Authors Note: Of all the little cringey fics I have written, I think Zweihander is probably the one that tore me apart the most. I first took this one on in High School and, never truly content with what I had written, had posted several rewrites and reboots and whatever-the-hell's. And now, what seems to be eons later, I think I've finally written something that I'm actually proud of, thank goodness. Enjoy!

Part 1:

Unbind Him, And Let Him Go

"There's no harm in hoping for the best as long as you're prepared for the worst."

-Andy Dufresne, The Shawshank Redemption

Chapter 1:

Stitches

Here we are, friends and neighbors; the illustrious, magnificent Death City. Legendary throughout the globe, it stands out in the middle of the desolate and unnerving deserts of Nevada. But of course, dear reader, you are completely familiar with the fabled setting in which our story takes place. So instead, let us take a look inside the prestigious Academy that sits dead-center.

The inside of the school hallway burns with a heat wave that is, ironically, completely new to the desert town. The only sounds that can be heard are the occasional opening and closing of the classroom doors that hinder the learning activities behind them, students heading for a bathroom break, a mission, or in some cases, a meeting with the school's eccentric founder. The boy with a mop of dirty-blond hair and small glasses trudging dead-center in the hallway, however, is who we're focusing on at this moment.

He's 5'5- a bit taller than most students- and is sweating profusely. His expression is one of pure disgust, the perfect way to express his annoyance that he now has to leave the comfort of an air-conditioned classroom. Although he walks like you and me, there is a sense of… raunchy annoyance seething from him, as if he is actually walking with a poor posture, his neck strained.

To put it simply, Jaxx Autrey is a troublemaker. Deviousness and dislike aside, however, he is not in the middle of all the fuss- the fuss whom this tale surrounds. Let us speed by this hoodlum at a much faster pace, slipping down a staircase or two as we make our way to where our hero has been, without a doubt, imprisoned against his will.

The infirmary.

1

Siegfried Cyprus awoke on another chilly morning, his eyes wide, his breath short. He sat up quickly, steeling himself for the throbbing, drum-like pain of his chest, thinking that the seconds of mercy were just a dream that was slipping away from his consciousness, that the pain would soon come, and he would not scream, would not, could not.

That was when, of course, he felt the massive heat wave press against his body. He blinked sweat from his eyes and quickly kicked the blankets away, thinking that he was still in his dream. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK WHY IS IT SO DAMN HOT!

When he could resist no longer, he brought his hands to his chest and pumped. This can't be right, he thought. If I'm not feeling pain, then something's not right. After a few seconds of looking like a self-proclaimed masochist, a smile found its way onto Siegfried's face, and he began to holler.

"Stein! Yo, Professor! The pain, it's-"
"Keep it down, I'm right here."

Siegfried grabbed one of the curtains that blocked outside view of his hospital bed (sealed him in his tomb, you could say) and threw it aside, revealing Stein, relaxing in his office chair with a cup of coffee.

"Doc, the sickness, it's-"
"Gone like a fart in the wind?" He asked, bemused. "I noticed. It's as if it wasn't even there to begin with." He pointed to the computer on his desk with a free pinkie.
"You knew? Why didn't you-"
"It felt better finding out for yourself, didn't it? Not to mention you were yelling so much I couldn't get a word in edgewise."

Siegfried blushed slightly. "Hold on, it actually went away overnight? Is that even possible?" He regretted questioning his blessing; it just seemed too good to be true.
Stein put his cup down and began the process of lighting a cigarette. "The world of medical science isn't always black-and-white; this is something I can't even explain." Then, after taking a puff:

"When you were first admitted here, the cause was at least visible, albeit unorthodox. It seemed that your soul had been... torn open. Pieces of it flowing through your body, etcetera, etcetera."

Siegfried nodded gravely; he had heard this explanation 12 times (he had counted), each talk seeming more disheartening than the last. Although he had been sick for years, the DWMA staff were the first to tell him the details of what had been really going on inside. Siegfried had never accounted feeling his soul being torn open (the closest any of it had come to were average chest pains and a burning throat sore from vomiting), and he could never imagine the unbearable agony of it. Visualizing the spiritual tearing of your insides, like hot glass cutting through you but not at all, kept him awake most nights as a child.

"Yes, I remember," is all what he responded with.
"Taking a look at your soul now..." His pupils seemed to become more pronounced, a sign that Sig knew all too well. Soul Perception. "...It looks like something... stitched it back together. And I don't mean my kind of stitches."

A graveyard chill found its way up Siegfried's spine. The understanding that Franken Stein, the doctor
(debatable)
that Siegfried had put his trust in for the weeks of his infirmary stay, had no explanation for his sudden bill of health, scared the shit out of him.

"Is that it? No strings attached?" He looked away with that last question.
"Well, there are a few more pieces floating around in there, so you're not going to be the healthiest horse in the race, but you're definitely going to be running."
"Go on."
"A coughing fit or two, maybe a sore throat. I have some pills that should bring that down quite easily."
"...Forgive me if I don't believe you, Professor, but-"
Stein waved a hand. "I know, I know. I'll be calling you in for examinations during the next few weeks. I'm not going to let something like this just slide. For now, however..." Placing the cigarette in his mouth, he opened a drawer and fumbled around. After a few moments, he held something in his hand that made Siegfried, son of Frederick, smile brighter than he had in months.

2

Since his childhood, Siegfried Cyprus had never experienced what he would refer to as a "peaceful, normal life." Breakfast with one's family, easy Sunday mornings, walks through the park with mother and father, all of it seemed almost like a fairy tale in a kid's book (he had those, of course; reading was a actually a hobby that was approved in his home).

Breakfast with family was instead a single piece of toast at three o'clock in the morning, before a brisk two-mile run in the chilly Germany air.
Sunday was of course training day... as was every other day.
Walks through the park were training in the backyard and practicing your stances, training as a weapon, honing your skills and whatnot.
Frederick Cyprus, head of the prestigious Cyprus clan, would expect nothing else from his only child. His only son.

"As the heir to the Cyprus throne," Frederick would explain, you are expected to hone the skills of a wise, mighty ruler. You must not falter, you must not bend nor break. Do you understand, my son?"
"...We don't have a throne, father."

As with other exaggerations that were shot down like a bird by a slingshot, Frederick would furrow his brow, clear his throat, and start over.

"You are a descendant of a wise and noble family, my boy. I expect you to..." A slight pause to gather his thoughts. "I expect you to grow into a fine warrior. Does that make sense?"
"Not really."
"You'll understand in time."

That was how he left his confused child. A swift slice through the conversation, as if avoiding some sort of conflict. Siegfried soon began to understand this, as his mother had taught him.

"Your father is very professional and cutthroat," Margaret began after one of her husband's talks, "as I'm sure you've seen."
"He's not going to give me a straight answer about all of this, is he?"
She placed a hand on her sons shoulder, her beautiful orange hair flowing, and smiled wanly. All he needed to know.
"He... loves me, right mother?" Siegfried asked.
"Aye, of course he does. He wants what's best for you, and what he thinks is right."
"Do... do you think it's right?"

Her smile left her face before she brought her son in and hugged him tight, fingers running through his dark hair.

"I don't approve of it."
Siegfried lowered his eyes, expecting that response. "Neither do I." He heard her laugh- a fresh, lovely sound- before releasing him from her bosom. She kept her hands on his shoulders and looked right into his eyes.
"Be strong. Through it all, just... try." A new smile appeared, one that was much more homely than the last one. "For me?"
"Yeah. For you." He smiled back at her, their bond slowly strengthening.

Siegfried Cyprus was soon able to accept the fact that no one- not even his parents- had all the answers for what they did, for the things they taught him. Despite his father's cold shoulder and his mother's faulty outlook on the subject, he grew to love his parents regardless. He knew that, in time, he would outgrow all of it, and there would finally be peace from the stuffy training.

That was, of course, before he turned ten, when an agonizing sickness crept behind and strangled him.

3

And now, he felt as if it had all been a hideous dream, one he woke up from just minutes ago. His eyes widened at the mirror that Stein held in his hand, examining it, his excitement building. Traces of dust made their home on the glass.

"Professor," he began, his voice not quite steady. "Are you really going to..."
"Yes, I am. I'd say that in your condition, you earn at least one shot at it." He tossed Siegfried the mirror before returning to another cigarette. "Go on. Make it quick."

Siegfried had been tracing numbers on the glass
(42-42-364)
when he suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. He swallowed (confirming that his throat was indeed a little raw) and hesitated.

What if he says no? Am I just wasting my time by begging him for it? It makes sense, concerning the severity of it... this thought molded into something vicious and unpleasant, a thought that formed into a daydream that ended with Lord Death not even bothering to answer his call in the first place. Those assumptions were silly, of course, but they were no doubt searing themselves into his brain like a ray of heat.

Meanwhile, Stein watched, his curiosity peaking.

...

"Well if it isn't Siegfried Cyprus! My my, you look well! Could it be that you're health is improving?"

Sig gave a shy smile at his old friend Lord Death, relieved that one of those dangerous thoughts were knocked out of the park. He finally began to relax.

"That's actually an understatement, sir. In fact, I've-"
"I heard from Stein that your condition has taken a turn for the better! Am I wrong?"
He already knows. Lovely. "Right again, sir. Aside from some sinus problems, I'm pretty much... cured."

He hated ending on that word, but he needed to be careful. Gotta reel him in first... can't start nagging yet. Lord Death is a very complicated, articulating individual who will put up walls and wont just-

"Would you like to start taking classes, Siegfried?"

The boy stammered at the lightning-fast response and lapsed into his first coughing fit. As it finally died, he realized that he wasn't looking much like a "clean bill of health" at all.

"Sinuses," he stated simply, chuckling a tad pathetically.
"Oh, it's no problem. You don't even need to give a response. You've been locked away in that stuffy little room for quite a long time now, haven't you? You're probably just itching to leave."
"On the money as always, sir."
"Money? Well, no, I don't think this chair counts for any currency I now of."

Awkward silence followed. Siegfried coughed, not from "sinuses" but to keep the conversation going.

"So, uh... about those classes..."
"Ah yes, your learning sessions. Unfortunately, the other students are very far ahead... not the best time to shove a new student in all willy-nilly, wouldn't you say?"
"Can't argue with you there. I haven't even been able to look through the textbooks thanks to, well, you know."
Death put a hand to hinder the conversation, as if that helped to hinder what his reply. "Of course of course, that darn old... thing."

He was of course speaking of the recent shortage of textbooks, a nasty occurrence that came by unexpectedly, keeping Siegfried from even attempting to get caught up with what was going on in the surrounding classrooms.

After a few more seconds of speaking "privately", Lord Death came up with a marvelous idea.

"Alright then, how's this sound; while we sort out this little textbook shortage, how about I give you a tutor! Someone who will help you get the hang of things around here and in the classroom, before you make your triumphant debut. How does that sound?"
Siegfried's smile instantly returned. He accepted gratefully, still beaming, unaware that Stein was sending him a smirk.

4

"Now now, don't cry, Sig. It was all in my best interest, I assure you!" The reaper gave an ok to the mirror with his thumb and forefinger. "Anywho, I'll be sending the tutor your way in just a few hours. I'll be expecting you to start packing." … "So you can start moving in with that Meister of your's, of course!" … "Hey now, dry those tears! You don't want to upset the tutor, now do you? Now, I must be on my way. Take care now!"

Lord Death shut off the communications and dusted off his hands.

"Well, now that that's out of the way, I'd like to thank you for volunteering for teaching our soon-to-be new student. I hope this doesn't get in the way of your daily responsibilities, Ms. Albarn."

Maka smiled politely. "No problem, sir!" As the Meister walked down Death's path, excitement washed over her. Siegfried Cyprus, huh? She thought.

This should be interesting!