81. Nothing Personal
Date Written: July 15, 2019
Date Posted: November 28, 2020
Characters: Veneziano, Austria
Summary: Austria and Veneziano finally say goodbye as they experience one last sword fight with each other.
Notes: The Kingdom of Lombardy-Veneto was created in 1815 in recognition of the Austrian House of Habsburg-Lorraine's right to Lombardy and the former Republic of Venice after the Napoleonic Kingdom of Italy had collapsed. It finally dissolved when it became incorporated into the Kingdom of Italy in 1866.
Veneziano's hand on the hilt of his personal sword felt heavy, almost unwieldy. He stood in the midst of Austria's vast estate, his eyes carefully tracing the architecture that housed his minder ever since his great republic had fallen. Even though it had been years since his defeat, it still stung his throat and burned the underside of his skin.
La Serenissima Repubblica did not take too kindly to taking to heel under others' orders.
As he took a stance and swung his sword in the next motion, he heard the even footsteps of his minder from behind. His footsteps were easily memorable, on tempo and authoritative. Even from behind, Veneziano knew who he was.
Austria.
His ruler.
His keeper.
Depending on the news of the wars that were occurring in his siblings' territory, perhaps Austria would finally bequeath him to his brother's lands. It was only a matter of time before the Kingdom of Italy rose from the depths of his unified brothers and sisters, never mind that he would be the last to join their united front.
Finally, when Veneziano thought that Austria would walk away into the relative safety of his estate without sharing any news, Austria spoke. Veneziano, still holding his sword in hand, stood. He was ready for any attack, be it verbal or physical.
Perhaps today was the day where he finally had Austria heel to him.
"I take it that you have not heard the news." Austria's voice was low, measured. Adagietto. Not a tempo that was normal for the Austrian. Even his breathing that Veneziano could barely hear over the sound of his own heartbeat, sounded like pizzicato on woodwind.
Austria was nervous, but he was trying not to show it.
The war had not fallen in favor for the Habsburgs.
No matter. Every Nation knew what it was like to heel to someone else; it was rare, however, to know what it was like to rule over others. Veneziano craved that sensation no more than ever. Even if he were taken away to a new minder—in this case, his brother—he would find a way to take power back into his own hands.
It was a lesson ingrained into all known Nations.
Once you have tasted the sweet, befuddling nectar of power and influence, you would forever chase after it.
It was a cruel and vicious cycle, but it was necessary. Stagnation was the only other option than rise to opulence and tyranny.
Veneziano turned and faced Austria. His sword was held in a defensive stance, something that did little to shock Austria, but it had Veneziano thinking of his stance otherwise. In an attempt to be courteous, he held it gently at his side.
It was too early to fight.
Not now anyway.
Austria's face, as always, was pale. However, there was a thin sheen of sweat and his form seemed to have crumpled under the weight of the wars that ravaged the rest of the Italian peninsula. Even Veneziano, a region unto himself as Veneto and Lombardy, could feel his siblings raging and warring, all of them fighting for a cause.
For unification.
For Risorgimento.
Suddenly, Veneziano became too aware of the fact that Austria was speaking. Tuning into his stuttered, but smooth words, Veneziano began to pay attention and found himself a little surprised but not at the same time.
The phantom pains at his side were more than enough evidence.
"You are no longer…" Austria's voice had picked up speed and sputtered to a stop. Allegro. Caesura. "You are no longer my charge."
Veneziano raised a brow. "And?"
Austria sighed before he walked forward and placed what could have passed for a familial, paternal hand on Veneziano's shoulder. Even though fifty years of Austrian rule was not something that Veneziano would have liked, he found himself enjoying the warmth of human contact.
If he closed his eyes and pretended that Austria's breathing was low and deep, he could imagine that it was Rome.
"I am planning to transfer you to France, but in the grand scheme of things…"
France would not be able to handle the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia for long. In fact, it would make sense considering the wars occurring just south of Veneziano's conscience that—
"Your brothers and sisters to the west and south of your borders await you." Austria breathed out (andante, but sad all the same) his response, something familiar, but lacking in his curiously colored eyes. If Veneziano had been permitted to paint, he would have thought them to be almost violet or bright lilac in color. "I would not be surprised if…"
There were so many things that Austria could have said at that moment.
Did he want to apologize?
Did he want to offer his condolences for the millionth time that after his fall of a republic, he had been tossed around from Austria to France to Austria again as the mere Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia?
Did he want to tell him that he enjoyed lording it over him that Veneziano had little power in his government over the past fifty or so years?
Veneziano didn't want to talk.
The feeling of his sword grew heavy in his hands as he stepped back from the Germanic Nation. His steps were slow, measured, on tempo.
Andante.
And then—
Fermata.
He drew his sword in first position and faced Austria head on.
His tanned features, contrasting acutely with Austria's pallid features, were upturned in a coy smile. One that almost reached his eyes as he held his sword high, the weight no longer weighing him down. For now, he felt light and free.
Light on his feet, he was a dancer eager to step in time with the music.
"Come," he urged the Austrian. "For old times' sake."
He saw Austria's Adam's apple bob up and down as he, too, reached for the ornamental sword that rested at his hip.
Such a paltry toy, but Veneziano didn't mind.
He would make Austria pay for what he had taken away from Venezia all those years before.
Because…
Crossing blades with an enemy often instilled a sense of exhilaration in Veneziano. There was a purpose in every stroke, determination in each parry. Victory, oh so sweet victory, when a blade had struck true.
Veneziano lived for it. He lived for the look of defeat marring his opponent's brow. He lusted for the sound of metal against metal. He absolutely loved the dance between two swordsmen, the feeling of balance switching from foot to foot. He could calculate easily when it was best to strike or when to hold back.
That is why, in the midst of revolution and reunification that Veneziano struck. The Italian sidestepped, dodged with a weapon that would one day go out of style. He carried on as if to say that although he had spent centuries under the thumb of Austria, it would be no more.
If Austria were to bleed and die on his own, then so be it.
After all.
It was nothing personal.
