Chapter Ten: Time Stands Still

Elizaveta was couldn't remember his name. She couldn't remember his name, but she remembered so much else, she thought his name would just come back naturally. But she thought and thought back over all those years, and she still couldn't for the life of her remember the most important details. What was his name? What language did he speak? Where did he go? How did he come? How long was he here? What did he look like, even, behind the stark black clothing? Was he blond? Was he tall? No, he couldn't have been very tall. Not much taller than Feli had been. What else was there about him?

She tried to remember every detail she could. Why couldn't she remember? She had to remember. No one else there paid proper attention.

She sighed, wishing she had someone to talk to about this who was here, right now. She didn't dare disturb Roderich while he was composing, and she didn't think she had the energy to talk to him. Or Gilbert, either.

Besides which, she had already said goodbye to him for today. She couldn't call him again. Incoming calls were one thing, outgoing calls, however, were more suspicious. Though there wasn't anything to be suspicious of, of course. Just a few frequent calls between close friends who lived far apart. And so she would tell herself, and so she would tell anyone else who asked.

Elizaveta yawned looked around the empty study Roderich had given her. She spent most of her time in here. Often this was because she was on the phone, talking to Gilbert. But that wasn't the only thing she did. She had books in here. Books to read, and some journals as well. They weren't all hers, but she'd read them all. And she used to keep her clothes here before she and Roderich were married and most of her things were moved to their master bedroom. Since then all of her dresses were moved to that big adjoining closet, and the only clothes that remained here were her very oldest ones, tucked into a box and hidden away on the very top section of the wardrobe. She had no idea why she kept them, and she hadn't worn them in years, but for some reason, she had never been able to bear the idea of throwing them away.

They were her old training clothes, from centuries ago, long before she met Roderich. Back when Gilbert was her best friend, even though they fought often, and he saw her only as a boy. Back when she was a boy. That thought made her feel an involuntary squeeze in her chest, and she tried her best to attribute it to the corset she was wearing. That was part of it, she was sure.

The study was draped in darkness now, as the night drew closer, and with it, her worsening confusion. She was cold, too. The frilly white window drapes fluttered in the chilly breeze coming in from outside.

There is a jacket with my old clothes. The thought took her by surprise, and her reaction was a moment too late. ...No! I can't get that, it's very old and it isn't even mine. Besides, what if Roderich saw me wearing it?

She rubbed her hands up her arms to brush away the brisk night air and tried to brush away the intrusive thought along with it. But she couldn't just forget what she had thought. And she was suddenly almost overcome with a longing to get the jacket from the back of the wardrobe and put it on.

Almost before she realized what she was doing, she had crossed the room and opened the wardrobe door, careful not to make a sound. She pushed the aside the heavy winter coats that were kept here all year and reached toward the back of the wardrobe, feeling with one hand for the jacket and keeping her eyes focused on the door, attentive to any out-of-place movement. Her fingers found the old fabric, and she froze. Downstairs, as she strained her ears, she heard only silence, and then a moment later a few bars of Mozart. He's given up the composing for now, she thought, reasoning that she had at least an hour or two yet before he decided to come to bed. Elizaveta would be alone for some time. And she was cold.

Careful not to make a sound, she pulled the jacket off its hanger and slipped it out of the wardrobe. The rich purple fabric was still vaguely visible, even in the dim light, and just touching it made her feel a swell of longing and a rush of memory. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she had slipped it on. It fell past her knees, clinging to her shoulders, and the sleeves flapped just a bit too long around her hands.

There was a mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. Her figure was outlined clearly, the one she always saw, and the one she thought should be there, both shown at the same time. Her long skirts and low heels, white apron, pronounced curves and narrow-waisted corset; her long hair, adorned thoughtfully with a flower. His jacket, it was thin. It wasn't made for winter; more to look elegant than to be practical. Even so, just the feel of it against her skin made her warm all over, and she was lost in a sea of guilt and despair and hope and happy memories.

Time stood still. Elizaveta, then simply Hungary, was lying breathless on the ground, hoping her friend might help her. But he was transfixed, not by her wounds, but by something else entirely. She followed his gaze, and a moment later felt a rush of shame. She tried to shrug it off and get them out of the situation, but she couldn't convince him. There was no way for him to pretend this was something other than what it was. His expression confirmed what she herself recently had thought.

She smiled helplessly. "Look, I know this makes things… Different. But I still need help…" She was still injured. She was still bleeding and helpless.

"I can't help you the way I'd help another boy. It isn't right." Prussia finally turned his head away and closed his eyes. "I don't know if we can even be friends anymore."

"Please, this doesn't have to change anything…"

"But it does. This is different. We're different now." She didn't know how to respond to that; it felt true. But she didn't want her best friend to leave just because she may have been born a girl.

"You're right." She said at last. "I'm not a boy. It's time I admit that and grow up, start acting like a fricking lady for a change!" She pushed herself up into a sitting position with a small cry of pain. Prussia's gaze was again drawn to the gash in her shirt, and she pulled the fabric back over herself, because ladies were supposed to be modest, and he was not supposed to stare.

"I'm sorry." He said, looking away as he noticed her action. He stood up and turned around.

"Wait! Don't just leave me here!" She cried, then broke off as she realized that he wasn't walking away. He stood still, politely looking away from her, and removed his long purple jacket. "What…? What are you…?"

"You need something to cover yourself and your wounds. Take it," he said, throwing his jacket over her like a blanket. "And take care of yourself, Hungary." He turned around to look at her again.

"I guess I need a new name now. I can't just be 'Hungary'." She wrapped the jacket close around her and covered her wounds.

"Tell me when you choose one." He smiled faintly and turned to walk away.

"Gilbert!" She called in a last desperate attempt to get him to stay.

"Ja?" He inclined his head, and her hopeful imagination thought it saw a flicker of hope pass across his face. She didn't know what she wanted to say to him, but she wasn't ready to let him go. Not yet. She had to know they would still be friends after this.

"Call me Elizaveta." She smiled.

"Okay, Elizaveta. Farewell, Liz." He grinned, one last smile that made her sure that even if things were different, no matter what happened in the future, they would remain friends. An unspoken promise.

He never broke it.

She owed it to her friend forever, her closest confident, to remember this. She had to remember who the boy was. She had to figure all of this out. She knew she could.

Hungary emerged from her memory trance and took a final look at herself in the mirror. She felt a deep shiver and fastened the clasps of the jacket, all the way down to below her waist. When she looked up again, there was only one silhouette, the one she always expected to see but hadn't glimpsed for centuries. And though she still knew that it was only an illusion, and that she would probably never look this way again, for the moment, it was perfect. So perfect, she actually felt like she could think, and like she would be able to remember something.

Liz pulled the jacket close and sat down at her desk. She turned on a lamp so she'd actually be able to see properly and flicked through the notes she had taken during her earlier conversation with Gilbert. There was a drawing of a key, a doodle of a rectangle and a stick, and some illegible note she'd scribbled to herself about the Italian inscription. It all seemed so clear when Gilbert told her what he'd seen, but now…

I have a key like this. She studied the drawing. I don't know where it's from or what it's for, but I have a key like this. Where is it? She suddenly remembered; it was in her bedroom. Roderich's bedroom, to be more accurate. Where did that key come from? She had to go see it. Liz had no idea what it could unlock, but she was fairly certain that it wasn't hers. How it came to reside listlessly in her jewelry box, she didn't know, but she had to go find it. She needed to follow up any flimsy lead she could. For Ludwig and Feliciano. For Gilbert.

Cautiously, pulling the jacket tightly around her as if for protection, Liz turned the handle on the door and crept noiselessly down the dim hallway to their bedroom. She was careful to listen for the piano, as she wasn't keen to be found by Roderich in a very recognizable jacket with... Water streaked down her face. She made it all the way to the bedroom, slipped inside among the shadows, and hurried to her nightstand, feeling suddenly uneasy as the music trailed off. The music stopped. She stopped. Does that mean he's coming to bed? She looked down at herself and flushed with guilt. Shit! Her heart raced and her eyes flicked all around the room, looking for somewhere she could deposit the jacket very quickly if she heard Roderich coming upstairs. But a moment later, she jumped as a few hassled-sounding bars of Beethoven made her realize two things: One, that she didn't need to worry about him coming upstairs anytime soon, and two, that he was probably in a foul temper.

Liz exhaled shakily and continued toward her jewelry box, hoping that was indeed where the key was. Her hands found it in the dark, and she pulled open a few drawers and fumbled uncertainly, pricking her fingers on earrings, brooches, and what she could only assume were hair clips. Just as she was starting to think maybe it wasn't here after all, she found another drawer at the base of the box and pulled it open. Her hands ran over mysterious odds and ends before she found something jagged and metal. She dragged it out and brought it over to the window to see it better. A skeleton key glinted in the moonlight, one very similar to the clumsy sketch she'd drawn at Gilbert's description, but the teeth looked a bit different. As they should be, she still didn't quite know what she was doing, but she took the key back to her study and sat down to work out what else she could investigate.

There didn't seem to be much else she could do with what she had. She didn't know what the key did. She didn't know what the symbols meant, or if she'd even drawn them correctly. But she had to figure out something, anything. A sudden thought hit her. Maybe there's something in Italy's old room. Yes, there had to be. It felt like a lead, anyway.

Hungary stood up and gathered the key and the pieces of paper into her jacket pockets, then walked down the hall. It had been years since Italy lived there, but no one else had moved in since. His room was just empty space now, as far as she knew. But he'd left in a hurry; maybe there were a few things he'd left behind. Maybe they'd give her a few more clues.

Once again, she crept out into the hall, this time heading in the opposite direction. She tiptoed down the stairs to the old servant's quarters, carefully avoiding the main area of the house where she could still hear Austria venting his vexation at the piano. Hungary made her way to Italy's old room and stepped inside. A high window on the back wall spilled moonlight into the room, which was rather bare. The old cot he used to sleep in was still here, and there was a threadbare carpet on the floor, but other than that, it seemed devoid of anything that would suggest someone had lived here. Hungary walked further into the room. She examined the walls, marked with the occasional scratch or paint splatter, courtesy of their former resident; she ran a hand along the bed, the neatly made sheets that hadn't been slept in for ages, and suddenly missed Italy more than she had for years. He'd been like a little brother to her, long ago. But she hadn't even spoken to him in years. The house was lonelier now. Ever since whoever-he-was left, and Prussia stopped visiting as often, and then Italy left too, she felt like there was hardly anyone left to talk to.

There obviously wasn't anything useful to her in here. Liz couldn't help lingering for a while, though. She walked absentmindedly around the room, her heels pacing a weary circle as she was enveloped in some unfathomable wistfulness. More water streaked down her face. She didn't notice. She was caught up in memories again, brought on both by the jacket and the room. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor and slid slightly on the carpet, and without realizing her realizing, it had come out of place. Click, ssh, click, ssh, click, clunk.

Liz stopped, jolted out of her reverie, and looked down at the hardwood floor in surprise. What was that? The carpet had slid almost a meter sideways, revealing the hardwood floor underneath. She tapped the floor with her heel. Clunk. She took a step back and did the same thing. Click. She repeated the action in both places a few more times. Clunkclickclunkclickclunkclick clunk.

She knelt down and examined the floorboards. What's this? There was a tiny black crack running between two boards, slightly larger than the rest, and when she knocked the floor on either side of it, the sound was different. Feli had a secret compartment in his floor!

Liz tried to pry the boards up with her hands, but her nails were too short. She sat up and stared at the boards in concentration. Then, suddenly, she took out her hair clip. It was a large flower, with a long metal clip just thin enough to slip through the gap in the floorboards. She wedged it in and pried up one of the boards, then pushed away a few more. She reached down into the gap and her hands found some kind of wooden box a few inches down. Liz pulled it out, wiped off the dust, and set it down next to her in the light from the window to examine it.

It wasn't large; she could have set it in her lap fairly easily, and it wasn't particularly heavy, but there was a large iron lock set on the side of the box. She leaned down closer to it and realized that it was made for a skeleton key. No way. Was this Feliciano's key? She pulled it out of her pocket. Could it really be that simple? Liz clicked the key into the lock. It fit perfectly. She turned it, and it crunched painfully before the lock broke and the box popped open, scattering dust everywhere. Liz coughed and waved it away, then peered at the contents.

There were a few loose papers and a sheaf of ancient-looking parchments, which she unbound and held up to the moonlight. They were covered with lines and lines of writing, none of which she could make out in the dark. Upon even closer inspection, she wasn't sure what language they were written in. She set them down and took out the loose papers. At first they appeared to be blank. Then she turned them over and gasped.

They were sketches. Dozens of beautiful sketches, in various degrees of completion. Some lined, some full bodies, some obviously incomplete but still stunningly realistic. All of the same person. The same person, she recognized him immediately; swathes of dark clothing, straight blond hair, and those bright blue eyes. They weren't colored, but she knew they were blue. She remembered it so clearly now, they were the brightest, most intense blue eyes she'd ever seen. It used to make her shiver when she caught him staring off into the distance.

There were words scrawled lovingly in faded ink alongside the sketches. Italian words. She tried to make them out and remember any Italian she knew. On every page was the same affectionate inscription. Sacro Romano Impero, Il mio amore per sempre.

The first part was obviously a name. Then mio amore was 'my love,' right? She stared at the words for a few more seconds before the translation clicked, just as she remembered the name she'd been trying to recall all day. Holy Roman Empire, my love forever.