The morning sun spilled over the village, casting a golden glow across the thatched roofs and the dew-kissed grass. Friedrich awoke to the soft clatter of pots from the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread and herbs drifting through the cracked window. He stretched, the ache of last night's fight easing from his muscles, and glanced at Elsa beside him. She stirred, her hair a tousled cascade over the pillow, her breathing a quiet rhythm in the stillness. The memory of their closeness lingered, her rosewater scent still faint on his skin. He still pondered how he came to like her despite being against his mother in every way towards the marriage.
Downstairs, the house hummed with life. His mother bustled about, her apron dusted with flour, while his half-sister, Liesel, chattered over a cup of tea, her laughter bright as the birdsong outside. Elsa joined them, slipping into the rhythm of the household with an ease that caught Friedrich's eye. She kneaded dough alongside his mother, her hands swift and sure, the yeasty aroma rising as they worked. Later, she moved to the small flower garden out back, her figure framed by the wooden fence, tending to a patch of vibrant lavender—*lavande*, as the French called it—its purple blooms swaying in the breeze, releasing a fragrance that perfumed the air.
"She's a blessing, that one," his mother said later that day, sitting with Friedrich on the porch as Elsa pruned the lavender, her fingers deftly snipping stems. The old woman's voice was warm, her eyes crinkling with approval. "Look at her—baking, tending the house, and those flowers... She grows lavande because it was your father's favorite. He'd sit for hours just breathing it in."
Friedrich's head snapped up, the mention of his father like a spark in the quiet. "What was he like, Mama? You never say." His tone was gentle but edged with curiosity, the lavender's scent sharpening his longing for answers.
His mother's smile faltered, her hands tightening around her mug of tea, the steam curling into the cool air. "He was... a man of passion," she said vaguely, her gaze drifting to the horizon. "Let's leave it there, mein Schatz. Enjoy the day."
The weekend unfolded in soft, simple moments. Friedrich repaired a loose fence post with Liesel, the wood rough under his hands, their banter light—"You're still hopeless with a hammer," she teased, dodging his playful swat. At dinner, they shared stories over a meal of roasted chicken and potatoes, the crackle of the hearth underscoring their laughter. Elsa sat close, her knee brushing his under the table, her shy smile a silent thread weaving them together. That night, they lingered by the fire, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm, the warmth of the flames mirroring the quiet heat between them.
Sunday dawned crisp and clear, the village alive with the toll of church bells and the chatter of neighbors. Friedrich helped Elsa in the garden, her hands guiding his to the lavender, the earthy scent grounding him. "You'll smell like this when I'm gone," he murmured, brushing a bloom against her cheek, earning a soft laugh.
His mother watched from the doorway, her voice carrying over the rustle of leaves. "She's a good wife already, Friedrich. See how she cares for us? You'd be a fool not to keep her."
The words settled in him, a promise taking root. That night, their last together, he held Elsa close in the dim room, the blanket soft against their skin, her breath warm on his neck as they whispered plans—dreams of a life beyond war, rooted in this quiet village.
Monday came too soon. Friedrich rose before dawn, the air sharp with the promise of departure. Elsa was there, her hands steady as she helped him dress—buttoning his coat, the fabric crisp under her fingers, adjusting his collar with a tender touch. She packed his bag, slipping in a sprig of lavender, its scent a silent vow. "For luck," she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
He saddled his horse, the leather creaking, the silver and diamonds from his loot glinting in the faint light. His mother and Liesel stood by, their hugs fierce, the lavender's fragrance clinging to them all. "I'll marry you, Elsa," he promised, his voice firm as he mounted. "After Otto's coronation—Monday's chaos will settle, and I'll have a rank worthy of you. General or not, I'll come back for this."
She nodded, her hand lingering on his boot. "I'll wait," she whispered, the wind carrying her words as he spurred the horse forward, the village fading behind him, the road to the city stretching out like a battlefield of ambition and fate.