Chapter Text
“This is not the right way, you know.”
They have been riding down this forest path for a while – so long that the sun has sunk significantly lower and swathes of golden light illuminate the thicket. The horses are trudging on with their heads low, their fur sticky with dried mud and sweat, their hooves a steady rhythm on the damp earth. He has no intention to hurry them, however. After the long day, they are as exhausted as he is.
The boy that has been riding in front of him does not turn his head to respond. Rather, there’s no response at all.
Encouraging.
He’s had all afternoon to watch him – his back, that is, which is gently swaying with the trot of his horse. His horse seems to fit him: they both look small from here, somewhat dainty. The boy’s hair is cut short just under his ears and the fine strands are a murky yellow. Earlier that day though, they passed a lightening of the trees and in the sunlight it glowed like molten gold, almost orange. His stature is not made for fighting, he already noticed that. He reminds him of the young girls in his village, elbows that jut out and a small waist. The boy is wearing a tunic made out of clean cotton, the white fabric stark against the dirt and mud on his skin. If not a soldier, maybe an advisor. A page, perhaps. Someone who takes care of the horses. He is supposed to take them to the Kingdom of Poland, but for quite a while now.
Jogaila, his trusted king and friend rides beside him – he is supposed to marry a Polish noble called Jadwiga, some young, milk-skinned girl. Although he has only seen twenty-three summers, he has proved himself more than worthy of his title. Not too much time has passed since Kestautis’ betrayal and although this body is lying bloody and broken in the fields before Kreva Castle’s gates, his blood still churns at the thought. Jogaila managed to raise an army of men willing to fight for him, the rightful heir. He rallied the troops by riding by the lines of men with his brown steed, his tanned fist raised, his iron shield reflecting the rays of the sun. There is no shred of doubt that he has been blessed by the Gods. Now, by marrying a Polish girl, he will be baptised and take the catholic faith. The thought is enough makes his eyes sting with injustice; there should be another way to ward off what looms in the west. There isn’t. The Teutonic Knights are too skilled and too many in number – without any support, they would wipe his people clean of the map.
“Excuse me”, he takes his horse by the reigns and hurries it until he’s on par with the young rider, “I believe I know this forest very well. We should have taken the road to the east, earlier.”
“How good of you to believe.”
The boy does not turn his head. Anger sparks in him.
“I have crossed these paths many times. You would do very well to lend an ear to my words, this way is leading nowhere near our direction.”
“And how, exactly, would you know that?”
He opens his mouth with indignation. Behind him, he can hear Jogaila laugh incredulously. This stable boy really has his nose up in the clouds. He just hopes his nature to be an exception – if everyone in the Polish court is like this; he has no desire for any further acquaintance. His people are different, living with the forest, taming the wild horses, dancing barefoot and white cotton tunics, he thinks somewhat sourly, are not at all to their taste.
*
Turns out the stable boy really has been leading him to the Kingdom of Poland. Turns out the stable boy is the Kingdom of Poland. He signs the treaty promising an alliance and military support in times of need and he swears he can already sense all the headaches this will be the cause of. The fair boy who proclaims himself the soul of this land (this land of mountains and wide lakes and rye fields, he has never seen such a golden crop in his life) takes a look at his smeared line of ink and raises one eyebrow. He sneers in response. Did he seriously expect a heathen to know how to write?
“They have the habits of sealing their contracts verbally”, one advisor hastens to explain, “Paper and ink are scarce among them.”
“We also use blood.” Jogaila says, unbothered. The polish advisor tries to recover from choking in surprise. He glances at his king, and though he may sound collected, his eyebrows are determinedly drawn together. The expression is familiar to him; he’s seen it plenty of times on the battlefield, just before Jogaila gave the signal to charge against the enemy. His heart does a weird sort of dance in his chest. This battle is far from over, his king and crown will not let himself be handed over to some shy princess and then forever bow his head to Polish diction.
“I guess blood would suffice.” The Kingdom of Poland’s voice is cold, unrelenting as the situation dictates, but for a second, the corner of his mouth quirks upwards, like a ray of sunlight through foliage. It’s gone before he’s sure he hasn’t imagined it. Perhaps the Gods will hear his prayer, perhaps they will have mercy.
*
His Jogaila turns Władysław Jagiełło and is no longer his to call “mine”, and he spends about a week smashing everything that bears the polish coat of arms. Jadwiga is about what he expected her to be: minor, clay in the hands of her royal advisors. Her hair is as black as the ravens outside Lublin Tower. Eleven winters versus twenty-three summers. He grits his teeth and swallows his pride.
Their wedding is held in January, and he stands next to the Kingdom of Poland, his grand iron sword on his back, while the snow makes it impossible to see farther than the two figures kneeling a few meters away from them, accepting the crown, accepting the marriage, accepting the faith.
“…beseeching Thee to grant unto them by Thy inspiration, to rule in righteousness, to rejoice in peace, to shine in piety, O Heavenly Father and Mary, Mother of God, we bent our knee to Thee”, reads the priest, the ring ready in his palm. Jadwiga’s fingers are stiff and blue with cold.
“You’ll bear it”, the Kingdom of Poland says next to him. His face is a mask of stone, eyes set on the couple in the storm. As he only reaches to about his own shoulder, Lithuania has to incline his head to hear his voice over the wind. To onlookers, it has to look conspiring and far too intimate. “He’s proven himself a more than able monarch, as you know. They’ll rule rightfully and justly.”
Lithuania can’t help but laugh mirthlessly. “Indeed, he might.”
The Kingdom of Poland’s eyes narrow and he suddenly turns to face him. It’s the first time he does so, and Lithuania is taken off guard by fierce, light green eyes and a face that looks like it was rendered by an artist’s brush. Angelic. The impression lasts about a second, then he speaks and his voice is sharper than a well-honed knife. It could cut marble and stone.
“I have known this girl from the day she left the womb covered in her mother’s blood to the day her own monthly blood wet her thighs. Her heart is golden and she carries naught but a desire for love and justice with her. Before she agreed to this union, she spent twenty hours with her knees on the church stones, praying for divine guidance – she’s seen but eleven springs. You’d do better to watch where your words’ feet are taking you, oh stilted lover.”
His expression must convey his shock to some extent, because the Kingdom of Poland rolls his eyes and sneers at him, “Oh please, it takes a man two eyes and a flea’s brain to figure this out.”
He could scream. He could unsheathe his sword and behead everyone in reach and then the priest. For the rest of the ceremony, he keeps quiet.
His words do not ring true, they are as fake as the smile plastered onto Jadwiga’s purple lips, they are as false as Jogaila’s stoic expression and they are as untrue as his own silence in the face of this ceremony. But in the end, one lost king trumps ten thousand invading Teutonic Knights, he reasons. It was the sensible thing to do.
(That does not stop the knights from invading anyway.)
*
He ends up staying at Krewo castle several months more to provide support to his freshly-baptised ruler and work out the details of the Union contract with the Polish secretaries, which is something he tells himself over and over again. The truth is: The Kingdom of Poland’s words have opened a snake pit in his chest and if he thinks too much about anything he does regarding Jagiełło, he will stumble right in it. So he stays, and doesn’t question his own reasons.
He stays, and talks about military forces, and talks about the Knights controlling the major rivers to the south, and talks about casualties, about an impending battle, about the very possible option that the Knights will challenge his new expensively acquired Christianity. They meet with royal advisors, with royal secretaries; they sit in conference halls until his thighs ache. How he longs to be galloping on an open field, how he longs to feel the wind’s fingers in his hair once again.
He stays until it’s too much, until he wants to break out of his skin when he lowers his head to yet another table prayer, until the Polish wine turns sour in his mouth. He slams his chalice down on the wood, mumbles some word of excuse and leaves the conference hall running. The Kingdom of Poland raises one fair eyebrow and looks after him, but does not move one royal limb to follow.
His footsteps echo down the stone corridors. His chest feels constricted, wrong, something wound around it, hindering him to breathe in fully. He runs out to the grounds, until the worn-out sole of his leather boots hit green grass. The few meekly growing trees surrounding the castle do not even come close to the Lithuanian forests, but it is enough, for now. In the middle of them stands an oak tree, visibly the oldest, with weather-carved bark and thick branches reaching for the sunlight. Austras koks. Tree of the East. In his belief, it is the world tree, growing from sunrise to sundown along the firmament. He reaches its foot and collapses. Silent sobs shake his body; enough to feel like his ribs are breaking under the force of his grief. He cries for his people, not longer allowed to roam freely how they like, for he tied their fate to someone else, someone who is a but a stranger to them. He cries for his beloved Jogaila, who must abandon the wide fields and wild nature of his home for a milk-white child. He cries for his Old Gods, for mother sun and father moon. He cries shamelessly, like a child left by his parents. He cries for Ausrine, the morning star and he cries because he feels, for the first time, like someone is cutting the ties that bind him to his people and his land and his faith with a rusty knife. He finds himself unable to stop, wave after wave of desperation washing over him.
He doesn’t notice someone standing next to him until they start speaking.
“So here he is, the wild heathen lord of the East. Weeping like a babe.”
He drags the back of his hand across his red eyes and looks up, bewildered. “What-?”
“You left my court looking at your empty seat and spilled wine like a spoilt child.” The Kingdom of Poland crouches down next to him in the long grass.
Lithuania opens his mouth to defend himself, but notices that despite the sound of the words, they are spoken without malice. Rather than that, his voice almost sounds soft. There is an undertone of something that sounds suspiciously of comfort.
“Between all of your strengths, which may be grand and great in number, diplomacy does not seem to be one of them. Neither does tact nor good manners.”
Lithuania looks away. He knows he should be embarrassed to be found in this moment of raw vulnerability by a stranger, but he is too exhausted to care. Whatever assumptions the Polish court already has made of them, it cannot get any worse. “Don’t you dare pity me”, he murmurs. It’s an empty threat. His lungs still hurt as he draws in a shaky breath.
A ringing laugh makes him turn his head. The Kingdom of Poland looks at him incredulously.
“I do not pity you, heathen. I don’t pity anybody. That are luxuries I can’t afford. But if it eases your dull mind… I am not taking your land away. Nor your people.” His eyes look sharp and steady. They are the luminescent green of sunlight shining through foliage. “I am not that cruel.”
“So”, he stands up, cleaning his white tunic of small branches and dirt, “will you come back to the castle and stand your ground or shall I leave you here where you can weep to your hearts content until you grow roots and become one of your beloved oak trees?” He tilts his chin demandingly.
Lithuania snorts, but follows him. “Did you know that your laugh sounds like a dying birth both in shrillness and in height?” he can’t help but say, surrendering what feels like his last shred of dignity.
“How good then”, The Kingdom of Poland flashes him a sharp, brilliant smile, “that your country’s preferred animal is the stork.”
*
Three days later, he rides north again.