Disclaimer: Somewhere over the rainbow lies a disclaimer...-grabs some acid-
...
"...Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad..."
- Shakespeare
...
The months passed and rambled quietly; Elizaveta, though grudgingly, really did melt into her role as an Aryan; the bug was planted and there was hardly much more to do. The occasional glance at the spot where it was was a constant reminder of it all—she was here to plant a bug...anything else?
In the sudden blandness of life, she spent days wandering about Berlin before finally Gilbert forced her to become a secretary—a position she took up gladly, albeit grudging to let him have the final order. She typed willingly, worked willingly; sparks danced somewhere down her esophagus whenever she did, and she had little inkling as to whether it was disgust with herself or the sheer buzz of something to do. Both, perhaps, but she carried on with this bundle of burdens. She could only wait now, wait and watch. Always she had some worry about her German, though time assured her that it did indeed pass at the least.
(Sometimes Gilbert would point out a tiny Austrian tinge along a word every slew of speech.)
Truly, Elizaveta did not expect a life pretending to love a man she hated to be so dull; but that was what it eventually turned out to be. Making love (fucking, she corrected herself) became almost daily; she only figured that it was stress, thus leaving behind all thoughts of vulgarity, or forcing a sphere to rest upon a block. It became frighteningly normal.
A couple of months passed; quickly as well, despite the slowness of each day. There was hardly much to remark upon; the wounds from the explosion healed fairly; and Elizaveta sometimes saw Veneziano running about the halls with Ludwig in heated pursuit—"He hardly leaves him alone," commented an officer in amusement before striding off—and giggled; his innocence had not been lost to this crippling war; this was a relief, that there was still a candle to light.
She wished to see him, but knew that that would only lead to ruin.
It was almost too easy...to remember the day when it came. March. March seventeen. It could have been the fifteenth for all Elizaveta cared—what mattered more was that her husband's heart was burning. The day Vienna was bombed, she had to rush to the closest-to-adjacent toilet to let her screams fall out as vomit. And more came out, because she could not cry, could not let even a tear to her eye; it was all dry—drier than plains, because she had no time for muddy despair. Retching, she cried silently, failing to dissolve the images of Roderich in her mind: Roderich, at the piano; Roderich, after the battle; Roderich, nearly blown to bits—no, not blown to bits...
"Elisabeth?" The gruff voice was from the door. Beyond the door.
Silence fell in the tiny room almost immediately; it was shattered in the same pace when Elizaveta choked, trying to drag herself together. "Yes, Gilbert?" she croaked, before clearing her throat; the bile still soiled her tongue. Tugging on the pull-chain, she looked away from the mess of grief that sank away; she was quick in turning the sink on, cupping her hands for the water that she used to wash the puke away.
"What's wrong?"
Was that concern she detected?
She screwed the taps back in place before opening the door. "Nothing," she said, trying not to shake; that failed, and tremors rattled her hands. Gilbert was waiting.
"You're pale," was his first comment; he was right there, in the black uniform, garrison cap in one hand; face devoid of emotion...was that a flicker in his eyes? If so, then of what?
Really, Elizaveta thought sarcastically. But since when did Gilbert point out the obvious?—he had a way of spinning out the more tightly-woven rolls of reason, of deduction. Another factor that was him, that made him Gilbert, taken so that he wasn't Gilbert anymore, nor even Prussia; she hated him for that.
"It's nothing," she repeated.
His gaze was sharp, sharp as it usually was these days she had spent with him. Elizaveta met that stare of red, waiting.
Then, he sighed; sighed, and Elizaveta was surprised. "Stop lying," he said flatly. "You run into the bathroom to throw up and then you come out looking like you're going to faint. Is it because of the Austrian bombing?"
"Aren't you supposed to be there helping?" she asked back—letting him win—wondering how it would be. In a way, she was actually relieved that Gilbert wasn't there to torment Roderich; however, his current state let the doubt roll about in her mind.
"That's my brother's job," he replied tonelessly.
"How's Vienna now?" she said; she had struggle to check her distress, anxious as she was. Roderich was...
"Trying to restore order. And the Danube's been mined."
"Oh. An attack by the Allies?"
"Ja."
Elizaveta sighed; not out of relief nor weariness, but a simple sigh that spoke as much as a slew of words. "I see. Will they bomb Vienna again?"
"That will most likely be seen to by der Führer."
Der Führer, she repeated to herself, exasperated; she was tiring of the dedication to that man, and in every setting.
She almost expected him to grin—cocky, and at least let him mock her; but she suppressed that expectation, and it wasn't fulfilled.
"Ah, Elisabeth." Almost as an afterthought, he pulled folded sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out to her. "Earlier yesterday I ordered a lump of black shoe polish. Get it for me, will you?"
Elizaveta did not move to take it; instead asking, almost incredulous, "Shoe polish?"
"Ja." Gilbert rolled his eyes; it triggered Elizaveta's immediate annoyance. "They ran out, so they got me to reserve an order of it."
"But why would you need it in the first place?"
"For my brother."
Elizaveta opened her mouth for questioning again—only to find that she had no real reason to ask any more; Ludwig, after all, did have a penchant for strangeness, and perhaps did need his layabout brother's help when he himself was incredibly busy (Elizaveta only saw him a few times a week, and he was always harried) but always was practical. Creative?—she highly doubted that, but he did update grenades...
Her thoughts trailed off, and she realized that she was trapped somewhere, or else just tied; proven pointless. Her mouth was hanging open, and she closed it slowly, choosing instead to nod. "All right." It could not do much harm, could it? With reluctance but no frustration, she reached out—
Snatched it back with a sudden afterthought. "Why," she said, "would you want me to get you something like this? I'm ridden with secretary duties—"
"It's nearly time for Frau Hüber to do something anyway."
"—and," she continued, rubbing that off, "you said all that against me...back when we first met..." Letting her eyes narrow, which was a genuine move, she goggled him suspiciously. "Back when we first met"—she almost sounded like a woman lamenting about her lover's drastic changes that brought her no joy; and in some warped way, this was so, twice over.
Gilbert seemed to glare, but what that stare he gave her was rocky in categorization; even someone who had once known him so well could not tell. Once.
"You think of everything, huh." It wasn't a question. "But really, Frau Hüber needs to do something useful; she just goes around flirting with the men all day, especially We—my brother..."
"Wait." Elizaveta's breath caught, hitched up in a pocket of her throat; her body stiffly galvanized, though it was hardly from the tiny reminders of the explosion. West. West. Somewhere, then, Gilbert was trying..."What did you call your brother?"
Now she was sure he was glaring, or at least close to it; "My brother's name is Ludwig. So?"
No! she snapped impatiently, though of course not presenting it in voice. "You were about to say something else. 'We' what?" Then, catching the suspicion lighting in his eyes, added with veiled hastiness, "Is there something I should know...?" Completing with the tone, she stared challengingly into the bloody eyes, she was confident with the desired effect of her speech.
Though his expression remained locked in its frozen form, he replied with a hue...a hue of something that could have been indignation, though it was also difficult to grip. "Of course not."
Except for the fact that you're both nations?
"Fine," she said conclusively; it was neither out of laziness nor exhaustion that she let him have his way, but rather a choice of being practical. It came down to pointlessness, to fight over shoe polish. This is so demeaning, she thought to herself, but tugged the paper free of the pale hand and turned to leave; she would be having the last laugh, after all. "Auf wiedersehen."
"Ja," he said to her departing figure.
The arching doorway spanned to stretch, from side to side, as Elizaveta walked through the exit; outside there was the world, and the sky above, which was so blue and breathtaking, as was its timeless beauty. Somewhere there was Roderich, under the same sky that encompassed all—somewhere she could go if she wanted...could she? She had that power; she could go to Austria if she wanted...where Roderich was...Roderich...
She walked on, cracking apart the folded paper by the openings; as she did, she noticed its intricacy—not the paper, that was clearly cheap and thin, but the craft involved with the folding. There were little pockets practically welded into the tree excrement, and the visible text was disconnected, resembling a puzzle or a physical anagram. When was Gilbert graceful with his hands in tiny civilized subjects?—for him, elegance was with the sword, any weapon; another trait that had appeared in his new self, then, which was both saddening and surprising. She fiddled with the folds before tugging it apart to one sheet; it was heavy in her hands.
Holding it by the sides in both hands, she let her focus skip around; it was Gilbert's familiar scrawl of writing, coupled with a strange loping beauty with the messy handwriting:
Himmel Street, corner. Smells strong, you can't miss it.
Isten, Elizaveta thought, staring at the words; such an intricate fold on an average sheet of paper, just for him to write two fragments of sentences that hardly fit an inch or two. And she caught whiff of something; a tendril of scent from the paper that curled upward; it was strong enough for one holding it, and it was the odor of something that Elizaveta could not identify.
Wrinkling her nose at the slightest, she crumpled the whole thing, holding only the sides, and made to drop it in a nearby trash can—reaching out, she thought twice, subconsciously, and snatched it back; it went in her jacket pocket, where it settled with a familiar weight. As if it belonged there.
Himmel Street wasn't hard to locate; she had stalked streets adjacent to it and caught sight of the sign. This was her first time to walk along it, through it, and the store was indeed hard to miss; only a worm could. The street itself was like any other, and nothing spectacular.
She walked into the small shop at the corner, filled with a strong, cryptic scent that both fed and repelled; garlic was hanging from the ceilings, cheap in sale, and no wonder; no one looked twice at them. The store owner was old and kind, called himself Herr Schaffer; and again Elizaveta had to wonder, about the Third Reich, the concentration camps—these were the Germans that had fueled this madness. She was among them, and she could see, and somehow understand.
Herr Schaffer only saluted to Hitler once, and Elizaveta was able to get the lump in paper; walking back out she wanted to retch, but only because of the smell.
When she walked back she caught sight of Roderich. No, not Roderich, but Vienna...and yet not that either. Austria, perhaps; because she caught sight of a piano; it was large and grand and a slick black, beautiful and yearning for the fingers of play. If that could be Roderich's heart, right beside Vienna...
Roderich had preached art to her a lot, many times over. Vienna was beautiful, a masterpiece in itself; it was his heart, he had said, and his mind. Art was expression, through architecture and music and literature. He wanted peace and grace because it was soothing and beautiful, and had its appeal in every way.
That was what he had told her.
It was a large piano, battered but still a handsome work all the same; it was sitting on the street, for one reason or another. No one noticed it, and no one cared; only closer inspection told her that it was in fact a fake; a giant carved lump of wood made by one Herr Zimmerman. Made for a rich Jewish man before the madness; it was a spun-glass butterfly, then.
She walked away without looking back, because she couldn't decide on her opinion of the people of the Third Reich anymore.
When she got back to the Nazi headquarters, she realized that she wasn't thinking; she went about asking for Hauptscharführerb Beilschmidt, forgetting the mound clutched in her slowly blackening hands; when she did she practically dragged his surprised self back to his room, asking, "Do you really love me? Do you hate me?"
"What sort of question is that?" he asked back in shock, his voice grating at the edge of his throat.
"Shut up," she snapped back, and repeated the question; she was going mad, wasn't she?—that was the only explanation. She couldn't love Gilbert Beilschmidt in a thousand years, and he could never replace Roderich, for whom her love had been growing over more than a thousand. He was her husband, and husband beyond the word of the others, even though their rings had long been cast off for bullets.
But really...
She was the one pinning him down, asking him, over and over, for some love of some sort, as he looked up in shock but with few cries to congregate; the wrapped-up lump was knocked off and squished and melted against the door, leaving a black ugly gash on the carpet.
Madness was the only word that fit, if not love. It couldn't be love.
Neither of them had any sleep that day, nor the rest of the night; they slept all through morning the next day, and no one bothered them.
...
"I'm leaving," she said at last, and wanted to add, "It's all your fault," but she didn't want to lie; if that even was one. She had made her mind up the moment she had awakened, never stopping in thought when the stream dragged her to Roderich—and Gilbert. It was strange, but perhaps she was starting to love him, and yet she hated him all the same; Gilbert's uncomplaining company was not enough to compensate for hundreds of years.
She could hardly call it enough.
He was standing by the curtains, amazingly haven been the one to slip away from slumber first; the gossamer-woven cloths flapped from the windy slits of parted glass; again it was raining, but too sparsely to be really dubbed farther than weak drizzle. The sky was again a queer gray with logical description, and Elizaveta thought that perhaps it was the second day again, as well as the first in awakening from ersatz lust. It had to be a dream, or else real reality.
He started out as a silhouette, then he was a colored haze; then he was turning, and for some strange, ethereal reason, glints of silver light were refracted along the tendrils of his hair; his eyes again looked devilish, and Elizaveta knew then and there that she was no longer hindered by the cloudy sea; she said, "I'm leaving." Lifted herself up to sit, unconscious of her nudity.
It was March eighteenth, but she didn't know that. She knew only that the Ides had passed; that Roderich was somewhere, and she was here.
Gilbert then said the queerest thing, something that shouldn't have been so; but the act was coming to a close, if not the play in entirety. His voice was hoarse, and he sounded cold as he ever was since whenever he had changed. Elizaveta would later wonder if there was hurt somewhere in that voice.
For all her paranoia, she shouldn't have been shocked, or even surprised; she should have seen the signs beyond neon.
"Hungary."
She shouldn't have been surprised.
She shouldn't have been surprised.
She shouldn't have been surprised...
"Was?" she said.
"Ungarn," he repeated.
"What about it?" was her immediate response; this time, her haste was beyond evident.
"You know," he said, now looking fully at her across the gossamer light, "you can stop pretending. We've found out, and now I'm occupying your vital regions." Around his scalp, the silvery flecks of light were glowing. Elizaveta immediately released her small spirits; the cat had finally fled the bag.
Haltingly, she went on in some floundering attempt; "What are you—"
"Gottverdammt!" he burst out, making her jump. "Elisabeth Wertheim my ass; stop pretending! You know I knew about the bug?—dummkopf, I was feigning sleep; I was expecting it, and I laced that beer, so you wouldn't notice when I was checking for where the bug was." His eyes were blazing as he took a step forward; two. "You absolutely suck at being a spy; did you honestly think that you could fool me after being in contact since we were born?"
"I..." Elizaveta's mouth was open; she stared at him with stark green eyes, saying everything that couldn't really be said in voice. The sparks of belated dread danced somewhere along her ulterior torso; already she accepted it. It was as if she had stepped off a cliff, somewhere open; that feeling—the cliffhanger analogy.
It was then that she caught sight of the gun in Gilbert's hand; it was sleek and dark in his ice-white hand, already prepared to fire, the tilt of its barrel indicated that. This was not that first time Elizaveta had seen him armed, and armed in a room...but her reaction was clear—she was shocked; and she was expecting him to shoot at her then and there. She was almost prepared for death, to meet it head-on; instantly she was thinking of her long and plentiful life, ringed with love and hate both, as any other. She wanted to fight, and yet something restrained her, pulled back the warrior lingering within. Perhaps she was tired, exhausted, tired of fighting. Of deception. Of being an actress. Perhaps she deserved it; betraying Roderich and betraying Gilbert—one for leaving for their common rival; two for tricking her life's enemy to bed. And perhaps a three—a y of vowels—for doing it all horribly; so that there were nothing but shambles left for her country. It came down to nothing.
Her throat was dry; she had failed, failed everything within a small amount of time; as if her whole life had been building up just for this.
She thought there was a spark of madness in Gilbert's eyes; and thought that she herself was perhaps going mad, if not already; then they were made for each other, forever a horrible balance. But they had lived so long and experienced as much; were they already demented beyond it.
Her thoughts were flinging themselves about in so many places in such few seconds; she down the barrel as best as she could with it pointing to the carpeted floor, also flecked with phantom dew. There would soon be a bit of lead thundering from the chiseled cylinder, and she would be then dying, something hurting, something red leaking from her, onto the lovely carpet of the floor, feeding the moss with her nourishing blood for it to only shrivel up in the end. Already she was imagining the sharp death that was to come, and waited almost patiently; the shock then wore off as it had come. Leveling her eyes to look right into the Prussian's, staring down into hell itself, she said flatly, "Shoot."
She waited.
The barrel was tilted ever so closer; Elizaveta was expectant.
"Shoot," she prompted him again, still so toneless; it dragged the slight Austrian into her voice, and that made Gilbert's unchanged eyes narrow.
"Dummkopf," he said finally. "You have information."
And just like that, some child in Elizaveta was deprived of the piece of candy. She was instantly sorely disappointed; she immediately snapped, "Shoot already!"
"Nein," he said back as coldly as she had spoken hotly. "I want to know exactly why you're here—"
"Because you already know," she said. "I'm a spy, and I was in secret conference with the Allies. I was sent to aid them discreetly, and I've failed. Roderich has been attacked. Shoot me now."
"Since when have you been the kind to want to die just like that?" he growled, his eyes betraying the feral part of him; he was feral, always had been, and it was showing. What he was before was leaking out through the cracks of his new tin personality. He had just been trying to seal it away, Elizaveta realized, though the reasons behind this attempt were still beyond her.
"Just shoot," she repeated, and his eyes were blazing when he stepped forward on the carpet that she wanted to be bloody.
"Tell me everything," he said. "Everything. I need to know what information you've collected. Because today I'm taking your vital regions.
"You need to be alive for that. Those are your people. And what are they without an identity?"
"They can be Austrian then," Elizaveta countered; this decision sounded almost ridiculous, but she was already firmly planted into it; the Austro-Hungarian empire could live without the treacherous half of the union, dead or not.
There was a pause as Gilbert stared at her; it was then when she noticed the quake of the gun as it was lifted—the Prussian was shaking. And yet...why? She stared at him, calculating. Gilbert replied simply, "They can't be covered with pretty lace; they're Hungarian."
"You," she hissed, pulling herself higher to face him more properly—his words were sawing at what checked her—"just hate Austria. Roderich. You hate him because you think he's a weak hypocritical member of the Habsburg. I married him, and our people mingled—"
"Austria or not, you're still Hungarian no matter what!" he retorted loudly. "If your people lose their identity, they'll have nothing left! I fought for this for years, Elizaveta; you got lucky, you still have that identity, don't throw it away like that!" Anger colored his voice in dark tones and vibrant flames as he went on: "I still have to fight for that, while you're running back to Austria, throwing all that away—"
"Stop!" Elizaveta snapped; something had been hit; Gilbert had plucked the right string. Her heart was pounding red as she felt something dark and searing tear through her stomach...it could have been guilt. To think that he had to deal with everything, so alone...
"Friend or not," he said, unrelenting, "you still sicken me."
"Oh, and you talk about ethics!" Her voice was shrill.
"Ethics can be twisted," he replied harshly, and added cruelly, "To think you were helping the Allies, the same ones who bombed Austria..."
"Shut up." It was then that she leaned forward, finally, to slap him across the face. It was loud, fiery and snapping; a sharp move that brought Gilbert's head to a near-impossible angle at the impact. Pulling back, Elizaveta relished the vivid red mark upon the white face; hatred was tearing at her limbs, and she only wanted to hurt him more; Roderich, all for Roderich...
The gun was still in his hand.
When she slapped him again, across his right cheek just like the first, he stayed that way; her hand was held back like a catapult to be launched, and she stared at the milky white of his skin, around the throat, the neck, the face.
He turned back to lift his hand, and pointed the barrel at her.
His teeth were gritted together.
"Halt."
Elizaveta dropped her hand, glaring. There was no point now, she decided.
"By now our forces should be occupying your land," he began. "I should've been there too, but I wanted to deal with this personally; it's still occupying. You're staying here from now on."
"Fine," she said defiantly.
"And now..." Oh, his hand was still quivering, though very slightly...
Elizaveta tensed; she had to fight the terms if called for. She would deal.
"Tell me...you hate me, don't you?"
She looked at him, just looked; there was no answer, though her immediate thought was to say a clear "yes."
"Same here," he said, as if he knew—maybe he did.
Elizaveta was still glaring.
"What do you want," she said coolly, willing away any innocence an obvious question would plague her with.
"I want to know."
"So do I...why you're like this. Why you're not like yourself."
He laughed; barked, laughed. There was no humor as she watched and heard him do so. The sound wasn't pleasant, but it was hardly hateful either.
Gilbert finished before speaking again to answer, "Because this war is Gott-damned lost. I don't want to fight it, and West is crumbling from the inside, and he doesn't know it."
That has nothing to do with it! Elizaveta thought ferociously. "Says the militaristic Prussia!"
"West sucks at this! This is all so stupid, and they"—they—"have the fucking balls to use Old Fritz as an example!" His grip on the handle tightened at his own mention of the long-gone king...steadying it, he went on, "None of my bosses were ever this crazy. The idiot has the worst plans for this Gott-damned war, and my people are suffering for it too."
Elizaveta stared at him, something she had been doing in high numbers since she had come to play the confidence game, and especially since she had woken up. So this was his view; before it was all an act. Then was anything real?
"Gilbert...," she said, hesitantly; stared at the gun in his hand, still quaking noticeably. She couldn't be sentimental; she was not that sort of person, and certainly not in the face of the man she hated above all. And then again...
She thought she saw him bite his lip; this seemed too much like a young child having to kill but wanting nothing than to drop his arms and run away, unlike Gilbert who had to use his sword since birth and grinned at death. He had mauled Roderich with not a waver of his smirks, and he was sure to have no qualms in killing her. She could hurt him, kill him if she wanted to, and they both had to know it; gun or no.
"Kiss me, then"—it was a mutter.
She thought the gun was slipping from that ghostly hand, but it stayed where it was. She didn't know what had happened herself.
"What..."
"Kiss me, and I'll tell you."
"Gottverdammt, Hungary...you sound like a fucking girl," he stated.
"I mean it..." And she surprisingly wasn't angry. "Kiss me, and I'll tell you."
If you can.
And he did. Slowly, hesitantly...but coming from Gilbert Beilschmidt, it was achieving the impossible—it was landing on the moon to touch and scrape the unmoving dust. He placed his hands on the thick bed for leverage, leaning forward as she did, and they kissed like they really meant it. Unsurprisingly, they did.
Blood.
Pulling away, they both held their respective stances.
"I did," he said. "Now talk."
Elizaveta stared again, though it was thoughtful, ready to comply; no pride, mere coolness; pensive.
Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was staring with that look of acceptance and yet still life; that look like the one quietly watching his partner leave without wanting to hold them back. His right cheek was aflame, and there were silent shadows of gray beneath his eyes, which were rubies of hell. Perhaps there was stubble around that jaw so used to clenching, but that could not be for sure—he was young and yet so old, and had never been able to grow a beard for the life of him.
"All right," she said, and she talked.
...
"...Made to his mistress's eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard..."
- Shakespeare
...
PT: Ohoho~ I wonder if that means I'll be speaking Japanese with a Kansai accent~~ ...sans the "han."
- In the case of writing style...well, I've been told by Cheri-chan of a different fandom that my writing style reminds her of Edna St. Vincent Millay; my English teacher at school has commented upon observation that my writing style reminds him of JD Salinger. I've read neither person's works (I've been trying to get Catcher in The Rye, though...) and would like some opinion upon my style...because I think I've been trying to follow Victor Hugo and Harriet Beeche Stowe's styles for a while now.
- While plastic technically did exist years before the World Wars, I still prefer to use tin; and the imagery I imagine would appear in reading would perhaps be more appropriate.
- Beards. Kuskuskus~~~ Oh God, I should stop thinking of so many inside jokes xD Ahem, well, beards. ...Well, young as the nations are...the men –should- naturally have facial hair...-backhands France- I mean, physically young...they probably all shave it or something, but I took this opportunity to sort of play around with Prussia's age. ...And I like Yao's girl-appearance.
- Tomorrow is the beginning of March. Near the end of March, I'll be off to the Mediterranean—Italy and Greece. Yeah, spring break, from my school. If I survive the terrorists at the airport (because I'm not a punctual person...), survive the planes (because I'm damned paranoid about them), and survive Italy, I'm good. I'll be updating at least once before I leave.
- Have you noticed the new change they've made here on FF? D: The poor quotation marks...damn it ;_; Why the quotation marks?
