Author's note: If I had to pick a favorite moment in terms of what I wrote, this would be it.
Tizenöt:
Five things Austria and Hungary shared with the world,
Four moments they kept to themselves,
Three times they said nothing,
Two times Hungary needed Austria,
And one time Austria did something about it
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
Three times they said nothing
12 July 1941
Roderich left the room slowly, officers rushing by on their way to what he supposed they must have considered bigger and better things. Gilbert clapped him on the back as he walked out the door, pulling a cigarette from inside his jacket pocket.
The smoke blew in the damp wind as he tried to make smoke rings, Roderich's mind wondering back to warmer days in the Austrian countryside, a beautiful brunette laying beside him. The puffs of smoke were less circles and more failures in his opinion.
"You never were very good at that," Elizabeta's voice came from behind. She sat down behind him on the bench, her hair already saturated from the moisture that hung in the air. She didn't look at him; she hadn't all day.
"Yeah, well," he muttered. "I was never very good at a lot of things."
Behind them men spoke in German, some of what had been said at the meeting, others of things to be said at the next one. Several minutes passed.
"He's gotten in over his head," the Hungarian said to seemingly no one in particular.
"Ludwig?"
"No, the other country with Hitler as his leader."
"Us?"
That caught her attention, her eyes snapping to his. How many days had he spent gazing into those green emeralds, lost in them, never wanting the moment to end? He remembers how they clouded when he'd take her, the passion filling them as he pounded into her… No. What had they been discussing?
She smiled half heartily, making to reach out for his hand. But Elizabeta caught herself, instead pulling her hat down farther on her head. She looked out over the German garden.
"We should talk to him. Ludwig. We should-"
"Nein."
Never in all their years of marriage had Roderich ever interrupted Elizabeta.
She turned to him, grabbing his arm. "We could stop this," she said, desperation in her voice. All Roderich did was bring his cigarette to his lips to drag on it, her arms going along with it. "We know him, we've known him for so long, we raised him…"
"Elizabeta." The name fell from his lips with a forgotten grace; he used to scream it as he came, thanking the gods that there was such an angel as the one under him. Had other men had her since their last night of sex? Roderich would have killed them if he ever found them.
Her hand tightened in gripping his arm. "Liebling." She whispered it, her mouth fumbling over the long-abandoned name she used to call him. "Please. He's still just the little boy we used to hold in thunder storms and take to buy clothing, please. Please."
Tears welled up, clouding the emeralds. He pulled his arm from her grip, taking another drag of the cigarette. "Stop it Elizabeta. Ludwig was never a replacement for the child we lost. He was never our son, never ours."
Before he even knew what had happened, the proud Hungarian had stood, slapped him hard across the face, then marched off. All Roderich could do was drop the cigarette to the ground, squashing it with his shoes.
"He doesn't have your eyes," he whispered into the wind.
