That 'fic I owed Piratelicker
For piratelicker:
She didn't think; she didn't move; she merely listened, head resting against the side of the piano, back painfully straight, feeling the vibration of the notes through her bones, the sound of the keys moving strings and sound echoing inside the interior, the reverberation of the pedals. She didn't look at him.
He didn't look at her either; he merely played, head bent over the keys, fingers moving smoothly and rapidly over the expanse of polished black and white, his glasses sliding - just a little - down his nose. He was aware of her at every instant. The sweet scent of the fresh-cut flowers in her hair drifting up to him, the way the music sounded strangely uneven as though half of the sound was being absorbed into her body.
He had brought her into his house. She had rebelled, resigned herself to her fate, and finally, fallen to him . . . for him. In the end, it was all the same. She had allowed herself to be subjugated by him. 'What is this?' she had asked herself at the time, listening to the sound of his piano behind a shut door, shutting her eyes and trying, desperately, to divorce herself from the wrenching of her heart. 'You shouldn't feel for such a man. He doesn't even see you as more than his servant. How can you allow yourself to be less than his equal in every way?' But when the door opened and she saw him standing there, weary and worn, his expression brightening just a trifle as he set eyes on her, she could not stop herself from taking his hand in hers. That part of her that hated him was stifled beneath the lurching of her heart as he brought her hand to his lips.
She had taken up her duties in his house. He had felt satisfied, fulfilled, having something he had wanted for so long finally fall into his hands, and then, seeing her eyes as he played the piano, hearing the swish of her skirts as she moved about the house dusting, the briefest touch of her body as she moved past him, he was no longer fulfilled. What he wanted, he still did not have, though she stood so close to him. Part of her still wanted to run, to leave his house, to be free of him. He knew that even when their breaths mingled, even when their bodies aligned and all the rooms of his house were full of her scent of flowers and sweat, when her mouth formed only his name and his hers, when they lay entangled in her bunched up skirts and his undone frock and her long legs and his proficient fingers, even then, part of her heart wanted to be free. So he did the only thing he could and bought her a ring.
For a time, that sufficed. She marveled at that slim band, sitting snugly on her finger. She marveled at him, her husband, who rested his head in her lap and serenaded her with music. She marveled at herself, she who had been charmed with music and conquered by love, who had married, of all people, this man who had taken her autonomy from her. But now, she thought, while he was ostensibly the one in charge, now - she looked at her ring - they were equal. The thing about history and countries and marriages, however, is that time marches on, things change, and what one once considers to be perfectly satisfactory will someday be not enough. Love is like this, and that is its hardest lesson. Sometimes even love is not enough.
Their bodies, he thought, fit perfectly together, curves and boundaries joining like puzzle pieces. Though they were two separate entities, at the height of their marriage, at the height of their love-making, she had been as much a part of him as the ground and the people in his capital. Yet it was always he who she belonged to; he knew he himself would have rebelled were it to have been the other way around. Here and now, she had come to the point he had always known she would, and as much as they belonged together, as much as he wanted her, as much as he loved her, and as much as she loved him, she no longer needed him. So, he thought, they would always be side-by-side, touching and being touched by one another, but they would no longer be together, because she was divorcing him.
She felt herself diminished. She no longer possessed the glory and strength that had animated her in the past. Forever parts of her would be broken off from herself, scattered here and there and laid claim to by others. She had not the strength to stand against the world nor had her husband the power to keep her. His power too had lessened, and the image of his weary back was ever before her eyes. Here they were, being torn asunder, and part of her, the part that rebelled, was glad to go. The rest of her . . . she covered her ring with her hand.
He felt as though his house were crumbling about him. He could only look at the past with fondness and regret. Now, he did not know how to feel. He had been unable to protect his wife. With him she had been unable to thrive and grow, and seeing her now, thinner and paler, he could not help but feel that he was to blame. The strength had gone from him and they both must look to themselves. He must watch her leave his house and never look back. He must suffer her absence in his life.
The song finished and she stood, stiffly. They turned to face one another.
"You are leaving me?" he said simply, hands resting in his lap.
"I am." She looked at him, wondering if he would ask her to stay, knowing he would not.
"Good," he said softly, and her heart felt a pang. "You will be happier without me."
"Perhaps," she said, and his heart grew heavy. "You as well."
"I love you," he said abruptly, standing and pacing. "And I always shall and you know this to be true."
"I do."
"And I love you enough to let you go."
"Yes."
"So you mustn't marry anyone else or I should be quite distraught and I haven't any idea what I should do."
"I won't." Her voice was choked.
"And you mustn't allow any other countries to behave inappropriately towards you."
"I won't."
"If I could, I would give Romania a thrashing for your sake."
She smiled.
"Just beat the hell out of him with your frying pan if it comes down to it."
"I will."
"And, I don't know if my boss would approve of this, but if you ever run into any trouble, I'm always right next to you so don't hesitate to ask me for help."
"Those are the words I should be addressing to you."
He stopped pacing. "Maybe. Perhaps. Yes, perhaps you're right." He turned to look at her.
She looked back at him, smiling through tears, and pushing up his glasses, kissed him, fingers brushing, ever so slightly, against Mariazell. "I think it was a good marriage."
He held her an instant longer before stepping away and turning away. She pretended not to see as he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his glasses.
"I suppose you have begun rebuilding your house?" he said with regained composure.
" I fear it is quite a bit smaller this time around. But perhaps that way it shall not feel as lonely."
"Yes," he murmured, "that is the best way to look at the matter. Shall we go?" He bowed and held out a hand to her.
"Yes," she said, curtseying gracefully and taking it in her own.
He walked her to the door. She kissed him again, very tenderly, then, head held high, stepped over the threshold. He braced himself for her to continue walking away. Instead, she turned to look at him, blushing. "May . . . may I drop by tomorrow?"
He leaned against the door, face red, and mumbled, quite low, "You may." Then, louder: "Come by for tea."
She grinned. "If you insist." Yes, this was why she'd been drawn to him, loved him, and married him. His blushing school boy expressions, his awkward actions, his sincerity - she loved them all and would go on doing so.
He thought ruefully that if she continued to smile like that he just might keep on loving her for . . . centuries, at the very least. And gladly.
Oh gawd, I am sorry it is so terrible. I wrote it, hit it with a frying pan a couple of times, rewrote the ending about five times, and tried desperately to fix it, but I just don't think I can write them well. ;____; Also, I apologize that it's set during their divorce (so 1918-20 or thereabouts, I'm assuming . . . it's rather confusing). >___< Arrrrgh.
Errr, yeah, and I'm back from China.
She didn't think; she didn't move; she merely listened, head resting against the side of the piano, back painfully straight, feeling the vibration of the notes through her bones, the sound of the keys moving strings and sound echoing inside the interior, the reverberation of the pedals. She didn't look at him.
He didn't look at her either; he merely played, head bent over the keys, fingers moving smoothly and rapidly over the expanse of polished black and white, his glasses sliding - just a little - down his nose. He was aware of her at every instant. The sweet scent of the fresh-cut flowers in her hair drifting up to him, the way the music sounded strangely uneven as though half of the sound was being absorbed into her body.
He had brought her into his house. She had rebelled, resigned herself to her fate, and finally, fallen to him . . . for him. In the end, it was all the same. She had allowed herself to be subjugated by him. 'What is this?' she had asked herself at the time, listening to the sound of his piano behind a shut door, shutting her eyes and trying, desperately, to divorce herself from the wrenching of her heart. 'You shouldn't feel for such a man. He doesn't even see you as more than his servant. How can you allow yourself to be less than his equal in every way?' But when the door opened and she saw him standing there, weary and worn, his expression brightening just a trifle as he set eyes on her, she could not stop herself from taking his hand in hers. That part of her that hated him was stifled beneath the lurching of her heart as he brought her hand to his lips.
She had taken up her duties in his house. He had felt satisfied, fulfilled, having something he had wanted for so long finally fall into his hands, and then, seeing her eyes as he played the piano, hearing the swish of her skirts as she moved about the house dusting, the briefest touch of her body as she moved past him, he was no longer fulfilled. What he wanted, he still did not have, though she stood so close to him. Part of her still wanted to run, to leave his house, to be free of him. He knew that even when their breaths mingled, even when their bodies aligned and all the rooms of his house were full of her scent of flowers and sweat, when her mouth formed only his name and his hers, when they lay entangled in her bunched up skirts and his undone frock and her long legs and his proficient fingers, even then, part of her heart wanted to be free. So he did the only thing he could and bought her a ring.
For a time, that sufficed. She marveled at that slim band, sitting snugly on her finger. She marveled at him, her husband, who rested his head in her lap and serenaded her with music. She marveled at herself, she who had been charmed with music and conquered by love, who had married, of all people, this man who had taken her autonomy from her. But now, she thought, while he was ostensibly the one in charge, now - she looked at her ring - they were equal. The thing about history and countries and marriages, however, is that time marches on, things change, and what one once considers to be perfectly satisfactory will someday be not enough. Love is like this, and that is its hardest lesson. Sometimes even love is not enough.
Their bodies, he thought, fit perfectly together, curves and boundaries joining like puzzle pieces. Though they were two separate entities, at the height of their marriage, at the height of their love-making, she had been as much a part of him as the ground and the people in his capital. Yet it was always he who she belonged to; he knew he himself would have rebelled were it to have been the other way around. Here and now, she had come to the point he had always known she would, and as much as they belonged together, as much as he wanted her, as much as he loved her, and as much as she loved him, she no longer needed him. So, he thought, they would always be side-by-side, touching and being touched by one another, but they would no longer be together, because she was divorcing him.
She felt herself diminished. She no longer possessed the glory and strength that had animated her in the past. Forever parts of her would be broken off from herself, scattered here and there and laid claim to by others. She had not the strength to stand against the world nor had her husband the power to keep her. His power too had lessened, and the image of his weary back was ever before her eyes. Here they were, being torn asunder, and part of her, the part that rebelled, was glad to go. The rest of her . . . she covered her ring with her hand.
He felt as though his house were crumbling about him. He could only look at the past with fondness and regret. Now, he did not know how to feel. He had been unable to protect his wife. With him she had been unable to thrive and grow, and seeing her now, thinner and paler, he could not help but feel that he was to blame. The strength had gone from him and they both must look to themselves. He must watch her leave his house and never look back. He must suffer her absence in his life.
The song finished and she stood, stiffly. They turned to face one another.
"You are leaving me?" he said simply, hands resting in his lap.
"I am." She looked at him, wondering if he would ask her to stay, knowing he would not.
"Good," he said softly, and her heart felt a pang. "You will be happier without me."
"Perhaps," she said, and his heart grew heavy. "You as well."
"I love you," he said abruptly, standing and pacing. "And I always shall and you know this to be true."
"I do."
"And I love you enough to let you go."
"Yes."
"So you mustn't marry anyone else or I should be quite distraught and I haven't any idea what I should do."
"I won't." Her voice was choked.
"And you mustn't allow any other countries to behave inappropriately towards you."
"I won't."
"If I could, I would give Romania a thrashing for your sake."
She smiled.
"Just beat the hell out of him with your frying pan if it comes down to it."
"I will."
"And, I don't know if my boss would approve of this, but if you ever run into any trouble, I'm always right next to you so don't hesitate to ask me for help."
"Those are the words I should be addressing to you."
He stopped pacing. "Maybe. Perhaps. Yes, perhaps you're right." He turned to look at her.
She looked back at him, smiling through tears, and pushing up his glasses, kissed him, fingers brushing, ever so slightly, against Mariazell. "I think it was a good marriage."
He held her an instant longer before stepping away and turning away. She pretended not to see as he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his glasses.
"I suppose you have begun rebuilding your house?" he said with regained composure.
" I fear it is quite a bit smaller this time around. But perhaps that way it shall not feel as lonely."
"Yes," he murmured, "that is the best way to look at the matter. Shall we go?" He bowed and held out a hand to her.
"Yes," she said, curtseying gracefully and taking it in her own.
He walked her to the door. She kissed him again, very tenderly, then, head held high, stepped over the threshold. He braced himself for her to continue walking away. Instead, she turned to look at him, blushing. "May . . . may I drop by tomorrow?"
He leaned against the door, face red, and mumbled, quite low, "You may." Then, louder: "Come by for tea."
She grinned. "If you insist." Yes, this was why she'd been drawn to him, loved him, and married him. His blushing school boy expressions, his awkward actions, his sincerity - she loved them all and would go on doing so.
He thought ruefully that if she continued to smile like that he just might keep on loving her for . . . centuries, at the very least. And gladly.
Oh gawd, I am sorry it is so terrible. I wrote it, hit it with a frying pan a couple of times, rewrote the ending about five times, and tried desperately to fix it, but I just don't think I can write them well. ;____; Also, I apologize that it's set during their divorce (so 1918-20 or thereabouts, I'm assuming . . . it's rather confusing). >___< Arrrrgh.
Errr, yeah, and I'm back from China.