Tauragė, Lithuania
"Get your hands off me!"
Captain Braginski heard the drunken swearing, the scuffling of feet, moments before two of his men appeared in his office doorway, their arms looped around a third spitting curses in every language he knew. The captain rubbed his forehead, already knowing who his men had apprehended. Younger brother to one of Ivan's closer acquaintances and one of the county's most estimable former inhabitants, the man perhaps was more notoriously known as the town drunk: Benas Laurinaitis.
"I said get off! I haven't done anything — "
"Sir," one of the men began, addressing the captain wearily, his exasperation already evident.
Ivan held up a hand, hardly bothering to look up from his work. "We have a holding cell for a reason, lieutenant. Let him sleep off whatever drink he's had."
"I understand, sir." The soldier cleared his throat, glancing at his companion. A red spot colored his cheek from where Benas had punched him. "But this is the fifth time this month. The townspeople are fed up. He's gone from being a nuisance to starting fights with anyone who won't buy him a drink — "
Captain Braginski's hand fell, smacking the desk. He sat back in his chair. "And you thought what? Bringing him before me would fix it? This man is the least of my worries. Put him in a cell and get on with your duties."
The two men hesitated. Ivan glanced from them to Benas, a weight settling in his chest. He would love nothing more than to expel this drunkard from his county and be done with it. But...the fact remained he was still Juozas' brother. And being that, Ivan felt just as duty bound to Benas as he did the elder Laurinaitis. It was even fair to say he pitied him. He pitied the whole family, given what happened to them after the uprising. Juozas may have washed his hands of his traitorous son all those years ago, but Ivan doubted the same could be said for his brother. Benas had done nothing wrong. He was simply a product of circumstance.
The men started to leave, but Benas remained rooted to the spot, staring at something on the wall. Ivan turned to see what held his attention.
It was the poster. The one of the wanted smuggler.
Benas' arms went slack, legs struggling to support his weight.
Ivan leaned his elbows on his desk, arms folded, suddenly curious. "You know this man?"
Benas' mouth moved soundlessly, eyes welling with tears. "Oh my...my..."
Ivan nodded to his men. They released their hold. Benas staggered forward, his hand brushing the face on the poster.
"My poor Eduard!" Benas breathed. "My son! Please forgive me!"
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia
The city was silent and sleeping when Eduard's train arrived. He lay curled up in his seat, his coat thrown over his head in some semblance of slumber, the illusion soon broken the moment the attendant roused him. Eduard collected his bag from the overhead rack and disembarked, scrubbing salty tracks from his cheeks. Exhaustion weighed on his body, though his mind felt oddly light.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he did not have a plan.
It was a strange feeling. A free feeling. Knowing that he and Tauras and Raivis could live comfortably because of Jan. That Tilsit could be his home — that he wanted it to be his home.
The old life that had once anchored him was no more.
The sky was just starting to lighten as Eduard unlocked the print shop door. He shrugged out of his coat, noticing a faint light haloing the entrance to the kitchen. He entered, setting his bag on the table as Tauras turned around, having just lit the stove to boil water.
His cousin gave a small jump, but Eduard sent him a quiet smile and unpacked Jan's coffee pot and cup from his bag, then took the grounds out from one of the cabinets.
Tauras bit his lip, worrying the skin a little as Eduard prepared his pot, waiting for the water to come to temperature. He knew his cousin was watching him, probably anxious at the way things had been between them when he left.
Eduard took the check out of his pocket and laid it on the table between them, silently offering it as an apology. As a way to stave off having to talk about it. (As a way of wanting to talk about it).
"That should keep us for awhile." His throat was tight.
Tauras picked up the slip of paper. "Ed...what..."
"I sold my mother's house. Jan died. He had been sick. The past few days have been…well..."
The kettle on the stove whistled. Eduard poured the hot water over the grounds in his coffee pot.
"Oh, Ed. I'm…I'm so sorry."
"I appreciate that." He held the kettle out for Tauras, but his cousin just stared at it, eyes slowly sliding up.
"Ed."
"Hm?"
"He knows."
Eduard's brow furrowed as he set the kettle back on the stove. "...He knows — what?"
"The gendarme," Tauras breathed, his eyes wide. "He knows it's us — that it's our shop printing and smuggling the books." His chin trembled. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry — I-I know you've got a lot — that you're dealing with a loss — a-and I didn't know — but I don't — I don't know what to do!" The last word came as a sob. Tauras covered his mouth with his hands, tears streaming down his face. He sank into a chair, shoulders rounding as tears streamed down his face.
Eduard drew a deep, steadying breath. "Tell me." He sat beside his cousin. "What makes you think he knows?"
Tauras sniffed, drying his eyes with the heel of his hand, his voice thick. "Two days ago he asked for samples of our typefaces. He showed me the book — he showed me the goddamn book! And I — I had to — he was watching me and — I had to do it. Now it's only a matter of time."
"Until what?"
"Until he figures out it's us! He'll be able to match the typeface — "
"Maybe."
Tauras glared at his cousin, hardly believing Eduard could be this obtuse. "Maybe!? What — do you even — "
"Do you know how many printers there are in Tilsit?"
"…I — I know a fair amount..."
Eduard poured the coffee into his cup. "And how many of them have typefaces either the same or similar to ours?"
Tauras blinked. "I'm…not sure. Drucker's equipment's old. There's a chance — "
"Right. A chance. If the sergeant-major is thinking he can find out who's behind the book smuggling by comparing type, he's grasping at straws. He has no real leads."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Nothing. I'm gambling just as much as he is."
Eduard took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. An exhaustion deeper than that of simply lacking sleep was settling over him. The moment Tauras had brought that gendarme home, the moment Eduard had found the wanted poster, a mark had been placed on all their heads — Raivis' too, for even the boy had been complicit in helping them.
A dull pain throbbed in his left shoulder. A reminder. That all of this started the moment he had been shot. The moment he had seen his father and made that impetuous decision to return. Eduard flexed his fingers and sipped his coffee.
"We could leave," Tauras said quietly. "We should — leave."
"And go where?" Eduard's voice was low, scratchy. He settled his glasses back on his nose.
His cousin's eyes went to the check, resting between them on the table.
Eduard shook his head. "I'm not going back there. There's nothing for me except factories — "
"We don't have to go to Leipzig, but Ed, be reasonable — "
A hand slammed down on the table. "I am! I am being fucking reasonable, Tauras! If we leave what will happen to all of this?" He gestured around the print shop. "Our equipment — our livelihood! This is our home — we built a life here. I'm not ready to give all that up just yet. There's still a chance —"
Tauras shifted his shoulders and scoffed. "Yes. A chance. But this is not the time to gamble! We have the means to start over — "
"Yeah. And last I looked, that check is in my name and I already said: I'm not going."
Tauras put his head in his hands, jaw clenching as his eyes welled up again.
"What happens if we leave?" Eduard asked, his tone edging toward mocking. "You started this to help your country. Are you just giving that all up now? Since when has running from your problems ever worked?"
Tauras picked his head up, eyes hardening and jaw set. "That's not fair, and you know it." He rose, straightened his waistcoat, and left.
.
o
.
East Prussia border
"Are you certain of the name?" Kohler asked.
The Russian lieutenant nodded. "Absolutely. The man may be a drunk, but I've never seen eyes so clear. The moment he saw the poster, he knew who it was. Even the captain was astounded. We interrogated him yesterday, all afternoon and evening. He insisted the face on the poster was his son's and that he had been sent to live in Germany."
Kohler's hand shook as he held the slip of paper with the name — the Cyrillic written out by captain Braginski and the lieutenant's translation below it. His eyes were wide, pupils dilating as saliva gathered around the edges of his tongue, his scalp prickling with a singular thought flashing through his head.
"Well. This is...hm. Tell your captain the arrest should be made within a day. This smuggler shall not trouble you again. Thank you, lieutenant."
The two men saluted each other. Kohler waited until the Russian officer was well away before turning back to camp and crushing the paper in his fist.
"Bock!" he roared. "I have you now!"
Kohler shoved the paper in his coat pocket, then turned to the corporal beside him. "Ready the horses. We're going to Tilsit."
"Sir. I thought the sergeant-major said to let him know of any new developments — "
"To hell with what that bastard wants! This one is mine."
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia
Sergeant-major Beilschmidt's eyes itched. He had been staring at printed text deep into the night and well into morning, checking and re-checking the book typeface against the samples he had acquired from the print shops around the city. Every time he thought he had a lead, the rush of success was soon tempered upon discovering two other shops had lettering in the same style. Or a similar style. He didn't know anymore. It all honestly was starting to look the same to him.
Gilbert adjusted his reading glasses and thumbed through the book, looking for another letter to test. He had started with the "o", as he noticed the center axis was slightly tilted. But so was almost every "o" from every print shop in Tilsit. He then checked the lowercase "a", seeing some had a hook curving around the top while others didn't, but that proved just as inconclusive. He finished with the vowels last night had moved onto some of the more common consonants in German before remembering that would most likely do him no good as the book was written in Lithuanian. Gilbert scrubbed a hand over his face and decided to call it a night. The next morning, he started at the beginning, comparing letters from both the German and Lithuanian alphabet, presuming the printer may have mixed them to save time on printing.
He was on his third cup of coffee and already questioning his sanity for delving into this undertaking.
Turning each print shop upside down to search for signs of smuggling would be far easier, he thought. He did have the manpower for it. But it would undoubtedly not win him any favors with the locals either as he had just called off patrols. Though a show of force might be necessary, should this investigation fail to turn up any evidence….
At the far corner of his desk lay the type samples from Tauras' shop. They had been shuffled in with the rest only to soon be scattered to the edge as the sergeant-major flipped through sheet after sheet, trying to find some correlation.
(He did not want to look).
He was already up to the letter H. Two forms for the "i" in Lithuanian followed, then the "y" and "j" compared to the one "i" in German followed by "j".
(He did not want to look).
Gilbert's eyes unfocused. He sat back and rubbed them, vaguely wondering if his eyesight was taking a turn. Following his expulsion from the academy, his father had been the one to encourage him in pursuing the cavalry. Being the dutiful son he was then, he never thought to question those wishes — yet after the last war, he sometimes found himself wondering why. Was it because the cavalry stayed in the back? Because he had a better vantage point from his horse? Because his father thought him so weak he needed the aid of —
Gilbert clenched his teeth, pushing those thoughts away. He stood, ordered the type samples on his desk, one beside the other, and took out a paperweight magnifier. Duty called to him.
And there it was, suddenly clear as day. The key piece he had been missing. All of the samples — all of them — looked almost identical. Except for the lowercase "j". On the sheet from Tauras' shop.
The world rushed to a stop.
That one letter — that one letter — had to be different from the rest. Had to be. All the others ended in a ball terminal — a roughly circular shape. The one from Tauras' shop ended in a sharp point.
Gilbert wet his lips, drawing the sheet to him. Just because there was a single difference between one sample and all the others did not mean the Lithuanian had printed the book, he told himself. It was not yet conclusive. Remembering what Tauras had said about smearing, Gilbert brushed his fingers over the lettering just to be sure. But the ink was dry. The "j" was different.
He checked the book (though he already knew the answer).
"Goddammit."
It was a match.
"God! — fucking — !"
Gilbert slammed the book shut and threw it across the room. Flinging it away. Away from him.
He sank into his chair, head in his hands. "Why?" he breathed. "Why did it have to be you?"
.
o
.
Eduard tapped his fingers against the door frame of his cousin's garret room. Tauras had not been down since that morning. It was now well past lunch, and Eduard and Raivis had already finished most of the print orders.
One hand curled into a fist, but still Eduard hesitated to knock. Every time they fought, they forgave each other in some silent, unspoken way. But something was different this time — something in a way Eduard could not quite place. He drew a deep breath. And turned the handle.
"Tauras?"
His cousin was sitting on his bed, head bent over his nightstand where a stack of papers lay. He finished writing something then folded them up and stuffed them in an envelope, addressing the front.
Eduard remained a shadow in the doorway. "...I — about earlier, I — "
But whatever he had been about to say died on his tongue as a loud pounding came from the front door.
Tauras looked to his cousin, who was already turning to the sound.
A breathless Raivis arrived on the attic landing as the front door was flung open. "Spike heads. They're here!"
Eduard turned to Tauras, whose face matched the gray of the plaster walls around him.
"Bock!" a voice boomed. One Eduard recognized.
He breathed a curse, raking a hand through his hair. "You two stay here. I'll handle this."
"They're after me, Ed," Tauras reminded him quietly.
Eduard looked at his cousin, his blue eyes dim. "No. It's me he wants. This is Kohler. And for him, it's personal."
.
o
.
Gilbert picked his head up, a thought having just struck him. He gathered up the type samples, setting them to one side as he sifted through the other stacks of paper on his desk. Just because the book had come from Tauras' shop did not mean Tauras had printed it. Something was off there, sure, but there was another person capable of doing it too: the cousin.
Eduard had left quite the impression on Gilbert, whether meaning to or not — his skill at Skat, the easy flow of conversation, how open he seemed about his birth, being born out of wedlock. There was a disarming quality to it all, and yet it was as if he had been teasing out pieces of information, enough to make Gilbert want to trust him. It was one of the oldest ploys in carnival games or magic tricks — keep the audience focused on you so they don't see the ruse. And Gilbert had fallen for it, just like anyone.
There, under Kohler's reports, lay the poster of the smuggler Tauras had printed, the original underneath. Gilbert rolled them up, tucking them under his arm, and picked up the type samples. He retrieved the book, settling it in his coat pocket, then made for the stables to get his horse.
.
o
.
The sign on the door to Tauras' shop had been turned to read "Closed" by the time Gilbert arrived. Strange, he thought, as it was not yet evening. He dismounted, hitched Kaspar to a nearby post, and made to knock when he heard the sound of raised voices coming from within.
Gilbert went for the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. He opened the door, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior.
Tauras and his cousin stood in the middle of the shop. As did Kohler and a corporal from border patrol. The work table acted as a barrier between the two groups. The apprentice, Raivis, crouched on the stairs, peering over the banister at the commotion below.
As the door opened, flooding the shop with outside light, Kohler turned, ready to tell whoever was interrupting his triumph to get lost. His face paled upon seeing the sergeant-major, the arrogant grin on his face turning to a sneer.
"What is going on here?" Gilbert asked. His eyes went from Eduard, who was standing almost in front of Tauras as if blocking him, to Kohler.
The sergeant tipped his chin back, grin returning. He held out a slip of paper with Cyrillic writing on it and a name underneath. Gilbert took it.
"A positive identification of the suspect on the poster has been made by a man claiming to be Bock's father. Captain Braginski's lieutenant" — Tauras flinched at the name — "gave me the name this morning. This is the man" — Kohler jerked his head at Eduard — "responsible for smuggling illegal print across the border. I was in the middle of conducting an arrest, sergeant-major."
Gilbert drew himself up. "Were you, now?"
"Yes — "
"An arrest may be made today, sergeant, but it will not be for this man."
Kohler's imperious demeanor fell. "...I — what — what do you mean? Who, then?"
"You, sergeant."
"Me? What for — "
"For deliberately disobeying my direct order. That is insubordination. I told you, did I not, that if the Russians had anymore information, I wanted to be the first to know of it?"
Kohler spluttered. Gilbert looked from him to the corporal, who gave the smallest nod before muttering all in one breath: "Yes-you-did-sir."
The corners of Gilbert's lips twitched up. "Corporal, please escort sergeant Kohler to the garrison cells, then return to your post. If you hurry, you may make it back in time for evening mess."
The corporal saluted the sergeant-major, then proceeded to lead a still stunned Kohler out of the print shop. At the door, the sergeant turned, looking back at Gilbert, one eye twitching.
The sergeant-major readied himself for a fight, but Kohler left without a word.
Gilbert's shoulders dropped. He drew a deep breath, knowing his troubles with the sergeant were far from over. The rolled posters slipped a little from under his arm, reminding him why he was there. He set them and the type samples on the work table, but held onto the paper with Eduard's name.
"I suppose you know why I am here," he said quietly. His mouth set in a firm line, pulling down ever so slightly at the edges.
Eduard swallowed, peering down at the gendarme through his glasses. Gilbert tried not to think how much he was reminded of Ludwig in that moment. Tauras' cousin and his brother must have been about the same height — same blonde hair...blue eyes...
Behind him, he heard the creak of a stair as Raivis descended. The boy rushed over to Eduard's side. A comforting arm was placed around his thin shoulders.
Gilbert looked away, looked at the slip of paper. Wordlessly, he unrolled the posters, holding one as he stepped over to Eduard. He reached up with a gloved hand to turn Eduard's face in profile.
Eduard instinctively flinched, jerking his head away, nostrils dilating.
The sergeant-major withdrew his hand. "Apologies. Could you...turn a little bit..."
"Why? You have the name. Isn't that all the proof you need?" Eduard's voice was gravelly.
"If Kohler had not been the one in possession of it, perhaps. Now, please, Mr. Bock, your cooperation."
Eduard's jaw clenched. He turned his head.
Sergeant-major Beilschmidt frowned as he studied the two. "Not a complete likeness, but...close. May I see your arms?"
The corners of Eduard's eyes crinkled, a smirk flashing across his face. "Why? We're not playing cards, sir."
Gilbert kept his face impassive, resisting the charm. "The suspected smuggler was shot in the arm. I've inquired at every doctor in town, none have treated any injuries related to that. And I've seen my share of bullet wounds — I'm familiar with how they look."
Eduard let out a low breath. "Fair enough."
He unbuttoned his shirt, setting it on the work table.
Poking out of his left undershirt sleeve was the unmistakable scar.
Gilbert's eyes traced up from it to lock onto Eduard's.
"There you are, sergeant-major. You have your man."
It was then that Tauras broke his silence.
"Ed, don't!"
He maneuvered himself in front of his cousin. "It's me you want, not him — please!"
"This is on my head, Tauras," Eduard said softly. "It's my face on that poster. I'm the one who carried the books across the border."
"Because of me! Because it was my idea! No one else in this family should have to pay for my choices."
The sergeant-major looked from Eduard to Tauras. "Your cousin is the guilty one here, Mr. Laurinaitis. We have all the evidence and he's already admitted — "
"But I was the one printing the books. This all started because of me. If anyone deserves to be arrested, it's me."
Gilbert regarded him with an anguished look. He swallowed, his lips barely moving as he spoke. "What makes you say that? Help me understand."
Tauras looked at Eduard, at Raivis. "Leave us the room."
Eduard glanced at the gendarme. Gilbert was struggling with whether or not to let the main suspect out of his sight. He finally relented with a nod. Eduard took Raivis upstairs and the sergeant-major pulled out a stool and sat. Tauras did the same.
He wet his lips, smoothing his hands down his thighs, shoulders hunched with a downcast gaze. "I never lied to you," he began.
"Oh, I beg to differ — "
"At the dinner, I mean." His eyes flicked up to Gilbert's. The tips of the gendarme's ears were tinged a faint red. After a moment, he nodded for Tauras to continue and looked away. "I came from a privileged family. My father was a tsarist. I was raised with ideals that, as I grew older, did not align with my own. And then there was Feliks." Tauras' hand went to the cross at his neck. "My father found out about us and I was sent away to the seminary. I think up until that point, all of my transgressions he had been able to overlook — my father was still certain I would fall in line. And maybe I would have, had I not left. Sending me away was undoubtedly the biggest mistake he ever made — and one that led to...my greatest disgrace in his eyes."
Tauras paused a moment, blinking and swallowing past the lump in his throat. He folded his hands in his lap, one thumb worrying over the other, feeling the pull of his calloused skin.
"The seminary...was nothing like I expected. Sure, we had chores and prayer times and lessons, but...always there was discussion of culture — our culture and history and politics — things that I was not allowed to cherish in my father's house. And throughout all of it was this hope that...our nation's independence could be restored. That hope quickly turned into talk of revolution. Everywhere, the seeds were being sown for it. The peasantry had had enough mistreatment; after a number of protests, martial law was imposed; the clergy were fed up with the religious suppression under Russian rule. And when rebellion finally did break out, I left the seminary to join."
Tauras looked up from his hands, his face the same haunted guise Gilbert had seen after coming upon him in the birch grove.
"My unit...ambushed a Russian patrol. And I froze, while the rest of my men were killed. I ran. I could blame any number of things on it — the fact we were not trained in combat, that our fighting force was nothing but peasants and common folk up against an organized military. But the fact of the matter is...I ran. I let my men down and I fled. I went to Tauragė and tried to cross the border, but a passing group of soldiers recognized me from the ambush and took me to captain Braginski. That county was my family seat. Our name was well known throughout — and the captain happened to be a friend of my father's. At first he did not believe the men's accusations, but...the truth came out. He had me whipped for being a traitor. I was then scheduled to be on the next transport of deportations to Kara. But through the goodwill of the doctor treating me, I managed to escape."
Gilbert remained still as he listened to all this, scarcely daring to breathe or blink for fear of disturbing the air. Afraid if he did, the man before him would suddenly vanish. It hardly seemed real.
"Why..." he asked in a rasping whisper. "After all that...why smuggle the books then?"
Tauras' lips twisted, a self-disgusted look. "I had already failed my men and my country once. I could not let it happen again. Our language was banned, our people oppressed. Smuggling books was the one form of resistance we could carry out."
"And...taking the fall for your cousin?"
"Eduard's not the one Braginski wants. I escaped under his watch. A traitor to the empire."
Gilbert reached for his hand, realizing the unspoken implication. "You're not going to the border, Tauras. I won't allow it — "
Tauras rose, a sad smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I have to, Gilbert. I've been running from this for six years. Because of me, my family lost everything — their land, their status — "
"Going back there won't put it right."
"I know that. But I've carried this guilt for too long, I have to try. Braginski will never stop tearing apart his corner of the world until I'm brought in. He will never stop. Nor will I."
Gilbert stood, drawing Tauras close. "I don't want you to go. I — the way I acted toward you — I never should have — it was my own selfish pride. If I had known…."
"Would things have been any different between us?"
Gilbert swallowed. His eyes held no answer.
"You have your duty, just as I have mine."
"Can you forgive me?"
Tauras placed a hand on his cheek. Gilbert leaned into the touch as Tauras' lips brushed his, the kiss tender and delicate, full of awareness for each fragile moment passing between them.
Gloved fingers curled against Tauras' chest, longing to deepen it. Instead they both parted, heads bowed together.
"I should get my things," Tauras murmured.
Gilbert nodded, letting his eyes close a moment.
Tauras went upstairs. He found Eduard and Raivis in the sitting room. He did not need to ask to know they had heard everything.
Eduard stood, seemingly ready to protest his cousin's decision again, when Tauras said: "I have something I'd like for you to deliver, if you can."
Eduard's jaw clenched shut. He nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose, and followed Tauras up to the third floor. There, his cousin handed him the envelope from his dresser. Written on the front was a single word in Lithuanian: Tėvas. Father.
"Once again, I'm asking a lot of you, Ed. I know that, and I'm sorry. But...if you could see that he gets that…."
Eduard chewed his bottom lip. "Tauras. You don't have to do this."
"I've made my decision. You were right," Tauras said with a rueful smile, "I can't keep running."
Tears sprang to Eduard's eyes. "I never meant — "
Tauras put his arms around him. Eduard stood, stunned by the embrace, then hugged his cousin back. He suddenly felt like that boy again, hiding in a secret passage, discovering the truth about himself. The thought made him hold Tauras even tighter.
"I just lost Jan," he whispered. "I can't lose you too."
"It will be all right. You have Raivis. He'll need you. You'll do good here."
Eduard sniffed and nodded. He took the letter from Tauras as his cousin shouldered a knapsack he had packed that morning. Together they made their way back downstairs, Raivis joining them.
The sergeant-major was still standing at the work table, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the posters, book, and type samples laid out on its surface, a blank look etched across his face.
"Well," Eduard began, putting on a light tone despite somber mood among those gathered, "I think we should have something to eat." He glanced at his cousin briefly, an unspoken understanding passing between them, then went into the kitchen with Raivis.
Gilbert looked up as Tauras approached, unclasping the golden cross from his neck.
"I want to give you something," the Lithuanian said. "It was given to me years ago from someone I cared about. It was like a beacon, letting me know he was alright. Maybe it can be the same for you."
Tauras fastened the necklace around Gilbert. The gendarme touched the cross, his eyes distant.
"I should ride out with you — to the border, I mean — if that's...all right."
Tauras nodded, then took Gilbert's hand and led him to the kitchen.
They were met with the smell of sausages and potatoes heating in a pan. Simple but hearty. A pang of regret twisted in Tauras' gut as he realized he did not know if he would ever have such a meal again. With shaking hands, he made everyone a cup of tea, suddenly needing the routine, the normalcy to help him weather whatever was coming.
Dinner was soon ready and the gathered company tucked into their plates in silence.
In a blink, it was finished.
Tauras looked around the table, wanting to hold onto this moment, wanting to imprint Eduard's and Raivis' and Gilbert's faces somewhere safe, where nothing could touch them. But try as he might, it all seemed to be slipping from his grasp.
With a deep breath, he drained the last of his tea, a sound building between his ears, like the din of an orchestra warming up before the big performance...
"What do you see?"
Tauras blinked, unsure if someone had spoken those words or if he imagined them. He looked at Gilbert, who was watching him.
"What do you see?" the gendarme repeated, nodding at Tauras' cup.
A knot, a trident, lines, a tree, a heart.
Anxiety, choices, travel, prosperity, love.
Tauras contemplated the shapes a moment, then turned the cup upside down on his plate. "I think...I'd rather be surprised."
Gilbert's smile was sad as he puffed out a laugh, recalling having said the same thing to Tauras the first time they had had tea together.
Outside, the shadows were lengthening as the sun crept closer to the horizon. Tauras' departure weighed heavily in the room.
Gilbert spoke up again, tempering his feelings with his duty, suggesting they ought to head out and not waste the light.
Tauras swallowed and stood, embracing Eduard and Raivis one final time. Then walked solemnly through the door to meet his fate.
.
.
.
A/N I based Tauras' typeface on Garamond, which is an "old style" typeface, and still would have been in use at this time, although modern competitors like Didone and Baskerville would have been more popular.