The day would be dull if it weren't for his appointment with Genya.
It's all he looks forward to. He behaves as best he can throughout his morning meetings, although his mind wanders to the high seas and how her hair would look with the bright sun looming behind her. He remembers how it glowed many years ago when she'd been nothing but a slip of a girl, and he'd been a boy who needed to behave but never quite grasped the concept of it. She stood in the sun and laughed at something funny—it probably wasn't him; he remembers being too far away from her to even be a blip on her radar, even though he was doing something funny. He couldn't quite remember if he was testing his invention of lifting his pet rock at the time high into the sky with a piece of fabric tied to a small cane basket or if he'd made a fool of himself as he was wont to do.
It's something he's chased since then. That laugh. Since his return to Ravka, he's been more determined than ever to hear it again. The Grand Palace lights up when there's laughter echoing through the halls. Especially hers.
The halls are quiet now, however. He much prefers it at this time of night.
Before she can even knock, Nikolai opens the door with a flourish and a charming smile. His white shirt's rumpled, and his hair is a mess. He looks nothing like the king he should. "Ah, the great Genya Safin. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me," he teases brightly with a theatrical bow. With a wave, he gestures for her to enter his rooms.
It's late at night, hours after supper and when most of the Grand Palace has gone to bed. His room burns brightly, with lamps perched on almost every surface. It looks like the sun's laid itself to rest on the ocean with its golden walls, curtains and accents of calm sky blue. It's half a neat mess and an unmanageable one; his desk is littered with papers and maps, books lie haphazardly in piles on any surface, while his love seat and bed (tucked away in his room) are tidy like it hasn't been disturbed at all.
Nikolai hasn't gone out of his way to try and neaten up his rooms to impress Genya. He knows there's nothing he can do to achieve such a feat.
When Genya had been a girl and still so very innocent, she'd smiled and laughed so freely. There has been a boy, handsome and blonde. The people of the Grand Palace had called him Sobachka. She'd been given to the tsaritsa and expected to tend to all her needs, but when she hadn't needed her, Genya found herself trying to simply be around the boy.
She'd always been drawn to him and the energy he gave off. His smile had been addicting. She could almost remember that tender-chaste brush of his lips.
Now she's a woman grown. She's scarred inside and out. She carried herself with Grisha steel in her spine. She's no longer a spy or a handmaiden, but an advisor to the tsar himself. Yet somehow, she's fallen back on old skills. She's brought along her kit and enters his suite with a flourish that only Genya is capable of her.
Her eyepatch matches hers dress which is a mixture of pale green accented by fold and forest green.
"It depends. Did you remember to eat supper?" she asks him pointedly. She knows how distracted he gets. Meetings he might not enjoy, but she knows he spends long hours hunched over his desk reviewing missives and reports. She knows because she's often there with him.
"Or perhaps you need liquid courage to submit yourself to me and my scissors?"
Genya could wear a potato sack and still be the most striking person in the room. Nikolai was grateful he hadn't opted to wear green; he'd definitely look the lesser of the two of them if that were something he cared greatly about.
"I definitely plan on being a little drunk when you eventually take scissors to my hair," he says, closing the door behind her. Nikolai doesn't lock it; this isn't a cage to trap a pretty bird in. He closes it to stop their voices from travelling and to discourage anyone who tends to assume an open door is an invitation to be disturbed.
Careful not to brush against her, he walks toward his small bar with glasses and the brandy he'd kindly borrowed without wanting to return it to the kitchen. It's neatly stocked with glasses of various sizes and a couple of dark liquor bottles. When he lifts the glass, he holds it as a bartender does in a dank tavern and pours two glasses of brandy.
"And it's not because I distrust you," he glances up at her with a smile, "but it's been a long day, and if you're to finally cut off my ear, I don't want to feel it." He holds out a glass for her to take. "My left. It's the one everyone seems fond of whispering in."
Unlike his father and predecessor, Genya feels no sense of entrapment or panic to be alone with the Tsar in his suite. She's relaxed if not a bit exasperated with him, but that's her usual mood towards him. She lets him pour them both some brandy, and she has to admit that it is a nice little end cap to their long day. Ruling a country is a thankless job. Everyone constantly needs something. It's a careful balancing act to keep everyone pacified while not giving them everything they ask for. And Saints, the paperwork! So much paperwork.
She takes a sip of the brandy. She's not a fan of the taste itself, but she enjoys the burning warmth as it spreads through her body. She moves towards the vanity where she sets both glass and kit down before the mirror.
"And what does everyone do in the right? It's usually the one I find myself tempted to yank when you're being difficult," she quips. She opens the box and finds her comb and scissors. She gestures for him to take a seat. "Relax, moi tsar, your ears shall remain in tact. At least for tonight."
"Nikolai, if you're to yank my right ear," he says as he strides toward his vanity. He's tempted to stall—even thinks of a few ways to accomplish such a task—but he doesn't wish for Genya to believe he's invited her over to waste her time.
Or to read into it. The Tsar of Ravka isn't lonely. He's simply hungry for decent conversation, a little battle of wits, and definitely a scolding.
Saints, he loves being scolded by her.
Taking a seat, he rests his hands on the armrests and leans back against the chair. But as soon as his spine touches the back, he's leaning forward, inviting himself to inspect her kit with gentle fingers.
"You're a very organised person," he remarks. It's unsurprising. Genya is nothing if not perfectly presented. It's perhaps why she's the best Tailor in Ravka—she knows how to present a perfect image, even without using her enviable skills. "Why does one need so many scissors of various sizes?"
Once he sits, she reaches out to begin combing through his hair with her fingers, but he chooses to lean forward instead. She suppresses a sigh because it's quite like Nikolai to get distracted even though he's the one who's requested her presence here. She lets him inspect her kit because truly what's the harm? She wonders if she'll regret it. She prides herself on being organized and put together. One might say it's because of her need to have control over things when much of her life hadn't been in her control before, but that's neither here nor there.
"They're not all for hair. Some are for cloth or finer things," she explains to him patiently. Patience is something she's had to learn over the years. An impatient spy is a terrible one. Of course, she needs to reach much deeper into that well when it comes to handling him. Her hand goes to his shoulder to gently tug him back to the chair. "Now sit still or I really will take a bit of ear," she warns.
With him in his proper place, she begins to card her fingers through his hair to get a feel of how long it is. His hair is soft. He's a man who knows how to take care of himself. "How much would you like off?" she asks again to be sure, gazing at him in the mirror.
Her fingers are nice. He lets that thought distract him until he lifts his gaze to watch her in the mirror. How much does he want off? He'd cause a stir within the Grand Palace if he asked for all of it. It might be fun to ride out the reactions, but he feels Genya won't be so pliable to follow his request.
She's so sensible. Always has been.
"This much," he says, lifting his hand to show his index and thumb almost pressed together. "It's getting a little long around my ears. Did you know I had a woman call my ears the most delicate things she's ever seen?" Nikolai exhales softly through his nose before he shakes his head. "People say a lot of bullshit when they want to impress you. I bet you've heard your fair share."
Some from Nikolai. He prides himself in earning a nice eye roll from her. It always sees her shoulders loosen, and the stiffness in her spine let her go.
"Yes, often from you, moy tsar," Genya replies dryly. She makes note of the distance between his fingers though it's not truly helpful. The distance is arbitrary. She knows he wants to cut short though to take off around his ears, so she keeps that in mind as she starts combing and trimming. For a bit, there's only the soft sounds of the scissors snipping. His hair falls to marble floor around them.
"Your ears aren't what I would call delicate, but I suppose they're lovely enough," she teases. She combs his hair upwards to check the length and continued trimming to that length. She's in her zone which means she's soften and more relaxed.
[ Two days pass since Nikolai springs his brilliant idea on Anahid. A part of him expects her to find an excuse and pull out. She has better things to do. Something came up. She stumbled upon a greater idea—one not as brilliant, but still better than his—and she needs to see to it instead.
But she doesn't. Nikolai's trying to outgrow the expectation that people are simply entertaining him because of the glint of the crown he tries to remove from his head.
The day's bright, the sky's clear, and the grounds of the Grand Palace are a deep, vivid green. It almost looks like one of the ridiculous paintings his mother had commissioned years ago. He's dressed in a bright blue coat with golden accents, looking very much like Sturmhond and not the King of Ravka (although, to the untrained eye, he looks like the tsar and not the renowned privateer).
The lake is up ahead, and with it, his hot air balloon. In the great distance, it looks like it doesn't belong. The large wooden box sits tall and proud, painted in a bright yellow that makes him squint. The fabric he'd had especially made remains lying on the grass. It looks like a pathetic heap of junk from up the hill.
The sight of it excites him. ]
Are you afraid of heights? I feel we should've discussed that.
[ He furrows his brows, glancing at her with some concern, but he doesn't stop walking. ]
I had 99 tech problems but this phone tag ain't one
[ When Nihath had told her about the sorcerers—Grisha, or small scientists, she'd find out later—of Ravka inviting the alchemists of Bezim on a cultural excursion to promote learning and positive international relations among magic wielders, well... Honestly, she hadn't cared. It wasn't like that life had anything to do with her. Nor her husband, really. They probably wanted to meet Siyon. But she had gone, parting temporarily from the house she deftly maintained and her budding career as a professional card player, because she was still determined to be a good noble wife while remaining a third wheel in her own marriage.
Her husband also invited his lover, of course. Anahid was nothing but scratchings at the window compared to that bond. Whatever. At least she had a lush country to explore, new food to eat, and a deeply guttural language to learn. Her Ravkan will probably always be a bit south of easy on the ears, but she'd resigned herself to that. Kerch sounded fascinating. Maybe she'd go there next, make a week of it. See if anyone noticed.
Of course, the King of Ravka had briefly met the transplanted alchemists. They were a diplomatic contingent, after all. She just... hadn't expected him to put any effort in courting her friendship with any especial interest. It was odd, although hardly unwelcome. He wasn't what she expected.
Nihath hadn't seem to catch on. She only informed him of her invitation to the Grand Palace because decorum indicated she must. (The look on his face as he sputtered up his morning tea had made her day, if she's being quite honest.)
Once there, Anahid has to own how lovely it is. The open fields and tall cliffs are so different from Bezim's cramped buildings, its mire of stone and sand and little else. She could probably spend hours gazing at the sun glittering off the lake water. If only there wasn't a pile of trash in the periphery of her view.
At his words, Anahid bites down on a smile. ]
No, your Majesty. [ Moi Tsar, for all that it tumbles from her lips with the cadence of a chimera hacking up a hairball. ] But I suppose finding out if there's an aerial equivalent to seasickness is a credible academic exercise.
[ It's automatic at this point. She always insists on using his title, and he always insists on using his name. It feels like a game—a fun one, at least. Your Privyness is still one of his favourite titles (after Sturmhond, of course).
He grins at her before he looks ahead, his shoulders rolled back and pride in his expression. That hunk of junk will take them high into the sky, soaring above Ravka like they're great big birds… with wings that don't work. The imagery needs a little work. ]
You get seasick?
[ He cocks his brow, regarding her with surprise. Maybe he should've confirmed that. (But it hadn't quite crossed his mind. Perhaps it should. Not everyone is like him, a lover of the sea and air. He'll confirm if she likes fish for dinner later.) Clucking his tongue, he shakes his head. ]
Well, this will surely be a fun endeavour, won't it? You should look at the horizon. [ Extending his arm out before him, he frowns and glides it to point to his right. ] That way. It has a better view, especially if you like trees.
I'd love to agree, but his Aviancy still hasn't told me where we're going or how. Are we... going to be climbing the tallest trees and jumping off?
[ She glances down at her willowy skirt and hilariously Ravka-inappropriate silk slippers with something of a knit to her brow, a frown in halfways, and then lifts her eyes again to follow the trail of his arm. For a moment, the sun dapples through the trees, throwing gold and shadows in excess among crisp branches and uncommonly bright foliage; and any lingering concern melts from her expression. Anahid smiles, which she doesn't do terribly often. ]
[ He lifts his arm upwards now, his gaze following until he's tipped his head back and is squinting up at the clear bright blue sky. The sun's out today; it's been tucked behind a cloud for the last few days. ]
All the way up there.
[ He points to the sky before he thinks to shield his eyes with his other hand. Dropping his arm heavily, he smiles at her. ]
You might be able to touch a cloud. That part I'm not sure of. David's convinced it's impossible to touch a cloud, but I say it's improbable. [ He finishes that with a shrug. ] We won't know until we're up there and we try.
[ He cocks his head toward the hunk of what seems like junk by the side of the lake. ]
[ Improbable. She likes that. Add probability to anything and the world becomes a little more interesting. But Anahid follows his gaze and... Ah. Her smile drops, expression growing skeptical. ]
[ He honestly doesn't miss a beat. Did he miss his calling as a musician?
He grins at her with great amusement. Perhaps he should take this part seriously, but he can never help himself. When people regard his ideas with the belief they're impossible, he always meets them with unbreakable optimism. ]
That's the invention I told you was brilliant. Now, [ Lifting his hand, he grins toothily. ] don't judge it by how it looks. Not everything brilliant looks brilliant at first.
With the fall of the Darkling, Carol foolishly thought that there would be time to breathe, relax, maybe take stock of the way her life had changed so much. And there had been time, but only about a week or so before new problems starting popping up. Ravka did not want to be united easily. Shu and Fjerda were metaphorically breathing down Ravka's neck. Jurda Parem was circulating wildly around the Grisha abroad. Despite her powers, at her core Carol was a soldier—and she could easily see the battle coming.
So she threw herself into her own training and overseeing the training of the Grisha in the Little Palace. There had been very little ceremony about her taking over the Second Army and she preferred it that way. New faces were arriving frequently, which was a relief from all the allies they had lost in the battle against the Darkling, but they had to get up to speed quickly.
Though as much time as she spends training, she is happy to do it compared to the battles that Nikolai faces every day in the palace. Arguing through meetings and charming diplomats has never been her forte and she's grateful that their king is well-suited to the task. The only drawback to both them being so absorbed in their work is that they don't have much time to talk anymore. After the hell they went through with the Darkling that forged such strong bonds between them, she considers Nikolai her closest friend. Once they got through the obligatory five minutes of flirting, he was an excellent listener and advisor, and always seemed to have an idea for whatever problem she was currently grappling with.
In the middle of her training session, a group of young Grisha start giggling at something behind her. When she turns her head to look, ready to tell off some servant for gawking at their practice, Carol stops and smiles instead. It's rare that the King comes down to their training sessions, but she's happy to see him.
Carol dismisses the other Grisha to a break before walking over to meet Nikolai. "What brings you out to the Little Palace, my King?"
With a polite nod to the Grisha who scurry away from her like a swarm of flies, Nikolai ignores some of their lingering looks. Asya's not as subtle as she thinks herself to be, granted he supposes Heartrenders wouldn't know subtlety if it hit them in the head. Edik's glare possesses more subtlety than Irena's, at least. Nikolai's confident he'll win the bet that Irena will ask for Carol's hand before Edik manages to string his words together.
It's all great fun betting at Carol's expense. He really adores how she wears exasperation these days.
Uncaring that half of the Grisha are hardly out of earshot, he replies jovially, "I'm in desperate need of some sunshine."
Sometimes Nikolai can't help but encourage the rumours that spiral around the Grand Palace. After the Civil War, he prefers it. It means the Grand Palace's heart still thumps with ridiculously unimportant things like whether he's sleeping with Carol.
He's not. At first, he'd been offended that others would think to spread such a rumour, but he's since learned to use it to his advantage. He swears Carol Danvers knows how to blush. Red is quite fetching on her.
Standing before her in his ocean blue goat embroiled with gold, his grin doesn't waver. "I thought I told you to drop the formalities. They're unbecoming."
No, it's Carol who is fully unaware of any interest. It's not that she's uninterested in romance, it's more that she hasn't had the time. When she was in the First Army it was simply just a few flings here and there for stress relief. Then there was everything with the Darkling. Now she supposes she has the time indulge in such things, but she would rather focus on the Second Army. It was easier.
She nearly smacks him at his comment, which he will be able to tell in the smirk she gives him. The first time that Genya told her the rumor about her and Nikolai sleeping together, she nearly stormed over to the Grand Palace to demand he put an end to it. But instead she slept on it and forgot about it. The next time she did have an audience with Nikolai, though, she found the various advisors and dignitaries treat her with more respect than before. Apparently being the Sun Summoner and tearing down the Fold didn't mean automatic respect. But being the Sun Summoner, tearing down the Fold, and sleeping with the King did. As a result, she didn't do anything to encourage it—Nikolai did that enough for both of them—but she didn't dispel it either.
There would be time to shut it down whenever he decided it was time for him to get married.
Carol waits until the other Grisha are out of earshot before continuing with, "You know I'll always keep up with the formalities around the Second Army, Nikolai." She gestures towards the lake where they often take their walks together. "I like that coat on you." He did always look good in blue. Then again, whether it was a privateer coat or his dress uniform, he always looked good.
"What can I do for you?" she asks, tucking a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear. "You don't really get out here for social calls much."
BE OUR GUEST, BE OUR GUEST AKA BEAUTY & THE BEAST AU.
Once upon a time, there was a prince who became a demon who then became a demon king. Although, everyone in the kingdom of Ravka didn't know that.
What they knew was this: the golden prince was tortured by a demon, but he managed to overwhelm the beast with the help of the Sun Saint and saved Ravka from impending permanent darkness. He was celebrated as a war hero, and spoken of as a beacon of hope. The prince had lost his family—his elder brother, the unfortunate heir to the throne, to monsters that tore him limb from limb, and he had exiled the former king and queen in order to secure Ravka's freedom.
And now, Ravka was…
Without its freedom.
But it was getting there. (Nikolai was in the middle of writing that story before he had to take a brief pause.)
Said brief pause was now lasting a fortnight. While Nikolai wasn't one to have a good sense of time—he liked being on the True Sea, losing himself to the waves and reading the sun like a compass while his skin pinkening and turning a little raw (always fun, really)—he couldn't entirely navigate these waters as smoothly as he could the open ocean. His demon had been breaking out of its cage almost every night for a week before his self-imposed isolation. He'd told his closest friends and advisors to tell anyone who came looking for him that he was on holiday or abducted by pirates or that he was lost in the palace's maze garden (he was having that reinstated; Grandfather Lantsov had a good idea there, even if his father who wasn't really his father felt otherwise). The messy mix of stories they gave meant that those who were nosy had a riddle on their hands and no trail to speak of to follow.
They could afford to lose the king for a few weeks. To secure Ravka's freedom through marriage, he needed to ensure that he wouldn't gobble up the bride like the mythological vampire. (Or was it a werewolf? He could never remember which one liked to eat its dinner and which one preferred to only play with it.)
The castle he'd resigned to was to the Grand Palace's east, an hour's trek away by one of his best and quickest flyers. It was hidden away on a large piece of land with overgrown trees and bushes, weeds that looked like vines and pretty flowers, and an uneven ground that was hilly, then flat, then hilly again. (It really was a nightmare to traverse.) The further away he was from the heart of the Os Alta, perhaps the safer Ravka's towns and villages would be. (It hardly mattered. For the last fortnight, there was always a story about a demon sighting. A beast had almost eaten Arseny Balakin's most prized stallion. A monster had nearly torn apart Nikita Yesikova's son. Nikolai always thought about the story Novel Yelchin, a young teenager who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. His untimely death prompted Nikolai to seal himself away in this abandoned castle that, thankfully, was Lantsov-owned. At least he didn't need to explain to some lord why he needed to commandeer his castle that was out of use.)
Although he had forbidden his friends to see him during this time, someone had to bring him Genya's tonics to see if she was any closer to a cure (she wasn't). And while he would prefer to write a grand letter to detail how well he was doing (he wasn't doing well at all) that he would leave outside for one of Tamar's spies to gather and return to Genya and David; his friends always insisted on coming themselves to receive a verbal report from him. Apparently, they were paranoid he was lying to them through his writing. (He was a fantastic writer. He smudged what he needed to and made it look like an accident.)
When Gwenaëlle Baudin arrives in the castle, it isn't when Nikolai is himself. It's night; this night is almost starless, with the moon high in the sky and as round as a plum. The thin trees loom outside the castle's clean windows, casting human-like shadows against the stone. The wind howls like a wolf, and nudges the branches to tap against the windows like fingertips. The tapping is constant; it drives the demon mad.
As for the demon, it sits perched on one of the many staircase railings. His knees are bent and his fingertips brush against the wooden ledge. He's eerily still; his shadow blends with those of the thick trees that the back of the castle tends to favour. No one's tended to this garden in years, and while Nikolai's given it his best try in the last fortnight, he's known for his black thumb than his green. (His green thumb happens to work better with inventions.) The demon is half man, half beast; its wings are still and almost folded against his back. He wears pants torn at the ankles; his feet are bare. His nails are black with hairline shadows crawling up muscled arms. The only feature that remains human is the shape of his face. One could almost think him handsome if he stepped out of the shadows and let the moonlight illuminate his silhouette.
When the front doors of the castle creak open, the demon moves soundlessly. The dusty scent is already intermingling with something human. Flapping wings echoes through the large space, and the loud tapping of nails against wood as it slides against walls rings out. It's clear that the castle is haunted… or it's simply groaning a lot.
Thankfully, this evening, the demon is not overly hungry. He's bored.
The eerie quiet of the castle is unsettling, but the fact of it looking so dire and abandoned had been the appeal from a distance — Gwenaëlle, riding hard through the night with only what she could carry on horseback, has not had the opportunity to hear tell of demons or monsters, has thoroughly human devilry dogging her heels, and has no desire to stop and speak with anyone in the nearest settlements to hear whatever they might tell. They might then tell of her,
and that wouldn't do at all. So she is hoping for a place as empty as it looks, as forlorn and abandoned. A risk to come through the front doors, in case it isn't, but surely ... surely if it wasn't, then it would be locked. Then she wouldn't be able to just walk in, gathering her cloak tightly around herself, moving cautiously.
The sound of — something? she can't tell. There is a sound, but she had seen the trees against the windows and the stone, knows the poor weather chasing behind her, and all of these things have reasonable explanations. Maybe it hasn't been abandoned long enough to be bereft of anything of value, and maybe she can make use of that...
“If you don't like something,” she mutters to herself, “change it.”
When he ranges nearer, there she is: a slight thing, mostly obscured by a heavy cloak lined with fur, fighting with a tinder-box to light the nearest lamp.
It'd be cruel to flap his wings and see the flame disappear before it can burn its way down the wick. Shadows scare him, although he uses them to travel when free. They both smother and offer him an open space to roam. He allows the lantern to be lit, but he doesn't attempt to see it put out yet.
Nikolai—or the demon, since Nikolai Lantsov much prefers to think of himself as a man and the demon as a monster who shares no tether—watches her quietly from his perch on the second-floor railing. His flight had been quick but slightly noisy, like the rustle of fabric in the wind, and now he sits like an owl incapable of fidgeting.
Until he does.
With a shift of his weight, the wooden railing groans beneath him. A flap of his wing makes an unnatural sound in the large open space. He's sheathed in shadows as he watches her.
A part of Nikolai is alive in the demon. The demon would never know how to be playful, let alone what tropes to heed to turn a dull story into one of horror. (He always liked his books. How he remembers those tales in this form is something Nikolai has yet to allow himself to analyse.)
The gust of wind that comes from disturbed air doesn't smother the flame she's lit, but it flickers as she wheels around, eyes huge, one darting from shadow to shadow and one unseeing gold. The hood of her cloak slips in the suddenness of her motion, thick, dark curls emerging, and though the tinder-box drops to the floor in her startle, she is swift enough to replace it with a long, thin blade pulled from somewhere hidden beneath the shadows in her cloak.
“What,” she says, to no one in particular, “the fuck.”
Maybe there's a reason no one has been in this castle. Her unease is clear, as is her bravado: the way she sets her shoulders, the way her eyes narrow. The fumbling way she reaches to grasp the lamp and take it from its place set down on a sideboard without actually looking sideways—
a minor miracle she doesn't just burn herself.
“I'm not frightened,” she lies to the darkness, her jaw firming as she holds the lamp out in front of her, moving forward.
Nikolai is—or was. Is he still Nikolai? When does the monster stop being Nikolai and start being something else altogether?
Remaining on the banister, the demon shifts his weight, causing the wood to groan again. It's intentional now. He likes the sounds the castle makes. It's like it's alive; the distant creaking is akin to a stomach rumbling, and the shaking of the walls is like a sneeze. The wind outside isn't strong enough to see the window panes shudder.
Despite wishing to swoop and attack, he doesn't. Some part of him doesn't want to. Maintaining his balance and focusing briefly on the ache of his knees and upper thighs from staying in such a position for too long, the demon doesn't move to alleviate it as he would. No, that's Nikolai, wanting to remain stock still and maintain his grip on whatever this is. (It's humanity.)
"Why not?" The voice is deep and hoarse, and surprises the demon.
stands still, gripping her lamp, staring hard into the shadows, narrowing down where she can hear that voice coming from. The sounds of movement. She can't see him, not yet, and part of her regrets the lamp altogether as the light blinds her to the nuances of darkness, but relinquishing it now seems like a much worse idea.
The question, when she considers its content instead of the fact of it, surprises her in turn. So, too, does the way she answers honestly a moment later:
“I've decided not to be.”
Right now—
every step that has led her here. If she allows herself to be afraid then she will be sick with it, frozen in indecision and uncertainty, then decisions will be made for her. She can't afford to be afraid when she needs to keep moving, and that hasn't stopped being true just because there's something rumbling at her in an abandoned castle. Maybe it's even more true, now.
Asserting it aloud steadies her, somehow. Reinforces her. She is not afraid. She has decided not to be.
If it weren't for the lamp, he wouldn't know where she was.
Though, that's not entirely true.
If he were to listen—and he's fantastic at listening, even though that's Nikolai, not the monster (but the monster is me, and I am the monster)—he'd know where she is without the help of the light. He can see through shadow, for he's part shadow, even if it's trapped inside a man. But the man inside the monster doesn't know how to navigate darkness without a light to glow the glass of his compass, and so he's thankful for it. She looks like a little firefly all the way down there.
Perhaps he should remain quiet. The monster hasn't had any visitors, always playing the role of visitor as he finds a loose hinge or a door opened by the angry wind and visits the farmlands to the east or taps on the windows of the village to the west. With that fact in mind, he chooses to speak again.
"Why?"
And then, because he is Nikolai at his core, curious and impulsive (and perhaps the shadow embodies a part of Aleksander Morozova the Darkling lost some time ago): "I can't sense your fear."
Isn't that what characterises all monsters in the stories? A sixth sense— fear is their North Star?
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It's all he looks forward to. He behaves as best he can throughout his morning meetings, although his mind wanders to the high seas and how her hair would look with the bright sun looming behind her. He remembers how it glowed many years ago when she'd been nothing but a slip of a girl, and he'd been a boy who needed to behave but never quite grasped the concept of it. She stood in the sun and laughed at something funny—it probably wasn't him; he remembers being too far away from her to even be a blip on her radar, even though he was doing something funny. He couldn't quite remember if he was testing his invention of lifting his pet rock at the time high into the sky with a piece of fabric tied to a small cane basket or if he'd made a fool of himself as he was wont to do.
It's something he's chased since then. That laugh. Since his return to Ravka, he's been more determined than ever to hear it again. The Grand Palace lights up when there's laughter echoing through the halls. Especially hers.
The halls are quiet now, however. He much prefers it at this time of night.
Before she can even knock, Nikolai opens the door with a flourish and a charming smile. His white shirt's rumpled, and his hair is a mess. He looks nothing like the king he should. "Ah, the great Genya Safin. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me," he teases brightly with a theatrical bow. With a wave, he gestures for her to enter his rooms.
It's late at night, hours after supper and when most of the Grand Palace has gone to bed. His room burns brightly, with lamps perched on almost every surface. It looks like the sun's laid itself to rest on the ocean with its golden walls, curtains and accents of calm sky blue. It's half a neat mess and an unmanageable one; his desk is littered with papers and maps, books lie haphazardly in piles on any surface, while his love seat and bed (tucked away in his room) are tidy like it hasn't been disturbed at all.
Nikolai hasn't gone out of his way to try and neaten up his rooms to impress Genya. He knows there's nothing he can do to achieve such a feat.
"Did you want a drink? I found the good brandy."
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She'd always been drawn to him and the energy he gave off. His smile had been addicting. She could almost remember that tender-chaste brush of his lips.
Now she's a woman grown. She's scarred inside and out. She carried herself with Grisha steel in her spine. She's no longer a spy or a handmaiden, but an advisor to the tsar himself. Yet somehow, she's fallen back on old skills. She's brought along her kit and enters his suite with a flourish that only Genya is capable of her.
Her eyepatch matches hers dress which is a mixture of pale green accented by fold and forest green.
"It depends. Did you remember to eat supper?" she asks him pointedly. She knows how distracted he gets. Meetings he might not enjoy, but she knows he spends long hours hunched over his desk reviewing missives and reports. She knows because she's often there with him.
"Or perhaps you need liquid courage to submit yourself to me and my scissors?"
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"I definitely plan on being a little drunk when you eventually take scissors to my hair," he says, closing the door behind her. Nikolai doesn't lock it; this isn't a cage to trap a pretty bird in. He closes it to stop their voices from travelling and to discourage anyone who tends to assume an open door is an invitation to be disturbed.
Careful not to brush against her, he walks toward his small bar with glasses and the brandy he'd kindly borrowed without wanting to return it to the kitchen. It's neatly stocked with glasses of various sizes and a couple of dark liquor bottles. When he lifts the glass, he holds it as a bartender does in a dank tavern and pours two glasses of brandy.
"And it's not because I distrust you," he glances up at her with a smile, "but it's been a long day, and if you're to finally cut off my ear, I don't want to feel it." He holds out a glass for her to take. "My left. It's the one everyone seems fond of whispering in."
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She takes a sip of the brandy. She's not a fan of the taste itself, but she enjoys the burning warmth as it spreads through her body. She moves towards the vanity where she sets both glass and kit down before the mirror.
"And what does everyone do in the right? It's usually the one I find myself tempted to yank when you're being difficult," she quips. She opens the box and finds her comb and scissors. She gestures for him to take a seat. "Relax, moi tsar, your ears shall remain in tact. At least for tonight."
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Or to read into it. The Tsar of Ravka isn't lonely. He's simply hungry for decent conversation, a little battle of wits, and definitely a scolding.
Saints, he loves being scolded by her.
Taking a seat, he rests his hands on the armrests and leans back against the chair. But as soon as his spine touches the back, he's leaning forward, inviting himself to inspect her kit with gentle fingers.
"You're a very organised person," he remarks. It's unsurprising. Genya is nothing if not perfectly presented. It's perhaps why she's the best Tailor in Ravka—she knows how to present a perfect image, even without using her enviable skills. "Why does one need so many scissors of various sizes?"
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"They're not all for hair. Some are for cloth or finer things," she explains to him patiently. Patience is something she's had to learn over the years. An impatient spy is a terrible one. Of course, she needs to reach much deeper into that well when it comes to handling him. Her hand goes to his shoulder to gently tug him back to the chair. "Now sit still or I really will take a bit of ear," she warns.
With him in his proper place, she begins to card her fingers through his hair to get a feel of how long it is. His hair is soft. He's a man who knows how to take care of himself. "How much would you like off?" she asks again to be sure, gazing at him in the mirror.
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Her fingers are nice. He lets that thought distract him until he lifts his gaze to watch her in the mirror. How much does he want off? He'd cause a stir within the Grand Palace if he asked for all of it. It might be fun to ride out the reactions, but he feels Genya won't be so pliable to follow his request.
She's so sensible. Always has been.
"This much," he says, lifting his hand to show his index and thumb almost pressed together. "It's getting a little long around my ears. Did you know I had a woman call my ears the most delicate things she's ever seen?" Nikolai exhales softly through his nose before he shakes his head. "People say a lot of bullshit when they want to impress you. I bet you've heard your fair share."
Some from Nikolai. He prides himself in earning a nice eye roll from her. It always sees her shoulders loosen, and the stiffness in her spine let her go.
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"Your ears aren't what I would call delicate, but I suppose they're lovely enough," she teases. She combs his hair upwards to check the length and continued trimming to that length. She's in her zone which means she's soften and more relaxed.
"Don't let it go to your head."
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[ Two days pass since Nikolai springs his brilliant idea on Anahid. A part of him expects her to find an excuse and pull out. She has better things to do. Something came up. She stumbled upon a greater idea—one not as brilliant, but still better than his—and she needs to see to it instead.
But she doesn't. Nikolai's trying to outgrow the expectation that people are simply entertaining him because of the glint of the crown he tries to remove from his head.
The day's bright, the sky's clear, and the grounds of the Grand Palace are a deep, vivid green. It almost looks like one of the ridiculous paintings his mother had commissioned years ago. He's dressed in a bright blue coat with golden accents, looking very much like Sturmhond and not the King of Ravka (although, to the untrained eye, he looks like the tsar and not the renowned privateer).
The lake is up ahead, and with it, his hot air balloon. In the great distance, it looks like it doesn't belong. The large wooden box sits tall and proud, painted in a bright yellow that makes him squint. The fabric he'd had especially made remains lying on the grass. It looks like a pathetic heap of junk from up the hill.
The sight of it excites him. ]
Are you afraid of heights? I feel we should've discussed that.
[ He furrows his brows, glancing at her with some concern, but he doesn't stop walking. ]
I had 99 tech problems but this phone tag ain't one
Her husband also invited his lover, of course. Anahid was nothing but scratchings at the window compared to that bond. Whatever. At least she had a lush country to explore, new food to eat, and a deeply guttural language to learn. Her Ravkan will probably always be a bit south of easy on the ears, but she'd resigned herself to that. Kerch sounded fascinating. Maybe she'd go there next, make a week of it. See if anyone noticed.
Of course, the King of Ravka had briefly met the transplanted alchemists. They were a diplomatic contingent, after all. She just... hadn't expected him to put any effort in courting her friendship with any especial interest. It was odd, although hardly unwelcome. He wasn't what she expected.
Nihath hadn't seem to catch on. She only informed him of her invitation to the Grand Palace because decorum indicated she must. (The look on his face as he sputtered up his morning tea had made her day, if she's being quite honest.)
Once there, Anahid has to own how lovely it is. The open fields and tall cliffs are so different from Bezim's cramped buildings, its mire of stone and sand and little else. She could probably spend hours gazing at the sun glittering off the lake water. If only there wasn't a pile of trash in the periphery of her view.
At his words, Anahid bites down on a smile. ]
No, your Majesty. [ Moi Tsar, for all that it tumbles from her lips with the cadence of a chimera hacking up a hairball. ] But I suppose finding out if there's an aerial equivalent to seasickness is a credible academic exercise.
i feel so blessed!
[ It's automatic at this point. She always insists on using his title, and he always insists on using his name. It feels like a game—a fun one, at least. Your Privyness is still one of his favourite titles (after Sturmhond, of course).
He grins at her before he looks ahead, his shoulders rolled back and pride in his expression. That hunk of junk will take them high into the sky, soaring above Ravka like they're great big birds… with wings that don't work. The imagery needs a little work. ]
You get seasick?
[ He cocks his brow, regarding her with surprise. Maybe he should've confirmed that. (But it hadn't quite crossed his mind. Perhaps it should. Not everyone is like him, a lover of the sea and air. He'll confirm if she likes fish for dinner later.) Clucking his tongue, he shakes his head. ]
Well, this will surely be a fun endeavour, won't it? You should look at the horizon. [ Extending his arm out before him, he frowns and glides it to point to his right. ] That way. It has a better view, especially if you like trees.
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She says, ]
I'd love to agree, but his Aviancy still hasn't told me where we're going or how. Are we... going to be climbing the tallest trees and jumping off?
[ She glances down at her willowy skirt and hilariously Ravka-inappropriate silk slippers with something of a knit to her brow, a frown in halfways, and then lifts her eyes again to follow the trail of his arm. For a moment, the sun dapples through the trees, throwing gold and shadows in excess among crisp branches and uncommonly bright foliage; and any lingering concern melts from her expression. Anahid smiles, which she doesn't do terribly often. ]
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[ He lifts his arm upwards now, his gaze following until he's tipped his head back and is squinting up at the clear bright blue sky. The sun's out today; it's been tucked behind a cloud for the last few days. ]
All the way up there.
[ He points to the sky before he thinks to shield his eyes with his other hand. Dropping his arm heavily, he smiles at her. ]
You might be able to touch a cloud. That part I'm not sure of. David's convinced it's impossible to touch a cloud, but I say it's improbable. [ He finishes that with a shrug. ] We won't know until we're up there and we try.
[ He cocks his head toward the hunk of what seems like junk by the side of the lake. ]
We're going in that.
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That seems optimistic.
[ Beat. ]
Sire.
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[ He honestly doesn't miss a beat. Did he miss his calling as a musician?
He grins at her with great amusement. Perhaps he should take this part seriously, but he can never help himself. When people regard his ideas with the belief they're impossible, he always meets them with unbreakable optimism. ]
That's the invention I told you was brilliant. Now, [ Lifting his hand, he grins toothily. ] don't judge it by how it looks. Not everything brilliant looks brilliant at first.
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For our own clarity: Grishaverse AU
So she threw herself into her own training and overseeing the training of the Grisha in the Little Palace. There had been very little ceremony about her taking over the Second Army and she preferred it that way. New faces were arriving frequently, which was a relief from all the allies they had lost in the battle against the Darkling, but they had to get up to speed quickly.
Though as much time as she spends training, she is happy to do it compared to the battles that Nikolai faces every day in the palace. Arguing through meetings and charming diplomats has never been her forte and she's grateful that their king is well-suited to the task. The only drawback to both them being so absorbed in their work is that they don't have much time to talk anymore. After the hell they went through with the Darkling that forged such strong bonds between them, she considers Nikolai her closest friend. Once they got through the obligatory five minutes of flirting, he was an excellent listener and advisor, and always seemed to have an idea for whatever problem she was currently grappling with.
In the middle of her training session, a group of young Grisha start giggling at something behind her. When she turns her head to look, ready to tell off some servant for gawking at their practice, Carol stops and smiles instead. It's rare that the King comes down to their training sessions, but she's happy to see him.
Carol dismisses the other Grisha to a break before walking over to meet Nikolai. "What brings you out to the Little Palace, my King?"
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It's all great fun betting at Carol's expense. He really adores how she wears exasperation these days.
Uncaring that half of the Grisha are hardly out of earshot, he replies jovially, "I'm in desperate need of some sunshine."
Sometimes Nikolai can't help but encourage the rumours that spiral around the Grand Palace. After the Civil War, he prefers it. It means the Grand Palace's heart still thumps with ridiculously unimportant things like whether he's sleeping with Carol.
He's not. At first, he'd been offended that others would think to spread such a rumour, but he's since learned to use it to his advantage. He swears Carol Danvers knows how to blush. Red is quite fetching on her.
Standing before her in his ocean blue goat embroiled with gold, his grin doesn't waver. "I thought I told you to drop the formalities. They're unbecoming."
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She nearly smacks him at his comment, which he will be able to tell in the smirk she gives him. The first time that Genya told her the rumor about her and Nikolai sleeping together, she nearly stormed over to the Grand Palace to demand he put an end to it. But instead she slept on it and forgot about it. The next time she did have an audience with Nikolai, though, she found the various advisors and dignitaries treat her with more respect than before. Apparently being the Sun Summoner and tearing down the Fold didn't mean automatic respect. But being the Sun Summoner, tearing down the Fold, and sleeping with the King did. As a result, she didn't do anything to encourage it—Nikolai did that enough for both of them—but she didn't dispel it either.
There would be time to shut it down whenever he decided it was time for him to get married.
Carol waits until the other Grisha are out of earshot before continuing with, "You know I'll always keep up with the formalities around the Second Army, Nikolai." She gestures towards the lake where they often take their walks together. "I like that coat on you." He did always look good in blue. Then again, whether it was a privateer coat or his dress uniform, he always looked good.
"What can I do for you?" she asks, tucking a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear. "You don't really get out here for social calls much."
BE OUR GUEST, BE OUR GUEST AKA BEAUTY & THE BEAST AU.
What they knew was this: the golden prince was tortured by a demon, but he managed to overwhelm the beast with the help of the Sun Saint and saved Ravka from impending permanent darkness. He was celebrated as a war hero, and spoken of as a beacon of hope. The prince had lost his family—his elder brother, the unfortunate heir to the throne, to monsters that tore him limb from limb, and he had exiled the former king and queen in order to secure Ravka's freedom.
And now, Ravka was…
Without its freedom.
But it was getting there. (Nikolai was in the middle of writing that story before he had to take a brief pause.)
Said brief pause was now lasting a fortnight. While Nikolai wasn't one to have a good sense of time—he liked being on the True Sea, losing himself to the waves and reading the sun like a compass while his skin pinkening and turning a little raw (always fun, really)—he couldn't entirely navigate these waters as smoothly as he could the open ocean. His demon had been breaking out of its cage almost every night for a week before his self-imposed isolation. He'd told his closest friends and advisors to tell anyone who came looking for him that he was on holiday or abducted by pirates or that he was lost in the palace's maze garden (he was having that reinstated; Grandfather Lantsov had a good idea there, even if his father who wasn't really his father felt otherwise). The messy mix of stories they gave meant that those who were nosy had a riddle on their hands and no trail to speak of to follow.
They could afford to lose the king for a few weeks. To secure Ravka's freedom through marriage, he needed to ensure that he wouldn't gobble up the bride like the mythological vampire. (Or was it a werewolf? He could never remember which one liked to eat its dinner and which one preferred to only play with it.)
The castle he'd resigned to was to the Grand Palace's east, an hour's trek away by one of his best and quickest flyers. It was hidden away on a large piece of land with overgrown trees and bushes, weeds that looked like vines and pretty flowers, and an uneven ground that was hilly, then flat, then hilly again. (It really was a nightmare to traverse.) The further away he was from the heart of the Os Alta, perhaps the safer Ravka's towns and villages would be. (It hardly mattered. For the last fortnight, there was always a story about a demon sighting. A beast had almost eaten Arseny Balakin's most prized stallion. A monster had nearly torn apart Nikita Yesikova's son. Nikolai always thought about the story Novel Yelchin, a young teenager who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. His untimely death prompted Nikolai to seal himself away in this abandoned castle that, thankfully, was Lantsov-owned. At least he didn't need to explain to some lord why he needed to commandeer his castle that was out of use.)
Although he had forbidden his friends to see him during this time, someone had to bring him Genya's tonics to see if she was any closer to a cure (she wasn't). And while he would prefer to write a grand letter to detail how well he was doing (he wasn't doing well at all) that he would leave outside for one of Tamar's spies to gather and return to Genya and David; his friends always insisted on coming themselves to receive a verbal report from him. Apparently, they were paranoid he was lying to them through his writing. (He was a fantastic writer. He smudged what he needed to and made it look like an accident.)
When Gwenaëlle Baudin arrives in the castle, it isn't when Nikolai is himself. It's night; this night is almost starless, with the moon high in the sky and as round as a plum. The thin trees loom outside the castle's clean windows, casting human-like shadows against the stone. The wind howls like a wolf, and nudges the branches to tap against the windows like fingertips. The tapping is constant; it drives the demon mad.
As for the demon, it sits perched on one of the many staircase railings. His knees are bent and his fingertips brush against the wooden ledge. He's eerily still; his shadow blends with those of the thick trees that the back of the castle tends to favour. No one's tended to this garden in years, and while Nikolai's given it his best try in the last fortnight, he's known for his black thumb than his green. (His green thumb happens to work better with inventions.) The demon is half man, half beast; its wings are still and almost folded against his back. He wears pants torn at the ankles; his feet are bare. His nails are black with hairline shadows crawling up muscled arms. The only feature that remains human is the shape of his face. One could almost think him handsome if he stepped out of the shadows and let the moonlight illuminate his silhouette.
When the front doors of the castle creak open, the demon moves soundlessly. The dusty scent is already intermingling with something human. Flapping wings echoes through the large space, and the loud tapping of nails against wood as it slides against walls rings out. It's clear that the castle is haunted… or it's simply groaning a lot.
Thankfully, this evening, the demon is not overly hungry. He's bored.
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and that wouldn't do at all. So she is hoping for a place as empty as it looks, as forlorn and abandoned. A risk to come through the front doors, in case it isn't, but surely ... surely if it wasn't, then it would be locked. Then she wouldn't be able to just walk in, gathering her cloak tightly around herself, moving cautiously.
The sound of — something? she can't tell. There is a sound, but she had seen the trees against the windows and the stone, knows the poor weather chasing behind her, and all of these things have reasonable explanations. Maybe it hasn't been abandoned long enough to be bereft of anything of value, and maybe she can make use of that...
“If you don't like something,” she mutters to herself, “change it.”
When he ranges nearer, there she is: a slight thing, mostly obscured by a heavy cloak lined with fur, fighting with a tinder-box to light the nearest lamp.
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Nikolai—or the demon, since Nikolai Lantsov much prefers to think of himself as a man and the demon as a monster who shares no tether—watches her quietly from his perch on the second-floor railing. His flight had been quick but slightly noisy, like the rustle of fabric in the wind, and now he sits like an owl incapable of fidgeting.
Until he does.
With a shift of his weight, the wooden railing groans beneath him. A flap of his wing makes an unnatural sound in the large open space. He's sheathed in shadows as he watches her.
A part of Nikolai is alive in the demon. The demon would never know how to be playful, let alone what tropes to heed to turn a dull story into one of horror. (He always liked his books. How he remembers those tales in this form is something Nikolai has yet to allow himself to analyse.)
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“What,” she says, to no one in particular, “the fuck.”
Maybe there's a reason no one has been in this castle. Her unease is clear, as is her bravado: the way she sets her shoulders, the way her eyes narrow. The fumbling way she reaches to grasp the lamp and take it from its place set down on a sideboard without actually looking sideways—
a minor miracle she doesn't just burn herself.
“I'm not frightened,” she lies to the darkness, her jaw firming as she holds the lamp out in front of her, moving forward.
It is entirely possible that she should be.
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Nikolai is—or was. Is he still Nikolai? When does the monster stop being Nikolai and start being something else altogether?
Remaining on the banister, the demon shifts his weight, causing the wood to groan again. It's intentional now. He likes the sounds the castle makes. It's like it's alive; the distant creaking is akin to a stomach rumbling, and the shaking of the walls is like a sneeze. The wind outside isn't strong enough to see the window panes shudder.
Despite wishing to swoop and attack, he doesn't. Some part of him doesn't want to. Maintaining his balance and focusing briefly on the ache of his knees and upper thighs from staying in such a position for too long, the demon doesn't move to alleviate it as he would. No, that's Nikolai, wanting to remain stock still and maintain his grip on whatever this is. (It's humanity.)
"Why not?" The voice is deep and hoarse, and surprises the demon.
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stands still, gripping her lamp, staring hard into the shadows, narrowing down where she can hear that voice coming from. The sounds of movement. She can't see him, not yet, and part of her regrets the lamp altogether as the light blinds her to the nuances of darkness, but relinquishing it now seems like a much worse idea.
The question, when she considers its content instead of the fact of it, surprises her in turn. So, too, does the way she answers honestly a moment later:
“I've decided not to be.”
Right now—
every step that has led her here. If she allows herself to be afraid then she will be sick with it, frozen in indecision and uncertainty, then decisions will be made for her. She can't afford to be afraid when she needs to keep moving, and that hasn't stopped being true just because there's something rumbling at her in an abandoned castle. Maybe it's even more true, now.
Asserting it aloud steadies her, somehow. Reinforces her. She is not afraid. She has decided not to be.
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Though, that's not entirely true.
If he were to listen—and he's fantastic at listening, even though that's Nikolai, not the monster (but the monster is me, and I am the monster)—he'd know where she is without the help of the light. He can see through shadow, for he's part shadow, even if it's trapped inside a man. But the man inside the monster doesn't know how to navigate darkness without a light to glow the glass of his compass, and so he's thankful for it. She looks like a little firefly all the way down there.
Perhaps he should remain quiet. The monster hasn't had any visitors, always playing the role of visitor as he finds a loose hinge or a door opened by the angry wind and visits the farmlands to the east or taps on the windows of the village to the west. With that fact in mind, he chooses to speak again.
"Why?"
And then, because he is Nikolai at his core, curious and impulsive (and perhaps the shadow embodies a part of Aleksander Morozova the Darkling lost some time ago): "I can't sense your fear."
Isn't that what characterises all monsters in the stories? A sixth sense— fear is their North Star?
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