|
DIRECTORATE
Worldisexual
Sexuality
Infinite
Age
Queen
Occupation
|
Worldie
Offline
Aug 2, 2014 22:02:30 GMT -8
Central European
Tag me @worldiezilla
|
|
Post by Worldie on Nov 17, 2014 4:04:58 GMT -8
I finally did more writing. This is a gift fic for a friend, and the reason I have not posted yet this month ff. Nyo!PruAus, 1900s, Vienna. Blood and Iron {"i."}Some say the world will end in fire, others say in ice, but when she watches Fredericka dance, she thinks it will end in both.
When Fredericka dances, it's not the refined waltzes of the ballroom Sophie was taught in her childhood—no. Fredericka dances with a sword in her hand, holds it like a lover, and how many times Sophie has wished that she would treat her equally as passionately. But Fredericka only makes love to the battlefield, to blood and iron, and Sophie is locked up behind walls of marble and bookshelves as tall as the ceiling and the keys of her piano which she loves like Fredericka loves her steel.
It's a silly thing—an infatuation, even—and Sophie tries never to linger on it too long (except in those moments when the sunlight glints off of Fredericka's hair and she wonders if those silver strands are even real and how they would feel beneath her hands; except in those moments when she tries to coach Fredericka on piano or violin—but never flute because she plays the flute like an angel, like no one Sophie's ever heard before—and her eyes linger on the calluses on Fredericka's fingertips, imagines the rough feel of them tracing her cheek, her neck, lower). They're thoughts that shame and astound her, make her flush red in the way Fredericka teases her so well for. They're unbecoming for a noblewoman, even more unbecoming to have them for another girl, even if that girl likes to play with swords and shields more than satin and lace.
Such it had always been, even when they were young: Fredericka with her toy soldiers and Sophie with her fairytales. Her stories always spoke of princes and knights: Aschenputtel and her prince, the one that brings her the glass slipper and saves her from the cruelty of her family; Schneewittchen, awoken from a curse by a kiss from Prince Charming; Rapunzel, saved from her tower and walls of marble by a handsome knight. She thinks of how she wants no prince, just a knight with snow-white hair and eyes as red as blood.
She doesn't know when it started, exactly. She only knows that at some point in her childhood, she began to anticipate the visits of the Prussian general and his daughter, both of whom had the same white hair and red eyes. Then, anticipation for summers became longing during winters, a lingering ache for Fredericka's shrill laughter, for her dares and daring, for the glimpse outside of her marble walls. And when they're both eighteen and they tell her Fredericka has been stationed in Vienna, it's like summer has come forever.
And then they start doing a different sort of dance. Or rather, Sophie does. It's a complicated tango, one of keeping her head high like a noblewoman should, but never able to refrain from trading a sharp word at Fredericka's teasing. She spins for her audience of one, weaving webs of sophistication that start to unravel as the rhythm of the music goes out of control. She steps forward and reaches for silvery hair and calloused hands, but draws away in knowing that this is not her place, this is not what she wants. (But it is what she wants, almost painfully—wants to know what it's like to have Fredericka's arm around her waist, what it's like to wake up with Fredericka next to her, and she hopes it's not obvious that the disapproving looks she throws the maids who the other woman flirts with are tinged with envy. It makes her want to dig her nails into the soldier's flesh, peel off her armor and clothing and skin, piece by piece until what is left is nothing but naked truth.)
Then, one day, the conductor's baton snaps, and the music grinds to a halt. Sophie loses her footing, and when she lands, it's head over heels. {"ii."}Fredericka lives in the old servants' quarters—remodeled into a barracks now—and it's not far from the Edelstein manor (where they throw lavish parties for lavish people, blissfully unaware of the empires that crumble around them). It's not hard for Sophie to make their paths cross, day to day: a serendipitous meeting during a morning walk, a greeting as Fredericka is returning from her military duties, an invitation of a window left open as she plays Mozart's concertos. It's an invitation that Fredericka accepts every day, and Sophie is not ashamed enough not to remark upon that detail. And this day is just like every day, except there's something in the air, tense and heady, like a note held onto the point of breaking.
"I never had an ear for music," is what Fredericka chooses to open with. Sophie turns on the piano bench, and she sees the soldier on one of the lounge chairs, feet up and head tilted back. Her thoughts linger on what a pretty picture Fredericka paints with the sunlight slanted over her. It pours in from large windows, illuminating the music room in a way that is almost dream-like, in a way that nearly convinces Sophie that they are the only two that exist on such a plane.
"Neither an ear for music, prose, nor poetry," she says mildly. "You are nothing without a flute in your hands, and perhaps that is because it reminds you of a sword." There is no reprimand in her voice—Fredericka is good at what she does, after all, which is why she's the only girl-soldier who she knows. "You are like your country: not a soldier that wields a blade, but a blade with a soldier to wield it."
Fredericka laughs, harsh and loud in a way that would have been unbecoming on any other woman. But, Sophie thinks, it fits her well, with all of her brashness and impetus and red-blooded passion. "I don't belong in the drawing room anyway," Fredericka says, locking her fingers behind her head. "I'll leave all you pretty ladies to the merry-making; I enjoy myself perfectly well at the local tavern."
Sophie frowns. And in the skirts of the local whores, she thinks unbidden, and immediately her frown deepens. It is certainly not a proper thought for her to have, and she chides herself for allowing her jealousy to get the better of her. She turns so that Fredericka may not see the embarrassed blush that heats her cheeks.
But Fredericka sees anyway, as she always does, and, fast as lightning, she is beside her. "Does that displease you, my lady?" she asks, goading, and Sophie doesn't need to look at her to know the grin that is stretched across her lips.
Sophie raises her chin in proud defiance, but does not look Fredericka in the eye. "And why should it? Do not flatter yourself; I know that drinking and whoring are common practice among soldiers."
"My, my. But you seem ever so upset whenever I mention it."
Sophie wants to snap at Fredericka not to make herself comfortable on her piano bench, but by the privilege of being naturally audacious and her friend since childhood, Fredericka has always gotten away with what she fancied with minimal reprimand. Sophie clears her throat. "I simply am not interested in what vulgar activities you decide to partake."
"Oh, they're quite vulgar, all right," Fredericka smirks. "A few rewarding drinks after a long slog in the mud, and a cute barmaid to keep me company—"
If Sophie had been holding something, she would have thrown it, but she is not holding anything and she can't very well drive Fredericka's head against the fall board of the piano. Instead, she stands abruptly. "I have no desire to hear such conversation from you!" she says, more hotly than she'd intended. Her hands are clenched into fists at her side and she steps away from the piano—away from Fredericka—so that the other will not read the burn of anger on her face, the tears that begin to pool. Ah, God—not only is Fredericka cruel enough to bed other women, but now to boast of it too? And she is nothing but a fool for expecting any different, for crying over it!
"Sophie?" For once, Fredericka sounds uncertain. Sophie would have relished in it, if not for her simultaneous desire to bawl like a child and to throw a vase out the window. She tenses, but doesn't try to escape when she feels Fredericka's hand on her shoulder.
"What have they that I do not?" she asks quietly. "What have your whores? What makes you look at them, but not at me?"
A silence stretches out between them, thick and expectant. There is no quick response this time, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Sophie notes that she has never known Fredericka to be speechless until this moment. This time, she doesn't know what expression Fredericka is making, and she can't bring herself to look her in the eye.
Then, "You're not a whore, Sophie." Fredericka sounds so unlike herself when she is quiet and hesitant. Sophie wishes she would just tease her again—any amount of gleeful crowing of 'you're jealous!' would be better than the way seriousness settles in her voice. "You're my hostess, my princess, my friend."
And before she can think twice about it, she answers, "And yet I would be your whore." It's true, she thinks. As much as she loves to dress in satin and lace, she would give it away to play bawdy tunes for Fredericka in some dim-lit tavern, to have those red eyes on her for one evening, one night. She turns sharply and meets the gaze that she lusts for. There's a challenging tilt to her head, even though her voice trembles. "What does that say about me?"
The expression she sees on Fredericka's face is unfamiliar and unnerving, as though the other were watching the wilting of a lily. And, God, that's what she is, isn't she? A wilting flower, a rotting apple.
"You're someone I should lay down my life for," Fredericka says, finally. "Not lie with in bed."
And it's all wrong. This is not what she wants—loyalty, chivalry be damned. The courtesy makes her want to scream. What of the roughness of the soldier's treatment of her before? The jests, the goading, the taunting that made Sophie do things she never would have dared on her own. A wilted flower need not be treated with delicacy. Sophie steps closer, wraps her gloved fingers around the lapels of Fredericka's well-ironed jacket, and jerks her down. "I would have your life, Beilschmidt," she says acidly. "But not like that."
That moment is held between them, tense and brimming. She feels the way Fredericka's breath fans, warm, across her lips, her silvery locks tickling her neck, Fredericka's fingers pressing hesitantly against her waist, then with more certainty. Oh, for God's sake, kiss me already! she wants to cry.
They're interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. Sophie jumps back so fast she thinks she feels her head spin. Heart hammering in her chest, she glances at the door and is relieved to find it unopened. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and does her best to ignore the heat in her cheeks. "Yes?"
Maria the maid peeks in, offering a small curtsy. "Your mother requests your help with the preparations for the ball tonight, my lady."
Sophie fidgets, brushing back that same strand of hair before forcing her hand down and squaring her shoulders, though her fingers still twine nervously together. "Certainly," she says. "I will be with her in a moment." She turns back to Fredericka, but the opportunity had passed, leaving only a sweet longing in its wake. She takes a breath. "You should come to the ball as well," she says, all composure. "It would do you well to improve your standing with the others."
The smirk is back on Fredericka's lips, and she shrugs. "Nah, I'll leave the merry-making to you. I quite like my standing the way it is."
An expected response, and Sophie accepts it with a nod. She does not recall one ball that has been attended by Fredericka, but that is fine—after all, Fredericka's stage is the battlefield. She cannot dance in a corset and high-heeled shoes, not in the way Sophie can. "Very well," she says. "Maria can see you out."
Maria exits with another curtsy, and Fredericka follows in long-legged strides. She doesn't look back. {"iii."}It's midnight and the spell is broken. Sophie is too hot in her ball gown, wrapped up in layers and layers of satin and lace, and maybe she's had a little too much champagne. All she knows is that the dancers on the floor look like figures of colored mist, and that she can't listen to another word about grape vines and wines from Tuscany before she suffocates. Usually, she can make conversation with any sort of character; she's well-read in science and literature and philosophy, she has a practical hand in managing the manor's affairs, she is formal and polite and every part of her a lady—but it seems she just cannot muster that spirit, not tonight. She murmurs an excuse about needing air and rushes outside.
Her head is still stuck on that afternoon, the scene that played out in the sun-dappled music room, how close she was to making Fredericka hers and hers alone. She wonders if she has enough liquid courage in her to try again, and the moment she steps into the cool night air she thinks yes, yes she does. Her corset is laced too tight and it feels like she's taking breath from underwater, and she thinks she'll drown if the person to get her out of these clothes isn't Fredericka. Before she knows it, she's walking the short trek over to the old servants' quarters and banging on the door.
A man answers (he's not even a man, not really, more like a boy who hasn't even seen his first stubble), and Sophie recognizes him as one of the soldiers quartered there. He looks puzzled at the sight of her. She supposes it's not exactly common for a noblewoman to appear at the doors of the soldiers' barracks, clad in a ball gown and flushed from champagne.
"M-my lady Edelstein," he says. "What may I do for you?"
It takes her a moment to gather her thoughts, to find her voice to speak. "Where is Beilschmidt?"
The boy doesn't look any less confused. "The general's daughter, my lady?"
"I would have you address her by her proper title, soldier." The words come out sharper than she had meant, but they have their intended effect. The boy flushes, and looks properly scolded.
"My apologies, Lady Edelstein," he murmurs. Then, he turns into the building and calls out, "Where is Lieutenant Beilschmidt? Tell her that Lady Edelstein sends for her!" Sophie hears some shouted replies from within, and the boy turns back towards her. He is still pink around the ears, and Sophie isn't sure whether it's from embarrassment or something else. "I-if you would like to wait inside, I can fetch the lieutenant for you."
She murmurs a vague 'thank you,' and steps into the barracks. Once inside again, the light seems too bright and the heat too stifling, but she stands, head held high and back arrow-straight. She knows no one in here would dare touch her without permission, and tonight she plans to give that permission to one person alone.
She hears them coming before she sees them.
"What did you even do?" comes the voice of the young soldier, then quickly tacked on, "With all due respect, Lieutenant."
"It's none of your business," Fredericka snaps as they round the corner. Her strides are fast and long, and the boy is jogging a little to keep up with her. The sight curls the corners of Sophie's lips, but it quickly vanishes when Fredericka continues speaking. "I don't know why she's here."
Doesn't know, does she? Sophie muses. Was Fredericka that determined to forget what had transpired between them already? Had she catastrophically misread the situation, and had simply alienated their relationship? Her hands fist against her skirt, and she dearly hopes that she hadn't.
Fredericka shoos off the young soldier before she reaches Sophie, and by that time she is all formality. She greets Sophie with a bow. "How may I be of service, my lady?"
Sophie opens her mouth, doesn't know what to say, and closes it again. She hadn't thought this through—what had she planned on doing? Ideally, she thinks, they could skip the talking and get to the part where she presses the other woman against the wall, tangles her fingers into that snow-white hair, tears her name from Fredericka's lips like gospel. But they have to talk—she knows that even through her tipsy stupor. She is not exempt from the tedious pains of communication.
So she says, "We need to talk."
Fredericka seems to hesitate at that. "I don't think so," she says slowly. "You look like you should be escorted back to the manor." She's frowning down at her, and Sophie wonders if the effects of the champagne are more obvious than she thought.
"Fine," she says. "Walk me to the manor, and we shall talk along the way." She doesn't want to hold this conversation in the barracks anyway, and for once, the garden offers more privacy than anyplace indoors, provided that no one else had gone to take air like she had. She sees more of that hesitation in the tilt of Fredericka's brows, the curl of her lips, but she knows that the other will give in, and she does.
"Fine," Fredericka says, echoing her earlier acceptance. She takes her by the elbow and guides her out of the barracks, onto the path back towards the manor. Sophie prides herself in stepping confident and firm—in heels, at that—despite what Fredericka might believe of her sobriety.
For a few minutes, the only sound is that: their steps on the path and the crunch of stones beneath their feet. Fredericka's stride is a lot shorter now; she can't walk too fast when Sophie is trapped beneath her layers of satin and inconvenient shoes, and Fredericka has never gone anywhere she couldn't follow. Finally, Sophie lets out a shaky breath and speaks.
"You really should stop treating me like porcelain," she says. "We have been friends for as long as I can recall, and you have persuaded me to do things that made mother cry, and yet you are not honest with me."
Fredericka stares right straight ahead, and that's what Sophie hates most about her—the soldier. That impeccable calm, that unreadable demeanor, professional and distant like a sheet of glass. Fredericka always withdraws into it during unpleasant conversations, and when she does, there is nothing that can shake her—she could look into the eyes of a hurricane and a firestorm without flinching, but she will not look at Sophie now, and Sophie hates it, but not any more than she loves it.
"I am honest," Fredericka says finally. "I have limits, Sophie, lines I can't—shouldn't—cross. You are who you are and I am who I am, and I'm not supposed to step over that."
"Supposed to," Sophie repeats, and there's a mocking edge to her voice. "You never cared for rules when you were a child." Sophie had always been the one to color inside the lines, but Fredericka was different—she drew flowers from the edges, spattered paint outside the frame, and yet she rigidly obeys when she's told what she can and cannot want. "You want me," she says, "and I want you to stop lying about it."
Fredericka remains silent. There has been so much silence from her today, and Sophie wants to grab her shoulders and shake her, ask where all of her confidence and scorn and selfishness have gone. But she doesn't, and when Fredericka speaks again, they're passing in front of the vine-covered wall of the manor house, the doors just around the corner.
"We're here. You should go back to your ball now," Fredericka says. Then, for the first time that evening, she turns and looks at Sophie—actually looks—and her eyes are concerned. It's the same expression she wears when she worries for Sophie's health, and Sophie feels a small shudder of relief at the familiarity. "Or maybe back to your room would be a better choice."
Sophie's fingers curl with the ache of her want, and, God, she's done with waiting, she's waited all her life and if she can't have Fredericka now then she'll just drown her hopes forever. She stops in her tracks, and grabs Fredericka's arm to stop her, too.
"Quit pretending it's just going to go away," Sophie says, frustration coloring her tone. "I know and you know that there's," she struggles for the words, "something, and even if we ignore it, we'll know it's there, and—" She's losing her thoughts and her eloquence, but nothing wants to come out other than the feelings she can't put words to. Finally, she gives up trying to do that, and instead she says, "If you want to keep your distance, fine." She looks up to meet Fredericka's eyes, and her voice is soft and breakable. "Say so, and I shall not interfere with you again."
Fredericka says nothing, but Sophie can read the play of emotion behind her red, red eyes. They say I don't know what to do. They say I love you. They say I'm sorry. But Sophie's not going to let her be sorry because Fredericka's the best goddamn thing that's ever happened to her.
"I want you," she says, and she raises a hand to brush the tips of her gloved fingers against Fredericka's cheek. "And I do not take well to being denied." It's the last shove over the edge of a cliff, a line drawn in the sand, because if there is anything Fredericka could never do, it's to deny her.
She feels a hand on her waist, and she sees the moment Fredericka's decision is made—and in the next, she's kissing her exactly how she's dreamt of being kissed, and, God, she tastes like charcoal and leather and all the air outside of marble walls.
When Fredericka pulls away, they're both breathing hard, but she doesn't miss a beat and she's pressing her lips to Sophie's neck and murmuring apologies into her skin like prayers. "I'm so sorry, Sophie— I'm not—I shouldn't."
Sophie curls her fingers into the long strands of Fredericka's hair and turns her head to watch the sky as Fredericka leaves comet trails across her throat. "You should," she whispers. "You should. This is how you will give your life to me." Oops part iv is {a little} porny and that is not allowed. {"v."}They fall in love with each other as men fall in love with nations, and they pursue their affections as Austria-Hungary goes to war. Germany will soon follow, they know, and they make the most of summer while it lasts. In the end, Fredericka goes when the leaves start changing color and the wind takes on a cutting edge, and Sophie will always remember that day as one that the sun shone cold.
"What happened to not going anywhere I could not follow?" she asks. She's wrapped in a shawl and she's gripping Fredericka's hand so hard it must hurt, but the other doesn't show sign that it bothers her. Her company is waiting, and the young soldier is holding Fredericka's horse for her. It's white.
Fredericka smiles, and Sophie feels her squeeze her hand. "I've gone away before," she says, "And I've always come back. I'll come back again. We'll have ourselves a merry little war, and I'll be here before you know it."
Sophie steps in closer and brushes her fingers against Fredericka's cheek. The soldier had cut her hair, and the long, white locks are now cropped close to her head. They stick out in chunks and Sophie thinks it looks awful, but right now she wants nothing more than to bury her hands in it and make Fredericka promise to stay. That is what she says. "But I want you to stay."
Fredericka kisses her, long and slow, and Sophie knows that she'll go. She loves her men, her father, her country too much not to. She was born for war, and now that war has finally come, she will answer her calling. When she breaks away, it's with a sigh. "Dulce et decorum est," she breathes against Sophie's lips.
Sophie recognizes the Latin, but she shakes her head. "The only sweetness is for you to be with me," she says. "Am I not your queen?"
"You are," Fredericka says, and she's still wearing that smile of hers. It looks sadder now, but there's still a glimmer of excitement in her eyes, enthralled and feral and seeking for blood. "And now I shall lay down my life for you."
She is so enamored with death, Sophie thinks, and it's only natural because death and the battlefield come hand in hand. But if Sophie can't stop her from going, at least she can make her love life more. She forces herself to let go. She straightens, squares her shoulders and raises her chin. "No," she says. "You shall come back, and you shall make me your bride."
Fredericka pauses at that, and Sophie can read the flicker of love in her eyes, then her smile widens and she sweeps into a bow. "The prettiest one in all the kingdom," she promises. "In all the world."
Sophie watches them go with that oath ringing in her ears; she watches until there is nothing left to see but dust on the horizon, but the memory of how Fredericka looked as she blended into the earth would be forever etched into her memory—the image of her, astride her white horse, a sword at her hip and a gun across her back. She is passion, ice, love and warfare, and she is hers. Her soldier. Her knight without a shred of armor. |
|
