Roderich Edelstein was not a man of many words.
But the words he did speak were always spoken with such grace, one would believe he rehearsed his daily phrases in front of a mirror and perfected them to a fault.
They would not be entirely incorrect.
Whenever he opened his mouth to say something, whether it be the time of day or the response to an important question, the words had been run over in his mind numerous times before they actually reached his lips.
But there was a phrase, an answer to a very important question, he found himself unable to voice in his oh-so-refined manner.
No matter how many times it ran across his thoughts.
No matter how many times it traveled to his lips.
The two words could not break free.
He fumbled like mad to make his vocal chords, tongue and courage work in sync. But only a hiccup or incoherent mess would escape.
There were too many eyes upon him as he tried to make the words that he HAD actually rehearsed in front of a mirror. He'd repeated them alone, over and over. A simple pair that was so strangely menacing.
He wanted desperately for this moment to be perfect. He wanted to say those two words in the most memorable way possible. He wanted to sound sure of himself, because he knew without question that what he was doing was what he wanted.
After two complete minutes of stuttering, he finally pushed those terrifying syllables out of his mouth. It came out high-pitched and too rushed, but he leaned forward to pull back the veil from those emerald eyes. She was smiling. (Partially because she'd found his blushing and stammering ever-so amusing.)
He dipped his head forward to lay his mouth against the woman's, more than relieved that the moment in time when he couldn't speak was behind him.
The two words that Austria had so much trouble saying:
"I do."