No Roses Without Thorns / No Summers Without Storms

May, 476 IC, Odin

Reuenthal spent the rest of the school year not actually speaking to Yang, which was a deeply unpleasant experience. Although they sat together at dinner still, Reuenthal responded to anything that was said in monosyllables, and Yang decided that he wasn’t going to deal with that, so he pulled out his books and did his best to study for finals.

It was only after final results and end year rankings were calculated that Reuenthal changed his behavior. Yang was packing up his dorm room when there was a knock on his door. He opened it. Reuenthal was standing there, looking, well, apologetic was not the right word. But the fact that he was there was enough of a concession. Yang smiled and held open the door for Reuenthal to come inside, but he just shook his head.

“I’ll talk to Staden about fixing your rank,” Reuenthal said.

“Don’t bother,” Yang replied. He went back to picking up papers from his floor and stuffing them into a garbage bag, while Reuenthal leaned on his doorframe.

“You deserve the number one spot.”

“I don’t think our last matchup could really be called a win on my end,” Yang said lightly. “And I probably should apologize to you for not playing fair.”

“I should have listened when you told me that you didn’t expect to be treated with mercy.”

Yang laughed. “I should have taken my own words to heart.”

“Still,” Reuenthal said. “Your rank should be commensurate with your abilities. Even if it wasn’t a technical win, you had better tactics through the whole match. Staden should give you more credit for doing so well in an unwinnable situation.”

“Did you read the game transcript when you were writing your postmortem?”

“No. I remembered it well enough.”

“You might want to,” Yang said. “Just for your own edification.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Yang smiled. “Staden is also playing the game on a different level.”

Reuenthal was silent for a minute as Yang continued to clean up his room. When Yang glanced up at him, he could see Reuenthal’s face darken as he read the match transcript on the class intranet on his phone.

The transcript had been heavily edited to remove most of Yang’s more “interesting” commands, including his speeches and messages, and the last few minutes of the game where he had taken out Reuenthal’s command. It now looked like Yang had slowly been losing, and then surrendered. It was true in the way that things entered into the public record became the truth. False battles. Yang felt like he had come full circle, in a way. After all, it had been analysis of a fake battle that had put him in this position to begin with.

“Why are you letting them do this to you?” Reuenthal asked.

Yang paused in pulling the sheets off his bed and stuffing them into his laundry hamper. “I don’t care about rank.”

“I’m not talking about just rank.”

“Ages ago, you told me to be more ambitious,” Yang began.

“I still think that’s the case.”

“And I told you that I had the wrong kind of ambitions.”

Reuenthal nodded, a distinctly uncomfortable tension in his shoulders.

“When one has the wrong kind of ambitions, it’s sometimes better to let things like this go. It doesn’t matter,” Yang said. “The future is a big place, and the fewer enemies I make now to hide in it, the better.”

“I think I misunderstood you when we originally had that conversation,” Reuenthal said. “And for that, I apologize.”

Yang laughed. “What did you think I meant?”

“Something even less proper than what you’re currently implying.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“You would take offense at the implication.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Yang said, but Reuenthal refused to speak on the matter further. Yang allowed him to change the topic without pressing.

“You told the countess that you would be staying with her over the summer?”

“Yes,” Yang said, and scratched his head. “I didn’t want to impose--”

Reuenthal shook his head. “She has plenty of both space in her house and money. You’ll hardly be an imposition.”

“I don’t understand why she would make an offer like that.”

“She’s a generous woman. And I’m sure that she and the count are already trying to find an appropriate match for their daughter.”

Yang snorted. “Number one, I’m hardly an appropriate match for the daughter of a count. Number two, she’s six.”

“Seven. Her birthday was in February.”

“So much better.” Yang shook his head. “Are you going to come visit over the summer?”

Reuenthal crossed his arms. “We’ll see.”

“I get the feeling that the Mariendorfs consider your visiting a payment for having me stay there. I’ll do you some favor when the school year starts to make up for it.”

“I should start charging for my time by the hour,” Reuenthal said dryly.

“And I would like to see you, as well, you know.”

Reuenthal smiled a little. “We’ll see.”

June, 476 IC, Odin

Yang arrived at the Mariendorf household with his few possessions and rang their doorbell. The butler greeted him and showed him into a little reception room. Yang stood in it alone, stiffly, looking at the colorful upholstered furniture and the decorative plaster on the walls. After a minute or so, the countess swept in, wearing a much less formal dress than she had been the last time Yang had seen her. Yang was dressed in the Imperial fashion for the first time-- he had needed to scramble to find clothes that weren’t his school uniform-- and he didn’t exactly like the crushed velvet waistcoat and jacket that he was wearing.

The countess smiled at him. “Herr von Leigh! Welcome!”

“Er, thank you, Countess Mariendorf,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s very generous of you to host me like this.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” she said, gesturing for him to have a seat on one of the couches. She sat across from him. “And please, call me Amelie.”

“I don’t want to be improprietous,” Yang said, but he smiled.

“No such thing,” Amelie said with a wave of her hand.

“It’s just funny to me-- you call Reuenthal ‘Oskar’-- should I tell you to call me ‘Hank’?”

“Not all of us can be stiff backed cadets afraid to call each other by their first names,” Amelie said. “But I will call you whatever you like to be called.”

When meeting her alone, Yang was developing a much more positive impression of the bright countess than he had at the party. She seemed genuine, and genuinely friendly towards him, without expectations. This sudden lack of expectations was a sharp contrast to the web of obligations that being in the IOA provided, even just when it came down to speaking with his friends.

“You can call me Hank, then, as long as the count doesn’t mind.”

Amelie laughed so hard she snorted. “Oskar didn’t tell me you were funny.”

“What did Reuenthal tell you about me?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to refer to his friend by his first name. It would have felt like talking about a stranger.

“He told me that you were a good friend of his, who needed a place to stay. He said that you were hard working and honest.”

“On one of those points, I’m afraid Reuenthal is wrong: I’m a deeply lazy man,” Yang said with a smile. “If I didn’t have the obligations of schoolwork, I would get up in the morning to drink a cup of tea, then go immediately back to bed.”

Amelie laughed again. “And yet you attend a military academy. So much for your ideal life of leisure.”

“Ah, but think about how I can retire with a nice military pension in the future. I play the long game.”

“Oskar may have mentioned something about that, as well.”

“Hah. I’m never sure if he thinks highly of my tactics or not. I’ve yet to beat him in class.”

“Class is class. I don’t know why they insist on pitting you against each other. It doesn’t seem right to have His Majesty's forces trained to see each other as competition.”

“Unfortunately,” Yang said, trying to keep the irony out of his voice, “we don’t have any members of the rebel fleet to practice against. So, compete we must.”

“Maybe so. You aren’t upset about Oskar taking the top spot?” These questions seemed to be targeted. Perhaps this light conversation was trying to get to something deeper. Yang might have underestimated the countess.

“Reuenthal has been known to be more upset about me losing to him than I am.”

“Really?”

Yang smiled. “I don’t make his victories easy, but he earns them.”

“I see. I’d ask to hear about it, but I’m afraid I have no brain for military matters, and it would all go over my head. Perhaps my husband would enjoy hearing your stories.”

“I wouldn’t want to bore anyone.”

“I’m sure it’s not boring. Besides, I am always trying to hear more about how Oskar is doing. I love him, but he’s such a private man.”

Yang weighed his options. On one hand, he sensed an opportunity to learn more about Reuenthal, but, on the other, he was afraid of invading his friend’s privacy. He tried to prod at the issue obliquely-- perhaps Amelie would give him information of his own volition. “He told me that you knew his mother?”

“Yes, we were good friends in childhood,” Amelie said. “He reminds me of her-- he’s like her mirror image.”

“I’m sorry,” Yang said. “It must be difficult for you to have lost a friend.”

Amelie shook her head. “It was many years ago.”

“I’m sure that she would be glad that you are looking after her son,” Yang said.

Amelie’s face twisted into a bitter shape for a moment before smoothing over. “Perhaps. It seems like the least I can do.”

Yang decided to pull back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Reuenthal doesn’t like speaking about his family; I don’t want to invade his privacy.”

“You are an honest man,” Amelie said. “And a flaw of mine is that I’m inclined to be a gossip. It’s one of the few pleasures that ladies of the court have.”

“Learning things about the people around you is not necessarily a flaw. It could be an advantage,” Yang said. “But as you said, I have no reason to compete with Reuenthal, so I shouldn’t attempt to find out his secrets.”

“I’d hardly describe it as a secret,” Amelie said. She shook her head. “It was a sad business. Can I give you some advice, Hank?”

He felt distinctly uncomfortable, then. “Of course.”

“When you get married, please trust your wife.” She had a kind of distant look in her eyes. “That’s the most important thing.”

Yang didn’t know exactly what to say. Now, he wanted to escape. “Er, I don’t… Alright.”

His awkwardness broke the pall that was hanging over Amelie. “You’re too young to be thinking about such things, I suppose,” she said with a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

July, 476 IC, Odin

Contrary to all his expectations, Yang found himself enjoying his summer with the Mariendorf family. Amelie was a vivacious woman, and she made it her mission to take Yang under her wing and teach him about the nature of life in the Imperial court. Even though Yang found meeting with nobles more tiresome than anything, he respected her expertise, and the fact that meeting with nobles was something he was going to have to get used to doing.

He also gained a respect for the count, Franz, who he would often sit with after dinner and discuss history with. Franz was well read, intelligent, and astute, and he didn’t hold Yang’s words against him, merely asking cutting questions when Yang managed to voice an opinion on history or politics that swayed a little too heterodox. The Mariendorfs had a large library, which Yang perused at his leisure.

When he wasn’t inside reading, Yang developed a fast friendship with the youngest Mariendorf: the seven year old Hilde. He had never had much occasion to interact with children before, so he decided that the best way to make friends with her was to talk to her like an adult, and at the same time do whatever she told him to. This was a winning strategy, because seven year olds are at the exact age to understand that they want respect, yet not understand that someone giving them a piggy-back ride on demand is not exactly what respect is. Yang had endless patience for her, and, in turn, she developed a patience for him, and allowed him to teach her how to read long passages from the thick books he carried around, and she listened to him talk about history. She comprehended it enough to occasionally ask insightful questions. Sometimes, Yang would laugh and say something like, “Now, Fraulein Hilde, don’t say that to your father; he’ll think I’m turning you into some kind of republican.”

In short, Hilde had Yang wrapped around her little finger.

On the rainiest day of the month, at around noon, Yang was in the kitchen of the Mariendorf manner. He had picked up Hilde and allowed her to sit on the big kitchen island, an indulgence that would not have been allowed if the butler or cook were around, but they were both out. The count was at Neue Sanssouci, and the countess was out visiting friends, which left just Yang and Hilde. He was making tea for himself, and the only thing that he could cook, which was sandwiches, for her.

“Now, Fraulein, how about you read to me. See where my bookmark is?”

Hilde obligingly opened the book that Yang pointed at as he put the kettle on the stove. She flipped through the book to Yang’s last place, and began to read in her childish, stumbling voice.

“At that time, Rudolph von Goldenbaum was the commander of the Galactic Federation Arm… Arm…”

“Armada,” Yang supplied over the dinging of the toaster. He burned his fingers as he grabbed the toast directly out of it, blowing on them after he dropped the pieces heavily onto a plate. He slathered the toast with peanut butter, which melted immediately, and jelly, which did not, then stuck the two messy halves together.

“His most impressive accomplishment during this time was the destruction of the Main Street Pirates,” Hilde sounded out, then stopped. “Hank, are there pirates still?”

“Not really,” he said absentmindedly over the whistling of the kettle. “Only a little. It would be a dishonor to Rudolf von Goldenbaum’s good name to let pirates hang around the Empire, wouldn’t it?” He couldn’t keep the sarcastic tone out of his voice.

Hilde laughed. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Like what?” Yang asked, feigning ignorance.

As Yang was pouring himself a cup of tea, the doorbell rang. “Should I go answer that?” he asked.

Hilde put her plate with the nibbled-on sandwich down, then hopped off the kitchen island, sliding across the floor in her stockinged feet. “I’ll get it.”

Yang left his tea to steep and followed her at a more sedate pace. Hilde beat him to the door, and it was already open when he arrived. There was a rather soggy looking police officer standing on the doorstep, with his hat in his hand.

“Fraulein, is your father home?”

“No,” Hilde said.

Yang stepped up behind her. “Sir, would you like to come in and give me a message? Count Mariendorf isn’t expected to be back for several hours.”

“Are you part of the count’s staff?” he asked, looking Yang over.

“No, sir, I’m a guest of the count and his wife for the summer. Is this a matter that requires immediate attention? Count Mariendorf is at Neue Sanssouci, so I don’t think I can contact him. I can try to call the countess if it’s urgent.”

When Yang mentioned Amelie, a flicker passed over the sodden police officer’s face, and Yang understood. “Oh.” He looked down at Hilde. “Fraulein Hilde,” he said. “Can you do me a favor, please?”

She smiled up at him, not catching the implication of having a policeman at her door. “What?” she asked.

“There’s a book in your father’s library, it’s called Steiner’s Military History of the Galactic Federation , can you get it for me?”

“Sure,” she said, and ran off, little feet thumping on the ground. Yang knew she wouldn’t find the book because it was in his guest bedroom on the bedside table. But it was a task that would keep her occupied, at least.

“Would you like to come in, sir?” Yang asked again. “Or would you like me to take a message for the count?” He held the door open and the policeman stepped inside. Yang led him to the drawing room. “I’ll try calling the count,” he said.

Yang called, several times to no avail. Franz Mariendorf was apparently busy, which would have been fine on any other day, but Yang had this specter of bad news sitting on his shoulders now. The policeman had apparently been told to give the news in person, so he was waiting, with Yang hovering around. When the butler and cook came home from their errands, Yang pulled them aside and told them the situation, as well as he understood it, which caused them both to blanch.

Yang retrieved Hilde from the library, where she had gotten distracted with scribbling on a piece of paper with her father’s fountain pen, and brought her upstairs to where his guest bedroom was. She sat on his bed and watched him. The door was open so that Yang could hear down the stairs if the front door opened and the count arrived home.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Here,” Yang said, and pressed a book into her hands. “Can you read? I want to hear you read.”

“No,” she huffed. “What are you doing?”

“I need to pack my things,” he said, opening his dresser drawers and pulling his clothes out, stuffing them into his suitcase.

“Why?” she asked. “Where are you going?”

“I might have to go back to school,” Yang said. “Or stay at a hotel, or maybe with my friend Reuenthal.”

“You can’t stay with Oskar,” Hilde said, turning the pages of the book, looking for pictures.

“Why not?”

“His father is a bad man,” Hilde said, nonchalant. “And I want you to stay here. You’re my friend.”

“I might have to leave, Fraulein Hilde.”

“Why?”

Yang couldn’t answer that question without telling her the whole story, which he didn’t know the entirety of, and was certain he wasn’t supposed to do. “Your father might not want me to be here, right now.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t explain it, Fraulein Hilde,” he said. “Can you please read to me?”

And so she did, as Yang packed up his belongings and prepared to leave this place, not wanting to be an intruder to the Mariendorfs’ oncoming grief. When he finished packing, he sat on the bed next to Hilde, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and helped her sound her way through the words, not processing the book’s contents at all, just staring into space. It had been a little over a year since his own father had died. How much harder would it be for a child of seven?

After some time, when the already grey and dim rainy light was growing dimmer from sunset, Yang heard a car pull up outside and the front door open. He stopped Hilde from reading, and brought her downstairs to speak to the count. He was shaking off his umbrella in the hall, and hanging up his jacket in the coat closet. The butler had also heard him come in, but saw Yang and Hilde approaching and stood back.

“Hilde!” Franz said, smiling when he saw her. “How’s my little girl?”

Hilde ran and hugged her father. As she was wrapping herself around his waist, Franz looked up and saw the serious look on Yang’s face.

“Sir, there’s someone waiting for you in the drawing room,” Yang said in a low tone. “Do you want me to take Fraulein Hilde while you speak to him?”

“What kind of someone?” Franz asked, disentangling himself from Hilde’s grasp.

“A police officer, sir,” Yang said.

He could see the change come over Franz’s face in the dim entrance hall, and hear the crack in his voice. “Do you know what he’s come about?”

“I suspect, sir. But his message is for you.”

Franz nodded. “Hilde, in my coat pocket, I brought you a box of chocolates. How about you go share them with Hank in the kitchen. I’ll come talk to you later.”

Yang led Hilde to the kitchen, and let her eat all the chocolates, then let her scribble pictures on the butcher paper in the drawer, then showed her how to fold paper boats and float them in the sink, all while waiting for her father to come find her.

When he did, his eyes were red, and he looked as though he had aged approximately thirty years since that morning. Hilde picked up on his distress immediately, and looked frantically between her father and Yang, but Yang was already slipping out of the kitchen, not wanting to intrude on the father and daughter’s private grief.

He stood in the hallway and leaned his head backwards on the wall, closing his eyes and steadying his breath. He would wait to leave until he had spoken to the count, he decided. He should give him the courtesy of thanking him for his stay, and let him know that he was leaving.

“Hank,” Franz said when he came out of the kitchen, his voice sounding thick with emotion. “Thank you for taking care of Hilde.”

“Sir,” Yang said. “I… I’m so sorry.”

Franz gestured for Yang to follow him, and they entered his office. He sat down at his desk, his head in his hands. Yang stood stiffly in front of him for a second, then saw the decanter of brandy on a nearby table, and poured a single glass, placing it down in front of the count.

The count stared at it for a second, then picked it up, swirling it around and watching the liquid catch the light. He didn’t seem to want to speak, and Yang wasn’t sure what to do with his body or his hands. So his mouth moved instead.

“Sir…” he began, but the count waved at him to be silent and sit down, which Yang did, smoothing his hands over his pant legs. They sat in silence for a long time, Yang bearing witness to the count’s silent grief.

“Thank you for taking care of Hilde,” Franz said again.

“Is she alright?”

“No.”

Yang didn’t know how to say what he needed to say, feeling like he was dropping the words like a failed juggler. “I-- thank you for your hospitality, this summer-- I know-- I-- If you don’t want me here, I can go-- somewhere-- I don’t want--”

“No,” the count said. He shook his head. “You should stay. For Hilde, at least.”

July, 476 IC, Odin

Yang stayed. Much like Boris Konev had helped him wade through the death of his father, Yang provided what he could to the Mariendorf family. He distracted Hilde. He offered a listening ear to the count. He helped the staff arrange for the funeral. He disappeared when he sensed that he needed to disappear. He was a steady presence when he needed to be present.

The funeral was on a sunny day, incongruously hot with the event.

Reuenthal came. It was the first time Yang had seen him since school let out. They sat next to each other during the service, and when it was over, Reuenthal followed Yang back to the Mariendorf estate and spoke to the count privately for a little while. When that was done, Yang and Reuenthal took a long walk around the estate, the shadows growing long through the rustling pine trees.

At first, they were silent. Yang didn’t want to press Reuenthal, who looked terrible. He didn’t think that it was the funeral itself that made him appear so gaunt and empty-- he thought it was something else.

“Count Mariendorf thanked me for sending you here,” Reuenthal eventually said. “He says you’ve been a great help.” His voice was stiff.

“Reuenthal,” Yang said, not wanting to open any wounds. “Are you alright?”

Reuenthal laughed harshly, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Yang said.

“For once, von Leigh, this has nothing to do with you.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Please don’t ask that question,” Reuenthal said.

Yang stopped and looked at him. Reuenthal didn’t quite meet his eyes, and that was perhaps the worst change that had come over him. He was a different creature here, out of uniform, out of the only element that Yang had ever known him in. Yang understood that there was something terrible happening in Reuenthal’s house, something that he would never admit to or say out loud, and something that was probably only made worse by the death of his ally, the countess. Yang understood all of this, but couldn’t do anything to fix it. Reuenthal didn’t want him to fix it.

He could try to be cool and detached all he wanted, but it wasn’t working.

“Reuenthal,” Yang said. Some detached part of his mind registered that they were alone in the trees, far from the Mariendorf house. He couldn’t have said why he was paying attention to that. The other part of him reached out and grabbed Reuenthal, wrapping him in a hug. Reuenthal was stiff and unyielding at first, but then his arms found Yang’s back, and his head found Yang’s shoulder.

“I live in hell, Yang Wen-li,” Reuenthal said, so quiet that Yang almost didn’t hear.

Yang didn’t say anything, just held him for a long few seconds, until Reuenthal dropped his arms and detached himself. They walked out of the trees and back to the house in silence. Yang knew that they probably wouldn’t speak of this again, so he tucked the moment away into a corner of his heart.