Scene 1: Krakow
Midsummer, and the rye fields swayed in a warm breeze that did nothing to relieve the stifling claustrophobia of Lithuania's chambers. She sighed and continued her needlework.
"Whatcha doing, Liet?"
"Sewing," she answered absently.
"I could do it for you," he said eagerly, and she laughed a little.
"Nie, it has to be me. Every stitch." Her hands flickered. In. Out. In. Out.
.
"You look beautiful," Poland told her.
She smiled softly and handed him a crown of woven flowers. "Put this in my hair once we get to the fires."
"The fires?" he echoed. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight.
"We have had your marriage ceremony, the Church's marriage ceremony. But do you know? I don't really feel properly wedded yet." She smoothed her blue and green embroidered skirt. Every stitch made herself, even the tiny, neat hems she detested doing. "It's Midsummer's Eve, Pol. I have to do this now or never."
"I still don't know what 'this' is," he complained. She smiled arcanely and set off. The forest was dark, and he had to hurry to keep up with her; it was her land they were on, now, and though she knew exactly where she was going, he was blind, stumbling in the dark.
The bonfire light was harsh on his dark-adjusted eyes, but he could see people, Lithuania's people milling around, laughing and talking and drinking. There were young girls with flowers braided into their hair, and with a jolt he remembered the crown. Fumbling, he raised it to her short brown locks, and smiling she dipped her head to receive it.
"Now-" she began, but was interrupted by a shout and a cheer and Poland turned to see a man and a woman with hands clasped as they leaped up and over the roaring flames. He turned to Lithuania with a look of terror on his face.
"Liet, please tell me we're not going to-'
She slipped her hand into his. "Do you not trust me, Pol?"
He shook his head.
"I trust you, Liet. I-I love you. It's just-"
"Then trust me now. Jump with me. Please, Lenkija."
He closed his eyes and let her pull him forward and the flames were licking at his bare feet and suddenly he was on the ground and his wife was underneath him laughing, crown of flowers askew, and he leaned down to kiss her and she was so beautiful.
.
Blood ran down her forehead and obscured her vision, but she could still see the stricken look on his face and her arm was twisted behind her, pinned hand clawing vainly at the air, and he said:
"You know, your face looks totally hilarious right now"
and she wanted to cry because that's what he always says and the pain in his eyes as she is dragged away makes her think that maybe he is not as selfish as she always thought he was.
.
When she was told that he had been partitioned again and there was no longer a country of Poland, she locked herself in her bedroom, clenched her hands into fists so tightly her nails drew blood, and cried.
She didn't dare ask Russia if there had been any letters for her. She knew there wouldn't be. What God has joined together let not man put asunder but there were the divorce papers stark white on the desk. The Union of Lublin of July 1st, 1569, is hereby dissolved and-
The fires have not been recognized for centuries now and they never told anyone anyway and maybe that's why Austria and Prussia don't realize she and Poland are still married, in her eyes at least.
Russia understands.
Scene 2: Saint Petersburg
She didn't understand her new master.
She was supposed to be a servant, wasn't she? Yet Russia had given her her own sitting room and still did most of the outside chores himself. Since the house was already so clean, she found she had little to do but cook, and Russia insisted on taking his turn even with that. Timidly, she brought it up once, and he smiled that sweet, childish smile.
"You are too beautiful to be doing such menial work," he said simply, and unaccountably she felt a warmth in her belly at the same time a chill ran through her body.
A few days later, she found a package on her bed and almost wept. The brown paper was labelled in clumsy, scrawly, misspelled, ungrammatical Lithuanian - her husband always marked his gifts in Polish - "For my Litva, lovly womans should ware lovly thing да? :)" - with a small sketch of a smiling face after the words.
With trembling hands she unfolded the dresses. Simple, practical, but with the fluidity of form she had long ago learned to appreciate and admire. Pol used to make me clothes, and she had a sudden, absurd vision of Russia with pins in his mouth and a frown of concentration. Slowly, she put on the green frock and went downstairs.
"Beautiful," her master chirped with an air of satisfaction. "Oh, your top button-"
"I couldn't reach it," she mumbled, and he cocked an eyebrow, asking permission.
A shiver went down her spine as his hands ghosted over the skin of her back.
His fingertips were as rough and soft as Poland's.
.
The longer she spends in Russia's house, the more she forgets Poland's smiles and his bashful blushes and the way his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth when he sews and and his soft voice when he speaks to his horse and his hands on her bare hips and his breath on her neck and all the other tiny things that had made living with him bearable, until one morning she is straightening the study and finds a chessboard and her breath hitches and she remembers his insufferable smirk as he cheated shamelessly at everything he ever did.
.
When did I stop loving him?
.
The sun shone lazily into the barn, golden on the hay, air sweet and fresh-smelling, and they worked in companionable silence. Lithuania petted one of the rabbits as she eased the hutch door closed, egg basket nestled in the crook of her arm.
"Litva," said her master from behind her, in the cow's stall. She straightened and turned toward him.
"Yes, sir- ack!" Russia's hand pulled on Vasilisa's udder and a spray of warm liquid splashed her face. Russia roared with laughter and Lithuania, after a stunned moment, laughed too, licking creamy milk droplets off her lips and cheeks, and for a single breath, everything was perfect.
.
"Do you still miss him?"
Russia seemed pensive, wistful, and Lithuania's eyes flickered toward him. She knew exactly who "he" was.
"Of course I do," she lied.
"Even after all this time?"
"Yes."
Russia's eyes were sad. Lithuania dropped her gaze back to her mending. In. Out. In. Out. The red embroidery swirled across the creamy white apron.
"A-ah!"
She bit her lip, tears springing to her eyes, as the needle stabbed deep into the pad of her thumb, and suddenly Russia was there, springing across the room to kneel before her, taking her hand in his large, gentle grip.
"May I?" he murmured, and she nodded, breath catching in her throat. Delicately, he lifted her bleeding finger to his lips. Lithuania closed her eyes. She could feel his tongue brush her skin as he sucked the blood away; then the smooth silk of his handkerchief surrounded the throbbing hole.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. She felt his callused palm cup her cheek.
"Will I ever have a chance?" he pleaded. She opened her eyes again and stared into his, feeling the intensity of his gaze strip her soul bare.
"I am a married woman," she said heavily. "I will not be unfaithful. If Poland ever lets me go, you may court me. But not before."
"Then I will wait." He said it confidently. She drew her hand out of his grasp.
Scene 3: Vilnius
The gun was warm in her hand.
"Selfish," she spat. "You never cared about me, did you? I was a tool to you! Nothing more!"
A bullet flew past her head. Poland's face was full of anguish.
"I love you, Liet! Please-"
"I was a fool!" she shouted. "A fool to think my feelings mattered! A fool to think our marriage was anything more than politics!"
He dodged her shot. His hair was grey with ash in the twilight.
"Do centuries of fidelity mean nothing to you?" he screamed. "You were the one who demanded a second wedding! I honored that all these years! I even offered to make it formal again!"
"Not at the cost of my freedom," she said flatly. His gun arm dropped to his side. When he spoke again, his voice was cold.
"Then go. If you don't want to be my wife, I won't hold you to anything. You can have your freedom, Lietuva." A crack of gunpowder and she shrieked in agony, clutching at her wounded shoulder with a bloodied hand. "But I'm keeping your heart."
.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Litva."
"Mm." She held out the plate of sugar cubes.
"You still remember what I like, I see." He smiled innocently as he took two and nestled them between his teeth. Lithuania stirred her already-cooling tea.
"What do you want, Russia?" she said abruptly.
"You are no longer married." It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Will you come back to my house, then?"
"No, Russia."
On anyone else, his expression would have been a pout.
"You promised, Litva. You gave me permission to court you."
She felt tears hot behind her eyes.
"Once," she said, "I thought love was worth giving up my independence." She swallowed. Her eyes stung. "I won't make that mistake again."
Russia regarded her curiously.
"Very well," he said finally, and rose. "I have waited this long already."
Numbly, she stood as well, helped him slide his arms into his coat. He grabbed her hand as they stood in the doorway and said, low and urgent:
"I will take back your heart from Polshka, да?"
"Please, Russia. Just go."
He nodded. "Thank you for the tea, Litva. I have so missed your tea."
She shut the door and leaned against it, sobbing silently.
Epilogue: Moscow
"I have no objections to you taking Poland," says Russia. "He is annoying. He gets in the way."
Germany raises an eyebrow. "In the way?" he repeats. Russia laughs merrily.
"Oh no, not in the way you are thinking. No, Poland is... a difficulty. He is a distraction to someone I would like to not have distracted."
And in the hallway, Lithuania stares at the beeping telephone still clenched in a white-knuckled hand. Tear-tracks streak her face, but she is uncertain whether they are for Poland and the awful fate he is about to suffer, or for herself, for being stupid enough to think he had changed.
I have absolutely no idea what Pagan Lithuanian wedding rites were like, so I made some stuff up based on the various snippets of folklore I've absorbed over the years. Leaping over a fire seems to be fairly common from what I've read about other European cultures, and of course I included the old tradition that a girl should make her own wedding dress by herself (usually her mother and aunts would sternly inform her of this and then promptly ignore it).