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The Holy Roman Empire has always had trouble keeping her Italian territories together.
She has so many territories and kingdoms, rather, and none of them are especially cooperative or work harmoniously together. But she keeps returning to the thought of Italy.
Maybe because even as she has had nearly all of north Italy under her control, she has never had the spirit of Italy in her house. There are two, supposedly, she has even met the one of the south, a sour-faced girl who looked only a little older than Holy Rome herself. But never the one of the north.
They say Venice in the lagoon is where the spirit of the north hides; Venice with its fleet, an empire in its own right. Clearly, if only Holy Rome could have them, she would become the strongest in Europe – finally take her rightful place, as tall as any of the rest. No, taller.
The Holy Roman Empire imagines what the spirit of north Italy might be like. Their grandmother, in whose footsteps Holy Rome so ardently has tried to walk, was a great power, spoken of with awe, with shining eyes and hushed voices even today. Venice itself, a naval empire… they must be a great warrior. Great, and noble; handsome and talented, pious and learned, a city of the greatest arts, of beautiful paintings and sculptures, of spices and silks, of an enormous fleet…
Years crawl by, and there’s always something going wrong in her lands. Some conflict there, another here, a rebellion there, the princes warring. So the Holy Roman Empire sets her face, sure to never show the pain of that discord on her face. Her insides may twist and tear but she endures.
She is a mighty empire, and all who look at her face for clues as to how the empire is doing will see that Holy Rome is as strong as ever, unfazed by minor skirmishes.
The other nation-spirits in her household all know she cannot be brought down. They may grumble and they may argue, but they know she is the mistress of the house, and she works tirelessly to ensure their empire stays strong.
But among those many, many faces, there is always one missing… She looks out over them all lined up in rows when they meet to elect the new emperor, and there is a gap, a small one, but always there.
The missing northern Italy.
She fantasizes sometimes about asking her emperor to be allowed to go to Venice and find them – they belong to her. To take the Republic of Venice with her soldiers, the heart of that stubborn, rebellious northern Italy, for surely then they would be hers. Together the two of them would be a great empire; if she came and found them then they would see it, know it, she would convince them, and then with them on her side she’d be strong and whole.
Eventually, she tells herself. As soon as this war, and that skirmish, or this rebellion is put down… she’ll finally have Venice.
Centuries pass, Holy Rome scrapes by, and France is on the warpath again, a malicious light in her eyes and her new boss at her side, and they fight. They fight, as Holy Rome has always, always been fighting, and then their leaders agree to make a treaty.
France has invaded deep into northern Italy, among other regions, and the Holy Roman Empire grits her teeth as her emperor tells her they’ll be giving up Belgium to France, and worse: the Italian states are giving up on their pretense at loyalty to Holy Rome’s emperor…
Then France smiles with her painted lips, eyes narrowed in glee. “Ah, don’t look so glum! This is a great deal for us both… you’ve always wanted Venice, no?”
Holy Rome doesn’t allow her expression to change, but France leans back, smirking like she knows she’s won.
The emperor’s envoy signs the terms, and so the Republic of Venice is finally dissolved and the city comes under the emperor’s control.
Holy Rome and Venice have the same boss now. There is no free Venice left to hide in: the spirit of northern Italy will finally, finally move into Holy Rome’s household.
It takes several weeks for the Holy Roman Empire to return home, even when traveling with only a few of her men. Venice will already have moved in when she gets there, she thinks every night as she finally lies down to rest. After all these damn years, after all these struggles… Holy Rome has imagined their meeting so many times, when she was younger. When she had most of Italy in her hands.
Most of Italy, but never the nation-spirit of the north. And now…
She doesn’t imagine anything. Exhausted from her travels, she lies there and closes her eyes and counts down another day to when she’ll finally reach her house.
Strictly speaking, it is Austria’s house. No doubt she has already received Venice as the lady of the house, without Holy Rome there. No matter. Whatever kind of nation they are like, Holy Rome will finally find out, in just a matter of weeks.
When she and her men finally ride up on Austria’s estate, Austria and all her servants line up outside to greet her properly.
Austria does not curtsy – though she is, as always, in a purple velvet gown buttoned up to her chin – and instead bows her head. Hungary behind her in a green coat bows low, and there are more territories and human servants too bowing down, but Holy Rome only wants to see one person, scanning every face for a nation she’s never truly seen before.
“Welcome back,” says Austria. “You must be tired, and we have matters to discuss.”
Holy Rome’s not going inside the house until she’s seen Venice, but before such a petulant demand can pass her lips, Austria is already calling for Hungary and some servant to lead their horses away – and there he is.
A servant boy scurrying up after Hungary, taking the reins of Holy Rome’s horse.
He keeps his eyes down and doesn’t even see her. But it must be Venice, and Holy Rome finally takes him in, at long last, from his narrow shoulders to his long-fingered hands and meekly bowed head. This is him?
“My lady?” Austria prompts.
The boy glances up, just for a second, and his eyes meet Holy Rome’s. She stops watching immediately, even though Italy has already looked down again, hurrying to urge her horse away.
“Lead the way,” Holy Rome commands.
Everybody starts to file away, to the stables and into the house and to their duties. Just before Holy Rome steps inside of Austria’s house, she seeks out Italy with her eyes again, watching him trudge towards the stable with a few horses in tow.
There are many things Holy Rome needs to see to, though Austria takes care of many things in her absence. But Holy Rome needs to at least discuss them with Austria, and France won’t long be content with what she has – there will be more trouble soon.
Instead the Holy Roman Empire spends time watching Italy, her Venice, bustle around outdoors. Through the windows in Austria’s villa overlooking the gardens, she can watch Italy rake up leaves and pull up weeds and prune rosebushes, sleeves rolled up and face tanning in the sun.
Whenever he looks up, Holy Rome quickly looks back at her letters and maps or whatever she has on the desk at that moment.
Mr Hungary has him taking care of the gardens and the stables, Austria says. Hungary gave him an old coat and breeches of his to wear, and Italy ties his hair back in the neck like the men in France’s place do, with a green ribbon. He’s small and looks to be about Holy Rome’s age, though his voice has not broken yet, not even close – it’s so high, fluting, like a girl’s really, though beautiful like a bird’s as he sings to himself, warbling in his own dialect.
She can hear him through the window, especially when she leaves it cracked open a little.
She can hear him at night too, crying in his room.
Homesickness, Holy Rome assumes. Many nation-spirits feel sick to leave their homes if they’re not used to it. But hearing him cry, Holy Rome doesn’t know what to do – and she must do something, somehow she knows she must.
She asks the kitchen servants if they can make anything from his region, and leaves plates of food outside his door, knocking and then hurrying away before he opens the door.
It won’t do to have him crying in her house.
Now that she finally has him, she should… she should ask him to join her and become an empire. As she dreamed of when she was younger.
It’s just the fantasy of a young girl. Then again, Austria still thinks she is a little girl, forever on the cusp of womanhood, never having grown. Pale-faced as a lily in her dark gowns and coats.
But with Italy, oh, together they could be great. A true successor to the Roman empire. It’s the only strategical choice to make.
She watches him every day, moving rooms as he works his way around the villa tending the flowers to keep watching him. His hair looks soft, it flutters up in every breeze, and he has to retie it back every so often. Holy Rome would like to- touch him, perhaps.
Austria would scoff and tell Holy Rome she shouldn’t cast those kinds of looks at a servant boy. Yes, indeed… but Venice, he’s not just a mere servant, is he?
Austria if anyone should understand what a well-selected marriage can do for you.
Yes, Holy Rome knows this is what she must do. This is what she’s tried to do for so long, after all, and now that Italy is finally here, it’s time she asks him to marry her.
The next day, she steps outside and goes to search the gardens for him. It takes a while, wandering through Austria’s rose gardens and long beds of flowers and carefully pruned bushes in the French style, but she finds Italy knelt in the herb garden closer to the kitchens, ripping out weeds.
She watches him for a moment – but no, this isn’t what she came for. She sets her face and strides forward, and Italy looks up at the sound of her steps. His eyes widen.
“Holy Rome! Um… was there something you wanted?”
She stares down at him. His hands are smeared with dirt, and his clothes are streaked with it too. A drop of sweat runs from his hairline down past his ear, and as she watches, her nervously wets his lips.
This definitely isn’t what Austria, or any lady, would see as a good occasion to propose. They should both be cleaned up, in a ballroom, with witnesses.
It would be the same for any alliance.
The Holy Roman Empire wants to say to hell with formalities, but there’s a reason the formalities exist, and she’s torn between two different voices of reason, just standing there and watching Italy.
“Um…” he pipes up again, softly. “Holy Rome?”
She starts. “You!” Italy stares, and she rushes to say, “I mean, you, you should come inside. In an hour. And clean up too, I want to see you in the grand hall.”
“Okay.”
Holy Rome nods once, glad that’s decided, and hurries away.
Yes, an hour is good, this will give her some time to decide exactly what to say, and to find a chaperone.
Venice still has dirt under his nails when he scurries into the hall, though he’s scrubbed himself off and put on clean trousers. When he sees her he stumbles over nothing, then hurries to bow.
Hungary darts up and whispers something to him, and he quickly straightens up.
Apart from the three of them, the hall is empty, though a few portraits gaze down at them from the walls. There are only a few meters of marble flooring separating Holy Rome and Italy, and Hungary cedes his place and goes to stand by the wall.
“Italy,” says Holy Rome and steps forward. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Italy dips his head, and Holy Rome’s heart starts to pound. Hungary’s watching them curiously, but says nothing as Holy Rome strides another few steps forward, close enough to take Italy’s hands.
His hands are dainty almost like a girl’s, but long-fingered, a little sweaty. Holy Rome refuses to let her own palms sweat. Now, she just needs to say…
“Italy, marry me.”
Italy’s eyes fly up to her face. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at her.
Holy Rome has already thought of her arguments – not that Italy should need convincing. “Together we could be a great empire. The greatest Europe have ever seen! I used to control most of your lands, but that was different… you weren’t here. I heard your Venice used to be an empire, that you had a mighty fleet. If you joined me, we could take on anyone in Europe.”
Italy’s glance has slid away, to somewhere on the floor. Holy Rome lets go of his hands so that she can tilt his chin with one hand, prompting him to look at her.
He says, slowly, “You already have Venice…”
“But not all of northern Italy. We would be strong together – if you joined me, we’d be unstoppable.”
Quietly, Italy says, “No one’s unstoppable…”
Somehow, she’s not getting through to him. Holy Rome repeats, “Marry me.”
Italy belongs in the Holy Roman Empire. If they united, she would finally live up to her name, her name so many people have questioned.
Holy Rome waits.
Italy seems to gather himself. He opens his mouth… and closes it.
“Ah, wait a moment!” Hungary says, hurrying back to them. “Actually, Austria was just calling for us, we need to take the horses out and prepare them for a trip…”
“That’s right,” Italy says immediately. “I really should check on the horses. Um. See you later, Holy Rome!”
Hungary ushers him away, shooting Holy Rome an apologetic look.
Holy Rome stands by herself in the hall for a moment. If Italy can’t be convinced by sound arguments of their combined strength, or how obvious it is that he belongs with her, then – Holy Rome will have to change strategy.
The next day, the Holy Roman Empire goes to find Italy in the gardens again. He’s still weeding in the herb garden, and Holy Rome watches him until he seems to notice her and looks up. “Oh, Holy Rome…” he hesitates. “Was there something?”
“No. You can carry on.”
After a moment, he does, bowing back down over the garden beds.
When the sun is high in the sky, he seems to decide to take a break. Holy Rome had gone back inside to draft a reply to a letter, but as she sees Italy leave, she quickly puts down her stationery and hurries to follow him.
She loses track of him for a bit, but walking a bit further into the woods surrounding Austria’s villa, she eventually finds a stream. It’s a shallow mountain stream, water so clear you can pick out every rock on the bottom. Italy sits on the bank, his boots in the grass and feet stuck in the water.
Italy has his face tipped back, leaning back on his hands with his eyes closed and mouth curled in a gentle smile.
He smiles frequently, yes, but Holy Rome decides that this smile is different. He’s not smiling at anyone. He thinks he’s alone here, none of his lieges around to see him, so the smile must be…
Then he opens his eyes and sees her.
“Holy Rome!” His smile wobbles. “Ah… did you come to enjoy the water, too?”
The Holy Roman Empire should go back to the house and finish her letter. Instead she steps forward and goes to sit by Italy next to the stream.
“Isn’t the water cold?”
Italy laughs a little, a musical sound. “No, just a little brisk! You should try it.”
Holy Rome can hardly undress nor take off her boots in the company of a servant boy, not when dressed as a lady, but she leans forward enough to dip her hand in the stream. Which was stupid, because now her hand is wet – but Italy is smiling again, not the same as before, but still sweetly.
Holy Rome wants to see more of his smiles.
Another day she finds him pruning the roses and asks him if he likes sweets. Then she asks the kitchen servants to make some for him, and leaves them at his room again – this time, she stays and watches his door for long enough that he can see her leave.
She notices Italy always hangs around if there’s a window open when Austria is playing her piano; he likes music. Well, obviously; she’s heard him singing church songs. But Holy Rome is not good at singing or playing the harp like a maiden… she buys paints instead. She’s heard Italy likes paintings, that he’s a great artist.
But it seems Holy Rome is not good at painting either.
She sets up her easel in the garden to try and paint Austria’s roses, but they look like nothing more than brightly colored blobs on her canvas.
“Holy Rome?” and then Italy’s there. “Oh! Are you painting the roses?”
“Not very well…”
“I can teach you!”
Another, different kind of smile, and so Holy Rome says, “Yes.”
He likes painting, so Holy Rome lets him have all the paints and brushes and the canvases and the easel. She tells Austria she has commissioned him to paint for her, so Austria will give him some time off to do it, and it might as well be true anyway since Italy gives all the paintings to her.
“Don’t you want to keep them?” she asks, and he looks down and doesn’t answer.
I would take care of you, she wants to tell him. She would get him the things he needs to be happy. Maybe if he’s not convinced by the idea of winning battles, perhaps it’d be better if she showed him he can depend on her.
So the next day, when they meet in the garden, she looks at him seriously and says, “I would make sure you’re cared for, if we were married. I would give you everything you ask for.”
“Ah…” he hesitates.
Maybe there’s still something else, Holy Rome decides. But what?
She doesn’t press him to answer, and Italy then changes the subject. Holy Rome listens to him talk about a feral cat he’s been coaxing to trust him, which apparently lives in the stables, and she doesn’t bring up the idea of marriage again that day.
Italy walks past outside carrying a bucket, sees her watching through the window and stops to wave and smile, eyes nearly shut. Then he almost drops the bucket, catches himself, and hurries on.
“You should stop wasting time running after Italy,” says Austria tersely, sat across from the Holy Roman Empire.
“He’s important to the empire.”
He is, somehow, integral to the empire. Holy Rome knows that if he agreed to join her, then none of these problems – the wars, rebellions, squabbles over money and influence – would matter.
Austria raises her chin. “He is a territory. We have quite a bit more pressing matters to deal with.”
When do they not.
Holy Rome has lived for centuries, was once acknowledged as the greatest power in Europe, has ruled over dozens and dozens of territories, and has rarely if ever been stable. Italy – or Venice – yes, there is something to that idea, isn’t there. To be only a single state, a city state. Or pretend to be. Rather than a vast collection of warring kingdoms and duchies.
Austria and Prussia’s stupid rivalry hasn’t helped any… neither has France’s new ambitions.
Holy Rome concedes and discusses with Austria as she’d wanted, then tackles more correspondence for the rest of the day, until it feels as if she can only see problems wherever she looks. She retires to bed, walking past Italy’s door – and he’s crying again.
Something strange abruptly comes over her and she knocks on Italy’s door.
His breathing hitches. A moment, during which Holy Rome seriously considers retreating, and then Italy opens the door.
“Holy Rome?” She can’t really see his face in the dark, with only her candle’s light to navigate the house, but his voice has steadied – as steady as it ever gets. Maybe it wasn’t anything serious, after all. Holy Rome should go to bed.
“It was nothing.”
“Oh.”
But Italy’s voice sounds so small in the night.
“Only… thank you for your work. In the gardens.” Holy Rome flushes. What an asinine thing to disturb someone at night with, but now that Holy Rome has already said it, she must tough it out. “The gardens… would not look half as beautiful without you. So thank you.”
“Oh! You’re welcome! I like the gardens too…”
Holy Rome asks, “Are there many gardens in Venice?”
Silence stretches, and Holy Rome urgently wishes she could see his face. Finally, Italy says, “No. There weren’t.”
End of sentence.
“I see. I should let you sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, Italy.”
“Yes. See you.”
The door falls shut.
Be they kingdom, duchy, mere territory or empire, none of them speak of pain. Humans can become crippled from just one injury, but the nation-spirits heal and endure: such is the way God has fashioned them. When long-gone pains return, when scars again ache and her insides cramp, Holy Rome has no explanation. Perhaps everyone feels this. Perhaps it is agreed you just don’t speak of it.
Holy Rome stiffly sits on a park bench in Austria’s gardens, regretting having walked this far. She will sit and perhaps the pain will ebb.
High, flowering bushes of white and purple surround her bench, creating a hidden little alcove. She can hardly see past them to the house. So she hears Italy coming before she sees him, and he startles when he turns and spots her.
“Good day, Italy.”
“Hello, Holy Rome! Such nice weather today, isn’t it?” He smiles. His sleeves are rolled up, baring his forearms, and he’s holding a bucket yet again.
“What are you doing?”
Italy blinks. “Me? Oh, I was going to fetch water for the garden beds behind the house… What are you doing? Holy Rome seems to be sitting here all on her lonesome!”
“I am… taking a moment. Why don’t you sit with me? If you’re not too busy.”
“Of course!”
Italy seems glad to sit down, at least, leaning back with a little sigh. Eyes closed and head tilted back.
Holy Rome feels another brief stab through her middle, so she sets her face and curls over a little, nursing her middle. Not that there’s any real wound there, only an old scar.
The pain dulls, though Holy Rome remains bent forward a little. From this angle she can mostly see Italy’s forearms, resting on his knees, and for the first time she sees the crooked scar in his elbow. White against the new tan of his skin, stretched and uneven.
She has never pictured him with scars before, not since meeting him. He is too… light. He smiles too easily.
But that doesn’t mean anything to reality. Under his shirt, he may well be as pocked and creased with scars as Holy Rome.
Do you ever hurt?
Holy Rome does not ask. She silently studies Italy, now that he sits so close, resting. The sculpted arch of his nose, splattered with freckles, to his ears where one strand of auburn hair hangs so perfectly as to be tucked behind his ear by her.
If ever there was a place on Earth deserving of being painted, it surely is Italy.
“You’re beautiful…”
She wasn’t sure he would hear, not entirely prepared for him to open his eyes and look at her. His smile is uncertain.
Holy Rome should look away and pretend she didn’t say it, but then what would happen to Italy’s smile? Before Holy Rome can do anything, though, another sudden phantom stab through her middle makes her hunch forward a little, gritting her teeth.
If only all her territories would behave… if only they had ever behaved…
She’s almost fallen apart before. People say she’s nothing but an idea, a name to put on a loose collection of different things. But in the end that’s what all countries are.
“Holy Rome? Are you alright?”
Did she let something slip?
“Don’t worry about me,” she gets out.
“Did something happen? Is it France…?”
“No.”
Her firm refusal shuts Italy down, she thinks. He’s silent for a while, as the cramp slowly lets up and Holy Rome breathes evenly in and out, waiting the pain out.
Italy says, “It’s an old tension, isn’t it? I – I mean… my children have had so many rivalries. Even now it still… I still feel it, sometimes.”
To think he would admit it, just like that.
Holy Rome straightens gingerly, to look at Italy. His eyes are kind.
Marry me, Holy Rome wants to plead again. But then Italy would look away, or change the subject, and why is it that he does not seem to want to marry? Always flighty, so hard to even meet him, to get him in her hands.
He does not have to be scared. If they were married, he would be at her side, her equal. They’d be stronger together in union. They could be open… could be vulnerable with each other and it wouldn’t be wrong and unwise.
“Italy… you’re very observant, aren’t you?”
Italy smiles. “It’s an artist’s eye, hehe.”
Holy Rome waits until one day when they’re relaxing by the stream again, and Italy has a canvas drying up on the bank, and he looks satisfied and happy spread out in the grass – “Holy Rome! Let’s lie down and watch the clouds!” – to ask about it.
“Why do you not like the idea of marriage?” Italy starts pushing himself up to sit, and Holy Rome follows. “If you do not like me then that is… fine. I would only appreciate an answer, so that I-”
“It’s not that I don’t like you!”
Holy Rome stops. “It’s not?”
“No!” Italy looks at her wide-eyed. “I… I do like you. You’re sweet.”
“...Then why?”
The Holy Roman Empire still wants to know. What is it, and can she do something about it? She will.
“Ah… it’s not that simple…”
Holy Rome’s mouth curls wryly. Yes, she bets. Is it ever.
She lets Italy off the hook for now, and he leads the conversation in on whether Holy Rome can identify any of the birds singing in the trees, which she cannot. Birdsong tends to be of little strategical importance. Italy says the sound of cooing doves is his favorite of all the sounds birds make, and that he would feed the doves in front of one of his cathedrals, and then he falls quiet.
The birds chirp and whistle and rustle in the woods, and they lie on their backs watching the clouds. They drift by slowly, pushed by the breeze, casting uneven shadows over the ground. Sometimes shadow falls over them.
If nothing else existed in the world but this forest stream, and the birds and the clouds and her and Italy, Holy Rome, in this moment, wouldn’t mind.
You’re sweet.
Whatever it is that’s making Italy hesitate – Holy Rome would fix it. Defeat it. If only Italy would tell her, what Holy Rome must do…
“My Nona Roma was a great empire,” says Italy one day, standing in the garden and hanging over the windowsill to Holy Rome’s office. Holy Rome has her chair and desk pulled up close to the window, correspondence set aside to listen to Italy.
“The greatest the world has ever seen,” agrees Holy Rome. She has always tried to live up to her, and always fallen short. But with Italy…
“Mm.” Italy traces shapes on the sill with his pointer finger. “And she never married… but she made so many people live in our household anyway. Too many people. But she made it work, somehow. She became so big… she had scars all down her back, you know.”
“But she won all her battles.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I suppose she did fall, in the end,” Holy Rome says, studying Italy.
“An empire’s life is nothing but wars. And the empires never, never last.”
“Empires tend to last longer than some duchy. We wouldn’t make the same mistakes, Italy.”
Italy’s smile is not happy. “Even if you’re careful… you think you’re being so smart, you’ve figured it all out, you rule the Mediterranean sea, but then… the bigger and richer you are, the more people want to tear you apart. And they will. They’ll tear you to shreds and you’ll be left with only pain and the memory of greatness.”
He’s not talking about Rome anymore.
“...You think I’m also doomed, do you?”
“I think we’re all doomed.” Italy looks up at the sky. “All of us. Soon enough, even France will get what’s coming to her.”
He sounds almost satisfied about that. France did destroy his republic, so it was…
“Well, if we’re all doomed, should we not make use of the time we have?” says Holy Rome. Not that she’s sure she agrees – she has always endured, after all. So have most of her neighbors. “So for this time at least… would you marry me?”
Italy’s eyes land back on hers. He smiles and says in sing-song, “I told my nona I’d never marry anyone. I’ll be a free bird forever… and no one can ever catch me~”
Another deflection, but again, Holy Rome lets it go, because he smiles.
During the winters, Italy tends to the horses and sometimes Holy Rome finds him in the kitchens helping. He says, “I like cooking, really! Not that I don’t like the gardens, but…” He complains that Austria won’t let him make pasta, but Holy Rome is sure Austria will let him soon enough. She’s particular about the kitchen but not heartless.
He comes around to stoke the fire in her office, and she invites him to sit and share her tea. “Would you really never marry anyone?” she asks. “Not even for love?”
The Italians are supposed to be such romantics, aren’t they?
Holy Rome has been courting him all backwards, but nations cannot follow the same rules as their children. Italy has been allowing her to court him, at least. What they build could be love. The closest thing to love any of them could create.
“What is love, really?” he asks, and goes off on a tangent.
Holy Rome wants him. No, she needs him – they’ll be stronger, better together. She likes him, him and his singing and smiles and his kind eyes… isn’t that love? Holy Rome feels almost embarrassed to ask.
“But what do we know about each other, really? I think lovers rush in so fast, without knowing anything really… which is what makes it romantic! And which is why they then leap into canals. I’d rather live.”
“We can know each other better than humans,” argues Holy Rome. “We have centuries to learn – if you let me, I could learn everything about you.”
Italy laughs and looks away.
What is he scared of?
“Do you think I frighten him?” Holy Rome asks Austria one day.
“You are his liege,” says Austria. “I should hope so. We don’t need another uprising on our hands.”
Northern Italy has never been especially easy for Holy Rome to control, no. Now she has even less of it than before, but she has Venice and at last she has him.
“I would protect you, Italy. Against France, or anyone.”
She tells him that, and Italy says he really needs to finish putting down more tulip bulbs.
The Holy Roman Empire waited centuries to meet him. She can wait a little longer for a real, proper answer – she can. She will. She will…
No matter how weary she has become through all these years, she will endure. And she will wait, for the one thing she’s wanted for so long, if only because Italy smiles so sweetly and sits with her and tells her about birds and canals and paint.
They could be happy together. Surely, Italy knows that. So why…
“He’s waiting for his chance to rebel,” Austria tells her, sat across from her in her office and frowning over the rims of her glasses. “Surely you remember the Lombard league and their rebellion.”
“I never saw him then.”
“That does not mean that he was not involved. As good as all of his cities were involved, of course he was.”
“It was long ago,” Holy Rome says. Casting a look outside, she can only just see Italy deeper inside the gardens, trimming a hedge. “Centuries ago… and we hadn’t met.”
Austria shakes her head at her, when Holy Rome pulls her gaze back from Italy.
“Holy Rome, I…” she purses her lips.
“You do not need to worry about me.”
Rather, Austria should be worried about herself, as the French invade her lands. Holy Rome’s emperor is Austria’s, and Holy Rome will ride out alongside Austria to bolster the troops. All of a sudden the days she has left to spend in the villa dwindle down to a handful, and Holy Rome still has no answer from Italy. She will have to hear it later, when she returns. Provided Italy is still here.
Because Austria was right at least about his flightiness, how Holy Rome has struggled and struggled to hold onto him…
“I heard you’re leaving,” says Italy, when they meet in the gardens.
“I must go to the armies,” Holy Rome agrees. “It’s my duty.”
Italy says nothing. Holy Rome steps forward to take his hands, and he looks at her.
“Will you be here when I return?”
“Holy Rome…”
“You still have never given me an answer, Italy. Will you marry me?”
He will not be coming with them. France has claimed more of his territory, and it’s up to Holy Rome to win it back. She will ride into battle, and Italy will wait – will he?
She looks up at his face. Italy’s expression softens, painfully.
“Defeat France for me, and we’ll see.”
“I will.” She lifts his hand to kiss the back of it.
Of course she sees Italy again during the days of preparation, when Italy and Hungary rush to prepare the horses. Italy has been exercising Holy Rome’s white stallion while she has been doing her work, so it is ready now and impatient to head out.
The morning they finally set out, Italy is there again, giving the horses a last brush-down. Holy Rome comes to collect her horse and to bid Italy goodbye for now.
“Holy Rome… do you have a moment?”
“Of course.”
Italy pulls her away a bit closer to the house, stopping beside a wall of rosebushes. He hesitates, then- “I just thought,” he says, fiddling with his coat. “That you might want, um, something like the other soldiers have. Of me.”
The Holy Roman Empire’s heart, wearied and old as it is, skips a beat. Italy pulls out from an inner pocket a small slip of paper, and when Holy Rome takes it and holds it up it is a little painted Italy, hastily done, by Italy himself. The painted Italy smiles, believably him though something is missing.
“Thank you, Italy.” She will have to find a locket to keep it in. Yes, a locket with a portrait of her beloved tucked inside, and she’ll keep the locket over her heart inside of her coat.
“Um, you’re welcome.” Italy bites his lip. “But… I want you to give me something in exchange.”
“Hmm?”
“Promise you’ll return.”
He wants to see her again. The thought rings through her like the chime of a bell.
Of course he does. They will see each other again. As soon as this is over, she’ll return, and he can give her his answer.
Holy Rome takes his hand and squeezes it solemnly. “I promise.”
Italy nods, taking a breath, “Goodbye,” and darts in quickly to kiss Holy Rome’s cheek.
Holy Rome squeezes his hand tighter, does not let him step back. Heart pounding, she rises onto her toes, cups Italy’s face carefully and touches her lips to his. Only a brief touch. Enough to breathe him in and remember it.
“Goodbye,” she says as she withdraws. “I promise to return, if you promise to wait.”
“I will.”
Soon enough Holy Rome gets boosted up onto her horse, and Austria sits astride hers, dressed as an officer just as Holy Rome in a long coat. Their men are ready to go. Austria gives Hungary some last few words regarding the care of the estate, and then she kicks at her horse and starts down the road.
Holy Rome looks behind her, and Italy stands there by the hedge, waving. He might be smiling.
That is Holy Rome’s last look at Italy, her Venice. She resolves to cherish it.