I was bored and needed to get my mind off things. So I wrote, despite not having a bunny, and ended up with something typically me and not original at all. :P
Towards the Beginning
by Maaya
During the first twenty years of his life, Wolfram is taught to play music, to write and to draw; what is considered the finer arts. He's a young noble, son of the Maou and his two older brothers are soldiers. There's no need for him to follow in their footsteps.
But he's not at all patient and there's not much in the teachings that satisfy him. Frustration makes him stubborn and his stubbornness makes him rude. For being so young, he is unusually unpleasant to be around.
Celi finally gives up and places him under the care of his older brothers. Wolfram has the same sort of temper as his father, she complains, and right then, it's decided that her third son will become a soldier.
Just like his brothers. Just like his father.
Conrad takes to teaching his little brother, finding it pleasant to do, even. A brat, he says. And he doesn't seem anything but amused. Sword-practice is a relatively smooth affair. It tires Wolfram, making him almost-pliant (more than anyone would ever have expected from him) at the end of the day. A very pleasant change; Wolfram doesn't even complain when he is put to bed.
Wolfram himself finds that he enjoys training. Something in his mind feels easier when he can focus on a goal; to whole-heartedly concentrate on hitting his opponent. Footwork, mind your steps. Fall back, defence. Quicker, faster, attack.
It's not a nice feeling, exactly. But it's satisfying in a way he's never felt before.
One day Wolfram hears his mother ask if Conrad doesn't work Wolfram too hard; the boy is, after all, still very young. Conrad replies that it's not more than what he needs, and that Wolfram can handle it.
It's one of few times he has heard his mother express concern for him, and the only thing Wolfram feels is offence that his mother would even consider doubting him.
After that, he works even harder. And his attacks are more aggressive.
Wolfram hears things in the castle. Voices around the corner, shocked whispers, hushed exclamations, everything tinted with a cautious fear and heavily soaked in disgust. No one really tries to hide it; everyone knows what horrible things humans are capable of. They cause wars. If humans hadn't existed, there would have been no wars. No loss, no death.
He is twenty-three and knows this as well as he knows his own backbone and that he sneezes around daffodils.
He's seen humans. Not many, yet, and he doesn't think they look very bad. Not much difference from mazoku, but with another air.
Still. Wolfram knows that there must be something more to it. And he dislikes what he doesn't know.
Wolfram doesn't like stews, dislikes red meat and detests spices. He is the stereotyped picky eater--only eats what he feels like at the moment, refuses it the next. Celi never even thinks about trying, only tells the servants to bring Wolfram what he wants. He eats fruits for breakfast, newly baked bread with cheese for lunch, cake for dinner.
Gwendal doesn't care. It's Conrad, as always, who is forced to draw the line.
Wolfram kicks and screams but in the end, he eats what he is given. Sullenly.
His brothers aren't always around. Wolfram is a von Bielefeld and his brothers aren't. They appear to have other duties; Wolfram is really too young to care about what and why. He only knows that they aren't there and he feels—even if he barely understands why, himself--lonely.
There aren't many other younger people around the castle. One or two servants perhaps, but Wolfram isn't interested in them. They're dirty and everyone would be upset if he talked to them. Talked, not played, because Wolfram is older now and he's not interested in playing anymore.
But there's no one to do anything with. Wolfram practices, rides, and reads a little. He discovers old books in the library, books in which the ink has almost faded from the dusty pages, the words barely readable. It intrigues him. He tries for decipher the text but he lacks any sort of patience.
The mystery has to remain unsolved.
He hurls the book into the wall and stalks out of the library.
The sun fascinates him. It always has, the lack of it affecting his mood. When it's cloudy and raining, Wolfram's temper drops and while his mood seems cold, it is more prone to heat up than ever before.
Rain feels dead. It's quiet and moody and stupid, really; it's a natural phenomena so why does he feel that way about something silly?
Finding out that Conrad is partly human, Wolfram can't quite trust the man anymore. He wouldn't go to Gwendal either, and his mother just isn't what he is looking for.
He doesn't need anything. He refuses to admit to himself that he wants warmth.
end