Chapter Text
Walking through fields of flowers with Lord Von Bielefeld brought bittersweet pangs to Elizabeth’s heart. The familiarity of it felt dream-like, harkening back to a time when they had been close compatriots, but his eyes were distant as they fixed on the sun. Being here with her… it didn’t affect him in the way she had hoped, though he treated her with warmth and kindness. Without Yuuri to fight about, he had reverted to the sweet, baby-cheeked boy she remembered, but she couldn’t remember the lassitude with which he moved.
They sat beside each other on a bench at the center of Cecelia’s garden of flowers, the sun glinting in Wolfram’s golden hair. He had always shone brightly in her mind, but he seemed dulled now, quietly retreated into himself.
It struck a sour chord in her. Wolfram had always been a mazoku with strong feelings, making fire the perfect element for her, so the quiet restraint he was showing now felt unnatural to her on a face she had seen laughing and crying but rarely so pensive.
“Ne, Oniichan?” she ventured softly, her fingers stroking the delicate petals of the Serious Gwendal she held. “Can you explain something to me?”
“Hm?” His head tilted towards her, a wavy lock of golden hair spilling over his high cheekbone. He had grown so beautifully, and she was forced to suppress a pang of longing. Wolfram had made his preference clear. Except: had he?
“When we were fighting,” she asked him, too embarrassed to watch his face, staring at the flower in her hands, “I asked you to admit you loved the Maou. It’s obvious you do, so… why didn’t you just say it? I don’t understand.”
Wolfram’s head hung, his expression hidden by a curtain of hair. His agile fingers tightened on the edge of the bench, knuckles paling. He hesitated, feet dragging lightly against the cobblestone pathway. “Yuuri…” he breathed in shallowly, the air trapped high in his chest. “He… doesn’t like hearing it.”
Elizabeth frowned, her nose wrinkled, abandoning the flower between her fingers to stare at Wolfram’s golden head. “He doesn’t like it?” She echoed disbelievingly. What man, woman, child wouldn’t want Wolfram von Bielefeld to announce his endless devotion to all that would listen? Her dislike of the king only grew as Wolfram shook his head, his shoulders slumped. Beaten. Wolfram said nothing more, but Elizabeth wasn’t ready to abandon the subject. “Why not?”
Wolfram shrugged. Again, it took him several moments to answer, searching for words that could explain the wound he carried within him. He tilted his head suddenly to the sky, sucking in a hard breath. “Because he doesn’t love me.”
The grip tightened suddenly, crushing the stem of the flower she held. “How can he not love you?” she asked heatedly, stormy ire bending her beautiful face.
He met her gaze, his vibrant green eyes as always showing every emotion he felt. He was beautiful even as they glazed over, sparkling- even if it was pain that lit them up. “Yuuri doesn’t think that men can love each other the way a woman and man can,” he told her quietly, his mouth twisted improbably into a smile. It hurt her to see it.
She frowned, perplexed. “But… the king supports mazoku human unions. Surely-”
“Believe me,” Wolfram interrupted her, his voice low and ragged, “the irony is not lost on me.” He sank into himself, a delicate long-fingered hand covering his eyes. He shook his head slowly, his lips stretching back towards his ears. “Damn that Yuuri,” he choked, angrily wiping at his eyes with his jewel-blue sleeve. “It doesn’t matter what I do. I can give him my loyalty and my sword and my life, I can dedicate myself entirely to his every whim, I can make myself as charming and sweet as he wants and it still won’t be enough. I’m a man and I can’t change that.”
Elizabeth was on her feet, her fists clenched angrily at her sides. Fire burned inside her, leaping hot at every tear her beloved Wolfram shed. “And he dares to trap you in your engagement?”
Wolfram snorted. His hand dragged down his face to cover his mouth, revealing his red-rimmed but now dry eyes. His emotions had always been near the surface. She had been the defender and protector of tearful Wolfram, and the rumors of a hot-tempered, extroverted fiance of the King had sounded wild to her. She felt the old feelings rise again, as they had been lately, infuriated that anyone would sully his reputation, make the soft-hearted boy she had known out to be a jealous and petty demon.
“He’s too much of a wimp to ask Von Christ how to do it properly.” His hand pulled back from his face, pushing his hair back before landing on his knee. “I’m not going to help him.” He sounded hollow. “I love him,” he said aloud, the sheen returning to his eyes with the strangled admission as he stared at the sky, “and I’m going to stay close to him as long as I can.”
Elizabeth deflated slowly, the muscle between his eyebrows relaxing. She sat back down, her hands twisting together. He had clearly made his choice. Wolfram could be very stubborn. “Does the king know he hurts you so?”
Wolfram released his breath, closing his eyes. The sun heated his skin, rosying his cheeks. “No.”
“How can he not?” She hissed.
“I’ve long learned to let hurt become anger instead of tears,” he told her, his lips twisting into a bitter smile, his emerald eyes brilliant as they reflected the sun. “It wouldn’t do for a Lord of Bielefeld to cry all the time, now, would it?”
His words lanced through her tender heart. She threw her arms around him, squeezing him to her. He turned his head towards her, though it was bent down, and she eagerly shifted forward to press their foreheads together.
“Besides,” he continued softly, whispering secrets to his confidante, “I would never cry in front of him. That wimp couldn’t take it.” She was beginning to think he used that term whenever saying his name would be too painful. “He’d panic and try to fix the problem just to get me to stop.”
“Then perhaps you should!”
“Unless he can change his inclinations, there’s nothing to be done.” His hand curled around the back of her head briefly before he pulled away and stood, straightening his sword belt. “I hardly want to give him another excuse to avoid me,” he continued, his voice returning to a neutral.
He glanced at her a moment, shyly, before he rolled his shoulders back and settled into his uniform, so to speak. He looked like a young Shinou like that, if only his eyes were blue, regal, a prince formed from dreams. The concept that anyone could be experience the selfless devotion of a man like him and somehow not want it was entirely foreign to her. Unthinkable.
Meeting the Maou’s Other Self had only solidified to her that he understood nothing. Punishing his fiance by making him go on a date with her when Wolfram loved him this much? It was cruel.
She was thankful, but it didn’t erase the unintended heartlessness of his decision.
She stood slowly, gripping her own fingers as she faced him. “Will you write to me?”
There was a pause. He faced her directly, his hand settled on the pommel of his sword. She stepped forward and fixed his windswept hair. “If you insist,” he answered with a half-smile, his gaze soft.
She beamed, squeezing his fingers and stepping away.
“Let me know if His Majesty ever needs to be beaten.”
His disbelieving laugh made her smile at last.