💀 -ranseidarling(one for gracia)
can’t stop won’t stop dyin’ ( accepting. )
Her hands are so small, trembling in his own. Mitsuhide covers Gracia’s body with his own, sword limp in his hand, pommel slick with blood. The invaders - insurgents, bandits, whoever they are, creep closer, chipping away at the ice cradling the lord and his daughter.
Gracia, Gracia, Gracia, his thoughts echo. Is she alright? Will she be alright? Her hand, soft and young in his, shakes as his daughter muffles her shock into the silk of his kimono jacket. His mind flits through contingencies and strategies - Yuki is off on a diplomat’s errand, (though the advisor was far from a diplomat, Mitsuhide had known that he could trust no other to negotiate with Kotaro, the capricious bastard.) Hime in an urgent meeting after so many weeks bedridden, meeting with Illusio nobility - help is far, far away. All that Mitsuhide has is Articuno’s ice coursing through his veins, creeping through his veins, turning his lips to blue and frost, hair to snow.
Huddled into his chest, Gracia lets out a choked whimper.
“It’ll be okay,” Mitsuhide promises. His voice is raspy, breath coming out in cloudy puffs of condensation. “I’ll get you out of here, Gracia.”
From the hall, a terrible shattering noise - and a triumphant howl. Mitsuhide feels the ice settle deeper into his blood, almost, almost to his heart, and steels himself. The ice climbs over his hand and the pommel of his sword, freezing it to his palm. Steady, the lord thinks.
His breath turns to ice as he turns his blade on the insurgents, striking even as blood coats the blade until no silver can be seen, and his heart has long since stilled, covered in ice, and struggling to beat its very last. All the while, he keeps an arm around Gracia, keeps her close to him, until the very last man is dead.
The hall is oh-so quiet, a graveyard of ice. Nothing breathes but a little girl, still curled against her father’s cold, still body. It will be some time, before they find her.
