[ That's enough to get her to unbend a bit, smiling once more. ]
I heard the prefect of your military is also in charge with finding you a wife.
[ Prefect, in this case, being used because she still hasn't figured out the ranks of Ravkan military hierarchy; she falls back on a word that makes sense, even if it's so literal it loops around to be nebulous. Maybe if she had spent less time learning their card games, she'd be acquitting herself more deftly right now. ]
That's an interesting use of your forces.
[ Her voice is even. Her expression is amused, pulling dimples out of angles. ]
[ If he chooses to try and weave a tangent on her choice of title, she will have her answer given to her on a golden platter, isn't she? And he'll have no control over how she perceives him, possibly walking away thinking he's an airhead of a king abusing his rank and misunderstanding the purpose of his military.
Either way, she's going to have an answer. ]
General Nazyalensky claims that I am… what's the word? [ He furrows his brows even though the word sits on the tip of his tongue. ] Ah, yes. Hopeless.
[ He regards Anahid with an amused look. ]
Which I'm not. I'm utterly charming and unquestionably handsome. I have other things to do than find a wife.
[ Like keeping a demon at bay and a country from unravelling like a knitted scarf.
Glancing up at the tarp, still miraculously filled with air, he gestures toward it with a wave of his hand. ]
[ Between the balloon and the basket, there is an understated mechanism: a pull handle, a small canister of oil, and a flint-tinder strike. When pulled, it will heat up the air inside the balloon. With Mikhail's gusts pushing them up, they haven't needed it... yet. But they'll eventually be beyond his reach.
The air is already getting a bit thinner, the biting Ravkan chill a bit less friendly now. Anahid buries one hand in the other, hiding red knuckles. ]
In fact, what even is your role in all this? Moral support?
Edited (fucking typos you'd think I never preview my tags!! ) 2023-10-01 11:15 (UTC)
Being incredibly good-looking and hilarious. I'm the entertainment that's meant to cause you some angst. Do you look over the ledge or do you pay attention to me?
[ He says that as though he's about to follow it with a 'Duh'… if that word existed in Ravkan. But his face gives away how silly he thinks of her to ask such a ridiculous question.
This is all Nikolai brings to the table. Along with amazing plots, brilliant plans, and envious fashion. ]
I wonder… [ Resting his elbow against the edge, he leans his cheek into his fist and smiles at her. It's very un-King-like, which means it's very Nikolai. ] What is your role? Other than refuse to admit that you're cold.
[ Because she dresses like she's still in Bezim, all bright patterns and loose, thin sleeves. Maybe having it brought up so casually is what goads her into what she says next. He wasn't supposed to notice what she tries to hide. ]
Did you know your left earlobe trembles a little bit when you lie? I noticed it when you told me the... balloon-carriage was untested. [ Just took her the value of hindsight to figure out what it meant. ] And I noticed you let Mikhail refer to you by title, no grousing or correcting; perhaps he would be a fine choice for a wife.
[ She folds her arms over the edge, staring out at the lake. From this high up, the sun makes it look like a sheet of gold. ]
I have two eyes and am capable of holding as few as three thoughts in my head at one time. I can pay attention to you and the scenery just fine, moi Tsar.
[ Stop, she hears, in her mother's horrified soprano. For once, it doesn't work. (And why should it? It's not a real voice, just a figment left over from having squirms and skinned knees trained out of her.) ]
I thought you invited me up here as a friend. I didn't realise a role was required.
[ He smiles broadly throughout her speech, greatly amused by what she chooses to say and how she says it (although, he does touch his left ear gently as though he can determine whether it does truly tremble when he lies—how has no one ever noticed that before?
Easily. No one pays attention to the spare.).
At the end, he bows his head, nodding, although he still smiles. Nikolai Lantsov is many things, but he enjoys being called out on his bullshit—especially when it's done in such a manner. (He doesn't quite like it when it's done cruelly.) ]
You're right, although… isn't coming up here as a potential friend a role in itself?
[ He lifts his brows at that, his smile still broad, those teeth of his threatening to glimmer in the sun. ]
Up here, you can be anything. [ He gestures wildly at the endless skies. ] I don't have to be the King of Ravka. For all I want, I could be a dragon. Everyone loves dragons. You could be the Queen of the Skies.
[ It's not an appealing prospect. It'll be lovely for a few days, sure, but soon that novel gleam will cease to fill her. Despite his whimsy, there's no nourishment to be found in clouds. ]
I don't want to be that sort of queen. If I truly could be anything, I— [ Hm.
With uncommon restlessness, she toys with the end of her plait. She hadn't taken the risk of wearing her hair down, like she predicted she wouldn't. Her answer may disappoint him. ]
I'd be a coin.
[ That's what she settles on, finally; with a smile for him over her shoulder. ]
[ He doesn't repeat it disparagingly, though. Nikolai brushes his fingers against his chin as he considers this for a moment. Anahid wouldn't pick that to simply bring the conversation to a close. Perhaps she chose it to see how he'd react, but he's learned there's a little more to her than what she may prefer to present.
He always finds the most interesting people. ]
Well, a coin has perceived value. Everyone wants a coin, don't they? Preferably a gold one, if they can afford it. But a coin travels the world without much fanfare; it passes from hand to hand, sometimes with a lot of care, and gets to experience the world through our most capitalistic means.
[ That sounds very profound for him, so he adds: ]
Or you're a gold coin that belongs to a pirate. If I had to be a coin, it'd be that. Find myself on every pirate ship known to the True Sea, and even be dropped to the depths of the ocean to be discovered by some sea monster.
[ Even though she says something rather silly, he takes it seriously. Anahid is simultaneously heartened by it and feels a tinge of guilt for her earlier skepticism about his desire to touch a cloud. It isn't just that, though; it's the way he intuits her meaning. Pulling a lot from a little as if she had handed him everything. ]
A coin you had in your pocket two weeks ago could be anywhere by now.
[ Coins don't get prohibitively seasick. Coins pass over knuckles and through lives without anyone telling them they can't wear a certain colour or be in a room unchaperoned.
... and they're always needed, aren't they? Anahid has yet to read about a society that didn't build itself up around currency. ]
I think you would be profoundly irritated as soon as you realised coins don't have mouths with which to speak to sea monsters. [ Nikolai. Almost-fond punctuation to her remark, even if it doesn't go further than her own thoughts. ]
[ He cocks his brow, his face lighting up much like a child's. This is Nikolai Lantsov with his grand imagination, where nothing is impossible. He gets to be a boy, not a royal, not a Lantsov. If he wants a coin to have a mouth, it'll have a mouth—and it won't be because of his name or his position in society.
When he scrunches his face thoughtfully, Anahid should know immediately he won't let this go. ]
What if it's a coin that has a mouth? One that's rare to find, and exists only on an island no one has discovered yet? A coin that's off-map.
[ And exist in children's stories, if someone were inspired to write about a coin. ]
Isolated from the world, locked in a chest somewhere? Waiting to be rescued?
[ نه خیلی ممنون, she thinks. No, thank you. ]
You would be better off as a... talking sea crab. At least you would be able to move about your uncharted isle.
[ By now, they're out of reach of Mikhail's timely gusts, leaving them neither gliding up nor sinking down. As the balloon hovers tidily, the air around them has become misty, almost white. Nikolai got his wish: they're inside a cloud. Light moisture causes his hair to glisten, Anahid notices briefly. Dipping her chin before she can be caught in a stare, she makes the mistake of looking straight down instead. The trees are small as dots, and the map below - separated with surgical neatness into squares of different colours, entire fields shrunken down to the size of her thumbnail - looks utterly devoid of any life.
A wave of dizziness slams into her and Anahid steps back, seeking the safety of the middle of the basket before she can stop herself. Her hands, bright red and at least a little stiff from chill, clutch at the sash of her dress. ]
Hey, hey. We have steady air legs in this contraption I built.
[ Nikolai's beside her in seconds, his legs firm, his feet unwavering. It's almost as though he should be a seagull instead of a sea crab, what with how he takes to the air like he's on the ground.
Sometime between moving from the basket's wooden edge to the centre where she wobbles, he's taken off his thick golden blazer and has tugged it around her. It's not the best encasing, but it'll do, especially with how he wraps his arm around her shoulders to gently tug her to the sturdy wooden floor. ]
Sailing this high isn't for everyone, especially on their first go. When I hit the air my first time, let's just say I had to make many apologies for who was standing beneath me.
[ She doesn't really figure out what's happening until she's sitting and wrapped in his coat. The air up here is far thinner than she's used to; her breathing needs a few moments to steady as her lungs gulp desperately for air, heart rate slowing back down. Needing to do something with her hands, she pulls the coat tighter around herself and then searches for the warmest, deepest pockets. ]
I'm sorry, I — [ A sigh.
Anahid manages a humourless smile, entirely at her own expense, as her head leans back on the opposite wall. Somehow, she assumes your hair is very pretty is not the insult he's looking for; but it's all her oxygen-deprived brain can come up with. She deflects with perfect ladylike precision. ]
[ As he's always believed clouds to be as a child and an adult. It's stupid and fanciful, which is why Nikolai likes it. ]
A little cold. I was hoping it'd be warm like sunshine, but clouds tend to do what clouds want to do when they want to do it.
[ Sucking on his teeth, he shakes his head as he peers up at the sky as though he's able to find an offensive cloud and scold it with such a sharp look.
But he returns his gaze to her, remaining crouched beside her. While his invention has worked expertly, he's still figuring out how best to manage it without having a talent for summoning air.
It's a work in progress. A successful one, at least—even if Anahid may think to the contrary. ]
Are you going to be alright if I go peer over the edge? You're not going to be suddenly inspired to be like a cloud and float away once my back is turned?
[ As he says that, she's become very aware of his arm around her shoulders, the warmth and casual, kind weight of it; but all Anahid does is shake her head gently. ]
I'm alright. I'm like one of those milk-beasts. [ She means a cow. ] Best with flat earth under my feet.
Go look.
[ She'll watch from here, a little ashamed that the height got the better of her at the last moment. ]
[ He chuckles. That's what he's going to call a cow from now on. Or a goat. He's not quite sure which one she might be referring to, so perhaps it's best to rename them both for the sake of it.
Lingering briefly, Nikolai stands, leaving her with his blazer as he walks to the opposite end of the basket. He peers down, spotting Mikhail who is nothing but a dot.
He'll hear him, though. That's the thing he likes most about Mikhail. He always hears him. (Saints bless Nazyalensky for sharing her Squallery knowledge.) ]
Oi, Mik! We've had enough of the clouds now. Think you could give us a pop?
[ He doesn't hear what Mikhail says in reply, but he's certain that his friend utters something utterly offensive and rightfully justified in response to that.
Nikolai returns to Anahid and drops heavilyy down against the side, leaning his head against the wood. He splays his legs out in an incredibly unkingly manner. He's puffed from a simple yell—or perhaps it's the thin air that's finally getting to him. ]
I don't like this part. The whole going back down to earth is honestly one of the most disappointing experiences.
I suppose being closer to your responsibilities is... disquieting.
[ Hands folded together, she blows on them, trying to regain some ease of bloodflow in her extremities. When the basket begins its descent with a somewhat pronounced shudder, her elbows jerk into her ribcage. The flare of panic is easily squashed, thankfully; she's determined to not let him see her fear a second time.
And, honestly, even if she had taken the metaphorical Coward's Door Exit through this unique brand of haunted house? She still says, with complete sincerity: ]
Thank you, Nikolai. This was lovely. Cold, but lovely.
[ Although once they're back on the ground, it'll be back to titles and the distance created by courtesies. ]
So, that's all it takes for you to remember my name? Extreme heights and icy clouds. Duly noted.
[ No, he's not going to insist on bringing her back up here until he can figure out a good way of controlling the air without needing a Squaller. All Nikolai wanted to prove with this expedition is that he could do it.
And he can.
That's all he's ever learned since he was little. If he puts his mind to it, he can make almost anything happen. Who needed powers when you had a creative mind?
He keeps leaning his head against the wood, not wishing to stand and watch as they descend. He's seen this many times before that he can close his eyes and envision the way the basket slowly sails toward the ground, carefully controlled by Mikhail. ]
Mikhail calls me by my titles in case someone overhears him being too informal.
[ To respond to a comment she made before they had really taken to the clouds. Nikolai doesn't look at her as he watches the blue sky. ]
My father wasn't the kindest man. He wasn't patient, either, especially for informalities like calling the second prince by his name rather than his convoluted titles. Mikhail isn't as reckless as I am.
[ And he never really liked that Nikolai preferred to act like he was on the same level as a villager. Nikolai knows of the rumours; perhaps it reminded him too much of the allegations that followed Nikolai. ]
[ But her little spins on his so-called convoluted titles - playful, just for them - is a healthy way for her to become more comfortable with the nuances of the Ravkan language. That, and — ]
Mikhail respects you. He doesn't wish to undermine you.
[ A soldier may be a king's ally, but that's different from a king's equal. The chain of command exists for countries as martial as Ravka, doesn't it? Even the king's marital prospects are being handled by a military strategist. And Mikhail probably never got turned away from the palace library for looking too sullied, or Suli, or whatever it was that was said to her. To Anahid, the rigidity makes perfectly logical sense.
But that doesn't mean she fails to see why Nikolai might be chilled by it, which is why she adds: ]
Oddly, I'm sure I cannot think of anyone who both may hear him and outrank you. What are needling remarks on formality when compared to a crown?
When the man wearing the crown is rumoured to be a bastard.
[ It isn't said with any derision. He speaks of it like he had his invention, like it's all fun and games.
Nikolai's never shied from the rumours, even though he's remained as quiet as possible regarding them for the sake of his friends' sanity. Sometimes Nikolai wishes to hold court and exclaim to everyone he's definitely a bastard. Aren't the signs obvious? Unlike Vasily and his father, he's not as obsessed with the crown and belittling those around him. Surely, those genes didn't secretly come from Alexander III or Tatiana?
He sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. ]
Things in Ravka work very similarly to how they do in your country. I choose not to heed those expectations. It makes life boring to be predictable.
[ Despite there being pep in his voice, there's a slight flatness to it. Blame the thin air and the cold cloud that was meant to be warm. ]
Then you think your detractors could have found a less pedestrian rumour to spread.
[ She's assuming it isn't true. If not even kings and queens, noble and glittering and lovely, are exempt from the problems that afflict Anahid's own marriage, then what hope is there for her? For anyone?
A bastard. What a boring supposition. Why not tell people he's a flying werebeast, or something along those lines? As unlikely as it is fantastical, sure, but at least it's fun to think about. ]
[ He laughs. The one thing Nikolai has counted on since being a prince is the strong and unwavering belief his friends have in him. But he knows one thing many of them don't know: the rumours are true.
Playing dumb has served him well thus far. Nikolai intends to milk it like one of her milk-beasts.
He tilts his head toward her and smiles lopsidedly. ]
But they do know that I'm ridiculously handsome, charming, and incredibly likeable.
[ His contraption is near the ground now. If he looks beyond her, he'll see some of the treetops near the lake. He can feel the pull of Mikhail sucking the air out from beneath the balloon. It feels like being wrapped up in the middle of a tornado. (He knows what that's like. It was brilliantly fun on the True Sea.) ]
[ Somehow, whatever opposition he has finds it easier to attack his lineage than his character. Anahid won't admit it, for fear of swelling an already over-swollen head, but she's unsurprised. ]
The confidence will serve you better than such vocal vanity, sire.
[ Said with a smile of her own.
As they touch the ground, they've ended up a good thirty yards from where they initially ascended, owing to gentle currents hidden in the clouds. The lake remains crisply visible but they're inland enough that the terrain isn't so predictable. The grass is ankle-high, masking all sorts of mischief. For a Ravkan Squaller eager to indulge his liegelord's creative ambitions, sturdy boots are a necessity; any mud coating his footwear or sloshing of day-old rain not yet soaked into the dirt goes unnoticed. In fact, as he unlatches the door to let them back out, he's too busy schooling his features into neutrality at the sight of a certain coat switch.
Anahid isn't so lucky. Her silk slippers are not made for ankle-deep mud, especially when she steps out with the expectation of hitting solid ground. Her first foot to touch ground slips out behind her. She tries to grab at the edge of the basket for purchase, but it's too little and too late.
She ends up on her knees, hands braced into the muck to keep herself from falling any further. From the knee down, her dress is completely soaked in muddy water.
As absurd, embarrassing punctuation to this little debacle, her plait slips off her shoulder and dangles cheerfully into the mud. ]
[ Nikolai doesn't understand the word nor the sentiment.
As soon as Anahid is out of the basket, Nikolai follows. She's in the mud a handful of seconds before he is, his shiny calf-high boots now muddied and covered in grit as one foot sinks into the mud while the other remains on what shouldn't be firm ground.
He laughs loudly.
Mikhail seemingly found the best places to press his feet. His boots are muddied and covered in stray grass blades, but his shoes look as shoes should be when traversing such an environment.
As soon as he pushes on the foot that hasn't sunken into the mouth of the swamp, Nikolai manages to lose his footing and joins Anahid's knees in the mud, although he's not quick enough to stop his hands from burying into the mud, either. Tugging them out with a wet pop, he shakes them, face scrunched up in laughter. ]
Now that's a landing, isn't it?
[ Nikolai bats away Mikhail's offer to try and help him out of the mud, gesturing for him to help Anahid instead. ]
Just in case she loses a slipper. I want to be a prince from the books and fetch it for her.
[ Mikhail rolls his eyes. ] I don't think that's how the stories go, moi tsar.
Then let's get them rewritten. The mud here's quite thick. I forgot this little swamp was here. [ He lets his hands hover over Anahid, ready to assist but reluctant to touch her and get her more muddied.
Some mud's found its way across his temple, on the shoulder of his white shirt (and on the front of it, splattered like paint) and in his golden hair. This is Nikolai Lantsov at his best. ]
[ With a sigh she can't quite swallow, Anahid reaches for Nikolai's hands. Even once she's back on two feet, her stability isn't assured—her feel skids a bit over the mud, the silk soles of her slippers providing almost no traction. She's forced to grab onto Nikolai's sleeve to keep from falling again, getting it even more stained with muck.
And, of course, the hem of his borrowed coat is inches deep in the stuff. In the back of her mind, Anahid is mortified; and that tremor of indignation leaves hectic slashes of pink high up on her cheeks. ]
Thank you. [ Steady on, she thinks, as her accent thickens with the struggle of maintaining her composure. ] I will have this laundered and returned to you, of course.
[ The coat, she means.
Continuing her streak of remarkably humiliating luck, Anahid sneezes, and the sudden act causes her to nearly slip again. At least she only knocks into Nikolai this time, but she's quite miserable with the last few seconds of poor presentation, mud-soaked dampness, and mess. This is Anahid Joddani at her worst. ]
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no subject
I heard the prefect of your military is also in charge with finding you a wife.
[ Prefect, in this case, being used because she still hasn't figured out the ranks of Ravkan military hierarchy; she falls back on a word that makes sense, even if it's so literal it loops around to be nebulous. Maybe if she had spent less time learning their card games, she'd be acquitting herself more deftly right now. ]
That's an interesting use of your forces.
[ Her voice is even. Her expression is amused, pulling dimples out of angles. ]
no subject
Either way, she's going to have an answer. ]
General Nazyalensky claims that I am… what's the word? [ He furrows his brows even though the word sits on the tip of his tongue. ] Ah, yes. Hopeless.
[ He regards Anahid with an amused look. ]
Which I'm not. I'm utterly charming and unquestionably handsome. I have other things to do than find a wife.
[ Like keeping a demon at bay and a country from unravelling like a knitted scarf.
Glancing up at the tarp, still miraculously filled with air, he gestures toward it with a wave of his hand. ]
Flying this thing, for example.
no subject
[ Between the balloon and the basket, there is an understated mechanism: a pull handle, a small canister of oil, and a flint-tinder strike. When pulled, it will heat up the air inside the balloon. With Mikhail's gusts pushing them up, they haven't needed it... yet. But they'll eventually be beyond his reach.
The air is already getting a bit thinner, the biting Ravkan chill a bit less friendly now. Anahid buries one hand in the other, hiding red knuckles. ]
In fact, what even is your role in all this? Moral support?
no subject
[ He says that as though he's about to follow it with a 'Duh'… if that word existed in Ravkan. But his face gives away how silly he thinks of her to ask such a ridiculous question.
This is all Nikolai brings to the table. Along with amazing plots, brilliant plans, and envious fashion. ]
I wonder… [ Resting his elbow against the edge, he leans his cheek into his fist and smiles at her. It's very un-King-like, which means it's very Nikolai. ] What is your role? Other than refuse to admit that you're cold.
no subject
[ Because she dresses like she's still in Bezim, all bright patterns and loose, thin sleeves. Maybe having it brought up so casually is what goads her into what she says next. He wasn't supposed to notice what she tries to hide. ]
Did you know your left earlobe trembles a little bit when you lie? I noticed it when you told me the... balloon-carriage was untested. [ Just took her the value of hindsight to figure out what it meant. ] And I noticed you let Mikhail refer to you by title, no grousing or correcting; perhaps he would be a fine choice for a wife.
[ She folds her arms over the edge, staring out at the lake. From this high up, the sun makes it look like a sheet of gold. ]
I have two eyes and am capable of holding as few as three thoughts in my head at one time. I can pay attention to you and the scenery just fine, moi Tsar.
[ Stop, she hears, in her mother's horrified soprano. For once, it doesn't work. (And why should it? It's not a real voice, just a figment left over from having squirms and skinned knees trained out of her.) ]
I thought you invited me up here as a friend. I didn't realise a role was required.
no subject
Easily. No one pays attention to the spare.).
At the end, he bows his head, nodding, although he still smiles. Nikolai Lantsov is many things, but he enjoys being called out on his bullshit—especially when it's done in such a manner. (He doesn't quite like it when it's done cruelly.) ]
You're right, although… isn't coming up here as a potential friend a role in itself?
[ He lifts his brows at that, his smile still broad, those teeth of his threatening to glimmer in the sun. ]
Up here, you can be anything. [ He gestures wildly at the endless skies. ] I don't have to be the King of Ravka. For all I want, I could be a dragon. Everyone loves dragons. You could be the Queen of the Skies.
no subject
[ It's not an appealing prospect. It'll be lovely for a few days, sure, but soon that novel gleam will cease to fill her. Despite his whimsy, there's no nourishment to be found in clouds. ]
I don't want to be that sort of queen. If I truly could be anything, I— [ Hm.
With uncommon restlessness, she toys with the end of her plait. She hadn't taken the risk of wearing her hair down, like she predicted she wouldn't. Her answer may disappoint him. ]
I'd be a coin.
[ That's what she settles on, finally; with a smile for him over her shoulder. ]
no subject
A coin?
[ He doesn't repeat it disparagingly, though. Nikolai brushes his fingers against his chin as he considers this for a moment. Anahid wouldn't pick that to simply bring the conversation to a close. Perhaps she chose it to see how he'd react, but he's learned there's a little more to her than what she may prefer to present.
He always finds the most interesting people. ]
Well, a coin has perceived value. Everyone wants a coin, don't they? Preferably a gold one, if they can afford it. But a coin travels the world without much fanfare; it passes from hand to hand, sometimes with a lot of care, and gets to experience the world through our most capitalistic means.
[ That sounds very profound for him, so he adds: ]
Or you're a gold coin that belongs to a pirate. If I had to be a coin, it'd be that. Find myself on every pirate ship known to the True Sea, and even be dropped to the depths of the ocean to be discovered by some sea monster.
no subject
A coin you had in your pocket two weeks ago could be anywhere by now.
[ Coins don't get prohibitively seasick. Coins pass over knuckles and through lives without anyone telling them they can't wear a certain colour or be in a room unchaperoned.
... and they're always needed, aren't they? Anahid has yet to read about a society that didn't build itself up around currency. ]
I think you would be profoundly irritated as soon as you realised coins don't have mouths with which to speak to sea monsters. [ Nikolai. Almost-fond punctuation to her remark, even if it doesn't go further than her own thoughts. ]
no subject
[ He cocks his brow, his face lighting up much like a child's. This is Nikolai Lantsov with his grand imagination, where nothing is impossible. He gets to be a boy, not a royal, not a Lantsov. If he wants a coin to have a mouth, it'll have a mouth—and it won't be because of his name or his position in society.
When he scrunches his face thoughtfully, Anahid should know immediately he won't let this go. ]
What if it's a coin that has a mouth? One that's rare to find, and exists only on an island no one has discovered yet? A coin that's off-map.
[ And exist in children's stories, if someone were inspired to write about a coin. ]
I'd like to be that coin.
no subject
[ نه خیلی ممنون, she thinks. No, thank you. ]
You would be better off as a... talking sea crab. At least you would be able to move about your uncharted isle.
[ By now, they're out of reach of Mikhail's timely gusts, leaving them neither gliding up nor sinking down. As the balloon hovers tidily, the air around them has become misty, almost white. Nikolai got his wish: they're inside a cloud. Light moisture causes his hair to glisten, Anahid notices briefly. Dipping her chin before she can be caught in a stare, she makes the mistake of looking straight down instead. The trees are small as dots, and the map below - separated with surgical neatness into squares of different colours, entire fields shrunken down to the size of her thumbnail - looks utterly devoid of any life.
A wave of dizziness slams into her and Anahid steps back, seeking the safety of the middle of the basket before she can stop herself. Her hands, bright red and at least a little stiff from chill, clutch at the sash of her dress. ]
no subject
[ Nikolai's beside her in seconds, his legs firm, his feet unwavering. It's almost as though he should be a seagull instead of a sea crab, what with how he takes to the air like he's on the ground.
Sometime between moving from the basket's wooden edge to the centre where she wobbles, he's taken off his thick golden blazer and has tugged it around her. It's not the best encasing, but it'll do, especially with how he wraps his arm around her shoulders to gently tug her to the sturdy wooden floor. ]
Sailing this high isn't for everyone, especially on their first go. When I hit the air my first time, let's just say I had to make many apologies for who was standing beneath me.
[ He chuckles, coming to sit on his knees. ]
Breathing and insulting me usually helps.
no subject
I'm sorry, I — [ A sigh.
Anahid manages a humourless smile, entirely at her own expense, as her head leans back on the opposite wall. Somehow, she assumes your hair is very pretty is not the insult he's looking for; but it's all her oxygen-deprived brain can come up with. She deflects with perfect ladylike precision. ]
We reached your cloud. What does it feel like?
no subject
[ As he's always believed clouds to be as a child and an adult. It's stupid and fanciful, which is why Nikolai likes it. ]
A little cold. I was hoping it'd be warm like sunshine, but clouds tend to do what clouds want to do when they want to do it.
[ Sucking on his teeth, he shakes his head as he peers up at the sky as though he's able to find an offensive cloud and scold it with such a sharp look.
But he returns his gaze to her, remaining crouched beside her. While his invention has worked expertly, he's still figuring out how best to manage it without having a talent for summoning air.
It's a work in progress. A successful one, at least—even if Anahid may think to the contrary. ]
Are you going to be alright if I go peer over the edge? You're not going to be suddenly inspired to be like a cloud and float away once my back is turned?
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I'm alright. I'm like one of those milk-beasts. [ She means a cow. ] Best with flat earth under my feet.
Go look.
[ She'll watch from here, a little ashamed that the height got the better of her at the last moment. ]
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[ He chuckles. That's what he's going to call a cow from now on. Or a goat. He's not quite sure which one she might be referring to, so perhaps it's best to rename them both for the sake of it.
Lingering briefly, Nikolai stands, leaving her with his blazer as he walks to the opposite end of the basket. He peers down, spotting Mikhail who is nothing but a dot.
He'll hear him, though. That's the thing he likes most about Mikhail. He always hears him. (Saints bless Nazyalensky for sharing her Squallery knowledge.) ]
Oi, Mik! We've had enough of the clouds now. Think you could give us a pop?
[ He doesn't hear what Mikhail says in reply, but he's certain that his friend utters something utterly offensive and rightfully justified in response to that.
Nikolai returns to Anahid and drops heavilyy down against the side, leaning his head against the wood. He splays his legs out in an incredibly unkingly manner. He's puffed from a simple yell—or perhaps it's the thin air that's finally getting to him. ]
I don't like this part. The whole going back down to earth is honestly one of the most disappointing experiences.
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[ Hands folded together, she blows on them, trying to regain some ease of bloodflow in her extremities. When the basket begins its descent with a somewhat pronounced shudder, her elbows jerk into her ribcage. The flare of panic is easily squashed, thankfully; she's determined to not let him see her fear a second time.
And, honestly, even if she had taken the metaphorical Coward's Door Exit through this unique brand of haunted house? She still says, with complete sincerity: ]
Thank you, Nikolai. This was lovely. Cold, but lovely.
[ Although once they're back on the ground, it'll be back to titles and the distance created by courtesies. ]
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[ No, he's not going to insist on bringing her back up here until he can figure out a good way of controlling the air without needing a Squaller. All Nikolai wanted to prove with this expedition is that he could do it.
And he can.
That's all he's ever learned since he was little. If he puts his mind to it, he can make almost anything happen. Who needed powers when you had a creative mind?
He keeps leaning his head against the wood, not wishing to stand and watch as they descend. He's seen this many times before that he can close his eyes and envision the way the basket slowly sails toward the ground, carefully controlled by Mikhail. ]
Mikhail calls me by my titles in case someone overhears him being too informal.
[ To respond to a comment she made before they had really taken to the clouds. Nikolai doesn't look at her as he watches the blue sky. ]
My father wasn't the kindest man. He wasn't patient, either, especially for informalities like calling the second prince by his name rather than his convoluted titles. Mikhail isn't as reckless as I am.
[ And he never really liked that Nikolai preferred to act like he was on the same level as a villager. Nikolai knows of the rumours; perhaps it reminded him too much of the allegations that followed Nikolai. ]
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[ But her little spins on his so-called convoluted titles - playful, just for them - is a healthy way for her to become more comfortable with the nuances of the Ravkan language. That, and — ]
Mikhail respects you. He doesn't wish to undermine you.
[ A soldier may be a king's ally, but that's different from a king's equal. The chain of command exists for countries as martial as Ravka, doesn't it? Even the king's marital prospects are being handled by a military strategist. And Mikhail probably never got turned away from the palace library for looking too sullied, or Suli, or whatever it was that was said to her. To Anahid, the rigidity makes perfectly logical sense.
But that doesn't mean she fails to see why Nikolai might be chilled by it, which is why she adds: ]
Oddly, I'm sure I cannot think of anyone who both may hear him and outrank you. What are needling remarks on formality when compared to a crown?
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[ It isn't said with any derision. He speaks of it like he had his invention, like it's all fun and games.
Nikolai's never shied from the rumours, even though he's remained as quiet as possible regarding them for the sake of his friends' sanity. Sometimes Nikolai wishes to hold court and exclaim to everyone he's definitely a bastard. Aren't the signs obvious? Unlike Vasily and his father, he's not as obsessed with the crown and belittling those around him. Surely, those genes didn't secretly come from Alexander III or Tatiana?
He sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. ]
Things in Ravka work very similarly to how they do in your country. I choose not to heed those expectations. It makes life boring to be predictable.
[ Despite there being pep in his voice, there's a slight flatness to it. Blame the thin air and the cold cloud that was meant to be warm. ]
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[ She's assuming it isn't true. If not even kings and queens, noble and glittering and lovely, are exempt from the problems that afflict Anahid's own marriage, then what hope is there for her? For anyone?
A bastard. What a boring supposition. Why not tell people he's a flying werebeast, or something along those lines? As unlikely as it is fantastical, sure, but at least it's fun to think about. ]
It's like they don't know you at all.
[ Because they don't. Of course. ]
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Playing dumb has served him well thus far. Nikolai intends to milk it like one of her milk-beasts.
He tilts his head toward her and smiles lopsidedly. ]
But they do know that I'm ridiculously handsome, charming, and incredibly likeable.
[ His contraption is near the ground now. If he looks beyond her, he'll see some of the treetops near the lake. He can feel the pull of Mikhail sucking the air out from beneath the balloon. It feels like being wrapped up in the middle of a tornado. (He knows what that's like. It was brilliantly fun on the True Sea.) ]
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The confidence will serve you better than such vocal vanity, sire.
[ Said with a smile of her own.
As they touch the ground, they've ended up a good thirty yards from where they initially ascended, owing to gentle currents hidden in the clouds. The lake remains crisply visible but they're inland enough that the terrain isn't so predictable. The grass is ankle-high, masking all sorts of mischief. For a Ravkan Squaller eager to indulge his liegelord's creative ambitions, sturdy boots are a necessity; any mud coating his footwear or sloshing of day-old rain not yet soaked into the dirt goes unnoticed. In fact, as he unlatches the door to let them back out, he's too busy schooling his features into neutrality at the sight of a certain coat switch.
Anahid isn't so lucky. Her silk slippers are not made for ankle-deep mud, especially when she steps out with the expectation of hitting solid ground. Her first foot to touch ground slips out behind her. She tries to grab at the edge of the basket for purchase, but it's too little and too late.
She ends up on her knees, hands braced into the muck to keep herself from falling any further. From the knee down, her dress is completely soaked in muddy water.
As absurd, embarrassing punctuation to this little debacle, her plait slips off her shoulder and dangles cheerfully into the mud. ]
... Your Majesty, be careful!
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As soon as Anahid is out of the basket, Nikolai follows. She's in the mud a handful of seconds before he is, his shiny calf-high boots now muddied and covered in grit as one foot sinks into the mud while the other remains on what shouldn't be firm ground.
He laughs loudly.
Mikhail seemingly found the best places to press his feet. His boots are muddied and covered in stray grass blades, but his shoes look as shoes should be when traversing such an environment.
As soon as he pushes on the foot that hasn't sunken into the mouth of the swamp, Nikolai manages to lose his footing and joins Anahid's knees in the mud, although he's not quick enough to stop his hands from burying into the mud, either. Tugging them out with a wet pop, he shakes them, face scrunched up in laughter. ]
Now that's a landing, isn't it?
[ Nikolai bats away Mikhail's offer to try and help him out of the mud, gesturing for him to help Anahid instead. ]
Just in case she loses a slipper. I want to be a prince from the books and fetch it for her.
[ Mikhail rolls his eyes. ] I don't think that's how the stories go, moi tsar.
Then let's get them rewritten. The mud here's quite thick. I forgot this little swamp was here. [ He lets his hands hover over Anahid, ready to assist but reluctant to touch her and get her more muddied.
Some mud's found its way across his temple, on the shoulder of his white shirt (and on the front of it, splattered like paint) and in his golden hair. This is Nikolai Lantsov at his best. ]
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And, of course, the hem of his borrowed coat is inches deep in the stuff. In the back of her mind, Anahid is mortified; and that tremor of indignation leaves hectic slashes of pink high up on her cheeks. ]
Thank you. [ Steady on, she thinks, as her accent thickens with the struggle of maintaining her composure. ] I will have this laundered and returned to you, of course.
[ The coat, she means.
Continuing her streak of remarkably humiliating luck, Anahid sneezes, and the sudden act causes her to nearly slip again. At least she only knocks into Nikolai this time, but she's quite miserable with the last few seconds of poor presentation, mud-soaked dampness, and mess. This is Anahid Joddani at her worst. ]
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