Chapter Text
It was cold. Cavert never thought he'd care about something like that.
The air was cold. The snow was icy. Deon's body... was freezing.
His body was freezing.
It shouldn't be. A human body was pleasantly warm to the touch when alive, with their blood running through their veins and their chest heaving with breath.
Yet the blood had long left Deon's body and his chest no longer moved. His already pale skin had paled even further, vibrant red eyes had turned dull and empty.
He didn't move, he didn't breathe and he didn't speak. He was completely lifeless.
He laid Deon's body down on the Commander's own bed, brushing off the snow clinging to his clothes and skin. He gently ran his hand through the human's hair to remove the remainders of the snow that had snuck itself into it.
It was Ben and Ririnell who had brought back the body, tears running down their faces as wounds covered their body. Even then, Deon had already held no breath, he was just an empty, empty shell.
He wanted to be mad at them, but they had done their best. They had done their best. They had fought for it, each still bearing the wounds proving their efforts.
Ririnell had been inconsolable. Asild had taken her aside with Jaykar's help, putting some distance between her and the body.
Ben had recounted everything as they had walked to Deon's room. Deon was already gone by the time they arrived, surrounded by his murderers. His only ally his brother, who had perished alongside him.
He didn't know when or how or even why but he'd sent someone to retrieve the Hero's body as well, yet when they returned it was with empty hands, the body taken by the perpetrators.
He gave another order to look for- to find- the man's body and not to return until they did so. Then he dismissed everyone. He kicked out anyone and everyone from the room. There was only him left in it. And the body.
Deon's body.
Arrangements for a funeral... he would make them soon. For now, he just wanted to be alone. He felt so terribly hollow.
He sat on the bed, careful not to jostle the body too much and reached out a hand, touching Deon's cheek. It was still freezing. The icy sensation crept into his hand, causing it to shake. But he didn't remove it, instead he gently caressed his cheek.
The dead did not come back to life. And Deon was most certainly dead.
Something was tearing into his chest and ripping out his heart at the knowledge. It hurt. It hurt so much. Why Deon? Why was it Deon?
Couldn't it have been anyone else? He didn't want this. He didn't want Deon dead and he didn't want to hurt like this. Why did it hurt like this?
He just wanted Deon back. Give him Deon back.
His throat constricted painfully as he looked at the remains. His eyes ached as he was overcome with the urge to cry. But no tears fell.
He was unable to cry, despite the ache in his heart and the fire in his eyes and throat. Demon Kings had no such luxury. He wanted to cry for his Commander- for the person he loved - so desperately.
But the World had no mercy for an existence like him, denying him even the chance to properly mourn.
He thought back on when Ben and Ririnell reached the castle. His chest had began to hurt since he first caught a glimpse of them. Of Deon, prone and still in Ben's arms.
When he saw the doctor holding Deon it had seemed so off. The closer he got the more his chest tightened and an all-consuming, spreading despair settled down inside.
It was normal for Deon to be covered in blood, to have wounds peeking out between his torn clothes. Deon never cared for them until Ben or another doctor sat him down and treated them.
It wasn't weird for a wound to be located on his chest, that happened often, too. He would let the enemy get close and then use their proximity to attack. Cavert couldn't count the number of times the doctors had been angry with the Commander for this.
It wasn't weird for someone to carry him back either, the human had a tendency to black out after a particularly harsh fight.
It was precisely because he looked so normal that it was off putting. Everything that was wrong stuck out so much more, hidden in plain sight but covered so well by normalcy that he had to really look.
His posture was too stiff as he lay in Ben's arm, not bending to fit the demon's arms correctly. His limbs hung slightly weird, not swaying as they should on a person being carried.
His hand was angled and twisted strangely, as if something had slipped out and Deon was still reaching for it.
It looked just like Deon, yet not. His mind just refused to equate the frozen corpse with his Commander. That couldn't be Deon.
His mind had desperately tried to come up with any excuse, tried to see any sign that it wasn't him. That it might be someone else and they just looked a lot like him, that the eyes might be brown or green or violet or that the ears might be a little sharper and pointier.
Just any single detail that would promise him a different reality.
But the closer he got, the more he could make out the details of his clothes and face, the more and more clear it became- it was Deon. It could only be Deon.
And Deon was gone.
There was nothing Cavert could do. He couldn't revive the dead.
If Deon had had even one more breath- he would have given everything. He would have given everything to let him live, to see him smile again.
He wouldn't ever see him smile again. And that pained him more than anything.
He slowly, carefully kept stroking the cheek he was holding. He looked so peaceful like this. So serene.
As if the numerous wounds staining his body red didn't exist.
Red was a color that had always matched the man well. Cavert had loved seeing him dressed up in it. But now he hated the color more than anything. Its stark contrast to the black and white military uniform of the Empire made it hard to ignore.
He sat there, thinking, grieving, wishing for the impossible. For time to turn back or everything to be a dream. A terrible nightmare.
He wanted to wake up. He wanted to hold Deon tight and tell him not to leave. But what use was talking to a husk?
He loved him. He loved Deon Hardt, third Hero of the Empire, 0 th Corps Commander of the Demon Realm. He loved the man that lay before him. He loved him, even though he was gone.
Perhaps that's why it hurt so much.
If he could forget that feeling of love, put it behind him and refuse to acknowledge it, the pain might leave. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to forget what he felt for Deon.
Even if the pain was tearing him apart.
This all should have never happened. How could he, the Demon King, not protect a single person? Why did he ignore his own feelings, his own wants? If he hadn't, Deon might still be alive.
If he hadn't been so stupidly in denial, he would have sent someone to watch over him, to protect him.
Maybe he would have kept Deon in the Demon Realm, safe from all these humans. Deon might have been angry, but at least he would have been alive.
He would have forgotten about the humans soon enough. What use were they to him, hurting him and hating him? When had humans ever been kind to Deon?
Even the human realm itself disliked him, burning his skin with just a little exposure.
Deon would have been safer in the demon realm. Cavert would have kept him happy, too.
If he wanted his friends or knights or whatever from the human realm? Cavert could have brought them. He could host a few more humans.
If Deon wanted to continue his revenge, kill everyone who wronged him? Cavert would bring those, too. Anything for Deon. Anything as long as it meant he stayed.
Of course, he would keep quiet about his own involvement. He couldn't have Deon hate him.
Deon should be happy, and if possible, love him back. He wanted Deon to sweetly smile at him and lean on him. He wanted Deon to hug him when he was happy and let Cavert hold him when he was sad. He wanted to see the moonlight reflect in his eyes when kissing him.
But none of that mattered as he remembered that Deon was dead.
He watched the inert body, burning every bit of it into his memory, so he would never forget what his Deon looked like.
His Deon, his little human. The love of his life.
He lied down next to him. What he would give to have a little more time. Even if it was just reliving their life up till now over and over again.
His eyes turned frigid as he thought all that his beloved had to endure in life.
He would avenge him, rip his murderers piece by piece, shred the perpetrator to bits. But he would let them live.
He would teach them what a living hell was, how precious the life they took was. How little they deserved what Deon didn't get.
He would let them know how little they were worth compared to his Commander, how much more than them Deon mattered. They would pay the price for each and every little scratch on his human's body.
He would destroy the human realm, too. Useless ingrates that didn't cherish him. That took his life.
He belonged to the demon realm, to Cavert. How dare they take him?
He held Deon's hand with his own and closed his eyes. He loved his Commander too much. It's just a shame he realized too late.