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It wasn't exactly a surprise when Olivert disappeared again. The signs had been there; a restlessness hidden behind Olivert's effortless poise and inscrutable etiquette, so slight that he thought that even Alfin may not have seen it, her constant if naive efforts to meddle in her brother's love life aside. He knew it well, though; he'd been scolded enough for Olivert's exploits that he was hyperaware to it out of sheer self-preservation.
Of course, it generally doesn't result in a joyride over the border, but when the name Cassius Bright keeps being mentioned in briefings that Olivert is absolutely not supposed to be reading, he probably should have figured that out a little faster.
Normally he'd find Olivert in the green room at the Heimdallr Opera House, or attempting to cajole his way onto the stage at the Turandot, or just kicking back in whichever bar had the cheapest most expensive spirits and at least some vested interest in keeping them flowing - lute optional. He did check them first, of course; he did pay the Alisha girls to let him know if they saw a wandering bard in a white coat, among others, but he was also sure Olivert knew that and so no word didn't mean there was nothing to see. Usually.
Later, he'll wonder if he should have expected anything to be normal given the sheer amount of disaster about to be unleashed (and Olivert's remarkably less than small part in it). Second-guessing absolutely everything isn't exactly the way a Vander is raised to be, even when assigned to someone like Olivert. He is meant to be able to restrain the worst of the princely urges and ensure Olivert cannot be found standing on a piano, deliberately singing out of tune and holding two rather large tankards of what appears to be beer. This is meant to be effortless and also entirely unnecessary, and yet, sixteen days after Olivert wanders off, that is where Mueller Vander finds him.
"I'm not paying for those. Or the piano," he says, standing just close enough to the piano that if Olivert should unbalance and fall, he could at least pretend to try to catch him.
But Olivert is still nimble and perfectly balanced and missing his usual red-flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, the drinks are already paid for, the patrons seem to take the laughter of the pianist as a sign that this is perhaps not something to be alarmed by, and Mueller would be prepared to swear on oath that there is something crawling up the back of his neck.
"Did you know we're about to be at war?" is not the thing he expected Olivert to whisper in his ear, playing the stumbling drunk and wrapping his arm over Mueller's shoulders as if he needed the support.
Sometimes he thinks his life is more like one of Alfin's novels than the kind of life that the bodyguard and confidant to the black sheep prince would ordinarily be expected to have. He hasn't had leave in years; he can't think of anyone whom he could trust with Olivert if he wasn't there, or whom Olivert would trust the way he is now. He genuinely doesn't know if he's only here because of his family name; if he'd have chosen to serve here, or at all, if he hadn't been born a Vander and at the right age when Olivert had been brought to Valflame. The concept that his life could be anything but this endlessly exasperating merry-go-round is both comforting and highly foreign; he has to believe he's here for a reason, or he'd break the way he's seen some of the cavalry men fall, just not able to wrap their minds around being both human and highly trained for battle. But at the same time, he can't imagine not being constantly alert to every move Olivert makes, constantly challenged and always moving; he's sure he'd be bored and just another rank without a command without Olivert there, probably fully devoted to training his brother and resentful that he was born too early.
"War?" he says, when they're alone. Olivert is surprisingly capable at times; though Mueller did have to pay for the room, there was a room to be had, and one that did not draw undue attention compared to Olivert's favourite disguise. "Why do you think I'd know about a war?"
Which he thinks is a fair question; he's provisionally assigned to the 7th Armored, but it's just understood that his only role is to look after Olivert, so he doesn't often get included in the less general briefings and he is usually one of the last to be recalled.
But it seems that this is a piece in the puzzle Olivert is ten, thirty, fifty selge ahead in assembling, and Mueller can't even understand where Olivert found some of the pieces he describes; it's almost fantastical, except for the sinking feeling he gets when Olivert mentions the Hundred Days War, and his idea that the conflict never really stopped. If Mueller doesn't know, that means that information is being controlled, and that means...
"We need outside help," Olivert says, and Mueller just knows that it's the start of a scheme.
Another one.
But the idea they have of explaining Olivert's absence in Heimdallr doesn't do anything but make him skittish, antsy; it feels wrong in all the ways he's felt since he started growing out of his gangliness while Olivert never grew out of being an unashamed exhibitionist. They can't even guarantee that the Princess Klaudia will go along as Olivert suspects, but the thought that she might makes him feel sick inside.
Olivert must see something, something that Mueller can't keep hidden, another small failure.
"But don't worry, you'll still be my favourite," he says, and leans in close, so close; the moment lingers, and Mueller thinks this might be it, the moment where he cracks for real. Olivert pulls away barely a second later, laughing heartily; Mueller can barely breathe.
"You have to promise, if you want my help to do this, that you tell me where you are at all times. No more disappearing," he says, more to salvage the moment than because he believes Olivert would keep such a promise; the man is physically incapable of that much, despite his many gifts.
But Olivert pauses, and almost, for a moment, Mueller thinks that if he could promise, and keep his word, he would. But he says nothing, while time seems to stretch out and then contract almost instantly, and it's like Olivert is already sliding back into his other persona.
"The embassy is expecting you in the morning," he says, and then he's fading into the shadows as if he had another secret assignation he was expected to keep. "I'll come back to you when I can," he hears, and then Olivert is gone, again.
It is only as he leans back, deciding that he'll sleep in the room since he already paid for it, that he realises that Olivert had relied on him, trusted him, in his own way.
He'll remember that many times over the next few years, holding on to that small sliver of a truth, ever fanned with teasing glimpses of hope.