Chapter Text
Feliks remembers eras past where he was certain his marriage and commonwealth would last forever and forevermore. Now, he chides himself for such naïveté, as he finds himself carefully taking each step along the aisle to be wed once again. This time however, it was arranged against his will to the man who with great pleasure worked diligently to unravel the golden tapestry of the successful kingdom Feliks once held in the palm of his hand.
Feliks remembers the joyous celebration of union with Tolys. He was terrified then, but it was a fear from the uncertainty from marrying a man he had only met on occasion, who didn’t know his language, customs, or faith and whose duke would take the hand of his dear Jadzia who despite her youth, remained so poised and composed during the negotiations which encouraged him to try to maintain a fraction of all that she was capable.
He is terrified this time too, it’s the fear from knowing too much. That Krewo was a marriage between equals, while this was an extravagant affair to mark ownership over property and show off the Duchy’s newfound power.
If only his younger self knew that uncertainty regarding the stranger one was about to marry was nothing compared to the trepidation from knowing the unfortunate truth of who one was moments away from marrying.
Every muscle in his body seems desperate to rebel with each step nearing the altar, the melody of the organ seems distant, and faint compared to the voice in his head telling him to run and never look back.
As the officiant stands between them beneath the blinding light of the large crystal chandelier, Feliks finds his gaze looking up towards his husband to-be’s eyes filled which with satisfaction as he slid the wedding band onto Feliks’ slim finger, gold to match the other jewellery he had draped upon his neck, a shackle to go with the chains decorated with insignia of the black eagle.
As he said, “I do,” he closes his eyes and prays for forgiveness from the Lord above. Then, he prays for Tolys’ forgiveness for betraying him with those words, betraying him for allowing Prussia to slip the band of their union off his hand and replace it with his own. He prays that Tolys will one day forgive him for being too unsure to fight until his last breath, for being too overwhelmed with the fear from Prussia’s threats to refuse this, and scream from the top of his lungs, a thousand times no.
The festivities after the ceremony, always jubilant for the guests, but not for the bride, Feliks once remembered hearing from a group of women gossiping while hanging linen to dry that the festivities after the ceremony, were always jubilant for the guests, but not for the bride. Feliks understood what they meant then, but it stuck more now than ever. No one married for love, Feliks simply got lucky the first time falling in love with Tolys. He knew nations who despised one another yet were forced to marry for political means. At least all reigns of monarchs who played matchmaker came to an end and so too the marriage. But whether it was in small villages in the valleys of the Tatras, or towns along the rivers that flow through Białowieża or cities at the world’s ends. He knew that for humans, marriage often meant saying goodbye to the hopes of finding true love, or being forced to part with lovers in favour of strangers that suited the needs of the families who negotiated futures to secure their interests. Feliks was simply lucky that the interests of his country and people also meant the chance love he had stumbled upon.
Feliks dwells on this and manages to get through the evening with a plastered smile, as well as a few glasses of wine before he is refused anymore, not that the glasses he had had much of an effect. One wrong word and Feliks knew that Gilbert would have his head, so he effectively halted any small talk heading towards the realm of conversation by explaining that his German was poor.
Feliks remains hopeful that the marriage is only on paper, once it says that Beilschmidt is officially married then perhaps he will leave Feliks be. Of course, assuming things would go well, which was unlikely given Feliks’ recent decades streak of bad luck, the legally married to Gilbert Beilschmidt part he wasn’t too keen on purely on principle alone.
This hope dies as he finds himself lying on Gilbert’s bedding, as he tears the layers of Feliks’ skirts off. There is a faint smell of alcohol as he flinches back as Gilbert leans in for a kiss, only for Gilbert to lift his chin so that he is forced to make eye contact with the Prussian with a pleased look.
“None of that now dear,” He chides gently with a swat to his cheeks, “You don’t refuse affection from your husband.”
Feliks’ heart sinks as he realises he is trapped, resistance met with more force.
“You’re mine,”
Feliks mentally traces the rose patterns of the silk with his eyes in an attempt to distract him from the waves of pain and pleasure as Gilbert enters him,
“There we go,”
He tries to imagine he was back home, lying in bed with his husband after a long day’s work in the fields of golden rye.
Caught between intruding hands, he thinks back to Tolys’ embrace, warm like the first rays of the morning sunrise.
“That’s my good girl, much better,”
Waking up next bside his lover who always woke up with such a ridiculous grin that always made him laugh much to Tolys’ confusion.
Gilbert smiles, “My God you’re so fucking perfect,”
No longer caught between intruding hands, he feels Tolys’ embrace, warm like the first rays of the morning sunrise.
“Yes, fuck, yes,”
He’s back home.
The ecstasy of home overwhelms him.
He later finds Gilbert washing the red and white off of Feliks’ thighs with a cloth and warm water. His pain becomes wounds that Tolys can tend to. He closes his eyes.