Chapter Text
Long after Julian left the room, Kircheis stared at the broken teacup. Minutes might have passed. Hours might have. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know – but what did it matter, really? All he had was time to waste, time to sit in his cell and hope.
More time passed. Finally, he moved. Kircheis’s eyes slid shut and he fell back against the bed, one arm coming up so that he could run the tips of his fingers over his lips.
They had kissed. He and Julian had kissed – they had been so close, and it had lasted so long that he had been able to taste the fragrance of black tea on Julian’s breath. And Kircheis had wanted – oh, he had wanted more, had wanted to hold Julian, to feel his touch, to pull him close, to allow him to reach up and run his fingers through his hair—
He jolted suddenly, eyes flying open and vision swimming above him. The hand on his lips moved up to twist in his hair, each finger clutching at a separate curl and pulling each of them tight. How could he? How could he want such a thing when he had let the person he loved most die? When he had sacrificed his own freedom just to…
His hand fell. Kircheis sat up, and then stood up unthinkingly, mechanically. He walked toward his desk and pulled out the chair, no emotion in the action at all. When he sat, he hardly felt himself move; when he pulled out the blank paper and unused pen he kept in the drawer, he stared down at them unblinkingly, thinking about how dull a shade of white the paper was compared to the orchid that stood proud and tall before him.
The next day, Julian didn’t come. Kircheis wasn’t surprised. He had been the one to push him away, after all; there would likely be no paper cups of tea brought again as a peace offering. He couldn’t blame the boy. It was probably for the best that he didn’t come.
Still, Kircheis couldn’t help but hope. Though he chided himself for it, knowing that he should know better, he couldn’t go entirely against his nature: much as he tried to rationalize his feelings, he knew that, ultimately, he couldn’t. He had come to like the company of Julian Mintz – had even come to desire it. If he were honest with himself – and in his quieter moments, when he thought again about how much he enjoyed that kiss, he was – he could admit to even more than that.
One day became two, and two days became a week. Julian Mintz did not come to visit. Kircheis did not see him in the prison, either, when he took his occasional walk around the yard, nor on the rare occasion when he joined his fellow prisoners for mealtimes. It was only after the eighth day, when his stomach growled at him and he realized he hadn’t had a meal in three days, that he found out what had happened.
“There’s been an invasion.”
Kircheis looked up from his bland, unappetizing meal. Across from him, Richter, the man he had seen on his first day in the camp, had taken a seat. He looked at Kircheis with a serious expression, jaw set and something bright burning behind his gaze.
“What do you know?” Kircheis asked.
Quickly, as though trying not to be overheard, Richter explained what he had found out: a letter he had received told him that his brother on Phezzan had been mobilized, and at least two fleets were moving from Odin to join it – the Schwartz Lanzenreiter among them. Hearing that, Kircheis had gripped his plastic utensils tighter, only to forcibly relax his hold a second later.
“So it was the empire that moved into alliance territory,” Kircheis said.
“It sounds that way, sir.”
With a solemn expression, Kircheis nodded. That meant that Heinessen – or more accurately, the seat of power in the Free Planets Alliance – was in danger. It followed, then, that Julian would have departed to defend it – or rather, he would have requested a transfer to be at Yang’s side. Perhaps that boy could make a difference, being at the side of the person he loved and respected most. Or perhaps…
Kircheis stood up, a wry smile coming over his face. “Thank you for telling me all this, Captain,” he said. “I really do appreciate it.”
He turned away. As he began to walk towards the exit, though, he heard his fellow prisoner call out to him. “Your Excellency!”
Kircheis turned. His smile flattened out. “Yes?”
“Do you think…” Richter swallowed. “Do you think this means that we’ll get to go home?”
Kircheis closed his eyes. “I couldn’t say,” he answered. “But I hope it means something will change.”
When he returned to his cell, Kircheis took a moment to breathe. He stood just on the inside of the door, back turned to it, and gazed at the orchid on his desk. The glass from Julian’s broken teacup had long since been cleaned up, its shards kept and piled nearly beside the orchid, each one stacked on top of the other.
For the first time since he had arrived on Econia, Kircheis knew what he wanted to say.
He took a seat at his desk and, for the last time, pulled out paper and pen. Only one sheet, and only four words: four words that would one day find their way to Lady Annerose, and would tell her everything he could not bring himself to say. Words that she and she alone would understand.
Forgive me, my love.
The days went on. The weeks went on. As time progressed, Econia grew more and more restless, both inside and outside the prison. A gag order had to be called among the prison staff, each officer ordered not to let any information about the outside situation leak. Naturally, this meant that all information – true, false, and somewhere in between – spread like wildfire through a rain-starved forest.
“The empire is winning.”
“Yang Wen-li has corralled the Imperial Navy in the Rantemario starzone.”
“Are you sure? I thought it was Astarte.”
“It’s neither; he’s fought them off entirely, and they’re retreating back to Phezzan.”
“I heard that they took back Iserlohn, too.”
It was hard to put too much stock in rumours, but all the same, an undercurrent of hope and excitement was permeating the prison. It seemed to infect the guards and officers, too; they seemed on edge, snapping at prisoners and warning them to get back in line rather than flippantly letting them do as they pleased. A few fights broke out, with men on both sides having to be sent to their respective infirmaries. There were no casualties, but the longer things drew out, the more tense the situation got, and the less certain things became.
All the while, Kircheis listened, and all the while he thought of Julian. Where he was, how he was doing, whether or not he was alive. But that he hadn’t heard anything in itself he decided was good news, and he went to bed each night remembering a conversation years in the past.
“I may not be in a position to say good luck, but I hope you will be well.”
The beginning of March in the year 800 UC brought with it a commotion: in Econia’s prisoner of war camp, it came in the sound of rushing footsteps barreling down the halls and in the yard, in the muffled bang of the metal stairwell door leading to Kircheis’s cell slamming into a wall, in the heavy boot falls of a single pair of feet echoing toward it.
Kircheis sat up, heart racing. He shifted on his bed to face the door of his cell, wondering just who it was who was coming for him – whether they would be armed or not. He folded his hands in his laps and set his shoulders, every fiber of his being tensed to keep himself from shaking.
And then he appeared. Exactly who he was expecting.
Exactly who he had hoped.
"Julian," Kircheis said, relief pouring over him as he watched his friend come to a hasty stop in the doorway of his cell. "What's going on? Where have you been?"
"Yang Wen-li is dead."
Kircheis stood up. His heart beat harder in his chest, and he felt a surge of emotion rush up toward his face. "How?"
Julian looked up. He had doubled over to catch his breath, hands on his knees, and was still panting as he lifted his head – but he focused on Kircheis anyway, brown eyes alight with adrenaline and emotion.
And then he stopped. He straightened up and stepped forward, colour draining from his face.
"You knew."
Silence passed between them. Kircheis held his gaze. Julian began to stagger. Neither of them said anything, for a moment: Kircheis because he didn't want to lie, Julian because he didn't want to believe it.
But then—
"You knew!"
Blue eyes fell shut, and Kircheis flexed his fingers. He didn't want to look at Julian. "I guessed," he said, softly. "You hadn't visited me in weeks."
"We were fighting," Julian answered. His breath began to speed up again.
"I thought so." Kircheis bowed his head. "Reuenthal, then."
"And Mittermeyer, too. Müller. Bittenfeld. All of them, all from Phezzan – and then from Iserlohn, too."
"I see." Kircheis opened his eyes. He looked back at Julian and found his face flushed in both exertion and anger. "I take it they aren't looking for me, then."
"They will be soon," Julian said, but then something gave him pause. Kircheis watched, patiently, as everything turned over in his mind, the pieces slowly clicked into place.
"I see." Kircheis sighed. He looked away again, towards the orchid on his desk. Toward the broken teacup, and the rest of the tea set that had remained intact. "I'm sorry, Julian."
Julian’s hands clenched into fists. "Are you saying that because you feel bad for me, or because you're unhappy with how things turned out?"
For a moment, Kircheis didn't answer. He didn't move at all, even when Julian started to laugh, halfway between hysterics and tears. "You did say you wanted to be the one to take his life."
Again, silence, and now a bitter smile twisted Kircheis’s lips. How ironic that now, after everything, he no longer had to explain himself.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said at last. "Truly." And he was. He knew what it was like, better than anyone, perhaps, to lose the person one loved most. To lose the one person one would do anything for, that one would follow and defend and serve to the death. That Julian had maintained composure long enough to come here all the way from Heinessen, or whatever star zone he had been in, and tell him what had happened was something Kircheis did not at all take lightly.
He took a step. Julian watched him, glaring through the beginnings of tears, and curled his fingers tighter at his sides. His knuckles were white from the force of his grip; his face was white from the sorrow of what he had lost.
"I didn't want things to turn out this way," Kircheis said. "I don't like doing things like this. t's not in my nature, really – and he always knew it, too."
He smiled, sadly, and looked at the orchid. Thoughts flooded his mind – memories both bitter and sweet, foremost among them from a time before he'd first met Julian, when Reinhard had told him, "This is to win." He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone then, either. He hadn't wanted to starve the masses to prove a point, or to cause suffering to those who didn't deserve it just to accomplish a goal. He didn't like that he was doing it now, and that he had been since the moment he had made that call to Reuenthal.
"I trusted you," Julian said.
"I know," Kircheis replied. "But I told you before that you and I were alike, didn’t I? I knew from the beginning that both of us would do anything for the people we love."
Julian said nothing.
"I don't like doing things this way," Kircheis repeated. "I think you're like me in that. And I think you're like him, too – you would rather fight honourably for the people you love."
Julian swallowed. His grip loosened. His eyes widened. He took a half-step back, and stared up at Kircheis as he approached the door of his cell.
"We've both had something taken from us now," Kircheis whispered. "So, Julian…"
He held out his hand.
"Will you accept this dishonourable soldier to fight under your command?"