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Red – sky, earth, blood. The sun burns the last of the daylight as the recent battle has rendered grass and flesh to ashes, fire above and below. Eyes closed, breath crackling, the Demon King hangs his head against the heat and the stink of victory. Tendrils of the blackest of his magic linger, curling between his fingers like a whispering lover.
“My lord, please stay still.” Amidst the bone-rattling sounds of death, Yahaba’s voice sounds like a song. “The healers are on their way. Let me look at your wounds while we wait for –”
“No,” Oikawa rasps. The effort of it nearly makes him collapse – exhaustion finally doing what five long nights of battle could not – but he manages to catch himself. He cannot, he will not, let his subordinates see their king fall.
Ever.
“Have them tend to the soldiers; and I want you to go back to the castle to oversee the civilians. Whoever can be spared, send them to the kitchens and have them distribute food and water. I’ll be back within the hour.”
A quick intake of breath, angry, worried. Oikawa hears it, though barely. Before the younger mage can protest, Oikawa says, as quickly as he is able, “I’ll be fine, Yahaba. I just need to catch my breath. Please, Yahaba,” he adds, this time taking care to be gentle. He thinks about prying an eye open so he can reassure his subordinate with a steadying look, but he doesn’t think he can. His eyes are too heavily caked with blood; and he doesn’t think he can convince Yahaba of the lie, not now, not when he’s on the verge of drowning.
It takes a few long breaths of time, but eventually, Oikawa hears the hesitant sounds of Yahaba’s footsteps retreating, then fading away as he hurries back to the castle. At last, he is alone to ache to his heart’s desire, to shiver and shake and rail against the joy of surviving. It’s so heavy; he feels so heavy. His head bows lower as he caves further into himself. It’s easy, he thinks, to curl up against darkness and slowly, finally, drift off to sleep. Hasn’t he won? Hasn’t he earned his rest?
Oikawa reaches out, expecting for his blistered fingers to touch equally blistered earth. But instead, there is softness. It’s fur. Unexpected, but not unfamiliar. He doesn’t need to see to know that it is black; but he opens his eyes anyway. As expected, he sees a dog (or a wolf? Oikawa never has been sure what exactly Iwaizumi's shapeshifter form is), large enough to be able to look Oikawa in the eyes even while laying down.
“Iwa-chan. You’re here,” Oikawa sighs, as if to reassure himself that it is real and true. The finally goes unsaid, but it’s nevertheless heard. The beasts’ nose is cold and wet on Oikawa’s skin as he nuzzles into his master’s neck, and it almost, almost manages to make Oikawa smile.
“You fought so well. My Iwa-chan is so brave and strong,” he says, his voice thick with a rare genuine fondness. This earns him a lick to the face, and this time, Oikawa does smile, also genuine, and therefore also rare. Spoils of war; a king’s reward for his most loyal soldier.
Iwaizumi growls as if in protest. Of course I’m here; for you, always .
Too tired to apologize, Oikawa sinks down into the midnight of Iwaizumi’s comforting weight, knowing that Iwaizumi will understand. He always has. To be reminded of it makes Oikawa curl his fingers, now clean and free of magic, and clutch at the beast’s fur. He breathes in its scent, the life of it, the love of him.
Tonight, he will meet his nightmares with gratitude.