Scenes on the Occasion of a Wedding

Mittermeyer

April 488 I.C., Odin

It never ceased to be strange to invite a baroness, and now a count, over for dinner at his flat, but Mittermeyer found that Yang and Magdalena were quite natural in the small and cozy space. Magdalena was relentlessly charming, even if she was overdressed for the casual gathering, and Yang was all gentle smiles; he had a way of looking at Mittermeyer, catching his eye, and putting him instantly at ease. That was just the way that Yang had always been.

The dinner conversation was lively, with Magdalena tugging everyone else along with her in her boundless enthusiasm for discussing plans: what the weather forecast was for the day of the wedding, the bachelorette party that Eva was throwing for her at the end of the week, and her plans for her honeymoon with Yang. Mittermeyer, even if he had wanted to contribute, couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise. But this, he had come to understand, was still Magdalena on her best behavior. She kept on her best behavior because she was enamored with his wife, and so she designed the conversation around engaging and amusing her, rather than the men at the table. Yang didn’t seem to mind— when he finished eating, he propped his hands on his chin and just smiled and let Magdalena’s talk wash over him.

“Now, you have to tell me, Eva, and be honest,” Magdalena said, “do you think I’m going to enjoy married life?” Yang’s eyebrows twitched in concern, but there was no edge in the question that Mittermeyer could detect, and Magdalena’s cheeky smile stayed plastered to her face. Yang was probably better at reading Magdalena’s capricious moods than anyone else, though— there must have been some invisible signal she was giving off.

Eva giggled, helped by her second glass of wine. “You wouldn’t have agreed to get married if you didn’t think you would,” she pointed out.

“Well, one often finds that there’s a mismatch between expectations and reality! Come on, tell me, do you think I’ll enjoy it?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Eva said. “I think you’ll be very happy. And Hank, too.”

“Why do you think that?” Magdalena asked. “Really— I want to know.” She, too, was a little drunk, and while her tone remained light, her sincerity made her lean forward on the table and look Eva intently in the eyes.

“Well, I don’t know,” she began. Eva was clearly flustered. “But Hank is, you know, very kind, and honest, and he is handsome.” She glanced at Mittermeyer, with her sweet smile. “You don’t mind me saying so, I hope, darling?”

Mittermeyer laughed. “No, of course not. You’d be doing Leigh a disservice by saying he’s not handsome.”

This caused Yang to redden, carefully not looking at Mittermeyer. “You don’t need to tease me,” he said. “And none of those things means anything…” He trailed off into mumbles, and rubbed at the back of his head.

“I think they mean quite a lot,” Mittermeyer said quietly. Yang did look up at him then, and his awkwardness fell away as he met Mittermeyer’s eyes.

“Yes,” Eva said, “they really do. You and Wolf are very similar, in that way.” She tilted her head with a smile. “I’m very happy to be married to Wolf, and I’d never want a different husband, but if things had somehow turned out differently, I’m sure I would have been very happy to marry Hank instead.”

“And I would get to marry Wolf?” Magdalena asked with a silly, gleeful trill. She turned to him. “Oh, darling !” And she comically leaned towards him and clutched at his arm, making everyone laugh. “Too bad you’re already taken, when you’re the only man I know who isn’t a scoundrel, I’m told.”

“You’ll have your own husband, so you’ll have to keep your hands off mine,” Eva said with a giggle.

“Hmm, well, I would be happy to share Hank with you, if you like him so much,” Magdalena said with a wicked grin. “It’s only fair.”

Yang buried his face in his hands. “Maggie…”

“What?” she asked, a cheeky smile plastered to her face.

“I believe at one point you said that he could only handle one woman,” Mittermeyer teased. “Or have you changed your mind about that, recently?”

“Hm…” Magdalena said. “You’re right. I suppose I should be lucky to marry a one-woman man.”

Eva shook her head indulgently and got up to start clearing the dishes away. Mittermeyer hastened to help her. Magdalena wandered into the living room and began fiddling with the sound system, causing the strain of some unfamiliar orchestra to fill the air.

“This is the band I hired for the wedding,” she called. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know the first thing about music, I’m afraid,” Mittermeyer replied.

“All you soldiers are so uncultured!”

“I think it’s very nice,” Eva said. They finished gathering all the dishes from the table, and went out to the living room, where they found that Magdalena was forcing Yang to dance with her, though there was very little room for them to do so, between the coffee table and the TV stand. Yang kept glancing behind himself nervously, afraid that Magdalena was going to make him trip over some furniture if he didn’t keep track of it all. He gave Mittermeyer a relieved smile when he appeared in the doorway, because this caused Magdalena to spin around one last time, then let go with a laugh.

“Eva, darling, let’s go to the boudoir — I want to show you how to do your hair with the little circlet I got you.”

“You don’t mind us abandoning you?” Eva asked Mittermeyer.

“Of course he doesn’t mind,” Magdalena said dismissively. “He’s happy to spend time talking with Hank about whatever it is husbands talk about when their wives aren’t in the room.”

“You’re not his wife yet!” Eva pointed out

“Close enough. Come on, darling.”

Eva flashed Mittermeyer an apologetic smile, and he gave her a genuine one back, letting her leave. This left Yang and Mittermeyer alone, with the music still playing loudly enough to cover up any conversation that could otherwise travel between closed doors. Mittermeyer couldn’t quite make up his mind on if Magdalena was a cruel genius or a kind one.

“You still don’t like dancing, I see,” Mittermeyer said. There was a small bar cart tucked into the corner of the room, half hidden behind some potted ferns, and Mittermeyer fixed drinks for both of them.

“No matter how much I practice, I don’t think I’ll ever get good at it. I just let Maggie push me around.” But he was smiling as he said it, and he accepted his drink from Mittermeyer with thanks.

They sat down on the couch together, very companionable, shoulder to shoulder. Yang was different than Reuenthal in that respect— had Reuenthal been here, he would have been unable to resist taking advantage of the moment, even with Eva just in the next room. But Yang was peaceful and content, and Mittermeyer knew he wouldn’t disturb the sanctity of Mittermeyer’s house unless he invited him to.

“How long do you think they’ll be in there?” Mittermeyer asked.

“I’m sure it won’t take less than an hour,” Yang replied. “I know as soon as they’re finished with hair, Maggie will make her show off her dress… You know how it is.” Magdalena was a kind genius, was what Yang was attempting to say.

Mittermeyer nodded and sipped at his drink, just listening to the music. Yang did the same.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” Mittermeyer pointed out after a while. “Something on your mind?”

“The things that aren’t on my mind would be a shorter list.”

“Is there something specific?”

Yang looked down into his glass. “Not really. I was just thinking about your wedding, I guess.”

“What about it?” He couldn’t help but be wary, though Yang would never be malicious in bringing it up— he clearly only was mentioning it because he was pressed, and he was an honest man.

“It’s nothing important,” he said hastily. “You just reminded me, when you asked about if I liked dancing— at your wedding I said that you would never have to dance with me.” There was an audible melancholy in his voice, one that belied that he had been thinking about this topic more than his casual phrasing would suggest. He shook his head. “That’s all I’m thinking about— I’m being silly.”

Mittermeyer looked at him for a moment, Yang’s eyes skating away from his, a flush on his cheeks that couldn’t quite be attributed to alcohol. Mittermeyer looked behind himself at the closed bedroom door into which Magdalena and Eva had disappeared, then put his drink down on the coffee table and stood, offering his hand to Yang. He looked up at him with wide eyes before taking it, and Mittermeyer gently tugged him to his feet and into the small center of the room, on the worn braided rug.

Yang was a nervous person in some ways, so Mittermeyer moved slowly as he put his hand on Yang’s waist, stepping very close to him. Yang didn’t say anything, but over the gentle music, Mittermeyer could hear the hitch-change in his breathing, shallow and fluttering. He pulled Yang against him, and Yang leaned his head on Mittermeyer’s shoulder, his soft hair tickling his neck.

He had expected that dancing with Yang would be pleasant, but it was so much nicer than he had expected, to have Yang’s warm body against his, pliant as Mittermeyer shuffled him around in a simple four step square. It could hardly even be considered dancing, but that didn’t matter. It was perfect for what it was. With Yang, Mittermeyer didn’t find himself missing the urgency that so much else in his life demanded from him.

But the song eventually ended. Yang lifted his head off of Mittermeyer’s shoulder to look at him. Yang’s eyes glittered— the darkness of space, with stars in it— maybe it was the light, and maybe it was something else.

“Thank you,” Yang said. He touched Mittermeyer’s cheek, so lightly that his fingertips barely grazed Mittermeyer’s skin, and tickled the day’s worth of growth of his beard. He wasn’t asking for anything, but Mittermeyer kissed him anyway, and pulled him back down to the couch. Yang’s body melted against him, not at all urgent, but welcoming Mittermeyer’s touch.

It was dangerous to kiss on the couch, and Mittermeyer positioned himself so that he could see the door of the bedroom. He had never had any self control when it came to this, which made him feel guilty, even as Yang seemed to be doing his best to push every thought out of Mittermeyer’s head— stroking his hair, leaning heavily against him, kissing him with a mouth that still tasted like alcohol.

They continued like this for a while, until Yang pulled away. Mittermeyer wondered why, and then he realized that while he had been paying attention to how Yang’s body felt soft under his hands, Yang’s hand traveling down his arm and side must have felt how he was tensing every muscle in his body at once— the strain of holding the guilt and pleasure of the moment in balance. Yang smiled at him, and Mittermeyer tried to relax.

“I should ask what’s on your mind,” Yang said.

“You already know the answer.” He missed Yang’s touch as soon as he no longer had it, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask for it back. Yang saw the still-wanting look in Mittermeyer’s eyes, and while he didn’t kiss him again, he curled up on the couch, and let his head rest in Mittermeyer’s lap. Mittermeyer ran his fingers through Yang’s hair.

“I’m jealous of you, you know,” Mittermeyer said after some time.

“I’m sorry,” Yang murmured.

“No, don’t apologize.” He kept playing with Yang’s hair. “You just have a very good way of making me aware of how life could be. You always have.”

Yang was silent.

“Should I tell Eva?”

“She would forgive you, if you did.”

Mittermeyer knew that this was true— Yang wouldn’t lie to him, and he knew Eva very well. She was a forgiving person, and better than he was. But he didn’t want to be the kind of person who needed to be forgiven. It was worse to keep her in the dark, but her knowing would change the way she saw him, make him into something difficult and complicated. It would hurt her, to know that her husband was not an honest man.

He had spent years thinking about this, and had never come to a conclusion, and he doubted that he was going to now. But he let his fingers drift through Yang’s hair, and this eased some of his tension, even as the thoughts continued to pass on their circular journey through his mind. He realized, after some time, that Yang had fallen asleep.

Although he really should get Yang’s head off his lap, he didn’t want to move. Perhaps he was testing himself. So, when Magdalena and Eva emerged from the bedroom, with Eva’s hair coiled up delicately around a flowery circlet, Yang was still curled up and snoring and using him as a pillow. Mittermeyer was looking at his phone and pretending to be nonchalant.

Evangeline smiled at the both of them.

“You must not be letting your fiance get enough sleep,” Mittermeyer said to Magdalena. “He passed out on top of me.”

“No, I think it must be that you bored him to sleep,” Magdalena retorted.

The noise woke Yang up, and he jolted upright, his face beet red, and he looked at Mittermeyer in a momentary panic. “I’m so sorry, I must have fallen asleep— I didn’t mean to— on you.” He was still half incoherent in his return to consciousness.

“It’s fine, Leigh,” Mittermeyer said. “If it bothered me, I would have woken you up.”

Reuenthal

Why he had been convinced to come here tonight, Reuenthal couldn’t explain. The bar that Yang’s bachelor party was being held at was upscale, and a far cry from most of the bars that Yang had preferred to frequent back in the days when he was teaching at the IOA. He was sure that Yang hadn’t picked it, even though it was his event. It must have been suggested to him by his fiancee, or even by someone like Duke Braunschweig. At least everyone else at the gathering seemed to appreciate the venue, probably due to the tab Yang had opened at the bar, on which everyone was putting their drinks.

Yang had not so much announced that he would pay for everyone as simply, in his usual unassuming way, let the information percolate, quietly enough that no one could protest or thank him. It had been over half a year since he had been made a count, and this was the first outlay of his money that Reuenthal had even seen. Yang’s lifestyle, such as it was, hardly seemed to have changed in the interim. This was the subject of no small amount of derision from Elfriede, when Reuenthal happened to mention it. But he had fallen out of the habit of mentioning Yang to her, for that reason, and others.

Elfriede wasn’t in the bar tonight, of course, since it was Yang’s bachelor party. There was Mittermeyer, who seemed completely unencumbered by the world, laughing and joking with Bittenfeld and Wahlen. Bittenfeld had arranged his leave specifically to see Yang married, and had come back to Odin from some distant frontier resupply duty. He was a captain these days, and therefore in charge of a whole squad of ships, but he complained endlessly about how dull supply runs were. Wahlen, on the other hand, had made it to commodore, and was on an extended personal leave already due to the birth of his son. He showed everyone who would give him the opportunity pictures of the extremely rotund, bald baby and the tiny wife he had apparently emerged from.

Eisenach, who also remained a captain (and probably would for the rest of all time, unless someone decided that a flag officer who refused to give verbal orders was a thing that the Imperial Fleet could suffer to have), was playing darts with Yang’s red-headed eavesdropping protege, Lieutenant Kircheis. It seemed that the lowest-ranked person at the party had decided that the silent captain was the safest avenue for socialization.

After a little while spent speaking with people in obligatory greeting, Reuenthal was sitting at the bar, drinking a whiskey. He wasn’t quite alone: Yang’s friend Oberstein, the dour looking captain with prematurely gray hair, sat a seat away from him with a flagon of beer in front of him that never seemed to get any emptier. It seemed they had both received pity invitations to the party.

When Bittenfeld roared out, “You invited WHO?” Reuenthal looked over at Yang, over at the pool table, who waved his hands in a conciliatory manner.

“Well he said he didn’t want to come, so it’s a moot point anyway!”

“Leigh, you have a saintly ability to forgive, I think,” Wahlen said. “I’m willing to take your lead, but I remember when we graduated— I’m glad Ansbach had the sense to stay away, so he doesn’t accidentally repeat that infamous fight at Josef’s.”

“We’re not at Josef’s,” Yang pointed out.

“Yeah, this place is much classier. It would make a much funnier image for me to toss him over a table,” Bittenfeld said.

“Ansbach is fine,” Yang stressed. “Isn’t he, Kircheis?”

Kircheis, startled at being summoned, missed his dart in the game, and it thunked into the wall outside the board, causing Eisenach to shake his head and go retrieve it. “Er, yes, sir,” Kircheis said, though he sounded more like he was trying to preserve some kind of peace than he had any real convictions.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Mittermeyer said.

“Well, he’s coming to the wedding,” Yang said. “So I guess I’m glad I warned you all. He really is fine, though.”

“If you say so,” Wahlen said.

“Look— if you made me choose between Ansbach and Baron Flegel—” Yang said.

“Well if THAT’S the kind of choice that you have, no wonder,” Bittenfeld said. “Like a drink of piss in the desert.” Presumably, Yang had complained about Duke Braunschweig’s extended family in his letters to Bittenfeld as much as he had to Reuenthal.

“Your talent for metaphor has greatly improved since I last saw you,” Yang said dryly.

“Thank you,” Bittenfeld said with a comical bow.

Reuenthal shook his head and turned back to his drink. He drank in silence for a while. It was easy enough to listen to the chatter of his old friends, the ambiance of the bar outside their small circle. It neither soothed nor discomforted him. He could feel Yang’s occasional glances in his direction, but he seemed to have decided that truly disturbing Reuenthal would be unwise. Was he right? Reuenthal didn’t know.

Yang ended up dragged into a poker game with Eisenach, Bittenfeld, Wahlen, and Mittermeyer. Wahlen tried to wave Reuenthal over to join, but Reuenthal just raised his drink in a toast and shook his head. He remained at the bar, and was unfortunately joined by Lieutenant Kircheis, who sat down near him and got a beer.

“No interest in poker, Lieutenant?” Reuenthal asked.

Kircheis seemed surprised to be addressed. “Commodore Leigh would feel very bad if he won money from me, and he’d spend the next week trying to pay me back,” Kircheis said. “It’s better if I bow out before the game begins.”

“So, just convinced you’d lose.”

“It’s a game of chance, sir. There’s a chance I’d lose, no matter how well I played my hand.”

“The lieutenant is right,” Oberstein said. He had been listening to their brief conversation, and paying attention to the goings-on at the party just as much as Reuenthal had. “Strategy is about playing hands you know you can win.”

“You count cards, Oberstein?” Reuenthal asked. Thinking about it, it wouldn’t surprise him if Oberstein could see through the cards, with his mechanical eyes.

“I’m not a gambler.”

“You and Lieutenant Kircheis have met before, I assume?”

“Yes. On Iserlohn,” Oberstein said. “It’s rare that all of Commodore Leigh’s close friends are together on Odin.”

“I’m sure he apologized profusely to you for costing you your Iserlohn post.”

“It’s no matter,” Oberstein said. “I knew that it was a matter of time. There are other posts.”

“What are you doing on Odin, sir?” Kircheis asked.

“Actuarial duty,” Oberstein replied dryly.

“And I’ve been moved to the budget office,” Reuenthal said. “It’s interesting that Fleet Admiral Muckenburger considers hands on the purse strings to have no power.”

“When the Kaiser dies, Braunschweig’s fleet will continue to fund itself on his planets’ revenues, and what he’s managed to stash away for this occasion. There isn’t time for meaningful change in the movement of money to make a difference, at this point. If you had been assigned there five years ago, there would have been time, and reason.”

“You speak so openly of defrauding His Majesty’s fleet, Captain Oberstein.”

“Defrauding? No. There would have been ways to move money that no one could have called improper. Funding one fleet while disbanding others for budgetary reasons. Unless you would have thought to directly enrich yourself?”

Reuenthal laughed darkly. “There are plenty of men who would.”

“Where is Rear Admiral Mittermeyer assigned on Odin?” Kircheis asked, clearly wanting to break the tension.

“The research division, under Admiral Schaft,” Reuenthal said. “Another miserable engineering post, in a department that’s produced nothing of worth in years.”

“They came up with directed zephyr particles,” Kircheis pointed out.

“An innovation that was promptly conveyed to the rebel fleet, before anyone even had a chance to get a tactical advantage out of it,” Reuenthal said.

“True,” Kircheis said.

“It’s an interim position, anyway. He won’t be in it for long. And the same for myself in the budget office, and Oberstein, fixing the fleet’s accounts. You and Leigh are very lucky that you have a permanent place.”

“Yes, sir,” Kircheis said, though he didn’t sound so sure.

“You don’t like working for Duke Braunschweig?”

Kircheis hesitated, then said, “It’s not Duke Braunschweig I’m working for.”

“You should be careful, Lieutenant,” Reuenthal said. “Dangerous talk.”

“Yes, sir,” Kircheis said.

Reuenthal wasn’t sure if he should pity Kircheis or not. Yang clearly trusted him and liked him, enough to invite him to this party, anyway. But the distance between them was so large— even if Yang wanted to ignore it, it was the kind of thing that Kircheis had to be hyper aware of. Before he could poke at Kircheis’s feelings towards Yang as a superior, Oberstein spoke up in his nasally voice, saving Kircheis from Reuenthal’s cross-examination.

“Commodore Leigh has a unique talent for gathering loyal friends,” he said.

“And in such great numbers,” Reuenthal said, sarcasm in his voice, though it wasn’t exactly fair. Yang had plenty of contacts who weren’t invited to the small party— Count Mariendorf, his spy on Phezzan, surely more who Reuenthal didn’t know about.

“Perhaps not,” Oberstein said. “But he is well positioned, and a small group is easier to coordinate, when the time comes.”

“Are you trying to ask who here is loyal enough to Leigh?” Reuenthal asked. “I’m the wrong person to get that information out of.”

“No,” Oberstein said. “I’m already well aware of where people’s loyalties fall.”

“It’s for the best that Commodore Ansbach declined his invitation tonight. It would be unwise to talk about all of this with him in the room,” Reuenthal said.

“Would it be?” Oberstein asked. “I expect that in the near future, some of us here on Odin will need to sit down and coordinate.”

“Coordinate what, precisely?” Reuenthal asked, though he was being intentionally obtuse just to poke Oberstein into talking more. “As we’ve already discussed, I have no power here on Odin. I don’t have a single troop under my command.”

“Neither does Duke Braunschweig, at this moment,” Oberstein said. “All of his men are held on his estates and areas under his control. Muckenburger would never give him, or any other noble like him, permission to stage his personal troops in the capital. But when they arrive, it will be a different story. I’m certain Lieutenant Kircheis could tell us if Commodore Leigh has plans prepared.”

“I’m sorry, Captain, I can’t speak to that,” Kircheis said. He had been listening intently, but was clearly not the type to speak unless spoken to.

“Of course not,” Oberstein said. “One thing that you should be aware of, if you aren’t already, is that Duke Braunschweig is at a disadvantage in the capital. Marquis Littenheim has hands and eyes in the military police.”

“And how do you know this?”

Oberstein didn’t answer the question. “Keeping them occupied during key moments, so that they can’t interfere with any of Braunschweig’s plans, may be a task that will be left to someone who remains on Odin.”

“We’ll see,” Reuenthal said.

There was a cheer from Bittenfeld at the card table, and Wahlen grumbled as he shoved the pot of money towards him. Reuenthal finished his drink, then stood. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”

He couldn’t quite put his finger on why Oberstein grated on him so much, but he did. Perhaps it was just jealousy— the kind of feeling that was lurking on the edges of this entire party. Jealous that Yang would marry someone. Jealous that Yang would trust anyone other than himself, especially a man like Oberstein, who had come out of nowhere to enter Yang’s life. Reuenthal could identify that emotion easily enough, and it was easy to admit it to himself, but that didn’t mean he could do anything about it.

Since the first round of poker had ended, Reuenthal went over to their table. “Deal me in,” he said, and pulled up a chair to squeeze in between Yang and Eisenach, who was dealing.

Yang smiled at him, a real, genuine smile, and scooted his chair over to make room.

“Glad you could join us, Reuenthal,” Bittenfeld said. “I’m looking forward to clearing you out, too.”

“You just got lucky,” Wahlen said. “It had to happen someday.”

Bittenfeld’s usual strategy at poker, Reuenthal remembered, was holding onto his cards for an unreasonably long amount of time, and never folding, regardless of what he actually happened to have in his hand. It was pretty easy to beat him, but it was also impossible to tell what kind of hand he was holding.

Eisenach dealt him in, and Reuenthal pulled a few single mark coins from his pockets to toss into the pot.

“So, Reuenthal, I hear you’ve got a girl now,” Bittenfeld said as he peered at his cards. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Fine,” Reuenthal said shortly. He lifted the edge of his cards up from the table so that he could see his own hand. Two queens.

“What’s she like? Mittermeyer says she’s living in your house. I didn’t know you were the type of guy to do a thing like that.”

“Oh?” Reuenthal said. “I wasn’t aware I had a good reputation to ruin.”

Bittenfeld laughed. “Well, come on, tell us about her. At least her name.”

“Elfriede von Kohlrausch."

“Kohlrausch… Never heard of her.”

“Minor nobility,” Reuenthal said. “Her father was the second brother of a baron.”

“So, what is she doing living in your house?”

“What do you think she’s doing living in my house, Bittenfeld?”

Bittenfeld snorted with laughter, and elbowed Mittermeyer in the ribs. “I remember— I told Mittermeyer we should have gone to a strip club for his bachelor party. But now we’ve lost the opportunity, since half of you are respectably married now, and you’ve already got something unrespectable going on at home.” Bittenfeld craned his neck to shout over at Kircheis and Oberstein. “Hey! When we get out of here, all of us who still don’t have wives should go have some real fun!”

“Er, I’m good, thank you, sir,” Kircheis said, looking up from whatever conversation he was having with Oberstein.

“Leave Kircheis alone,” Yang said with a laugh. “He doesn’t need your bad influence.”

“Only yours,” Reuenthal said.

“There are worse influences for a person to have,” Mittermeyer said.

Eisenach turned over the three cards in front of him. There was a king on the table, along with a seven and a two. Reuenthal looked around, trying to determine who might have a better hand than his pair. He couldn’t tell, but since a pair of queens was a fairly high pair, he decided to stay in. If anyone had a king in their hand, he would be beaten, but nobody gave any indications, aside from Wahlen folding immediately, which caused Bittenfeld to boo him.

“My hand was awful,” Wahlen protested. “I don’t need to lose all my spare change to you.”

“Spare change?” Bittenfeld scoffed as he pushed a significant chunk of his previous winnings back into the pot. Reuenthal sighed and got out his wallet to match Bittenfeld’s bet.

Yang, much more practical, looked like he wanted to fold, but Bittenfeld said, “You have money to spare, Leigh. If you fold because I’m pretending to be rich today—!”

“Fine, fine,” Yang said with a laugh, and put a few bills in the center of the table.

Mittermeyer tossed in his, too, with a cheerful grimace.

Eisenach raised an eyebrow, and then flipped over the next card— a second king. If anyone else had a king in their hands, Reuenthal was doomed, but how likely was that? Two in forty-six chance for each of the six cards in their hands. The odds added up.

Bittenfeld did not dump the rest of his money into the pot this time, and no one else around the table raised the ante either. This, to Reuenthal, seemed like Bittenfeld’s equivalent of folding. Yang was too cautious of a person to ever raise the stakes on his own, and Mittermeyer’s eyes bored into his across the table. Reuenthal smiled.

Eisenach flipped over the last card— a four.

Everyone revealed their hands. Reuenthal almost laughed when he saw Mittermeyer’s hand— he had the other two queens. “We tied,” he said.

“What are the odds?”

Bittenfeld scowled and pushed the pot towards Yang. Reuenthal finally looked over at his hand. Three sevens and two kings: a full house.

“You always manage to come out on top,” Reuenthal said.

Yang just shook his head and waved at the waitress to get everyone another round of beers. They played another few rounds. Yang did his best to lose the money he had just won, which annoyed Reuenthal to watch, so he eventually got up and went to stand on the balcony of the bar, a beer in hand. His departure made the game break up, and Bittenfeld dragged Kircheis into a game of pool, while Yang sat down with Oberstein, Eisenach, and Wahlen. Mittermeyer followed Reuenthal outside.

It was a cool night out, and clouds were covering the stars. It would rain soon, but it wasn’t raining yet.

“Thank you for coming,” Mittermeyer said to him as they leaned on the cold wrought-iron railing.

“I don’t know why you’re thanking me,” Reuenthal said. “It’s not your party.”

“Yeah.” Mittermeyer stared down at the street. There was throbbing music coming out of the first floor of the bar below them, and cars rushing too fast down the road. “I’m still glad, though. It’s good to get to see you.”

Reuenthal was tempted to ask if he was forgiven for not having gone to Mittermeyer’s wedding, years ago, but he knew that the answer was almost certainly yes (or, at least, Mittermeyer would say yes, which was a different thing). And he didn’t want to hear it, anyway. Instead, he just stayed silent.

“Are you bringing Fraulein Kohlrausch to the wedding tomorrow? I’d like to meet her,” Mittermeyer asked, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know why you do.”

“She’s clearly important to you. I hope you don’t think I resent that.”

“She’s not important.”

“I don’t know how you can say that when she’s been living with you for months.” The beer in his hands was tilted precariously over the sidewalk, threatening to spill on any passersby— he was a bit drunk. “And keeping you busy.”

“You’re always busy on Odin. I don’t think that’s changed in the least. It’s not me who’s busy.”

“But with her in your house, you don’t want anyone to come see you.” He sighed. “I assume she doesn’t know anything.”

Reuenthal barked out a laugh, which meant nothing. “She’ll come tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad.”

They were silent again. Reuenthal thought about going back inside, but he was compelled to stay there with Mittermeyer, who was staring off into the distance, looking at the lights of the capital city.

“Is it wrong of me to be looking forward to all of this falling apart?” Mittermeyer asked after a while.

“Civil war, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Leigh would be a better person to answer that question than I am.”

“I know, that’s why I’m asking you. It would upset him.”

“It doesn’t matter what you feel about it,” Reuenthal said. “It doesn’t matter what Leigh feels about it, either. It’s nothing that anybody could stop— not even the Kaiser, at this point. Even if he named an heir, that kid would just die sooner. The only person who could have stopped it was whoever murdered Prince Ludwig, years ago. If the assassin had been faced with a change of heart, and he hadn’t gone through with it.”

“Yeah.” This hadn’t been the answer Mittermeyer wanted.

“Why are you looking forward to it?”

He didn’t look at Reuenthal, and it took a moment for him to gather his thoughts. Reuenthal just waited.

“Everything keeps shifting around,” he said. “I keep picking things to say— oh, once this is done, everything will go back to normal.” He shook his head. “Coming back home from Barbarasturm, then getting out of my punishment duty at Iserlohn, getting back to Odin, Leigh’s wedding— and even, I don’t know, so many things before that I can’t even remember.”

Reuenthal could remember. He was sure that Mittermeyer had the same sensation concerning his own wedding, years ago. That was the reason he had gotten married in the first place.

Mittermeyer continued. “But everything just keeps happening, and afterwards it doesn’t feel like anything’s fixed or normal, and as soon as I get used to the status quo, there’s something else just looming out there.” He tilted his beer towards the darkness of the horizon, against which the city lights stood out, until they vanished under an oncoming curtain of rain. It was still far off in the distance, but it had begun to obscure the furthest lights.

“Anyway,” Mittermeyer said, “the thing about the war is— I can’t even imagine what’s on the other side of it. So I can’t build it up as this perfect place in the future where everything will be somehow, magically…” He trailed off and shook his head.

“You can’t? I’m surprised.”

“I mean, I can say ‘once it’s over, I’ll be happy’ but that’s not anything,” Mittermeyer said.

Perhaps Mittermeyer had cut to the difference between the two of them, though he didn’t realize it. He wouldn’t have been saying so much if he had seen it, cold and clear as day— though he was drunk, which made him talkative.

If there was something waiting out there, something Reuenthal could see coming but couldn’t control, standing in the threshold just waiting for some unspoken signal to enter— he never expected it to be something good on its way. All he could do was tense himself, brace himself to bear the brunt of the blow, whatever it was, and from whatever direction it came.

“I thought you were happy now,” Reuenthal said. “That’s the impression you give.”

“Is it?” He laughed. “I guess I’m glad I do.” He finished his beer, and looked forlornly into his glass, trying to summon more from the air. “I am happy, when I’m not thinking about it. When I’m in the moment. I guess it’s just hard to stay in the moment when there’s always something that’s coming. It’s easy to be happy. It’s harder to be content.”

That, Reuenthal could understand. And Mittermeyer was telling the truth— he always was happy in their snatched moments on Iserlohn, but when he started anticipating going on leave, it fell apart. He nodded silently.

“What about you, Oskar?” Mittemeyer asked.

“What about me?”

“Are you happy, these days?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

Reuenthal finished his drink, too. “If I say yes, or if I say no, it’s not going to change anything,” Reuenthal said. “It’s not something I think about.”

Mittermeyer looked at him with concern written in the furrow of his eyebrows. “Oskar—”

“I’m looking forward to the war, too,” Reuenthal said shortly. This satisfied Mittermeyer, who nodded. But Reuenthal was certain that he was anticipating it for other reasons than whatever Mittermeyer thought he meant. He could imagine a future with everything he wanted to see, the kinds of futures that swirled through his dreams— visions of Yang and Mittermeyer, and fire, and blood— but that wasn’t the anticipation that he felt in his waking moments.

It wasn’t dread. The feeling that was closest to his heart was one that he couldn’t express to anyone else— not even Yang or Mittermeyer. It was a feeling of wanting. Craving. Waiting to be tested, waiting for the blow to come, and wondering if he had prepared himself enough to endure it.

And yet, he didn’t want to get it over with. What if the moment before the blow landed could stretch on forever? What if the moment of being hit could last forever, too? Perhaps, unlike Mittermeyer, he was waiting for the storm to begin, but hoped that it would never end. Whatever Mittermeyer saw as beautiful on the other side disgusted him.

Reuenthal turned around, leaning against the railing with his elbows behind him. He could see into the bar, where Yang was also leaning against the bar itself, waiting for the bartender to finish mixing his drink. He was looking out the large, sliding glass doors onto the balcony, either looking at Reuenthal and Mittermeyer, or past them, at the clouds that were swiftly scuttling towards them on the horizon. He was startled when Reuenthal turned around, and their eyes met across the distance.

“I should go home,” Reuenthal said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mittermeyer.”

It was pouring rain when Reuenthal arrived home. His car headlights slashed through the haze and illuminated the walls of his house. Even though it was well past midnight, approaching two in the morning, there were lights on in the windows, and he could see Elfriede’s shadow cross the kitchen.

He sat in the car with his lights off and watched her silhouette move across the room. He pretended like she was someone else, but he didn’t know who. When she stopped her pacing around the kitchen and stood in front of the window watching him, Reuenthal finally turned off the car and walked up to the house, splashing through the invisible puddles in the driveway and slamming open the side door.

When he made it into the kitchen, she was no longer there. This was a familiar game, at this point. If he stopped in the kitchen, or went into the living room to get himself a drink, she would wander through the building like a ghost, creaking on the stairs and on the floor overhead, letting Reuenthal only catch glimpses of her in windows or doorways until he hunted her down.

It was hot inside, almost unbearably so. Elfriede wanted things to be so warm. She once said that it was the only thing she had liked about being trapped in her family’s frontier home— it was tropical. Reuenthal could hardly imagine it, except that his house had become like a sauna. He wondered if she would do this all through the summer, raising the temperature degree by degree, until they both boiled to death in it.

The kitchen smelled like spoiled milk. He discovered the culprit immediately, a half-gallon that had been left out on the countertop, open. He was unsure when it had gone bad, or why it had been left there, but he poured it down the sink— thick, white slime coating the stainless steel.

He could still feel the alcohol in his system, distantly, and the throbbing of his head, more distantly still. The hot air of the house pressed down upon him and made him feel dizzy as he swam through it, up the stairs and down the hall. He still was in the habit of moving silently, no matter how disoriented he was, and so Elfriede didn’t hear him coming until he stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, or she would have turned around to face the door before he arrived.

She was standing at the window, naked, curtains pulled all the way open. The window faced the back of the house, and there were no neighbors for a quarter mile anyway, so no one but Reuenthal could see her.

“Were you waiting for me?” Reuenthal asked.

Elfriede spun around, startled. He didn’t know why she was so surprised. She had known he was coming, even if she hadn’t heard his footsteps in the hallway.

“No,” she said. When he studied her more closely, he saw that she was wet with rainwater— the window behind her was open, and drops were tracing their way down her skin. She had goosebumps on her arms, and her hair hadn’t been washed in several days— it fell limply around her shoulders.

“Then why are you still up?”

“You think I’m going to go to bed just because you’re here?” This was the opening salvo of an old argument. He would tell her that she obviously would be. They would go through a few lines of back and forth exchange to escalate, and she would call him a splenetic egoist, or something like it, and he would call her a cunt.

Thinking of going through with this, Reuenthal’s head throbbed like an open wound. He stepped through the doorway without saying anything else and began mechanically removing his constricting jacket. Elfriede watched him.

“Did you have a bad time with your friends?” she asked mockingly.

Reuenthal continued to say nothing. She was like the buzzing of an insect in his ears.

“I don’t know why you bothered to go.”

He struggled with the crimson fabric of his cravat. Before he could get it off, Elfriede came up behind him and slipped her fingers beneath the band, taking up all the slack and making the silk cut into his throat, making the knot impossible to undo. He could still breathe, for now. Her hands were hot on his skin, sliding across his neck, to press on the soft flesh just below his jaw.

“What do you want?” Reuenthal asked. It wasn’t a necessary question— he knew exactly what she wanted from him. She wanted him to get angry enough to turn around, to lay hands on her, to give her an excuse to hit and claw with impunity. To make it so that if he wanted something from her, he would have to take it by force. He sometimes tried to see if he could make her strike first, but she had a way of provoking him, and he had never yet succeeded in remaining entirely unflinching under her insults and touches that didn’t quite make it to pain. He wondered what it would take to make her break, to make her anger come uncorked completely.

It was easy to understand why she had more restraint, why she didn’t crack into immediate violence no matter how much he tried to twist verbal knives— they were very similar people, in their way. She was scared of him. If she was on the defensive, if she made him strike first, she could unleash her whole strength at him, struggling and writhing. She enjoyed that liberation. But if she struck first— what would he do? How far would he allow his strength to take him? This was a question that Reuenthal wasn’t even sure he knew the answer to. At his core, he knew that even in his darkest moments, he always had an iron shell of self restraint that he had not managed to crack. How many times had he stood on a precipice and not thrown himself off? A number too high to remember or count.

It was interesting to wonder how far he would go, if that shell ever broke. They danced on the edge of that question, afraid of falling off the cliff, and on better days it was easy to eroticise the fear. Today was not one of those better days.

Elfriede hadn’t answered his question, and instead just tightened the pressure on his throat. It made it hard to swallow, pressing against his Adam’s apple. He wondered what she would do if he just stood there and took it. He closed his eyes. The world, having narrowed to the sensation of her hands on his neck, crashed around him like waves. He couldn’t hear her breathing anymore, though it had been harsh and loud a moment ago. His ears rang.

He had some time in the space between taking his last breath and losing consciousness— he had the luxury of deciding if he wanted to allow it or not. The image of himself falling to the floor, his body completely vulnerable without his mind to inhabit it, flashed across his vision. In his imagination, he controlled Elfriede, inhabited her skin, let her loom over him with deadly intent, watched his empty shell from above, struck it. In his mind, he could be the knife and the wound at the same time.

But that was a fantasy, and he couldn’t allow it to become real. He toppled forward, pretending to lose consciousness. Elfriede’s hands were stuck in the fabric of his cravat, and she came down with him, hard, her body heavy on his back. She yanked her hands free, and Reuenthal flipped them both over and grabbed her wrists, pinning her to the wooden floor. He loomed over her now, trapping her body completely beneath his, their faces together, breathing heavily. The oxygen rushed back into his blood, fizzing and electric.

“What do you want?” she asked him in a snarl. She tried to squirm out of his hold, but they both knew that she wouldn’t be able to get up until he let her go. Abstractly, he thought it was a pity that she hadn’t let him undress first. He would have to let go of her hands to take off his pants, and this would lose the moment.

She clearly knew this, too. Although she kept trying to free her hands from where he had them pinned above her head, at the same time, she was rubbing herself against him.

“You’re disgusting,” Reuenthal said, but he forced his leg in between hers, bearing down, giving her the pressure from his thigh that she was looking for.

“So are you,” she said through gritted teeth.

She was right. He matched her movement for movement, her leg between his. A push and pull, if not a give and take. It was unpleasant to the point of pain, but there was still enough there that he wanted it desperately, couldn’t stop himself from seeking it out. His nails dug into her wrists; she bit at his collarbone hard enough to bruise.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Mittermeyer. He understood perfectly well how in the moment he could be happy, because the moment pushed out every other thought. This was true for Reuenthal now, though it wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t anything. There was a kind of emptiness that came from overwhelming every receptive channel in his body— the signals became a violent white noise: a static, electric. There were other ways to get to this place, but this was the way he got there now.

This emptiness carried him through the act to the end. It carried him past the disgust that drifted across the surface of his thoughts when they were both done, when he looked at her body beneath him, beautiful and slick with sweat. It carried him through his cold shower, and lasted until he returned to the bedroom and found her still awake and waiting, though she had turned off the lights. The window was still open, and all the heat that she loved so much was slipping out into the rain, which was coming in to puddle on the floor. Reuenthal shut the window and tossed his towel onto the water before it could ruin the hardwood.

“You’re coming with me, tomorrow,” he said as he mopped up the water. He didn’t look at her.

“I didn’t think you wanted to show me to your friends.”

“Don’t embarrass me.” He tossed the towel into the laundry basket and got into bed. As he put his head down on the pillow, she leaned over him and ran her hand through his wet hair. The touch was gentle, but she twisted the short strands around, letting him know that she could pull it if she wanted to.

“What changed your mind?” she asked. And she tugged on his hair enough to make him know she wanted an answer to the question.

“They won’t stop asking about you,” he said. “It will shut them up.” This wasn’t the real reason, but he couldn’t find the words for what the reason was, and even if he had them, he certainly wouldn’t tell her.

“I doubt it,” she said. “People love to talk about a scandal.”

“Your family must be grateful that you provide them with so many interesting conversation topics.”

She twisted his hair again. “Don’t talk about my family.”

“No? I did at the bar.”

“And what did you say to your friends?”

“We were discussing how to destroy them,” he said. “Building our own castles in the sky above the ruins of Neue Sanssouci and your grand uncle’s control of the Kaiser.”

Her fingernails traced lines of ice across his scalp. “Duke Braunschweig hardly wants you to build him a new palace. He would be happy enough with the old one. Why would you need to tear it down?”

He could hear Yang in his voice when he spoke. “Why does it deserve to exist?”

“And your new castle in the sky would be different, somehow?”

“If the person on the throne is the one who built it, then they’re worthy of it. A living thing, not some relic handed down from useless son to useless son.”

“Hah,” she said. “I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Even if Duke Braunschweig wins the throne through burning down his enemy’s house, he’s not any different. If you hate the Kaiser now, you’ll hate him, too.”

“I know.”

“Oh? Then why do you want to help him?”

He was silent, which made her tug on his hair again, until he slapped her hand away. She let go, and settled down into the bed to face him.

“So,” she said. “Who do you want to see on the throne?”

“After he wins, Duke Braunschweig will be weak, and he’ll think he’s consolidated his camp,” Reuenthal said. “That’s room for opportunity.”

“You’re a rebel to the bone,” Elfriede said. “But I don’t think you have the strength.”

Yang did— he knew this, as surely as he knew his own name— but Reuenthal would never say that to Elfriede. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here,” he said.

That was enough to shut her up.

Yang

The wedding was being held in the garden outside Magdalena’s mansion, with dinner and dancing inside afterwards. It was well into spring, and though the weather had been predicted to be fine, there was a light drizzle of rain falling by the afternoon. The plans remained the same, though, rain or shine, as the wedding had always been expected to take place under tents. The largest was nestled in among the just-greening bushes, with a covered corridor that led from the back of the house to the seats.

Even though Yang felt like she had invited the entire population of Odin, Magdalena kept saying that this was a small wedding. For nobility, it probably was. Aside from Yang’s handful of friends, here was Magdalena’s huge number of extended relatives and acquaintances; the Braunschweigs, who needed to be invited to prevent offense; and many of Yang’s former coworkers. Yang was very grateful to Magdalena’s family servants for taking care of so much of the greeting and seating of the guests, because even the minimal amount of socializing that he did before the ceremony began left him exhausted. Even Magdalena, with her desire to control the show, had bowed to the necessity of hiring an event organizer, who kept the whole show moving forward. It took all the work off Yang’s plate, which meant he just had to show up and smile. That was about all he felt capable of doing, so that was for the best.

While he felt comfortable enough in his dress uniform, which he had worn so many times, it was his own skin that felt tight and itchy, and he was using all his self-restraint not to destroy the slick way his hair had been done by the stylist Maggie had hired. He wished that she was by his side as he walked around saying hello to people he knew, or barely knew. Without her to guide him through it all, he felt completely lost. She was hiding somewhere in the house, getting the last touches put on her outfit, which he had not been allowed to see— it was bad luck, or so she said.

But at least this feeling of missing her by his side did more than anything else to calm his nerves about being married. They needed each other, or at least he needed her.

As the appointed time drew closer, and the tent filled up with more and more people, Yang nervously walked around, and made his last few bits of small talk. Kircheis, who continued to take his duties as Yang’s aide seriously, followed him around as a buffer, even though he wasn’t part of the wedding ceremony in the least. Yang truly appreciated his help nonetheless.

It seemed a little too fraught to spend too much time speaking to his friends, especially Reuenthal and Mittermeyer, so Yang brought Kircheis over to introduce him to Admiral Merkatz and his daughter, Cora Feldmann. She was sitting in between Merkatz and Rear Admiral Bronner, which was an arrangement that Yang thought was an odd choice, but he wasn’t going to question it. There was a seat reserved for Commodore Staden on the other side of Merkatz, but he had gotten up to find some water in the house to take some stomach medication with, and so wasn’t here to say hello.

“I’m so glad your schedule permitted you to come, sir,” Yang said to Merkatz.

“Of course. I’m glad I happened to be on Odin. I really must congratulate you, Leigh. You’ve come a long way.”

Yang reached towards the back of his head to rub his hair, then remembered that his hair was supposed to stay neat, and dropped it awkwardly back down to his side. “Yes, sir.” His smile was uncomfortable, but Merkatz didn’t push the issue.

“And all of this because you didn’t pay attention to my warning about Baroness Westpfale,” his daughter Cora said with a laugh. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

“Well, she’s succeeded in putting a leash on me,” Yang said. “I think that’s what the intent was, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think Baroness Westpfale, of all people, can be thanked for your good standing in society,” Bronner said, wrinkling his nose. “I think you should be thanking someone else.”

“You know, Rear Admiral, I did thank you in the acknowledgement section of my book,” Yang said. “I’ll get you a copy.”

“I’ve already read it, Leigh,” Bronner said, but he smiled, which made his owlish face look almost uncanny. Yang laughed.

“Admiral Merkatz, have you met my, er, aide, Lieutenant Kircheis?”

Kircheis had not expected to be dragged into this conversation, and he was startled— he had been looking across the tent to where the Braunschweigs were sitting. Hilde was over there, talking to Lady Elizabeth, sitting in the seat that had been reserved for Elizabeth’s fiancee, Hans von Vering.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” Merkatz said. He offered his hand to Kircheis, who shook it.

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Kircheis said.

“I figured I should introduce you, since it seems like we may be working together more closely again in the future.”

“Yes,” Merkatz said, though this was with a pinch of his lips. “That may be so.” He switched the topic. “I notice you didn’t introduce him to Rear Admiral Bronner— have the two of you already met?”

“Oh, yes, I’m very well acquainted with Lieutenant Kircheis. It’s no surprise to me that he was Commodore Leigh’s favorite student— they’re both humanitarians.”

“Is that so?” Merkatz asked.

“I’m sure Rear Admiral Bronner’s next remark will be to say how terrible of actors we are, as well,” Yang said dryly.

“Well, you wouldn’t want me to accuse you of anything else on your wedding day!”

Yang laughed. “Well, I’d say that there are far worse things in the world than being a humanitarian, or a bad actor.”

“Not many,” Bronner said. “But you’re lucky that there are some.”

“I think I’ve come around on humanitarianism,” Merkatz said.

“Really?” Yang looked up at him, startled.

“To a degree.”

“Well, everything to a degree,” Yang said wryly.

Merkatz’s tone became serious. “I’m afraid that without humanitarians close to the duke, we’ll see far more bloodshed than this nation can really withstand. I hope that you’re in a position to advise him well.”

This ruined the cheerful mood, but Yang nodded. And he was glad to have Merkatz on his side, at least. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he said. “I’m sure you don’t have any reason to doubt that.”

“I’m glad that I don’t have to doubt that we’ll be playing the same game, on the same team.”

“Yes, sir,” Yang said.

It looked like Bronner was about to make another comment, but Kircheis pointed out to Yang that the event organizer was coming over to shoo everyone back to their seats, including Kircheis, and to get Yang into position. He bid his leave of his former superiors and made his way up to the front of the room, waiting near the small band for the signal for the event to begin. His heart had begun to beat strangely, and he tried to calm it by looking out past the edge of the tent into the dripping rain. The noise behind him turned from social chatter to everyone trying to find their seats, and faded out in Yang’s ears, leaving only the soft dripping of the rain and the strings of the band. As the noise dimmed, Yang turned back to look at the assembled crowd.

Everyone was settled in the nice white event chairs on the green fake-grass carpet. There was Mittermeyer and Evangeline, smiling and turned backwards in their seats to speak a few remaining words to the rest of Yang’s friends, all with their assortment of wives and girlfriends who had come. Reuenthal sat next to Mittermeyer, but was quieter, and at his side was a beautiful blonde woman, wearing a dress that, even in Yang’s eyes, was about thirty years out of date. She must have been Elfriede von Kohlsrauch, though Reuenthal hadn’t yet introduced her to Yang. But still, Yang’s heart was warmed to see him there, and he smiled, even though Reuenthal wasn’t looking at him. Reuenthal was doing exactly what he had done just a moment before— his head was turned to look at the rain.

There was such a feeling of love and gratefulness in Yang’s heart as he looked over the gathering. During the rush to say hello to people, he hadn’t stopped to process how it felt to see all of his friends here at once— it overwhelmed him, and made him misty eyed. He wasn’t usually a tearful person, but he could have cried about that. He couldn’t quite comprehend that all of these people were here for him, and yet the evidence that they were was incontrovertible. It felt, for a moment, like he was where he belonged— even if that feeling came with twists of guilt. Most of these people were here for Hank von Leigh.

But his eyes settled on Reuenthal and Mittermeyer again. Reuenthal, as if feeling his gaze, turned to look at him. Yang tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure what came across on his face. Reuenthal looked away after a moment, but it was enough to shake Yang free of his winding thoughts.

The event organizer gave Yang the signal to move to the front of the room, on the small raised platform. He steeled himself, taking a breath, and nervously smoothed down the red sash of his dress uniform before he got into position.

Up front, Yang stood at attention and looked down the strip of red carpet towards the covered entryway of the tent, where he was waiting for Magdalena to emerge. Everyone’s eyes were on him, and the chatter under the tent faded to nothing. On some unspoken signal, the band’s music changed, and they struck up the wedding march.

Magdalena walked out of the open doors of the house, under the flower-bedecked archway, down the aisle. She was radiant in all white— perhaps the most beautiful woman Yang had ever seen. Her black hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and was topped with a silver and diamond tiara made to look like a dewy crown of roses. Her gown was voluminous, but she somehow made it look natural, moving with a grace that even at a distance made Yang feel clumsy and unprepared. Sheer lace wrapped around her arms and neck, and a veil fluttered over her face, doing little to obscure her ruby lips and her glittering eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and her expression was so strange— he had never seen her look at him in quite that way before. But his expression must have matched hers— if anyone had asked him what he was feeling in that moment, he would have had to lie, because he had no idea how to name the strange and familiar feelings that were tumbling around in his heart.

It seemed to take forever for her to walk up the aisle towards him, but she eventually arrived and smiled at him. All of his nervousness fell away at that expression on her face. If she was there, as ready to go through with it as he was, then it would all be alright.

Before the wedding march had finished, before the celebrant— some Imperial priest that Madalena’s mother had chosen— stepped forward, Magdalena said, quietly enough that only he could hear, “I guess we really are getting our revenge on them all, aren’t we, Hank?”

She wasn’t serious, not really. “You’re right,” he said, smiling at her. “We are living well.”

She shook her head, but he could see that he had said the right thing— her face was twitching as she fought to stifle the smile that rose to her lips.

Later, Yang could hardly recall anything else that happened at the ceremony. All of the actions— the standing, the kneeling, the binding of the hands, the exchanging of rings— seemed to pass in a blur. He would have liked to have committed them to memory, to savor them later, but the only thing that stuck in his mind was the feeling of it. The world dimmed at the edges to only encompass Magdalena’s laughing eyes. It felt like they were, for a minute, the only two people in the world who really knew what was going on— like they were playing some kind of game, or joke, on the rest of the world, and they were on the winning team.

When it came to the profession of vows, it was very easy to swear to love one another in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, til death do us part. It was only when the officiant asked Magdalena if she took Hank von Leigh to be her husband that he felt anything other than like laughing. He looked deeply into her eyes, resisting the temptation to look anywhere else, and she cocked her head with a knowing smile.

“Of course I do, Hank,” she said.

“And you, Hank von Leigh, do you take Magdalena von Westpfale to be your wedded wife?”

“I do,” Yang said. And that was that.

And when he lifted up her veil to kiss her, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling so broadly that her lips no longer covered her teeth, and her lipstick ended up above his upper lip.

There was a loud wolf-whistle from the audience, which Yang, in a distant corner of his mind, suspected came from Bittenfeld.

At the end, the band struck up again, some rousing song, and Yang was swept along on a tide of well wishes, back into the house, clinging to Magdalena’s arm all the while.

After dinner and speeches, which Yang sat through with a flush of embarrassment permanently affixed to his face, there was dancing, and Magdalena and Yang had the first dance together. They had practiced, and while this couldn’t make Yang good at dancing by any stretch of the imagination, he was very happy that he didn’t step on Magdalena’s feet as her gown swirled around them both. As they spun across the center of the room, where they had first danced together years ago, Yang’s gaze crossed the room, watching everyone who watched them. Most people were simply eager for their own turn to dance, but he caught Mittermeyer’s eye, and then Reuenthal’s. The expressions on their faces couldn’t have been more different, but it seemed to Yang that they came from the same place. Mittermeyer’s broad smile wished Yang well, and while Reuenthal’s gaze was hard and cold, Yang knew that it was because it cost Reuenthal greatly to stand there and watch— and he was paying that price out of love. Yang wanted to go talk to him, but there hadn’t been a good moment to speak with him alone.

He kept dancing with Magdalena for a few more songs, until his limbs did finally stop cooperating with him, and he began to step on her toes. She let him go with a laugh, and went to find Evangeline to dance with. Yang sat back down at his table, and this gave the opportunity for everyone who wanted to say something to him to come over and do so. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention in any time other than being a teacher, so to adapt, he found himself slipping back into that casual teacher role, even when it was very funny to answer Magdalena’s mother’s questions about their honeymoon plans with his broadly gesticulating hand and lecture tone. He could feel Count Mariendorf’s indulgent smile at this— he had been on the receiving end of Yang’s talks in the past. Eventually, the dowager Westpfale and Count Mariendorf went off to dance to some of the slower songs, and new sets of people sat down to visit at Yang’s table like he was holding court.

Yang kept an eye on all the guests, watching the little cliques of nobles and friends form and move between each other. In one corner, the Braunschweig clan sat and didn’t dance, except for Flegel with a few of Magdalena’s cousins. Duke Braunschwieg helped himself to the wine, while Princess Amaraie watched the party like a hawk. “It’s a pity my father was unable to attend, Count von Leigh,” she had said when Yang went over to say hello to her.

“He sent me a card with his best wishes,” Yang said. “I hope that His Majesty is in good health.”

“As good as can be expected.”

But she didn’t want to put a pall on the party. And she kept an eye on her daughter, who did dance with her fiancee. Yang only spoke to Hans von Vering briefly, when Lady Elizabeth dragged him over. He was a healthy looking, stout young man a few years older than Elizabeth. There was nothing remarkable about him, but even as he spoke to Yang, he looked around the party with a judgemental stare. He followed Elizabeth around and often leaned over her to say something in her ear and visibly point at one of the other guests. His constant attachment to Elizabeth made Hilde, who had gone over to join the Braunschweig party, look bored and distracted. Yang eventually ordered Kircheis to stop running interference for him, and go cheer Hilde up. This seemed to work, because the two of them ended up laughing about something over by the windows.

The party was a cheerful one, despite the rain outside. It dripped down the tall windows of the ballroom and made grey shadows on the colorful array of dancers on the floor. Yang, though he hadn’t really expected to enjoy the party, found that he was.

Of course, the general peace of the wedding was not to last. It couldn’t, not with so many people who were tangled up in the politics of the court in attendance.

It was Bittenfeld who came over to give Yang a very drunk toast, who prevented Yang from understanding the beginning of the trouble until it was already far too late. Bittenfeld was telling Yang all about the drink that the bartender had invented (apparently) and how great it was that Yang was finally married and how Bittenfeld wished he had taken up Yang’s offer to steal his date to Mittermeyer’s wedding, years ago, and then it could have him as a count or whatever. Bittenfeld’s congratulations were completely sincere and harmless, and they made Magdalena laugh as he whacked Yang on the shoulder. But there was another voice, snide and loud, sitting at the table behind Yang, making sure that Yang could hear.

“So, Fraulein Kohlraush,” Baron Flegel said, “how is it that you, of all people, have found yourself at this particular wedding? I was under the impression that you were still on your family’s country lands.”

“I somehow doubt you thought that, Thomas,” she said. “You’ve always made yourself quite good at paying attention to gossip.”

“I saw you come in with that Rear Admiral Reuenthal. Isn’t he a little beneath you?”

“And if he is? What are you going to do about it?”

“I’d think your family would have something to say about it.”

“You don’t see them here, do you?”

“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m surprised that this is the circle you’ve chosen to run in. How far the mighty have fallen.”

“I don’t think you have room to talk. You’re here, too.”

“Only because the Kaiser would take offense if we weren’t.”

“And you care so much about the Kaiser’s opinion, now, do you?”

“Of course!”

“Of course,” she said. “And since you’re paying so much attention to the Kaiser’s opinion, because he’s above you in station, you must also be paying your due deference to the groom, since he’s a count, and you’re only a baron.”

“It was bad enough when he was only going to be marrying a baroness. That was almost funny.” There was real vitriol in Flegel’s voice, and from the way it grew louder, he must have turned his head to say it distinctly in Yang’s direction. Yang did his best to ignore it. He wasn’t going to cause a scene. No one else at his table seemed to be paying attention, but Yang’s hearing was fully focused on the conversation happening behind him, rather than the laughter of Magdalena and Bittenfeld in front of him.

“I’m sure you were laughing,” Elfriede said.

“But you should tell me— what are you doing with Reuenthal?”

“Why do you care?”

“Let’s call it my desire to know all the capital gossip. At least you can be assured that whatever you say, I’m not going to go talk about it with your family.” He laughed, like his joke had been funny.

“Then you must already know exactly what I’m doing,” she said. She sounded bored.

“Please, if you need someone to defend your honor— I would love the opportunity.”

“Is that so? Are you really here because you have some sort of grudge?”

“Of course not!”

Unfortunately, it was at this point that Reuenthal returned from the bar where he had been getting drinks.

“Baron Flegel,” he said in his cold voice.

“Reuenthal. Funny seeing you here.”

“Do you know each other?” Reuenthal asked Elfriede.

“Our families used to get along,” Elfriede said.

“I just came over to make sure Fraulein Kohlraush was doing well.”

“Why wouldn’t she be doing well?”

“The talk is that you’ve kidnapped her, and have been keeping her hostage in your house, doing all sorts of depraved things to her. I must say, some of the things that people say really stir the imagination.”

“ Rear Admiral Flegel,” Reuenthal said, stress on the shared rank, “I suggest you hold your tongue, drink less, and worry about facts rather than gossip.”

“Or what, Reuenthal? You’ll key my car?” He laughed. “I’ve heard—”

Yang had enough. He was about to stand, but then another voice interrupted the conversation behind him.

“Baron Flegel,” Ansbach said, stepping in, clearly having been watching and wanting to make sure this didn’t escalate into a duel or something even less proprietous. “Duke Braunschweig is getting ready to leave. He suggests that you say your goodbyes.”

The silence behind Yang was deafening— it was like the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees. Yang feared that both Flegel and Reuenthal were about to put aside their hatreds of each other, to share a mutual dislike of Ansbach. He had no desire to see him eviscerated by either of them, so he stood and entered the conversation.

“Commodore Ansbach,” Yang said. “I’m sorry to hear that you and the duke are leaving already.”

“I apologize, Count Leigh. It’s a pity to leave early.” He put as much sarcasm into his voice as he could. If everyone here hated each other, that was easier than two of them standing in solidarity. Maybe.

“Well, I’ll see you soon enough, I suppose,” Yang said, rubbing the back of his head. “Thank you for coming, Baron Flegel. I know it’s all a bit out of your way.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Flegel said. And he stalked off. Ansbach nodded and swiftly followed him away.

“Is everything alright?” Yang asked when they had gone. Bittenfeld, at Yang’s table, was watching now.

“Fine,” Reuenthal said.

“Are you alright, Fraulein Kohlraush? I’m sorry— I probably should have stepped in earlier.” He hadn’t gotten any chance to speak with her before now, and he realized that he was leaving a very bad impression on her— weak and ineffectual. That was what her cold stare said. He rubbed the back of his head, and looked to Reuenthal to see if there was any hint of how he should speak to Elfriede, but there was nothing in Reuenthal’s face but a careful, uncaring mask.

“I’m fine, thank you, Count Leigh,” she said. She stood. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Er, thank you,” Yang said. “I’d love to have you and Reuenthal over for dinner someday— and get to meet you properly—”

She gave a cool smile. “Of course.”

She took Reuenthal’s elbow and left, leaving Yang to sit back down at his table. The good mood had been ruined, and Yang watched Reuenthal and Elfriede walk away, until they disappeared into the crowd.

“What was that all about?” Bittenfeld asked.

“Nothing,” Yang said. “Reuenthal just doesn’t know how to not pick a fight.”

Bittenfeld laughed. “Well, people can say what they want about Reuenthal— if he picks fights, at least he’s good at winning them.”

After the minor incident with Flegel, things calmed down, especially as people began to trickle out of the party, leaving only the guests who actually cared about the bride and groom, and who liked staying out late and getting very drunk.

Magdalena eventually demanded that Yang dance with her again, which did for a while. This time, she was nowhere near as comported as she was during their first dance, and she draped herself on Yang with wild abandon, and didn’t even mind when he stepped on her toes. She wouldn’t let go of him, except in brief moments to stop at a nearby table and take sips from the wine glass she had left there. She was trying to keep Yang’s full attention on herself, and it almost worked.

Yang saw Reuenthal head out of the glass doors that lead to the back of the house, where the empty tents sat silent in the drizzling rain. Yang disentangled himself from Magdalena’s arms, offering a mumbled excuse. She sighed, but gave him a little shove and let him go.

Yang slipped out of the party.

Reuenthal hadn’t gone far. He was walking underneath the tents outside, sticking his hand out into the water and collecting drops in his palm, but not getting fully wet. He didn’t seem to notice Yang following him. Though the tents were lit against the night with fairy lights, the rain made everything outside of them appear as through a fog, and Yang could no longer distinguish the figures in the windows of the house, no matter how brightly they were lit. He doubted that anyone could see him and Reuenthal out here, so it was the private moment that he had been looking for for days. He wondered if Reuenthal was giving him this opportunity on purpose, or if Yang was interrupting his private moment.

“Oskar,” Yang said, getting his attention when he was still about five meters away.

Reuenthal turned on his heel, looking at Yang with undisguised surprise. “I thought you’d be busy inside,” he said. “You’re a bad host, abandoning the guests at your own party.”

“I’ll go back in. I just… If you were leaving, I wanted to say goodbye.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Oh, okay.”

“So, you can go back inside.”

“They don’t need me in there right away,” Yang said. “It’s nice to get some air.” He came up beside Reuenthal and put his hand on his back. They stood silently and watched the rain drip down for a moment.

“Thank you for coming,” Yang said. “It means a lot to me.”

Reuenthal nodded.

“I feel like I’ve hardly seen you since you came back to Odin. I hope—”

“What?”

Yang’s grimace was still a little cheerful. “You wouldn’t want me to say that I hope you’re doing okay.”

“You’re allowed to say it,” Reuenthal said. It was funny, the way that conversations they had years ago stuck in their minds, formed a basis of shared understanding. There was tenderness in that— their way of silently confirming that they still had each other. A call and response.

“Then I do hope so,” Yang said.

“I’m fine, Wen-li.”

Surely, Reuenthal knew exactly how much it meant to hear him say his name. Even if Reuenthal was lying, it made Yang want to believe him. “I’m glad. You know, I meant what I said, earlier.”

“What?”

“You and Fraulein Kohlrausch should come to dinner sometime. I would like to get to know her.”

“Mittermeyer said the same thing.”

“I’m not surprised. You should take him up on the offer.”

“Maybe.” It was no, but Yang hadn’t expected much different. He didn’t want to argue right now.

“We’re just looking for excuses to see you more often. But if you want to just go out some night, the two of us…” He trailed off and further destroyed his hairstyle, running his hand through it. “And you’re always welcome to come see me.” If he had said aloud that he missed Reuenthal, that would have been rejected out of hand. But he tried to put the sentiment into his invitation anyway. “It was nice when we were on Iserlohn.”

Reuenthal was silent for a little while. “It’s a different world,” he said. “There’s different considerations.”

“Is it?”

Reuenthal frowned, but the yellow fairy lights softened the expression. “You know it is, Leigh.”

He was making a point, and he wasn’t being too cruel, but he was the only one who would point out the things closest to Yang’s heart. “When it’s just us, it doesn’t have to be.”

He knew it was a bit of a facile thing to say when they were standing out in the rain, outside his own wedding. They could spend individual moments pretending like the outside world didn’t exist— that whatever space they carved, it was for them alone— but that didn’t make it true.

“When—” Reuenthal began.

“What?”

“You still have my loyalty,” Reuenthal said. It didn’t follow from his aborted sentence, but perhaps he didn’t want to talk about the future.

“I never doubted that for a moment,” Yang said. “Not ever.”

Yang wished that there was something he could give to Reuenthal in return— Reuenthal was asking for something by professing his loyalty. It was the closest promise he was allowed to give. In his pocket, Yang twisted the gold band on his finger. He would have to get used to that.

“Will you use it, though?”

“Yes,” Yang said. “If you want me to.”

Reuenthal nodded. There was tension in his back, even as Yang ran his hand up and down it.

“I don’t think I can do this without you,” Yang said, hitting upon something he felt like he could give Reuenthal, that might accept. “I need you. And Mittermeyer.”

“You could,” Reuenthal said. “You always beat me in our games.”

“No, I didn’t,” Yang said. “And we’re not in a game anymore.”

“It wouldn’t matter if we were. You always played the game on a different level than the rest of us.”

“I wish it all wasn’t. I wish—”

“What, Wen-li?”

“If it was a game, I wouldn’t have to worry about it.” He shook his head. “But I keep having nightmares.”

“I don’t know why,” Reuenthal said. “You’re going to win.”

The confidence that Reuenthal had in him was undeserved, but Reuenthal probably wouldn’t hear otherwise, so Yang accepted the premise.

“It’s not about winning,” Yang said. “Even if the game’s rigged for me to win, and the ending’s a foregone conclusion— what is it going to take to get there? That’s— that’s what I’m worried about.”

“May I say something?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

Reuenthal was still staring out into the rain. “Don’t hold yourself back because of that,” he said. “Spend the loyalty you have to spend. Whatever it takes.”

Yang understood what Reuenthal was asking for. If he couldn’t live for Yang— he at least wanted Yang to promise to let him die for him. Why was that the one thing that Yang would never in a thousand lifetimes want to give him? Why was that the only thing that Reuenthal felt he had left to ask for?

He didn’t know what to say— refusing would hurt Reuenthal, and he couldn’t bring himself to accept— so instead he rested his head on Reuenthal’s shoulder. “It won’t come down to that,” he said.