however, was his specialty.
He’d probably have to stay small for the next few days, but it would be worth it.
He closed his eyes, and focused his energies.
After the deed had been done (quite well he might add), he hid behind the curtains for his sage to awaken, within easy sprinting distance of the cracked window.
A few hours later, which had given him plenty of time to admire his handiwork from this particular angle, the sage stirred, stretched, and yawned. And then he froze, his eyebrows coming together to meet in the middle of his forehead in the exact look of displeased surprise his previous incarnation had worn so often, a very long time ago. His hand rose slowly to his head.
“Oh no, he really didn’t…Shinou!”
The deity in question muffled his giggles into his fist, and fled.
… … …
“Ulrike?”
The priestess turned at the voice of her adored sage, and blinked curiously at his hooded figure. She deemed it better not to ask, settling on a neutral, “Yes, Geika?”
“I’m going to Blood Pledge castle for awhile. Will you mind?”
She smiled. “Of course not, Geika. Have a nice trip. Say hello to Yuuri-Heika for me, please.”
“No problem! Oh, and…Ulrike?”
“Yes, Geika?”
“How handy are you with a pair of shears?”
… … …
Shinou slipped into his sage’s room after nightfall. He closed the door quietly, and turned to see that lying conspicuously on the pillow was a lock of luscious black hair. Beside it was a note that read in snarky, indomitable boldface, “FOR YOU.”
The shade suppressed a grin; he was already one step ahead. He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of metal that he’d possessed one of the temple maidens to retrieve from the market, the very burden that he’d been concentrating so hard for the last half-hour to remain corporeal enough to carry around.
A moment later, the hair was safely snapped inside the locket, which, in turn, was smuggled once again into his pocket. This way, the founder and lord of Shin Makoku wouldn’t have to rummage through the trash to find his prize.
It was only as he was sneaking back along the corridor that it occurred to him that that might have been his sage’s message to him all along.
He knew. Of course he knew.
Some things, Shinou thought ruefully, straightening to walk normally, never do change.
… … …
New target. New mission.
Blood Pledge Castle was quiet at this time of night, the few guards sleepy and decidedly not on the watch for six-inch tall, semi-solid, should-have-been-dead-a-long-time-ago intruders.
Neither was Murata’s room hard to find, either. Shinou scrambled through the gap beneath the door, and snorted at the butterfly net placed threateningly within arm’s reach of the snoozing teenager. As if the sage could ever catch him when he wasn’t off-guard.
He tiptoed over to the boy’s nightstand, and scaled it quickly. There!
“Wha-?”
Damn. Not quiet enough. Murata blinked his big black eyes at him, then sat up quickly, face going from sleepy confusion to anger in an unusually short time. “What are you doing here? Are those my glasses? I can’t see a thing!”
Shinou danced backwards, his prize held tightly to his chest and suppressing a grimace. This bulky contraption was heavy when you were only a few inches tall and concentrating your energies on just staying solid enough to hold it.
All right. He was man enough to admit that his plans were typically better when devised by his chief strategist, not against.
“Shinou! I need those. Give them back!”
Still, he managed a nonchalant shrug and dismissive, “You don’t have to. Just ask a healer, and they’d be happy to fix your vision.”
“I’m not going to! I like them. Besides, what would my parents say when I went back to Earth?”
Ignoring that, he turned up his nose haughtily. “And change that ridiculous way you talk, too. It doesn’t suit you.”
Something deep inside the boy snapped. He rose threateningly, kicking aside his bedclothes and grabbing the butterfly net. “I’m not joking around here, Shinou. This has to stop. Give. Those. Back.”
Instead of running away, Shinou dashed toward the sage, and flailed his way one-handed up the boy’s leg, over his hip, and onto his back, still clinging to his hold on the spectacles. Murata scrabbled once to grab him, but quickly discerned that his tormentor had managed to adhere to the one point on his back that he was unable to reach with either hand. He lowered his arms, not in surrender, never in surrender, that was the thing Shinou loved most about him, but to weigh, choose and act on the best available options.
Shinou thoroughly enjoyed hearing the wheels turn in the tactician’s brain.
His choice, while not altogether surprising if Shinou had thought about it-but he hadn’t been thinking, didn’t want to think, that was what this whole damnable mess was about-still managed to unsettle him.
“I know why you’re doing this, Shinou. You know you’ve always been an open book. Even when you think you’re being subtle.”
“Really, wise one?” He challenged, not willing to admit anything, and ignoring the uncomfortable wiggle in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes, really. Leave subtle to me, all right? Because you really, really suck at it.”
Same tone. Same opinion. Different voice. Different idiom.
Same unswerving, unquestioningly implicit loyalty.
Shinou closed his eyes in pain.
Murata dropped his head to rub at his temples tiredly. “Look, Shinou. These last…years haven’t been a walk in the park for me. But it’s not your fault. I’m not the man you used to know so long ago, and convincing yourself that I am is not going to make the past go away."
He paused, and Shinou did not fill the silence. So he continued, “I made my choice. I promised. It’s my responsibility, and I accepted it. You should accept that. Now, will you stop sulking and give me back my glasses so I don’t have to stumble around our country blind?”
Our country. Ours.
Murata reached one hand behind his opposite shoulder as far as it would go, offering it palm up. Shinou hesitated, then placed the glasses carefully on his palm and climbed up beside them. Murata drew him around to face him. As the strategist put on his glasses with a sigh of relief, the shade considered him seriously, hands on his hips.
“But I really, really love your long black hair. Will you grow it out for me, my sage?”
Murata’s forehead connected firmly with his (other) palm. “Did you hear a word I just said!?”
Shinou threw back his head and winked brashly. “Don’t make me make it an order.”
... ... ...
Wow, I totally did just make a Tactics reference in my KKM fic about Ken-chan. Take that, Kan-chan. :D (Okay, it was unintentional at the time, but I'm brilliant in hindsight. ;))
I'm pretty sure this is the first fanfic I've ever actually written down where people actually did things, instead of just think introspectively. And they ran around doing cracky stuff and being creepy stalkers. Yeaaah...