No Glory for Rebels (America x Reader x Austria)

“Would you do me the honour of being my wife?”

You suck in a breath as you look at the young man before you. It’s not the first time you’ve been proposed to- but you’re not really sure the first one counts. It seems so long ago now, so insubstantial, like a child’s daisy chain or a trail of smoke left from a plane. You flex your fingers, looking down at your ring finger and thinking of how the cool metal will feel on your skin. It looks so different from the first one. So much so you don’t even know why you’re remembering it.

After all, rich girls don’t marry poor boys.

But it does takes you back, despite yourself.

~

You remembered that the sun was setting when he asked you, the skies turning from blue to peach, everything stained with a golden glow as far as the eye could see. The trees rustled as the words hung in the air, Alfred’s teeth bared in a boyish grin. His expression faded as he looked at you.

“Those are…those are happy tears, right?”

"Happy?!" you shouted at him, in a wet, thick voice. "You ask me to marry you, then tell me you're going to leave and you want me to be happy?!"

"I'll come back!" Alfred said, as if that made it all better, oblivious to the chasm that yawned wider and wider with each word, both of you staring into a very different future. "Trust me, darlin', I’ll be gone a little while and then I-"

"It's WAR, Alfred!"

Why couldn't you make him understand?

"But don't you see? It's perfect! Once I come back, I'll be a war hero and then none of this," he waved a hand at the house in the distance, the sprawling grounds the two of you stood in, seemingly the whole world around you, "none of it will matter!"

And his words made you want to fall down and weep. He saw nothing of the smoke-saturated skies, of the wounded crawling through acres and acres of mud, bleeding and begging, waiting for the final blow to put an end to it all, like snuffing out a light. Alfred spoke as if he was merely going abroad somewhere, as if the Great War was incidental and no more threatening or real than a passing nightmare. Considering you were the one labelled as oblivious, it stunned you that he could romanticise something that loomed ever closer on the horizon.

And what of this marriage he proposed? It occurred to you as Alfred rose from his kneeling position that maybe, just maybe, childhood romances weren't built to last. The giddy thrill you got from kissing the stable boy might have given you a rush before, but you weren't a girl anymore. You had been dancing on the cusp of womanhood for some time, watching it loom ever nearer. You were getting older, the talk of husbands and estates and- perhaps most strangely of all- children, became more and more frequent over breakfast. You couldn’t afford to gamble with such an uncertain future anymore- it was time to grow up.

“So will you?”

“Will I what?” you snapped, wiping your face with your fingertips- crying was so unseemly. Alfred didn’t seem deterred by your outburst.

“Will you wait?” he said, and god, his eyes were so blue. “Will you marry me?”

He could see it all. You could practically see the images in his head, of returning from some vague, hellish landscape with shiny medals pinned to his chest, of adoring crowds hailing the returning soldier- he probably even imagined winning the whole war himself. And then where did you fit in? You would be a trophy, a prize to be won, the symbol of how the underdog always wins in the end.

But what happened after that?

What came next?

You could see two paths splitting in front of you, with very different results. On one, marrying some young man hand-selected for you, a man who will always say the right things and you nodding and smiling and wishing you were elsewhere. On the other, marrying this boy before you, your parents shaking their heads, words like “reckless” and “shocking” spilling from their lips and closing the door in your face, forever. You saw Alfred kissing you at the door before going on his merry way, promising blithely to write, that he’d be back soon. You imagined watching the front gate, waiting. Waiting for him to return from god knows where. You imagined growing older, sadder, more crazed with worry that your whole life was unravelling day by day.

You looked down at Alfred, and suddenly you felt very cold despite the warm spring sunlight beating down on your delicate skin. The words tasted bitter on your lips and you could barely keep the sob out of your voice.

“I can’t.”

As you walked away, you forced yourself not to look back. You wanted to- you wanted to beg him not to go, to think about just what he was signing himself up for, to ask him to stay. But you knew your words would fall on deaf ears and so kept them to yourself, unable to quell the twin tracks of tears that slid noiselessly down your cheeks, your lips tasting of salt.

That was just Alfred’s problem- he always wanted to play the hero.

~

Roderich Edelstein. The name tastes sweet on your lips, like a well-aged wine.

He is a good match for you. You remember thinking when you first saw him that he looked oddly perfect, like a painting that had come to visit your sitting room, daintily drinking herbal tea, stiff-backed and not spilling a drop. He was quiet and composed, and spoke with a refined air that your mother was clearly very impressed by. It should have put you off, but you were too relieved to be dissuaded by such things. That kind of rebellion seems childish to you now.

The proposal and engagement go by quickly. Your parents are keen to get you married off, almost as if they are fearful of what may happen to you if you are not. They are not yet infirm, yet they have aged since the War. You know this and suppose that you should be thankful they are still in reasonable health. Who knows how long it will last? All they want for you is to be secure, to be well-provided for.

You still think of blue eyes and careless laughter from time to time, but every time you do, your chest clenches and you have to take deep breaths to calm down. It gets a little easier as time goes by.

The morning of your wedding, you insist on getting dressed alone, stealing a few precious seconds to yourself. You pull on your elbow-length white silk gloves and try to ignore the slight tremour in your hands. You try not to think about golden spring days, baby blue eyes or the rumble of planes overhead. You’re eternally grateful that Roderich is dark, slim and pale and, most importantly, safe.

Still, you wonder if Roderich could grow to love you the way he loves her. Elizabeta. You still find it difficult to say her name, but she’s invited to the wedding nonetheless, her long brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. You don’t know if you invited her because you had something to prove, or so people wouldn’t talk. You wonder if you would have invited Alfred, too, if you even knew where he was. If there was any of the boy you once knew left.

You don’t know.

Still, for all your misgivings, Roderich smiles at you and there’s a sparkle in those lovely violet eyes that makes you smile and look down, feeling a pleasant heat bloom across your cheeks. Your mother told you that love- real, sustainable love, was something that had to be worked on. It did not just fall into your lap, pre-packaged and perfect. Perhaps you weren’t his childhood dreamgirl, but if you were compromising, you can’t begrudge him for doing the same.

As he lifts away the veil, you smile and reach for your husband’s hand. Roderich is willing to try. He wouldn’t have asked you to marry him if he didn’t mean it, you know him well enough to know that. And perhaps if that’s not quite love, it’s something very close to it.

The audience stands as the priest says his lines. Your mother is dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief and your father is standing straight and tall, despite his bad hip. Roderich’s parents are both beaming at their lovely, handsome son and his silver-haired best man shoots him a grin that’s slightly too wild for such an occasion.

You look down at your wedding ring, the glittering diamond reminding you of an eye filled with tears. You shut your eyes and open them, looking into the earnest violet ones staring at you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you, Roderich Edelstein, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”

“I do.”

Your mind swims in and out as the priest turns to you and repeats the refrain, the heavy book shaking in his small, gnarled hands, the skin on them wrinkled and paper-thin.

“- take Roderich Edelstein, to be your lawful wedded husband?”

You hesitate for only a moment.

“I do.”