Wilmersdorf, Berlin, 1866
It was after two in the morning when Gilbert fell through the front door of his family's house, his head and wallet much lighter than they had been all week. The spirit of the sporting house still buzzed beneath his skin, a euphoria that he did not want to end. The young man had asked him to stay. The offer sorely tempted, though it would have cost him more.
He wished he had taken the man up on it the moment the door closed.
He should not have come home.
Even in darkness, the utter stillness of the house was a burden. Oppressive. As if the very walls watched his every move, ready to report his misdeeds to Father.
Gilbert strained his ears, listening for any indication he had been heard. But all that came back to him was silence. In a way, he was relieved. (In a way, it hurt more).
He made his way to the stairs on unsteady feet, managing to negotiate his way up using the hand rail and his cane. He weaved down the hall, shoulder grazing the wall once just past his brother's door. He missed the soft crack of it opening as his hand fumbled to find the knob of his own.
"Gil?"
An ochre light burnished the hall as Ludwig poked his head out, holding a chamberstick candle.
For a moment, Gilbert was taken back to a time when they were boys and the younger blonde would run down the hall to his older brother's room, fearful the shadows on his bedroom wall belonged to some otherworldly creatures or spirits.
The memory blinked out as Ludwig approached, no longer the small, scared child he once was.
"Sorry, Lutz," Gilbert whispered, hand finding the doorknob at last. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep." He cracked a reassuring grin, then disappeared into his room. But Ludwig was right behind him.
"Where were you?"
Gilbert's back was to his brother. He shrugged out of his overcoat, tossing it over the back of a chair, his medals clinking.
"Gil?"
"I had to get out, okay?" he said, rounding on Ludwig. "I just had to get out for a bit." He tugged at his uniform shirt collar, loosening the top two buttons. "There's still a lot of bad blood between me and..." Gilbert sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I'm — I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your big night. I shouldn't have gone. I should have..."
"Don't say that. I wanted you there."
Gilbert puffed out a deprecating laugh. "You're probably the only one." He sank onto the edge of his bed.
Ludwig set the candle down on a table and sat beside his brother. The guttering flame cast shadows on the walls, reminding Gilbert of late night patrols and encampment fires and belching cinder from cannon, the Austrians on the high ground, pinning them down, the villages set ablaze, as he spurred his horse into the charge...
Now he was the one with the nightmares. Funny, that.
Gilbert blinked, returning to himself.
"...Lutz," he breathed. "Promise me...when you go to the academy...don't let them — don't let them get to you. Don't believe a word of what Drechsler says, either. The man spews nothing but lies. Don't let him..." He broke off, shaking his head. On the wall, the battle still played out. Gilbert turned away from it, fully facing his brother now, his eyes damp. "Your first duty is to your men. Always. No matter what they train you to think. We're not...not expendable. Do you understand?"
Ludwig nodded.
"Good. Now go to bed. I'm tired."
Ludwig stood, picked up the candle, and left, pausing a moment at the door to look back at his brother. Gilbert was staring at the wall again, lost in either thought or memory, Ludwig could not tell which.
"Good night, Gil," he said softly.
.
o
.
Gilbert fairly avoided any contact with his father the following day, though he did keep to his room the entire time, nursing one of the worst headaches he'd ever had. It was almost as bad as the migraines he would sometimes get when the light outside would suddenly shift, becoming too bright, and he'd forgotten his tinted lenses.
On Sunday, however, he was called on to join his father and brother for morning services. Even after years of attending the same church, though, his appearance still managed to attract a few whispers and stares. He clenched his jaw, directing his attention to the building around him. Plain white walls and wood pews. Clear glass windows showing a hazy summer sky beyond. The only hint of decoration were the arches in the apse, forming the dome under which stood the main altar. The church had been built for practicality. It was a place of worship. No more. Protestants had no need of the lavish decorations that adorned their Catholic counterparts. It reeked of vanity, of hypocrisy, of idol worship. Still, Gilbert thought, as he rubbed his leg absently, the stained glass sure had been pretty to look at.
After being wounded by that saber, he had been taken to a church doubling as a field hospital. Like their Austrian rulers, the Bohemians were largely Catholic, and Gilbert spent the better part of three weeks staring at paintings in gilt frames, images of saints whose names he did not know, the Virgin in her blue looking benignly down upon him. Coupled with the cries of hurt or dying men, it had all been too much, those silently staring eyes. He remembered one of the paintings on the wall depicting a young man tied to a tree with arrows piercing his body. He asked one of the nurses — a young Bohemian girl plucked from the village — who that man was. She looked at him strangely a moment, as if it was obvious, before answering: "Saint Sebastian."
He thought of the painting now, and of the young woman. The look of defeat and mistrust in her eyes as she performed her solemn duty, caring for men who were not her countrymen. Had her nation not been overrun, had her town not fallen, would she have left him to starve? Would she have let the men succumb to their injuries?
Ludwig nudged his arm, breaking Gilbert away from his thoughts. Around them, the congregation was departing. Their father had risen, greeting a few members as he waited for his sons by the door. Gilbert and Ludwig were the only two left sitting in their pew.
His brother stood, joining their father. Gilbert hauled himself to his feet and followed them home in silence.
Later that evening, he was called to his father's study. The room always felt heavy to him, decorated as it was in dark greens and thick wood furniture. Books on history, economics, and military tactics lined one wall, stretching from floor to ceiling. Portraits of his grandfather and great-grandfather framed either side of the fireplace, right across from the broad mahogany desk where his father sat. Volker's portrait would soon join that of his forefathers, once Ludwig married and produced an heir. Gilbert's portrait would most likely be hung next to one of his great-uncles in one of the upstairs halls — somewhere out of the way, not in such direct line of sight.
His father poured him a brandy, gesturing for him to sit. Gilbert accepted his glass, reluctantly taking up the seat in front of the desk. His father had hardly spoken to him since the dinner disaster Friday night — though that was nothing new. Still, Gilbert could not help but feel on edge. Especially in this room. No good conversation ever was had in this room.
Moments passed in silence, with Volker taking carefully measured sips of his drink as he studied his son. Gilbert cleared his throat, feeling he ought to apologize for his behavior from two nights ago — feeling that was what his father was expecting of him — when Volker folded his hands on his desk and said: "Have you given any thought to your future, Gilbert?"
Gilbert felt the glass slip incrementally in his fingers, so taken aback was he by the question. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
"...Of — of course, I have father. My future is with the army. For our kingdom."
Volker's eyes cut down and to the side, a small huff of a breath. Disappointed.
Gilbert sipped his brandy, wondering what he had said that was wrong.
His father's gazed shot back up again, chin tilting back. "I've been corresponding with your commander. He and I both agree your future might be better suited elsewhere. And now, given your" — his eyes flicked to the cane leaning on Gilbert's chair — "incapacity, that fact could not be more plain."
Gilbert felt the air leave his lungs. He set his glass on his father's desk. "...What...what are you saying?"
Volker did not answer, only continued watching his son. The silence was unnerving.
An animal sound tore from Gilbert's chest. "How long!?" he demanded, getting to his feet. "How long have you been planning this!?"
His father did not even flinch, just blinked languidly up, waiting for Gilbert's temper to quell.
Gilbert sank back into his chair, the knee of his good leg bobbing up and down. He chewed the inside of his cheek, eyeing his father.
"We feel it best," Volker continued, "if you were to — "
"Best!?" Gilbert scoffed. "Best for who? For you!? After everything I've done, am I still that much of a disappointment — "
"For your brother," Volker interjected.
"...Lutz? What does he have to do with this?"
Volker steepled his fingers. "When Ludwig graduates, he will outrank you. Your little brother. And he has always had...a blind spot, where you are concerned. One that would hinder him in his career. He would not be able to make the necessary decisions if he knew his brother would be in anyway impacted."
Gilbert worked his jaw, taking a long, steadying breath.
"Be honest with yourself, Gilbert. Would you be able to take orders if your little brother was the one giving them?"
Yes, Gilbert wanted to say. Yes, he would give his life if that order came from his brother….
Except...
Except he was the eldest. He knew more, had experienced more than Ludwig would. It was his duty to guide his brother, to look after his brother. And he could not do those things if they were in direct contrast with the order being given.
He gave a heavy sigh and looked up at his father.
"I didn't think so," Volker said.
Gilbert drank his brandy, thinking about what Drechsler had said to him. There are other ways of securing you a commission. He shuddered, pushing the thought from his head.
"So you want me out?" he rasped.
"Not entirely." Volker slid a piece of paper over. "All you need to do is sign it. Your enlistment term ends in November anyway."
Gilbert took out his glasses and read. "The gendarmes?"
Volker struck a match, lighting a cigar. "Many men transfer there after their standard service time is done. A lot of well-proven infantry and cavalry personnel. You wanted a military career. This will still give you that."
Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck. He should have expected as much. His father's anger had always been a cold, calculating one. Every punishment was meant to teach a lesson. He should have known his father would have had something planned, something in place for the end of his son's service enlistment. Volker had been a high-ranking officer, a military strategist. And though he was retired, the army was one career that only ever truly ended when you were in a pine box.
Gilbert looked at his father. They both knew Volker's reasoning was thinly veiled. If there was another war, Gilbert would still be called up to fight. This solved nothing other than to shift the eldest son sideways. Out of the way of his brother's progression. This was Gilbert's punishment. Either sign and transfer to remain enlisted or don't sign and be out of the army. He could always re-enlist, but at what cost? Would he retain his rank or have to start over entirely? Watching Volker now, Gilbert was quite certain his father had a plan for that contingency as well.
"Why did you invite him?" Gilbert asked quietly. "Drechsler?"
Volker's eyes narrowed a fraction. "That has nothing to do with this."
"It has everything to do with this," Gilbert ground out. "Why did you invite him?"
"He is an esteemed colleague and professor. An expert in his field. I can't help it if you let your personal feelings get in the way of acknowledging that."
"The least you could have done was told me. Or were you hoping I'd be provoked?"
"What you do or do not do is not up to me to decide — "
"Oh, isn't it?" Gilbert scoffed. His eyes flicked to the paper.
Volker drew a long puff on his cigar. "Your actions are your own. But kindly remember who they affect."
Gilbert's jaw clenched, sending his father a scathing glare. He downed the rest of his brandy. Picked up the pen. And signed.
He stood when it was done and limped to the door.
"I trusted you would make the right decision," Volker said to his retreating back.
Gilbert's jaw clenched. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his tongue weighted with things unsaid, though he knew it would do no good to say them. He pushed his way from the room, passing his brother in the hall as he left. He paused, eyeing Ludwig a moment. A mix of jealousy and contempt roiled in his gut. He wanted to shout at his brother, to tell Ludwig everything he sacrificed just so their father could have a son of which he was proud. Instead, Gilbert turned away and shut himself in his room for the rest of the night.
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia, 1869
The sky was overcast as Gilbert rode north to the border. The thick cloud cover threatened rain, but not a single drop had yet fallen. Gilbert only hoped the weather would hold out until he was back at the garrison, though he felt certain Kohler would find some way to detain him.
It had been a month since he had ordered an increase in patrols in Tilsit. One month and not a single scrap of evidence of any kind of smuggling had turned up. All he had now were harangued store owners and townsfolk who were beginning to question his judgement. Gilbert had his patrols stand down, deciding to ride out to the border himself to see where exactly the holes were permitting contraband to slip through their line.
The men were encamped in a forested area just north and east of Laugszargen. Sergeant Kohler was at the border, meeting with a Russian commander, and was due back any moment — or so the men informed Gilbert. He helped himself to some coffee and proceeded to Kohler's tent to wait.
Almost an hour passed before the sergeant returned. And if Kohler was surprised to find the garrison commander in his tent, he made no show of it. Instead, his calculating eyes narrowed a fraction, mouth twitching up in a smug smile.
"Sergeant-major. What brings you out all this way?"
"I've come to inspect our border patrols myself. As you've stated, our lines fall short in comparison with our Russian neighbors'. Where does this occur? Where could we use more cover?"
Kohler's lips stretched into a toothy grin. "I'm sure my reports have been more than adequate where that is concerned."
"Indeed." Gilbert sniffed. "But it is one thing to read and quite another to see. I don't trust words, sergeant. They're too easily manipulated. I trust my eyes."
"Of course." Kohler bowed his head deferentially. "But if I recall correctly, I believe you've stated — on more than one occasion — that we simply do not have enough manpower to spare. Unless, that is, you've managed to secure some reinforcements?"
Gilbert wet his lips, studying Kohler. The man was nothing if not clever, forcing the sergeant-major to show his hand. Still, Gilbert knew a way to turn it to his advantage. "Unfortunately not. Though I can spare a few garrison troops. Our efforts in Tilsit have proved fruitless, which leads me to believe you may be right in that the problem lies in our border forces. I will send you the men, but I should first like to see where they are most needed." Gilbert rose, brushing the front of himself down as he made to exit the tent.
"Before we ride out," Kohler began, "you may be interested in seeing what I was given by the Russian commander."
Gilbert turned as the sergeant took out several sheets of paper from his satchel. They were posters. All depicting a bearded man in glasses.
"It's him," Kohler breathed. "The one they almost apprehended."
Gilbert took a poster, studying it.
"The face. There's something about it," the sergeant continued. "It's one I swear I've seen before."
"Hm. How can you be sure, though? It is only a side view."
Kohler cleared his throat. "Yes, well. At least we have something to go on. I've agreed to distribute some to the men, and the rest around Laugszargen. Some one will have seen him. One of the farmers there reported a horse missing a few days after this smuggler slipped through. Perhaps he can help add some detail?"
"...Perhaps." Gilbert rubbed his chin, his mind making some quick assessments as he looked at the poster. "May I take this one, sergeant? It may help to have a few of these put up around Tilsit as well."
"Of course, sergeant-major. I'm glad we are beginning to see eye to eye on things." Kohler smiled serenely at him.
Gilbert returned it. Though he would not say it aloud, he had little confidence increasing the border troops would aid in apprehending this smuggler. The man managed to break through three lines of Russian patrols, as well as their own defenses. It meant whoever he was, was clever. Meant he would not be foolish enough to use the same route when — or if — he attempted another smuggling run. Gilbert folded the poster and tucked it in his overcoat pocket. He had managed to placate Kohler, acquiescing to some of the man's wishes. He only hoped it was enough to curb the sergeant's machinations a little while longer.
.
o
.
Eduard spread the map over the coffee table in the upstairs sitting room. A candlestick at each of the four ends anchored it down as the evening bells rang six times. With a pencil, he marked the forest outside of Laugszargen where he was almost captured and from there, drew a perpendicular line, representing the last of the Russian border patrols. Then he drew two more lines parallel to that, representing the first and second patrols. He tucked the pencil behind his ear, sat back, and sighed. Crossing had been so much easier in the carriage, passing as a high-born German aristocrat. The Russian patrols were so thick, they were practically on top of one another. How would his cousin ever hope to get through?
As if on cue, Tauras' heavy footfalls could be heard mounting the stairs. It had been a long day. For all of them.
Eduard flexed the fingers of his left hand and rolled out his shoulder. It had been acting up all week as he helped Tauras and Raivis finish the next run of the professor's books to be taken across the border.
Tauras sat beside his cousin, handing Eduard a glass and a bottle of vodka. His cousin uncapped it, pouring them both a drink.
Tauras swallowed down a measure and looked at the map. "How's it going?"
Eduard pushed his glasses up his nose. "The main road is still probably your best bet."
"But the expense, Ed..."
"I know. But you won't be able to sneak through those lines. Hell, I barely did it."
Tauras shook his head. "We've got to find another way."
"I don't disagree. There's a lot of open country to the east. But we don't know what to expect there. Though I think it's safe in assuming the Prussians won't have a lot of patrols. Lasdehnen is the only major town out that way. And it's well enough away from the border. But once you get to Lithuania, what then? We need contacts in that area first."
"What about here?" Tauras pointed to a small town directly east of Tilsit on the Memel river. "I could head there, then travel north and west to Tauragė."
Eduard shook his head. "It's a border town too. You'd run into the same issue as here: getting past both Prussian and Russian patrols."
Tauras breathed out a curse. "I don't like this. It leaves too much to chance. I'd rather just go on foot."
"You forget, though...the patrols will be searching the forests, the countryside. They're not going to be looking for smugglers in a hired coach."
Tauras chewed his lip.
"You already know how to play the part," Eduard continued.
"An aristocrat?"
"An aristocrat."
Tauras poured himself another drink, eyes scanning over the map. A square piece of land with points like arrowheads coming off of its four corners caught his attention. The Tilsit garrison. Where Gilbert was stationed. It had been two weeks since Tauras had last seen him. Since their run-in at the tavern. And the following day...
"Hey," his cousin was saying. "Is your head in this?"
Tauras blinked. And nodded. "Yes. Of course."
Eduard eyed him warily. "...Looked like you were wandering for a moment."
"I'm tired, Ed," Tauras said, bristling. "We've done nothing but work — I've hardly had time to even think, and now...Can we just put this away until tomorrow? I've no mind to deal with it tonight." He rose and went to the stairs.
"Where are you going?"
"For a walk. I need to clear my head."
Eduard sighed and folded up the map as the shop door opened and shut. He went to the window, following the dark shape of his cousin as Tauras made his way to the tavern.
.
o
.
The border inspection took longer than Gilbert hoped. The sun had set as he and sergeant Kohler returned to the encampment, with Gilbert taking his leave soon after. He rode to Laugszargen, taking a room at the inn there, not fancying a ride all the way back to Tilsit in the pitch black.
The skies were clearing in the west the following morning. Gilbert eyed the line break apprehensively. He had left his tinted lenses back in his quarters at the garrison, not having needed them the day before. As it stood now, there would still be sufficient cloud cover for his ride back. The sun had yet to fully break through, and the light was not so bright that there was a glare. He had wanted to ride out to the border for one final look, without Kohler's company. If he hurried, he could still do it. He had time.
The crossing soon came into view. Two Russian soldiers and one of his own gendarmes were already milling about the sign post marking the end of his country and the beginning of Tauras'. Or...what had been Tauras'.
He led his horse off the main road as a wagon approached from the other side, the guards examining the driver's papers before waving him on.
Gilbert stared across the grassy expanse. The rooflines of a few houses were visible in the distance. The beginnings of some Lithuanian village or town. He wondered vaguely if Tauras had come from a place so close, recalling the haunted look that had crossed his face when he spoke of the rebellion back home. He remembered the uprising, of course. His own nation had offered its support to the Empire, signing a treaty that granted Russian forces access to Prussian territory in its pursuit of insurgents — though nothing came of it as the international outcry was far too great.
I just wanted to live in peace. If only you knew what it's like, Tauras had said. Had he been an unwitting bystander then? Or perhaps had a different role?
The marks on his back. His vague sense of distrust. Again Gilbert thought of the young Bohemian woman and the distance in her eyes as she brought him soup or changed his dressings. She could have let him and the rest of the men suffer. But she did not. Was she only helping out of fear? The conquered serving the conquerors? Or did she have a compassion that reached deeper? Gilbert liked the think it was the latter, but the truth was he would never really know.
He cast one last look out over the fields, then turned his horse toward home as the sun broke in the distance.
.
o
.
The clattering of hooves echoed down the cobblestone street. Tauras had just finished his delivery of newly printed menus for a small cafe on the high street when he heard the horse approaching, and fast. He turned in time to see a cream white Lipizzan charging toward the square at the end of the high street. It neared the water pump, slowing to a trot as it circled, head low, looking for a direction to take.
Tauras recognized the horse. Kaspar. Sergeant-major Beilschmidt's steed. Its master sat slumped in the saddle, unresponsive and unaware his horse was spooked.
Kaspar paced around the water pump, tossing his head every now and then. Tauras muttered a curse and raked a hand through his hair. The startled townspeople kept their distance, watching the animal. Another flick of his head, and Kaspar had thrown the reins up and off his neck. Tauras knew if he could just get hold of them, he could calm the horse.
He cautiously approached, keeping himself angled within Kaspar's line of vision, speaking gently. The horse's ears began to swivel, searching for the voice. He lifted his head, alert, ears pricking forward. Tauras was now close enough to touch him. He reached out a hand to Kaspar's muzzle, to let the horse smell him, as he placed his other hand on Kaspar's neck.
He grabbed the reins.
The horse reared its head. Startled gasps arose from the people gathered in the square. Tauras remained calm, leading Kaspar in a tight circle until the horse had settled.
Sensing the danger was over, the crowd dispersed, a few calling out expressions of gratitude to Tauras. He nodded his appreciation, then reached for some oats in the saddle bag and let Kaspar eat them, ensuring the horse was calm enough for him to see to Gilbert.
Tauras eased the sergeant-major out of the saddle, lightly smacking his cheeks to get him to come around.
Gilbert's brow furrowed, his eyes squinting open. He reached a hand up to shield them, his mouth cracking a half-grin.
"...Mr. Laurinaitis...We really ought to stop...meeting...like this."
"What happened?" Tauras asked, hauling the sergeant-major to his feet. "Gilbert!" The Prussian had stumbled back, but Tauras managed to catch him.
"...The light. Too bright. My head."
"Can you walk?"
Gilbert nodded.
Tauras flung the sergeant-major's arm over his shoulders, supporting him, and grabbed Kaspar's reins, leading them both down to his shop.
He tied the horse to a nearby hitching post, then dragged Gilbert through the door, ignoring the shouts from his cousin as he went up to the second floor sitting room. He laid Gilbert on the couch and was drawing the curtains when Eduard's footsteps thundered up the stairs.
"Tauras, what the hell — "
"Shh!"
Eduard gave him a hard look behind his glasses as Raivis appeared on the second floor landing.
"What's going on?"
"None of your business," Tauras hissed. "Downstairs, all of you — now!"
Eduard's eyes lingered on Gilbert, but he did as ordered. Raivis followed suit.
Tauras caught up with them in the kitchen. His cousin's arms were folded as he leaned against the counter, glaring petulantly at the floor.
"What the hell, Tauras?" Eduard repeated as the door swung shut.
"He's hurt — or something. I don't know. His horse was spooked, and he was...He said something about the light was too bright. What was I supposed to do?"
Eduard threw his head back and huffed. "How about, for starters, not bringing him here!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead, knowing what his cousin was going to ask next. And sure enough —
"Can you...do something?"
Eduard worked his jaw, mind racing with a million different reasons why this was a bad idea. He wanted to fight back — should fight back….
"Ed, please."
He pushed himself off the counter, glaring down at his cousin with a deep, disapproving sigh. Tauras' face was set, resolute. Eduard turned away. And went upstairs to see to the gendarme.
Gilbert was curled up on the couch, eyes closed. At some point he had removed his helmet. It lay discarded on the floor beside him. His white-blonde hair stuck to his forehead, brow slightly furrowed. Without that imperious gaze, he looked oddly vulnerable, Eduard thought, as he took a seat in the chair beside him.
He placed a hand on Gilbert's forehead, checking his temperature. The Prussian's eyes cracked open at the touch.
Gilbert drew a sharp breath.
"It's alright," Eduard said. "Just making sure you don't have a fever."
"I'm not sick." Gilbert's eyes slipped closed again. "It's only a migraine. It'll pass in a few hours."
Flecks of discoloration stained the front of his coat, his right sleeve. On closer inspection, Eduard determined it was not blood but most likely whatever the guard's last meal had been. He sat back, frowning a moment, then went to his room and wet a rag in his wash basin and laid it across the Prussian's brow.
Gilbert uttered a deep sigh, the tension easing a bit from his face.
Eduard went back down to the kitchen to heat some water. He took out the tin of feverfew he had bought for Tauras a few weeks ago and spooned some of the herb into a cup. Once the water warmed, he poured it over the leaves, letting them steep, and took the tea upstairs.
Gilbert's eyes were cracked open again, watching. "You don't need to go to all this trouble. Not for me."
Eduard cut a sidelong glance. "I know. But unfortunately, my cousin is…insistent."
"Cousin?" Gilbert echoed. "I thought..."
"What?"
Gilbert pressed a hand to his temple. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."
Eduard set the tea down on the coffee table. A buzzing sensation was building in his injured arm, running down to his hand. He flexed his fingers, chancing another glance at Gilbert, though whether the Prussian noticed, he could not say.
"Drink this and rest," he instructed. "I apologize it's not strained. Again, my cousin has this...quirk...about tea leaves."
Gilbert's lips twitched. "I know." He angled himself so his head now rested on the arm of the couch and reached for the cup.
Eduard pushed his glasses up his nose, studying the Prussian with an inscrutable face. The edge of a paper stuck out of his coat pocket. His fingers itched — a daring flaring inside him he had not felt in weeks. The imagined look of dismay on Tauras' face made it too hard to resist. And he knew nothing — nothing —about this Prussian that had his cousin so blindly besotted. He needed something. Some kind of collateral should things take a turn.
Eduard waited patiently as Gilbert finished his tea, the gendarme's eyes slipping shut one last time, then made his move.
It was too easy.
He stood behind the couch, gently unfolding the paper, scalp prickling in anticipation.
Though whatever Eduard had been expecting to find, his own face was not it.
He stared dumbstruck at the drawing — at his profile — and the Cyrillic underneath. He didn't need to read it to know what it was. Tauras had been right. He was a wanted man. And he had been fine with that fact, provided it stayed across the border. But now...
Now it was leaking into Tilsit.
Eduard stole downstairs.
"Tauras! A word," he said in Lithuanian, nodding his head at the kitchen door.
His cousin wiped his hands on a rag and followed him through.
"How is he — " Tauras began, but was cut short by Eduard slamming the wanted poster down on the table.
"It's my face, cousin! My face! And he had it!"
Eduard scrubbed a hand over his cheek and started pacing.
Tauras gingerly picked up the poster, as if afraid it would burn if touched, his throat suddenly dry. "...We — we don't know why he has it — "
"The fuck does it matter, Tauras!? It's my face!"
"We're the only ones that know that. You haven't had that beard for weeks. No one is going to know — "
"I want him gone! The minute he's better, I want him gone."
Tauras sank into a chair and set the poster down, cradling his head in a hand.
Eduard eventually stilled and wrapped both hands around the back of a chair, leaning heavily on it.
"I'm sorry," he said at length. "You're right. No one will know. It's not even that great of a likeness!" He forced a laugh. "...It's just...I've never had so much go so wrong so fast."
"We need to back off," Tauras said solemnly.
"We have a job to finish — "
"I know." Tauras' eyes flicked up sharply. "What I'm saying is: we finish this job, then we back off."
Eduard blew out his cheeks. And nodded. He folded up the poster and took it back upstairs, tucking it in the Prussian's coat pocket the exact way he had found it.
.
o
.
The evening bells had already rung by the time Gilbert awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. A dull throbbing lingered behind his eye, but it was ignorable compared to the stabbing pain shooting through his head hours ago. He blinked as the room resolved — and his memory with it. The printer. Mr. Laurinaitis. And a man with glasses. His...cousin?
Gilbert sat up, pressing a hand to his forehead and rubbing. An empty cup of tea sat on the table, the leaves clinging to the sides. He thought of Tauras as he picked it up, turning it to study the shapes they made. He then rose and went downstairs.
The Lithuanian was at his desk, going through some work orders. His hair was pulled back, though a few loose strands hung about his face. A hand scratched absently at his scalp as he picked up a mug and drank.
Tea.
Gilbert gave a soft chuckle.
Tauras startled and turned. "Sergeant-major!" He stood. "I trust you are feeling better, then?"
"Yes, thank you." Gilbert stepped forward and glanced around the print shop, noting how quiet it seemed. "Where are the other two? The boy and...the one with the glasses?"
"Raivis and Eduard? They went out."
"Ah."
The realization they were alone together settled around them. Gilbert rocked back on his heels, eyes darting once more around the room. Tauras cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to the teacup in Gilbert's hand, the shapes within.
A tender smile tugged at gendarme's lips. "What do you see?" he asked softly.
Tauras glanced up. "I thought you wanted to be surprised."
Gilbert held his gaze, his smile sharpening. "I believe, Mr. Laurinaitis, you've more than accounted for that."
The notch at Tauras' collarbone hollowed as he drew a sharp breath, his shoulders tensing.
Something closed behind his eyes.
Gilbert sensed it. The room began to tilt, a high-pitched ringing building in his ears. He set the teacup on the work table, wincing as his head throbbed.
"Gilbert…." Tauras reached out a hand, but the Prussian was drawing away.
"Forgive me," he breathed. "I did not mean to intrude on your hospitality anymore than I already have."
Gilbert stumbled through the door, his form swallowed by the darkening night beyond. The sound of hooves on cobblestone riding away echoed from outside.
Tauras picked up the sergeant-major's cup, examining the shapes.
It had a heart as well.
.
.
.
A/N So this chapter sets up a whole lot of future stuff. Not gonna goo too much into it because spoilers. I will briefly touch on some history notes though:
As mentioned before, Gil is a veteran of the Seven Weeks' War and fought at Koniggrätz, which is the Czech city of Hradec Králové. The Battlefield Anomalies website has a very good write up of the battle, as well as maps showing how the fighting went down that day. Since Gil was cavalry, he. would have mostly been around the area near the village of Probluz, which has a Catholic church, Church of All Saints, that had its tower dome damaged during the battle.
Saint Sebastian — In addition to being the LGBTQ icon he is today, he is also a patron saint of soldiers. He essentially led a double life. He served Rome as a member of the Praetorian guard but was also a Christian during a time when being one was a oneway ticket to execution. Just kind of something to keep in mind with regards to Gil's character ::wink::
Alvensleben Convention — the treaty between the Russian Empire and Kingdom of Prussia, signed in February 1863 granting each the right for their military forces to cross the border in pursuit of revolutionaries and extradite them to Russia.
I think that's all for now. Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think!