A/N This fic was inspired by a day spent at a museum. It's my first attempt at Germancest! Woohoo!

Just a few notes: Roderich and Ludwig are cousins. Roderich raised Ludwig when Ludwig was orphaned at 10. There is a 14 year age gap between them. And I made Francis half German and half French. He's from Alsace. The cover image is a detail from Bernini's "The Rape of Proserpina." Thanks for reading. Reviews are always welcomed. Enjoy!

.

.

.

September, 1913

It was the smell of coffee that awoke him. Its pungent fumes drifted up the stairs, snaking lazily around his door to tingle his nose. Ludwig sniffed, groaned, rolled over and pressed his pillow to his face.

If he was smelling coffee before he was even awake, it could only mean one thing: Cousin Roderich had come to call.

Roderich.

What he could possibly want now, Ludwig wondered – though he had the slightest inkling – and that did not put him in a mood to entertain his much older cousin.

The clock in the hall chimed half-past-something. Ludwig flung the pillow away from his face. It landed with a muffled thump somewhere on the floor. Best not to keep guests waiting, even if they were meddling cousins.

A heavy arm swung down, feeling along the floor for his work clothes from the day before. Once located, Ludwig sat up and pulled them on, frowning slightly as he did so. His shirt and pants felt gritty and somewhat cold and damp. There was a lingering smell of stale sweat mingled with beer. From last night, no doubt. Well. No matter. He'd have Frau Kost wash them that evening.

Ludwig then stumbled to the washroom to splash some water on his face, running wet fingers through his hair to slick it back off his forehead, before heading downstairs.

He found Roderich seated at the dining room table, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. A small buffet of breakfast foods had been arranged on a sideboard, complete with a samovar filled with his cousin's preferred beverage. The samovar had been a gift from Roderich – a souvenir from one of his countless trips abroad, though Ludwig couldn't remember which one.

"I see you've helped yourself," Ludwig said, filling a cup of coffee from the samovar's spout.

"Don't be ridiculous," Roderich said, lowering a corner of his newspaper. "Your housekeeper was kind enough to attend."

Ludwig snorted into his cup. Roderich never did understand the subtleties of irony.

"I see you've finally managed to pull yourself out of bed," Roderich sniffed, hitching his paper back up. "Most men would consider this a day wasted, if they had to keep your kind of schedule."

"Guess I'm lucky," Ludwig said, sitting opposite his cousin. "I don't have to keep time with the rest of the world."

Roderich lowered his paper again, frowning slightly. "Is that all you're having?" he asked, seeing only the coffee cup held in his cousin's hand.

Ludwig shrugged. "Not hungry."

Roderich gave Ludwig a withering look. Ludwig smirked and raised an eyebrow, daring his cousin to say something.

Roderich merely shook his head and returned to his paper.

When he was done reading, Roderich folded the paper and put it aside. He took a pastry from the dish in front of him and spread some marmalade on it.

"Vash and his sister Lili are coming over for dinner this evening," Roderich said conversationally, setting his knife down. "You're more than welcome to join us. I know Vash can be insufferable at times, but his sister is really a lovely girl."

"Playing match-maker?" Ludwig said, taking a sip of coffee.

"No. Just making an observation," Roderich said airily.

Ludwig made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He knew Roderich was not through, and what his cousin said next only confirmed it.

"But really, Ludwig, you need to start thinking about these things. You're established in your career – and doing quite well, I might add," Roderich said, glancing around Ludwig's dining room. "Marriage is the next sensible step."

"Roderich," Ludwig said, fixing his cousin with a hard stare, "Lili is fifteen. She's a decade younger than me."

"It's not uncommon," Roderich sniffed, taking a bite of his pastry.

"It's disgusting," Ludwig grimaced.

Roderich shrugged a shoulder, not meeting Ludwig's eye as he wiped his lips with the corner of a napkin. "I only mentioned it. I know you artistic types have…different…tastes…."

Ludwig let out a derisive bark of laughter. "You're not helping your case."

"People will start to gossip, you know. An eligible bachelor like you…."

"Yeah. And I'm sure they'd have a lot more to blather about if I married some teenaged girl. What do I care what people think, if I'm not interested in marriage yet?"

"I'm only looking out for you, Ludwig. You're family – "

"Yeah. Okay. Sure, Roderich. Is this – is this the only reason you've come? To try and marry me off? I didn't realize I had become such a burden."

Roderich casually sipped his coffee, trying to pretend Ludwig's words hadn't riled him. "I was just making conversation."

Ludwig snorted. "You never just talk for the sake of talking. I spent enough years in your house to know that. Now out with it. Why are you here?"

Roderich set his cup down with a huff and a clink of porcelain. "Have you read the papers?"

"Oh not this again," Ludwig said, crossing his arms and tilting his chair back. "If you've just come here to talk politics, you should have saved yourself the trip."

"It's not only politics I wish to discuss, young man."

"Then what?" Ludwig said, bristling at the appellation and letting his chair fall back down with a resounding thud.

Roderich studied Ludwig a moment. He seemed to be steeling himself for what he was about to say.

"I wish you would consider my offer," he said at length.

"I should have known," Ludwig muttered.

Roderich's hand clenched into a fist. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to lash out at his cousin's impertinence. Sometimes he still forgot Ludwig was no longer the orphan boy he raised….

"War is coming," Roderich said in a quiet, controlled voice.

"That's what you said last time."

"The threat is growing, Ludwig. Everything that's happening in the Balkans…our own country, building up its armaments….Mark my words, young men are going to start enlisting…and when that's not enough, they'll start conscription…and if you object, you'll be thrown in prison!"

Ludwig stared back, unmoved, at his cousin. He had heard this all before – Roderich's political rants – just before he started his apprenticeship, when England and Germany were engaged in a naval arms race. Roderich was so sure, then, war was imminent. But nothing happened. Ludwig sometimes wondered if Roderich's years spent travelling as an attaché and hearing all sorts of political rumors hadn't made his cousin somewhat paranoid.

"Roderich, I'm busy," Ludwig said, standing. He left, heading for his studio, not wanting to hear anymore.

Ludwig stopped by the back door leading to his courtyard and the studio beyond. He took an apron off a coat hook and slipped it over his head.

"It's only for two years," Roderich pressed, following Ludwig out of the dining room. "I'm sure your patrons can wait."

"It's still Africa," Ludwig said. "It's still going to be hot and disease-ridden. No thank you."

"Ludwig – "

"No! I've already told you, Roderich. I'm not going. You'll have plenty of work to keep you occupied in the colonies, I'm sure. But what am I supposed to do there? I'm a sculptor. I have work – here – in Germany. Besides, I don't fancy having to learn Swahili."

"Oshiwambo," Roderich corrected.

"Whatever."

Ludwig wrenched open the door. He made to close it in his cousin's face, but Roderich was right on his heels.

"They speak German. And English. And you could always carve the tribesmen marble deities or something."

Ludwig hunched his shoulders, ignoring that last comment. It was an indirect insult, he knew. Despite Ludwig's success, Roderich never thought highly of his cousin's chosen field.

Ludwig quickened his pace through the courtyard, passing marble statues and box gardens in a blur. His studio stood at the far end. All glass and steel, it had been a greenhouse for the home's former occupant. Ludwig had it converted when he bought the home two years ago. The greenhouse, coupled with the courtyard, were large enough to be used as a gallery space whenever Ludwig arranged private or public viewings of his work.

"Ludwig," Roderich tried again once they had reached the glass enclosure.

But Ludwig ignored him, picking up a mallet and chisel, taking out his irritation with Roderich on a block of stone.

"What if you're wrong," Ludwig said at length. "What if I go away with you and when we return, this – this war of yours – has started? What then? Am I to run away with you to your next assignment? Well, I'm sorry. I've visited more foreign countries than I care to count. That life is not for me, Roderich. It never was."

"I was charged with your care, Ludwig – "

"And I'm not a child anymore! This is my home! And I'm not leaving it. I'm not running away with you. Now if you'll excuse me, cousin, I have work to do."

"…So be it," Roderich said, watching Ludwig chip away bits of white stone. He turned to go and then paused. "The invitation for dinner is still open. You will come, won't you?"

"…Maybe," Ludwig shrugged. "I don't know. Might go to the local with Francis."

"Francis!" Roderich balked. "I wish you would keep better company than that lecherous, money-grabbing Alsatian half-breed."

"You only don't like him because he made a pass at your wife that one time. And he was joking, by the way."

"Well, I don't care for his kind of humor," Roderich snipped. "You need to surround yourself with a better caliber of friends, Ludwig."

Ludwig only shook his head in exasperation.

"What does he even do, anyway?" Roderich continued. "He spends all his money at bars and beer halls. And when he's all out, he comes running to you to spend yours! And don't tell me he doesn't. You're always sticking up for that buffoon, though I've no idea why. He's not befitting, for someone like you."

Roderich paused in his ranting to take a breath. "…Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Yeah," Ludwig deadpanned. "Good-bye, Roderich."

Roderich's eyes narrowed behind his glasses, unsure if he had just been insulted. After a few silent, awkward moments, he decided to see himself out, leaving Ludwig to his work.

Ludwig let out a huff, raking a hand through his hair. Having been raised by Roderich since the age of ten, Ludwig was well used to his cousin's gripes. Still, listening to Roderich complain was like watching someone beat a dead horse – he never knew when to quit…not until he got what he wanted.

.

.

.

Ludwig had been working as a sculptor since he was fourteen, taking a part-time apprenticeship during the summer months. When he turned eighteen it became full-time, much to Roderich's chagrin. Ludwig knew his cousin wanted him to finish school and go on to university to study politics or business or some other theoretical rubbish. But those things held no interest for Ludwig. Besides, his father had worked as a stonemason – until the fall that killed him – and Ludwig always felt it was his duty to carry on his father's trade. But Roderich, determined to turn his cousin into something meritorious, honed Ludwig's fascination with stonework into a love of sculpture – something, at least with some culture. Roderich requested postings in Greece, Italy, wherever there was learning and art. But when they returned to Germany and Ludwig announced his desire to become a sculptor, Roderich was mortified. He had not meant for Ludwig to want to pursue his fanciful idea, only meant for him to gain some sophistication and taste. Roderich's wife, Elizaveta, supported Ludwig, staying with him in Germany while he worked his apprenticeship and Roderich departed for his next assignment. By the time Ludwig was twenty, he was a journeyman in his trade. Two years later, he would be a master. The submission of his masterpiece – a Valkyrie on horseback – to the sculptor's guild ensured it…and earned him the reputation for creating works of art so true to human form, they seemed to breathe. He was soon flooded with purchases from wealthy art collectors as well as requests for commissions. He became accustomed to receiving visitors at his home – whether to discuss a possible commission or to simply entertain them while they browsed his gallery.

So it should have come as no surprise, really, when the stranger showed up early that evening. Still, there was something about this man that was unlike any of Ludwig's other patrons.

The light streaming through the studio windows had taken on that filtered quality of late afternoon. And soon the sky would be shot with orange and pink as the sun set, casting harsh lines and shadows as Ludwig tried to work. He decided to stop for the day.

Ludwig was just putting away his chisels, rasp, and mallet, when his saw his housekeeper, Frau Kost, leading the man through the courtyard. The man was old – had to be at least seventy – but walked with the lively gait of someone much younger. It was odd, watching him walk. His strides were long, purposeful – like he could easily squash the short, waddling Frau Kost with one foot, but followed dutifully behind like a shadow. A walking stick swung from his hand and his balding head was crowned with a ring of snow-white hair. His mouth twisted in a sort of amused, knowing smirk.

"Herr – Herr Beilschmidt," Frau Kost wheezed, leaning against the studio door. "This is – uh – Herr…I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"My name is unimportant," the man smiled, extending a hand.

Ludwig arched an eyebrow, wiping his own dusty hands unceremoniously on his apron before taking the stranger's. Up close, Ludwig could see the man's coat was old – at least a couple of decades old – and military, with a number of tarnished medals pinned to it.

"Did Roderich send you?" Ludwig asked, eyeing the medals. It would be like his cousin to use his contacts to persuade Ludwig to do something. In this case, that something was joining Roderich in going to Africa, Ludwig guessed, based on the fact this man was obviously military and Roderich had been bleating about a war for some time now.

But the man's brow only furrowed at the name. "Roderich? I'm sorry, but I don't know anyone by that name."

"Oh. Good." Ludwig felt himself smile. "Well, then, how may I help you?"

"I'm here about a commission."

"Ah," Ludwig said, eyes widening. "I see." He set about, searching his studio for pencil and paper, dismissing the waiting Frau Kost as he did so. "…What – um – what…did you have in mind?"

"Well," the man said, his brow dipping in uncertainty as he watched Ludwig tear apart his studio. "I wanted a commemorative piece done."

"Okay," Ludwig said, raking back his hair in agitation as he continued his search.

"…Here, Herr Beilschmidt," the man said, producing a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket.

Ludwig took the offered notebook and pencil, smiling apologetically as he did so.

"So. As I said. I was thinking of a commemorative piece. A memento mori, if you will."

"Okay," Ludwig said, taking notes. "Um…what – what exactly…did you have anything in particular in mind?"

"I'm a veteran," the man said, "of the Franco-Prussian War. I want something memorializing, not the war, but the price paid – the lives lost for Germany's unification. But I don't want it specifically anchored to that time period. The message is universal, timeless…."

"Okay," Ludwig said again as the idea began to take shape in his mind.

The man went on to describe in detail precisely what he wanted: a life-sized Neoclassical young man in a tunic, seated on the ground, wounded in the side, with the sword at his feet.

Ludwig's mouth fell open slightly. It was the exact image that had formed in his head.

"…And as I understand it, Herr Beilschmidt, you have quite an extraordinary gift," the man said. "I've been told your carvings are so true to form, it's like you're freeing the flesh trapped within the stone. A modern day Michelangelo." The man winked.

Ludwig felt the color rise to his neck. "Yes…well…that's what – what people say," he said, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Come, now, Herr Beilschmidt. No need for modesty. That's why I came to you. For your prodigious talent." The man's knowing smirk widened into a leering grin. "I want my sculpture to be the most realistic thing you've ever created. I want to see the pulse pounding in his veins – I want to hear the air as it leaves his lungs…."

A mad glint sparkled in the man's eyes. A "living" statue of a young man dying….A memento mori….Not like he hadn't done them before, but….Something about this man, about the way he spoke so morbidly, made Ludwig shudder. He felt dirty, tainted. As if he was desecrating something sacred – and he hadn't even begun working on it yet….

The sun had dipped well below the tree line by now, throwing much of Ludwig's studio into darkness. He could barely make out the paper as he scribbled his notations on it. He wished he had asked Frau Kost to bring down some lanterns. He suddenly did not fancy being alone in the darkening studio with this nameless man.

When it looked as if the man had nothing more to say, Ludwig cleared his throat and asked: "When – when would you like this?"

"It doesn't matter," the man said, waving a hand. "Take as much time as you need – years, if you must. I only want it to be as realistic as possible."

"All right," Ludwig said. "May I have your name and address, so I can contact you if I need to?"

The man laughed. "My name is not important. And you won't need to contact me. I will come by to check on your progress."

The man swung up his walking stick and turned on his heel to leave.

"Oh! And Herr Beilschmidt," he said, pausing at the door. "Don't worry about cost." He extracted a money pouch from a coat pocket and pressed it into Ludwig's hand. "Consider that my retainer."

The bag was so heavy Ludwig nearly dropped it.

"Wait," Ludwig called as the man sauntered to the door. "Let me at least have your name. Please."

"Herr Beilschmidt, you don't need my name," the man said over his shoulder. "I am your Benefactor."

And with that, the man strolled out of the studio, leaving Ludwig staring confoundedly after him, the moneybag nothing more than deadweight in his hand.