Okay, just for clarification. Yes, this story does belong to me. I had it published under my secondary account, but decided it belonged on this one. This is the uncensored version, just to warn you all. If FF gives me any problems about plagiarism...well, hopefully that won't happy. I solemnly swear I did not steal this story- it belongs to me and me alone. (Though I am borrowing the characters)

A Lost Harmony

Music was a beautiful thing. Roderich Edelstein sat at his piano, eyeing the soft sheen of light against the polished wood, before closing his eyes as he played a rolling chord. His lips twitched into the faintest smile at the perfect harmony of notes, his practiced fingers dancing lightly across gleaming ivory keys. His meandering thoughts continued as he played the piece perfectly from memory. Music was beautiful…because it was an audible expression of all the complex and passionate emotions of the heart, tempered by the cool logic of a sharp and disciplined mind.

The Austrian sighed softly, mind wandering to past times he'd played this particular piece, only to have a scene flash sharply from his memories; a woman with flowing brown hair…a green dress swishing as she turned sharply…hazel eyes holding a curious mixture of hurt and apathy…and a gold ring thrown at his feet.

A sharp discordant sound filled the air as his fingers hit an A# in the place of a G, and the aristocrat physically flinched. The missed note grated against his ears—having perfect pitch was a mixed blessing that was more often than not simply a curse. He hissed softly in displeasure, starting the piece from the beginning and playing it through over and over until he was satisfied it was once again perfect, and the wrong note would never be struck again. His fingers stilled eventually as he stared at the keys… the memory wouldn't be shooed away by the soft trills of the nocturne, despite his best efforts. The Austrian stood abruptly, carefully covering the keys, before calmly moving to stand by a large window and stare outside.

Erzebet… Erzebet Hedevary, the nation of Hungary…and his ex-wife. His nose wrinkled softly at the term—he disliked the sound of "ex." It seemed so harsh, too small to express the complicated history contained therein. He could still trace the lines of her face perfectly from memory, still hear her forceful yet undeniably calming voice echo in his head.

Roderich wasn't a man of regrets. He didn't chose to linger in the past...what was done was done, and there would be no changing that no matter how much he wished there was. However, it could perhaps be said that the strong-willed woman he had for a time called wife was the one true regret in all his long life. If one simply looked at the past, they could easily assume that he simply regretted marrying her in the first place—after all, he'd never seemed terribly enthused about the idea (Being enthused about anything had never really had a place in the prim aristocrat's existence). Conversely, an observer might also assume he regretted letting her go, that he still had deep feelings of love for the woman and wished for her back every day…that was a bit more conceivable, though still not true.

Contrary to popular opinion, Roderich did feel emotions, and feel them quite strongly. No true musician could be free from emotion—emotion was, after all, the soul of music. Yet…not all of the Austrian's emotions were poured into the black and white of his beloved piano, nor into the graceful strings of a violin, and not even into the clear trills of a silvery flute. The love he had held for the Hungarian, the bitterness at their parting, the regret for his own actions- all of it was tucked away in a small box locked away in the deepest parts of his self, hidden from the prying and judgmental eyes of the world.

He did, however, still have a few pictures of her, and one of the two of them together, all safely put away. She had been a strong ally, and a large part of his life for many years—it was acceptable to have a small amount of mementoes to simply remember the period. Holding the pictures was simply the proper thing to do, not an indication of any remaining strong feelings. He did possess emotions…yet always, apathy was an undeniable temptation. It was so easy, to let the music take his feelings away, to let the wayward emotions serve as power for the melodies and nothing more, and to find repose in a place utterly lacking in care for anything save the perfection of sound and the integrity of rhythm as he played.

The man's exact posture faded for a moment as he allowed himself to slump against the window frame, indulging in a brief moment of weariness. Erzebet…even now she haunted his thoughts. Perhaps one of the most perfect women ever created, she had been a unique blend of strength and vulnerability, cruelty and kindness…a warrior and a loving wife. While it was true their marriage had been largely political, Roderich was never opposed to the idea of having her in his home. She had fit comfortably, giving a warmth and light that inspired him past all but perhaps a few of Mozart's greatest works. As his wife, the Hungarian had done much for him: cooking, attending to the house, gardening, and generally making things more beautiful with an innate feminine grace. She had comforted him when he was upset, defended him when he was weak (which was less often than a certain loud-mouthed albino liked to bellow mockingly), supported him in his efforts, and shown him faithful love and devotion. He had appreciated it greatly, in return attempting to be a good provider for her, to keep an even and agreeable disposition, and not inconvenience her life more than absolutely necessary. Yet…despite all, he had never touched her beyond a chaste kiss every now and then, and a gentle embrace one or two occasions upon which she'd been particularly distraught.

No one knew their marriage had never been consummated save for Roderich and Erzebet….though upon second though, it seemed safe to assume Gilbert was probably aware of the secret by now. If the information became common knowledge, people would assume all sorts of things. Perhaps he'd found her undesirable (He didn't—she was a gorgeous woman, not even he could deny appreciating her form once or twice.), or he had simply been turned off by her gender (Somewhat closer to the truth, but no, he had not and never was going to be with Switzerland, they were blood relatives for God's sake, and if he ever heard another living soul speculate that he had…feelings for Prussia, other than abject contempt of course, he was going to be physically ill!), or he wasn't physically capable of engaging in intimacy (That was a downright lie, probably made up by that damn red-eyed fool). Truthfully, it was none of those things.

The real reason was simply that there was no time to devote to the cultivation of the type of relationship intimacy both invited and demanded. He'd learned long ago that sex with people you must work closely with only caused unnecessary complications, making it harder to achieve one's own goals, and forever indebting you to the one you'd been with. Or didn't people remember he'd been married to Spain for a long period of time, and he had certainly never been head over heels for Antonio, of all people, despite…the details of the matter. Political arrangements were a necessary part of life, but the one indiscretion with …no, best not be remembering that too clearly, had been enough to teach him never to sleep with nations if he could help it- particularly not ones he'd need to have close contact with for some time more.

Roderich was aware he'd probably offended the Hungarian woman with his lack of interest, but he quite honestly didn't care. They'd have been terrible bed partners, and at least he wouldn't be a regret for her to bear the rest of her life. Roderich did not regret not being with her. No, his regrets concerned the circumstances preceding their parting. While the split had been for political reasons, Erzebet's leaving had been a long time coming. His lack of clearly displayed affection towards her compared to his unending devotion and attention to his music had been unacceptable to the woman. Who would stay married to, as Gilbert had so crassly put it, "a pussy who'd rather do his piano!"? Despite the language used—the accusation was true. Erzebet was never going to be an enduring part of his life. Relationships among nations never really endured, no matter how hard some tried. He saw nothing wrong with investing his time cultivating his skill with different instruments. He enjoyed music more than the woman's company anyway… there was no use pretending otherwise.

And yet…there was still that niggling regret. He had hurt her, earned her eternal scorn and distrust—there was no doubt of that. Roderich had always wished…that she had cared less, expected less of him. His actions were the right course for him to take…his only regret was that they had caused such pain to such a beautiful woman to trouble her later in life. He had often wondered if there had been a way to achieve the same result without causing her to suffer so…and, though he would forever deny it, shortly after the split he had spent several days contemplating what might have been had he truly loved her, been a proper husband to her in every way.

The thoughts had haunted him for some time, echoing stronger on the rare days he found solace in an old whiskey, causing him to wonder just how much he had loved her (And he had, loved her, though he'd never been in love with her. There had always been a fondness and appreciation, and a good bit of it lingered long after she left). Had he seized his chance…their marriage might have been an interlude of blissful romance and passion, built upon a foundation of strong affection and devotion. Yet….no, that was a fantasy only. Even if they had fallen in love, their nations still would have split, and the divorce between them would have caused unimaginably greater sorrow…it was much better that he had never loved her.

His lack of interest may have caused her offense and some hurt at that moment, but it was nowhere near the amount of suffering that they both would have endured had they been deeply in love when the separation came. Those thoughts were comfortable—an old justification that most days Roderich was quite happy with. It didn't matter that if they'd been in love…they could have come together again years after the divorce…when life once again presented an opportunity for their relationship to exist… that he could have her right now.

The idea struck with all the force of the dissonant key played earlier. She could be sitting gracefully in the chair in the corner, listening to a sonata with a gentle smile and words of sincere praise after the last crescendo had faded into silence. He could have stood, and taken her hand, sat with her at dinner to discuss her newest plans for her flower garden, and his upcoming trip to Vienna to work with a chamber orchestra for several weeks. He could have graced her with a gentle kiss, and a charming compliment, and they could have spent the evening in warm, comfortable co-existence.

The Austrian stopped himself before fantasizing any further. Such a thing could not be. He'd passed up his chance, and there was no use daydreaming about what he would never have. In all honesty, he was far too domestic to have ever truly satisfied her anyway. Erzebet was a warrior, with a vibrant personality and fiery temper. She needed someone equally strong and stubborn to keep pace with her. His quiet affection was never enough, still wouldn't be enough.

For a moment, he thought he felt a soft pang of hurt…perhaps even loneliness. Then there was a tiny prickle…a stinging at his delicate pride. He wasn't enough… and his most despised rival was. The thought rankled, leaving the man feeling utterly dissatisfied. He frowned at the swell of emotions…such, such troublesome things they were. This was the trouble with memories and reflections. They always left him wishing he'd never let them stir up in the first place.

Besides, he had shut away that part of himself a long time ago…hadn't he? It was too late for regrets, and what ifs. Roderich straightened sharply, for a moment fearing someone had caught him during his lapse of control, flinching in expectation of a gravelly voice mocking him…only to hear nothing but the faint pattering of raindrops against the windowpane. He fussed with his cravat, ensuring it was flawless still, before calmly walking into the kitchen to brew a cup of tea (he'd only used the bag once this morning, it ought to be good for at least two more cups). The aristocrat calmly sat at the kitchen table to sip at his drink, reordering his mental calm once more as the regret which had so faintly stirred that afternoon was firmly locked away once more. What was done was done. His feelings had cooled, and to be truthful, he didn't mind. Love was too dangerous… it was a thing best left for idiots like Francis or Feliciano. Erzebet was with Gilbert now- let the man have her. His everlasting disdain for the Prussian aside, she seemed to be happier with the arrangement…and things were better that way. Roderich would remain as he always had been, enjoying calm solitude, finding emotional release in the perfectly balanced notes and harmonies of his music—at least he could trust that they would never change, never betray him. Life would continue as it always did, with cups of stale tea, and a light sound of rain tapping a unique rhythm with every new shower. Cool… detached… stable… it was just how Roderich preferred things. He finished his tea, washing the cup, before returning to his piano. He closed his eyes, and savored the crisp opening bars of a waltz, losing himself in the music yet again, completely and utterly content to do so.

So...the real question is, Did Roderich ever really love her?

Let me know your opinion ~