O HAI. 8D

Well, the anniversary of the marriage of my favorite couple of all time was just a couple days ago, so naturally I had to do something about it or it just wouldn't feel right. So here's more of my over-the-top trite...^^' (Oh yeah, and I've been waiting forever to use a Hungarian folk song in something, so I seized the opportunity this time.)

Some of you may be wondering why I didn't put this story in my AusHun one-shot collection, "Of Tulips and Edelweiss"-to be honest, I've decided to discontinue that idea and just allow every one of these one-shots to stand on its own. The original story of "Of Tulips and Edelweiss" is still there, however, so if you still want to check out that bit of (unadulterated and mindless) fluff (that my friends made me post), you will still be able to view it if it so pleases you!

History buffs: Yes, I realize that the dates are incredibly vague. They're supposed to be that way. Also, as much as I enjoy history I'm not very good at translating it into stories, so I decided to just keep specifics out of it all. And yes, I realize that I did sort of demonize Serbia here even though really it was Austria-Hungary that decided to pick a fight. However, I'm telling the story from the POV of the latter country, so no hard feelings? :3

And finally, my wonderful "TERRA" fans, you have permission to kill me with a spork for spending time on this crap instead of on my next chapter...in fact, I think I'd be happy if you did. ;w; Speaking of which...I guess this sort of kind of contains spoilers for the next update of "TERRA", but the same spoilers can be found in history, so you should be fine.

BLARGH, enough of my blabbing...please R&R! ENJOY~!

November sighed as a cool fall breeze weaved its way through the now barren arms of the elms, finding its way through the window into an imposing room, one too large and too empty to be called beautiful. The wind seemed to be trying to make up for all that unused space, briefly filling it up with the scent of the dying leaves that peppered the lawn with various reds and yellows and browns. With a chilly finger, it took a moment to tap the shoulder of the lone man in the room and tousled his dark brown hair, just to alert him of another presence there with him in the isolation.

But it was still no more than air, composed of nothing, a fleeting gust.

Roderich paced, padding back and forth along the luxurious carpets beneath his feet, and then stopped to look around him. He stood in a large room with a noticeable lack of furniture, the only significant exception being the polished ebony instrument that stood solemnly centered right in the middle of the room, ready to have a skilled pair of hands run over its black and white keys and give it a voice. This place, the music room, had been the first to be restored after the Great War had swallowed Europe in its voracious black maw and spit it back out in a mangled mess. This was the heart of the manor, built towards the interior so that when the Austrian sat down to his piano, Beethoven and Haydn would course through the halls like blood through vessels to make the house seem alive again. He played to think, to have the legacies of the great composers stimulate his mind and to make clear his thoughts; and he played not to think, when he simply wanted his head filled with notes and nothing else.

Not today, though-no, it would be wrong to start playing before she arrived, almost a form of sacrilege.

He was still waiting for her, after all.

Back and forth, back and forth he walked with growing agitation, mercilessly trampling the Persian rugs underfoot. It was only when he saw a flash of color out of the corner of his eye that he paused.

Resting on the windowsill was a cage, the thin bars gleaming like silver in the setting sun. Inside, clinging with tiny clawed feet to a perch, was a breathing clump of feathers. The small exotic finch, given to him as a gift, looked a bit like the living canvas of an overzealous artist. It was a colorful little creature with a streak of scarlet by the tail, a shadow of blue beneath the eye, a blotch of white covering the chest like a misplaced brush stroke. He'd never much liked the thing—it always made a mess and its chirping was incessant. But she had always enjoyed watching it flutter around, listening to its high-pitched tweets. He used to find her in this very room, simply gazing at it…

The wind was blowing again, he noticed. He went over to shut the window, but the breeze continued to beat against the glass pane, begging for entry just as his memory was beginning to knock on the door of his consciousness.

And now the bird's head peeked out from under its wing, where it had been safely tucked as it slept.

This time his memories didn't ask for permission to come in. They forced their way through the threshold and made themselves at home.

~1913-Morning~

He hardly ever woke early—very rarely, actually. He was a punctual riser, rousing himself from his soft cocoon of white silk sheets only when his duties for the day required him to do so. But in general, he did not attempt to navigate his way through the fog of drowsiness that seemed to encircle him in the dawning hours until he absolutely had to.

This was not one of those "in-general" times.

On this morning, the presence of his worries gripped his eyelids and forced them wide open, buzzing in his mind too loudly for him to stay at rest for any great length of time—anxiety had tossed any hope of that aside. For nearly an hour now he had sat in bed, in the cool grey light of the early morn that acted as a warning telling him that he should still be peacefully asleep, a warning which his body firmly ignored. He had gotten up early enough to shame even the sun, which was just beginning to clamber its way up over the horizon and had not yet gathered up the strength to shine with its fullest brightness. As it climbed, for support it stretched out its orange rays like arms across the earth, one of which found its way through the window that was only partially obscured by a heavy maroon curtain. In that soft beam, he watched the dust particles in the air swirl before drifting off into invisibility again.

And that limb of light just happened to land, gracefully as a dove, atop the head of the person lying next to him in bed.

The smallest of smiles found its way to him. That was the one opportunity he always loved to grasp at times like this, the chance to watch his Erzsi as she herself rose, a sight more precious than the unfolding bloom of a rare and gorgeous flower…yes, as though responding to the sunlight, she was shifting beneath the sheets. Now she was letting out one of her tiny groans, as though it were an effort simply to return from the land of unconsciousness. And now those two brilliant, brilliant emeralds that were her eyes unveiled themselves to him. She blinked, unclouding her vision, seemingly viewing the world anew.

But those eyes always gazed upon him first. And that was precisely what he liked about it so much.

His hand went up to her forehead to brush away a strand of her wheat-brown hair—that was their ritual every morning, the first thing he did when he saw her, no matter who rose to greet the day first. Always the first thing he ever did upon seeing her daily was move aside her locks so he could view those forest pools more clearly, so he could dive into them freely and let the waters swallow him.

His reward was the tilt of his wife's soft lips upwards into a grin, followed by a swift peck on his nose. She could tell that he was off, though, and he knew that she could. Anyone would be able to, had that person shared every intimate detail of their life with another for over half a century.

"What is it?" Her voice was just slightly hoarse after having lain unused all night.

He sighed, and she was just close enough so that she could feel that forlorn breath tickle her skin. "You can tell that quickly?"

"Of course I can tell."

"Then you shouldn't have to ask, Liebe." His expression dampened and deflated, and his grin slid away, like butter melting. That visibly annoyed her, just a bit. It was almost comedic to him, how greedy she could be sometimes. She wanted each of his smiles to keep for her own—each of his genuine ones, at least. If she could, she would hoard them and store them away and look upon each one as though admiring a valued museum piece.

"You know what's been happening," Roderich continued flatly, "in other parts of the empire."

She did not respond, but of course she did know. It was impossible to ignore the powder keg that had been planted practically in the middle of their living room, simply waiting to be lit, to release its enraged power in the form of bloodshed and to bring the pillars of European society crumbling down like nothing more than children's building blocks. Serbia especially had been displeased with the developments of the past few years, the young man always seeming dissatisfied even after achieving his goal of independence from Sadiq. And then, after Roderich and Erzsebet had brought Bosnia into their house as well, oh, that had angered him more than anything…

For a moment few seconds, the space in their world was filled up with white—white linens and white pillows and blank white silence. Then finally color, in the form of her words, was splashed on that last untouched canvas. "And you do not think we can survive it." It was not a question, but it still provoked an answer from him.

His smile crept hesitantly back onto his face, somewhat unsure of itself, caught somewhere between happiness and doubt. "'We'? We have proven that we can survive anything, Erzsi. I'm only unsure about myself."

"But I'm already a part of you." Her reply was immediate and matter-of-fact, brazen and blunt, with a hint of that strange stubbornness that could be discovered in no one else except for in Roderich's sweetheart. She was becoming impatient with him, as she usually did when he discredited himself. He almost had to laugh, but found a better way to occupy his mouth when he pressed it to hers. The kiss was brief, quicker than either of them was typically used to, but that was alright—the taste of each other, each one knowing that the other was tangible and present and not a wonderful figment that would fade like vapor…that was enough. It was odd that after so much time they would still need that form of reassurance, but they did.

Just as he gently released her lips, as though to ease the pain of parting he began tracing her sculpted jaw line with a forefinger. "Some say too much confidence is treacherous," he whispered, not so much to continue the conversation and more so that he could fill the void.

"That depends on whomever you place your confidence in."

The resounding crash in the room was what at last jolted him from his daydream, unceremoniously tossing his thoughts aside. He had knocked over the damn bird cage, and it had fallen directly on top of the memory, shattering it like a hammer to crystal. In any case, the contents of the tiny aviary were shrieking out a panicked and discordant trill.

"Oh, hush," he muttered futilely to the finch, as he carefully picked up its metal enclosure and set it upright again.

But the thing refused to keep quiet. It was frightened, and in its fear, it wanted to be heard.

~1916-Afternoon~

The roof of the pale army tent drooped as the downpour pounded on it overhead, and as it sagged down under the weight of the rainwater it seemed to be closing in on top of them, decreasing the amount of space in the room and gradually suffocating them. For awhile Roderich believed that this, along with the equally oppressive reality of what was happening just beyond their door, was the reason why his wife's spirits were so obviously down. He assumed that soon enough she would lift her contemplative gaze—those strikingly green spheres half-lidded, as though they too were shuttered against the storm outside—and turn upwards to give him one of her funny little smirks, as if to tell him that he was an absolute idiot for ever believing that anything was ever wrong.

But that never happened, and as she had said nothing to him for what seemed like an eternity, eventually the patter of the droplets overhead became too loud and too monotonous for him to bear. He hated when she suffered—he hated being forced to watch her suffer or be despondent, it pained him so much, and so desperately did he want to strip that pain away from the both of them. So, for reasons both selfless and selfish, he finally asked.

"Liebe…what's the matter?"

Immediately she looked up, as though she hadn't noticed his presence up until that very moment, despite the fact that he had not left her sight once. "I…was just thinking."

"What a novel idea."

She fired at him a sort of sneer in reply. That was alright, though—he reserved that playful form of sarcasm exclusively for her, and he knew that she secretly enjoyed having such a rarity all to herself.

"I'm just afraid for our people…"

Their people. The citizens of Austria-Hungary. He knew that he should have expected that answer from her, but somehow it angered him, knowing that Erzsi was troubling herself so much over that. People—what do people do that makes them worth fretting over? They only form tangled alliances and assassinate archdukes and allow the list of atrocities that they perform to grow ever longer. People operate tanks and release poison gas and readily blow out the brains of their fellow humans with a single shot. People dig trenches only to have them fill to the brim with mud and blood and the corpses of the future. People do not have the experience of centuries to tell them what horrors are to be faced in battle.

People begin wars.

"…Roderich?"

The sound of raindrops pummeling the tent was beginning to sound to him like the march of tens of thousands of soldiers above them, advancing.

"Do you ever tire of it, Schatz?"

"Do I tire of what?"

"Being a nation."

The frankness of the unexpected inquiry startled her a bit, and her questioning look signaled for him to explain himself.

"I mean, do you wish that we didn't have the strain of it all?" He sat next to her on the cot, automatically pulling her closer to him, as though attempting to combine her physical being inextricably with his. "Wouldn't you like to not have to worry about listening to officials and civilians?"

"Wouldn't we all…" Her whisper was accompanied by a tiny chuckle, her ear pressed against his chest.

His thumb stroked her cheek, just under her eye, wiping away the tears that were not there. "I wouldn't mind at all if they all disappeared tomorrow and left us alone here. I wish they would, actually."

To his dismay, she promptly drew back from him as though his hands around her body had become hot to the touch, fixing him with an alienating look of unpleasant surprise at his declaration. "What are you talking about?" Her tone dared him to repeat his statement again, to confirm them.

He was perfectly happy to oblige. He stood, refusing to glance at her, and quietly spat out his bitter thoughts as though trying to rid himself of the foul taste that his words left on his tongue. "Look around, Erzsi. They haven't done a thing for us except draw us into this war. We're pawns in their killing game."

"How can you say that, when they're all out there dying for our country?" Some of her old gruffness, an antique remnant of her rough childhood that somehow coexisted with her ladylike self, had crept back into her voice. Oh, she was starting to get mad, but he had no intention of halting.

"And what have humans ever done for us? Answer me that. Why do we need them?" His remark was hushed and horribly scathing—he had developed a clever talent over the years, the ability to sound combative and condescending without raising his voice in the slightest. It was really quite convenient at times like this, when he allowed his cool exterior to mask the fact that inside he was broiling, ready to spew his hate like smoke curling from a vent.

His question hung tensely suspended in the humid air like the thunderheads above them. For half a second he began to feel smug, believing that she would not respond…

"We wouldn't exist without them, and you know it. They made us what we are. Nations can't survive without people, and vice versa."

He froze, as though the weight of her words had anchored him in place. Yes, he knew it. He denied it consistently at times like this, but certainly he knew it. In truth, people had become his scapegoat. He so badly wanted to blame someone, something on the terrors that he had witnessed during this Great War, and there was none to be found. He needed someone to be held responsible for what might happen to him and his Erzsi should defeat strike them.

She, too, was far from blind, and she knew the consequences that could so easily result from their losing. She was scared too, he realized, and she deserved to be. And he, insensitive and savage beast that he was, had just worsened it for her…

Just then, he was momentarily blinded by a down-filled missile hitting him squarely in the face. Once he had made sense of what had just happened, he immediately felt himself soften. It was nice, for once, to see a projectile that was not deadly.

"Isn't that just a bit childish, darling?" He grinned teasingly at the woman who had just thrown her pillow at him.

She only scowled, clearly pretending to be far more upset than she actually was. "Serves you right, for talking like such a bastard."

She still wore that wonderfully immature pout as he carefully climbed in next to her and began removing her top. The lightning was their only witness.

~1918-Evening~

The finch hopped on its perch and let out a light chirp every now and then, as though anxiously waiting for some unknown event to occur. This time the winged creature did not remind Roderich of her, but of himself. It had been more than a month since the divorce, and during that time he had prowled his house like a lowly dog sniffing for prey. He was torturing himself, and he knew it—every time he rounded a corner, he hoped to catch a glimpse of her skirts as they swayed like petals rustling in the breeze. Every time he entered another room, he half-expected to see her sitting in one of the large armchairs, to have her turn to him and smile and wonder where he'd been.

And every time, the pang of disappointment stung him just as much as before.

Yes, he was the bird in the cage, waiting for something that would never happen. He had been waiting for her since the night just weeks ago that she had disappeared from his life. They had already said their goodbyes and could not bring themselves to choke out any more words of farewell. He was not watch her as she did it-he could never bear that-but he could hear her as she packed her things as quietly as possible, as though she thought that if she were inconspicuous he would not notice her absence as much after she left. But no: With every item of hers that disappeared from the nightstand or closet and into her suitcase, he felt part of her presence fading as well.

And then his Erzsi—oh, he forgot that he was supposed to call her Hungary now, as she was no longer his Erzsi—she went off into the night without a word.

But her departure was a memory that he was not keen on entertaining…not now, at least.

He looked to the heavens once more to see that the night was approaching, the once-cyan sky absorbing more and more of the blackness like a cloth soaking up liquid. Suddenly, for some reason that he could never explain, he felt a vague but great sense of dread—as though every moment that passed was against him, as though he were rapidly running out of time for something. It was rather odd, really: He had refused to allow himself the luxury of emotion since their parting in October, and it was slightly peculiar that after all this time, the first thing for him to feel would be fear.

He was operating automatically now, his hands detached from his mind and acting of their own accord. He carefully picked up the bird and held it in his palm, feeling its warmth radiating to his fingertips. It stared up at him with shining pupils like two blots of fine ink, calm and expectant.

Roderich, at last, was prepared to stop waiting.

As he unlocked the latch on the window and opened it to meet the withering day, he suddenly remembered one of the old folksongs that she would always ask him to play for her, one of the tunes from her homeland that she would sweetly sing along to:

Repülj madár, repülj,
Menaságra repülj
Édes galambomnak
Gyenge vállára ülj!

Fly bird, fly,
Fly to Menaság.
Sit on the shoulder
Of my sweetheart.

He looked down at the bird in his grasp.

I've held onto you for too long…haven't I, Liebe?

And without another moment's hesitation he released the tiny animal and watched as it flew out the window, towards the east, becoming one with the November wind.

S ha kérdik hogy vagyok
Mondjad hogy rab vagyok:
Szerelemtömlöcben
Térdig vasban vagyok

You're a prisoner my rose
While I am ill:
When you come to me
I'll be healed.