Tauras awoke with a start in unfamiliar surroundings. He was laying on his side wrapped in a thick duvet, the bed beneath him firm — much unlike the thin, lumpy mattress in his garret room. Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, though a sliver of predawn light managed to creep in through a gap in the fabric. Gilbert lay curled beside him, his form tucked almost seamlessly against the contours of Tauras' own.
One hand rested on Gilbert's hip, the warm skin vaguely making him aware of his own state of undress. He had lost his shirt at some point. The rest of his clothes were likely still in the parlor downstairs. Part of him knew he should care, knew he should be getting up and dressed, leaving. But a deeper, greedier part wanted to relish in this. A cozy, downy bed. An unhurried morning. No water buckets to fill. No tasteless porridge to eat. The weight of another pressed against him. All things he had had in the life before.
He gave the back of Gilbert's neck a light kiss, fingers tracing the path from the sharp jut of the Prussian's hip to the fleshier part of his thigh. There, a line cut through, turning the soft skin into something jagged and rough.
Beneath him, Gilbert stirred, a hand settling on his.
"Stop."
The voice was gravelly, brusque.
Tauras withdrew as the gendarme rolled onto his back, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Gilbert pushed himself up with a groan, looking down at Tauras a moment, his expression unreadable. He slid out of bed and drew back one of the heavy curtains. Grey light filtered through a sheer panel beneath, and with it, Tauras could now see the scar running the length of Gilbert's upper leg. He sat up.
"What happened?"
Gilbert spared him a glance as he made his way over to the wardrobe, favoring the leg a little as he moved. "The end of my military career."
"But you still serve…."
"Not in the way of my choosing." Gilbert opened the wardrobe and started tossing clothes on a nearby chair. "You ought to get dressed, too, Mr. Laurinaitis."
Tauras' eyes narrowed a fraction, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement. "Are we back to formalities now?"
Gilbert was halfway through pulling on a pair of undergarments, his head down. "My housekeeper will be here soon. And you and I both have work."
"I suppose you have a point...sergeant-major."
Gilbert paused again, looking up just in time to see the Lithuanian fling the duvet off and turn, his back to the rest of the room, the marks hatched across it no less evident in the early light. Gilbert swallowed, looking away.
Tauras bent down, finding his shirt in a heap on the floor. He pulled it over his head, casting a glance over his shoulder, but Gilbert pointedly ignored it. He stormed from the room, heading for the parlor, where the rest of his things lay scattered.
A shadow appeared in the doorway as Tauras was tying his bootlaces.
"Allow me to apologize — "
"I do not wish to hear a single word from you right now."
Gilbert let out a low breath. "You know how it is." He shut his eyes briefly, despising how practiced the reply sounded. "It's dangerous for people like us — for people like...me — and the position I'm in..."
Tauras jerked his head up.
"You shouldn't be here," Gilbert continued. "You can't be here. If anyone were to see — "
"You think I don't know that?" Tauras stood, then, quick and sudden. Gilbert stumbled back a step as the Lithuanian advanced on him. "You think I don't know what it's like!?"
A thin gold chain glistened against his neck, pulling Gilbert's gaze toward it. A small cross rested just below the notch in Tauras' collarbone, rising and falling with each breath.
Gilbert's eyes swept to the floor, his lips hardly moving as he spoke. "What do you want me to say?"
"I've already told you, I want nothing — "
"Tauras! Please!"
The Lithuanian shut his eyes briefly, sighing through his nose. "I only wish you had done as I asked," he replied, his voice stilted, "and left me in peace."
Tauras threw on his jacket with a final look at Gilbert, half hoping for a retort, half hoping for a fight — anything to finally settle whatever this was between them. But the gendarme merely bowed his head and stepped aside. Tauras pulled open the door and flew out, slamming it behind him. He paused for a moment on the front step, heart hammering in his neck. The sky above was a thick blanket of grey clouds. Were it not so early, he would have gone straight to the tavern for a drink. But instead, he turned his feet toward home and started to walk just as a misting rain began to fall.
.
o
.
The shop was quiet when Tauras arrived home. Usually he would not have minded, would have welcomed the peace in a moment's solitude. But not that morning. Something gnawed at his gut, at the back of his head, ever since he left the sergeant-major's house. Some parasite slowly devouring him inside out. And the silence only fed it more.
He started a fire in the kitchen stove, setting a kettle of water to boil and warming his fingers, not wanting to think, but his thoughts only echoed louder in the stillness until they became a chorus in his head, each one indistinguishable from the other.
As the water came up to temperature, the kitchen door swung open and in Eduard stepped.
"You're home early," he remarked with a smirk. "Or late, depending on your perspective."
Tauras made no response as he poured the water into a cup to steep tea.
Eduard glanced over. Tauras kept his eyes down.
"We have a few weeks," he eventually said. Why did his throat feel so raw?
"Ah. Well." Eduard adjusted his glasses. "That's...good." He shifted his weight, hovering by the door. Almost like a marionette, Tauras thought, wanting to move but needing someone to pull his strings.
"The books are finished. I'll leave first thing tomorrow."
That did it.
"But you said we have weeks," Eduard began. He stepped forward, hands curling around the back of a chair. "Why all of a sudden are you rushing this?"
"Because I want it over and done with."
"I still need to finish tailoring your suit — "
Tauras angled his head, his face rigid. "Then I suggest you get to work," he replied coldly.
Eduard swallowed. For a moment, he was a boy again, staring into his uncle's stern face. Never before had Tauras resembled Juozas so much than in that moment.
He let out a slow breath, too afraid to trust his silver tongue right then. Bitter thoughts were twisting his heart. He did not need to ask to know something had happened between his cousin and the gendarme. And Tauras, for all his assurances, had not heeded any of Eduard's warnings. Tauras. The one person he could never bend to his will. His stubborn cousin. Well. Whatever happened between them, Eduard reasoned, it may have been for the best. It may have finally put Tauras' head in the right place to carry this out.
.
o
.
The sergeant-major was late to the garrison that morning. The men made no comment as he passed, exchanging only sidelong glances to communicate their thoughts: The sergeant-major was never late.
Gilbert felt their eyes on him. He wanted to scream. Was their demon of a commander not allowed to be human and make a mistake just once?
He flew up the stairs to his office, hardly hearing his assistant as the young man greeted him, and shut his door. A stack of reports was already waiting on his desk. Good. He put on his reading glasses and began to leaf through them. But try as he might, the feeling of Tauras pressed against him, of his skin beneath his fingers, haunted him still.
Gilbert had had his share of conquests — mostly in the form of prostitutes save for one. The only one, until last night, that had mattered. The only one he had blindly, foolishly, naively put all of his trust into — only to have that trust turned on him. It was little wonder he held people at arm's length.
Except Tauras.
Gilbert set the reports on his desk and sat back in his chair, stretching out his bad leg. He had felt the marks that night. The ugly spiderweb of welts criss-crossing Tauras' back. And again found himself distantly wondering what happened? Noblemen's sons did not have marks like that. Unless his father was indeed a very cruel man, Gilbert amended. Which could have explained why Tauras left. He thought back to the incident at the tree. How his men perceived the scars as a sure sign of Tauras' guilt, coupled with the prints he had been carrying. And how Gilbert had dismissed their accusations because they had not followed proper procedure. Because any idiot could have seen they were clearly prints for a wedding...
Because it had been Tauras.
Gilbert removed his glasses and tossed them on the desk. A hand scrubbed over his face, his cheeks.
He wondered if he had been wrong.
It was a feeling that kept cropping up ever since that day. He sat staring at the polished wood, the documents scattered over it, as if they held some answer.
A roll of paper bound with twine rested near the edge. The prints Tauras had made. Gilbert had bundled them back up that morning to bring with the intent of distributing them around Tilsit. He slid the prints toward him, untying the string and letting them unfurl. The topmost one was the original. He slid it off to the side, flattening the curled bottom edge down with a glass paperweight that also doubled as a magnifying glass. He laid the reproductions beside it. Upon first glance, the only noticeable and obvious difference was in the typeface used — the Cyrillic in its thin serif and the Latin in the heavier black letter. Gilbert's gaze drifted over the two posters, drawn to the man's face — his scruffy beard and glasses. Something pricked at the back of his head. A thought, just out of reach. He read the man's description. Tall. Blonde. German. He remembered his comment to Mathias. That the description fit more than half the men in town. Including Tauras' cousin. The cousin who had bested him at Skat. The cousin who clearly had been gifted more cleverness than a person in his station should possess. The cousin who would have access to the resources required for the printing of banned books...
But.
That did not necessarily make him a smuggler.
The evidence may have been compelling, but it was all circumstantial. What he needed was proof.
Gilbert lit a cigarette and looked at the posters again.
If...
If it was indeed the cousin, would Tauras have altered the poster in any way to try and hide the fact?
Gilbert took another paperweight magnifier out of his desk drawer and stood, placing it first on the original's face, then the reproduction, searching for even the slightest difference between them.
But they looked identical. At least to his eyes...
There was a knock on his office door.
"Enter."
His assistant appeared, holding a cup of coffee. He set it on the sergeant-major's desk, about to leave, when Gilbert addressed him again: "What do you make of this?"
"...Make of what, sir?"
"This drawing of the suspected smuggler. Compared to the original, what do you make of it? Look closely, now."
Gilbert stepped out of the way, letting his assistant study the two posters.
"Well?" he prompted.
The young man shook his head. "They...look the same to me, sir."
The sergeant-major swallowed and sighed.
"Will that be all, sir?"
Gilbert flicked his cigarette into the fireplace and nodded. "Dismissed." He sank back into his chair, his limbs and chest feeling suddenly heavy.
If only.
If only there had been a difference. Then maybe his guilt from that morning would have eased and he would have a way to cut Tauras from his life for good.
Stupid, he chided himself. Why would you want it to be him?
.
o
.
Tauragė, Lithuania
The carriage left just after breakfast that morning. Tauras had not eaten, fearing his stomach would fail to keep its contents contained. His heart was already beating so fast, he thought he might just pass out — and he did come close to it as they approached the border. The guards spoke to the driver before peeking in the carriage at the occupants. Tauras did his best to turn his grimace of nausea into one of disdain. Then they were waved on, and Tauras found himself in his homeland for the first time after six years of self imposed exile. It seemed too unreal. He felt oddly light, disconnected. Like he was a specter floating in front of his body, not feeling but observing. There and not there. He shifted in his seat, careful not to crinkle the newspapers hidden in his jacket, and sat back against the cushion, staring out at freshly sewn fields as they passed.
As the carriage pulled into the city, as it trundled past the customs house, he felt himself snapped suddenly back. Old memories flooded his head. A vise closed in his gut and he found himself desperate to get out, desperate to make his rendezvous and be on his way.
The distress must have shown on his face for the next thing he knew, the gentleman with whom he shared the journey looked at him and remarked: "First time here?"
Tauras swallowed and blinked. "...Y-yes."
The man sniffed loudly and jerked his head at the window. "I don't blame you for being nervous. Border towns like these are rife with crime. Keep a hand on your wallet."
Tauras attempted a smile and nodded his thanks as the carriage circled the town square, drawing up near the cafe where he had first encountered captain Braginski. Tauras' throat went dry. His stomach, hollow. Hollow from hunger, hollow from dread. He was frozen in his seat, unable to move, but he needed to move...
The sound of the driver opening the door startled him into action. Tauras exited the carriage and retrieved his suitcase. The weight of it anchored him, helping him focus on the task at hand. He took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. On it, Eduard had written the address of one of his contacts — a merchant that supplied the parishes with their sacramental wine. The books and newspapers he had smuggled would be hidden in one of the wooden wine crates to be delivered to the church. After that, it was the priest's job to distribute the material through his own covert network.
The merchant's store was not far from the town square. Tauras entered, went up to the counter, and asked the clerk for a Mr. Zukas, the owner.
"And who shall I say is calling?" the clerk asked.
"Ta...Thomas von Bock."
The clerk gave a slight bow and disappeared to the back.
Tauras breathed out slowly, cursing to himself. He had almost let his real name slip. One mention of Laurinaitis here and it would have been over for him. His family had been too well-known. And the disgrace of being forced from their land was likely still a source of gossip and ridicule. Everyone in the county knew where Juozas' loyalties stood. Tauras clenched his jaw, not wanting to think about it.
He let his eyes sweep over the shop while he waited, pretending to be mildly interested in the bottles lining the shelves, noting he was not the only customer. A man was seated at a table, swirling the contents of a glass, sniffing it, then taking a sip while a young woman explained the various flavors he should be tasting. They conversed in Russian. Tauras had spoken with the clerk in Russian. Everything was now in Russian. A language he had not had to speak in years but one that came back just as easily as if it were his mother tongue. He swallowed the thought away, hating the taste of it, and gripped the handle of the case even tighter.
The clerk soon reappeared, followed by a man Tauras assumed to be Zukas. They greeted each other, Zukas' expression noticeably guarded.
Tauras cleared his throat and swallowed. "My apologies, sir. My cousin usually makes these calls, but is feeling unwell," he stated, reciting the script Eduard had drilled into him the previous night. His mouth was so dry, he could feel every movement it made, the words both strange and familiar on his tongue. "I have some new samples from Germany."
"Hm. The German varietals have not been selling well lately. The floral and fruit notes tend to be somewhat off-putting, I think."
Tauras wet his lips. "I do have a Prussian one made with currants. They lend a more tart flavor to the wine. And perhaps something a little...bittersweet?"
Zukas studied him a moment, then cocked his head, indicating Tauras to follow.
The merchant led them to a set of stairs at the back of the store that went down to a stone-walled cellar. Cold air kissed Tauras' cheek the moment he descended. The room was dimly lit by a few candles in brackets along the right wall. Racks holding dozens of wood barrels lined the left. In the back, another door was visible. It was there Zukas headed.
"My private tasting room," the merchant said, showing Tauras inside. He struck a match, lighting a candelabra in the corner.
A small, round table stood in the middle, surrounded on three sides by shelves lined with dusty wine bottles. The bottles threw their shadows on the walls, flickering and dancing with the candlelight. The movement caught the corner of Tauras' eye, giving him an unsettling feeling of being watched. He set his case on the table as Zukas shut the door.
Tauras spun on his heel, his heart leaping to his throat. Zukas stood, blocking the door, the only way out.
"All right. Let's see this wine you've brought me."
Tauras gave a nod and shifted his stance, keeping the merchant within his line of sight. His skin prickled as he unfastened the latches with trembling hands, trying to quell the feeling rising in his gut — that he was trapped.
He opened the case, and the hidden panel within, and placed one of the books on the table.
The merchant approached, picking up the book. Tauras instinctively backed away.
"This all you have?" Zukas asked, switching to Lithuanian.
Tauras took out the other four books and the newspapers hidden in his jacket. "This is all for now."
Zukas smirked. "So you can speak the language too, hm? I must admit, your Russian was almost too good to convince me you were one of us."
"Is that why you brought me down here?" Tauras blurted. Then, realizing what he said, quickly tried to apologize, but Zukas only laughed.
"You can never be too careful, especially in our line of work," the merchant said. "It's a dangerous business. I know I don't need to tell you that. Eduard was smart, by the way, to send someone else instead of trying to make the delivery himself. What with those wanted posters of him going up everywhere. Thank God he managed to get away. But Braginski's been on the war path ever since — "
"Braginski?" Tauras cut in, alarmed.
Zukas nodded. "Russian captain. Giant of a man. You can't miss him. He's been enforcing order here now for over half a decade. Rumor is he was all set to be promoted until some prisoner escaped right from under his nose. So now we're stuck with him."
A shiver ran up Tauras' spine that had nothing to do with the chill basement air. He knew he never should have come back here. The wide window he and Eduard had set for this mission was suddenly closing fast, knowing Braginski was still in charge. He had to get out of Tauragė. Now.
Tauras swallowed, latching his case. "This...may be the last crossing we make here for awhile. I need to establish contacts in another region."
Zukas scratched his chin. "Your best bet for that would be the priest. I just handle delivery once everything's over here. He's the one who does distribution. I can talk to him for you when I make my delivery in a few days."
Tauras shook his head, his scalp prickling at the thought of staying in this town any longer. "I need to leave today. I can't be here..."
The merchant's eyes narrowed a fraction. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking, then looked at his watch. "It's half past noon. The Father usually hears confession until before breaking to take his midday meal. You could try and talk to him yourself if you hurry."
Tauras nodded.
Zukas held out his hand. "Best of luck to you."
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia
Tauras had been gone for four days — not that Eduard had been counting. Though being on the other end, being the one who stayed behind, certainly left him with a few more worries than he was used to having. The hardest part was the inaction. Continuing to run the shop as if everything was fine, as if his cousin wasn't risking his neck for a few books. Eduard almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Of all the things to smuggle. He shook his head. But it was more than that, he knew. The books were just the physical object. A representation of culture, of national identity. Things Tauras had fought for time and again. Things he admittedly could never feel as deeply as his cousin.
Eduard was in the middle of setting type for a run of cafe menus when he lost all feeling in his left arm. The composing stick fell from his hand, sending the metal letters scattering over the work table as his left shoulder went slack. Eduard swore under his breath.
Raivis hurried over to help clean up. "Is it getting worse?"
Eduard shook his head. "It varies. That's just the nature of it. In a few months, it should be back to normal. I was being stubborn. Could feel the damn thing starting to go numb but just ignored it." He pushed his glasses up his nose, sending Raivis a pinched smile. "I'll take care of this. You can — "
The shop door opening chased away the rest of Eduard's thoughts. He looked over to see who it was, when in stepped sergeant-major Beilschmidt.
Eduard hitched his most disarming smile onto his face in greeting. "Good afternoon, sergeant-major. If you're here for a re-match, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. We are a bit busy today."
The gendarme's eyes swept over the shop, noting only the two occupants. His thin mouth frowned momentarily.
"As tempting as another game of Skat would be, I would like a word with your cousin."
Eduard's smile fell a fraction. "Again, my apologies. Tauras had to return home to see to a family matter."
Gilbert blinked. "Oh. That is rather...unfortunate. And abrupt. I trust everything is all right?"
Eduard shrugged his shoulder, the lie sliding easily off his tongue. "I expect I'll know more when he returns. The telegram was rather brief."
The gendarme nodded, somewhat distracted, then saw the letters strewn over the work table. He looked at them, looked at Eduard whose right hand rested on the wood, fingers lightly tapping against it, the left arm held loosely at his side, completely still.
Raivis began arranging the letters back in the composing stick. A beat too late and wholly unnecessary, Eduard thought, though he managed to keep his expression impassive.
Gilbert wet his lips and swallowed. Something again pricked at the back of his head. He studied Eduard's face a moment. It was angled a fraction but not quite in profile...
"Can we help you with anything else, sergeant-major?"
Gilbert shook his head as if coming back to himself. "...No. Thank you. My apologies for having interrupted your day." He headed for the door. He needed to get back to the garrison. To re-read Kohler's reports.
"I'll let Tauras know you stopped by," Eduard said.
Gilbert peered back over his shoulder momentarily, then disappeared through the door.
.
o
.
Jurbarkas, Lithuania
Tauras had only been in town two days when he was arrested. The priest in Tauragė had given him the name of a contact at a village near the Prussian border. However, the priest's information was out of date, as his contact had been arrested three weeks ago. And a new face in a small village asking for a man accused of smuggling did not take long to draw the attention of the Russian authorities. If he had been arrested by the local police force, Tauras felt certain he could have gotten off with a warning. But the village was too small to have its own precinct, and the guards that brought him in were part of border patrol. And border patrol meant military. It did not matter to them what his papers said, that he was some upperclass German citizen. He had been caught asking after a known smuggler — and that made him guilty. Tauras was put in handcuffs and taken to the garrison in the district capital of Jurbarkas.
After hours spent uselessly pacing his holding cell, the guards brought him before the commander — a man of about Tauras' age with short blonde hair and a mustache that curved ever so slightly up at the ends. The commander sat with his head bowed, signing some paperwork as Tauras entered. But when he lifted his head, there was no mistaking that feline grin. Or those green eyes.
His breath caught in his throat. Feliks.
Feliks studied him a moment, his eyes sliding lazily over to the guards on either side.
"Leave us and shut the door," he said with a bored flick of his wrist.
The guards saluted and did as commanded. Feliks sat back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.
"Well. Aren't you a sight."
"Feliks — "
The Pole lifted a hand, cutting Tauras off. "Major Łukasiewicz, if you please."
Tauras' jaw clicked shut. He bowed his head.
"And what is it I should call you?" Feliks slid a piece of paper over and scanned it. "Thomas...von Bock, is it?" Green eyes flicked up, no longer catlike and smiling but stern and cold.
"Feliks — m-major, I — "
The officer sighed and stood. Tauras watched from under his brow as Feliks unlocked his handcuffs. Something warm bubbled inside him then. Feliks' fingers were so close he could — he wanted — to twine his own around them...
A flash of gold caught his eye.
"What have you gotten yourself into?" Feliks asked softly, holding his gaze a moment.
Tauras swallowed and looked away. "You're married."
"It will be five years this August."
The warm thing hardened to a stone, sinking in his stomach. "Then perhaps I should give this back to you." Tauras went to unclasp the cross around his neck.
"You still have it?"
A hand brushed against his chest, delicate fingers curling around the cross. The touch at once too gentle and too cutting, too familiar and too strange. Tauras grabbed Feliks' wrist, the momentary shock evident in the officer's eyes. He pressed his palm to Tauras' chest, feeling the fierce rhythm of the other man's heart.
Tauras breathed out, letting his eyes close, covering Feliks' hand with his own, remembering. The forest and the rain. And holding a shivering young count under the cover of a tree. Memories from life that had been his at once too near and too far.
"Tauras..."
His eyes opened. The icy weight of reality plunged into his gut. Feliks in his uniform. The gold band around his finger.
Tauras let go. Feliks' hand fell away, his mouth set in a firm line.
"The cross is yours to keep or give away as you wish. But I do not want it back."
His tone was flippant, reminding Tauras too much of the boy that had swung around the newel post of his family's grand staircase, asking what there was to do in the country. The boy that had danced with him in his family's music room. The boy that had clamored for his attention all those summers ago.
Tauras' jaw clenched. He felt like a fool. A fool for ever holding onto something he knew he could never have. Even if their paths had not been forced to diverge, they never could have had a real life together. Not while being under the yoke of their respective families, fulfilling all the obligations that entailed. And it was clear from the path Feliks had followed, that influence held sway.
"You kept with it, the army?"
Feliks let his gaze fall. A bitter edge colored his voice. "I didn't have much of a choice. I couldn't even write to you. So it was either this or be disowned. It's a comfortable position, and my family did not lose their place in society, given with what happened after the uprising."
Tauras' jaw clenched, feeling the all too familiar sting. That he had been the cause of his family's downfall. If his father had forced him into the imperial army instead, would he have ended up like Feliks? Would his family still have their home? Their status? Would his conscience be any less heavy?
Feliks looked at him again, a question lingering in his eyes. He then turned and went back to sit behind his desk, gesturing for Tauras to take a seat in the chair across from him.
"What are you doing out here?"
"...I think you already know the answer."
"But I need to hear it from you."
Tauras' hands twisted in his lap.
"An age has passed since we last saw each other," Feliks pressed. "And now fate finds us together again. What happened to you, after that day?"
Tauras studied him a moment. Concern was etched in every line of his old lover's face. Do you want us to be strangers to each other? He closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself. And told Feliks everything — from being sent to the seminary to his part in the uprising to his life in Tilsit.
When it was done, Feliks sat back in his chair, feeling the full weight of the story, eyes lingering on the tip of Tauras' rounded shoulder. The Lithuanian sat, head bowed, unable to look at him, feeling they had indeed become strangers to one another once again, realizing maybe they always had been. The smuggler. And the imperial officer.
Feliks cleared his throat. "You really are willing to risk everything? Just for some...books?"
"It's about more than that, and you know it," Tauras said, his voice low and ragged. He drew his eyes up. "Look what has happened to our countries. We cannot let our culture just get erased like that. I failed my countrymen once and I'll be damned if I do it again."
"I cannot turn a blind eye to this."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
Tauras huffed. "I don't know — I don't care! Send me to prison if you must. But I only thought you — you — of all people would understand."
Feliks chewed the inside of his lip, thinking. He looked at the paper on his desk. The one detailing Thomas von Bock's crime of suspected smuggling activity.
"Did you know your sister's getting married?"
Tauras' head gave a jerk, as if trying to shake away something irksome. "What? No — why tell me something like that?"
"The ceremony is set for the end of June. Our families, while not as close as they once were, have been reestablishing relations. I'm telling you this because...you might consider attending. Perhaps try and mend things between you and your father. Just because something is broken does not mean it needs to stay that way."
Tauras scoffed. "There is no mending things between us."
"It could be a chance, at least. A chance to see your brother and sister again. A chance to...put all this behind you and get your life back."
A chance to get us back, the empty air seemed to say. All he had to do was go crawling back and beg his family for forgiveness to have that comfortable life he once knew.
"But this is my life," Tauras said quietly.
Feliks clicked his tongue. "Come on. I always knew you were provincial, but you can't tell me you actually like living this way. You made a mistake. Leaving the seminary was a mistake and you just got swept up in things that were out of your control. It can still be fixed."
Feliks' eyes were wide, eager, willing Tauras to agree. But the Lithuanian bowed his head. If he ever returned, if he ever sought out his family again, it would be on his terms. He could not abandon Eduard and Raivis just because he might have a way out to an easier life. Coming home was not the simple solution Feliks made it out to be either. The fact remained: Tauras was still a traitor to the empire — and a darker part of him wondered what his father would do should he ever return. Would he ever forgive the son that had disgraced him or turn him over in the hopes of gaining something in return?
Feliks sighed through his nose, knowing Tauras' silence to be his answer. He picked up a pen, made a few notes on the paper, then signed it. "The man you were looking for was a peasant. A cobbler. I think...Thomas von Bock was simply looking for someone to fix the sole of his shoe. There is a lumber barge set to leave tomorrow around midday for a town just over the border. See that you're on it — legally, I might add. How you get home from there is up to you." He folded the paper and sat back. He was not looking at Tauras anymore. "This is your warning. If you are caught within my jurisdiction again, I will arrest you."
"Feliks — "
"Others may be willing to risk everything for your cause, but I am not." He held up the paper for Tauras to take, then called his guards to escort the Lithuanian out.
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia
Tauras bartered for passage home using one of the most common currencies in the empire: vodka. Knowing he would not be able to charm his way aboard the barge like Eduard, and knowing his skillset was nowhere near relative to that of a sailor, he used his last notes to purchase a few decent bottles of vodka, as well as some ale for himself and his cousin when he finally did return home.
The relief was evident on Eduard's face the moment he opened the door and saw a weary Tauras standing on the other side. Eduard scooped his cousin into a one-armed embrace, dragging him inside and pressing him for details of his trip. It was at that point Tauras suggested they go upstairs and have a drink.
He told Eduard about Jurbarkas. And Feliks.
The room was silent awhile after that. Eduard opened the window, letting in the evening air. It was cool and fresh with only a hint of coal smoke from the factories up river. He leaned against the casing, arms folded, a light breeze fluttering his shirt sleeves. They were back where they started: no new contacts and nowhere to cross...
"How can people be so complacent?" Tauras muttered.
Eduard focused on his cousin. Hazy shapes of new plans had been forming in his mind, but Tauras' comment sent them scattering. Now was not the time to scheme anyway, Eduard reasoned. Not while his cousin was still hurting over what happened with Feliks.
Eduard pushed himself off the window and sat down, refilling their glasses. "People find it easier to just go along, especially if it's to their advantage."
Tauras gave a disbelieving puff of a laugh and sighed. "I thought I knew him."
"Maybe you did, at one point. But his father's a tsarist, like yours. And he comes from a wealthy family, like you did. And in your homeland's current climate, those things mean security, stability."
"Hmph. Security and stability. And all it cost was our sovereignty and way of life."
"Not everyone has the same values as you, cousin."
"Clearly." Tauras raked a hand through his hair. "Culture shouldn't be suppressed. It should be shared, celebrated — " He broke off, staring blankly ahead a moment before calling downstairs: "Raivis, come up to the sitting room. Bring a pencil and paper."
The shuffling of feet on stairs was soon heard, followed by a curly mop of hair appearing over the banister.
"I thought we were done with work for the day," Raivis said.
"We are, but...do you remember the festival and the pancake stand? And what you asked me?"
The boy thought for a moment, then nodded.
A smile briefly brightened Tauras' face. "Consider this our first lesson," he said. "I'm going to start by teaching you my alphabet."
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Tauragė, Lithuania
The wagon pulled into the customs house courtyard. The sun was high and captain Braginski was already sweating in his wool uniform. He removed his cap a moment, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. Two of his men jumped down from the driver's seat while a third unlatched the wagon's back gate. It swung down with a rusty squeal of hinges. The captain and his senior lieutenant approached, surveying the contraband the men had uncovered. Crates of illegal alcohol, a few rifles, and of course books. Spoils of another raid. Tedious. These people were nothing if not persistent. And stubborn.
The lieutenant already had a notebook and pencil out, ready to catalogue everything. As he sorted and stacked the books, one caught the captain's eye. It was small, thicker than the others, with a plain brown cloth cover. Braginski picked it up. He had seen one like it before, he thought, flipping it open. Again, no printer's mark or anything to distinguish it...but he was certain it was the same book. He studied the typeface, eyes narrowing a fraction, thinking. The poster in his office. The smuggler they had nearly captured. The guard's description of him: tall, blonde, German.
Perhaps they had been going about this the wrong way. What good was it chasing after books when he knew damn well the printer responsible for producing them was across the border. Raids and deportations clearly were not working, not when the people still had a source — and the source must be dealt with.
"Have this taken to the Prussian gendarmes at the border," he instructed his lieutenant, handing him the book. "See if they can uncover who is responsible. It's time for those lazy swamp rats to start pulling their weight."
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A/N Feliks stans please don't hate me — it's about the *parallels*.
Brief printing and geography note: In letterpress printing, a composing stick is a hand-held tool used for assembling metal type into words and lines. Jurbarkas is a city along the Nemunas (Memel) river. Timber was floated down the river, passing through East Prussia, to ports along the Baltic Sea.
Next up: Eduard goes home to Leipzig, Tauras and Gil try to unpack some things, and my love of typography is on full display.
Thanks as always for reading!