oOo Conrad oOo

Conrad was breathing heavily, uncomfortably drawing breath only to expel it in a loud exhalation. His men had long ago been dismissed; he hadn't meant to order them to run the entire length of the capital. Many were even now collapsed on the steps leading up to the kitchen's entrance, wishing to swiftly die from exhaustion and wondering, "Why in hell is the commander so ABSOLUTELY determined to murder us all?"

They didn't make much noise, actually. All of them knew of Conrad's loss, and they too felt pain at the thought of never having the short-tempered blond running around unconsciously brightening everything ever again. It didn't surprise them that Conrad had announced that he wanted to patrol the city's border on foot.

So Conrad ran alone, all the way back to the walls that protected his home. He wasn't entirely sure why he was doing something so stupid. He should be at the castle now, discussing plans with Yuuri, not running away to avoid the hurt looks and accusatory glares. He could hear them, hear how they sneer at him…

Look, it's that man Weller. He's supposed to be the best swordsman in the world, but he can't even keep his brother safe. The king's protector first, brother second. He couldn't tell when Wolfram was possessed, and he's equally useless now. That such a young boy should suffer for the folly of someone like him….

Conrad could hear the taunts, because in the quiet of his mind, thousands of voices, or possibly just one, screamed recriminations at him. He could hear the insults because he was the one who was shouting them.

He ought to be in the castle, trying to help his king, or discussing plans with Gwendal as to what actions they should take to get back Wolfram, and to get revenge.

But he really, really wasn't in the mood to behave properly.

He wanted to be alone, so that he could fool himself into imagining that Wolfram's alright, that he was currently stomping around the castle loudly calling for his wimp. That when Conrad returned to the castle, he could smile into the bejewelled green eyes of his most precious younger brother and say, "Welcome home, Wolfram. I've missed you."

Maybe if I run hard enough, and far enough, I can find him.

Maybe if I run hard enough, and far enough, and fast enough, I can finally protect him.

If I run, maybe he will return.

oOo Gwendal oOo

Gwendal was sitting still as a statue in the corner of a darkened room. His arms were folded in front of his chest, his head slightly bowed, eyes shut. If one didn't know better, one would think he was asleep.

But he wasn't. He was in a room known to few. He was in his bedroom. The room was so much of a contrast to him that it was startling to imagine that such a fierce man had such a …cute room. It was filled with soft, knitted things. On every available surface (and the floor was not left out) woollen dolls stood upright, or piled in stacks, or carefully placed in charming sitting positions.

Gwendal knitted when he was stressed.

Gwendal was stressed a lot.

So, Gwendal has knitted. A LOT.

Even his curtains looked like giant tea doilies of questionable origin.

Yet his hands were discomfortingly still; they didn't move in long-ago memorised movements, the soothing noise of needles clacking together went unheard. Gwendal didn't move at all. Even the gentle rise and fall of a person's chest as they breathe was disturbingly absent. Gwendal was as still as the dolls around him.

No one knew he was here. He knew he should be dragging Yuuri into a meeting chamber to discuss their retrieval (only a slight clenching of his fists betrayed the sorrow that he felt. They couldn't rescue Wolfram, it was too late. All that is left to be done is to retrieve him) of his brother, but he couldn't move. He felt strangely detached, like he was a consciousness stuck in a mass of flesh that he could not control. Nor did he particularly want to move. Moving meant he had to think. And right now, all that thinking brought was pain.

But to not think would make me a coward. Is it not enough that I have lost Wolfram because of my thoughtlessness, that now I would soil his memory with my cowardice?

Thinking made him feel weak and broken, but it was preferable to not thinking and remaining in the limbo of guilt and denial.

I should not have let him go. Obviously the letter was meant to lure him out. That I was foolish enough to think it was safe just because the bastards weren't punctual! Had this been on the battlefield, I would have lost an entire regiment.

Instead, I have lost my brother.

I am the oldest. How could I not have protected him? I should have insisted on following them, or forced Wolfram to just spend the night at the main camp. Instead I took the MOST irresponsible action and let them go without adequate protection.

I could have prevented all this.

I didn't.

Gwendal could feel the tears as they slowly made their way from the corner of his eyes. He wasn't sobbing, and the tears were not running like streams off his chin. Just beads of water rolling smoothly down his cheeks.

But here is Gwendal Von Voltaire, the immovable son of a former demon king, the man behind a name that could scare the boldest warrior, sitting in a sea of glassy-eyed dolls crying. Crying for all the things that he has done wrong, for all his regrets. Crying, because Wolfram was no longer there.

Let it be remembered that on this day, the heart of Gwendal Von Voltaire was broken.

Anissina sat on a chair she had brought with her outside Gwendal's room. Keeping a silent, unnoticed watch over the (only to her) helpless man, Anissina contemplated what would happen next. The royal family were weeping in solitude, and though even she had to admit it sounded fairly heartless, she was more worried for the kingdom than she was for the boy.

Anissina stared intently at the stones of the wall she was facing, before shaking her head. Obviously Wolfram isn't dead. His name hasn't been darkened on my super-durable long-lasting Mazoku family tree of life! Kun, but everyone's too distraught to listen. Besides, how could they not trust him more? He performs my experiments much better than Gunter and Gwendal, and it would be hard to imagine anything stopping him from coming back for the king.

Anissina was pleased with the conclusion she had drawn. Capturing a passing guard with her gaze alone, she instructed him to ask Murata, Gunter and Giesela to meet her in the library in two hours' time. The three were the best-equipped people to function during this time, what with the king and all his regents basically incapacitated. She would tell them about her Mazoku family tree of life! Kun, and she was sure that together they could come up with a way to rectify the current situation.

Brushing herself off, Anissina stood and wound up the little box in her hands. She placed it on her seat next to the door, and nodded happily when it started to play a gentle, sweet tune, familiar and comforting. It was the song to whose pace she had first trained Gwendal to knit, and she knew, in the way she always knew the true value of her creations, that it would help the injured man inside the room. She looked at the door intently, hoping it would swing open so that she could speak to her friend, and was disappointed (only slightly) when no bear of a man appeared. In an uncharacteristic fit of worry and doubt of her invention, Anissina bowed her head and offered a quite prayer.

Shinou, should you be listening and in a position to help, I ask that you make sure Wolfram returns safely. You may only be a man, but even you couldn't want this many men, and more importantly women, dying slowly of heartbreak. And Wolfram is just a boy. He deserves to have a life to live.

The fit passed swiftly, her confidence returning to its unparalleled height seconds later.

Anissina's eyes snapped open, though she couldn't recall closing them. She shook her head, her hair swinging with a life of its own. At this point in time, she has done everything she could, including requesting the aid of an impossibly old man. All that was left now was to figure out how to kick the fact of Wolfram being alive into all their heads, and rule the country while they go find him.

Nothing too difficult.

She smiled.

(Two hours later)

Anissina stood at the head of the table, studying each face carefully. Giesela's eyes were red-rimmed, and were flashing with stoked anger at being called away in her time of grieving. True to her training as a battlefield healer though, she curbed her words and sat still awaiting whatever was too come. A healer could not afford to take anything lightly, and the knowledge that she would give anything said due consideration was part of why Anissina wanted her there.

Mostly it was because she was a woman, so obviously she would be a lot of help to their planning.

Gunter was nowhere near as tear-stained as his daughter, but his eyes were hard and cold. His usual flighty behaviour had been buried after he heard the news, and he had reverted to the man he was before he became an eccentric tutor: hard, businesslike, capable yet painfully emotionless. Though it seemed unfair that time had not stopped for such an occasion, Gunter had sworn to himself to give Wolfram's family and fiancée peace for as long as he could, even if it meant he had to run the country alone. He was seated quietly to Anissina's right, opposite his daughter. Lavender eyes looked at her, devoid of hope and anticipation.

Anissina ignored it. She knew people. Hope would return soon enough, once she's said her part.

The final occupant sat opposite her, the only one in the entire castle (apart from her) seemingly unmoved by the apparent tragedy. Murata was smiling at her, face cradled in his palms, elbows on the table. Anissina didn't bat an eyelid. Though the Great Sage was no woman, he was the Great Sage, and as such she had expected no less from him. But she did realise that it made things much easier to have his help.

Making everyone believe what her invention told her would be difficult, but as long as the only other double-black in the entire world understood what she said, Anissina had no doubt she could convince people that Wolfram was thankfully alive. Meeting her brilliant blue eyes were wise, endlessly deep black ones, and Murata nodded. Anissina let loose a little 'hmm' of triumph before unrolling what appeared to be a deep red carpet almost a foot thick on the table.

Giesela and Gunter were surprised, while Murata just looked amused. She's a scary female, isn't she, Shinou?

I had to resist fleeing to Svelera when I heard her. A chuckle. Have fun, my sage.

After a cursory glance at it, loopy golden curls could be seen, connected to each other with thick silver cord. Some curls were a lazy burnt orange, but for the most part the patterns were in gold. Inspecting the golden whorls closest to her, Gisela traced them with her fingers, before calmly saying, "These are names." Gunter had stood when Anissina had thunked the thing onto the table, and now looked at her with a grave expression. "What is this, Anissina?"

Relishing her moment as the successful, most-amazing demon inventor in recorded history, Anissina smiled a crooked smile. Patting the carpet-thing, she faced Gunter.

"Wolfram isn't dead. My Super-Durable Long-Lasting Mazoku Family-Tree-of-Life! Kun knows this. And," she turned to Murata who was looking at the names with just a little bit of awe, "after I tell you how it works, you'll know that the little lord brat is alive too."

Shocked silence.

Not for long.

oOo

"Gunter, if you would stop going off on a tangent when I'm explaining the mechanics of my invention, you could grasp this simple concept." Anissina glowered at the lavender-haired man, who "eeped!" then quieted. No amount of natural disasters could take the fear of Anissina out of the inhabitants of Blood Pledge. The menfolk, at least.

Giesela was chuckling. Unlike her father she had understood Anissina's explanation first time around, and was now cautiously confident that Wolfram was, in fact, alive. Tentatively, she touched Wolfram's name, a dark, burnished gold, not as bright as hers or anyone else's in the castle, but undoubtably gold, rather than the orange of Dan Hiri and Suzannah Julia.

"The name that you are born with is subtly magical. For the rest of your life, your name dictates what kind of life you will lead. But when you die, the magic that was tailor-made only to you will decompose because it no longer belongs to anyone. I've soaked hundreds of spools of thread in a solution that was created to track the minute discharges of magic of a name, and so the thread will glow gold in response to the presence of a life for its name, and turn orange when it no longer finds life. In the week that I was free while I was waiting for my new lab equipment to arrive, I decided to put the magic to good use and do this. Theoretically, any name could be sewn and tracked, but I only got as far as the royal family, aristocrats and castle inhabitants whose names I remembered before my things arrived early. I hung it outside my laboratory, so that everyone could see."

Gunter looked impressed, and indeed he was. His skin was tingling; some of the things he had learnt while reading through the entire library corresponded with Anissina's insane creation, and he allowed himself a speck of hope. Steadily growing more excited, he fingered the thick red fabric before looking at Anissina.

"And this? What does this red plush do?"

Anissina oho-ed a little, before admitting the truth. "I was supposed to teach Gwendal how to make a quilt with it, but he was away, and I needed a large base for the names. In the spirit of intelligent-spending (Murata just barely managed to stifle his giggle) I decided that it would suit my purposes, and realised that it would also teach Gwendal not to live his life out of accordance with my schedule"

Anissina frowned a bit at the thought, but the frown grew deeper when she saw the Great Sage howling with laughter, and Giesela was bowed over, hugging herself as she laughed so hard tears began streaming down her face. Gunter was simply staring at her with open-mouthed horror, but she didn't take much notice of him.

Gunter snapped himself out of his stupor, but even he couldn't help the smile that bloomed across his features.

Wolfram's alive! Shouted Giesela and Gunter internally. Murata just heaved a relieved sigh that his assumption had proven to be correct.

"So," began Murata, who hadn't been speaking much, having chosen instead to listen carefully to everything Anissina said. "When should we break the happy news?" Gunter had already got to his feet to proclaim Wolfram's currently-alive state to the entire country, but even his exhilaration could not make him miss the concerned look on Giesela's face.

"What's wrong, daughter? Do you disagree with this?" Giesela looked at him, brow furrowed, before beginning hesitantly. "I... I think we should wait. Everyone is too sad and fragile, and if we tell them now, even with proof, they probably wouldn't believe us. They might even get angry because they think we're taking this too lightly".

Giesela adopted a serious expression.

"In my experience as a healer, it's usually better to tell important news a few days after something traumatic has happened. If the people you talk to haven't gotten over their shock, things tend to get more painful and difficult if you give them information they think they shouldn't believe." She sighed sadly. "Celi, Conrad, Gwendal and Yuuri could get angry with us, and if they do, it would take even longer to convince them. I don't think we have much time, and if we get it wrong now there may be no second chance."

Murata's glasses glinted and his eyes were obscured, signalling to the others that he was deep in thought.

"Two days" he finally said. "Two days, and if Shibuya can't handle it, I'll personally find a way to knock some sense into him." He looked around the table, eyes questioning.

Each person responded with a nod.

"Two days," they chorused.

Then, Murata added silentlyto himself, ready or not, Wolfram, here we come.

They disbanded, each deep in thought, yet all in an incomparably better mood than when they went in.

End chapter.

Could anyone tell I like Anissina? I had trouble writing Conrad and Gwendal in depression, but it doesn't seem fair if their emotions weren't acknowledged when everyone thinks Wolfram is dead. This chapter has it's light moments, because while kkm is occasionally a bucket full of angst, the hopeful funniness never goes away :) And while the story does seem ridiculously long for no good reason, I hope it's enjoyed because coughproudwritersyndromecough I like it too much for it not to be XD

Update next friday! Or this coming Monday, if I'm free. It's Wolfram next

Much love to my excellent BETA invikta, for keeping me company and keeping me awake.