An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
george devalier stopped being relevant six years ago, the veraverse is mine now :)
this is the fifth chapter of “lily of the lamplight”, i plan on completing the entire fic, which means fifteen chapters plus an epilogue. it’ll be updated at a snail pace, but i’ll see that it’s completed because i’m george now and this is my veraverse :))
A dockside conversation while the world burns.
[Part of George DeValier’s VeraVerse.]
Matthias found him by the docks, a pile of grimy rags beside him. Lukas’ feet were dangling over the edge, inches from the white-capped water that roared and crashed against stone. The wind smelled of salt and the sea, tossing his silky hair about and threatening to whip the cap from his head. But he was undeterred by the turbulent weather, almost mechanically tearing the rags into even strips and braiding them together.
He sat down. “What are you doing?”
“Braiding these into ropes.” He shook out a dirty shirt that looked like it had been dragged through mud fifty times. “Nothing can go to waste here.”
Lukas’ hands were swift, twisting the strips of cloth together at lightning-speed until they formed a length of rope. He let the ends dangle over the dock, tying together strip after strip until the crude rope sank well into the sea. Matthias could not tear his eyes away. His fingers were deft and slender, and when he let go of the rope for a while to grab another piece of clothing, Matthias could see off-white callouses on his fingertips.
They sat in silence until the pile was gone, and Lukas dragged his long rope up from over the dock to rest in coils. He flexed his fingers. “I never thought I would be using my hands like this, but war changes us all.”
“What did your hands do before this?” Matthias asked.
“I was a violinist,” he replied. “Before all this, I dreamt of going to Copenhagen one day and playing at the Royal Theatre.”
He had not expected that. Lukas’ hands were gnarled and strong from years of work and practice, but his face was youthful. Those glimmering periwinkle eyes could not be holding decades of experience.
“How old are you?” Matthias watched as he picked up his rope and looped it around his arm. They had met twice before, yet he still did not know this.
He replied, “I am sixteen.”
“Not old enough to join the army, then.”
“Yes, but I am old enough to join an orchestra.” He smiled slightly, while Matthias was wondering how somebody who was only a teenager could be so whimsical, as though an adult. “Imagine if all the strong, eligible men joined the orchestra instead of the army. We could wage war in concert halls, not the trenches.” Lukas slung the rope over his shoulder. “I would have no need to do this, if that were the case.”
Enchanted, Matthias followed him away from the docks. If only they could fight through music, indeed. At the corner of his mind, he heard his own battle. It had to be you, it sang, it had to be you. I wandered around and finally found the somebody who could make me be true.
He pushed it away. He would not lose to the boy and the song that was so insistently fighting his self-control.
In which an abandoned church makes for an interesting conversation topic.
[Set in George DeValier’s Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart.]
[Recommended listening/watching: Heaven Knows by Five For Fighting, animated by Alice Jaxerques.]
[This story contains discussions about religion.]
The sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, bathing Feliciano in a soft topaz glow. His walking almost looked like dancing, a lovely one-man waltz casting shadows across the dirty, tiled floor of the church.
“I never saw this place on my walks before.” Feliciano turned back and smiled at Ludwig. “How could I have missed an entire church, especially one that’s so pretty?” He spun around in the multicoloured lights. “Look at all this!”
He could not deny that the church was pretty, even in its half-dilapidated state. The floor was grubby, the windows were faded and the walls were in need of cleaning, but the painted statues and carved wooden pews were intact. Ludwig watched as Feliciano ran up and down the lengths of the small church, his footsteps echoing.
After two laps, he stopped next to Ludwig, round cheeks flushed slightly. “Churches are always so beautiful, with their stained glass and carvings,” he said. “If I ever own a house, I’d want my windows to be made of stained glass.”
“That would be very colourful.”
“Exactly! It would look just like a church, except I hope nobody would mistake my house for one. I don’t want people showing up at my door on a Sunday morning.” Feliciano fidgeted with the bunch of heliotrope he’d picked earlier. “Do you believe in God, Ludwig?” He suddenly asked.
Surprised by the question, he replied, “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.” He gently swung the bunch back and forth. “I know Vino does, because he crosses himself sometimes. And I don’t know about Grandpa. But I like churches anyways.”
“So do I.”
“Do you want to get married in a church?”
Heat pricked at Ludwig’s cheeks. Suddenly, he could not meet Feliciano’s eyes. “Yes, I think so, if I were allowed to.”
Feliciano laughed. “If we can find a way to fit Greta in here, you can have a wonderful wedding.”
He tried not to laugh; it was amazing how Feliciano managed to be so silly and serious at the same time. “Maybe not with Greta.” He still couldn’t look him in the eye. “I would love to marry a person in a church, though.”
“Anyone in particular?” He sounded teasing.
He stammered, “uh... well...” He became very interested in the grimy floor. “Actually, the person on my mind is - “
February, 1944:
Ludwig’s eyes flew open. He was not in the church.
He sat up, shrugging off the thin, scratchy blanket he and his fellow pilots were given. In the bunk above him, someone snuffled.
Feliciano’s bright, airy laugh was still fresh in his head, as was his teasing grin. He had had dreams of him every night since leaving him, and a longing wish-fulfilment of the brief time they’d spent in the church just happened to be another one.
When they’d been to the church, they had commented on the windows and the statues, then left a few moments later to keep picking flowers. If only his dream was what had really happened.
For a moment, Ludwig saw Feliciano again, smiling with flowers in his hands and leaves in his hair, rambling away with that sweet voice of his. He saw him laughing, running, singing his lovely songs. Just the thought of him made his heart ache. Goodness, they had only been apart for two weeks and he already missed him so.
Careful to ensure that nobody was looking, he took his photo of Feliciano out of his pocket. He was beaming at the camera, Ludwig’s jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. He ran his thumb over the photo and sighed. He would see him again one day.
He’d make sure of it.
...
July, 1960:
“Look, it’s still up!”
Hands clenched tight on the armrests of his wheelchair, Ludwig nearly yelped as Feliciano pushed him towards the church at full speed. The wheels rolled over rocks and clumps of grass before stopping with a jolt in front of the entrance.
“It’s been so many years!” Feliciano hoisted his wheelchair over the single step with a grunt and rolled him into the church. “Nothing’s changed, huh?”
The lights shining in from the stained-glass windows were as vibrant as ever, and while the filigree frescoes on the walls were a bit more faded, they brought a smile to Ludwig’s face all the same.
All was silent until Feliciano spoke up. “It’s nice to see something that wasn’t changed by the war. We only came here once, and I’m glad to be back.” He sat down at a pew and held Ludwig’s hand. “How about you?”
“I’m happy, too.” He stroked the back of his lover’s hand with his thumb. “Especially since we’re here together.”
“Too bad we could never have stained-glass windows at home like I said.” Feliciano kissed his cheek. “I told Vino about that and I think he laughed for five minutes straight. Antonio had to ask if he was okay.”
Ludwig smiled. “I think our house is beautiful anyways. It’s probably even better than this old place.”
“This old place?” He repeated. “Don’t be so mean! It’s not that old. You shouldn’t be so rude to the place where we spent time together when we were young.” He kissed his cheek again. “Remember when I asked you if you’d ever get married in a church?”
He shook his head. “With how the world is today, people like us can’t be married anywhere.”
Feliciano snorted. “We don’t need to be officially married by an officiant or something. We can just be married because we say so.”
The years had not stolen away Feliciano’s carefreeness. Ludwig squeezed his hand, imagining if they could ever walk down the aisle. “If that’s the case, then I guess we’re husbands.”
“That sounds good to me!” He extracted two of the many red daisies he’d stored in the breast-pocket of his jacket, and pulled their stems off. After a few moments, he’d managed to knot a pair of crude rings out of them. “Here, we can wear these.”
He let his lover (or could they call each other husbands now?) slide the rough green ring on his fourth finger, then press his lips to it.
Ludwig touched the ring on Feliciano’s hand. “And we did it in a church, too.”
“So you got your wish after all.” He laced their fingers together, grassy rings pressing against each other. Eyes brimming with quiet joy, Feliciano rested his head on his lap and beamed up at him.
They were far from young now, probably what most considered too old to get married. But as Ludwig looked down at the man he’d just been unofficially wed to, he felt twenty years old again, a naive young soldier on the streets of Anzio, rescuing an air-headed young man from a beating. He felt youthful, energised, as though he could race all the way back home.
“Who will take whose last name?” Feliciano held his hand up to the sky.
“We don’t have to,” he said. “I couldn’t imagine you as anyone other than simply Feliciano Vargas.”
He laughed at that, sweet and clear, and the captivating sound echoed around the church. Ludwig could not help laughing, too. If he had more energy, he’d tell Feliciano just how much he adored him. But he was getting tired, and he settled for swooping down and claiming his lips.
I’m still waiting for the DenNor addition to deValier’s Veraverse. I want to know what happened to Lukas and his resistance in Trondheim, I want to know how Matthias fares as a Danish pilot, I want to know how little Emil ties in to all of this. Hell, even if they all die I want to know what happens.
(Also Catch Perfect. I want to know what happens next in Catch Perfect.)
Emil’s fiddling with the radio one day brings a sweet little tune into Lukas’ life: one that he chooses to enjoy with Matthias. Based on George deValier’s VeraVerse.
(Recommended listening: It Had to Be You, performed by Vera Lynn)
“What are you doing, Emil?”
His younger brother ignored him, twisting and turning the knobs with furrowed brows. On and on his fiddling with the radio went, until the soft tune of a violin flowed its way into the room.
It had to be you...
Emil twisted another knob, turning up the volume until the sweet song filled the air.
It had to be you...
Without thinking, Lukas found himself humming along, tapping a foot against the wooden floor. “Some others I’ve seen might never be mean,” he sang quietly, “Might never be cross or try to be boss, but they wouldn’t do!”
The image of Matthias flew into his mind, the thought of his loud, booming laugh and sunny smile brought a smile to his face. “It had to be you, wonderful you, it had to be you!”
The soft clearing of a throat brought Lukas to silence, and he found Emil looking at him with a small smile. “Now I can see why you were in the school choir.”
...
When Matthias went down to the basement after duty that day, he found himself face-to-face with Lukas’ younger brother, who was standing nervously in front of the door with a pistol tucked into his pocket.
Emil looked up as Matthias approached, one hand flying to the weapon as he trained nervous dark eyes on the pilot. “Password?”
“Men are no match for mountains,” Matthias recited, stumbling over the vocabulary. He nodded in thanks at Emil and pushed the door open.
The crackling of a radio greeted him as he stepped inside, in addition to a group of laughing people crowded around the little machine. Weren’t radios banned? He thought, approaching the group anyways.
“For our small victory today, and in thanks of the lovely Shetland bus!”
A cheer arose, followed by a round of thundering applause. Peering closer into the group, Matthias found the speaker on his stool, clutching a radio to his chest. “Now there are a hundred more people away from German clutches.”
Breaking away from Lukas, the resistance members scattered around the small basement with smiles on their faces, letting Matthias walk up to the resistance leader.
“If you’re asking about Emil, he’s outside guarding the door,” Lukas said, not looking up. “You don’t have to worry—”
“Lukas.”
And he met his gaze, sea into sky. “Oh.” He said quietly. “Good evening, Matthias.”
“I see you have a radio,” Matthias replied awkwardly. “Where did you get it from?”
Lukas looked at the small device, dropping his gaze. “I’ve always had it, I just put it away when the Germans came looking.” He switched the radio on, turning a knob to let the music play.
Matthias recognised the song almost immediately, the lovely violin introduction all too familiar. He thought of his parents, singing the song to each other back in Denmark, scrawling down lyrics of the song as soon as he could read, learning part of his English from those lovely songs Ms. Lynn would sing.
“It had to be you,” he sang, making Lukas glance at him in surprise. “It had to be you.”
“I wandered around and finally found the somebody who...” Lukas continued, slapping a hand over his mouth in shock.
“...would make me be true,” Matthias gently pulled Lukas’ hand away, smiling encouragingly. “Would make me feel blue.”
“And even be glad just to be sad thinking of you,” they sang together.
Nobody in the room seemed to have noticed their little duet.
“Some others I’ve seen might never be mean,” Matthias playfully poked Lukas as he sang that line.
“I’m not mean!” Lukas protested, but continued on to the next line. “Might never be cross, or try to be boss, but they wouldn’t do!” He got to his feet, letting Matthias grab him by the waist and lead him in an impromptu dance.
Matthias and Lukas twirled around the room, oblivious to the joking snickers from the resistance members.
He laughed, spinning Lukas around and around as the people blurred all around them. “For nobody else gave me a thrill...”
The wood floor echoed with the clomps of their boots.
As they settled in a corner of the room, he rested his head on Matthias’ shoulder. “With all your faults, I love you still!”
“Oh, we all know I’m perfect,” Matthias quipped quickly. Lukas elbowed him in the ribs, but couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips.
“It had to be you,” they sang, voices bubbled with laughter, “wonderful you,” they grasped each other’s hands, standing so closely their foreheads touched...
“It had to be you!”
...
A/N: I couldn’t bring myself to write the angst normally associated with the VeraVerse, so here’s Matthias and Lukas, singing along to a lovely song. I didn’t want them to be too serious, since according to the notes deValier left behind, as of 1941 Matthias would be nineteen, Lukas would be sixteen and Emil would be nine.
The Shetland bus was the nickname of boats used by the Norwegian resistance in WWII to allow citizens wanted by the Nazis to escape the country.
Roderich decides to pluck up his courage and ask his intimidating acquaintance about his own Lili Marlene.
[Takes place in around the middle of chapter four in The Lily of The Lamplight by George deValier.]
Then came another period of agonising, deafening silence. It came so quickly, when mere seconds ago the crack of bullets pierced the air and shouts in multiple languages pounded through his ears. Roderich took a deep breath, resisting the urge to peer out of the trench. He had no doubts that he would surely get himself shot if he did.
Feliks was humming idly, popping a Vivil mint into his mouth. Another minute passed before he began to sing, sing an English song Roderich had never heard before. He sang of what sounded like lovely days in the future to feast your tear-dimmed eyes on, for even if your heart is weary and all is gray, tomorrow ought to be better.
Behind him, a deep voice clashed with Feliks'.
This song was in English too, and also sang of the future. It promised that even if you were to grow too old to dream, there would still be someone - just one person - who you'd be able to remember. And even if they parted, left each other with a kiss, that sweet touch of each others' lips would live in their heart.
For a moment, Roderich wondered if he should speak to the mint-popping Pole in front of him, or the Swede behind him. He decided to turn around, the sweet, quiet song still a mere whisper from Berwald's lips.
"So kiss me, my sweet, and so let us part." Berwald was looking at his rifle, or more specifically the photo on it. He ran his thumb over the worn-out iron ring on his finger, eyes far away as though somewhere else. "And when I grow too old to dream, that kiss will live in my heart."
Even while singing and lost in memories, Roderich found himself intimidated by Berwald. But he forced himself to sit down beside him, and pointed at the photo. "Is that your 'wife'?"
Berwald looked up, slightly startled. Then he nodded slowly. "Not just my wife. He’s my friend. My lover.” He sighed. “My everything."
Roderich had never heard Berwald speak so much before, nor with so much emotion. “What’s his name?”
“Tino.” Berwald picked up the photo gently, as though he were handling a diamond instead of a piece of film. “Look, he’s beautiful.”
The man in the photo had a wide, happy smile, big brown eyes gleaming in the cold winter light. Roderich peered closer, and saw a matching iron ring on his ring finger. “You love him very much.”
“More than anything.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“He loved his country.” Berwald sighed heavily, placed the photo back onto his rifle. “Loved it to death. He joined the army himself. Not like me.”
“You were forced.” Like me, Roderich thought.
“Yes.” Those green eyes were drifting away again. “He's the strong one. Shorter, but stronger. Yet still so sweet.” He sighed again. “On the battlefield, he killed. Outside it, he cared. The children loved him.”
Roderich could not say anything. He let Berwald speak, pour out emotions that would land him in deep trouble if he released them anywhere else.
“We had a dog together.”
“Really?” Berwald began drawing in the sand with the tip of his rifle. He was a surprisingly good artist. Soon, he’d sketched out a small, fluffy dog. “Wanted to name her Charlotte. Guess what Tino named him.”
“Er…” He blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Kukkanamuna.” Berwald let out a puff of what could’ve been laughter. “It means ‘flower egg’.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous.”
“Yet adorable. He could make anything adorable.” Beneath the drawing of fluffy Kukkanamuna, Berwald wrote Tino’s name in shaky cursive.
This was a man deeply in love. “You miss him,” Roderich said.
A third sigh. “I miss him so much.”
“You’ll go back to him one day,” Roderich found himself promising. He had no way to guarantee that, but he kept talking. “Then you can live together with your small fluffy dog with a ridiculous name and all will be well.”
“All will be well,” Berwald repeated. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
