Tauragė County, Lithuania, 1860
Patches of sunlight spilled over the young man as he lay on the blanket spread across the sandy bank. One hand rested, pillowed behind his head; the other shielded his eyes as he watched his companion roll up his trouser legs before wading out into the stream to cast his fishing line.
The young man smiled, satisfied and content. Never before would he have found this kind of rustic life appealing. He used to count down the days when he was a boy and his family would spend the summers at their country estate — so far from the city it seemed. How he missed the sounds, the people, the constant distraction of always having something to do. He came to appreciate it though, slowly, gradually, the way one does once they stop stubbornly pushing against something and begin to look for the beauty underneath. And there was plenty of it among the surrounding trees, the greens and yellows of the wide farm fields, the simple stone dwellings in the nearby village.
His company was far more agreeable too, he thought, as he pushed himself up to a seated position.
The fisherman turned, as if feeling the young man's eyes upon him, the sun catching in his hair and turning the brown strands a shining copper.
"...What is it?" he asked in a somewhat amused tone.
The young man — Feliks — shook his head with a teasing click of his tongue. "You're so provincial."
Tauras shrugged a shoulder, turning his attention back to the stream. "I thought that's what you liked about me. That I wasn't some puffed up city peacock." He glanced back over his shoulder with a grin.
Feigning affront, Feliks threw a pebble from the bank into the water near Tauras' leg.
The Lithuanian laughed — a sound that carried over the stream bordering his family's land and across the fields beyond. "Stop it, you'll scare the fish."
"It's probably too cold for them."
"It is not. You're just not used to it."
"Why, because I don't spend all my time outside, like you?"
"Exactly."
Pursing his lips, Feliks slid off his shoes and socks, then rolled up the legs of his pants the way Tauras had. The sun had warmed the blanket, and Feliks felt himself starting to sweat a little despite the cool spring air. That changed, though, the moment he neared the wet sand of the stream bank. Determined to prove Tauras wrong, he ignored the damp chill spreading from his toes to his ankles and plunged one foot in the water — only to immediately withdraw it a second later, air hissing out between his teeth.
Feliks hobbled back to the blanket and dried his feet, rubbing them to warm back up. He looked up, wondering if Tauras had seen, but the Lithuanian's attention remained fixed on the water as he reeled in a catch. Tauras unhooked the silvery fish, stuffed it in a wicker basket slung over his shoulder, and cast his line again.
Feliks sank back onto his elbows, watching Tauras. The sun was directly overhead now, the blanket even warmer. A light breeze fanned his cheek as the water trickled lazily down stream. It did not take long before Feliks drifted off to sleep, lulled by the gentle sounds around him.
He awoke what felt like moments later but soon realized at least an hour or more had passed. Shadows cast by the trees now stretched over the bank as the sun moved behind them. Tauras knelt on the blanket, packing up his fishing gear.
Feliks propped himself up on his hands. "Done already?"
Tauras nodded. "Don't want you getting bored," he smirked.
Feliks gave his shoulder a playful shove. "How many did you catch?"
"Three."
"Mmm. What a feast. We can feed the whole household."
"Only if you believe in miracles."
"I fell in love with you, didn't I?" Feliks grinned. He brushed a lock of hair behind Tauras' ear, drawing him close for a kiss.
Tauras moved to nuzzle Feliks' neck. "I suppose that's true." The whispered breath sent a warm shudder down the young man's spine.
Feliks lay back down on the blanket as Tauras continued peppering his neck with light kisses, his lips lingering just below the young count's jaw. A soft moan escaped Feliks' throat, his fingers tangling in Tauras' hair, drawing the Lithuanian's lips to his again.
Tauras slipped a hand under the young count's shirt. Feliks drew a sharp breath, skin prickling at the icy touch. Tauras grinned against his teeth, eyes slowly opening, ready for the young count's playful admonitions regarding cold hands against his delicate skin. But Feliks was looking at him in a way Tauras had never seen before. The young count tilted his head, chin tipping up, not challenging but inviting, accepting.
Heat pooled in Tauras' middle. He kissed Feliks again — deeper, longer. Around them, the small wood continued its unbroken hum — birdsong and leaves whispering, the breaking of a twig in the distance — as they lost themselves in each other.
.
o
.
They walked arm in arm back to the wooded border behind Tauras' family estate. The sun was lengthening their shadows, and Tauras knew they would not have much time to dress for dinner. His father no doubt would be displeased, and he half considered just having Rūta bring him a tray to his room. But that would leave Feliks to dine alone with their parents. And the visiting count and countess would not look too favorably upon him for such an act of disrespect. Being improperly dressed for dinner was easily overlooked — he was a simple, provincial nobleman's son after all — but missing dinner with such esteemed guests was unforgivable. Still, Tauras thought, as he looked over at Feliks with a smile, even if he had to suffer through his father's pointed glares, it would all have been worth it.
They loosened their embrace as they neared the house, stopping by the shed beside the stable to drop off their fishing poles before going down to the kitchen entrance. Tauras wanted to give the fish to the cook so she could start smoking it for tomorrow's breakfast.
The kitchen, however, was oddly empty for it being so near dinner time, though the scent of cooking lingered in the air. Tauras wondered if he had misjudged the time and they had perhaps arrived too late. His father would be furious. He unslung the wicker basket, setting it on the table, as Feliks asked: "Where is everyone?"
Tauras shook his head, looking around. He began making his way to the servants' hall when Rūta appeared in the doorway.
Before Tauras could even begin to ask her what was going on, she spoke: "Your father wishes to see you, sir."
Rūta's hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles glowing white. She would not look at him. "He is in his study. Count Łukasiewicz is to join the count and countess for dinner in the parlor." She glanced up at Feliks, then back down, and turned towards the hall. Feliks followed her out, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. Tauras tried to smile, tried to send Feliks an encouraging nod — but the truth was they both knew something was very wrong.
Tauras sniffed and drew himself up, straightening his waistcoat after Feliks left. He ran his hands through his hair, disentangling any gnarls in an effort to make himself as presentable as possible (though father would doubtless still find something to criticize), and mounted the stairs.
Juozas was standing before the window, staring across the grounds of the estate entrance when Tauras entered the study. The first thing he saw was the glass of brandy sitting on his father's desk. Tauras' scalp prickled. They were thirty-two days into Lent. And there was one thing his father never did during Lent: indulge. Juozas was a strict adherent to fasting and sacrifices for the entire forty days. Nothing — in all the eighteen years Tauras had been alive — nothing — had ever made Juozas break from his observances. Until now.
Juozas turned, seeing his son reflected in the window. Behind him, the setting sun cast a red glow over the room. His face was set in hard lines, a cut piece of granite. A deep sigh emanated, rumbling as though from the earth's very core.
And then he spoke, his voice low, each word punctuated with a deadly calm: "At every turn, Tauras. At every turn, you continue to defy me."
"I apologize, father," Tauras said, thinking this was about missing dinner with the count and countess. "I lost track of time — "
"Do not speak."
Tauras' mouth snapped shut.
Juozas snatched up the glass of brandy, drained it, and poured himself another. "It's a goddamn disgrace."
Tauras furrowed his brow. He knew how important social standing was to his father, but surely this was a bit excessive, even if he and Feliks had been a little late getting back….
Juozas went over to the fireplace, one hand gripping the mantle as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. Tauras vaguely registered his father had yet to even look at him. The silence in the room stretched on. Tauras strained his ears, listening for the sounds of the house — the click of shoes against the wood floor, the muffled voices of people in other rooms, a cup being set on a saucer, anything — but there was only silence.
"Your brother." Juozas' voice punctured the utter stillness, and Tauras nearly jumped out of his skin. "He saw you."
A flood of realization washed over Tauras then. How could he have been so stupid? Matas had been begging to go fishing all week. He must have seen Tauras and Feliks set off with their reels and followed. And then...he saw...
Tauras felt the floor, the earth, the world pulling suddenly away from him. He stumbled, catching himself on a chair to keep from falling.
Juozas was watching him now. "So it is true."
Tauras' mouth hung open, trying to catch a breath. "F-father, I — "
"Christ, Tauras! If you had been with a woman, that would have been one thing. That would have been excusable — but this! For Matas to have seen his older brother rutting around in the grass with another man, like some farm animal — "
"But I love him, father!"
The words were out of Tauras' mouth before he even knew he'd spoken them. His father's cold anger, having gradually thawed during the last few minutes, now erupted into something volcanic. He struck Tauras, the blow sending his son knocking into a side table. Tauras managed to catch himself, hands shaking and cheek stinging from where his father had hit him.
"Get out of my sight until I decide what to do with you," Juozas spat. "And don't even think about going to find Feliks. The count and countess have already left for Tauragė after the shame you've caused."
Tauras hurried from the room, speeding down the hallway until he was well out of earshot before stopping to catch his breath. His chest was tight, as if a hand had plunged between his ribs and was now squeezing his heart. The world around him tilted and spun.
Somewhere in the house, a door opened. Tauras let his feet lead him away from the sound. He could not stomach the thought of seeing anyone, of being around anyone, except...
Feliks.
Even the name had such a strong draw. Like gravity. And Tauras felt himself grounded once again. He headed for the parlor, where Rūta said the count and countess were waiting for their son.
It was empty except for a maid clearing away the remains of a light dinner. She started when she saw Tauras, but the young man was already tearing through the house again, this time making his way to the guest quarters. Feliks could not be gone. Not yet. The pull of him was still too strong.
Tauras flew up the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time. At the top, his pursuit was halted, however, by the appearance of his brother emerging from the corridor leading to their rooms.
A rage Tauras had never known flared deep within him then. Red flooded the edge of his vision; he wanted nothing more at that moment than to strike Matas the way their father had struck him.
Matas stared, wide-eyed, at his older brother. His mouth moved as if he had something to say, but Tauras was already breezing by him, fists clenched at his sides.
He stopped outside Feliks' door, ears straining for any sound. But the guest wing was as quiet as the rest of the house.
Tauras knocked.
There was no answer.
Opening the door, he was met with an empty room.
Panic seized him then. Tauras raced back to the stairs and down to the front door. Out on the grounds, he ran to the stables, but the count and countess' carriage was gone.
.
o
.
It did not take long for rumors of the count's son to find their way from Kaunas to Tauragė. Though it was admittedly not the kind of gossip Tauras had been expecting.
Feliks had joined the imperial army.
His relationship with Tauras was a secret known only to their families. And one that, in Juozas' eyes, had forever ruined any chance of social advancement with the count.
Only one path seemed clear for Juozas' ambitions now: for his son to share in Feliks' fate. For young men of their social class, serving the imperial army was a sure means to advance familial standing. And knowing this, Tauras fully anticipated his father forcing him to enlist. So it came as a shock when, after weeks of refusing to speak or even look at his son, Juozas called Tauras to his study and told him he would begin studies at the seminary in Varniai.
Tauras remembered leaving the study that day, his heart heavier than the day Feliks left. His father's message was clear: Juozas wanted nothing more to do with his son.
Looking back, he sometimes wondered why he stayed, why he didn't just run away. And always it was the same conclusion: his father's influence was too strong. He feared what would happen if he dared step any further out of line.
It wasn't until he was at the seminary and away from his father's presence that that fear was supplanted by rebellion.
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia, 1869
There were times when memories of his past would surface. In the quiet moments of the evening or just before dawn. Surrounded by raucous voices at the pub. Watching Raivis practice his lettering. Usually they were nothing more than brief glimpses, flashes quick as lighting and gone just as soon. But Lent — and Easter — were undoubtedly the hardest seasons to get through.
Tauras always seemed to find himself rising early even though he no longer followed the church's calendar. His body was still attuned to it, anticipating that thirty-second day of Lent — the day of his brother's betrayal, his father's discovery of the true nature of his eldest son. The day when everything fell apart.
Raivis was still asleep as Tauras padded quietly around their garret room, getting ready for the day. He envied how soundly that boy could sleep, and the thought of returning to the warmth of his own bed was enticing, but Tauras knew sleep would not come back to him. And he enjoyed these early morning moments, when the world was still and had not yet begun to wake. It reminded him of when he was younger and stealing down to the servant quarters to visit Eduard before the rest of the house was up.
Tauras tied his hair back, eyes catching on the gold cross laying on his dresser. The one Feliks had given him. Maybe he would forgo wearing it today, he thought, his fingers lightly tracing over it. Maybe it was time to let it go. For so long, he had been holding onto something he knew he could never get back.
Tauras turned to go, but the pull was still so strong. He snatched up the necklace and put it on, feeling it settle against his chest, and went downstairs.
Gathering up the water buckets, Tauras headed up the high street to the pump. Patches of pale sky peaked through the clouds overhead. The air was chilly and damp, unlike the bitter cold of the past few weeks. An early promise of spring.
The high street was largely deserted this early in the morning. A pair of gendarmes were sharing a cigarette on a corner near a cafe a few blocks down, their dark uniforms standing out against the white-washed building. Tauras turned away and set to priming the pump. It would be a few more weeks before they relaxed their hold again, he thought. No point rushing their next smuggling run, which would give him time to actually plan it. Going on foot would likely be too risky, but he still felt he should know what to expect as far as patrols at the border. Sunday would be the best day to go since his shop was closed that day, and he'd have to plan for the weather. But what if he was stopped and questioned? What would his excuse be? Maybe he should talk to Semyon first — the man who brought him across the border, hidden in the back of his wagon — or some of the other smugglers in town —
Cold water splashed down, soaking through the top of Tauras' boot and interrupting his train of thought. Muttering a curse, he moved the overflowing bucket out from under the pump, putting the empty one in its place.
"Need a little help?" a familiar voice asked.
Tauras shut his eyes briefly and sighed. "No, that's all right, sergeant-major. I can manage."
But Gilbert already had his hand on the bucket, ready to tip out the excess water, as Tauras prepared to do the same, his arm brushing against the Prussian's.
"I said I can manage," Tauras bristled. He pulled the bucket away with too much force and sent it toppling over. Water spilled out, sloshing over his boots and soaking into the cobblestone street.
Tauras let out a growl of frustration.
"Shouldn't you be on patrol or something!?" he snapped. Then, realizing his mistake, adopted an apologetic look. It was hard not to fall back on old habits sometimes. He had been a nobleman's son longer than he had been a member of the working-class — and it was far easier to dismiss someone when they were being bothersome when you were a nobleman's son with everyone beneath you, than when you were a poor printer with everyone above you. He only hoped the sergeant-major did not decide to arrest him for his impudence.
But Gilbert simply blinked, the angles of his face softening. "Patrol is later this afternoon. I'm not in uniform yet."
"Right. Sorry. I — forgive me. That was impolite, and...this week has just been difficult. It's no excuse, but — "
"It's all right. That's not the rudest comment I've heard, believe me," Gilbert said with a smile.
Tauras returned it with an abashed glance down, then back up. His sight drew outward as he looked at Gilbert. Really looked. Alabaster skin. Pale eyes and hair. Things normally hidden by a military uniform and haughty air now seemed so visible dressed as he was, in everyday clothes. Even the few times he'd seen Gilbert at the pub, Tauras never paid much attention to his appearance, preferring instead to leave as quickly as possible before the sergeant-major could spot him. Looking at him now, though, Tauras could only imagine the types of comments Gilbert had had to endure.
The sergeant-major cleared his throat, his face adopting the rigid guise Tauras had first seen at his shop. "I should let you continue with your day, Mr. Laurinaitis," he said, his tone suddenly somber. "Excuse me."
"Wait...I, uh..." Tauras swallowed, gesturing uselessly at the buckets. "C-come to think of it, I could use a little help."
Wordlessly, Gilbert picked up the bucket to refill.
Soon, both were brimming with water. Gilbert grasped the rope handle of one, while Tauras carried the other, and together they made their way back to the print shop.
"There aren't many people who would dare speak to me the way you do," Gilbert remarked. "As a regular person."
Tauras swallowed. "Well. I'm sure most people find uniforms a bit off-putting."
Gilbert slowed a half-step. "I meant...there aren't many who would speak to me," he began quietly, "regardless of my uniform."
Tauras felt something tug in his chest. He glanced over, but the sergeant-major's face was inscrutable, his eyes downcast. They walked the rest of the way in silence.
At the print shop, Tauras opened the door and led them through to the kitchen to set their buckets down. The silence from the walk followed them in, crowding itself around the small room, pushing against the table, the cabinets, the air, until Tauras could stand it no longer.
"Would...you like anything before you go?" he ventured, his throat suddenly dry.
Gilbert shook his head. "I've taken enough of your time."
"Please. It's the least I can do, and...I am sorry — truly — for earlier."
Gilbert blinked, his throat bobbing up and down. "...Alright."
Tauras poured some water into a kettle to boil for tea, then set out a plate of bread and the last of their jam.
Gilbert took a seat at the table, careful not to let the chair legs scrape against the stone floor. As if afraid of disturbing the very air, Tauras thought. It was odd. Gilbert was the type of person whose presence took up space wherever he was; but now — now it seemed he was trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible.
Tauras brought the tea to the table and sat. Gilbert cupped his hands around the steaming mug.
"Does your day always start this early, Mr. Laurinaitis?"
"Only when I can't sleep. You?"
"Same."
The space around them fell silent again, though there was an ease to it that had not been there before.
Tauras finished his tea, idly turning the cup to study the shapes left by the leaves. The same symbols he'd been seeing for the past month or so were all still there, along with a new one — or rather, a very old one. Beside the tree, there was a clump of leaves that looked oddly like a heart. He thought immediately of Feliks. The last time he had seen the heart in his cup was whenever the young count had been around. Tauras' hand went to his chest, feeling the cross necklace resting beneath his shirt.
"What are you doing?"
Tauras' eyes flicked up. The sergeant-major was looking at him. He put his cup down, resting his hands on the table. "Nothing. Just…remembering something someone taught me. A long time ago."
"And what's that?"
Tauras shook his head, embarrassed. "It's not important. Just a silly superstition."
Gilbert's eyes narrowed a fraction. "If you don't mind me saying...you seem far too practical a person to believe in such things."
"I don't!" Tauras said quickly, heat rising in his cheeks. "It was…a game a friend and I used to play." He nodded at Gilbert's cup. "The leaves form shapes. Shapes that supposedly tell your future."
"So you're a fortune teller?" Gilbert smirked, raising a brow.
Tauras chortled. "I should think not."
"That's a shame. I would like to know what my future holds here in Tilsit."
Gilbert held his gaze. His eyes were piercing, a teasing challenge matched by the angles of his sharp face. Tauras felt his breath catch. He gave a small cough, eyes going to his own his cup.
"Well...I suppose I could take a look."
Gilbert grinned. "On second thought, I think I'd rather be surprised." He drained the rest of his tea and stood as the morning bells began to sound. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Laurinaitis, but I need to get ready for the day."
Tauras nodded and saw him out. As he closed the door, he paused and rested his forehead against the wood, the tea having done little to ease the odd feeling pulling at his chest ever since the walk back from the pump.
.
o
.
The afternoon was clear as Tauras made his way across the river to Mr. Kuprys' farm with his delivery of wedding announcements. The clouds from that morning had given way to a bright blue sky. Though the air remained crisp, it was a welcome change to feel the warmth of the sun against his back instead of the constant icy breeze from the Memel.
As he crossed the bridge, Tauras realized the last time he had left Tilsit was nearly four years ago to help his cousin survey the border before their first smuggling run. Raivis usually made their deliveries — and if Eduard had not almost been caught on their last run, the boy would be in Tauras' place now. But ever since his cousin's close call, Tauras started delivering the finished print pieces, not wanting to risk Raivis' or Eduard's safety any more than he had to. Today marked the first time he had crossed the bridge since he and Eduard started smuggling books, leaving the city proper behind.
The northern suburb of Tilsit was little more than a handful of houses dotting the banks of the Memel, forming a small village, with farmland surrounding it on three sides. Mr. Kuprys' farm was just outside of town off the main road.
Despite having grown up in the country, the sudden change from urban life to rural still came as a bit of a jolt. Over the years, Tauras had grown accustomed to the buildings crowding the streets, the din of wagons and voices just outside his door. Across the river, however, the noise seemed to suddenly shut off. The wagons — the one or two he did see — moved at a much slower pace.
Tauras adjusted his satchel, head tipping back towards the sun. Days like this made it easy to forget about his little print shop and the daily struggle of keeping it open, the constant balance between smuggling and legal profit. Days like this made it easy to forget everything.
As he neared the edge of town, Tauras passed a small tavern where a group of three gendarmes were gathered just outside the door. A fourth one pushed his way out, a series of shouts from within following him. He turned, yelled something back about confiscation and contraband, then took a swig from a bottle held in his hand while his compatriots roared with laughter.
Tauras' jaw clenched. He kept his gaze focused straight ahead, not wishing to draw attention to himself, especially around a group of drunk and bored gendarmes.
But it was too late.
He felt them swarming around him even before the one with the bottle called out: "Whatcha got there?"
Tauras swallowed, wishing for once he could possess even an ounce of his cousin's charisma.
He continued on, hoping they would leave him alone, but his lack of response only provoked them further.
"I asked you a question." The one with the bottle stepped in front of Tauras, blocking his path.
"Maybe he doesn't speak German," another one said, laughing. "Maybe he's from out of town."
The gendarme standing in front of him raised an eyebrow at that.
Tauras held his gaze, hand tightening around his satchel strap. "I speak German," he said, his jaw tight.
The gendarme leaned forward with a nasty sneer. "Then answer the question."
"It's just a delivery. For a wedding. Please, let me pass."
The gendarme's eyes narrowed. "We'll see."
He grabbed the satchel, yanking it off Tauras, while two others held Tauras' arms back. The gendarme took another swig from his bottle, then tossed it aside as he upended the bag. The wedding announcements fell out, still bundled in brown paper and tied with twine. The gendarme scooped it up and tore off the wrappings, his brow furrowing a moment. Slowly, his eyes looked up and latched onto Tauras.
He shoved the prints back in the bag and jerked his head, indicating for his men to follow him. The two holding Tauras pulled him forward.
Beside the tavern stood a small grove of birch trees. It was here they headed.
"The punishment for smuggling," said the lead gendarme, "is flogging."
"I haven't smuggled anything," Tauras refuted, struggling against the two holding him.
The lead gendarme held up his satchel as if it was somehow proof. And then Tauras realized. The announcements were in Lithuanian.
"I don't know why you people even bother," the gendarme was saying, letting the bag drop to the ground, "other than to make trouble for us. Maybe we should just turn you over to the Russians at the border and be done with it."
"They're just wedding announcements, please — "
The third gendarme stripped him of his coat and shirt. The two holding him dragged him over to a tree and cuffed his hands around the trunk.
"This one's no stranger to the lash," one of them commented, nodding at the marks on the Lithuanian's back.
"That makes two lies you've told," the lead gendarme said, coming closer and squeezing Tauras' face between his thumb and fingers. The stench of sour beer rolled off his breath. Tauras fought not to be sick. "Only criminals have marks like that. You've been caught before, haven't you? Maybe we need to jog your memory." He cut a thin branch from a nearby birch and broke off the smaller twigs, forming a pliant rod.
Cold air pricked against Tauras' exposed back. Tree bark scraped against his chest and arms as he tried to pull his wrists free from the irons binding them. It was no use. He drew a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable sting of the switch...
"What is going on here?" a familiar voice demanded.
Tauras' sense of dread only deepened.
"Fucking demon," the gendarme nearest him hissed under his breath.
From the corner of his eye, Tauras saw sergeant-major Beilschmidt dismounting his horse.
"Private, why is this man bound?" he asked, addressing the gendarme holding the birch rod.
The private launched into a stammering explanation, handing the satchel to Gilbert, all sense of authority gone under his commanding officer's piercing glare.
Gilbert looked from the satchel to Tauras to the private before opening the bag. He took out the announcements, studied them briefly, then put them back with a long-suffering sigh.
"You are the most brainless men I've ever had the misfortune to command."
"...Sir?"
"This 'smuggler' you've apprehended was telling the truth. Any idiot can see these are clearly wedding announcements and not some kind of subversive propaganda. Back to the garrison, all of you. I do not tolerate such blatant disregard for protocol. You're on stable duty until I say otherwise. Maybe mucking out horse shit will give you time to think. And if this happens again, it will be a prison cell. Understood?"
Murmurs of assent rippled through the small grove. Gilbert watched the men leave, then went over to Tauras, eyes lingering a moment on the Lithuanian's back.
Tauras glanced up as Gilbert unlocked the cuffs. The Prussian's face was set, unreadable.
He let his gaze drift back down, hands shaking slightly as he rubbed the spot where the metal had dug in. He wanted nothing more than to run — run back to his home — back to Eduard and Raivis — but his body refused to move. For those terrifying moments, he was no longer in Tilsit, but back at the customs house in Tauragė again.
"My apologies, Mr. Laurinaitis."
Tauras started at the sound of his name. He looked up to see the sergeant-major holding his shirt and coat. He took them silently and dressed, willing his tense muscles into motion, giving his mind something to focus on other than what had just happened, and the memories that came with it.
"You're not hurt, are you?"
Tauras shook his head.
"May I...offer you a ride?" Gilbert ventured. "Back to your shop, perhaps?"
"No," Tauras said tonelessly, shouldering his satchel. "I need to make my delivery. Excuse me." He passed Gilbert, keeping his gaze averted, as he made his way back towards the road.
"Tauras!" Gilbert called. "Wait, please — !"
Tauras paused a moment, head turning a fraction to peer back over his shoulder. "Don't," he said, and continued on.
.
o
.
The sun was setting by the time Tauras made it back to his shop. He was barely through the door when Eduard confronted him.
"Where have you been!? It doesn't take that long to cross the river— " Then, seeing his cousin, and the strained look on his face: "My God, you look terrible."
Tauras allowed himself a small smile. "Nice to see you, too." He hung his satchel behind the door, then went into the kitchen looking for something strong to drink. Eduard followed.
"What happened?"
"I really don't want to get into it, Ed," Tauras said, shaking his head wearily.
Eduard sent his cousin a pointed look.
"Fine," Tauras sighed, pouring some vodka into a glass. "There was this group of guards. They thought I was a smuggler, and…."
"And…they did that?" Eduard nodded at the scratches on his cousin's face, his dirty and disheveled clothing.
Tauras said nothing, only swallowed down a measure of vodka.
Eduard swore.
"It's fine, Ed. Really. It…could have gone a whole lot worse — "
"That's not the point, Tauras — "
"Their commander took care of it. It's fine!"
"…Commander? You mean the one with the white hair?"
"Yes."
Eduard pushed his glasses up his nose, his expression changing from indignation to one of cautious distrust.
"So, what — he just happened to be there?"
"No — I don't know — he was on patrol or something. Why does it matter?"
Eduard shrugged. "I didn't say it did. It was just lucky, I guess."
Tauras eyed him. He may not have had Eduard's proficiency at reading people, but he knew when his cousin had something on his mind. Eduard remained silent, flexing the fingers of his left hand a few times.
"How is it?" Tauras asked.
Eduard looked down at his arm. "Fine. Nerves are still acting up. Probably will be for awhile."
Tauras finished his drink. "I need to get cleaned up."
"I'll keep Raivis busy."
Tauras went up to his room. He filled his wash basin using the pitcher on his dresser and undressed down to the waist. Cupping both hands, he splashed cold water on his face, gaze momentarily catching on the reflection in his mirror. There, curving just over the top of his right shoulder, was the end of a jagged pink scar. He reached a hand up, fingers grazing the raised skin, following the path cutting across his upper back, remembering.
Tauras drew a stuttering breath and withdrew his hand. Tears welled in his eyes. He sank onto the bed, holding his head in his hands. How was he going to do this?
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o
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Tauragė, Lithuania
The fire raged in the courtyard, lighting the evening sky in a hellish blaze. Men stood encircling the conflagration, warming their hands with the flame and their bellies with bottles of vodka. Some sang while others told stories from home as another armful of books was fed to the pyre.
Captain Braginski watched from just beyond the circle as his men celebrated. The bonfires had started becoming an almost weekly ritual — a much needed morale boost, if not also a bittersweet reminder of the empire's failure to gain control of this backwoods country.
The sparks from the blaze reflected in the captain's fathomless eyes, his fingers curling around the edge of a wanted poster showing the profile of a bearded man in glasses.
He was joined by his senior lieutenant and a soldier from border patrol — the one who had first sent the report of the suspected smuggler.
"Tell me," Captain Braginski said, his gaze shifting from the fire to the paper in his hand, "what did he look like?"
"It's...difficult to say, sir," the soldier said, shifting his weight. "I only saw him — "
"From the side," Captain Braginski cut in, his patience waning. "Yes, I know. I could infer as much from this poster. What I don't know, are things like hair color and build — was he fat, skinny, tall, short, blonde, balding, what? Surely you were able to see that."
The soldier swallowed. "He — he was blonde. Tall. Not quite as tall as you, sir, but close. He looked like he might be on the thin side, but the coat he wore was fairly big. And his Russian — his Russian was not very good. I'd say he was probably German, sir."
The captain lifted a brow. "Now that helps narrow things down a bit. Thank you, private. Dismissed." He turned to the lieutenant. "Have more of these posters distributed among the patrols and throughout the countryside, along with the man's description. It's not much, but it's the best damn lead we've had in a long time."
The lieutenant saluted and left.
Captain Braginski's eyes drifted momentarily over to his men, before settling on the small jail in the courtyard. One of the prisoners would know something. It was hard to hide a look of recognition. And now, he had a face.
He studied the poster again. The soldier's description nowhere near matched his memories of the escaped rebel. Yet he could not help but feel that young man was somehow connected to this. After all, one stray ember was still powerful enough to ignite a blaze.
The bonfire began to weaken. A final round of books and newspapers was brought and tossed into the flames, the fire coughing up a plume of sparks and ash. One floated up and over, setting down at the captain's feet. He frowned, considering the glowing cinder a moment — then smothered it beneath his boot.
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A/N ::wags eyebrows:: Did you see what I did there?
Anyway, I don't think I have any history notes for you guys this time, so I just wanna say thank you for reading (and waiting so long for this update)! And please let me know what you think :) Next up, we get some of Gilbo's back story.