Berlin, Prussia 1861
Gilbert sat perched on the edge of a chair in the headmaster's office, one knee bouncing up and down as he chewed the inside corner of his mouth. Drechsler occupied the chair to his right; the one to his left stood empty, awaiting his father's arrival. Gilbert kept his eyes on his knee, refusing to speak except to request his father be present for this, knowing Drechsler would surely take whatever was said and spin it to his advantage.
Once or twice the headmaster yawned as he shuffled through some papers on his desk. More than a few times, Gilbert felt him growing impatient as longer and louder sighs huffed from his nose. Drechsler feigned looking around the room, a mildly amused expression crossing his tomato red face. He may have had the air of one politely waiting, head empty, but Gilbert knew better.
Over an hour had passed in stony silence. Gilbert did not care. He would wait for however long it took. He would not stand for such slander — nor would his father.
How dare they. How dare they...
The door to the headmaster's office opened. Sensing his father's presence — the way the headmaster shifted in his seat, flattening his hands on the desk as if to stand — Gilbert bolted up and spun on his heel. Surely his father would sort this out — he would not allow such insults to go unanswered.
Gilbert greeted his father with a small bow, but Volker did not return it, his sharp eyes instead sweeping over those gathered. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his black leather gloves and placed them in the pocket of his traveling coat, eventually sparing his son a glance as he sat. Gilbert and the headmaster followed suit; Drechsler had not risen.
"Well. Would someone care to explain what this is all about?"
Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but one look from the headmaster and he closed it again.
The headmaster drew a deep breath and rested his arms on his desk, hands folded. "It is indeed an unfortunate matter." He swallowed, dropping his gaze under Volker's imperious glare. "Professor Drechsler has reason to believe your son cheated on his last exam."
Gilbert worked his jaw, shutting his eyes briefly. The word, a gut punch every time. Cheat.
Volker glanced at his son, then back to the headmaster. "That is a rather serious accusation — "
"It's a lie!" Gilbert spat.
Volker looked at him fully now.
"You cannot believe them, father! My grades have been nothing but exemplary. Why the hell would I need to cheat!?"
"Language!" Volker admonished.
Gilbert slouched back in his chair, arms crossed. "What evidence do you have?"
"Commendable though your work has been," Drechsler began, "receiving a perfect score is highly suspect, even for one of your...caliber."
Gilbert's jaw clenched. He could almost hear the snide smile in the man's tone.
"I must admit," the headmaster said, "in the fifteen years I've been here, a perfect score on this test is unheard of. It is one of the most difficult ones we set, meant to challenge the upcoming second years who don't get weeded out."
"How do you know he didn't change my score?" Gilbert asked, jerking his head at Drechsler.
"Gilbert! Show some respect!" Volker fumed.
"How do you know he doesn't want me out?" Gilbert continued, speaking over him. He turned, glowering at the professor. "Maybe that's the better question to ask."
Volker stared agape at his son. "Why would you even accuse someone of such a thing?"
Gilbert's throat tightened. "Like I said, ask him."
Silence settled over the room after that.
The headmaster cleared his throat. "It is regrettable, but given the circumstances, I feared something like this was bound to happen."
Gilbert's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
The headmaster swallowed again, lips pressing to a thin line as he slowly looked Gilbert up and down.
"Ah. I see. You thought I couldn't hack it. That I'd wash out in first year."
The headmaster began to protest, but Gilbert cut across him: "So your evidence is nothing more than the suspicions of a faculty member and your own bias — "
"We also have a witness," Drechsler interjected.
Gilbert fumbled a moment, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him. "W-who?" he eventually managed.
Drechsler lips twitched as he stood, went out into the hallway, and returned moments later with another cadet, a third year, if Gilbert's memory served.
Drechsler offered the young man his seat, choosing to stand beside the headmaster's desk. Gilbert felt the man's eyes on him, but he kept his own gaze deliberately focused on a spot on the floor.
"Tell them what you saw," Drechsler prompted.
The cadet looked at Gilbert, then the headmaster, before clearing his throat and saying: "It...was about a week ago. I was coming down the hall from a tutoring session in the academics building when I saw Beilschmidt leaving professor Drechsler's office. It was late and the office was dark. It..." The cadet glanced at Drechsler, who nodded for him to continue. "It looked like Beilschmidt was tucking something in his pocket."
The floor suddenly felt like it was falling away from Gilbert, leaving nothing but a gaping hole ready to swallow him. His eyes widened as he exhaled a long, low breath, shoulders sinking. He had gone to Drechsler's office last week — at night, when he was sure no one would be around. But the cadet had been wrong. Drechsler was there. Their conversation had been brief — the professor having offered certain ways to help secure and advance Gilbert's career, which Gilbert outright refused. Their voices were low, but the exchange had been heated. And he was sure — so sure — when he left, there was no one in that hallway...
"Are you saying Beilschmidt may have taken something from the professor's office? A copy of the exam paper, perhaps? Or the answer key?" the headmaster was saying.
"Maybe. I didn't really see — "
"That's a lie," Gilbert hissed, the words out of his mouth before he even realized he had spoken.
The headmaster blinked. "Did you go to professor Drechsler's office?"
Heat clawed its way up Gilbert's neck. "Yes, but...it was only because...I had something I needed to discuss."
"And this matter could not have waited til daylight?" the headmaster asked.
Gilbert's eyes burned as he glared fully at Drechsler now, his jaw tight. "No."
"So you admit you were there?"
"Yes! But I didn't take anything!"
"I think I've heard enough," Volker said.
"No! Father, you must believe me — I didn't cheat! Let me take the exam again, please — "
"Why? So you can purposely fail? What will that prove, Gilbert?"
Tears sprang to Gilbert's eyes. He blinked them back. "Then...let me see my paper! Where is my exam? Compare it to the answer key — "
"The one you stole — "
"I didn't steal anything — I didn't cheat! Please, father! You must believe me — "
"Gilbert, that is enough! You're making a scene." Volker turned to the headmaster. "How do we proceed?"
The headmaster sighed and sat back in his chair. "I am afraid your son will not be permitted to continue his studies here, given the state of things. The only recourse is discharge."
Gilbert's vision tunneled. The room around him faded into a deep black fog, blotting out all color and sound. It was only him, under the glare of some unseen bright light, while all around, thousands of eyes hid in the shadows, watching. He spun around and around, trying to find them (too fast, too fast). His breathing quickened, heart beating uncomfortably loud and hard against his chest. He dug his fingernails into his palms to remain present, to regain control, to feel anything beyond those eyes —
"It will be an honorable one," the headmaster was saying, "given your family's standing with this academy and service to our kingdom, General Beilschmidt. I pray you may at least find solace in that. I will need a few days to have the paperwork drawn up and signed."
Gilbert breathed out and the world slowed down. The room returned, and with it, his father's voice.
"Very well. I shall return at the end of the week to collect him." Volker stood and took the headmaster's hand.
Gilbert remained rooted to his chair, drawing shallow breaths, hardly believing this was happening. Somewhere behind him, the door opened and closed. His father had left without even a glance.
.
o
.
The rest of the week, Gilbert spent on kitchen duty, cooking meals and washing dishes from morning to night. He did not mind it — it was better than being cooped up in his dormitory all day with nothing to do, avoiding the stares of the five other cadets who shared his room.
It did not take long for word to spread of his discharge. Hardly an hour after his meeting with the headmaster, the entire academy seemed to know. Cadets, many of whom he had trained beside in field exercises, had studied beside in class, had fought for and won their trust and respect, now turned their backs on him, spurning him as if he had some contagious disease.
On the morning he was due to leave, Gilbert was alone in his dormitory, packing away the rest of his things, when the quiet click of a handle turning told him he was no longer alone. Gilbert sighed, knowing it could not be one of the cadets — classes were still in mid-session.
"I'll be done in a minute," he replied tersely, thinking it was the headmaster coming to escort him to his office. To sign the paper that would sign the rest of his life away —
"By all means," a drawling voice said. "I'm in no hurry."
Gilbert's neck tensed, breath feeling as if it had been sucked from his lungs. He straightened his back and swallowed, trying to unstick his voice. He turned his head, watching Drechsler over his shoulder.
"What are you doing here?"
The professor rested his hip against a desk, folding his arms in the way Gilbert remembered from lectures. The way he often did after asking a question, as if the answer was so obvious. Many of the cadets often wondered whether or not Drechsler was mocking them. But not Gilbert. There was nothing he loved more than a challenge.
Gilbert swallowed again, blinking those memories away, and shoved a pair of pants into his suitcase.
"I only wanted to say goodbye, I suppose. And to let you know your father is waiting for you in the headmaster's office."
"Fine. Goodbye. Will you let them know I'll be done soon?"
But Drechsler did not move.
"What, are you here to escort me? To bring me down? It's not like I'm going to do anything — "
"Gilbert."
Drechsler stepped forward, the name a gentle command. One Gilbert had obeyed time and again. But not now.
"Don't."
"It didn't have to be this way."
Gilbert threw his head back and laughed. "You're right. It didn't. But who's fault is that? Silly of me to think — to want — this to be something more than just some quid pro quo."
Drechsler's eyes narrowed, the air around him growing dangerous. "Clearly the blame is mine for thinking you had a sharper mind than that, Gilbert. I guess I was wrong about you. You are so desperate to be loved, you place it above everything, even your own ambition."
Gilbert's jaw trembled; his hands shook. The room felt suddenly cold despite the late summer warmth wafting in through the windows.
Drechsler's lip curled. "Do see that you're finished and downstairs in five minutes. Don't want to keep your father waiting."
.
o
.
Varniai, Lithuania 1861
Tauras' head bobbed as he tried to stay awake during morning mass. Half past eight was far from early anymore, not when most of his days began before the sun rose. But between the dimly lit chapel, the heavy blanket of incense hanging over their heads, the priest's droning reading of the gospel, and the fact they had not yet breakfasted, Tauras found himself drifting — until someone nudged his arm.
Tauras blinked, snapping his head up and to the right. Beside him, Motiejus grinned, darting his lightly colored eyes up to the altar, indicating for him to pay attention. Tauras' cheeks flushed. He ducked his head with an embarrassed smile, then straightened his back as the homily began. He cheated another glance at Motiejus. In some ways, the young man reminded him of Feliks. Both were blonde and both had a cheeky manner, though Motiejus was far more reserved in his display, only allowing those with whom he was close to see that side of him. Unlike Feliks, his family was Lithuanian, his father a carpenter by trade. It was those differences that perhaps struck Tauras the most upon meeting him his first day at the seminary. That here was a person with whom he could speak freely in his native tongue. He no longer had to practice Polish customs or speak in a language not his own. He was no longer nobility. That thought alone was at once freeing — if not a bitter reminder of why he was there.
Tauras had felt himself falling for Motiejus the same way he had fallen for Feliks. But whether that attraction stemmed merely from a fascination with someone raised in a culture and manner that so differed from his own or whether it was indeed something deeper, he would not permit himself to say. Tauras closed that part of his heart off, quelling those thoughts whenever they arose, again remembering why he had been sent away.
After mass, they breakfasted, with Tauras helping himself to two cups of coffee. Saturday chores came next, with he and Motiejus being assigned garden duty. Quiet irritation shone through some of the eyes of the other seminarians — Tauras always landed gardening. Not that he minded it. Being out in the fresh air was ever a welcome diversion from days spent cloistered inside. It offered a little taste of freedom, something to look forward to in the rote monotony his life had become. How he had taken for granted the days spent trekking over his family's land, the sounds of the forest and stream —
"Glaring at the weeds is not going to remove them any faster."
Tauras blinked, turning his head to the voice. Motiejus grinned at him, leaning on his rake and pushing his straw sun hat up.
"You keep dawdling like that and Father Adomaitis'll pull you off gardening duty."
Tauras smirked. "And what are you doing? Taking a break? I see no riches from your hard-working hands."
Motiejus lifted his weeding rake and swung it down, hacking at a clump of clover. "That's because we do not toil for material wealth. You were drifting again. Just like at mass this morning."
Heat creeped up Tauras' neck, heat that had nothing to do with the sun. As much as he enjoyed spending time with Motiejus, it was hard to remember the young man was a true believer. He was at the seminary because he wanted to be there. Unlike Tauras, Motiejus had not had his life ripped away because of a love his family viewed as disgraceful. Sometimes he could still see his brother Matas staring at him, wide-eyed. Echoes of rage and betrayal rang out in these moments, coupled with a lingering guilt. Tauras had not spoken to his brother following the incident with Feliks. But after a year of being away, he wondered whether his anger with Matas was instead misplaced anger with his father. His brother was ten years old...he could not possibly have understood...
"What is on your mind, Tauras?" Motiejus was looking at him again, concern lifting his brow.
"Nothing. As you've observed, my thoughts just wander sometimes."
"You've been brooding all morning."
"I told you, it's nothing."
Motiejus pressed his lips together. "We're friends, aren't we?"
A weight pressed against Tauras' chest. Feliks' golden cross, hidden under his shirt, rested just below his collarbone.
"Yes, but...it's nothing I wish to discuss."
"Tauras — "
"I said no, Matas!" He blinked, realizing his mistake. "Motiejus. Apologies...Matas was my brother. I was thinking of him, that's all."
"Brother?" Motiejus echoed. But before Tauras could explain, the sound of raised voices caught their attention.
"That sounds Russian," Tauras said.
The garden stood behind a high wall to the right of the seminary's main entrance. With a glance at his friend, Tauras dropped his rake, making his way over for a better listen. Motiejus followed, using his rake like a walking stick.
Tauras' brow furrowed as he listened. The rest of the conversation was short, ending with the sound of feet being led in and the main door closing.
"Well?" Motiejus prompted.
"Soldiers. Here for an inspection." Tauras practically spat the word.
Motiejus' eyes widened slightly. He clasped both hands on the top of his rake as if in prayer, and leaned his back against the wall. "It was only a matter of time, what with all the protests breaking out across the country. The empire never held much tolerance for our beliefs anyway." He rested his chin on his hands, as if in thought. "This is what Father Adomaitis was talking about. In the homily this morning."
"He knew about this?"
Motiejus chuckled. "No." Then, seeing the still somewhat indignant look on his friend's face: "Tauras, what day is it?"
"Saturday?"
"No...well, yes, but...it's also the Feast of the Cross."
Tauras' expression remained unchanged, the words holding no meaning for him.
"Did you hear nothing this morning!? The Feast of the Cross!" Motiejus repeated, incredulous. "The Exaltation! The homily was all about it. About the cross being a symbol, transformed from an instrument of torture and death into one of God's love. Father Adomaitis said we too must transform oppression into an impetus for change, into freedom. He meant this!"
"Settle down, Motiejus!" Tauras hissed. "You can't let them hear you talking like that!"
"Like they would understand anyway," Motiejus scoffed, but a glower soon darkened his light eyes.
Tauras leaned against the wall, feeling the sun's warmth spread from the stone to his back, his arms, his hands. He tipped his head back, watching the clear blue sky overhead. His throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed, listening for any sound. The birds seemed to have stopped singing...
"You never told me you could speak Russian."
Motiejus may as well have punched him in the gut.
"…Does it matter?"
"Just surprising. That's all. Do you know…we've worked together, learned and prayed together for a year, and I feel like I suddenly know nothing about you. I never knew you had a brother. And I certainly didn't know you spoke their language."
Tauras pushed himself off the wall, going back to his rake. He could hear the shuffle of Motiejus' feet in the grass as the young man followed him. Tauras attacked a patch of nettle, breaking the tall stems and digging up grass and dirt around it. He then got to his knees to get the roots with his fingers.
Motiejus crouched beside him. Tauras could feel those light eyes on him, could feel the weight return, pressing against his chest.
"My father's a tsarist." The words fell from his mouth in quiet confession. "My family are wealthy landowners. I've never experienced anything beyond that privileged life until now."
Motiejus considered this, his brow wrinkling in thought. "...Is that why you heard it, do you think? The calling?"
"No. I've never heard it." There was a tearing sound as Tauras ripped a nettle from the ground. He tossed it in a pile with the others he had dug up and sat back on his heels, his face somber. He looked at Motiejus, the young man who was just as curious to him and Feliks had been. The weight had not left his chest, and Tauras found the longer he looked at him, the heavier it grew. He blinked away, swallowing, and returning to his work. "I disgraced my family. I was disowned and sent here as punishment."
Motiejus' mouth parted in surprise. "Why? Was it...because of your father? And his beliefs?"
Tauras' hands stilled momentarily. "...You could say that. Regardless, I would like to keep as much peace between myself and the Russian authorities as possible. The weeds will always be in our midst; we cannot change them to wheat."
Motiejus knelt in the grass, gently picking up one of the discarded nettles. "You're right. But there comes a time when the weeds must be removed, Tauras."
.
o
.
1869, Tilsit, East Prussia
There was a chill in the spring air, or so it seemed to Gilbert as he untethered Kaspar from the hitching post. The thin clouds from that afternoon knit together to form a thicker blanket overhead as the day waned. Orange light from the setting sun bathed the riverfront in warm hues, but there was a rawness, a bone deep frost that made his shoulders shudder, his hands tremble. He clenched them, knowing the feeling came not from the air, but from within.
"I...I cannot do this."
The words were a shivering breath. A whisper.
"I cannot let you do this, Tauras. After everything you've told me — everything you've been through — I cannot..."
Gilbert's face was stricken as he spoke. Tears welled in his eyes. One broke free, running down his cheek. Tauras cupped his face, brushing it away with his thumb.
"I've already confessed. I've admitted my guilt."
Gilbert covered Tauras' hand with his own, pressing it closer to his cheek. "I know. But I don't want to lose you."
His eyes were blazing now, the work of some nebulous thoughts coalescing into plans. Tauras had seen the same look cross his cousin's face countless times.
"You have a duty. To keep the peace. If you let me go free...Eduard and I will still be hunted. Kohler will not stop making trouble for you. This puts an end to all of it."
Gilbert swallowed, a pained look knitting his brow. Why did it always keep coming to this? he wondered. The impossible choice. The eternal war between head and heart, ambition and love.
"But at what cost?"
Tauras' eyes had no answer. Instead, he slipped his hand from Gilbert's, touching the golden cross at the gendarme's neck, his finger tracing the shape. He looked at Gilbert once more, then turned and mounted Kaspar.
Gilbert drew a deep breath, taking a moment to collect himself. His hand wrapped around the cross Tauras had given him, remembering what he had said, how it had been a beacon. He then grabbed the pommel of Kaspar's saddle, placed one foot in the stirrup, and pulled himself up to sit behind Tauras. The Lithuanian shifted his knapsack to his front, the sudden warmth of his back hitting Gilbert, thawing the cold that had clawed its way inside him the moment he stepped out. Tauras settled back against him, reminding Gilbert of the night they had spent together, how perfectly their forms melded into one another. He wrapped an arm around the Lithuanian's waist, feeling the comforting weight of the other man's hand placed on his, then leaned forward, taking the reins, and pressed a kiss to Tauras' shoulder as they departed.
.
o
.
The ride to the border passed too quickly for Tauras' liking. As much as he had resigned himself to his fate, instinct eventually took over and he found himself wishing for ways to prolong it. It was like the doctor said, all those years ago. A man would do anything for God to spare him just one more second of life.
"We should dismount," he said abruptly. "If I am your prisoner, I should walk the rest of the way."
The hand around his waist tensed, and Tauras half expected Gilbert to protest, but the hand holding the reins gently pulled back after a moment. Kaspar stilled. There was a sudden lightness, followed by a rippling chill, as the weight and warmth behind him was unseated from the horse. Tauras slid down, shouldering his pack once again. Gilbert was staring at him, but in the bluing twilight, his expression was difficult to read. Tauras held his hands out and looked away. Gilbert blinked, cocking his head in a moment of confusion, though his lips soon parted as realization hit. He pressed them together with a resigned huff — and took out a pair of iron cuffs from the saddle bag. He hesitated to fit them on, but one word from Tauras was all it took to snap his attention back: "Gilbert."
The lock clicked into place, the metal cold against Tauras' wrists, his hands warm in Gilbert's. The gendarme drew him close for a kiss, then turned with a stuttering breath back to Kaspar. He took a small lantern out of the saddle bag, struck a match, and lit the wick, the dancing flame casting his features in haunted, sharp relief.
Gilbert looped the reins around the low branch of a nearby tree. There was not much distance between the end of the woods and field with its border crossing. He had made sure to lead them in a wide arc, well away from his own patrol's camp. He could not bear to face his men just then. With a nod from Tauras, he threaded an arm through the Lithuanian's, hand wrapping around just above the elbow. He imagined them walking arm in arm around the millpond near his house, but to anyone else it looked like what it was meant to: a gendarme bringing a prisoner in. The thought stuck in his chest, lodged like an arrow.
As the cover of the trees broke, the last feeble light from the sun guided them on their path, aided by the light of a rising orange full moon. In the distance, the light from two lanterns twinkled as dark figures passed back and forth around them. Tauras and Gilbert each held the other's gaze, a lifetime of thoughts passing between them, only to be broken by a voice commanding them to halt in a language Gilbert did not know and one Tauras did.
Gilbert held up his lantern, drawing himself to his full height and glaring haughtily across at the Russian soldier. "Sergeant-major Beilschmidt, commander of the Tilsit gendarmerie," he offered by way of introduction, reminding Tauras of the man who had first come to his shop that bleak January day. "Who is in charge here?"
The Russian soldier flicked his eyes over to another man, one dressed in the same dark green as Gilbert. The Prussian gendarme exchanged a few words with the soldier, who then turned and trotted off down the road, presumably to his camp.
"Sir." The gendarme saluted Gilbert, who lazily returned it. "He is going to fetch his lieutenant to come and speak with you."
"Very well." Gilbert gave a long-suffering sigh, as if the whole ordeal was a great inconvenience, when in truth he wanted nothing more than to take Tauras and run. His grip tightened on the Lithuanian's arm.
Two shapes eventually emerged from the other side, their silhouettes bobbing along against the deepening sky. The Russian lieutenant introduced himself, holding out a hand to Gilbert. The sergeant-major eyed it, knowing he would finally have to let go. His fingers uncurled, releasing Tauras, as he took the man's hand.
"What brings you out at this hour, sergeant-major?" the lieutenant asked in impeccable German.
Gilbert swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I have apprehended your book smuggler."
The lieutenant's brow contracted. "The one from the poster?"
"Yes."
The lieutenant's hand shot up, squeezing Tauras' cheeks as he turned his face this way and that. Gilbert's hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles straining against his leather gloves. The lieutenant had a few quick words with his soldier, who nodded in agreement, before letting go of Tauras' face.
"It doesn't look like him. The hair is too dark."
"Well I can assure you, I conducted a very thorough investigation. This man is a printer — the only one in Tilsit whose typeface matched the book your captain sent. Perhaps the man you thought was a smuggler, was simply nothing more than some poor beggar."
The lieutenant and his soldier again spoke in quick, hushed tones. Once or twice, Tauras caught the name "Braginski." No doubt, these men were wondering if it was worth their necks to risk bringing in the wrong suspect and facing the captain's wrath. A glimmer of hope shone at the thought that they might not actually take him. That he would be spared. That this was all for nothing...
But.
What he told Gilbert still held true. He and Eduard would not stop being hunted. Kohler would not back down if they both were still in Tilsit. They would have to leave the city, then. Pack up everything and go. Running away, as always. And his conscience would never be unburdened from the guilt of failing his men. His family. His country.
"Take me to him," Tauras said quietly in Russian.
The two soldiers stopped talking, snapping their heads over to him, unsure if they'd heard right.
Gilbert stared, the shock evident on his face, though he did not know what Tauras had said, only the effect it produced.
Tauras met his eyes one final time, his face set, then with a quick nod, turned back to the soldiers.
"Take me to Braginski."
.
.
.
A/N Not a whole lot of history in this one, it was more religious references, so here we go!
Martial law in Lithuania: Alluded to in the gardening scene at the seminary, with the Russian soldiers coming for an inspection. In 1861, martial law was declared in parts of Lithuania, Belarus, and Poland. Telsiai county, where Varniai is located, was part of the Kovno Governorate, which had martial law imposed on in it August 1861. This was just one of the many preludes to the January Uprising in 1863.
Link to an overview on it: /pa2/tematy/english-content/98479,
Exaltation of the Cross (or Feast of the Cross): a liturgical feast celebrated on September 14 to honor the cross on which Jesus was crucified.
"riches from hard-working hands": biblical reference to Proverbs 10:4 — "A slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich."
The calling: also known as discernment in the Catholic faith — the calling is like any other...that strong sense of knowing this is something you're meant to do
Weeds and wheat: biblical reference to the Parable of the Wheat and Weeds in Matthew13:24-43
And speaking of Matthew...I realized this story has 3 characters with some form of "Matthew" as their names, lol! Matas, Mathias, and Motiejus. What can I say, it's a common name...although I did intend Motiejus to sort of be like aph/hws Canada for all you LietCan/CanLiet shippers out there ;)
As always, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!