Literature
Of Love and War: PruHun
"Well," Elizaveta Héderváry grunts, hauling the last of her belongings onto her packhorse, "I guess this is goodbye, Gil."
Gilbert Beilschmidt shuffles his feet in the dirt beside her, refusing to make eye contact.
"Are you really going to marry that unawesome prick of an Austrian?" he asks.
She sighs. "Yes, Gil. We've gone over this many times. I must." She studies the face of her closest friend. He's still eyeing the floor intently, shoulders drooping, hand in pockets. He mutters something unintelligible.
When he fails to answer her in a coherent way, she hesitantly adds, "It
It's not like I want to, or anything."
His s