These two were actually written as responses to requests on the Hetalia Kink Meme (which is not for the innocent of mind--mixed in with the interesting and tame requests is a lot of very explicit R-rated content.) They were intriguing and fun to do because they really ended up touching upon characters that I don't usually work with and required me to actually deal somewhat in historical canon, so. XD
Title: The Letter
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know: This was written for the prompt:
"Chibitalia is having trouble adjusting to HRE’s absence after he leaves for the war and spends a lot of time worrying about him...I’d like to see Austria or Hungary offering comfort to poor little Italy like a good daddy/mommy."
Now, for the uninitiated out there, HRE is the Holy Roman Empire, and Chibitalia is the fandom's name for young Italy (Feliciano). Both are represented as having children's bodies and living in Austria (Roderich's) home, where Hungary (Liz) works as a maid (as Austria had control of Italy and Hungary and was pretty much the prominent state in the loosely connected empire.) The war mentioned is the Thirty Years' War, after which the empire's territories had near-complete sovereignty, making it more or less the death of the HRE character.
Anyway, little Italy and HRE had an adorable little romance going, which is basically what I wrote about in this. It's very fluffy. :3
Summary: Feliciano decides to write a letter to his love. Roderich takes pity on him.
The letters, when they come, smell like gunpowder and filth.
Roderich does not know this. He sits at his desk and peers at them through his spectacles, dark eyes flickering over lines of script written in a clumsy hand, then sets them aside, adding them without deference to the piles of mail that come in each day. He reads for news of cities taken and lost, and when he answers in his perfect, precise lettering he offers pages of political advice and possible strategy, devoting only a paragraph at most to personal remarks.
He does not perceive anything beyond the text. When Feliciano asks, hands nervously kneading his apron, Roderich speaks of the content but not the emotion, of the nation but not the person. He does not understand (as Feliciano does, slipping into his office in the late hours of the night) that every smudge has a meaning, that every clinging scent speaks volumes, that a phrase like ‘I miss the household’ has so many shades of emphasis, with the most falling like a weight on the young servant’s shoulders.
Roderich asks him sometimes, out of courtesy, whether he has anything to add to his reply letter, but what Feliciano wants, needs to say cannot be expressed through another’s hand, much less the hand of a man who—as far as Feliciano can tell—has never loved.
So it is that Feliciano takes it upon himself to write a response. He writes when he has a free moment, when Roderich is not demanding tea or the carriage or a dusted parlor, and what he cannot write he draws, coloring with dabs of Elizaveta’s paints. He is not eloquent and he is not talented but he knows it will mean something, and when the pages upon pages are complete he folds them all within each other and wanders into Roderich’s office for some sealing wax.
He does it all with as much secrecy as he can manage, aside from inquiring with Elizaveta once or twice how to draw a horse or a building. Elizaveta, unfeminine as she is, understands somehow, enough to respect his feelings and keep her mouth shut about his silly, clichéd phrases when they catch her eye. Roderich would not understand, so Feliciano keeps it from him, making sure he is busy playing his harpsichord as he melts the stick of wax and lets droplets of it fall to the paper (and to his thumb, making him gasp and quickly reposition his hand) and stamps Roderich’s seal down.
He stands there for a time, blowing on the wax to dry it, and somewhere between doing that and thinking about the letter’s contents he fails to hear when the notes from the parlor fade, only snapping back into reality at the sound of hard-heeled boots thudding on the floorboards.
Roderich’s brows shoot up for an instant as he steps into the room and catches Feliciano there, then furrow as he sees the letter.
“Give that here,” he orders, holding out a hand.
“It’s mine,” says Feliciano.
“I don’t care. I would like to see it.”
“It doesn’t have anything bad in it. It’s just a nice friendly letter to Holy Roman because he misses me and—”
“I will not allow you to mail it until I have the opportunity to inspect it.”
Feliciano frowns. “But it’s not like I put any state secrets in there; you know I don’t know anything because I—”
“Give it here or it is not leaving this house.”
“But—”
Roderich steps forward, looming over him, and that is enough to make Feliciano shudder and regretfully place the letter into his outstretched hand.
He tears open the seal. His cold, dark eyes study the first page, then the second, then he flips quickly through the rest, something like confusion or annoyance tugging at the corner of his mouth. A lump forms in Feliciano’s throat.
When he is through, he strides over to his desk, picks up a letter opener and starts cutting away at the seal with it, leaving ugly bits of wax on the clean parchment.
“I will not have this nonsense labeled as official correspondence,” he declares. “You may send it, but not under my seal.”
“It has to be sent that way! It might get lost otherwise!” cries Feliciano.
“It cannot. It does not warrant that sort of importance, and I would not want to trouble anyone with thinking so.”
“It is important, though!” Feliciano insists, and he can feel his eyes start to prickle and burn. “It’s important to me, and Holy Roman, too!”
Roderich gives it back to him, unsealed and wax-stained. “Not in a time of war. There are greater matters to place first. Find another way to address it if it has that much value to you.”
Feliciano looks at it, then up at Roderich. Roderich turns and walks to his desk, shuffling through papers.
Feliciano bites his lip and begins to sniffle.
Roderich either does not hear him or ignores him. At first Feliciano is certain it is the latter, as Roderich has silently ignored Feliciano on many occasions, particularly when the young servant would become upset after a punishment—and that, that callousness brings Feliciano’s sniffles into full, hiccupping sobs.
He stares at the floor, clutching the letter’s sheets in his hand, tears dripping down his cheeks.
He remains like that, not having enough sense to move even as Roderich walks to his side, boot-steps loud and authoritative.
“Italy,” he says sharply, “Stop it.”
Feliciano wipes his nose and squeezed-shut eyes on his sleeve.
“Don’t do that,” Roderich commands with an irritated scoff, withdrawing a handkerchief and shoving it into Feliciano’s hand. “Calm down. Stop crying.”
Feliciano can’t. Roderich bends down to his level to regard him seriously and only then does he raise his eyes, blinking through the wetness, still gasping for breath. He holds the handkerchief in one white-knuckled fist, the letter partly crumpling in the other, clinging to each but unable to comprehend through his grief what to do with either.
Roderich watches him for a moment, then extracts the handkerchief from Feliciano’s fingers and takes it to the servant’s damp face himself, gently wiping it.
“Blow,” he says, placing the cloth over Feliciano’s nose, and Feliciano manages to steady his breathing enough to do that. “Better now?”
Feliciano shakes his head as a fresh tear trails down his flushed cheek.
Roderich straightens up, crossing the room and depositing the soiled handkerchief on his desk. “…If you want, Italy, I can speak to some of my advisors and see if one of them is willing to put their personal seal on your letter. They are influential enough that I have little doubt it would get through to Holy Roman, in that case.”
Feliciano stares at him. “B-But they’d read through it first…”
“Why does it have to be so private?”
“It’s special. It—it says things about how he’s my friend and I miss him and I…love him…”
An odd, unreadable expression crosses Roderich’s face. “It’s a love letter?”
Feliciano continues to stare. It dawns on him that Roderich, though he’d seen the pictures and the flowery phrases, hadn’t realized love was involved. Perhaps, Feliciano supposes, because the word ‘love’ had never shown up in the text—he’d thought words wouldn’t give it justice and had represented it with a picture of himself and Holy Roman holding hands instead.
Roderich walks back to him, hesitating, glancing away from him before saying, “My apologies. I suppose this must carry some considerable significance to you.”
Feliciano nods.
Roderich looks at him, his mouth tightening into a small frown. He raises an arm to make some motion, then thinks better of it and lets it drop. A few moments later, he lifts both arms, holding them out in what appears to Feliciano like some strange, halfhearted gesture of peace.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice still tinged with brusque authority, but softer than before.
Feliciano looks at him, at his face—which is definitely discontented now—and his arms, still and stiff in the air, and realizes that he is not just gesturing, but offering.
With a sudden jolt of emotion, he bolts the two steps between himself and Roderich and wraps his arms around Roderich’s waist, burying his face in his chest.
Roderich stiffens in shock. Feliciano starts to sob again, and then Roderich lets his palms fall on the servant’s back, not quite hugging him, his touch light and full of the uncertainty that he will not let show in his expression. Feliciano clings to him, pulling at the embroidered fabric of Roderich’s doublet, bunching it in his small fists.
He half-expects that even after taking the trouble to offer him a hug, Roderich will push him away. He figures that at any moment, Roderich will have enough of his own slipping composure and awkwardness and declare the deed done, the pity given. However, Roderich does not, and moreover, he attempts to pull Feliciano a bit closer. It is strange, and it makes Feliciano recognize something else—that Roderich, who has never loved, has also not done something of this nature in years. It is not so much his concerns about propriety that are holding him back, but the fact that he doesn’t know how hugging is done.
When Feliciano quiets, he decides to help him, taking hold of his arms and repositioning them to hold himself snugly against Roderich. He catches a glimpse of Roderich’s face before nestling back into his chest—he is red, thoroughly softened and embarrassed; enough to make Feliciano almost want to giggle.
Roderich coughs, attempting to gather himself. “I think I…I can do something that would remedy the problem of your letter.”
“Mmph?” Feliciano gives a muffled sound.
“I will let you send it with my next official letter. Then, at least, it will have something practical in it, and Holy Roman’s advisors will have something to gain from its contents.”
“You will?” says Feliciano, craning his neck. “Really?”
“If you wish, yes.”
“Thank you!” Feliciano squeezes him tightly, elated.
Roderich smiles a bit, in spite of his position. Roderich also coughs again, twice, until it occurs to Feliciano that he is crushing Roderich’s lungs. He breaks the embrace then, beaming up at his master.
Roderich breathes slowly through his nose, straightening his posture and reestablishing his stoicism. “Now, run along. I have work to do.”
Feliciano bows, trembling from excited relief, and grins from ear to ear as he goes.
*
The reply, when it comes weeks later, has a drawing in it.
It is mud-smudged and smells of filth. To Feliciano it is beautiful, though, as the rough sketch depicts the two of them standing with linked hands in a field of clumsily cross-hatched flowers.
Roderich barely regards it. He strides into the kitchen while Feliciano is washing the dishes and absently deposits it beside him, walking off with the remainder of the letter, the news of politics and the movements of armies. Feliciano, startled by it, is too moved to acknowledge him then.
So at night when he is at last done with the cleaning—Roderich is short-staffed in these troubled times, and the house is so big—he tiptoes to Roderich’s room and gently opens the door. The hinges creak and Roderich looks up from the book he is reading by candlelight, frowning in puzzlement.
“Yes?”
Feliciano bounds over to his four-poster bed and hoists himself onto it, lying down beside Roderich. He scoots over, hugging him. “Thanks.”
Roderich goes rigid and appears thoroughly annoyed for a few moments, but Feliciano is happy, so happy to know that Holy Roman is well and loves him that he is not afraid. He remains there and gradually Roderich’s demeanor lightens, relaxes, and like one trying to imitate an action he has only seen and never felt, he places a hand on Feliciano’s head and massages his fingers against his hair.
Feliciano gives a contented murmur. Roderich turns shortly after back to his book, for he has never loved and hardly knows the workings of affection, swallowing uncomfortably and setting the impulse to show it aside. He does not order Feliciano to leave, though, so Feliciano stays.
Feliciano ends up drifting off to sleep there beside him, nostrils filled with the scent of clean linen and cologne, dreaming of flowers and the warmth of hands.
Title: Picture-Perfect
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Physical abuse (mostly slapping and hair-pulling), suicidal thoughts (though, these being nations, they reincarnate after violent death unless they're very old, so...it's not as big a deal as it would be with human beings) and some (non-lethal) gun violence. Oh, and Roderich being nuts. How I love to write him nuts. XD
Notes and things-to-know: This was written for the prompt:
"A nation starts very suspicious of the others and thinks that he/she can't trust anyone. Especially not the person he/she is in love with."
Austria/Hungary was listed as one of the pairings to choose from, and immediately I thought of the headcanon I already have of Roderich being paranoid delusional. XD Historically, I always saw that happening not long before the First World War (when Austria was kind of starting to come apart), which coincided with the time in which Roderich was married to Liz. And I'd been wanting to write something about their marriage for a while, so. I really pounced on this prompt. XD
If you can guess what historical figures' assassinations I had Roderich and Liz fill the roles of at the end, you get a cookie. XD
Summary: Liz's marriage was primarily political, but still, she loved him a little. At least, until he began to lose his mind.
Bride, n. A woman with a fine prospect behind her. ~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary, 1911
Their life is, in all appearances, picture-perfect.
It is smiles and nods and good-natured conversation. It is lace and silk wrapped about her arms and hair done up in ringlets, dark modest coats and glittering watch chains. It is tea on the porch with the hills sweeping forth in vibrant green, calls in the parlor with the gaslight gleaming off the piano and polished divan, evenings with whispered nothings laden among soft linens. It is linked arms, held hands, the diamond on her finger and the posed photograph on her wardrobe where her white veil trails like a fog.
It is all the things that make a couple decent and respectable and more—heroic, even, in their partnership—and yet, many nights she looks at herself and her reflection looks back and she wonders just how hard it would be to put a knife through her own throat.
*
“I don’t love you,” she’d told him when he’d asked, bowed before her for the first and last time.
He had only gazed at her seriously, the crinkling of his brow revealing his puzzlement. Love? So what if she did not love him then? Marriage came like a contract, with all its exchanges of funds and land and authorities, and then if the parties involved worked towards romance, it blossomed. That was the way he had seen it, the pretext under which he’d paired numerous nobles, strategically binding them to secure holdings across Europe. She and he were surely no different.
So he’d said, “You will love me and I you, given time.” And she hadn’t really believed him, but when he’d gone on to speak of the powers she would have and the freedoms she would reap she saw the opportunity and felt it best to take it, for her nation—thinking like him, working for her nation—and he’d slid that diamond onto her finger with the air of one dressing a mannequin.
Then, of course, there’d been the grand affair of the ceremony, echoing Latin beneath soaring gothic ceilings; the ball full of gold and crystal and wine-loosened senses carried along by the waltz; and when at last he laid atop her in the gentle shadows of his room, smiling an awkward little smile that had nothing to do with politics or trade, she did love him, just a little.
That was what it was and remained—just a little. She maintained enough affection for him to want to hold him and kiss him and to be bothered when her people would attempt something rash, bucking the system and making him clench his delicate fists and massage his weary forehead. He, she suspected, always felt more than just enough, when he’d shoo away the servants and drop his stiffness and his guard, clinging to her out of loneliness he could never express in words. Early in those instances she was almost frightened, because she had never been someone’s anchor and wasn’t sure whether she was doing it correctly, but he hardly knew how these things worked either and like so much over time they grew normal.
It grew normal for her to have little to do at home, idly wandering the grounds and the nice clean rooms. It grew normal for her to sit with him in meetings as their respective advisors bickered and his, more often than not, won out. It grew normal for her to sleep in his bed, running a hand down his bony joints and the ridges of his ribs, so vulnerable without his rich waistcoats and frocks to conceal them.
It all grew normal and she convinced herself that the monotony was contentedness and her halfhearted feelings were all love could be, and for years she had no doubts that this situation was best, that she could have no other, for herself or for her country.
*
She can’t be sure when it began, exactly.
Perhaps it was after the meeting in Bohemia where he arrived to find that the resident powers had agreed to let the Czech language stand equal to German. She recalls standing by the doorway, watching his delicate, long-fingered hand swipe the meeting minutes onto the floor in a harsh rustle of paper, his normally calm tone giving way to fury as he yelled about what message such an allowance might send—was this what his authority had come to? Was this what his empire would be reduced to, its words on the same level to those in a lower tongue?
(She’d wanted to correct him—our empire—but something about the scene sent anxious chills through her, killing the pronouncement before it even reached her throat.)
Or perhaps that was only a slip that stress rendered him well-capable of, and the real beginning was the coup in Serbia. He was certainly no stranger to riots and violent overthrow—she’d lead one such movement against him herself prior to their marriage, mistakenly believing that that was the way to play the game of power—but this was different, somehow. The news had sent him pacing about the parlor, muttering about reasserting his power and barbaric peoples that didn’t know what was best for them, and when she’d dared to ask why he was so concerned about it anyway—
“These are difficult times. If one does not keep a firm hold over one’s possessions, then one will be viewed as weak and picked apart like carrion by one’s enemies. I cannot allow even this to go unchecked.”
“But you don’t own the land,” she’d reminded him. “You occupy it.”
“Occupation is ownership in all but name. I must secure my control over it as though it were officially one of my own.”
She hadn’t known quite what to say to that. There had been an odd look in his eyes, a certain harsh, crystalline brightness that she hadn’t seen before, and she’d felt suddenly this gulf between them—she, who had been so long ruled, and he, who had always ruled. She hadn’t understood his point, why he couldn’t let some territory diplomatically wrested from a foreign war out of his hands, but maybe she couldn’t understand, wasn’t experienced enough to understand. She’d decided to defer to his judgment.
At any rate, it had only progressed from there.
*
The first time he struck her, they had just walked out of a meeting, and the slap rang through the empty hall like a gunshot.
She’d been seated beside him during the conference with Russia, doing her best to heed his reminders not to slouch and not to make faces. She’d felt so uneasy, though, in the small shut-up room with the old gas sconces painting funnels of soot on the wallpaper, listening to him quietly murmur, expression staid. She’d folded and unfolded her hands as he’d jotted notes onto the paper, because she’d known this was how diplomacy was so often done—not by groups but secret pairs pledging vows of silence until the time was right—but it’d still seemed so underhanded, so wrong.
She’d tried, too, not to say anything in opposition to the arrangements he was making, because he always did what he thought was best for their collective nations and she’d respected that. When the treaty was brought up, though, she’d been unable to help herself.
“Didn’t the Treaty of Berlin specifically state that the Ottoman Empire was entitled to some rule over the land?”
Russia had smirked and given a low chuckle. Her husband had turned to face her, eyes again alert and bright and ice-cold, remarking, “That treaty is a mere set of guidelines pertaining to the administration of Bosnia-Herzegovina.”
“But shouldn’t His Imperial Majesty Sadiq at least have a say in these proceedings?”
“That is not necessary. His authority is in title only and irrelevant to our interests.”
“Whose interests?” she’d snapped back. “Yours and His Imperial Majesty Ivan’s, or yours and mine?”
“You ought not to speak to me in that manner.”
“I will speak to you in that manner,” she’d retorted, feeling the old frustration from her days of servitude heating her blood. “Don’t condescend me.”
“You fail to understand the minutia of this issue.”
“I do fail to understand. I fail to understand why you find it right to annex a territory behind the back of the other nation entitled to it.”
He’d stood, then, looming over her, face absolutely stony. “Ivan, let us have a moment.”
She’d glared at him as he’d beckoned, but followed. She’d followed him out into the hall, watching his expression, watching his composure, and then his palm had grazed her face with a sharp jolt of pain.
“How dare you attempt to embarrass me in the middle of an important conference!” he’d hissed, practically shuddering. “Making me out to be some sort of criminal, perpetrating scandalous action! I do not need my own wife, of all people, offering resistance to an action that is necessary for Austria-Hungary!”
“Is it necessary, truly?!” she’d demanded. “It is hardly part of our empire in the first place, just some—some greed-grabbed state on the outskirts!”
“If it was not necessary then I would not be doing it! If you think I enjoy breaking rules, inviting conflict, then you are even more foolish than I suspected! My reasoning is as I have said before—one must not be perceived weak. In this world, you must always try to gain and keep territory, or else you will crushed underfoot by the other powers!”
“Which other powers?! We’re not under threat of war by anyone worth—”
His glance had turned towards the shut door as though he could see straight through it to where Russia sat waiting. She’d fallen silent abruptly in response.
“Yes,” he’d said. “Yes we are. By many powers, in fact, though most are more willing to scavenge pieces of fallen nations than to begin a conflict.”
“You really think—”
“I know. And indeed, it is a factor in why I am conducting this agreement with him. Our cooperation in the present may aid in staving off future confrontations.”
“But where did you get the idea—”
“Elizaveta.” His voice had taken on a pleading tone. “Why is it so difficult for you to trust me?”
She’d bitten her lip. “I want to trust you, but when you are acting like this—”
“I’m sorry,” he’d said then, and bent to kiss her, and she’d felt herself forgiving him, just a little.
“Explain fully to me, later, about the threats over us. I cannot take you at your word. I’m sorry, too, but…I cannot take you at your word anymore.”
“That is a fine quality to have in diplomacy, but not in relations with your husband.”
“I know,” she’d whispered, wrapping her arms around him. “Later, please.”
“Very well.”
He never did bother to explain.
*
The second time he struck her, he did not apologize.
He’d been busy at the piano when the mail arrived, and thus, one of the maids had handed it over to her. She’d opened one of the letters meant for him, one sporting the Russian Empire’s official seal, and her eyebrows had risen at the sight of the disparaging rampage within.
She’d gone over to him, standing there momentarily at the piano bench as his hands rose and fell in the gentle chords of the sonata, then declared, “You blackmailed him.”
He did not stop playing, only said, “Russia raised a threat and I acted in response to it.”
“But you blackmailed him! You threatened to release documents that would damage his national security!”
“I am allowed to use my resources to ensure the safety of my empire.”
“Your empire?!” And here she’d decided to finally say it—“It is not yours but ours! Is my opinion so worthless, my authority so meaningless?! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to threaten something of that nature!”
“I don’t need—” He’d stood, shutting the lid of the piano with a slam, “—your express approval to do what needs to be done. I don’t need your excessive doubts impeding my actions and troubling my judgments.”
“Perhaps my sense of judgment is better than yours! Have you considered that?! Have you considered that this scheming you’re undertaking could be wron—”
He’d smacked her again, right across the face. She’d frozen in shock for a moment and then, crying out, reached for him, pulling him forward by the collar. He’d grabbed her by the hair, yanking strands of it out of place, and because she was no longer strong, riding horses and shooting guns and wielding swords these days, he’d managed to force her down, shoving her head against the bench and inciting tears from her detesting eyes.
“You have been a possession of mine for much of your existence, and even now, you still think like a possession,” he’d spat, and she could barely recognize his face. “You don’t know how to make sacrifices, to choose between evils. All my life I have had to make tough decisions, more often than not against common moral sensibilities, and you expect me to yield to your inferior wisdom and experience in this? I will tell you this, Elizaveta—I am not going to allow you to hinder my defending our interests in the very field where I know best. That would be betrayal of my people’s confidence and contrary to your well-being.”
“There is no way,” she’d muttered between clenched teeth, “that you can claim to be maintaining my well-being if you will not hear my thoughts!”
She’d attempted to raise her head, but he’d brought it down upon the bench again, shooting pain through her skull. “I have neither time nor the inclination to hear such nonsense!”
She’d flailed her arms, attempting to punch him, scratch him, whatever she could manage, but he had merely risen, shoving her aside, and taken quick steps from the room. She’d scrambled to her feet, but had stopped upon hearing the slam of a door and click of a lock from somewhere down the corridor.
It was anger, frustration, stress, she’d told herself as she’d stood there and trembled with dread and grief. It had to be. Goodness knew he had never been skilled at expressing emotions, only suppressing them, so he would hopefully regret this later, and…
Her hopes were ultimately in vain.
*
The third time he struck her, she realized that she no longer loved him.
This time, he did not bother confining the action to when they were alone. She’d barely provoked it, too—a passing comment on the disapproval of her nobles over his desire to combine Croatia with Bosnia-Herzegovina—and his hand had collided with her cheek and chin, drawing blood from her lip.
The servants had stared, wide-eyed. She’d jumped up, determined this time to harm him, to make him suffer, but he’d called for them and they’d come, pulling her off of him and restraining her like a mad dog.
“I am well-aware what resistance you and your nobles would like to offer,” he’d said levelly, “and you would do well to notify them that I will try them on counts of treason if they become public with it.”
“What are you saying?!” she’d snapped. “You have no grounds for such a case! They are not planning any kind of violence—merely expressing opinions!”
“You are lying! This nation is well under fire from within, and I will meet such actions accordingly!”
“You—” she’d begun, swallowing to gather herself and keep from lashing out, “You are exaggerating! The only region under fire is the one I was speaking of, and that is your own fault! You are not some sort of victim, you—you have no decent reason to own those lands in the first place!”
“I have no more patience for your ridiculous criticism!” He’d motioned to the servants. “Take her up to her room.”
“Leave me be!” she’d shot back at them. “I am the mistress of this house and you are obedient to me as well!”
“She is merely here as a result of my benevolence and diplomatic concessions! Take her out of my sight!”
“We are married!” she’d screamed, and against her will she’d cried, astonished by his callousness. “I am his wife and we are equals!”
“In name, but no more!”
He’d made a shooing motion with his hand, and while the thoroughly confused servants had decided to answer to him and drag her up the stairs, she’d stared at him, wondering if this was indeed the man that had cared about her and clung to her and smiled so clumsily when they had first sought to make love. She’d stared at him and he’d stared at her, red-faced and shivering and bright-eyed with what she realized was vigilance born of fear. He was so afraid of her, of the world, of everything—but she could not forgive him this time for his faults.
She hated him too much for that.
*
Nowadays, their life remains, in all appearances, picture-perfect.
As they set out in the carriage, she attempts to scoot away from him, to sit practically leaning out of the seat. He gives her a glare, though, and she reluctantly remains beside him. He could not have his (his and her, but she’s given up correcting him) citizens thinking that something might be wrong, after all.
He takes her hand, holding it tightly. Her engagement ring glints in the sun, hard crystal like his eyes when he speaks of extinguishing nationalist groups that battle with the local authorities, of the possible necessity of war. He sees said groups everywhere—on the streets, in the buildings, lurking in the shadows behind fellow-nations when they oppose him in any way, and on that front she suspects that a few other nations may know that he is definitely not who he used to be. They may know in the political sense, but not at all in the personal, because to everyone she and he have always been a strong alliance and doting couple, while alone at night she considers stabbing herself to escape the torment that is Austria-Hungary.
She considers it often and would do it, take a kitchen knife to her throat and be done with it, except that her nation would be ashamed of her and her husband would woefully chalk it up to a disturbed mind, and by God, she cannot have that.
So she stays. In public, they smile and are happy, he in his fine frock coats and she in her lacy gowns. In private, she has bruises beneath her sleeves and petticoats from his distrust of her. In private, he takes calls in an old robe and his imperial crown, because he distrusts everyone and constantly feels the need to show his authority, gripping onto his disorderly landholdings with insatiable anxiety.
In private, he hardly plays music anymore, just wild, tuneless arpeggios and smashing chords, loud and brash and the very antithesis of weak.
In private, he is mad. But in public, he is calm, stable, rational, and thus they ride into Sarajevo looking like the perfect pair, pillars of their nations, deeply in love. They maintain the illusion of perfection for the sake of their peoples, and even as the gunshots echo through the air and the crowd screams, screams, Elizaveta is smiling.
Roderich is the first to break, pressing a palm to where blood is blossoming over his white uniform, his other hand pointing, accusing—“Get him! Seize him!”
And Elizaveta blinks, as though coming out of a dream or a gripping nightmare, absently touching her own bullet-ridden torso, eyes flickering to her husband as his guards take hold of the assassin, his expression full of vindication and wrath. She has the sudden, insane urge to laugh.
“Wire Germany,” he is saying to one of the guards as the doctors come, taking her carefully from the carriage. “Tell him what has happened. And I want to meet with the Serbian representative within twenty-four hours. I need to know why this was allowed to occur, and if I am not given a straight answer—”
Then war will come, Elizaveta knows. And because she has no other choice, she will welcome it with open arms.
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