a/n: written for toomanyguiltypleasures on tumblr for the 2014 rivetra valentine's day exchange. the prompt was princess/prince arranged marriage AU. i tried to make levi slightly less rude and a bit more considerate than he is in canon. enjoy.
He is nothing like she expected, but then, she hardly knew what to expect. For all her seventeen years she had never ventured outside the country, and knew little other than her life in Vienna.
Her dear father, whom she loved with her whole heart, had never married her off to the visiting nobles from foreign lands, preferring to keep her close at hand, enjoying her company. As his sole child and heir as well as the picture of her late mother, he lavished her with gifts and sought to protect her above all. No proposition for her hand had been grand enough, for how could he send his dearest possession to a land where she would not be happy?
But then had come the Dauphin of France, visiting in order to establish trade. He was a charismatic and well-spoken man, tall and blonde with a face that was full of ambition. He, like many others, had been charmed by the princess. Only eight months after his departure his kingly father passed, leaving him the throne. Soon after, a letter arrived, proposing marriage. The surprise was that it was not for himself but for his brother. Her father had long hoped to form a union with France and now had the opportunity to do so. So he took it.
"You will love it there," said her father, "She is a beautiful country, and the King has already proven to be a wise ruler."
She was less sure than he but could hardly refuse so off she went, her parasols and gowns packed away in trunks, away to the unknown.
The wedding was an extravagant event which she remembers little of, only how overwhelmed and afraid she felt. But she is brave.
Still, it frightens her that she is married to a man she can barely communicate with. She is learning French, and he speaks a little German, but for most of their time together they are silent. He does not seem to speak much anyway, occasionally yelling at his brother or servants out of apparent frustration. He does not yell at her though, despite his impatience with her when she cannot understand him, and she thinks that beneath his abrasive exterior he is not an unkind person.
The palace is beautiful, she cannot deny it, but she still yearns for the familiar dome in Amalienburg, for the red-black Schweizertor, for the Herzgruft where her mother's heart resides. Versailles is beautiful, but it is not yet home.
She falls in love with the gardens, they make those of the Schloss Schönbrunn seem little more than a patch of grass. She spends much of her time there, basking in the sun despite the scoffing of her handmaidens, who seek to keep her skin as pale as porcelain.
Sometimes she and the prince sit together by the Bassin de Latone. One day he attempts to convey to the latest reason for his irritation, apparently some half-cousin's cowardice has led to another cousin's death, and now he must clean up the mess.
"What is a nasty insult in your language?" he asks her.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A good insult, I wish to show you the amount of animosity I have for this fool." She bites back the sudden urge to laugh, but instead thinks for a moment on the answer to his question.
"Sitzpinkler," she replies quietly.
"Seat pinclair?" he asks, and this time she really does laugh. He looks taken aback, but then asks her to repeat it. She does, and he struggles to fit his mouth around the word. When he finally does, after much laughter on her part, he asks, "Now what does it mean?"
She thinks about the proper way to phrase it in French and then whispers the translation in his ear, her gloved hands cupped around her mouth. To her surprise he laughs, loudly. His shoulders shake and for the first time since she met him there is a smile on his face.
She thinks he has a lovely smile.
From that moment on, they are friends.
One morning she waits for him to finish a meeting with his older brother, and realizes how little they look alike. Apart from the cut of their hair they look nothing alike.
"We don't share blood," he tells her, and goes on to explain that he is not actually of royal blood. Erwin had poor health as a child, and it was feared that he would die. The king and queen were unable to have any more children, so in secret a child was brought from an orphanage to be raised as their son. Erwin ended up overcoming his ailments, so it resulted as an unnecessary precaution, but the orphan had since been living as a prince, and the king was unwilling to risk others learning of the charade. So a prince he remained.
"Should you have told me this?" she asks.
"Probably not. It's a secret that only my brother and I know, as our parents and all of the servants that were involved are dead. But I've never cared much for rules, and you are my wife, so I don't see any harm in you knowing."
She takes that he is willing to trust her with such a secret as a good sign.
"What do you like?" he asks her one day.
"What do you mean?"
"What is something that makes you happy?" He has taken one of her hands in his own, interlocking their fingers. For a man of his stature he has awfully large hands. (When she tells him this he replies that it only seems that way because her own are so small. Perhaps he is right.)
"Äh…" she says, biting her lip in thought. "I love music," she says.
"Was there much music in Vienna?"
"Oh, yes! The House of Hapsburg has always sponsored musicians. I spent so many hours in die Hofmusikkapelle, the music chapel. Once the Boy's Choir, they sing at daily mass, they sang a song written in my honor. It was so beautiful. Before I left there was a concert by a string quartet, it was incredible, how you say…magnifique!"
"You should have told me sooner," he says, and she wonders what he means. She finds out a week later when he leads to the Salon d'Apollon, and there is a harpist there to perform for them. She nearly cries at how beautiful the music is, especially the sonata that entrances her, though not enough to miss her husband watching her for the duration of it. When it is over she kisses him on both cheeks, and gives him her thanks.
"Merci beaucoup, merci beaucoup," she exclaims over and over. "But why did you look at me and not the musician?" Her question seems to fluster him, and he does not respond for a minute.
"I liked to watch you," he says, "your eyes lit up as he played. It was a nice sight."
Now she is the one who is flustered.
"Still, why would you do this for me?" she asks.
"Because ma princesse, I want you to be happy."
"I would like if you just called me Petra."
"Petra, then."
The summer heat comes and goes, and in the midst of those months she celebrates her eighteenth birthday. She receives exquisite gifts, jewels and furs and more handkerchiefs than she could ever hope to use.
Her husband has in secret had a madrigal composed for her, and the performance nearly brings her to tears. After it is over he takes her hand and leads her aside.
"Do you resent marrying me?" he asks blankly. She has learned that there are cracks in the façade he puts on, and in this moment she sees that behind his dull expression this is a question he has wanted to ask for a while.
"No, I do not. Why?" She nearly misses him exhaling.
"You were first in line for the throne. As heir you would have been Queen of Austria. Now you are simply a princess."
"I do not know that I would have wanted to be. My father disapproved, I could tell. He thinks I am too soft to rule. Perhaps he is right, and it is true that I have no taste for politics. But I did wish to help my people; that is my only regret." He makes no remark and begins to walk away.
"Levi," she calls, and he halts his stride. She so rarely addresses him by his name. She takes a few hurried steps to his side, and he turns to face her. She leans her forehead against his. "I am happy here," she says. "Thank you."
"Happy birthday," is his reply, and she smiles brightly.
"My mother was baptized on this day," she tells him. They sit close together by a fountain that has half frozen over. Winter starts earlier here, and she is told it is harsher than the Viennese winter. In a few weeks it will be too cold to stay outside for long. She hopes they will be able to continue their conversations. He can be choleric and gruff, but he is also a good and caring man, though he seems to believe otherwise.
"Do you miss her?"
"Sometimes. I am beginning to grow accustomed to missing things.' She thinks of Tiergarten Schönbrunn, of watching carriages from the window of her bedchamber, of St. Stephen's Cathedral and the dome of the Hofburg Palace, of marillenknödel and the chefs that prepared her meals, and also of her father, whose letters come fewer and further apart now. She writes to him nevertheless.
She thinks that is the end of the conversation, but that night in bed he quietly asks what it is like to have a mother.
"Shouldn't you know?" she asks. "You've had two."
"Queen Marguerite can hardly be called my mother. Once my brother recovered she never treated me as her son. And I remember little of my real mother, other than her long hair and the smell of her soap."
She feels strangely sad, but hides it. He would mistake it for pity, and she has learned that is something which he hates.
"It's like…I do not know how to describe it, in my language or yours. My mother would hug me and sit with me when I was ill. She looked out for me, making sure I ate only good food and that I was brought up with the right etiquette. She told me that she loved me. That's the nicest thing, I think, knowing that someone loves you."
"I see," he says, and the more quietly, "Je t'aime, Petra."
At his words she thought she might cry.
"Je t'aime aussi," she whispers, and then she kisses him. Over and over again.