(no subject)
Inspired by Damien Rice's "Unplayed Piano."
Hungary sits at the grand piano in the corner of the formal receiving room room, as she does every day just after four in the afternoon. She goes through the same routine that she always does: she presses her hands to the dark wood covering the keys, spreading her fingers and pushing her weight into her hands as though she is trying to dent the wood. It is locked; she never plays it. It sits there, ignored except for these few precious minutes when Hungary closes her eyes and remembers.
Their history together was so long it predated the invention of the piano itself; she remembers how excited he had been when the modern piano had been perfected. He had gotten one of the first models and had sat her down to show her how everything in the instrument worked. He had loved that piano and had been crushed when it was destroyed in a skirmish. This had been the replacement; Hungary had gotten it for him on one of their anniversaries. The piano was a beautiful mahogany, older than any of Hungary's citizens and holding just as many memories.
They hadn't wanted to divorce after the Great War; they had clutched at each other until finally their bosses pulled them away from each other. In the weeks that preceded their separation, Roderich had played Beethoven.
She couldn't get the image of his face on their final day together out of his mind. He had allowed her to slide his glasses off, his eyes molten liquid. His long fingers, quintessential piano hands, traced the lines of her face as though she was another instrument to be played. He whispered, so quiet that she, even at such proximity, had to read his lips: “Szeretlek, Elizabeta.”
She had always been the stronger one of the two, even protecting him throughout the Great War, but her language in his voice struck her at her core. They both spoke the many languages of their shared empire, but he had always spoken in German and she in Hungarian except only in the most private, intimate moments. His quiet “szeretlek” as he curled his fingers in her hair had made her realize that this would be the last time she would hear him say it; it was most likely the last time she would hear him speak Hungarian at all.
She doesn't know why, but that entire day is a blur to her except for that single moment. She only remembers the feel of their bodies pressed together, the desperation in those final kisses, and the look on his face as “szeretlek” passed between them.
“Ich liebe dich,” she murmurs quietly to the untouched piano, its keys silenced for decades now. She hasn't cried in just as long. She had never been a crier, always far too much a soldier to show such weakness, but the minutes following Roderich's departure broke that. She had watched him go, then had quietly gone back to her room, changed into her exercise clothes, and gone for a run. She had claimed to herself that the moisture on her face was nothing but rain, despite the sun beating onto her back.
She misses him. She misses his quiet presence, his almost-obsessive insistence on etiquette, his love for cake. But what she misses most is the sight of his back, always dressed impeccably in silk and lace, sitting at the piano. No matter his mood - Chopin, Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart - she had always heard love in his music. His playing had been for himself, but the music had been for her.
She has remained at the piano too long, just as she does every day. And so she reluctantly slides her fingers off the mahogany, tucking the bench in with a quiet, dull thud. She lingers for a moment too long, wanting to remain close to one of the few reminders of Roderich she has. But finally, reluctantly, she leaves the piano just as he had left her years ago. The piano remains locked, and will stay that way, until Roderich comes home to unlock it and release the love building up in the keys.
"Szeretlek" is "I love you" in Hungarian. "Ich liebe dich" is the same in German.
The reason the Austro-Hungarian Empire was able to last for so long throughout WWI is because Hungary had the military power to keep going.
I'm usually one for country names rather than personal, but in this case I made an exception: Hungary is not in love with the country of Austria, she is in love with the person of Roderich. Thus, Roderich rather than Austria (and also why Austria calls her Elizabeta).
Hungary sits at the grand piano in the corner of the formal receiving room room, as she does every day just after four in the afternoon. She goes through the same routine that she always does: she presses her hands to the dark wood covering the keys, spreading her fingers and pushing her weight into her hands as though she is trying to dent the wood. It is locked; she never plays it. It sits there, ignored except for these few precious minutes when Hungary closes her eyes and remembers.
Their history together was so long it predated the invention of the piano itself; she remembers how excited he had been when the modern piano had been perfected. He had gotten one of the first models and had sat her down to show her how everything in the instrument worked. He had loved that piano and had been crushed when it was destroyed in a skirmish. This had been the replacement; Hungary had gotten it for him on one of their anniversaries. The piano was a beautiful mahogany, older than any of Hungary's citizens and holding just as many memories.
They hadn't wanted to divorce after the Great War; they had clutched at each other until finally their bosses pulled them away from each other. In the weeks that preceded their separation, Roderich had played Beethoven.
She couldn't get the image of his face on their final day together out of his mind. He had allowed her to slide his glasses off, his eyes molten liquid. His long fingers, quintessential piano hands, traced the lines of her face as though she was another instrument to be played. He whispered, so quiet that she, even at such proximity, had to read his lips: “Szeretlek, Elizabeta.”
She had always been the stronger one of the two, even protecting him throughout the Great War, but her language in his voice struck her at her core. They both spoke the many languages of their shared empire, but he had always spoken in German and she in Hungarian except only in the most private, intimate moments. His quiet “szeretlek” as he curled his fingers in her hair had made her realize that this would be the last time she would hear him say it; it was most likely the last time she would hear him speak Hungarian at all.
She doesn't know why, but that entire day is a blur to her except for that single moment. She only remembers the feel of their bodies pressed together, the desperation in those final kisses, and the look on his face as “szeretlek” passed between them.
“Ich liebe dich,” she murmurs quietly to the untouched piano, its keys silenced for decades now. She hasn't cried in just as long. She had never been a crier, always far too much a soldier to show such weakness, but the minutes following Roderich's departure broke that. She had watched him go, then had quietly gone back to her room, changed into her exercise clothes, and gone for a run. She had claimed to herself that the moisture on her face was nothing but rain, despite the sun beating onto her back.
She misses him. She misses his quiet presence, his almost-obsessive insistence on etiquette, his love for cake. But what she misses most is the sight of his back, always dressed impeccably in silk and lace, sitting at the piano. No matter his mood - Chopin, Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart - she had always heard love in his music. His playing had been for himself, but the music had been for her.
She has remained at the piano too long, just as she does every day. And so she reluctantly slides her fingers off the mahogany, tucking the bench in with a quiet, dull thud. She lingers for a moment too long, wanting to remain close to one of the few reminders of Roderich she has. But finally, reluctantly, she leaves the piano just as he had left her years ago. The piano remains locked, and will stay that way, until Roderich comes home to unlock it and release the love building up in the keys.
"Szeretlek" is "I love you" in Hungarian. "Ich liebe dich" is the same in German.
The reason the Austro-Hungarian Empire was able to last for so long throughout WWI is because Hungary had the military power to keep going.
I'm usually one for country names rather than personal, but in this case I made an exception: Hungary is not in love with the country of Austria, she is in love with the person of Roderich. Thus, Roderich rather than Austria (and also why Austria calls her Elizabeta).