Sunday is gloomy
Soon there'll be candles
And prayers that are said I know
But let them not weep
Let them know that I'm glad to go
Budapest, Austria-Hungary. Sunday, 28th of June, 1914.
In the morning they go to mass as usual, just like any other Sunday: Roderich dresses in deep violet as he has for centuries; Elizabeta wears a dark blue gown, the neck high but still not enough to fully cover her chest. They leave the cathedral arm in arm, the Hungarian reveling in the thinness of her dress; no more hoops, no more poof, no more nonsense. She swings her hips happily, her husband's gaze set straight ahead, cane in hand.
There is every sign of proper behavior and respectability as they make their way through the royal palace to their apartment, but she can sense it, the quickening in Roderich's steps. Once the servant is given orders to leave them be until he is called for, the ladies-in-waiting dismissed, the door is locked. Across the room Erzsi watches her husband take her in, stepping slowly to her. "You look so beautiful," he whispers in soft Hungarian, his arms encircling her just as slowly before their lips meet. He tastes of coffee as usual.
They lay in bed for only a short period of time after making love, other duties to attend to today. Erzsi lays on her stomach, propped up on one arm, her free hand tracing the lines of her husband's chest and stomach. He smiles smugly the whole time, watching her under hair that's fallen into his line of vision. Erzsi's hair tumbles over her shoulders and breasts until Roderich pushes it all behind her neck, kissing a breast before her lips. She watches him dress before standing to assist him; after he helps her.
While Roderich answers letters at his desk, most from the emperor, Erzsi sorts through her own messages. There's one in a small envelope from Sophie the archduke's wife; the Hungarian puts the note aside to attend to later in the evening. She has several items from other nations incarnate: Gilbert's would surely be lewd, Francis's only more sophisticatedly lewd; Antonio's will ask after Roderich, the two spouses of the Austrian nation still in touch to keep each other sane; Alfred, Ivan, and Berwald and Lukas had all sent letters for her birthday, though she's not sure why they'd remembered it.
The sound of a coffee cup being placed in its saucer angrily tells Erzsi it's time to get her husband more. "Thank you," he murmurs as she leaves the room.
He's still dealing with letters when Erzsi runs her hands down Roderich's chest, her lips finding a spot behind his ear that the back of his glasses don't cover. Her fingers spread the fabric beneath it and through his shirt she can feel the heat of his body radiating. The day relatively warm his jacket is over the back of the chair; Erzsi compensates for the weather by wearing no jewelry beyond her wedding ring.
"You are the only one in my life who does not frustrate me Erzsi," Roderich informs her, leaning back in the chair in defeat. Over his shoulder she quickly takes in the German written in a hand that she knows is the archduke Franz Ferdinand's, in Sarajevo with his wife. The Hungarian has only ever felt close to one member of the Austrian ruling family in the past but she doesn't hold that fact against them; Roderich has had his ups and downs with them too but does prefer his imperial family to all the others in Europe.
Erzsi loves Roderich and he loves her and that they are left alone together is enough to endure them to their rulers.
One hand reaches out to check his cup: empty of coffee once more. She kisses his head before leaving, Roderich returning to the letter. "I love you!" he calls out. She waves a hand over her shoulder in response.
Head on his shoulder Erzsi lets her eyes slip closed as her husband's fingers play the piano keys expertly, the sound of music filling the space. Outside the sun is high, the day half over, and everything is right with the world.
They take dinner early in their apartment so that no officials will decide to join them, sitting side by side and feeding each other bites of food. Roderich's ever-present coffee cup is happily filled as he takes a sip, breaking off the next piece of food with his fork to feed his wife.
Erzsi's eyes close momentarily as the fork slides out from between her lips, savoring the taste of the beef with the sauce. Smiling she prepares her fork, feeding her husband who never blinks, his eyes locked on hers as she pulls the utensil back. It's the intensity to Roderich she loves, how focused he can be on something, a piano piece or a letter or a Hungarian woman, all his attention turned to it.
A phonograph plays as they dance slowly, the sun setting on the summer day. Erzsi's head is under her husband's chin, one arm around his neck lazily. They hold hands as he leads the unhurried dance, Roderich's other arm slung around her hips, his hand partially on her ass.
There's been ups and there's been downs in their now-shared history as a country, things well beyond their control. The Austrian nobleman is used to taking it all as personal failure, unfamiliar with being able to now share his pain with another as willing as Erzsi to share the burden. But tonight, tonight none of it will matter. Twenty days it had taken after their wedding to make it to their private house in the Hungarian country side, twenty days after Erzsi's birthday and her transition from servant to wife forty-seven years previous. It's been twenty days since their wedding anniversary and tonight they celebrate not the wedding but themselves, healthy and in love and together.
Someone knocks on the door but Roderich ignores it and so Erzsi does too.
Roderich is, despite what the other nations incarnate thought of him, quite the accomplished lover; Erzsi is always delighted to be the sole recipient of his skills for nearly a century now since she became his lover. His heart is hers and hers alone, an unwavering universally known fact among the immortal beings.
He sits on the edge of the bed naked, a hand running across her bare stomach over and over. Erzsi shifts so that his fingertips graze the bottom of a breast, her body still sweaty from their passionate sex. She groans as his hand finally comes higher, cupping one breast while her husband sips his coffee. In the distance the outer door to their apartments opens.
Visibly annoyed Roderich angrily puts his cup down, standing and pulling on his robe. Erzsi pulls the sheets over her body, the Austrian throwing his wife a thicker blanket to cover herself with as well. Light seeps in from the other room where there's a heated exchange of whispers before the other man says something.
Silence follows his words.
For minutes it lasts, nothing happening. Erzsi tries to shift quietly in bed; perhaps her husband was reading something?
Even from just the small view she has of him she can see he's paler than normal, his body stiff, shaking. It frightens her so she crawls back in under the sheets to wait for him.
The clock face says it's a few minutes to midnight; neither of the nations are asleep.
The Austrian has been laying on his back staring at the ceiling since he returned to bed. He hasn't said a word yet but then again, neither has Erzsi as she lays on him, her head over his pounding heart. At least his body has stilled, the quiet shakes long since finished.
The minute hand moves; it's now one minute to midnight.
Suddenly the man beneath her speaks, Erzsi's head coming up to look at his face in the dark. "Franz Ferdinand and Sophie are dead." The words are spoken in plain Hungarian but the message is clear, the fear of what comes next.
Háború.
Kreig.
War.
The clock strikes midnight.