The Book Smuggler Chapter 17, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

Varniai, Lithuania 1862-1863

In a life now run by the routine of study and prayer, service and reflection, Father Adomaitis' private lectures were one of the few forms of escape the seminary offered. Tauras had grudgingly gone with Motiejus one winter night after his friend had begged him for what must have been the tenth time, doubting nothing more could be gained from listening to the man's droning voice outside the chapel or classroom. He found his mind, however, quickly changed.

When not in front of the altar or behind a lectern, Father Adomaitis became a new man — or perhaps Tauras was finally seeing the person beneath the vestments, the person Motiejus so greatly admired. A fresh energy animated the priest. His voice no longer spoke in the low monotone timbre Tauras strained to hear — it became one full of expression, as if the hidden messages in his homilies had suddenly come to life.

The lectures were held in Father Adomaitis' quarters, well after evening meal and prayer. A seminarian would bring in a tray laden with a steaming teapot and cups from the kitchen. Candles flickered in sconces on the wall as the tea was poured and those gathered found a place to sit. Tauras was dismayed at first to see his cup empty of any leaves after years spent drinking unstrained tea and reading his future within them. Even now, as he accepted a cup from Motiejus at his fifth lecture attendance, he frowned slightly, wondering what an empty cup meant and remembering a time when such a thing had never mattered — a time before Feliks.

Motiejus saw his look and offered a small smile as he settled beside him. Tauras did his best to return it as he breathed the tea's earthy scent deep and drank. They were shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing as they sat cross-legged on the floor. The gatherings had grown from three or four students to an even dozen. Space was hard to come by, and Tauras hunched in on himself, not wishing to intrude upon anyone else's (not wishing to feel such a thrill sitting so close to Motiejus). Why did God have to mock him so? He had not dared put any of his thoughts about his friend to paper, not even in his letters to Eduard, fearing their discovery and further damning himself in a place meant to be his punishment. Instead he kept them locked away in his mind, tamping them down whenever they tried to tempt, all too familiar with the way of things and knowing what trouble the risk would bring. There was no future to be had. Again Tauras thought of his empty cup. He looked at the porcelain, the lack of leaves clinging to the sides. The future unwritten, unknowable.

Father Adomaitis leaned back in his chair, looking around at the gathered seminarians. "I may need to start hosting these sessions in a classroom," he chuckled. "My poor room is bursting at the seams."

"Can we move to a lecture hall?" someone asked.

The priest considered this, carefully picking his words. "The administration is...tolerant of these meetings. I'm allowed to speak my mind here provided my thoughts do not make it into the curriculum or the pulpit." This earned a few light laughs as those gathered knew the clandestine ways Father Adomaitis advocated for change. He sent them a knowing smirk that soon grew into a more serious look, his eyes becoming heavy. "That being said, I fear we are not ready."

Murmurs of dissent rose up among the students.

"The peasants surely cannot think the tsar is still on their side," someone scoffed.

"Not when he's making them pay back the land that was given to them," another agreed.

"The bourgeoisie is what's holding us back! Thinking they can negotiate — "

Father Adomaitis held up his hand. "Not ready does not mean our efforts have been in vain. I've heard from sources here that believe Warsaw wants to start the uprising earlier than expected, but there's been no coordination — "

"Then we must get the people ready!" Motiejus interjected. "We must speak plainly and openly when we're out performing our acts of service to the community."

This earned a solid round of head nodding from the rest of the seminarians.

"You must understand," Father Adomaitis began, raising his voice to be heard above the din, "there are multiple sides here, each one with something at stake. What Poland wants is different from what Lithuania and Belarus want. What is best for our nation? A reestablishment of the Commonwealth or our own independence? We must be unanimous in deciding that first. If we rush into an uprising with Warsaw with no clear goal in mind, what was it all for?"

Around the room were calls to restore the Commonwealth, putting Poland and Lithuania back on the geographical and political maps. Others pointed to Italy and the success of their independence movement, saying Lithuania should want the same.

Tauras remained quiet, listening to both sides. His family had benefitted from the tsarist occupation. Their privileged status remained secure, even after the November uprising some thirty years ago. He could not deny, though, how much he cherished learning about his culture from his family's servants and at the seminary. Initially he agreed with restoring the Commonwealth — Lithuania and Poland had been strong together, a force to be reckoned with. But remembering the Polish customs his family had observed, Tauras began to wonder: would the culture he came to discover and hold dear be subsumed? The more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea of a free Lithuania became.

As he watched these discussions, the look on Father Adomaitis' face was at once hopeful and weary. The fervor in the room, palpable — as if the simple act of speaking about change was enough to bring it about. The coals had been stoked in their hearts, the flames ever growing. Eventually they would spread, but for now it was enough to nurture them, to let them smolder.

The bells soon rung the hour, letting all know it was time to prepare for bed, time to rest for morning services. The gathered seminarians began to depart, Tauras along with them — until Father Adomaitis asked him to stay behind. He looked to Motiejus a moment. A nod from the priest signaled to his friend he was permitted to wait.

Father Adomaitis started collecting the scattered cups and placing them back on the tray. "You were quiet tonight. At the last session, when we spoke of myths and folk-heroes, you had plenty to share." He placed a hand on Tauras' shoulder. "Discussions like tonight must be difficult for you, but they are good to hear, to learn from a different perspective."

Tauras swallowed, keeping his eyes averted as he turned the empty teacup in his hand. Other than Motiejus, only the administration knew he was the son of a tsarist and nobleman.

"I've found myself reflecting on that often since I've been here."

The corners of Father Adomaitis' eyes crinkled. "Good. I hope you continue to do so, that you may discover the path that is right for you."

Tauras dipped his head and placed the empty cup on the tray. His future, unwritten.

Motiejus pushed his way through the crowded refectory, making his way to the table where Tauras sat eating his midday meal. His shoulder bumped Tauras' as he hurriedly took a seat on the bench beside his friend. Soup splashed out from Tauras' spoon, spattering the table and his lap with hot droplets. He blotted the stains with a napkin, ignoring their momentary burn (as well as the burn in his arm from where Motiejus has brushed it).

"Sorry," his friend offered as a quick apology.

Tauras gave him a sideways glance and grin. "What's all the rush? I don't see you with a meal."

"It's already started," Motiejus said, breathless.

Tauras' spoon hovered over the bowl. Before him, the high windows showed a flat grey sky. The tick of sleet pellets driven by wind rattled against the glass. It was January.

"What's started?"

"The uprising!" Motiejus hissed, leaning closer. "It started in Poland days ago."

"Are you sure? Last we heard, it was planned for spring — "

"Yes, I'm sure!" Motiejus' knee bounced up and down. He leaned his elbows on the table, shoulders hunched. "Something about the head of civil administration conscripting activists into the imperial army for a twenty year service!"

Tauras' spoon fell into his bowl, sloshing soup onto the table. His first thought was of Feliks as he clasped the gold cross on his neck. But, he reminded himself, Feliks had been forced to enlist years before. And his family was decidedly not on the side of the revolutionaries. Still, the thought of him being brought into this conflict did little to soothe Tauras' mind.

"I'm going to Poland," Motiejus said with an air of finality. "If I can do anything to help, I must. I cannot sit and wait for our own government to decide what to do." He looked at Tauras a moment, expectation evident in his eyes, then rose.

"Motiejus, wait!" Tauras cleaned up his half-eaten lunch and followed his friend into the hall.

Motiejus spun around. "Are you coming?"

"No — I-I don't know yet, just — just stop and think a moment!"

"The time to think and talk is over. It's time to act, Tauras." Motiejus gripped his arm. "You are not your father. You know that. You know what Russian rule is costing us. Has nothing Father Adomaitis said gotten through to you?"

"It has, but..." Motiejus released him. Tauras touched the cross again. "If I join, there's a possibility I would be fighting against people I know. Friends."

Motiejus looked at him, his eyes sympathetic but no less unwavering. "Then you must decide what means more. Goodbye, my friend." He held out his hand. Tauras took it, feeling the fleeting press of a warm palm. With the next breath, Motiejus disappeared down the hall, leaving Tauras with a strange emptiness in his hand, in his heart. He flexed his fingers at his side then curled them into a fist as he watched his friend leave.

The winter months bled together as January became February, and Lithuania joined Poland in the revolt. Some of the seminarians left to take up arms — not enough to empty lecture halls, but enough that their absence was felt. Tauras remained, as did a few others from Father Adomaitis' after-hours lectures, but the thought of joining in the fight stayed with him constantly. At the seminary, removed from his father's influence, was he able to fully come to appreciate a culture that had been kept from him. More than the folktales and legends Nanny used to tell, more than the festivals the servants would sneak off to join. A culture that he wanted to see flourish — one that he believed could stand on its own and had every right to try. But in these moments of seeming clarity, his past would rise like some undead thing to haunt him. He could not escape being what he was: a wealthy landowner's son, one whose family had benefited from the labor of the people he now sought to help. Would fighting for his homeland finally free him of that?

Tauras decided to ask Father Adomaitis, but the priest found him first, the look in his eyes heavy. They went back to Father Adomaitis' room, where a steaming pot of tea was already waiting. In the corner, a waxed rucksack rested.

"You're leaving," Tauras stated. "Is that what this is about?"

A sad smile flickered across Father Adomaitis' face. "Part of it." He poured them both some tea. "I have some news, Tauras. From Poland."

His face paled then, throat tightening.

Father Adomaitis drew a deep breath. "There was an attack, one of the biggest we've heard about so far. The imperial army was shelling Polish positions and Motiejus...Motiejus was one of the casualties."

Tauras' hand began to shake; he very nearly lost his grip on the teacup.

"I'm going to see his family," Father Adomaitis continued, "then take my place in the fray. When we last spoke, I know you were conflicted. I pray your path finds its clarity, whichever way it may lead."

Tauras felt himself nod.

Father Adomaitis put a hand on his shoulder as Tauras drained away the rest of the tea, the cup empty. He no longer needed the leaves to divine his fate. His path ahead lay clear.

Forgive me, Feliks.

East Prussia border, 1869

You made a mistake.

One of the last things Feliks said to him now rang through Tauras' head as Gilbert removed the cuffs from his wrists. As the warmth and weight of Gilbert's hands lingered on his a moment. As the grip of the Russian soldiers dragged him forward.

You made a mistake. You made a mistake. You made a mistake.

Tauras looked back once over his shoulder, but Gilbert's form was already lost to the dusk.

A hand was shoved in his back, his head pitching forward again, as he let himself be marched to the Russian camp.

He was taken to a wagon, the lieutenant ordering him to get in, and wrists bound with new irons around the center slat.

"You're lucky it's late," the lieutenant said. "No point in taking you to Tauragė at this hour. You can try to escape if you want — just know the surrounding woods are thick with patrols, ready to shoot you in an instant. I don't think you're the one Braginski is after, but I don't care — he can have your head, not mine. Sleep well."

Tauras leaned a shoulder against the side of the wagon, staring out at the dark expanse of field.

You made a mistake.

Gilbert watched as the soldiers took Tauras away. Watched until their retreating forms were lost to the horizon. He then rode to his own camp to pass a restless night before setting off for Tilsit early the next morning.

His mind was numb, empty except for the occasional flicker of a thought, reminders of things he still had to do, each step laid out in succession. Numbers on a line. A quiet, seething rage building — familiar, like his father's own, steady and controlled. Underneath it, something clawed at his heart, demanding he turn around. But if he went back to the border, he would surely cross it, never to return — not until he had found Tauras again.

It was a foolish idea — and his heart had made a fool out of him many times before. Now was the time for patience — a bitter fruit in the beginning, but with time it would ripen. Too many loose ends had been left undone. If he did not see to them, he would have lost Tauras for nothing.

He needed to get to the garrison. To Kohler.

Gilbert spurred his horse onward, touching the cross at his neck. We will see each other again. We must.

Tauras awoke with a start. After finally finding sleep what felt like mere minutes ago, the morning birdsong stole away whatever rest he'd managed to scrounge. He shivered in the cool spring air, skin damp from dew and joints aching from the chill, from a night spent huddling in on himself to keep warm.

Around him, the sounds of the camp started to come to life — men calling to one another, the hacking sound of someone clearing their throat, grumblings about the night-watch almost letting the fire die out. Tauras twisted around, getting to his knees, and watched all this over the top slat of the wagon. His stomach grumbled as the smoke from the newly stoked fire wafted over. He still had his knapsack on his back, but with hands bound, no way of getting to it or the dried meat within. Tauras sighed, let his forehead rest against the wood, and closed his eyes, hoping to reclaim a bit of rest. His mind distantly wondered how long he would have to wait, when the sound of boots in grass and the clink of a buckle caught his attention. Tauras looked up to see the lieutenant approaching, adjusting the belt at his waist.

"We'll set out in an hour, once the sun is fully risen and my men have eaten."

He slapped the side of the wagon, letting out a soft chuckle as Tauras jumped. The lieutenant then ambled off toward the camp fire, eventually returning and carrying a bucket. He set it down and lifted a ladle from it up to Tauras' mouth. The Lithuanian instinctively flinched away, unsure of what was being offered to him.

"Relax," the lieutenant laughed. "It's water. Drink."

Tauras turned his nose to the ladle, sniffed, then slurped the liquid greedily down, only realizing how raw his throat was after the water hit it. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder as the lieutenant unlocked one cuff. He slid Tauras' arm out from the wagon slat, then bound his wrists again.

"I'm letting you down to relieve yourself. Come." He grabbed Tauras' arm, all but pulling him out of the wagon, and dragged him over to a small clump of trees. He stood to the side watching, one hand on his hip, the other on his sidearm.

Feeling the man's growing impatience — and wondering if the lieutenant would simply shoot him for taking so long to piss — Tauras tried to ignore him, tried to relax —

"How is it you know Braginski?"

He startled again at the abrupt question, feeling his insides go watery. That did it. Tauras clenched his jaw and remained silent.

"Fine," the lieutenant shrugged. "I'll find out one way or another who you are, for you surely are not the smuggler he's been hunting." He gripped Tauras' arm and led him back to the wagon, cuffing him to the center slat. "Here." The lieutenant took something out of a pouch on his belt and tossed it to Tauras, the Lithuanian barely managing to catch it with the tips of his fingers. It was a piece of hardtack. "That ought to be enough to fill your belly." He picked up the water bucket and made his way back to camp.

Tauras frowned at the square lump of hard, baked flour. He put a corner in his mouth, sucking on it until it was soft enough to bite, the taste little more than sawdust on his tongue.

Tilsit, East Prussia

A bright shaft of light cut across the attic room as a cloud shifted, revealing the sun, its rays warming the cheek of the young man sound asleep in one of the two beds. The other stood empty.

Raivis squinted his eye against the light a moment, not wanting to be awake just yet. But the light eventually won, shedding away whatever dreams he had been having as he pushed himself up, rubbing his face with his hands. Judging by the streaks of sun pouring through his window, Eduard had let him sleep in.

Raivis drew his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, and considered that a moment as he looked around the room. His room.

The bed in the far corner was still neatly made, as if master Laurinaitis was already downstairs. The clothesline between their beds still hung, running the width of the room. It sagged a little from the countless times a quilt had been thrown over it in a makeshift partition for dressing. Raivis had never crossed that line, save the few times he would wake master Laurinaitis from a fitful dream.

Now, as he slid out of bed, he tiptoed cautiously over, curious about the things that had been Tauras' — the things that were still Tauras to him. The worn wooden dresser. The wash basin and pitcher. The small mirror set in its tarnished brass frame.

A chill rippled down Raivis' arms. He rubbed them, going back to his side, and readied himself for the day, the garret room seeming so much bigger now.

He found Eduard seated downstairs in the kitchen, hand wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The eyes behind the glasses were distant, his skin grey. Raivis knew he had not slept.

Eduard sent him a half-hearted smile before losing himself in thought again.

Raivis busied himself in the kitchen, then. Making breakfast, taking inventory of what food they needed. Normal morning chores to keep himself going.

"I was wrong, Raivis." The voice was hardly more than a whisper. "I was wrong."

Raivis stopped what he was doing as Eduard's eyes found his. "I should have listened to him. We could have left — could have gone anywhere — and now..."

Eduard whipped off his glasses. They clattered to the table as he pressed his fingers to his eyes.

Raivis sat beside him, resting his head against Eduard's arm a moment. He then rose, went out into the print shop, and returned with a book, placing it on the table.

Eduard dried his eyes, setting his glasses back on his nose. "I don't want to see that," he said thickly. "I cursed us the moment I took that job, the moment I brought that book here."

"We still need to finish it."

Eduard scoffed. "Why? So we can risk our necks only for the Russians to confiscate them? My cousin did not sacrifice himself for that — "

"Mr. Laurinaitis sacrificed himself exactly for that! So that we could keep going. If it had been the other way around — if the gendarme had taken you instead of him — do you think he would have stopped? No. He would have kept fighting because that's who he was deep down, despite his doubts."

Memories of the boy that snuck down to the servants' quarters late at night or before the sun rose flashed through Eduard's head. He fixed Raivis with a hard look, the lines on his face drawn. "You know the risks."

Raivis' eyes lingered a moment on Eduard's arm. "I do. But if the cause is good, if it is meaningful, aren't the risks worth it?"

Midday was approaching by the time Gilbert stabled his horse. He swept up the stairs to his office, drafted a letter, then went to the cell block.

Kohler lay on the cot in the middle cell, one knee drawn up with the other leg crossed over it and hand pillowing behind his head. He looked over as the sergeant-major approached, upper lip curling.

"Do you know what this is?" Gilbert asked, flattening an envelope against the bars. "It's a recommendation for your transfer."

Kohler got up and approached, his sneer morphing into a look of betrayal. Gilbert held his ground, eyes hard as stone.

"Transfer for what?" Kohler scoffed, trying to hide the tremble in his voice.

"For that stunt you pulled yesterday."

"You mean for doing my job? For finding who the smuggler was before you?"

"You disobeyed a direct order, Kohler." Gilbert pocketed the letter, then curled his hands around the bars. "As you are from here, you are too familiar with this city, thinking you own it, that it somehow gives you the right to ignore your commander."

Kohler chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing. "You want me out. Why not just ask for a discharge then?"

"Because you are actually a somewhat decent soldier when you're not trying to undermine my position."

Kohler puffed out a laugh, the corner of his mouth curling with a smirk. "You still think I'm a threat to you. And transferring me gives you control over where I go, is that it?"

Gilbert clenched his jaw.

"It's alright, sergeant-major, you can say it. You can parrot this is about insubordination all you like, but you and I both know the truth."

Gilbert let go of the bars, his voice deadly. "Your actions were reckless, Mathias. Whatever your past, petty grievances with Mr. Bock may have been, they do not excuse disregard for protocol or authority."

Kohler flew at the cell door, then, hands clenching around the cold iron. "I had the name! I was given the bloody name! How can you ignore that fact!? Bock's own father turned him in, the callous drunk!" He pressed his face to the bars, eyes bulging. "Are you protecting him? What did he say to you? You cannot trust him, he's a swindler!"

Gilbert stepped back with a disapproving sigh. "Goodbye, Mathias." He turned on his heel, leaving the sergeant to his hysterics.

Eduard sat at the work table, going over Tauras' ledger as the sun sank to the horizon. He and Raivis had passed a solemn day finishing print orders and cleaning the shop. This was his now and he supposed he ought to get used to it. That started with devising his own way of organizing supplies and creating an inventory log rather than keeping a running tab in his head, the way Tauras had. (He could not yet bring himself to look at the professor's book). When the time came for it though, he at least had an honest reason to return to Lithuania. A promise he had made to his cousin — the letter Tauras had given him. The thought ached in his chest. A fresh wound, raw, but one he knew he must treat or else it would fester. Eduard started by ordering new serif typefaces, ones that were modern and in style — ones that could not be easily traced back to his shop.

The posters of his face, however, were another matter entirely.

Back in Saxony, when wanted posters of him went up, he simply moved onto another city. But in Tilsit, he had put that transient life behind him. Now that he had taken over the print shop, now that his face was the one regularly seen, would anyone recognize him as the man that had been wanted for smuggling? He rubbed his cheek, thinking of the beard he'd worn, how diligently he kept himself clean-shaven after that. The glasses were never a thing he could hide, though.

The original poster with its Russian Cyrillic and the copy Tauras had made sat at the edge of the table, along with the type samples the sergeant-major had brought with him the day before. To a casual observer, they could be nothing more than a printer's proof. But to Eduard, they were evidence. He would have to take them down, he concluded, starting that night when the streets were empty —

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Eduard's hands gave an involuntary twitch. He drew a deep breath, straightened his back, and rose to answer.

There, on the other side, stood sergeant-major Beilschmidt. A current shot through Eduard, a jolt of hope. He looked past the gendarme. Why else would he be here if not —

But Tauras was not with him. The feeling died just as suddenly as it had flared. And the sergeant-major looked every bit as defeated as Eduard felt.

The gendarme's colorless eyes were heavy as he lifted them to meet Eduard's. "May I come in?"

Eduard stepped aside.

Gilbert entered, examining the printing equipment much the same way he had done when he first called on the shop back in January. Gloved fingers ran over the cold metal lever of the main press, imagining the warmth of a hand having been there moments ago. Tauras' hand.

Eduard looked at him askance. "...Is there anything I can help you with?"

Fingers curled, a hand clasped behind his back as the gendarme turned. "I've requested Kohler be transferred to the western edge of the kingdom. He shall not trouble you anymore." Gilbert's eyes fell on the posters. He approached the table, sliding one of the prints out, mouth pulling down in a thin frown. "Do you think he may have been right — that it was your father, who recognized your face on the poster?"

Eduard shrugged, shutting the ledger. "It's possible. My father is a drunk and enjoys card games far more than I do — enough that they ruined him. He may have thought he'd get some reward, some way to further finance his degradation. I cannot say, sergeant-major. I don't know how his mind works, nor do I care to." He wet his lips, gaze dropping. "I know you think it should have been me..."

Gilbert considered this a moment. "I think, Mr. Bock, that your cousin gave you a chance at redemption. That whatever opportunities you may have had may now be realized. See that this chance is not wasted." He gestured at the poster. "I'll have these taken down."

Eduard picked his head up. "I appreciate it."

"Well. I should let you return to your evening. My apologies for having disturbed you." Gilbert's smile was pained as he turned to the door.

"Sergeant-major," Eduard called.

The gendarme paused, his eyes doleful as he looked over.

"I believe I owe you a rematch at Skat. What do you say to this Saturday night, here?"

Gilbert's face brightened. "I look forward to it."

Tauragė, Lithuania

A light breeze wafted across the back of captain Ivan Braginski's neck as he waited in the customs house courtyard, his troops before him. To his left stood colonel Morozov, an inspector from St. Petersburg. The upper echelon's way of dealing with the reports of contraband slipping through both sides of the border, Ivan thought bitterly. As if the fault lay with him and his troops and not the Prussian side.

The colonel finished barking orders, lining the men up by company and rank, the courtyard becoming a small parade area that morning. He then began walking through each group with Ivan close behind. The captain kept his face impassive, hands at his sides, offering a small nod of encouragement every time colonel Morozov deemed a soldier's uniform to be of satisfactory appearance.

The inspection had come as a surprise to Ivan — he had been sure his reports were falling on deaf ears following the incident with Juozas' son six years ago. Even now he wondered at the inspector's arrival. Did the imperial army send the colonel as a way to corroborate Ivan's reports, or were they perhaps still questioning his ability to command? Maybe he and his men were not as forgotten as he thought. Either way, his troops in Tauragė were surely doing him credit thus far as the colonel had yet to give any unfavorable remarks. Ivan only hoped his patrols at the border proved as exemplary. Then St. Petersburg would see. Then they would finally transfer him out of this backwater outpost of a —

Shouts from guards up in the tower to Ivan's right, followed by the opening of the heavy wooden doors immediately below it, however, began to erode his confidence. The colonel, in the middle of conducting the arms inspection, looked to the captain. Ivan drew a deep breath, steeling himself, and went over to see to the cause of the commotion.

A wagon from the border had arrived, driven by the lieutenant and an enlisted man.

Now is not the time for unloading smuggled goods, Ivan seethed, ready to tell the lieutenant to go back outside the gate and wait — until he saw what they were carrying.

In the back of the wagon, another soldier sat, guarding a man whose unkempt brown hair was tied back from his face — a face that was unmistakable.

Ivan nearly forgot to breathe.

He hardly heard what the lieutenant said as he went around the side to get a better look.

In the wagon, Tauras lifted his eyes and looked into ones he had not seen in six years, save for in dreams.

The lieutenant appeared by Braginski's side. "Sir. Apologies, captain, but this man was delivered to us last night by the Prussian gendarmerie commander, who claimed he's the one responsible for printing and smuggling books."

The soldier in the back of the wagon jumped down, pulling Tauras behind him. The Lithuanian landed inelegantly on his feet, one ankle twisting as he stumbled trying to stay upright.

"I was disinclined to believe it, but the Prussian insisted," the lieutenant continued. "Said the face on the posters was just some beggar. And this man" — he cocked his head at the wagon — "seems to know you."

Braginski gave an incremental nod. "Take him to my office," he breathed. "And do not let him out of your sight."

The lieutenant saluted, then motioned for the soldier guarding Tauras to follow him into the customs house. Ivan straightened his back with another deep breath and turned on his heel. He had received word from the border patrol late yesterday that an arrest would be made, but the colonel's arrival soon after had driven away any other thought about it. Now, as Ivan made his way back to finish the inspection, he wondered how much of Benas' claim was true — that the face on the poster was indeed his son. The man was a drunk, perhaps only seeing what he wanted to. But what if the lieutenant had been right and the face was nothing more than some beggar? If he really was Benas' son, would that be so surprising? Apples not falling far from trees and all that. Ivan's eyes darted over to the barred windows of the border prison, where Benas was being held, wondering if he would be able to get a straight answer out of the man. Then there was the return of Juozas' son, the traitor. Ivan had long harbored an instinctual knowledge that somehow, someway Tauras was connected to the illegal print coming across the border. He had combed every inch of the county, sent word to every city for Juozas' peace of mind — and for saving his own reputation. But as the last of the revolutionaries were brought to justice and Tauras not counted among them, Ivan knew for certain he had fled the country. Now he would finally have his proof, his long lost captive, delivered back to him.

"Problem?" the colonel asked as Ivan approached.

The captain shook his head. "We have a smuggler in custody."

Morozov's brow rose ever so slightly. "Your men ought to be commended. Good work, captain."

Ivan's office had not changed much since the last time Tauras was there. The only difference now was in the amount of space taken up by contraband. There were crates of beer and vodka, and beside those stood a waist-high pile of books. A few of the thinner ones Tauras recognized as his from the binding. He clenched his jaw to hide a smile at so many others. They were still finding a way through —

"Has he said anything?" a voice demanded from the door.

Tauras startled and looked up as captain Braginski and another officer entered.

"Not a word," the lieutenant replied.

Ivan drew himself up to his full height, clasped his hands behind his back, and sighed. "Mr. Laurinaitis."

The other officer looked at the captain. "You know this man?"

"I do, colonel. He's a traitor and a coward. The fact he has been implicated as a smuggler comes as no surprise. Thank you, lieutenant, for bringing him to me. See that you and your men stop by the mess hall for something to eat before you leave. I will take Mr. Laurinaitis from here."

The lieutenant's face fell a fraction in disappointment at the dismissal. He had hoped to find out how the captain knew that man — it would have made for an entertaining story that evening at camp. He and his men saluted and left.

A pervasive silence filled the office. Tauras watched captain Braginski from under his brow, the officer's eyes an ice-covered lake.

Ivan wrapped a hand around Tauras' arm. "Please make yourself comfortable, colonel. I shall return shortly."

He led Tauras back out to the courtyard and over to the border prison. "I don't know what fate brought you to finally face justice, but I will find out soon enough. I've waited this long, another hour or so is but a drop in the sea. In the meantime, you may join your uncle in confinement."

A guard standing outside the prison saluted captain Braginski, opening the thick wood door as they passed. Daylight plunged into darkness the moment they entered, the transition harsh and disorienting. Tauras blinked his eyes, widening them to discern anything in the near night. The smell of mildew and old hay hit his nose first, followed by something more astringent and stale. He drew shallow breaths, fighting not to upend the meager contents of his stomach. Square shafts of light drew his eye as they passed cell after cell. Small, barred windows had been set in the stone, allowing the prisoners a brief glimpse of the sky beyond, the customs house wall that surrounded them on all sides. Most of the cells stood empty. Tauras realized with a sinking dread this had almost been his fate six years ago, had the prison not been bursting with captured revolutionaries and smugglers.

Captain Braginski led him to a cell down the far left end from the door. The one beside it at the very end was occupied by a man leaning against the stone wall and dozing loudly.

Despite not having seen him for years, Tauras recognized his uncle immediately. Benas' face looked exactly like Eduard's, only older. His chin rested on his chest as he slept, drawing snoring breaths every so often. Tauras watched his uncle though the bars as he stepped into his own cell. Behind him the door squealed shut, followed by the metal scraping of a lock. He then turned and faced Braginski.

"That was colonel Morozov from St. Petersburg in my office just now," the captain said, his tone close to gloating. "Your escape cost me everything. But now that you are in custody once more, I finally have a chance to get out of this stinking country."

Benas snorted in his sleep. Ivan looked over at him and shook his head, then turned back to Tauras. They watched each other silently in the dim light a moment before Ivan took his leave.

Colonel Morozov was still sitting in Ivan's office, a cup of tea another officer had brought him cooling in his hand.

"Your men performed well today, captain," the colonel said as Ivan resumed his seat behind his desk. "Often it's all too easy for outposts like this to become lax in their duties. I believe it is due to your exemplary leadership that this garrison has not fallen behind, that our border with Prussia remains secure."

"Thank you, sir."

The colonel held up a hand. "That man that was brought in…you said you knew him?"

Ivan folded his hands on his desk, shifting in his seat. "Yes. He was the fugitive who escaped. The one that participated in the rebellion. My men told me he's been hiding across the border, printing whatever propaganda these people read and smuggling it back over here."

"The guilty never stray too far from home. There have been cells cropping up all over the Kovno governorate due to the proximity with the border." Colonel Morozov paused, sipping his tea. "And Prussia, for its part, seems disinclined to do anything about it."

Ivan's shoulders relaxed. "You understand what I've been up against."

"Indeed. These people are lawless. This area is a frontier, not unlike that of Siberia. We need someone with ambition and fervor to keep them in check. Someone like you, captain."

Ivan blinked once, twice, his throat suddenly dry.

Colonel Morozov finished his tea, setting the empty cup on the captain's desk. "You have done great work here. I will be sure to let St. Petersburg know once I've returned."

The colonel rose. Ivan got to his feet and saluted the officer out of habit rather than respect. It was only after Colonel Morozov left that Ivan let the full weight of the other's words wash over him. Morozov may have intended them as a compliment, but one thing was clear: St. Petersburg never had any intention of letting him leave.

Ivan's hands curled into fists. He leaned on them against the desk, bringing the right one up and punching it down hard. How could he have been so blind?

Benas mumbled in his sleep, the sounds incoherent and soft at first, gradually increasing in tone until he awoke with a shout and a word that sounded like "brother."

Tauras sat on the thin and lumpy mattress in his own cell, watching his uncle. Benas jerked his head up, squinting against the shaft of light spilling in from the small window over his head. He then gripped his head with a moan followed by a string of curses before making his way on hands and knees over to a bucket in the corner and vomiting. Tauras turned his head away, swallowing to quell the nausea in his own stomach.

"What're you here for?" a slurred voice beside him said.

Tauras looked back at his uncle's cell. Benas had climbed up onto his own cot, his breathing heavy as he tipped his head back and let it roll to face the adjoining cell.

Tauras' mouth opened, unsure where or even how to start. The last time he had seen his uncle was the Christmas just before Eduard had to quit school. He was fourteen and his father and Benas had not spoken directly to each other at all that day. Only later would he find out how bad his uncle's gambling addiction and subsequent debts had gotten. Over the years, he would catch glimpses of Benas at the estate, nothing ever amounting to a long and welcome visit.

Tauras edged closer to the barred wall dividing them. "…U-uncle," he breathed. "It's me…it's Tauras, your nephew."

Benas picked his head up, his look of scrutiny melting into one of recognition. He stood, taking a few steps on unsteady legs before collapsing again on the end of his cot. Benas held his arms out as if to embrace his nephew, his hands shaking.

Tauras reached an arm through the bar, letting his uncle clasp his hand.

"Ah, yes. Excuse me. Must be formal. You are your father's son." Benas let go and sat back, his hands resting between his legs. They had not stopped shaking. He then leaned over as if looking behind Tauras. "Is Eduard with you?"

"No, he's not here."

"But I only just saw him yesterday. Is he back at school? Did Juozas get that mess sorted?"

Tauras' brow furrowed a moment, wondering what his uncle was talking about before it hit him: Benas still thought they were boys. Tauras' throat tightened, remembering what Eduard had told him when he last came to Tauragė, about how Benas didn't seem to know who he was or what was going on around him except during brief moments of clarity.

"Uncle, Eduard is…he's not at school. He's home."

"Oh. Okay. Just make sure you two don't go running off into the gardens. You know how much Nanny hates chasing you through that hedge maze."

Tauras swallowed, blinking back the sting in his eyes. "Of course, uncle."

The low, even sound of breathing signaled to Tauras his uncle had fallen back asleep. He watched Benas, remembering the fights between his uncle and his father, the way Eduard said Juozas wanted nothing to do with his younger brother and how Benas had railed against it. Tauras wondered if his father had ever forgiven his uncle, if his uncle had ever forgiven his father. He then thought of Matas. His brother's betrayal. A point fixed in time that he could never undo and one that had seemingly set him on this path. He could not blame Matas, though, not for seeing the world through the eyes of the naive child that he was. And not when every decision that followed had been his to make. He could not blame Matas — but, Tauras wondered, did his brother blame himself for all that happened? Would Matas ever know he was forgiven?

The sound of the main door to the prison crashing open tore Tauras from his thoughts. Golden light from the late afternoon sun flooded the dank interior, only to be soon obscured by the dark shape of captain Braginski. The prison door clanged closed, the light vanishing.

Tauras bolted up from his cot, eyes growing wide in the dimness. The sound of heavy, fast footfalls — a ring of keys jangling — his cell door opening.

Tauras stumbled to the side as the captain entered. Ivan bared his teeth and lunged, grabbing the Lithuanian by his coat collar and pinning him against the stone wall.

"I ought to have you shot!"

Tauras' hands pulled at Ivan's, trying to loosen his grip. Knuckles dug into his neck as the captain's full weight pressed against him.

"What's stopping you?" he rasped.

The captain's grip tightened, a growl rumbling in his throat as he leaned closer. Black dots swam at the edge of Tauras' vision. He tried pushing himself up — out — away — but his shoes slid against the straw covered floor as Ivan pressed down.

In the adjacent cell, Benas whimpered in his sleep — a sound that became a sob. One that made Braginski pause.

The captain's arms slackened. He let go of Tauras, removed his cap, and smoothed a hand over his hair before resettling it back on his head.

"I should have shot you when I had the chance. Now it's too late for that. It won't change a thing."

Tauras rubbed his neck and darted to the side — anywhere to get away — but Braginski's arm shot out, blocking him with palm flat against the wall.

The captain's head slowly turned to face him. It was no longer the rage-filled guise from moments ago but the impassive mask Tauras remembered from their first meeting. Somehow this face felt more dangerous.

"I'm not so sure they would have let me leave, even then. Shooting you would have been too quick a punishment."

"And sending me to Kara? That was still a death sentence."

"Perhaps. You might have survived the journey. You maybe even have survived the mines. But the blood would not have been directly on my hands. As much pleasure as it would give me to see another traitor wiped from this earth, I cannot do that to your father. He would never forgive me, despite what he might think."

"Why do you care for his opinion? He was born to this country that you so look down upon."

Captain Braginski drew a deep breath. "Because if I am to be stuck here, it is good to have allies, no matter who they are. I never broke my word. No harm has ever come to your family."

Benas shifted in his sleep. Tauras glanced at his uncle. Ivan followed his gaze.

"Your uncle's decision's created his own downfall. Just as yours did."

Tauras set his jaw. This man knew nothing of what his decisions had cost him. And even if he had the time to explain it all, he knew Braginski would never understand. The captain was loyal to the empire; Tauras was loyal to his country — a traitor, pure and simple. Would always be, in the captain's eyes. And no amount of talking would ever change that.

"And now? Are you still planning to send me to Siberia so your conscience remains clear?"

The captain hummed in thought. His hand slid down the wall as he brought it to clasp behind his back.

"Now…we shall see."

A/N Hoo boy this one was a doozy! And I left you guys with yet another cliffhanger hehehe please forgive me….we find out what really happens to Tauras next chapter ;)

Ok, onto history notes:

Start of the January Uprising: alluded to at the beginning of the chapter. What became the January Uprising started out as Polish and Lithuanian students talking about rekindling the failed 1831 uprising and restoring each nation's independence. The movement grew, reaching peasant farmers who were fed up with the military induction and oppressive taxation of the empire. Secret committees were organized in Warsaw and Vilnius with the uprising set to start in the spring of 1863. However, because of imperial authorities announcing military recruitment in the Kingdom of Poland, Warsaw decided the start the uprising early.

Battle of Małogoszcz: alluded to with Motiejus' death. The Battle of Małogoszcz took place February 24, 1863 and was one of the biggest of the January Uprising

"There have been cells cropping up all over the Kovno governorate due to the proximity with the border." — allusion to the start of book smuggler societies in Lithuania. Kovno governorate was an administrative-territorial unit of the Russian empire. It included almost all of Samogitia and the northern part of Aukštaitija, with Kaunas (Kovno) as its capital. Following the Lithuanian language press ban after the January Uprising, in 1867, Bishop Motiejus Valančius of Samogitia started to secretly organize and finance the printing of books abroad in Prussia and their distribution in Lithuania. He was active until his organization was uncovered with the help of Prussian authorities. Others soon took on and carried out the work he started, organizing in various book smuggler societies throughout the country until the ban was finally lifted in 1904.

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